Back in his sub-100-square-foot flat, Leo felt like a soldier who had wandered into an unmarked minefield. The world of precise rituals that he relied upon for his very sanity had been shattered in the last twenty-four hours by a single, small white stone. He locked himself in, attempting to find a sliver of rational order within the cryptic string of numbers: `19 20 1 18 23 1 18`.
His first thought stemmed from a book on cryptography he had glanced at in the library. He frantically searched online for "Caesar cipher," "substitution cipher," and other rudimentary concepts. He took out a fresh notebook and, like a clumsy schoolboy, began the futile process of conversion. The most direct alphanumeric substitution yielded `STARWAR`. Star War? It sounded like a ludicrous joke. He tried shifting the numbers forward and backward along the alphabet, but the results were just strings of meaningless gibberish. Hours passed. The notebook filled with crossed-out, failed attempts. A crushing sense of inadequacy washed over him. He was out of his depth, trying to solve a university-level problem with elementary school arithmetic.
Just as he was about to give up, a long-buried childhood memory surfaced like a faint flash of lightning in his chaotic mind.
It was a "Go code" game that only he and his father knew. His father had taught him to assign a unique coordinate number to each of the 361 intersections on the Go board, from left to right, top to bottom. They would sometimes use a string of these numbers to record a key move in a game, or to pass a secret message of encouragement.
His heart hammered. He practically lunged for the old Go board in the corner of the room. He placed it on his desk, carefully wiping away the layer of dust to reveal the unusually heavy, cold wood grain beneath. Taking a deep breath, he began to map the numbers to the coordinates on the board. `19`…`20`…`1`… He traced the points with his finger, one by one. But when he had marked all seven, his hope once again dissolved into disappointment. The points formed a random, scattered pattern on the board, spelling no word, forming no recognizable Go formation.
He slumped back in his chair, feeling utterly defeated. He was a fool, chasing a ghost, trying to solve a puzzle written in blood with the rules of a children's game. Perhaps it was all in his head. Perhaps the numbers were just a random pattern formed by coagulating blood.
The next morning, clinging to a final shred of hope, he returned to the Sun Wah Cafe. His usual table was empty, and so was the corner booth. The old man who played crossword puzzles every day wasn't there.
A sharp unease gripped him. He ordered his food but couldn't eat. He asked the waiter about the old man. The waiter just shrugged impatiently. "How would I know? Maybe he's sick, maybe he's dead. Yesterday's papers? Threw 'em out with the trash, of course!"
Trash. The word was like a key turning a lock in Leo's mind. He abandoned his half-eaten breakfast and rushed out of the cafe, heading for the reeking back alley and the large, green dumpster.
He hesitated. The physiological revulsion he felt towards filth and chaos made his stomach churn. He wanted to turn back, to tell himself this was insane. But then, the image of his father's blood-stained face and the string of cryptic numbers flooded his mind. The desire for truth finally overpowered the fragile cleanliness of the life he had maintained for eighteen years.
He held his breath and plunged his hands into the slick, sticky darkness.
He rummaged frantically, pushing aside expired bread, greasy lunchboxes, and soaked paper towels. Everything he touched challenged his limits. Just as he was about to break, his fingertips brushed against a familiar, rough stack of paper.
The newspaper! He pulled it out like a drowning man grasping a life raft. He spread the crumpled pages and found the lifestyle supplement. The crossword puzzle was there.
He confirmed the lightly penciled numbers: `19 20 1 18 23 1 18`. And then he saw something new. In the margin, next to the puzzle, was a tiny, hastily drawn sketch.
It was a dove, carrying an olive branch in its beak. Identical to the image on the stamp from the mysterious package.
This was no coincidence. The old man knew something. He was deliberately leading him!
A chilling sense of being watched, of being manipulated, washed over him. He had to know what the stamp meant. He took it to Hollywood Road in Sheung Wan, an area famous for its antique shops, with a few obscure philately stores tucked in between. The first shop owner shook his head. The second and third had never seen it. Just as he was about to give up, in a tiny, dusty shop called "Connoisseur's Pavilion," an elderly owner with thick glasses took the stamp and examined it for a long time.
"Young man, where did you find this?" the old man asked, a note of surprise in his voice.
"On an… an old envelope," Leo answered vaguely.
"This is not a public-issue stamp," the old man said, adjusting his glasses. "This is an 'internal-use stamp' from the 1960s and 70s, used by a private organization called the 'Pigeon Society.' On the surface, they were a pigeon fanciers' club. But rumor has it, their core members were a group of idealistic intellectuals and university students, concerned with social affairs. They were said to do a lot of 'secret good deeds.' But the society disappeared without a trace after the 1980s."
Leo's heart pounded. His father… was he one of them?
As he stepped out of the stamp shop, feeling he had finally grasped a tangible thread of the mystery, his phone rang. It was an unlisted number.
He hesitated, then answered.
The line was dead silent. "Hello?" Leo asked tentatively.
No response. Just as he was about to hang up, thinking it was a prank call, a sound came through the receiver. It was crystal clear, cold, and precise.
Click.
Click.
Click.
It was the sound of Go stones being placed on a board. Three sharp clicks, then the line went dead.
An icy chill shot up his spine. The sound, the rhythm—it was identical to the sound the "shadow" had made in his nightmare before his father crushed the stone.
They know! They know I'm investigating!
A profound terror seized him. He broke into a sprint, running like a startled rabbit through the crowded streets, desperate to get back to the safety of his small, secure "hole."
He ran back to his flat, slammed the door, and locked it, his back pressed against the wood as he gasped for air. He felt trapped in an invisible net. The only person he could think of who might understand any of this was Ah Zhe.
He pulled out the slip of paper Ah Zhe had given him and dialed the number with a hand that trembled so violently he could barely press the keys. The call connected almost immediately. "Hello?" Ah Zhe's voice sounded lazy.
"It's me…" Leo stammered, "the newspaper… it had the same numbers! And… and a phone call… they know, they know I—"
The lazy tone on the other end of the line vanished. There was a dead silence, followed by the faint, rapid sound of keyboard typing. After a few seconds that felt like an eternity, Ah Zhe's voice came back, sharp and serious as a surgeon's scalpel.
"Listen to me. Do not use your phone again. Take the battery out right now. Do not go back to your apartment. Your location may already be compromised."
"But… what should I do?" Leo's voice was tinged with a sob.
"Go to a place immediately," Ah Zhe commanded, and then recited an address. "Sai Wan, Kwun Lung Lau, Block B, on the rooftop. I'll meet you there. Now!"
The line went dead.
Leo stared blankly at his phone, the dead silence on the line more terrifying than a scream. Kwun Lung Lau? An old, notoriously complex public housing estate he only knew from grim news reports. He was to abandon his home, his sanctuary, the one place where his rituals held sway over chaos, and go to a strange, exposed rooftop to meet a man he had known for barely a day?
His entire being recoiled from the idea. It was a violation of every rule he had lived by for eighteen years. His rules were simple: predictability is safety; the unknown is a predator. His flat, with its single window facing a brick wall, its door with three separate locks, was his fortress against the ghosts of the past. To leave it now, on the command of a stranger, felt like suicide.
He looked around the tiny room. The neatly folded clothes. The books on history arranged chronologically. The cheap Go board, a silent, dusty sentinel in the corner. For eighteen years, this meticulously ordered space had been his shield. He had built a life of such profound boringness that even fate, it seemed, had lost interest in him. But now, fate had returned, not with a whisper, but with a battering ram.
He thought of his father. He remembered not just the blood and the broken words, but the man before the storm. The man who taught him to play Go, whose fingers were always warm, whose laughter filled their small apartment. The man who believed in patterns, in finding the elegant, hidden logic beneath a chaotic surface. Was that what his father had been doing? Not gambling, but searching for a pattern in the market's madness?
When you gaze long into an abyss, the abyss also gazes into you. The line from his father's journal echoed in his mind.
He was standing at the edge of that same abyss. He could step back, lock his door, and pretend the phone call never happened. He could try to rebuild his shattered rituals, to once again sheathe himself in the comforting armor of monotony. He could wait, and pray that the unseen hand that had erased his father from the board would somehow overlook him.
Or he could take a step forward.
He could obey the stranger's command and leap into the unknown, into the world of shadows and Go stones, of blood-codes and watchful old men. It was a world of absolute risk, a world that promised nothing but danger. But it was also the only world that held the truth.
He stood there for a long time, the silence of the room pressing in on him. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he walked to the corner and picked up the dusty Go board. It was heavier than it looked. He held it in his arms like a shield. He didn't know why. It just felt right.
He looked at the door one last time, a silent farewell to the life he had so carefully constructed. Then he turned, took the battery out of his phone, and walked out into the night, towards Kwun Lung Lau. He was no longer running from the game. He was, for the first time, choosing to play.