Rui parked her SUV back on Mott Street, the engine still warm from the drive to the hospital. The sign above Xuanqing Antiques creaked in the breeze, its paint peeling to reveal faded gold lettering underneath. She pushed open the door, and a bell jingled softly—old, brass, the sound thick with dust. Inside, the air smelled like aged rice paper, polished jade, and a hint of cinnabar, sharp and metallic.
Shelves lined every wall, packed with curios: a porcelain vase painted with cranes, its neck cracked; scrolls rolled tight in silk sleeves, their titles faded; small statues of Taoist deities, their faces worn smooth by time. At the counter, a young man leaned against the wood, twirling a peachwood sword between his fingers. He wore a gray Hanfu, the fabric simple but well-tailored, and his dark hair fell in a messy fringe over his forehead. A faint scar cut across his left eyebrow, thin and pale, like a line of chalk.
He looked up as Rui entered, and his lips curved into a lazy smile. "FBI?" He set the sword down, crossing his arms. His English was accented—soft, with the lilt of someone who'd learned it from Chinatown elders and old movies. "Name's Ye Shaoyang. This shop's my cover. Real job's handling… problems no one else wants. Like your 'white-shroud lady.'"
Rui raised an eyebrow, tapping the badge clipped to her blazer. "'Handling problems'? You mean you tell tourists their futures for twenty bucks? I need evidence, not superstition. Four people are in the hospital. What do you know about this woman?" She kept her hand near her holster, her eyes sharp—this guy looked too young to be anything but a con artist, spinning tales to sell overpriced trinkets.
Ye didn't take offense. He pushed off the counter, moving to a ceramic jar behind it—glazed blue, with a lid carved into a lotus—and dipped his hand inside. He pulled out a handful of glutinous rice, white and plump, and held it out to her. "Go back to Mr. Li's alley. Sprinkle this where the shrouded woman stood. If it turns black… you stop calling me a fortune-teller." His fingers were calloused, the pads rough from sword work, and the rice felt cool against Rui's palm when she took it.
She hesitated. She was trained to trust lab results, to measure evidence in micrograms and witness statements. Rice? It sounded absurd. But the memory of Mr. Li's shaking hands, the cold tingle of Yin energy on her arm—she couldn't ignore it. "Fine," she said, tucking the rice into her pocket. "But if this is a trick, I'm coming back with a warrant."
Ye grinned, leaning against the counter again. "Warrants don't work on ghosts, Agent… Fei-Bi?" He mispronounced "FBI" on purpose, his eyes dancing with amusement.
Rui glared, but she didn't correct him. "I'll be back." She turned to leave, and her elbow knocked a small jade pendant off a nearby shelf. It hit the floor with a soft clink, and Ye was there before she could bend down, picking it up. He polished it on his sleeve, the stone glowing faintly green in the dim light.
"Guan Yin," he said, handing it to her. "For protection. Better than your gun—spirits don't bleed."
Rui took the pendant, her fingers brushing his. His skin was warm, a stark contrast to the cold jade. She slipped it into her pocket, next to the rice, and walked out without saying thank you. The bell jingled behind her, and she heard Ye laugh—quiet, warm, not mocking.
The alley behind Mr. Li's laundromat was empty, the iron basin still sitting by the door. Rui knelt, her knees pressing into the cool concrete, and pulled out the rice. She sprinkled a handful over the spot where the woman in white had stood—where the Yin energy had clung to her gloves earlier.
Nothing happened at first. She frowned, ready to storm back to the shop and demand an explanation. Then, slowly, the grains began to darken—first at the edges, then spreading inward, like ink seeping into paper. Within seconds, the rice was black, as if it had been burned. A cold tingle ran up her spine, sharper than before, and she heard a whisper, faint but clear: Mine…
She scrambled to her feet, the blackened rice clutched in her fist. This wasn't a trick. This was real. She ran back to Xuanqing Antiques, the bell jangling as she burst through the door. Ye was still at the counter, sipping a cup of tea—green, steam curling from the rim.
"Explain this," she said, slamming the blackened rice onto the wood.
Ye set his tea down, his smile fading. "That's Yin energy. Thick, hungry—from a vengeful spirit. She's not stealing joss paper for fun. She's collecting a debt. Someone wronged her, and she's lashing out at anyone who honors the dead—anyone who has something to 'give back.'" He leaned forward, his voice serious. "The elders who got sick—they all burned joss paper last night. She took their warmth, their life force, as payment."
Rui's jaw tightened. "Who wronged her? Do you know who she is?"
"Feng Xinyu," Ye said, picking up a scroll from the counter and unrolling it. It was a map of Chinatown, marked with small red X's. "Died in 1943. Japanese soldiers raided her family's home during WWII—killed her parents, her brother, burned the house down. She was found strangled in the basement of the army hospital on Canal Street. The same hospital where my Senior Brother —my senior brother—disappeared ten years ago."
"Your brother?" Rui asked, leaning closer to the map. The X's clustered around the hospital, the ancestral hall, and Mr. Li's laundromat.
"Dao Feng," Ye said, his fingers brushing a faded photo taped to the scroll—a young man with a kind face, holding a silver whisk. "Taught me how to hold a sword, how to draw talismans. He was investigating Feng Xinyu's spirit when he vanished. The last thing he told me was 'she's collecting debts… the cross.'" He pointed to a small sketch on the map—a blood-red cross, identical to the one on the ancestral hall wall.
Rui pulled out her notebook, sketching the cross next to her runes. "Mike said the elders call her the Yin Debt Collector. Is that what this is? She's making people pay for what the Japanese did?"
"Not just people," Ye said, rolling up the scroll. "She's looking for someone specific. The grandson of the Japanese officer who killed her family. He lives in Chinatown—runs a sushi restaurant on Elizabeth Street." He stood, grabbing his peachwood sword from the counter. "She'll go after him tonight. During the peak of the festival."
Rui stood too, pulling out her phone. "I need to call Mike. We can stake out the restaurant—"
Ye shook his head. "Your guns won't stop her. Your runes might slow her down, but she's too strong. You need Taoist magic—cinnabar, peachwood, incense. You need me." He held out his hand, palm up. "Partners. At least until we stop her."
Rui stared at his hand. He was young, younger than her, with a scar on his eyebrow and a Hanfu that looked like it belonged in a museum. But he knew things—things no science could explain. He'd proven it with the rice, with the map, with Feng Xinyu's story.
She took his hand. His grip was firm, confident. "Partners," she said. "But if you try to sell me a 'lucky charm' for twenty bucks, I'm arresting you."
Ye laughed, squeezing her hand. "Deal. Now let's go. We need to get supplies—cinnabar, glutinous rice, a few talismans. And you need to learn how to use that jade pendant." He walked to the door, holding it open for her. "Oh, and Agent Rui?"
She looked at him. "What?"
He nodded at her pocket, where the pendant was hidden. "Don't take it off. It'll warn you if she's near."
They walked down Mott Street, the sun now low in the sky, painting the buildings in orange light. Rui's hand still tingled from Ye's grip, and the jade pendant felt warm against her chest. For the first time since she'd taken the case, she didn't feel like she was fighting alone.
But as they turned the corner toward the supply shop, Rui saw something out of the corner of her eye—a white shroud, fluttering in an alley. She stopped, grabbing Ye's arm. "Did you see that?"
Ye nodded, his hand going to his sword. "She's watching us. Let's move."
They hurried down the street, the sound of their shoes echoing. Rui's heart raced—not from fear, but from anticipation. Feng Xinyu was close. The debt was about to be collected. And for the first time in her career, Rui didn't care if it was folklore. She was ready to fight.