He was not a zombie. Nor was he a ghoul, mummy, wraith, ambulatory skeleton or operatic phantom. He wasn’t even jiang shi, a dressed-to-the-nines Qing dynasty vampire that could at least do an approximation of the Lindy Hop, transcending time and culture into the Jazz Age. However, he was clearly dead, or undead if you parsed language to its core.

Jonnie Tang sauntered down the pathway of Southorn Playground, skirted the border of the court, waiting to be seen. His real name was Tang Chun-yin, or CY, but he had started going by Jonnie, not wanting to be ragged on for those English initials that doppelganged the current Chief Executive. At least he used to be Jonnie Tang until 0518 hours. The idiot driver of that Bimmer M3 barreling East on Hennessy ran the light, slammed into him, and next thing you knew, Jonnie was the corpse on TVB Jade’s 6:30 news. Asshole didn’t even have the balls to stop.