“Third floor. Room 305,” he said, squinting. “Registered under a fake ID, but it matches one of the aliases from the database. He checked in two hours ago.”
Lian nodded slowly, her eyes following a delivery van rolling past below. “He’s careful. The moment he suspects a tail, he’ll vanish.”
Kai exhaled, half a sigh, half a laugh. “You sound like you admire him.”
“I don’t,” she said. “But I understand him.”
For a while, neither spoke. The city was loud in its quiet way — car tires slicing through puddles, someone arguing near the next block, the constant hum of a city that refused to sleep. It was all noise and yet, somehow, it made her calm.
Kai finally looked up. “You think he was there? That night?”
Lian didn’t answer right away. Her gaze stayed fixed on the windows of the hotel across the street, each rectangle flickering with faint light. “He pulled the trigger. Or gave the order. Doesn’t matter which.”
“Then why not just say it?” Kai asked softly.
She tilted her head just slightly, eyes narrowing. “Because we don’t speak the dead’s names until we’ve earned it.”
Kai wanted to argue but stopped himself. He knew what she meant. To say the name before the job was done was like tempting fate — something their mother had once said when teaching them to stay patient.
The rain thickened. A security guard wandered near the lobby entrance, umbrella swaying lazily. Kai double-checked his tablet, zooming in on a feed. “Motion sensors show no movement on that floor since nine. Curtains are drawn. He’s either sleeping or waiting.”
Lian straightened, pulling her hood up. “Then we’ll find out.”
She crossed the narrow ledge, boots silent against the soaked concrete. Kai followed, slinging his pack over his shoulder. They rappelled down the side of the adjacent building, rope lines whispering against the rain.
By the time they reached the alley, Lian’s hair was plastered to her cheeks. Kai checked his wrist monitor — signal steady. He tapped her shoulder and nodded toward the service door. She tried the handle; locked. He knelt beside it, popped open his small kit, and got to work.
“Thirty seconds,” he murmured.
“Make it twenty.”
He smirked. “You know I hate pressure.”
The lock clicked at nineteen. She gave him a look that said nothing but meant everything. He shrugged, pretending to wipe rain from his brow.
Inside, the air was thick with detergent and stale smoke. The faint hum of vending machines filled the hall. They moved in silence, taking the stairwell instead of the elevator. Every step creaked just enough to remind them they were being watched — if not by cameras, then by the ghosts of their own nerves.
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When they reached the third floor, Kai switched off the flashlight on his tablet. The corridor stretched long and narrow, lined with faded carpet and humming lights that flickered overhead.
Room 305 was near the middle.
Lian motioned for him to stay put. She approached slowly, her hand hovering over the sidearm holstered at her hip. The door had been double-bolted from inside. A towel stuffed under the gap to block light. She crouched, eyeing the crack beneath the frame — faint shadow movement.
She took a slow breath, leaned her head close to whisper, “He’s awake.”
Kai didn’t reply. He just positioned himself at the corner, ready for her signal.
She knocked once.
No answer.
Then, without hesitation, she turned the knob, drove her boot forward, and slammed the door open.
The man inside was halfway through turning from the window when her silhouette filled the frame. A cigarette burned to its end between his fingers. His eyes widened — not in fear, but recognition.
“Zhao Lian,” he said quietly, almost respectfully.
She aimed her gun straight at him. “You remember me.”
“Hard not to,” he said. His accent was rough, northern. “Your father used to talk about you.”
Kai entered, gun raised, closing the door behind him. “Hands where we can see them.”
The man didn’t move right away. Then he slowly placed his cigarette in the ashtray, fingers trembling just slightly. “If you’re here, it means someone talked.”
“Who?” Lian asked.
He smiled, small and tired. “Doesn’t matter. We’re all dying anyway.”
Lian stepped closer. “Not if you tell us who gave the order that night.”
“You think you want the truth,” he said. “You don’t.”
Kai tensed, the gun steady in his hands. “Don’t make this poetic. Just answer.”
The man looked at him then — studied him the way soldiers do when measuring distance. “You’re the brother. You were supposed to be dead.”
Kai’s jaw tightened. “Surprise.”
A small laugh escaped the man, short and dry. “Then maybe the stories were right. You two never stay buried.”
Lian pressed the muzzle closer to his chest. “The names. Now.”
He looked at her for a long time before finally saying, “There’s a list. Hidden on a drive. The kind your mother used. It’s in the safe behind the painting.”
Kai moved fast, pushing aside the framed skyline photo. Behind it, a small keypad safe. He pulled out a multitool and began working. Lian kept her eyes on the man.
“You were there,” she said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
“You shot my father.”
His lips parted slightly, then closed. He looked away. “We all followed orders.”
“No,” she said. “You followed fear.”
The safe clicked open. Kai pulled out a thin drive wrapped in plastic and tossed it to her. She pocketed it without breaking eye contact.
The man didn’t move, didn’t plead. Just said, “You think killing me changes anything?”
Lian took a step back. Her voice stayed calm, almost gentle. “It changes enough.”
She fired once.
The sound filled the small room, sharp and final. The cigarette fell from the ashtray, landing in a smear of blood.
Kai stood still for a moment, then holstered his weapon. He looked at her, eyes unreadable. “You didn’t have to.”
“I did,” she said. “Or it never ends.”
They left through the back stairwell, slipping into the wet night. The rain had slowed to a mist, the city breathing steady again. Kai walked beside her, silent, until he finally said, “You think that drive’s real?”
She looked down at her pocket, then ahead at the maze of lights and reflections.
“We’ll find out.”
