This place doesn’t belong to any particular continent or country.” The shopkeeper clambered to his feet: “Nowhere. “Then which country or continent is this?” ![]() When the shopkeeper finally spoke, his voice was unusually hoarse and muffled, as if these were the first words he had uttered in quite some time: “This place has no name.” I-I would be much obliged if you could kindly tell me the name of this place.” where we are?” He swallowed, and continued, “You might find my question abrupt, but I just got here, you see. The shopkeeper looked up at him, fixing him with toad-like eyes the size of saucers, sending an inadvertent shudder through his spine. The shopkeeper, who looked to be in his late sixties, fixed his empty gaze on the doorway, not bothering to get up or greet his customer as he entered. Still on his guard, he was hardly in the mood to investigate more closely. The dusty shelves, snaking down from the ceiling like a cobweb of rope ladders, were stocked with small dust-covered curios. He entered the shop and looked the place up and down. ![]() A faded handwritten sign hung at the shop’s entrance, empty save for the lone shopkeeper skulking behind the counter, which was tucked away in a shadowy corner at the back of the shop. His measured footsteps led him to a small hole-in-the-wall shop, which he took for one of those nondescript tobacco-and liquor-stores-perhaps a snack booth or corner store of sorts, he couldn’t quite tell. He tried to hail a couple of passers-by, but they just kept on their hurried way. He wanted to have a word with someone, but no one was inclined to stop and chat. Most people moved at a quick clip, shrouded in icy hues, their faces obscured by dark hats and headscarves. There were plenty of people out and about, but no one so much as spared him a glance. Could he have somehow ended up in this no-man’s land? After all, no one knew where this island was, much less whether it was an actual place.Īs he traipsed along, the steady crunch of gravel under his boot soles reassured him that the ground beneath him was indeed real and solid. Death Row Island was a remote, frightful place, suffused in the clammy chill of the Gulag Archipelago. This way, they could be imprisoned without the faintest hope of survival, while satisfying the humanitarians’ insistence on a delayed execution. He had once heard of a place called Death Row Island, where convicts sentenced to death were sent to await their fate. Īfter regaining consciousness, he had found himself in this strange city, not knowing where he was, not knowing whether he was dead or alive. Later on, he vaguely recalled the bluish gleam of the lights in the operating room, and the IV bag in the hospital ward. His car slammed into the guardrail, metal and glass debris piercing his flesh like a rain of bullets. A black Maserati had come flying out of nowhere, striking his vehicle full-on and flattening him into a corner of the driver’s seat. ![]() The last thing he remembered was blowing through a red light along Beijing’s Second Ring Road at two o’clock in the morning. The sky was choked by a dense layer of low-hanging clouds, the skyscrapers’ invisible crowns swallowed by the ashen haze.Īs he strode deeper into this city of shadows, he took stock of his surroundings, on constant guard against potential dangers lurking behind hidden street corners. The gaps between the buildings were inked an impenetrable charcoal-gray. The skyline was punctuated by a relentless succession of high-rises-the buildings’ rebar skeletons were gray, their glass flanks tinted gray. There was a peculiar feel to this city, the air swollen with an impending danger. He ventured cautiously through this strange twilight city.
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