Zhao Huan and Xiao He rushed toward Miss Yang, their feet pounding the floorboards. As they ran, a gust of wind slammed shut the door to her bedroom with an ominous *thud*. Flashbulbs erupted in rapid succession before the sickly scent of perfume began seeping through the room.

"This fragrance…" Xiao He's voice wavered as she leaned forward, fingers twitching at her nose. "It feels familiar yet eludes me."

Zhao Huan's eyes bulged as he stared at Miss Yang's back, his lips curling into an unnatural grimace. "That's Shanghainese *huazhu shui*, the vintage kind," he rasped, jerking his chin toward a bottle of green glass on the vanity.

"Is it for soothing your wounds?" Xiao He asked gently, her tone betraying concern despite their shared hometown rivalry. She gestured at Miss Yang's exposed back where her cheongsam gaped open above the mattress - those beautiful hips curved upward defiantly as if mocking the ceiling with their feminine allure.

Miss Yang pressed herself against the bedframe, her posture radiating aching vulnerability. "Officer Xiao He," she murmured without turning around, "would you mind applying some *huazhu shui* to my back? Please forgive Master Zhao."

Xiao He glanced between Zhao Huan's rigid stance and the supple curve of Miss Yang's spine before reaching for the bottle with professional detachment.

Zhao Huan snapped out of his trance. He pulled a talisman from his sleeve, incinerated it in an open flame, then scattered the ash behind Miss Yang. "Rub counterclockwise," he instructed sharply. "Each lump requires attention - these bumps are *shipo* poison. Ordinary remedies won't work." His voice broke mid-sentence as he noticed the flashbulbs again, identical to those they'd seen earlier.

The compass in Zhao Huan's satchel remained stubbornly silent despite frantic circles around the room. "Curse this modern age," he muttered. "Even the dead are adapting."

Miss Yang's fingers tightened around a frayed corner of her cheongsam as memories surfaced. "Master told me it would end when I complete my karma." She traced the creases in the letter from the old monk, voice gaining strength.

Zhao Huan hesitated before pointing at one of Miss Yang's lumps. "Test its texture - soft or hard?" He could almost taste the sweat on his tongue as Xiao He bristled suspiciously.

"Save your lies," she snapped, rising to her feet. The door slammed behind her with a hollow thud.

Left alone with Miss Yang, Zhao Huan hovered awkwardly by the bed. Each heartbeat felt like a drumroll until he finally crouched down. "The bumps might progress overnight," he warned as his fingers brushed the *huazhu shui* across her shoulders.

Miss Yang arched involuntarily at the first touch. A strangled cry escaped her parted lips - half-sob, half-whisper of pain that sent a chill up Zhao Huan's spine.

The door creaked open again just as black tendrils began oozing from the soothsayer's hands. Xiao He froze in the doorway, eyes widening at the writhing mass of flesh pulsating on Miss Yang's back.

"Those are *shiru zhi*," Zhao Huan explained hoarsely as he continued the ritual, sweat beading along his brow. "They'll burrow deeper if left untouched."

Xiao He's hand trembled as she sprinkled cinnabar powder into the wounds. "Why does it feel like…" Her voice caught when she noticed Zhao Huan's own fingers darkening at the joints.

"Your hands!" Miss Yang cried suddenly, her body convulsing on the mattress.

Zhao Huan stared down in horror - his palms were already marred with similar blackened lesions despite the barrier of rice grains he'd ground into his skin.