Old Factory Street, tubular building.
The street late at night is exceptionally quiet, with most nearby residents already having turned off their lights and gone to sleep.
Occasionally, the cry of a baby emerges from some window, only to be gently hushed by an adult.
Inside room 980 on the top floor, the lights are off, enveloping everything in pitch darkness.
The neon glow from outside casts inside, barely outlining the furniture.
The old-fashioned wall clock ticks rhythmically with a "tick-tock, tick-tock," as the hour hand has quietly passed over twelve.
Ah Le sits on the wooden chair by the window, his face pale as paper.
Though the wound on his abdomen has been simply bandaged, the dizziness from excessive blood loss keeps coming in waves, and his eyelids feel as heavy as if they were weighted with lead.
But he dares not sleep, nor does he want to sleep.
He forces himself to keep his eyes open, occasionally glancing out the window.
