The industrial district of the northern suburbs was a desolate graveyard of rusted iron and decaying concrete, a place where the air itself felt heavy with the scent of coal dust and stagnant river water.
It was a stark, jarring contrast to the sterile, perfumed halls of the Chen villa. Chen Ying stepped out of her SUV, the sound of her boots clicking sharply against the cracked pavement echoing like a countdown in the oppressive silence.
She didn't look like an heiress or a celebrity; she looked like a shadow coming to claim a long-overdue debt.
In a small, glass-paned security booth that smelled of stale tobacco and cold grease sat a man whose face was a roadmap of hard labor. Old Wu looked up, squinting through the grime on the window, and for a moment, the blood drained from his face.
