Kai kept staring at the cracked burner phone on the table like he expected it to start talking. His fingertips kept brushing the edges, tapping lightly, hesitating, tapping again. It was the kind of fidgeting he did only when he was trying not to show something was bothering him. The safehouse was quiet except for the soft hum of the tiny fan stuffed under the window. Midnight humidity clung to the air, wrapping everything in a sticky heaviness.

  Lian sat on the old couch that creaked if she breathed too hard. She watched him for a moment, letting him have space. He had been carrying too much since they got out of Sham Shui Po. She could see it in his shoulders, in the way he paused before answering her, in the way he kept checking the entrances without saying he was doing it.

  “You going to open it or stare at it until the battery drains,” she finally asked.

  Kai sighed and pushed the phone toward her. “You open it. You always handle the weird stuff.”

  “That is what you call leadership,” she said with a small smile. She picked up the phone. It had arrived through a courier who refused to look either of them in the eye. The message had been simple: For the siblings. Urgent.

  The phone unlocked without a passcode. A single video file sat there. Lian clicked it.

  The screen flashed to life. A grainy recording showed an empty hallway. Too clean. Too polished. Too sterile. Cameras in a hospital usually had a certain dull buzz to them. This one looked like a research facility. The video jumped as someone passed in front of the lens, then paused. A figure stood in a clean white coat, face unclear, back turned. Then a second figure walked into view.

  Kai leaned in. “Pause. Zoom. That looks like one of LSK’s internal labs.”

  Lian did not say anything. She recognized the walk of the person in the white coat. The posture. The calm, focused stride. The slight tilt of the head when he listened to someone. Her chest tightened a little, and she hated that it still happened. She let the video play.

  A voice in the recording said, “We cannot keep moving patients without clearance.”

  The man in the white coat turned slightly toward the camera. Not enough to show his whole face. Just enough to show the outline of it.

  Kai made a soft sound. Lian felt the air shift in the room. The doctor. The one person who could still tie her stomach in knots for reasons she did not like to admit.

  The video continued. No violence, no clear threats, just quiet movement between doors that looked like storage units. But even without sound, the feeling was unmistakable. Something wrong was happening in that hallway.

  Then the video cut off.

  A small line of text appeared on the screen: If you want answers, I can give them.

  Kai sat back, rubbing his eyes. “I hate mystery gifts. They always mean trouble.”

  Lian closed the phone and set it down. “We need to know who sent this.”

  “I can try,” Kai said, already leaning forward again, fingers reaching for the device. “But if it is LSK, this thing is probably layered with traps.”

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  Lian placed her hand on his wrist, stopping him gently. “Rest first. We will deal with the origins later.”

  Kai looked like he wanted to argue, then sighed. “Fine. But this is going to bother me all night.”

  “It will bother both of us,” she said.

  He gave her a weak grin. “At least we are equally tormented.”

  They both fell into a quiet moment that did not feel forced. They had been drifting into silence too often lately, but tonight it felt steady, like they were grounding themselves. The fan clicked softly, wobbling a little as it swung.

  Kai finally stood and stretched, muscles popping. “I am going to wash up. My brain is sticky.”

  “Your brain is always sticky,” she said.

  “Wow. That is hurtful. I am offended. I am walking away from this toxic environment.” He pointed dramatically toward the bathroom and went in.

  Lian let herself exhale. She leaned back on the couch, tilted her head, and closed her eyes for a second. The video had shaken her more than she wanted to admit. She did not miss the doctor when it came to love or longing. She missed who he used to be. The things he used to say about saving people. The way he spoke about medicine as though it were magic he was trying to learn with both hands open.

  She opened her eyes again and looked around the safehouse. A dim lamp on the counter. A pile of Kai’s tools. Her jacket hung over the back of a chair. This place felt temporary, but also oddly comforting. At least they had each other.

  A soft sound came from the window. Not loud. Just a subtle click. The faintest vibration in the glass. Lian sat up immediately. Her instincts sharpened. She reached toward the side of the couch where she had tucked a pistol earlier.

  The second click was clearer.

  She mouthed the word: Kai.

  He stepped out of the bathroom quietly, towel around his neck, feet silent on the floor. His eyes met hers and he nodded. He grabbed the metal rod he kept leaning behind the door, the one he claimed was for “non lethal negotiations.”

  Lian moved close to the window. She kept her breathing shallow. The room felt still, almost too still. Then she heard it again, this time followed by the softest scrape against the outer frame.

  She lowered her voice. “Someone’s at the fire escape.”

  Kai whispered, “We should pretend we are not here.”

  “Or we deal with it before it becomes bigger,” she said.

  Kai rolled his eyes. “Of course. You want to take the direct route.”

  Her expression did not change. “Always.”

  He smirked. “Fine. On three.”

  They both positioned themselves. Lian reached for the latch. Kai raised the rod.

  “One,” he whispered.

  Lian’s hand tightened.

  “Two.”

  The scrape came again.

  “Three.”

  She pulled the window open in one swift motion and stepped back.

  A small shape tumbled inside. Not a man. Not a weapon. A drone. Round, the size of a fist, with a blinking red light and a tiny speaker.

  Kai blinked. “You have got to be kidding.”

  The drone rotated twice, steadied itself, then projected a tiny holographic message into the air. A line of text hovered between them, faint and shimmering: We need to speak. You are both in danger.

  Kai made a frustrated noise. “Fantastic. Now even drones want to talk to us.”

  Lian watched the message until it flickered and vanished. The drone drifted toward the ground and shut itself off.

  Kai rubbed his temples. “I miss when threats came in normal forms. Like men with guns. That was simpler.”

  Lian crouched beside the drone. “Someone wants contact. And they want it badly.”

  Kai looked at her. “So what now.”

  Lian looked at the silent device, then at the window.

  “We listen,” she said.

  And for the first time that night, Kai did not argue.