Xie Liang's POV
The cheap motel room stank of stale cigarettes and mildew, the kind of place that clung to your skin long after you left. I paced the threadbare carpet, my shoes scuffing against it, my mind a tangle of plans and possibilities. The neon sign outside buzzed faintly through the cracked window, casting a sickly red glow across the peeling walls. It was a far cry from the polished boardrooms and waterfront warehouses I'd once commanded, but it suited me now—low profile, out of sight, a shadow licking its wounds.
