Leaning heavily against the cold steel pillar, Stuvey Taylor finally allowed his muscles to unclench—just slightly. His nerves, however, remained taut as piano wire.
He shook his head, blinking hard, as if the motion might reset reality. No. Impossible. He was standing here, breathing, alive—yet he had just seen himself sprawled lifeless on the baggage carousel a few meters away, fingers still curled around Sylvia's damned pendant.
No. Not standing. Hiding.
Instinct had driven him into this shadowed corner of the arrivals terminal, though he couldn't articulate why. Years of field work had honed his gut reactions—and right now, every primal sense screamed that staying unseen was the only thing between him and whatever nightmare was unfolding.
He sucked in a slow breath, forcing himself to retrace the last 24 hours.
Nothing had gone right since the flight took off from New York.
Flight 814 to Dongdu had been a seven-hour gauntlet of delays, turbulence, and near-death terror. First, the weather grounded them for hours on the tarmac. Then, mid-flight, the plane hit a polar vortex over the Arctic, tossing the cabin like a tin can in a hurricane. He'd blacked out at some point, only waking when the wheels screeched onto the runway.
By the time he staggered into the terminal, his mouth tasted like cotton, his head throbbed, and his legs barely obeyed him.
Just one last trial before the new assignment, he'd told himself.
The customs hall was nearly empty—just his battered flight's worth of exhausted travelers shuffling toward the gates. He smirked at the foreigners stuck in the manual lanes, then swiped his passport over the automated scanner.
Beep. Beep.
Frowning, he tried again.
Beep. Beep.
A customs officer—a young woman with sharp eyes—approached. "Problem?"
"Scanner won't read my passport," he said. "Worked fine when I left."
She studied him a beat too long before manually overriding the gate. "This way."
He followed, absently noting the sway of her hips beneath the uniform's stiff fabric. His mind, though, was already elsewhere—back to Sylvia's apartment, her nails raking down his back, the way she'd whispered—
Focus.
Whatever was happening, it wasn't jetlag.
And the corpse on the carousel proved it.
Something felt off.
Stuvey Taylor slowed his steps, eyes narrowing at the officer's back. "Why aren't we heading to the manual inspection line?"
Irritation prickled under his skin. Normally, he breezed through borders like a ghost—perks of diplomatic clearance. But this trip to New York had been classified as deep-cover training. No special privileges. No flags. Just a civilian passport, meant to keep him invisible.
And now it's failing.
"They're backed up," the officer—Xiao Chen, she'd called herself—replied without turning. "Our office will handle it faster."
Stuvey glanced at the snaking queues at the manual counters. No logical rebuttal. Yet every instinct in him crackled like live wire.
He closed the gap between them in two silent strides, now close enough to smell her shampoo—something floral, cheap.
Then he saw it.
Her head bent, thumbs flying over a messaging app he didn't recognize. Two words, sent twice:
Don't kill me.
His blood iced.
Joke? Distress signal?
He forced himself to fall back two steps, gaze deliberately sliding away as if he'd seen nothing. By the time she pocketed the phone and glanced back, he was studying the ceiling tiles, hands loose at his sides.
Her shoulders relaxed.
The office door stood ajar, unmarked, wedged into a corner of the terminal like an afterthought. No windows. No signage. A place designed to be forgotten.
"Zhang Ke," Xiao Chen called through the gap, pushing it wider. "Passport issue here."
A man's voice, mid-forties, lazy with authority: "Come in, Xiao Chen."
She motioned Stuvey forward. "After you."
The man behind the desk—Zhang Ke, or just Zhang the Section Chief?—was a study in contradictions. Younger than his voice suggested, early forties at most. Neat side-part, crisp shirt, a clean shave. But the thick-rimmed glasses were a decade out of style, and the way he slumped in his chair spoke of long hours and bureaucratic rot.
Who under forty still wears those? Stuvey mused, filing the detail away.
Xiao Chen dragged a chair over. "This is Section Chief Zhang."
She retreated to a two-seater sofa against the wall, perching on its left edge. Watching him.
Stuvey forced a grin. "Didn't expect my homecoming to warrant chief-level attention."
Zhang waved a hand, mouse skittering across his desk. "Relax. We're here to help." His tone was light, but his body didn't move an inch. "Xiao Chen, bring his passport."
She rose, stepping into Stuvey's space again. Up close, he noted the fine arch of her brows, the too-perfect symmetry of her face.
Pretty. Dangerous.
His fingers tightened around the passport.