Cars pile up like dominoes—metal crumpling, glass shattering. The accident has seized everyone's attention, a perfect distraction.

  While all eyes fixed on the wreckage, I vanish—tree to tree, canopy to canopy—scaling the mountain with silent urgency, a ghost among leaves.

  Near the summit, I drop from the branches and crouch. My breath is steady. My fingers find the backup SIM—wedged between phone and case, exactly where it’s always been.

  I swap it in. Swiss SIM. South Korean Samsung. Two countries with ironclad privacy laws. Two shields against the eyes hunting me.

  I power on. No signal. Expected. I orient myself and begin my descent, gravity pulling me toward civilization—toward danger.

  The moment bars appear on my screen, I call Sonora. No greeting. No preamble.

  "Leave. Now."

  Whoever authorized special forces to kill me isn’t just powerful. They’re untouchable. But here’s the irony: most of the truly powerful in this country have assets under my management. Offshore. Hidden. Protected.

  Yes, they have children abroad. Relatives. Mistresses. But they trust me more than their own blood.

  Furthermore, foreign governments monitor their families like sharks. They need someone to create labyrinths, false bottoms, shell companies nested within shell companies. That's me—the architect of their financial sanctuary.

  With this much money, betrayal is inevitable. But I’ve survived it for twenty-five years. My reputation is the firewall. I’m the one they trust when trust is currency.

  Which means the list of people capable of ordering this hit—and willing to risk the fallout—is short. Very short. And the motive must be monumental.

  There’s only one possibility: the man engineering the stock market collapse.

  In the Red Party, line struggle isn’t politics. It’s war. It’s the blood-soaked mechanism by which power shifts from one faction to another. It’s claimed more leaders than age or illness could.

  From its earliest days as a fringe movement, the Red Party has used line struggle to purge, consolidate, and ascend. Unlike representative systems, where power changes hands through votes, here it changes through violence.

  And the ones manipulating the market—they’re not just speculating. They’re staging a coup.

  If they see me as a threat to that coup, they’ll come again. And they’ll start hunting my agents—those closest to the market operations.

  I need to get them out. Fast.

  … …

  The news is silent. Protocol.

  Shootings belong exclusively to Party-controlled media—Central Television, Xinhua, People's News. All others must regurgitate official narratives. And even these mouthpieces remain mute 99% of the time, swallowing violence like a state secret.

  Traffic reports mention a roadblock caused by a sixteen-wheeler collision. A few note a military jeep. Those posts vanish within hours.

  No one needs to know the military was involved.

  Not even in a traffic accident.

  I sit in a corner of Starbucks, legs crossed, coffee cooling beside me as I scroll through the news feeds. The mall hums with Sunday energy—families, couples, the scent of sugar and ambition.

  Magenta delivered what I needed—emergency credit card under an alias, fresh clothes. Now I wear a red dress—cut to accentuate the curve of my waist, the length of my legs, the quiet power of my posture. There’s no point in trying to blend in. Not with auburn hair and sapphire eyes. I’m not forgettable. I weaponize that visibility.

  The tables fill quickly. In Beijing, Sunday means overflow—people standing, scanning for seats, pretending not to stare.

  Men inside steal glances at me. Men outside slow their pace, peering through the glass for a better view. Until their companions jerk them back to propriety with sharp elbows and sharper glares.

  Perfect. Exactly as intended.

  This assassination attempt operates in shadows. Like the coup itself. Public spaces offer temporary sanctuary—they won't risk an open move with Xi's surveillance apparatus watching. Exposure would unravel their entire operation.

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  A sniper's bullet in Beijing's commercial heart would trigger questions they can't afford. News outlets might remain silent, but internal reports would soon reach Xi's desk.

  Besides, bullets can't harm me. Though that's my secret to keep—for now.

  But nightfall changes the equation.

  The Party has quieter weapons. The Discipline Commission can detain anyone for ninety days. No charges filed. No evidence required. No contact permitted. No lawyers allowed. Your spouse won't know where you've disappeared to. Nobody dares to ask why.

  I'm not prepared for this yet. But I will be.

  Once this manhunt begins, it becomes relentless. They don't blink. They don't rest. They constrict their target until even breathing feels like resistance.

  I won’t wait to be cornered.

  It's time to strike back.

  … …

  I switch back to my primary SIM and dial a number I should be cautious to touch. But caution is a luxury I no longer have.

  She picks up. I wait for her to speak first.

  “Hi, how are things?” Her voice is light, careful to avoid mentioning my name.

  "When are you coming back?" I keep my voice below a whisper, ensuring no one in her vicinity can eavesdrop.

  “In a few days. Things are smoother than I expected.”

  “Listen. I need you. I need you back now.”

  “Miss me that much?” she teases, savoring it.

  “Not just miss you. I need you.”

  A pause. Then: “Tomorrow. I’ll be on the first flight.”

  “Good. I’ll pick you up at the airport.”

  I hang up. Then call Magenta to pick me up.

  … …

  I ring the bell. The door swings open, and there she stands—naked, skin glistening beneath a veil of bath bubbles.

  I immediately recognize her. Lilia. Half Uyghur. Rising starlet with a face the tabloids can’t stop printing. She’s just won a national award, but tonight, she’s playing a different role.

  “Come. Linjun’s waiting.” Her voice is light, almost rehearsed. She turns and disappears down the hallway, leaving a trail of steam and silence.

  I’ve known Linjun since his Shanghai days—back when ambition still needed a disguise. I helped him climb, introduced him to the right shadows. Now he’s a director in the Ministry of Public Security, overseeing two departments that specialize in silence and fear. He’s brutal with religious groups, merciless in interrogation rooms, and shameless in his flattery of anyone who can lift him higher. The Red Party rewards that kind of hunger.

  He’s gunning for Vice Minister in 2017. He needs me. And I need a place to stay—somewhere inside the Ministry’s residential compound, where the walls are thick and the neighbors wear police uniforms.

  Linjun lives alone, indulgently. It keeps him focused. It also makes his home the safest place for me to stay low.

  But I don’t want to be alone with him. I'm not in the mood of fucking him. I just want shelter.

  So I suggested entertainment. He obliged. Lilia is the entertainment.

  The master bedroom is oversized, decadent. A hot tub dominates the ensuite, bubbling like a cauldron. Linjun and Lilia are already inside, surrounded by foam and heat.

  “Lyra, come in,” Linjun calls out, smiling. “Don’t worry—I had it sterilized yesterday.”

  I nod. Slowly slip out of my red dress. The fabric pools at my feet like blood. I step into the water.

  It’s hot—almost punishing—but the jets work their magic, kneading tension from my spine. After the day I’ve had, I welcome the burn.

  Lilia climbs out briefly, returns with a joint and a lighter. “I’m turning off the bubbles,” she says. “Can’t smoke through the steam.”

  She lights up, tries to inhale, but ends up in a coughing fit. Linjun laughs, amused.

  “Let me show you,” he says, taking the joint. “Slow and steady. A little air from the sides. Finish with a clean pull.” He demonstrates, then passes it back. She tries again. More coughing. More laughter.

  “I need a beer,” I say, rising from the tub. I walk away slowly, giving them a view. They don’t hide their reaction.

  I have no problem finding the kitchen, I know this apartment like I know my own skin.

  While I am in the kitchen, I hear Linjun’s voice—low, hungry. “Damn you are hot. Come here.”

  "You're just getting all worked up seeing her naked," she responds, followed by wet kissing sounds and her moaning. She must be straddling Linjun's lap and grinding against his erection.

  Then Linjun again: “You’re turned on by Lyra too, aren’t you?”

  Three doors away, yet my heightened hearing catches even the faintest sound.

  She giggles.

  “She’s got magic,” he says. “Not just for men. Want to see what she can do with your pussy?”

  Her laughter deepens. The air thickens.

  I return with the beers to find Lilia astride Linjun, moving up and down, taking his length into her. Steam rises from their skin, mingling with the heat of their entanglement.

  "I can step out if you'd prefer privacy," I offer, my voice carrying a knife's edge of amusement.

  Lilia startles, sliding off him with flushed cheeks. Linjun, unperturbed, extends an invitation with the casual confidence of a man used to getting what he wants. "Join us. You look tense. We can work those knots out."

  “Sure, that sounds nice.” I slip between them, surrendering to their touch—a tactical decision, not desire. Lilia's fingers work magic on my left shoulder while Linjun mirrors her movements on my right, his touch mechanical where hers is intuitive. She is no stranger to this line of work.

  Their hands travel down my spine, each vertebra surrendering under their pressure. Lilia takes my hand, manipulating each finger with expert precision. The tension dissolves despite my resistance, my body betraying my vigilance.

  We shift positions. I recline in the center seat, extending my legs into their laps, creating a vulnerable V-shape. My breasts break the water's surface, buoyant sentinels in the steam.

  They work upward—feet, calves, knees. Linjun's touch remains perfunctory, but Lilia's hands speak a language of knowing intimacy. When they reach my thighs, Linjun hesitates at the boundary. He knows better than to risk offending me.

  Lilia doesn't. Her fingers dip into me without permission. I respond by finding her center with my toes, circling her clit with deliberate pressure.

  "I see you two," Linjun comments, his voice thick with voyeuristic pleasure.

  I smile thinly, but I'm not in the mood. I lift Lilia with my foot, presenting her to Linjun like an offering. "She's all yours. I need to rest."

  Rising from the water, I reach for a towel from the heated rack. The moment stretches, ordinary and languid.

  Then—a sound like the world tearing open. The frosted glass window shatters, crystal fragments suspended in air for one impossible moment.

  A second crack follows before anyone can breathe. I pivot with preternatural precision, feeling the bullet's heat as it passes me—a lover's breath against wet skin—before it finds Linjun's flesh.