The teahouse door creaked open, a gust of Kyoto's damp night air sweeping in as Xia Mia stepped across the threshold, her eyes wild with a manic gleam, her gun trembling in her hand. "You're mine, Ruoxi," she hissed, her voice a venomous thread laced with obsession, her finger tightening on the trigger. The dim lantern light caught her face—gaunt, hollowed by desperation, a shadow of the poised heiress she'd once been.
Feng Ruoxi stood by the window, the phoenix pendant warm against her chest, her mark pulsing faintly as the golden-eyed woman's warning echoed—"The viper coils, but the flame endures." She met Mia's gaze, unflinching, her knife gripped tight, the fire in her blood stirring. "You're too late," she said, voice cold and steady. "The Fengs are ash. Xia's bleeding. You've got nothing left."
