It was raining in Seattle that morning. Yesterday it had been a fine drizzle barely strong enough to soak through a summer jacket. By the evening it had grown heavier, the steady rhythm beating out on the drum that was familiar to the long-term residents of the Emerald City. When it reached the early hours of the morning it had become something titanic. The storm drains were filled, cars veered off the road, and the waterfront properties flooded. The ferocious roar of water throwing itself against the pavement was the only sound, a background symphony to the unpleasant business of Seattle at night. People woke during the storm, in the warm comfort of their own beds, confused until they heard the angry beast slapping at the window.<br/><br/>At three o'clock the first and only lightning bolt of the night struck. It struck out over the water off Mercer Island harmlessly enough, but those that saw it swore that it was a monster of a thing. Twice as large as any lightning bolt they had ever seen, three times as bright, burnt into their eyes long, long after it had faded from the sky. In years to come people still spoke of that storm - the worst Seattle had seen in many lifetimes. Other people, those in the know, remember it for another reason.<br/><br/>It was the night that Feng Zhou, Warden of Seattle, died.