Lian stood by the window, a towel around her shoulders, watching raindrops chase each other down the glass. Her clothes were still damp from the night, and the scent of gunpowder lingered faintly in the air.

  “How long?” she asked.

  Kai didn’t look up. “Depends. If this thing’s encrypted like the last shard, it could take hours. Or it could fry my system in ten seconds.”

  She turned her head. “You’ll handle it.”

  “Yeah, well,” he muttered, fingers flying over the keyboard, “confidence isn’t a firewall.”

  Lian smiled faintly. “You’re better than most firewalls.”

  He didn’t answer, but his shoulders relaxed a little. The glow from the screen cast shadows across his face, making him look older than he was. Or maybe just more tired.

  A soft beep broke the silence. Kai froze, then leaned in closer.

  “It’s not just encrypted,” he said. “It’s layered. Like whoever made it wanted you to open it slowly. Each part unlocks the next.”

  “Can you bypass it?”

  He hesitated. “I could. But the security measures are tied to biometric signals. I think it’s keyed to the man we… met.”

  Lian stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Can you spoof it?”

  “I can try. But it’ll take his vitals — heart rate, pulse rhythm, even breath frequency. I’d need—” He stopped.

  Lian didn’t flinch. “We have him.”

  Kai looked up, frowning. “We left him there.”

  “No,” she said quietly. “We didn’t.”

  For a moment, neither spoke. Then Kai pushed his chair back, stood, and walked to the corner. The duffel bag lay there, zipped shut. He pulled it open, revealing the portable scanner, a blood sample vial, and a small black pouch.

  “You really planned for everything,” he said.

  “I planned for what mattered.”

  He didn’t comment. Just took the sample, loaded it into the reader, and connected it to the laptop. The screen filled with lines of code, numbers flashing faster than his eyes could track.

  “Pulse signature matched,” he murmured. “It’s opening.”

  Lian leaned in. The first layer decrypted, revealing a folder structure — simple, labeled by years. 2005. 2009. 2013. 2017.

  Kai clicked on the oldest one. Inside were reports — names, coordinates, bank transfers. All tied to something called Project Rainlight.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Lian frowned. “That’s not LSK’s standard naming system.”

  “No,” Kai said slowly. “It’s older. Looks like something from before they went underground. Maybe early recruitment or acquisition records.”

  He scrolled down until a familiar name froze him in place.

  Zhao.

  He clicked. A file opened — photographs, scanned documents, signatures. Their father’s.

  Kai’s throat tightened. “He was part of it,” he said quietly.

  Lian’s eyes stayed on the screen. “No. He built it. Not for them. For us.”

  Kai turned toward her. “How can you be sure?”

  “Because I remember the symbol,” she said, pointing at the corner of the document. “That’s the same mark he used when he worked with the city’s security bureau. It wasn’t LSK then. It was supposed to be a protective network.”

  He sat back slowly. “Then they took it.”

  She nodded. “Turned it into what they wanted.”

  Kai switched to the next folder. More files. Transaction logs. A list of names — people who helped fund or manage the early versions of the project. Many were crossed out.

  He scrolled further down, and his hand froze again.

  One name wasn’t crossed out.

  Mei Lihua.

  Lian’s expression shifted just slightly, but her voice stayed calm. “She was one of the researchers.”

  Kai stared at the name. “She’s still alive.”

  “Maybe.”

  He met her eyes. “You think she knows what happened?”

  “If she’s still in the network,” Lian said, “she knows more than anyone.”

  They fell silent again. The rain outside softened to a whisper, the city hum steady and low. Kai rubbed his face with his hands, exhaustion creeping into his voice.

  “You ever think about stopping?” he asked quietly.

  Lian looked at him, not with surprise, but something gentler. “Every day.”

  “Then why don’t we?”

  She thought for a moment. “Because when we stop, the world keeps turning the way it always has. And we can’t let it.”

  Kai gave a small, tired laugh. “You sound like him.”

  “Who?”

  “Father.”

  Lian turned back toward the window. The faint reflection of neon bled across her face. “Maybe I am,” she said softly.

  The laptop beeped again. A new file appeared — labeled Rainlight Core. Kai clicked it. A small video file loaded, timestamped years ago.

  The screen filled with static, then a dim room. Their father sat in front of an old camera, his expression worn but steady.

  “If you’re seeing this,” he began, voice quiet, “then the project has fallen into the wrong hands.”

  Kai froze. Lian leaned in closer, barely breathing.

  “I tried to protect it,” their father continued, “but they found out what it could do. It’s not a weapon — it’s a system. One meant to trace those who disappear. To find the missing. They twisted it.”

  The feed glitched, cutting to noise.

  Kai hit pause, then looked at Lian. “This is proof. They used his work to build their network.”

  Lian didn’t answer. Her eyes stayed fixed on the frozen image of their father’s face. The weight of years pressed down on her chest — everything they’d lost, everything they’d been chasing without knowing the whole truth.

  Kai reached over and gently closed the laptop. “We can keep going tomorrow.”

  She nodded, still staring at the blank screen. “Tomorrow,” she said softly.

  He stood, stretched, and headed toward the back room. “Get some rest, Lian. You haven’t slept in two days.”

  When he disappeared behind the curtain, Lian finally sat down, elbows on her knees, head in her hands. The air was thick with the scent of rain and dust.

  She whispered, almost to herself, “We’re close, Father. Closer than ever.”