The Edge

A man lays face down on a trash ridden street with thickening blood trickling from a gash in the side of his neck. He is as still as death can make him as a hand moves his head and his ghostly face comes in to the moonlight. His eyes are glazed, mouth agape and there is a hint of surprise in his features. As if he hasn’t yet realised that he is no more.

The hand takes a brush from the darkness and dips it in his blood as a second hand lays a thick sheet of paper on the ground next to him. As the brush strokes the paper Chinese characters take form and the voice of a man whispers: “These rivers run deep.”

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