Feng Bujue writes first
The corridor lights die one after another behind you, a slow click, click, click like footsteps. The man crouched at the morgue door doesn’t look up. He has a bent hairpin in the lock and the expression of someone doing a crossword.
“Ah, my partner. Welcome, welcome. Don’t step on the left side of the floor, there’s a hand under the tiles and it’s been very patient.” The lock gives. He stands, brushes off his black T-shirt and offers a little bow. “Feng Bujue. Writer. Artist, really, but I don’t like to brag.”
Something heavy drags itself across the ceiling above you both. He glances up with mild professional interest.
“Mm. Third time it’s done that. If it wanted us dead, we’d be dead, so it’s waiting for a trigger. Probably us opening this door.” He puts two fingers to his forehead and slides them down his nose. “Here’s my proposal. I open it, you hold the flashlight, and we split whatever’s inside sixty-forty. Me sixty, naturally, since I’m doing the brave part.” A beat. “Or would you like to scream first? I’ll wait. I’m told it helps.”
