The room smelled of cheap detergent and instant noodles.

  A fan buzzed in the corner, pushing warm air that did little to cut the heaviness inside.

  Lian sat cross-legged on the floor, a towel draped over her shoulders, wiping her knives clean. Blood came off in streaks, dark against the pale cotton.

  Kai leaned against the small desk by the window, laptop open, fingers moving across the keys. He wore the same shirt from the night before, collar stretched, faint stains along the sleeve. His eyes were red from lack of sleep, but his voice stayed calm.

  “Three addresses match the routes from the papers,” he said. “There’s warehouses all near the harbor but one’s already shut down which is the one you cleared. That leaves two.”

  Lian looked up, her expression steady. “Which is closest?”

  “To Kwa Wan. The old shipping yard, half abandoned.”

  “Tonight.”

  Kai glanced at her, lips pressing into a thin line. “You don’t want to wait?”

  Her hands never stopped moving, cloth sliding along the steel. “No.”

  He closed the laptop with a quiet snap. “Then tonight.”

  When Lian finished, she laid the knives out neatly beside her, each one gleaming under the weak bulb. She sat back, breathing out through her nose.

  By dusk, the air grew heavier, thick with the scent of the sea. The van rattled along the edge of Kowloon, weaving through traffic until the tall blocks gave way to the sprawl of warehouses and rusting yards. To Kwa Wan looked half forgotten, streets cracked and uneven, puddles catching the dull glow of streetlights.

  Lian pulled her jacket tighter, stepping out of the van.

  The ground crunched under her boots.

  Kai checked the small camera rig clipped to his shoulder, the feed already streaming back to his laptop inside. He adjusted his earpiece. “North side has two guards. They’re smoking, not paying attention.”

  She nodded once, slipping into the shadows of the yard. Rusted cranes loomed above, cables hanging like dead vines. Containers sat in uneven stacks, their paint chipped, graffiti fading.

  The main building stood ahead, its roof sagging in places and the windows broken. A single bulb glowed above the side door, casting a weak circle of yellow light.

  Lian crouched behind a rusting truck, eyes fixed on the guards. Their laughter carried across the yard, careless, drifting into the damp air. She waited until one turned to flick his cigarette away, then moved.

  Her boots made no sound against the cracked pavement. She slid close, knife drawn, hand steady. The first man never saw her, blade sinking into his neck before he could draw a breath. She lowered him slowly, body folding to the ground without a sound.

  The second turned, eyes widening. He reached for his pistol, but she was faster, knife cutting deep across his chest. He choked, dropped to his knees, then stilled.

  “Clear,” she whispered.

  “Good,” Kai murmured in her ear. “But there are more inside. I’m picking up heat signatures. At least six.”

  Lian pushed the door open and stepped into the dim interior. The air smelled of rust, sweat, and something sour. Crates lined the walls, some broken open to reveal cheap electronics, others sealed tight.

  In the center of the space, a group of men sat at a makeshift table, bottles and cards scattered. Their rifles rested against the crates nearby.

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  Her grip tightened around the knife.

  One man stood, stretching, and wandered toward the door. She melted into the shadows, holding her breath as he passed. Then she struck, pulling him back, blade across his throat. His body sagged silently against her.

  The others looked up at the faint sound, confusion spreading. One frowned, muttering, then reached for his rifle.

  Lian moved.

  She hurled the knife, striking the man in the chest before he could fire. Chaos erupted. Chairs toppled, curses filled the air.

  She lunged forward, grabbing another rifle before its owner could aim, slamming the butt into his jaw. Bone cracked and his blood sprayed.

  A man swung a pipe at her head. She ducked low, slashing at his legs, sending him crashing to the ground. The rifle clattered away. Another fired, bullets tearing into crates, splinters raining down.

  “Left,” Kai’s voice snapped in her ear.

  She spun, knife flashing, cutting deep into the gunman’s side. He screamed, weapon falling from his grip. She shoved him into a stack of crates, wood splitting under the impact.

  The room smelled of gunpowder now, sharp and choking. Lian’s chest rose and fell fast, sweat stinging her eyes.

  Two men remained, both armed. They spread out, rifles raised. She ducked behind a crate, bullets ripping into the wood.

  “Kai,” she hissed.

  “I’ve got you,” he said. The lights overhead flickered, then died, plunging the warehouse into near darkness.

  The men cursed, beams of flashlights cutting through the black.

  Lian moved with the shadows. She slipped behind one, slashing upward, the blade catching him under the ribs. His flashlight fell, rolling across the floor.

  The last man fired wildly, muzzle flashes lighting his panicked face. She charged, knocking the rifle aside, knife plunging deep. His scream echoed once, then cut short.

  Silence fell again, heavy and close.

  Breathing hard, Lian crouched, listening. There are no more voices nor footsteps. Just the drip of water from a cracked pipe above.

  “You’re clear,” Kai’s voice came softly.

  She wiped the blade on her sleeve, the fabric already stained.

  At the far end of the warehouse, a door stood slightly ajar. She pushed it open, stepping into a smaller room.

  The air was colder here. Metal cages lined the walls, each one barely big enough for a person to crouch inside. Empty now, but the smell lingered—sweat, fear, sickness.

  On the table lay ledgers, notebooks, stacks of cash. Lian flipped through them quickly, eyes scanning.

  She stuffed the notebooks into her jacket.

  “Kai,” she whispered. “More records.”

  “Good. Bring everything.”

  She turned to leave when a sound cut through the silence. A faint cough, weak, from the corner.

  Her eyes snapped toward it. One cage was covered with a tarp. She pulled it back.

  Inside, a boy sat curled against the bars, thin, eyes hollow. His wrists were bound with plastic ties.

  Lian crouched, her voice low. “It’s okay.”

  He stared at her, unblinking.

  She cut the ties, then helped him out. He swayed, legs trembling, but she steadied him.

  “We’re leaving,” she said.

  The boy clung to her sleeve, silent.

  She guided him back through the warehouse, stepping over bodies, past splintered crates. The air outside hit her like a wave, heavy with salt and exhaust.

  Kai was already by the van, door open. His eyes widened slightly at the sight of the boy, but he said nothing.

  “Get him inside,” Lian said.

  Kai helped the boy climb in, offering him water from a bottle. The boy drank greedily, coughing.

  Lian slid into the driver’s seat, hands steady on the wheel. She pulled the van out of the yard.

  For a while, no one spoke. The boy curled against the seat, eyelids heavy.

  Kai finally broke the silence. “That wasn’t empty.”

  “No.”

  “Records?”

  She nodded. “Enough to point us further.”

  He leaned back, exhaling.

  Lian kept her eyes on the road.

  The van wound back through the narrow streets, past shuttered shops and dim streetlights. In the back, the boy slept, his breath shallow but steady.

  Lian drove without pause while Kai sifted through the notebooks in the glow of a small lamp.

  “It’s not random,” he said finally.

  She glanced at him. “Good.”

  The lamp flickered as the van hit a bump, papers shifting in his lap. He pressed them flat, his voice steady.

  “We’ll know where they’re moving next.”

  Lian said nothing, her grip tightening on the wheel. The road stretched ahead, endless, carrying them deeper into the night.