The rainforests of Cairns were a green so deep they were almost black. This primal sense of oppression gave Lin Zhiwan a long-lost surge of excitement.
She sat in an antique wooden carriage of the Kuranda Scenic Railway, her fingertip tapping a crystal glass holding a single ice sphere and half a measure of whiskey. As a top-tier project manager, her "vacations" were usually just a change of scenery in which to scavenge the remains of failing ventures.
"Miss Lin, just say the word, and we can scrap that 300-million-dollar project immediately," her partner's voice crackled through the phone, breathless with the anxiety of a man who had bet it all.
"In my dictionary, there are only two words: 'Profit' and 'Bankruptcy.' We don't 'scrap' things." Lin Zhiwan cut the screen to black, the amber liquid reflecting her cold, indifferent eyes.
The train groaned as it began its slow crawl into the long tunnel carving through the mountain range.
Suddenly, a roar of tinnitus hit her like a tsunami.
It wasn't a simple sensation of weightlessness; it was a violent, agonizing wrenching of her bones, as if she were being pulled apart by a massive magnetic field. The modern LED lighting flickered out like dying embers, replaced by arcs of blue electricity spiraling counter-clockwise in a frantic dance.
BOOM!
A thunderous metallic crash echoed as two trains, separated by a century, performed a brutal docking in the void. The sheer inertia slammed Lin Zhiwan against the side wall. Her whiskey glass shattered; the alcohol splashed into the corner of her eye, stinging like liquid fire.
She pushed herself up, her vision clearing to reveal a world that had completely shifted.
The climate-controlled air was gone. In its place was the suffocating stench of coal smoke and scalding machine oil. Beneath her feet was no longer a polished floor, but heavy, splintered timber planks that reeked of ancient mold.
Standing at the carriage door were three thugs who looked as if they had been clawed out of an old oil painting. They wore filthy canvas overalls and leveled rusted lever-action shotguns at the room.
"Blimey, where'd this tart spring from?" The leader, a one-eyed man with a face like scarred granite, stared greedily at Lin Zhiwan's long legs and her exquisite silk blouse. "Look at that quality. A stray little aristocrat lamb, ripe for the shearing."
Lin Zhiwan wiped the whiskey from her face with a slow, elegant motion. She didn't scream. Her breathing didn't even skip a beat.
She glanced at her wrist—the hands of her modern quartz watch were spinning like a possessed gyroscope, counter-clockwise and frantic. The casing grew hot, nearly searing her skin.
"Gentlemen, this 'immersive theater' rehearsal is quite convincing," Lin Zhiwan said, standing tall. Her gaze held the cold, calculating scrutiny of a predator assessing its prey.
"Shut it! Hands up!" The one-eyed man lunged forward, pressing the cold, hard barrel of his gun directly against the center of her brow. "Hand over every shiny thing you've got, or I'll put a hole in that pretty face!"
Lin Zhiwan let out a soft, dry chuckle. This threat carried less weight than a frantic call from her business partner.
"Since the rules are broken, let's negotiate with physics."
The moment the steel touched her skin, she moved. She didn't retreat; her left hand struck like a viper, gripping the barrel and wrenching it upward. Simultaneously, her right hand dove into the side pocket of her travel bag, pulling out a specialized windproof lighter.
It was a high-pressure jet model designed for wilderness survival, emitting a needle-thin, ultra-hot blue flame.
Whoosh!
She jammed the ignition. With her left hand, she crushed a portable high-pressure alcohol spray bottle directly into the path of the flame.
A two-meter-long dragon of searing fire roared through the narrow carriage!
"AAARGH!"
The one-eyed man didn't even have time to pull the trigger before half his face was engulfed by the fire. His screams tore through the deathly silence of the tunnel. Seizing the opening, Lin Zhiwan delivered a brutal knee to his abdomen, snatched the heavy shotgun from his scorched grip, and spun it around. She handled the weapon with the clinical efficiency of someone disassembling a faulty piece of machinery.
The other two bandits collapsed to their knees, terrified by this "miracle of spitting fire," wailing incoherently: "Witchcraft! It's a judgment from God!"
Lin Zhiwan shouldered the gun, the heavy stock grounding her. She stepped coldly over the charred hand of the leader and plucked a heavy deerskin coin purse from his belt.
"Lesson one, Mr. Parsons," she said, looking toward the shadows of the carriage where a gentleman in a suit stood paralyzed, clutching his monocle in shock. "In my projects, there are no 'bandits'—only 'unprocessed costs.'"
The gentleman—Mr. Parsons, Deputy Supervisor of the Railway Department—felt his throat tighten. He had come to scavenge the remains of this "ghost train," but he hadn't expected to find a lunatic.
"Who... who the hell are you?"
Lin Zhiwan slung the shotgun over her shoulder and looked out at the now-stationary Silver Ridge Station. The setting sun bled across the iron gears and the damp rainforest, radiating a sense of beautiful, primal violence.
"Me? I'm here to find my shop."
She stepped down from the carriage, her high heels striking the rotting wooden platform with a crisp, ruthless rhythm.
"And while I'm at it, I'm going to be your new Bookie."