Beijing's dawn cast a pale glow over the battered safehouse, its walls scarred from Tianhua's final stand, the air thick with the ashes of his brood and the faint hum of a city stirring awake. Feng Ruoxi stood at the threshold, the phoenix pendant blazing against her chest, her mark pulsing crimson as fire flickered in her palms—stronger, fiercer, supreme after breaking Tianhua's blood. Her gaze fixed on the rooftops, where the gold-eyed figure had loomed—cloaked, silent, a shadow beyond Tianhua's reach, now gone. Her blood thrummed, the golden-eyed woman's warning echoing: "The nest remains."
Jiang Yukang flanked her, his pistol holstered but his hand resting on it, blood seeping through his bandaged shoulder and ribs, his dark eyes scanning the skyline. "Tianhua's down," he said, voice low and steady, the kingpin's calm a rock amid the storm. "But that gold-eyed bastard—whoever they are—they're not his."
