She set me on fire that winter.

Shanghai, 1987. Winter fog carried the damp of Suzhou Creek into every alley. Lu Zheng was an outsider with no household registration, a man who had scrimped and saved from hauling cargo at the docks to buy stock subscription certificates. He was a man of few words, efficient and sharp—like a short blade tucked inside a sleeve. Julian Ashford was the household registration officer for this district, barely in her twenties, her hair in two braids, but her eyes held the depth of the Huangpu River—clear on the surface, hiding powerful currents beneath. The first time she knocked on the door of the tiny garret room where Lu Zheng lived, she said she was only there to check his temporary residence permit. But her gaze lingered on his face for exactly three seconds. And in those three seconds, Lu Zheng realized something: the biggest risk in his life had never been the stock market crashing—