Huang Yanyan's POV:
The night was a damn mess—smoke curling from the steelworks' ashes, Fengrui's trucks peeling out with his tail between his legs, and my shoulder throbbing like a drumbeat from that bullet graze. My head spun from the rifle butt I'd taken, but I locked eyes with this punk on the motorcycle—Liang, he'd said, my *cousin*. His face was all sharp angles and scars, eyes too much like Yang Wei's to be coincidence. Around him, two dozen bikers revved their engines, leather and steel gleaming under the flickering streetlights. Island B, huh? I wasn't sure if they were saviors or another headache, but I wasn't dropping my guard.
"Cousin?" I spat, crowbar still up, blood dripping down my arm. "You got some ID to back that up, or you just here to flex?"
