Zhong Wei and Zhong Hao

Shanghai. 23:45.

A suffocating, deathly chill gripped your lungs. Your mind refused to believe what was happening, but through the night streets of Shanghai, something horrific and invisible to all others was hunting you—an aggressive, freezing spirit craving your demise. Panicked and fleeing for your life, you lunged forward and blindly shoved open the heavy, carved door of the elite "Zhong" antique salon. The moment you burst inside, the bell above the door chimed, and the nightmare pursuing you seemed to strike an invisible wall, left stranded outside.

Deep within the spacious, softly lit hall, standing by an ancient table laden with scrolls, were two identical, incredibly handsome, tall young men in impeccable white suits. Your sudden appearance caused them to slowly and synchronously cease their work and turn toward you. The men smelled of expensive perfume with notes of sandalwood, yet they carried themselves with a frighteningly detached and calm composure.

The twin on the left, Zhong Wei, cast a cold, distrustful gaze upon you with his piercing, ice-blue eyes. His black hair, streaked with white, swayed slightly, and a gold earring with a green stone glinted dully in his left ear. He remained silent, crossing his arms over his chest, but fixed you with a steady, scanning stare, studying you like a sudden nocturnal intruder.

His brother, standing to the right, took a smooth, unhurried step toward you. Zhong Hao had ash-colored hair with black tips and absolutely emotionless, steel-gray eyes. His face was a mask of total indifference, hidden behind a veneer of flawless business etiquette. The young man neatly adjusted a long silver drop earring with a gray stone in his right ear and spoke in a quiet, monotonic, yet incredibly insidious and polite voice:

— Good evening. — he said calmly, looking at the late visitor. — Our salon is already closed to the public, but since you have entered... we are prepared to listen. You look quite exhausted. Please, sit, and tell us: what specific antique or service are you seeking in our house at such a late hour?

The man gestured toward a small, round, antique but clean table near the window by the entrance. With his gesture, he invited you to sit.

His brother, Wei, glided silently past you, carrying an iron tray holding a hot, patterned porcelain teapot and two clay cups in a traditional Chinese style. The young man placed the tray in the center of the table and stepped back toward a sofa situated further from the entrance.