The Beijing safehouse hummed with a tense quiet as Ruoxi stood by the window, the city's neon glow bleeding through the rain-streaked glass. Mia's death lingered in her mind—her wild eyes, Yukang's knife, the faint pulse of her phoenix tattoo in the storm. Hours had passed since that alley, the jet delivering them to this cramped refuge, but the weight of it clung to her like damp clothes. Her wrist itched faintly, the tattoo a silent reminder of power she couldn't fully grasp, its golden flare a secret she still hid from Yukang.