It's just a flesh wound through the arm, but it ignites chaos.

  Lilia's hysterical screams slice through the air as Linjun crumples from the gunshot. Her voice—raw, primal—fractures with terror, scraping against my eardrums.

  Linjun, despite being a director of the Ministry of Public Safety, unravels completely. After one sharp cry, he submerges himself below the hot tub's rim, trembling violently, a continuous mantra escaping his lips: "I'm shot! I'm shot!…"

  I vault from the hot tub, pivoting toward the window. Two shooters lie prone on the adjacent building's roof. AMR-2. Identical to this morning's rifle.

  Two more shots crack through the air. I deflect them—one punches through the wall, the other tears through the bathroom door into the master bedroom. The shooters scramble up, abandoning their rifles as they flee.

  Realization hits me like ice water.

  Yes, the Ministry residential quarters house a concentrated number of officers, but these are men conditioned to obey their superiors without question.

  The shooters didn't infiltrate—they walked in brazenly. They didn't even bother removing their weapons. This isn't a public space where civilian witnesses might photograph the rifles and share images online. Here, loyalty flows upward.

  Still, shooting a Ministry director in his own home crosses lines. Regardless of their protection, if caught, they'd face retribution before the entire incident vanishes from record.

  They need to disappear. Fast.

  As do Lilia and I. Our presence here—a well-known actress and an influential foreign businesswoman, mid-day in his hot tub—admits of no explanation.

  Even though bedding actresses is practically routine for officials of Linjun's rank, such indiscretions require plausible deniability—not police reports.

  I haul Linjun from the water, binding his wound with a towel to stem the bleeding. "Clothes. Now. And prepare your story," I command.

  Once he realizes the wound is superficial, his composure returns with remarkable speed.

  "What about her?" he asks, nodding toward Lilia.

  I glance outside. Neighbors have emerged, peering from windows, gathering below.

  Lilia remains locked in hysteria.

  I slap her right across the face. The effect is instantaneous—silence, save for muffled, shuddering sobs.

  "Get dressed," I order, already sliding my red dress over damp skin.

  I scan the apartment with tactical efficiency. A medium-sized walk-in closet in the second bedroom will serve our purpose.

  "Keep them out," I instruct Linjun before closing the bedroom door and shepherding Lilia and a stool into the closet.

  The closet shields us from prying eyes through the bedroom window.

  The detective who'll investigate will inevitably be outranked by Linjun. As long as he maintains his composure and Lilia remains silent, we're invisible.

  The latter proves challenging. Three minutes later, Lilia still quakes with barely-contained sobs.

  I perch on the stool's edge and hike my dress up. "Lick my pussy," I order, my voice low but leaving no room for refusal.

  This isn't pleasure—it's distraction. I don't know her much. But one thing that she is guaranteed to be good at is providing oral satisfaction.

  The movie industry serves as a training ground. New actresses must not only provide sexual favors to producers and directors, but also please makeup artists, wardrobe staff, and others. Otherwise, they risk looking unattractive or inappropriately dressed for their roles.

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  Her face still burning red from my slap. Before I can strike again, she complies instantly.

  She lowers herself to the floor, perfectly positioned. Her trembling hands gripping behind my knees. I nod approval as she spreads me open, watching with detached fascination as she traces my slit with her tongue with practiced enthusiasm.

  Her mouth engulfs me completely, her tongue executing complex patterns as her lips envelope my labia. My fingers thread through her hair, neither guiding nor restraining—merely acknowledging.

  Her lips were soft and delicate as they gently kiss my folds. I watch, clinically fascinated, as she draws each one between her lips, stretching gently before releasing, then plunging her tongue deeper inside me.

  For several minutes she works diligently, receiving no response. No moans, no trembling, no reaction. This silent audience is foreign territory for her. She pauses occasionally, searching my face for reaction, inadvertently interrupting my building climax.

  More than ten minutes pass before anyone arrives—pathetic response time within their own compound, for their own director. I am quite disappointed.

  Lilia continues her devoted ministrations. I'm slick with arousal now, fighting to maintain silence as pleasure builds relentlessly.

  Police and medics arrive together. The medics rebandage Linjun's wound after sanitizing it and checking for fragments.

  They suggest hospital observation.

  Linjun displays unexpected bravado. "Don't be ridiculous. This scratch is nothing."

  He turns to the evidence technician. “What have you found?”

  The agent halts, snapping to attention. "Bullets, sir."

  "Sir, protocol requires you vacate the crime scene," the detective interjects.

  Linjun's response is razor-sharp. "Are you an imbecile? My home isn't the crime scene. The crime scene is over there." He jabs toward the opposite roof.

  "Yes, sir. Absolutely correct," the detective backpedals. "This is for your safety. What if the assailants come back?"

  "Have you recovered their weapons?" Linjun demands.

  "Yes," the detective confirms hastily.

  "You think they'll return unarmed, strolling into Ministry quarters for a second attempt?" Linjun's contempt is palpable.

  Though renowned for upward flattery, Linjun's downward fury is equally legendary. The detective visibly shrinks.

  "Of course not, sir," he stammers. "We'll collect the evidence and depart immediately."

  "Beyond bullets, what evidence do you expect to find?" Linjun's voice cuts like steel.

  "Nothing, sir." The detective bows, hastily gathering his team and vanishing within a minute.

  I could stop Lilia now, but I let her continue her relentless attention to my clit. She glances up again, seeking any reaction. I motion for her to continue.

  Something in my expression must have shifted.

  She captures my clit between her lips with new found intensity, her tongue executing wild, precise flicks, sending me barreling over the edge.

  I hiss through clenched teeth as her tongue assaults my swollen bud. My body convulses with an orgasm so intense it seems to fracture time itself.

  Finally, overwhelmed beyond tolerance, I shove her away and slide from the stool. I gasp for breath, momentarily conquered by the aftermath of shattering release.

  Only now does Lilia notice Linjun standing in the doorway, watching with blatant interest.

  … …

  “Who the hell are they? Are they after you, Lyra?” Linjun is pale, furious, and rattled.

  I shrug, my expression deliberately innocent. “I don’t know. But shooting at your window? They’re either clueless… or fearless.”

  “They don't look clueless,” he says through clenched teeth. “I recognized the rifles. AMR-2. Special forces gear.”

  “Then whoever’s pulling the strings must be powerful enough to use elite assets like disposable pawns.” I raise an eyebrow.

  Linjun scratches his head, visibly unsettled. “What did I do to deserve this kind of attention?”

  "Nobody that powerful wants me dead." I give him a confident look. He buys it completely. He knows I manage substantial portfolios for the country's most influential people. No one eliminates their vault keeper.

  This conclusion only intensifies his anxiety, pushing him to the edge of despair.

  “Think they can be bought?” I offers him a lifeline.

  “Anyone can be bought,” he says. “But without serious backing, this would be a suicide mission.”

  “Not necessarily.” I tilt my head, watching him.

  "How?" For someone so ruthless, he isn't the brightest person on the planet.

  Yet, he won't let go when he finds a spark of hope. "Tell me. I've always thought of you as my sister." He knows whatever I say next could shape his future—or end it.

  "I think ninety-nine percent of detectives would drop the investigation the moment they realized these were special forces operatives."

  He nods grimly. “Especially that idiot. He’s combing my apartment instead of that rooftop.”

  “Do you have enemies inside the Ministry?” I ask, knowing full well the answer. At his level, everyone does. That’s Red Party politics—ambition sharpened into blades.

  But the question lands. He arches both eyebrows. “You think this is internal?”

  “Even if the assassins missed, they’ve turned your home into a crime scene, and you into a person of interest. That gives someone the perfect excuse to dig through your life.”

  In attempted murder cases, the target is often the most scrutinized—their conflicts, connections, and secrets all subjected to intense investigation.

  He exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging. He has plenty of dark secrets to be worried about. "What should I do?" he asks, desperation edging into his voice.

  “Get someone you trust to take over the investigation. An outsider. Someone hungry. Someone reckless.”

  “Where do I find someone like that? Most people I know vanish at the first whiff of danger.”

  Of course. Birds of a feather flock together.

  I smile. “I already have someone in mind.”