Xiao arrived at the abandoned chemical plant just before dawn, the sky bruised with the last remnants of night. The plant hunched at the river’s edge like a wounded beast—rust-choked pipes sagging from stained concrete, warning placards half-torn and faded to ghosts by the sun. The tang of old solvents still clawed at his nose, layered with the metallic sting of corrosion. Oily pools shimmered atop cracked concrete, trembling with every cautious footfall, their rainbow slicks shuddering at the slightest breeze.

  Kneeling at the jagged lip of a collapsed drainage channel, Xiao’s breath fogged in the chill. Cold seeped through his jacket, mingling with the oily damp rising from the ground. He touched the edge, fingertips brushing sticky grime and grit.

  “This is where he entered,” he murmured, voice nearly lost in the cavernous hush.

  The sewer grate yawned open, metal bent and twisted outward—not crushed, but forced. Panic didn’t leave wounds like this. Xiao extended two fingers, and a thin ribbon of pale light spilled from his wrist unit, casting eerie, shifting patterns against the tunnel’s walls.

  Layered spectra bled into the darkness, revealing ghostly residue—smears of hybrid tissue, pocked with acid burns, still fresh enough to glisten. Xiao’s jaw tightened; the smell stung his nostrils, sharp and chemical.

  He forced himself to look closer. Fine drag marks streaked through the filth, half-swallowed by the darkness below.

  The sewage channel plunged sharply downwards, its concrete walls slick with a film of moss and chemical residue. Xiao swept his scan along its length, the chill in the air thickening to a damp, fetid heaviness. The stench of rot and rusted metal clawed at his throat as he peered into the darkness, the echo of dripping water punctuating the silence.

  Rising to his feet, Xiao felt the full gravity of his discovery pressing down on him. He activated the comm link.

  Chen listened in silence; his gaze fixed on the curve of Earth displayed on the screen in front of him. The planet’s blue shimmer seemed impossibly serene, clouds swirling above continents as if nothing below could possibly be amiss.

  “Walk me through it,” Chen said at last.

  Xiao’s reply was measured, his tone clipped and steady—no hint of emotion slipping through.

  “Of all our biological flaws, this one’s fatal,” he muttered, scanning the swirling filth below. “We don’t float—not in water like this. With sewage and chemicals churning, he’d have gone straight under. No chance to swim out.”

  Chen’s hand pressed involuntarily against the glass, fingertips tense.

  “So he had help,” Chen murmured.

  “Exactly,” Xiao confirmed. “Someone stepped into this chemical runoff without hesitation and hauled him out.”

  The silence that followed was thick, stretching between them.

  “I found secondary footprints,” Xiao said, his gaze flicking to the floor. “Protective gear. Military-grade tread—almost earth-like. Someone careful.”

  Chen’s eyelids fluttered, a tension flickering across his brow as if he were sorting fragments in his mind and fitting them together, piece by piece. He didn’t speak just yet, eyes narrowing in thought, lips pressed thin.

  “Timing?” Chen finally prompted, voice quieter, measured—almost wary.

  “Star-ring minutes after your last confirmed engagement,” Xiao replied, voice low, shoulders subtly stiffening as he recalled the details. “Lian was barely holding on.”

  Chen let out a long, deliberate breath, shoulders rising then falling with the movement, knuckles whitening as he steadied himself against the console.

  “So,” he murmured, each word slow, considered, “someone was already watching.”

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  Xiao looked around the abandon area, a brief flicker of affirmation in his eyes. “Yes.”

  Chen opened his eyes, lashes lifting with a guarded deliberateness. He stared at the display of the planet—its surface unchanged, betraying nothing—yet a faint muscle ticked in his jaw.

  “Lian isn’t acting alone anymore,” Chen remarked, voice soft yet sure. His hands, folded tightly before him, trembled just once.

  A pause lingered on the line. Xiao’s voice returned, quieter now, as if weighing each word before letting it go: “Should I apprehend the helper?”

  “No,” a subtle frown creased Chen’s brow. He inhaled slowly through his nose, holding the breath as if steadying himself on some invisible precipice.

  Then, Chen’s attention snapped back, eyes sharpening with a sudden, crystalline clarity. His lips thinned and for a moment, a light shone in his gaze—a blend of cautious anticipation and something like hope, smoothed under control. “Keep me updated,” he commanded.

  He straightened, chin lifting fractionally. “Notify the others,” he added, directing the order to the silent room. His posture was deceptively calm, but the slight flex of his fingers against the console betrayed a flicker of nervous energy. “Assume a third actor. But do not interfere deliberately… I don’t want to change the timeline too much.”

  “Understood,” Xiao replied, his voice clipped and steady over the comm. The channel went silent as Chen ended the call.

  Somewhere deep in Chen’s eyes, an old wariness mingled with curiosity. That person had finally made a move.

  Just when Chen was deep in thoughts, his ears picked up someone approaching. The door opened behind him, breaking the hush with the soft whisper of polished shoes gliding over carpet.

  The President entered the room. He paused just inside the door, gaze flicking over the bare walls as if searching for something to anchor himself. His hand hovered at his tie, adjusting it even though it was already perfectly straight. “Sorry about the room,” he said, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not exactly the Rose Garden, is it? But after today… well, you get why we’re keeping things quiet.”

  Chen inclined his head, unreadable. “Security is a reasonable concern.”

  The President’s fingers drummed once on the table, then stopped. He glanced at the walls again, as if hoping they might offer advice. “Security, sure. But you know what’s coming, right? That demonstration of yours—people are going to be talking about it for years.” He let out a breath, shoulders rising and falling. “My phone’s already blowing up. Every capital wants answers.”

  Chen’s lips curled faintly. “I thought clarity was what you wanted, Mr President.”

  A muscle jumped in the President’s jaw. He looked away, then back, eyes darting to Chen’s face and away again. “Yeah, I did. But I didn’t know you can just drop people over miles away in another continent. That’s not something we can just… sweep under the rug.” He hesitated, as if weighing his next words. “You could have handled it slightly less dramatic.”

  Chen’s gaze was steady. “I wanted to be clear. No mixed messages. I answered a threat in the open, because it was issued in the open.”

  The President rubbed his brow, fingers lingering at his temple. “Clarity’s a double-edged sword, Your Majesty. Sometimes it cuts deeper than you think.” He let his hand fall, knuckles rapping softly on the table. “You realize how this looks to the rest of the world? It’s not just about us anymore. Our allies, our enemies—they’re all watching.”

  Chen’s eyes glinted, almost amused. “And what do you think they see?”

  The President’s lips pressed together. He shifted his weight, then leaned forward, voice dropping. “I think they see a warning. And I think they’re scared. Hell, I’m scared.” He tried to laugh, but it came out thin.

  Chen shrugged, a faint ripple passing through his shoulders. “You wanted a show of force, so I gave you one—to make sure your nations fall in line, at least for now.”

  The President’s gaze lingered on Chen, searching for any sign of uncertainty. His fingers knotted together, then slowly flattened against the tabletop. “That much is clear,” he said, voice low. “So, tell me—what is it you want from us?”

  “You’re refreshingly straightforward, Mr. President.” Chen stepped closer, not threatening, just closing the distance. “I want Yan Qing left alone. No surveillance, no interference. I want him to live his life without being turned into a symbol or a weapon.”

  The President’s shoulders sagged. He looked down at his hands, then up again, blinking rapidly. “That’s a tall order. He’s the most valuable person on the planet right now. You’re asking us to pretend he’s not.”

  “I’m asking you to make sure he never realizes it himself,” Chen replied, voice even.

  The President’s fingers resumed their restless drumming. “And if we don’t?”

  Chen’s eyes darkened, just a shade. “Then you’ll have a much bigger problem than you can call an ‘internal matter.’”

  The President met Chen’s stare, but his own gaze wavered, just for a heartbeat. “So you’re holding all the cards.”

  “I’m offering you an incentive,” Chen said, polite but distant.

  “In exchange for what?” The President’s voice was rough, almost hoarse.

  “For restraint,” Chen replied.

  The President nodded, resigned. He looked away, then back, as if searching for an escape. “And if we need a favor?”

  “You can ask,” Chen said, tilting his head slightly. “I’ll consider it.”

  A brittle laugh escaped the President. He pressed his palms together, knuckles white. “You’re above us, aren’t you?”

  Chen dipped his head, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “That seat’s already taken.”

  The President’s gaze flicked to the wall, then back to Chen. “And Yan Qing? Does he know what part he’s playing in all this?”

  For a moment, Chen’s expression softened. “He knows—that he will have my full support.”