Constable Sun had done worse in his life.

  But it did seem awfully strange that he would be ordered to go this far into the outskirts of town and, as Mayor-Prefect Lee had put it, ‘send those rich outsiders a message.’

  A message to respond to some nebulous threat they had put to him, at least from what Sun could gather. A threat that would panic that man enough that he’d recruit half the constabulary out to this silly mission of delivering a strongly worded verbal message towards…

  Well actually, Constable Sun had a bit of an apprehension over doing this.

  It was Jin Zhou and Sylvia Duval that they were after specifically; those pair of honeymooners that had made quite the splash in town in the recent few months.

  He himself had seen Jin during one of his usual foot patrols and even exchanged a few bits of small talk while he was waiting for his delivery of groceries from Madam Tae of the main street market.

  That rich kid did seem nice, asking Sun about his time growing up in town as well as his life in this dark-beige uniform of this town’s peacekeepers. And since then Sun did have a somewhat good impression of that couple.

  It was a shame really, to do this to them. But in the end, this was technically his job.

  And even better this tasked job of his had a bit of an under-the-table incentive.

  Tonight, he was with two more officers alongside six of the Mayor’s own personal enforcers. A total of nine to basically stand in a doorway and intimidate someone… maybe bash some planters or even smash a lamp or two with their clubs.

  It was a clinical and simple task… no even worse.

  This was trivial.

  So trivial in fact that the group hadn’t even optioned a motor-carriage for this trip, instead walking out on foot from the outskirts of town.

  Maybe this was a bad idea, this was a hike alright.

  One of Mayor Lee’s personal enforcers groans as they walk beneath the blue light of Unudo, her tone edging with impatience. “Whose great idea was to walk?!”

  “His.” One of Sun’s own officers sells him out just like that, the steel of that club pointed right towards him.

  And Constable Sun growls back to this group. “If we pull a motor-carriage there’s going to be questions. I’d rather not answer those questions.”

  “I’d rather have you answer those questions than walk this again…”

  “Fine, you wanna go home now? Go ahead.” Sun keeps these uneducated fools in line. “I’ll tell your boss you flaked out on us. I wonder how well he’ll take that?”

  That silences them, and the group finally crests the hill towards that damned purchased Tianci Summer Residence.

  Light spilling from interior electrical lamps into the darkness, their target in sight after almost an hour of walking in the damned darkness and hot, humid summer air.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  They all catch their breaths beneath the croak of farm field frogs, the aching love songs of droning cicadas, and the hum of those power lines above them.

  “Let’s make this quick.” Sun orders as he points towards the front gate. “We’re getting soju after this.”

  That leader gives them the needed encouragement, and they do manage to make it to that wrought iron gate without much grumbling or complaints.

  It was a humble thing — humble if one ignored the craftsmanship of it.

  Wrought iron woven into an intricate, almost organic pattern; a nest of curling vines and tiny leaves forged from dark metal. Every detail, from the smallest of buds to the grand arch at the top had some strange story of a blacksmith’s patience and a craftsman's pride.

  Sun could tell at a glance it wasn't cheap. Even the lock fitted into the gate’s centerpiece was a piece of art: the fat, ancient-looking cylinder with tiny rivulets of bronze decorating its casing. A keyhole narrow and oblong, clearly made for some specially cut key that only a rich family would ever bother having commissioned.

  A lock like this wasn’t designed to keep the honest people out.

  Yet despite all this extravagant expense and insane security, this gate was quite obviously ajar.

  Not swung open dramatically, but simply parted. Enough for a single person to slip through sideways if they were careful, enough to have all of them enter with no objection whatsoever.

  Crickets inside the property, attracted to that single open lamp, chirp a little louder as a half-invitation into the open space of the circular driveway.

  Sun's gut twists, some primordial aspect of him screaming at him to run, for him to turn around and return to that cold glass of soju and the comfort of the constabulary station. And that part of him, the one that objects to as he beat the sons of shopkeepers, the one that screams when he takes one too many glasses of drink, and the one that begs him to stop this madness, is so easily suppressed.

  Because Constable Sun has done worse in his life.

  And compared to all that, this was nothing.

  It was trivial.

  But something was brewing within his little gang of goons, a feeling of panic and terror as before. And for a long few seconds they all exchange hurried glances between one another, begging for another one to go first.

  “What’s wrong?” The Constable coldly calls out to these cowards. “Getting cold feet?”

  “I don’t know.” One of the enforcers shivers in the heat. “This doesn’t seem right.”

  They all laugh at him, some with nerves and others with pity, that one true objection now the central target of this group’s dynamic.

  Sun, once again, needs to be the leader of this rabble of fools. A long sigh, a roll of his eyes as his hand touches the gate to squeeze through. “Come on, I’ll go first. It’s not like…”

  Some presence stirs behind them — beyond the gate, crouched in the oppressive darkness under Unudo’s pale light.

  A figure, a suggestion, a wrongness against the shadows; something their eyes slip off of, a body refusing to properly register.

  Before it moves.

  Stepping from its hiding place with a slow, deliberate gait, an unnatural movement made from nothing but patience and inevitably, like the creeping of mold and the spread of cracks in old stone.

  This was a humanoid shape, yes, but it moved like no person. Too smooth, too steady, like water flowing through a stream. No wasted motion, no sound but the soft shift of cloth and the faint, wet crunch of boots crushing grass underfoot.

  This dark mockery of a human carved from the surrounding blackness itself just stands there.

  Watching.

  Waiting.

  Constable Sun feels the hair on the back of his neck stand straight up.

  Something was very, very wrong.

  And the voice that drifts from that figure, feminine, but wrong in ways that words struggled to pin down, is loud enough to cut through the thick, buzzing air.

  Casual, almost friendly in tone, but with a kind of cold amusement threaded through it, a promise of violence tucked neatly behind each word, like the edge of a blade grazing skin.

  The voice smiles as it asks: “So, out for an evening walk?”