The warehouse erupted into chaos as Xia Zhenguo's men stormed through the shattered doors, gunfire tearing through the stale air like a swarm of angry hornets. Feng Ruoxi stood at the heart of it, her phoenix mark blazing crimson against her wrist, flames flickering in her palms—small but fierce, a testament to the power waking within her. "Kyoto's mine!" she roared, her voice layered with the golden-eyed woman's resonance, a challenge that shook the rusted walls.
Qiao Yingyao's scream cut through the din, her shoulder blooming red as a stray bullet found her, her phone clattering to the concrete. She crumpled, her once-impeccable silk dress now a tattered shroud, her eyes wide with terror as Xia's silhouette loomed in the doorway, his submachine gun spitting death. "Too late, Ruoxi," he sneered, his voice a venomous thread over the chaos. "I've got your traitor—and you."
