Kai didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at his hands like they belonged to somebody else. The small cuts on his knuckles were still fresh, red around the edges that refused to fade.

  Lian watched him from across the small table. The safehouse kitchen was dim, lit only by the flickering overhead bulb that buzzed every few seconds. She kept still. She knew better than to interrupt him when he was in this state.

  Finally, Kai exhaled, a long breath that sounded more like a confession than a release.

  “I didn’t think it would feel like that,” he said quietly.

  Lian kept her voice soft. “Like what?”

  He shook his head, searching for the right words. “Empty. It was supposed to feel… I don’t know. Something. Anger. Relief. Satisfaction. But when I pulled the trigger, it was just—” He paused. “Nothing. It was nothing.”

  Lian leaned back in the chair, tapping a knuckle lightly against the metal tabletop. She didn’t want to push him, but she couldn’t let him spiral either.

  “You didn’t kill someone innocent,” she said. “You stopped someone who’s been hurting kids for years.”

  Kai rubbed a hand over his face. “I know. But that doesn’t change what I did. I keep hearing the sound. It’s like it stuck to me.”

  Lian softened a little. Guilt was something she knew intimately. It curled into your ribs and stayed there, no matter how righteous the mission or how justified the target.

  “You’re not supposed to enjoy it,” she said. “That’s the point. That’s what separates us from them.”

  He dropped his hand and met her eyes. For a moment, she saw the kid he used to be—big dark eyes, always nervous about disappointing her, always trying too hard.

  “I didn’t hesitate,” Kai said. “I thought I would. But I didn’t.”

  “That’s not a bad thing,” Lian replied. “Sometimes hesitation gets you killed.”

  He pressed his lips together, not fully convinced.

  The silence stretched. The fridge hummed. Outside, a pair of stray cats yowled at each other in the alley.

  Kai suddenly stood up, pushing back his chair. Not angrily—just restless. He walked to the window and pulled aside the curtain. The neon signs from the street below cast pink and blue reflections across his face.

  “Do you remember the first time you killed someone?” he asked without looking at her.

  Lian’s jaw tightened.

  He noticed. “Sorry. You don’t have to—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “It’s fine.”

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  She watched his back, the tension in his shoulders.

  “I remember,” she said quietly. “But it won’t help you to hear it.”

  Kai didn’t move for a long moment. Then he let the curtain fall closed and turned back to her.

  “I just don’t want this to become normal,” he said. “I don’t want to wake up one day and feel nothing ever again.”

  Lian stood and walked toward him. Kai didn’t pull away when she put her hand on his arm.

  “It won’t become normal,” she said. “Because you’ll keep asking questions. You’ll keep caring. People who lose themselves—they don’t ask anything. They don’t wonder who they’re becoming. You’re not like that.”

  Kai looked down, absorbing her words. He didn’t seem reassured, but he wasn’t drowning anymore either.

  He let out a short breath. “I’m trying.”

  “I know.”

  Lian released his arm and moved back toward the table. “We need to eat,” she said, more practically. “You haven’t touched anything since morning.”

  Kai grimaced. “My stomach’s still twisted.”

  “So have tea. Or water. Something.”

  He hesitated, then reached into the cabinet for a mug.

  They moved around the small kitchen in quiet, comfortable coordination. Lian heated water. Kai found instant noodles in the corner cupboard. When the kettle clicked, the steam filled the room with the faint scent of jasmine.

  Kai sat again, both hands wrapped around his mug like he needed something to hold onto.

  Lian took a seat across from him, slurping noodles with her usual indifference to manners. Kai watched her for a moment before cracking a tiny smile.

  “You always eat like you haven’t slept in three days.”

  “I haven’t,” Lian said with her mouth full.

  That earned a small laugh from him. It wasn’t strong, but it was real.

  After a while, Kai set down his mug. “There’s something else,” he said. “Before I shot him… he said a name.”

  Lian’s spoon paused halfway to her mouth. “What name?”

  “Tao Ming.” Kai frowned. “Do we know him?”

  Lian slowly lowered the spoon. The name didn’t hit her like an alarm, but it tugged at something familiar. A faint echo. A datapoint from one of their old files, maybe.

  “I’m not sure,” she said honestly. “Where did he say it?”

  “Right before I pulled the trigger. He said ‘Tao Ming won’t let this go.’”

  Lian wiped her hands on a napkin, suddenly more awake.

  “That’s not the kind of name someone drops casually,” she said. “Especially not in a network like this.”

  Kai nodded. “I thought the same thing. We should check the shard Mei decrypted last week. Maybe it’s buried in one of the contract lists.”

  “I’ll look after we rest.”

  He hesitated. “You think this guy is LSK?”

  “I think anyone who’s whispered about by pieces of filth like that tends to be connected to bigger things,” Lian said. “But we’ll figure it out. One step at a time.”

  Kai pulled in a slow breath and nodded.

  Lian watched him again. His hands had stopped shaking. His eyes were steadier.

  He wasn’t healed. Not from the kill, not from the weight of everything they were uncovering. But he wasn’t falling apart, and that mattered.

  She stood and began cleaning the dishes. Kai reached over automatically to help.

  “You did the right thing today,” she said simply.

  Kai didn’t answer immediately. He rinsed a bowl, placed it on the drying rack, and finally said, “I hope so.”

  Lian looked at him, not with pity, but with the kind of understanding only someone who’s walked the same road could offer.

  “You did.”

  And for the first time that night, Kai actually looked like he believed her.