Dawn lingered reluctantly over Dongdu Airport, its thick fog clinging to the tarmac like a spectral shroud. Through the tower windows, runway lights smeared into ghostly halos—amber, red, and white bleeding together as if painted by a drunken artist. The fog had stubbornly defied the sun's feeble attempts to pierce it for nearly twelve hours, swallowing planes whole until they materialized abruptly, alien apparitions shuddering onto the ground.
"Bang!" The latest arrival's landing gear slammed onto concrete, its colossal frame swaying like a wounded beast before settling. A hundred held breaths exhaled in unison aboard the cabin.
Terminal 3 stirred to life despite the oppressive gray. Passengers trickled into the arrivals hall—scattered as lentils spilled across a floor—while baggage carousels groaned awake. At Carousel 9, Stuvey Taylor clenched his jaw, his charcoal overcoat damp from the mist seeping through the glass walls. Across the rotating belts, two young airline clerks chatted lazily behind the Dragonair counter, their laughter sharp against the metallic hum of machinery.
Patience, he reminded himself. But patience had worn thin hours ago.
The clerk with the blunt bangs had lied to him last night—he'd seen it in the twitch of her eyelid, the too-quick smile. Yet he'd clung to hope. His luggage wasn't just clothes; it held case files, his grandfather's pocket watch, and the tailored suit meant for today—the day he'd step into Zhong Sheng's role as Director of the Bureau of Aero Investigations. At 29, he'd outpaced every rival, solving cold cases that stumped veterans. The promotion wasn't luck; it was inevitability.
But without that suitcase, he stood in rumpled travel clothes, unshaven, reeking of stale coffee—a far cry from the polished heir apparent.
"Any update on Flight 207 from JFK?" Stuvey cut into the clerks' conversation, his voice edged with the crispness he reserved for uncooperative witnesses.
The woman blinked, glancing at her watch. "Scheduled for 8 a.m. It's barely 7:45. And luggage goes to Carousel 9, sir." Her tone dripped with condescension.
He followed her gaze to the dormant carousel. "International flights often land early. Priority clearance—"
"Not in this soup," the male clerk snorted, nodding at the fog beyond the windows.
Stuvey's knuckles whitened on the counter. He'd interrogated arms dealers with more courtesy. "My flight arrived six hours late last night. Your colleague assured me my bag would be on this one. Check. The. Status."
The woman shrugged. "Screens are over there. Knock yourself out."
A muscle twitched in his jaw. BAI credentials burned in his pocket, but flashing them felt like conceding defeat. Instead, he turned—
A scream tore through the hall.
Chaos erupted. Travelers stampeded from Carousel 9, tripping over abandoned suitcases. Stuvey spun, instincts overriding irritation. He shoved against the current, elbows out, until the carousel came into view.
A body lay sprawled atop the conveyor belt.
Male. Late 20s. Gray linen suit, no visible wounds. Stuvey catalogued details automatically, stepping closer. The man's hands rested palms-up, fingers slightly curled—no rigor yet. Face serene, as if napping mid-journey. But the waxy pallor…
Then he saw it.
His own face stared back.
Same sharp jawline. Same faint scar bisecting the left eyebrow—a childhood mishap with a kite string. Even the mole beneath the right earlobe mirrored his.
Stuvey's pulse thundered in his ears. He gripped the carousel's edge, cold steel biting into his palms. Impossible. A twin? A mask? But the pores, the stubble shadow—no prosthetic could replicate that.
"Call security!" someone shrieked. "And an ambulance!"
Too late for ambulances, he thought numbly. The corpse's chest didn't rise. No flutter beneath the eyelids. Death's stillness had settled in.
As airport guards bulled through the crowd, Stuvey forced himself upright. His reflection in a nearby window confirmed it: he wore the same black loafers as the dead man. The same silver cufflinks shaped like falcons—a gift from Director Zhong.
Except his were in the missing suitcase.
A chill deeper than the fog seeped into his bones. This wasn't lost luggage.
It was a message.
Stuvey Taylor stared at the body on the conveyor belt, his own face gazing back through death's veil. The features were identical—down to the faint scar above the left eyebrow from a childhood kite accident—yet the skin held a waxen pallor, as though life had been drained years earlier. His eyes dropped to the corpse's right hand.
A silver pendant glinted between stiff fingers.
He recognized the mandala blossom fused with a teardrop shape instantly. Sylvia's pendant. The one she'd worn every day until—
The conveyor belt jerked, shifting the body. Stuvey leaned closer, ignoring the shouts of fleeing passengers. No doubt now: the alloy's unique iridescence matched the pendant he'd last seen clasped around Sylvia's neck. Its edges pulsed faintly with an amber glow, like embers refusing to die.
A wave of vertigo struck him. The fog, the delayed luggage, this macabre doppelgänger—it felt like reality itself had cracked. Before he could steady himself, a crushing pressure surged through the air, sharper than before. His instincts screamed.
He dove backward, rolling across chilled floor tiles until his shoulders hit a concrete pillar near Carousel 11. The structure's bulk shielded him from view, its position wedged between the baggage area and exit doors creating a blind spot. Perfect.
Breathing hard, he peered around the pillar. Security officers now surrounded Carousel 9, radios crackling as they cordoned off the scene. The pendant had slipped beneath a designer suitcase, its glow dimming. Stuvey's fingers twitched toward his empty neck.
Rain slapped against terminal windows as he slipped into the thinning crowd. Let them process the corpse. Let them run tests. He knew better than to wait—the message was clear.
Someone had staged this grotesque theater. And they were watching.