The Beijing safehouse—a squat concrete bunker on the city's fringe—vibrated with the distant rumble of Tianhua's collapsing compound, its flames painting the night sky in streaks of orange and black. Feng Ruoxi slumped against a rusted table, the phoenix pendant heavy in her hand, her mark pulsing faintly against her wrist as the golden-eyed woman's vision lingered—"The dragon bleeds, but the brood stirs." Her fire had burned through Tianhua's lab, his experiments, but he'd slipped away, and that red-eyed shadow outside gnawed at her resolve.
Jiang Yukang knelt beside her, his shoulder bandaged, his dark eyes scanning her face as he pressed a canteen to her lips. "You're pushing too hard," he said, voice low and rough, the kingpin's calm fraying with worry. "That fire—it's taking more than you've got."
