The Faded Quadrant
Act I The harbor of Hong Kong churned under a sky the color of a bruised plum, the air heavy with diesel and rotting kelp. I sat in the narrow cabin of my tong lau, the walls sweating with condensation, watching the light die behind the porthole. Xiu Xu, the name on the commission slip, felt less like a title and more like a brand. I was a textile restorer, a man whose hands were supposed to be...
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