December 31, 2025, 23:57.
Three yachts sat dead centre on the Huangpu, searchlights bleaching the river white.
The city countdown screen flashed its final three seconds; Shanghai screamed as one.
I stood on the roof of the old Customs House, black mink whipping in the wind.
Five-year-old Fu Zhijiang in my arms, tiny suit, tie knotted by my own hands.
Fu Juanzhou on my left, scar on his ear glowing under the floodlights.
Tang Shi on my right, hair buzz-cut, fresh knife scar from temple to mouth.
He never died.
The hit-and-run two years ago was his own disappearing act.
He traded that "death" for the last piece of Gu family land and a ticket to tonight's show.
Countdown hit zero.
The instant fireworks exploded,
a body floated up in the middle of the river.
Male, early forties, bloated suit, face down, wrists bound to a gold bar.
Carved on the bar:
"Owes Lin Zhi one life. Due 2038."
Every drone, every phone, every live stream in Shanghai
locked on that corpse.
The host's voice shook: "We—we have an unidentified male body…"
I kissed Zhijiang's forehead, soft as a lullaby:
"Baby, see that?
Best side dish for New Year fireworks."
Tang Shi crushed his cigarette, voice gravel:
"Sis, I fished him up myself.
Guess who he is."
I smiled, didn't answer.
I already knew.
The CSRC section chief who took fifty million from the Gus eleven years ago and buried us alive.
Tonight his loan came due.
Fu Juanzhou's hand settled on my shoulder, fingers ice-cold:
"Wife, two more minutes till the next one surfaces."
I nodded, eyes on the sky.
Second body.
Woman in a red dress, fabric bleached ghost-white, clutching a waterproof file bag—
my stolen due-diligence reports from a lifetime ago.
Gu Xinghe's mistress. The mole who sold us out.
Zhijiang asked in his baby voice:
"Mommy, why are they swimming?"
I hugged him tighter, voice honey:
"Because they owed Mommy money, sweetheart.
Couldn't pay,
so they sleep with the fish."
Three minutes.
Fourth body.
Seven in total,
seven black lotuses blooming under the fireworks.
Streams cut.
Too late.
Weibo exploded.
#BundSevenCorpses
#HuangpuNewYearFloaters
Servers crashed.
I handed the child to Tang Shi, walked into the glass penthouse.
Fu Juanzhou followed, arms around me from behind, voice a sigh:
"Enough, wife?"
I shook my head, voice a blade:
"Not even close.
Seventeen more names on the list
haven't come due yet."
He kissed the back of my neck, tongue tasting of tobacco:
"Then we collect slowly.
We've got all the time in the world."
Through the glass, fireworks still burst,
seven bodies still spun in the current,
seven unfinished clauses
starting to accrue interest
in the first minute of 2039.