The Hebei safehouse was a fortress of flickering lanterns and tense whispers as dawn bled into morning, the air heavy with the scent of damp wood and blood. Ruoxi sat at the scarred table, her arm bandaged from Hao's grazing bullet, the phoenix tattoo a faint pulse beneath her sleeve—quieter now, its fire dimmed after the ambush's strain.
Her body ached, not just from wounds but from the weight of power pushed too far—mercenaries turned to ash, healing slowed, a limit she hadn't faced until now. Jiang Yukang stood by the door, mask off, his face carved with resolve, the kingpin yielding to the husband who'd bound Hao rather than killed him. Xiao Zheng worked at a corner desk, laptop humming, sifting Tianhua's data for the next lab, his shoulder patched but his focus unbroken.
