March 17th, 20xx, 01:15 am.
—
The apartment became quiet when we returned.
No gunfire or shouting. Just the soft click of the locks sliding back into place.
Qinglan stepped in first. Her bat leaned lazily across her shoulder, her steps unhurried. Dried blood on her cheek. Her jacket hung open, revealing a glimpse of her collarbone, pale and flushed. Her fingers brushed along the edge of the bedroom door, holding it for a moment before heading inside.
I followed her in silence—neither of us spoke after returning.
The smell inside felt different now—sweat, smoke, alcohol and faint metal. And underneath it. That warm, jasmine-salt scent that hadn't left my mouth since Qinglan kissed me.
She let the bat fall. It hit the floor with a muffled clunk. She didn't look at it.
Instead, she walked towards the centre of the room, her boots landing softly on the wood, while gazing back at me, with her lips slightly parted.
She stopped at the bed, turned, and sat on the edge.
