The Jiang safehouse nestled in Hebei's forested hills, its wooden walls a fragile haven against the dawn's pale light. Ruoxi sat on a creaking chair, her coat blood-streaked from Tianhua's lab, the phoenix tattoo a faint pulse beneath her sleeve. Her body ached—thigh scar, shoulder bruise, the toll of fire and fury—but the golden flame that had burned Tianhua to ash hummed quieter now, sated yet restless. Jiang Yukang stood by the window, mask off, his bandaged arm stiff as he scanned the trees, his silence heavy with the weight of victory and what it cost. Xiao Zheng sprawled on a cot, leg propped, laptop open, sifting through Tianhua's stolen data—fragments of a network still alive, labs Shuren had hinted at, a war unfinished.
Ruoxi flexed her hand, the memory of Tianhua's scream—choked to ash—clashing with Pang Yuwei's avenged ghost. "He's gone," she said, breaking the quiet, her voice raw. "But Shuren was right—others are out there. Tianhua wasn't the end."
