CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SIX

Weeks passed.

She kept to the alleys and dark corners of Central Shanghai. Silent and still, she’d stand, testing the shadow. Watching its limits, seeing its strength. Encouraging its growth.

She’d watch it move as she did. Watched it stop when she stopped. She’d lift her arms and see it rise. Stretch her arms and watch it widen. She’d push her hands in front of her and grin as it stained the ground at her feet.

It sighed when she wept. It laughed when she smiled. And fed by her frustration and a lifetime of bitter sadness, it strengthened as their shared anger grew.

She learned that, with the move of a hand, she could make the stranger who walked like her father stumble and fall. She learned that, with a simple breath, she could make another stranger, a callous man with cruel eyes like the man from the dock, cough and reach for his throat, his face turning red as he struggled for air.

Week after week, she and the shadow grew closer, their bond deepening, the two becoming one. It became her and she, aware her choice was wrong and could only bring an end she’d regret, still welcomed it without apology.

Whatever price to be paid would be paid.

Later.

What she could not do with the move of a hand or a single breath is kill. To do that, she had to approach and commit the act herself. Trusting she would remain unseen and no consequences would follow, she’d grip the blade of the knife—the one she stole from the dock, of course—and with the smallest of motions slice once across the neck and then watch as the wound opened and wept.

Or stab the base of the skull, quick, and step back while the nameless would stop, fall on bended knees, and then topple forward, their hand pressed to the back of their head as they died in confusion.

Their families will thank me, she’d think, convinced these men were cruel by the lift of their chin or the way they narrowed their eyes. I’m answering prayers they’ve yet to pray.

For weeks, Lucky did this. Slaughtered, testing her limits and feeding her revenge, safe under the anonymity of her shadow. Killed, never eating, rarely drinking, the shadow giving her what she needed to survive if she would give it what it craved: the experience of a life ending. The shadow relishing the confused panic of these strangers as they realized this was their end. Those final moments of heartbreak and regret for all they were losing. Family, friends, dreams. The sweet simplicity of the stranger’s last breath.

She and her shadow grew closer. And she learned.

Sometimes she was seen. When she’d stand at a store window, hoping to catch a glimpse of her reflection, a stranger would pass and, turning their head, catch sight of the odd girl in the flowered dress and nod. Or in a crowd when someone, a man, sometimes an older man, would stop and, seeing her alone and unloved, offer her a small smile.

Those people she never killed.

But she could be seen. Especially when she was weary and her heart was lonely. With all she knew and all she’d first believed, there were doubts. Perhaps she was not invisible. Perhaps not even invincible. Perhaps she could fail. Or falter. Perhaps she’d reach too far or wide or stab too deep too many times and upset the balance between her dark and their light and the charade would crumble into a world of consequence.

She didn’t know. But with Communism taking over Shanghai and having grown tired of killing the nameless for sport, she, like many, fled to Hong Kong where opium ruled and secret societies destroyed their enemies with an iron fist. Where someone with Lucky’s gift would be welcomed and respected and perhaps feared.

She soon found herself in the crime infested Mong Kok district. Fruit stands crowded the street. Shops sat behind shuttered windows. The sound of children crying rose from behind closed doors. Somewhere a window broke in a tinkling shatter of glass. A woman shouted and then was silenced with a cruel slap.

From around the corner, as night fell, a young couple appeared. Tourists perhaps, their clothes too clean and their shoes too new for Mong Kok. Their eyes wide with fear, they all but ran down the street.

A breath later, a group of men, all in dark suits and felt fedoras, followed, bats in hand. A moment after that, quickly circled and trapped, the screams began as the bats raised to bruise flesh and break bone.

After a lifetime of searching, Lucky had finally come home.