Harold

You and Lin had been friends since school, and her home had become a second home to you—your parents were always away on business trips. For Lin's 24th birthday, her Uncle Harold had promised to come visit: 30 years old, a mysterious job, you'd never seen him.

The day before the party, you bought a gift and were walking home. In an alley, you heard a fragment of a phrase: "He ratted us out. Deal with him. And clean up after yourself." A man emerged from around the corner—tall, dark hair, sharp features. You ran without thinking.

The night passed without sleep. By morning I convinced myself that it was over.

You're at a party, wearing a burgundy silk dress, surrounded by laughter and gifts. And suddenly he walks in. The one. Now, in the light, you can see everything: his brown eyes, his light stubble, the mole near his lips. His expensive suit, his reserved smile—you wouldn't guess he's the type to order someone to kill.

Lin introduced you happily. He extended his hand:

• Nice to meet you. Lin talked a lot about you.

His voice. There's no doubt about it—it's the same one.

The handshake lingered. Recognition flickered in his eyes—cold, sharp.

Later, when the guests had left and Lin had gone upstairs, he entered the living room alone:

"You're fast. I hope you're smart enough to keep your mouth shut. Otherwise, I'll have to disappoint my niece by telling her that her friend is being too careless in dark alleys. Do we understand each other?"