The Beijing rain had thinned to a drizzle as Ruoxi, Yukang, and Xiao Zheng slipped out of Shuren's shattered compound, the night air thick with ash and the tang of blood. Shuren's confession—Pang Yuwei's death, Tianhua's hunt for her phoenix blood—burned in Ruoxi's mind, a fire stoked by the golden flare still humming in her veins. Her wrist pulsed, the tattoo sharper now, its wings almost alive, and she felt it—power, raw and hers, a blade forged from her mother's stolen legacy.
Jiang Yukang walked beside her, mask off, his coat streaked with rain and blood, his silence a steady presence after her truth had spilled. He'd seen her burn Shuren to ash, felt her tremble in his arms, and vowed to face Tianhua with her—no more secrets, only trust. Xiao Zheng limped ahead, leg bandaged but functional, clutching his pack with Shuren's data and the recording—proof of Tianhua's crimes, a map to Hebei's hidden lab.
