Lian leaned against the window, still wearing her damp jacket. Her hair clung to her neck. The safehouse smelled faintly of disinfectant and instant noodles. Behind her, Kai sat cross-legged on the floor, scrubbing blood out of his sleeves with an old towel.

  Neither had spoken since they got back.

  “Your side’s still bleeding,” she said finally, her voice flat but softer than she meant it to be.

  Kai didn’t look up. “It’s fine.”

  “It’s not.”

  He twisted his arm to show her the cut, shallow but long, the kind that stung more than it hurt. “See? Skin deep. I’ve had worse from broken glass.”

  Lian watched him for a long moment before turning back to the window. The reflection showed a tired woman — one who’d been too many people in one lifetime.

  “He had no guards,” she said quietly.

  Kai stopped scrubbing. “What?”

  “The fixer. No guards. Just two cameras and a locked door.”

  “That’s a good thing, isn’t it?”

  “No.” She shook her head. “It means he wasn’t expecting anyone. It means he thought he was safe.”

  He frowned. “Or it means he didn’t need guards. Maybe he trusted whoever was paying him.”

  “That’s worse,” Lian said. “People who feel untouchable are always dangerous. They know something you don’t.”

  For a while, all they could hear was the city outside — the buses grinding through turns, the hum of street vendors closing down for the night.

  Kai wrung out the towel, leaving red water in the bucket. “You’re overthinking. We got him, didn’t we?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “You said the same thing last time. And then three people tried to kill us.”

  Kai exhaled, pushing a hand through his hair. “You think it’s connected?”

  “I don’t know. But LSK doesn’t let anyone that high up die quietly.”

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  He was silent for a moment, then said, “So what now?”

  Lian didn’t answer. She turned away from the window and started peeling off her jacket. The fabric stuck to her skin, half-dried blood making a soft crackling sound. “We move again in the morning. Too much heat here.”

  “Where to?”

  “Maybe Sai Kung. Somewhere quiet.”

  Kai let out a low groan. “That’s three places in two weeks. We’re starting to look like ghosts.”

  She didn’t smile, but something like one flickered in her eyes. “We are ghosts.”

  He went back to cleaning, but his movements were slower now. The silence between them grew heavier.

  When he finally spoke, his voice was smaller. “You ever think about what we’d be doing if none of this happened?”

  Lian didn’t answer right away. She was busy cleaning her weapon, checking the chamber, watching the smooth slide of metal. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  She glanced at him, and he shrugged. “You used to talk about it when I was a kid. You said you wanted to live by the ocean. Open a tea shop.”

  She gave a small, humorless laugh. “You remembered that?”

  “Hard not to. You drew it once. Little paper boats in the window. A sign that said ‘Peaceful Teahouse.’ It was terrible handwriting.”

  Lian shook her head. “You’re making that up.”

  “Maybe. But you smiled when you said it.”

  She didn’t respond.

  For a long while, neither of them spoke. The world outside softened — traffic fading, drizzle starting again. The kind of night that erased its own edges.

  When Kai finally spoke, it was in a whisper. “Do you ever think this ends?”

  Lian wiped the last drop of oil from her blade. “Everything ends.”

  “I mean for us.”

  She looked up, meeting his eyes. There was something raw there — not fear, not exactly, but exhaustion trying to hide behind stubbornness.

  She didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then she said, “We keep moving. We finish what we started.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “It’s the only one I’ve got.”

  He dropped the towel and leaned back against the wall. The faint hum of the city filled the silence again.

  When she stood to make tea, he said quietly, “I saw his phone before we left.”

  Lian paused mid-step. “Whose?”

  “The fixer’s. It was still on. There was a message.”

  Her voice sharpened. “From who?”

  Kai swallowed. “Didn’t catch the name. Just the initials. L.S.K.”

  The air between them tightened.

  Lian set the kettle down without a word. Her hands were steady, but her shoulders weren’t.

  “What did it say?”

  “Just one line. ‘Transfer complete. Deliver the files by sunrise.’”

  She closed her eyes. “You didn’t take it?”

  “Didn’t have time. We barely got out before that patrol came through.”

  She nodded once, not blaming, not forgiving. “They’ll know he’s dead by now.”

  “Probably.”

  “And if he already sent what he had?”

  Kai didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.