Winter, 1988.

3:42 AM

The supposedly “young” wolf-man who appeared no older than thirty stared with a condescending, cold gaze outwardly toward an unnaturally-formed aurora borealis prior to wordlessly glaring at the rest of his surroundings.

Chairman Lao took long pauses with his pipe; his left side of his face clearly possessing a vertical scar over his eyelid and face area that his dark-lensed glasses could not hide away like a cloud with the sun.

Then, without warning—an unquestionable work of the zenith within his mortal coil—Lao Jun’s soled feet levitated until he figuratively and literally soared above the common folk of China and their skylines.

A glint of an emerald pendant faded across his nigh-pitch dark aviators.

“太沒用了。”