The alley is narrow and dark, even under the mid-day sun. Red and blue lights bathe the scene in a surreal glow as beat cops set up a perimeter of yellow tape to hold back a non-existent crowd. The lack of popping flashbulbs has a way of making it all feel even more morbid. Looking at the lifeless body sprawled across the ground, thin grey hair dancing around his head, it would be easy to mistake him for living flesh and blood. His one good eye remains open with a chilling vigilance. His left hand, curled in a death-grip, seems to have had something ripped from it and his right hand was attempting to scrawl out a message in a pool of his own blood. It is hard to discern his writing, but it looks like a number six.
Back in Chinatown, the lightning is flashing, the thunder is crashing, and the rain is coming down in sheets as thick as lead. The four students remain, with heavy hearts, still awaiting their master's return...