The basement safehouse was a tomb of silence, save for the faint drip of water from a cracked pipe, pooling with the blood streaking the concrete floor. Feng Ruoxi stood frozen, the note trembling in her hand—*"Beijing awaits, phoenix. Bring the fire."*—its jagged scrawl a taunt that echoed the golden-eyed woman's voice in her mind. Hiroshi Tanaka was gone, snatched in the blink of an eye, and the air thrummed with a menace she couldn't name.
Jiang Yukang knelt by the blood, his fingers tracing the smeared trail to the open door, his face a mask of cold fury. "They were here," he said, voice low and lethal. "Seconds ago. We didn't hear a damn thing."
Xiao Zheng kicked a crate, his knife spinning in his hand, eyes blazing. "Stealth like that? Not Xia's grunts. This is someone else—someone who knows we're coming."
