Huang Shican hunted foxes. Not regular ones, but shapeshifters that preyed upon miners in the goldfields of Gam Saan.

He knew all their lairs, their disguises, how they would steal the forms of young maidens—and occasionally, young men—to lure victims to their doom. Shican collected pelts from his catches, which he kept on proud display on the porch of his cabin some distance from the mining camp. He took lovers as well—mostly men—but they never stayed long.

“Something’s not quite right about him,” they said. “Perhaps it’s his eyes.” They shone with a bright slyness. As if he were a fox himself.