With Yafeng Yao released, Hansen becomes our focus—even though we have nothing on him. Fortunately, he shatters like glass.

  When I enter the interrogation room, he’s already unraveling. Shoulders hunched, face blotched and wet, sobbing like a child who’s just realized no one’s coming to save him.

  “You told Shishi you were going to make big money.” I let the words hang, cold and deliberate. “How?”

  The question strikes him like voltage. His face drains to a sickly gray. Eyes wide, mouth slack—pure, naked fear.

  “Manipulating the stock market is a serious crime.” My voice slices through the air. “Ten years. Confiscation of five times your illegal gains.”

  He flinches. His hands twitch. He’s shaking now, visibly, uncontrollably.

  I lean in, voice low and lethal. “You work for Haitong Securities. State-owned. One phone call and you’re done. Fired. Blacklisted. Your name erased from every trading floor in the Republic.”

  Then I shift—just slightly—softening the edge. “Cooperate, and this disappears. Everything you tell us stays sealed. For you, tonight never happened. You walk away. Go back to your life."

  I let five seconds of silence suffocate him.

  Then I nod to Haojin, slow and theatrical. “He’s yours.”

  I turn to leave.

  “Wait—” Hansen’s voice cracks, raw and desperate. “What do you want?”

  I pivot, slow and deliberate. “Tell us everything. Your plans. Who's behind it. All your effort to trigger the collapse.” I pause. “You’re not the only one we caught. Refuse, and I’ll prosecute you for endangering national security. Maximum sentence.”

  I slam a folder onto the table. The echo is sharp, final.

  “I’m only offering you this because of Shishi.”

  His hands tremble as he opens it. Inside—financial instruments he recognizes instantly. Structured products designed to let foreign and private firms short the market. The conspiracy laid bare.

  Sweat erupts across his forehead. Beads catch the harsh fluorescent glare. One droplet traces down his temple, follows the curve of his jaw, disappears into his collar. His breathing turns shallow. Rapid. Panicked. He stares at the documents. His hands won't stop shaking. He's calculating his survival.

  I walk out. Leave him to Haojin. Breaking men like Hansen—that’s Haojin’s art.

  Shishi is waiting in the observation room. She stands before the one-way glass, backlit by the harsh light spilling from Hansen’s interrogation room.

  Her posture is rigid, shoulders squared, but her hands betray her—fists clenched so tight her knuckles glow bone-white. Her lips are pressed into a bloodless line. I watch the war play out across her face: contempt sharpening her jaw, pity softening her mouth. Her eyes shimmer with unshed tears, catching the light like fractured glass. But beneath the sorrow, there’s steel—resolve forged in the wreckage of betrayal.

  Then she turns. Her gaze finds mine.

  The shift is instant. Arresting. Her expression transforms into something I know intimately—something that makes my breath catch. It’s the way I look at Lyra. Admiration. Longing. Devotion wrapped in vulnerability.

  Her eyes search my face with quiet intensity, lingering on my lips before meeting my gaze again. A faint flush rises in her cheeks, delicate and defiant.

  “What do you plan to do?” I ask softly.

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  “Live an independent life.” Her voice is steady, but barely. “One I can respect myself in.”

  "You know, my cousin’s a fan of yours." I step closer. "People remember you."

  Something flickers in her eyes—a dying ember suddenly fed oxygen. Hope. Purpose. Her lips part slightly, breath quickening.

  "Celebrity reality shows are hot right now. I have a friend who can get you into a program—Hunan Television." I let the offer settle. "Sisters Who Make Waves. When I mentioned Shishi to Lyra, she immediately suggested this celebrity survival competition show. Interested?"

  She nods. The gratitude is unmistakable—but there’s something else. Something deeper. Her hand lifts, hesitates, then touches my forearm. Brief. Electric. Her fingers are cold.

  "Thank you," she whispers.

  “I’ll ask her to call you.” I say.

  She nods again, then turns back to the glass. But I catch it—the way her reflection watches mine in the window’s surface. The way her breath mists the glass when I’m near.

  I leave her there, standing vigil over the ruins of what she thought was love. Some prisons we build ourselves. Those are the hardest to escape.

  I was just like her when Lyra found me.

  Lyra will fix her too.

  As I walk away, I feel Shishi’s eyes following me down the corridor. The weight of that gaze stays with me long after I’ve turned the corner.

  … …

  At 8:30 am sharp, the guards escort me through the South Gate. I step into a world frozen in time.

  The path ahead stretches wide and grand, paved with ancient stones that have borne centuries of imperial footsteps. On either side, towering walls rise up in that distinctive vermillion red—weathered, dignified, unforgiving.

  The path winds through covered corridors, painted beams overhead—dragons and phoenixes intertwined in faded gold and azure. My footsteps echo against stone. We pass pavilions with curved eaves, tiles glazed in imperial yellow. Through gaps between buildings, I catch glimpses of North Oceanic Lake's waters, vast and shimmering and impossibly still.

  Finally, we approach Ocean Terrace. A stone bridge extends over the water, leading to an island that floats in the middle of the lake. Yingtai rises before me—elegant halls and pavilions clustered together, surrounded by willow trees whose branches trail into the water like fingers reaching for escape. The island feels isolated, severed from the world. A prison disguised as paradise.

  In the hall of Yingtai, Xiaohang and Shajun stand at attention before a woman. Liran Peng. Once the most famous ethnic singer in the nation. Now the First Lady.

  She sees me approaching. Nods with approval.

  "Madam." I stand at attention. "Ruolin Xu reports for duty."

  She studies me. "Ruolin," she repeats, as if tasting the syllables. "Good name. And you're prettier than I thought." A pause. "Men sometimes believe beauty and intelligence are incompatible in a woman. God, they're wrong." She says it without looking at me, as if speaking to herself—or to ghosts of her own past.

  "I heard about your theory. The tunnel." Her voice sharpens. "Dug from top down. I'm surprised no one else thought of it. You got that in half an hour."

  She turns to Xiaohang and Shajun. "Never overlook women. We hold up half the sky of our nation."

  "Yes, Madam." They answer in unison.

  She turns back to me. "How long before you figure out who dug it?"

  "I won't be able to, Madam."

  Her brows furrow. Displeasure flashes across her face. "Why not?"

  I feel Shajun's eyes boring into me—a warning. Xiaohang remains impassive, studying me like I'm a text he's trying to decode.

  "Motives, Madam." My voice is steady. "Motive is the most critical clue in any investigation. Without knowing what happened, I won't have clearance to understand why. And without why, I can't determine who."

  She considers this. Silence stretches between us. Then: "Do you mind staying in the Summer Palace until the case is solved?"

  "It would be an honor, Madam." The words taste like ash. Many dream of living inside the Summer Palace. Few understand it can also be a cage.

  "You can't tell your team anything." Her tone hardens. "They can help you investigate, but they cannot know what happened."

  "Yes, Madam."

  She takes a deep breath. Then looks directly into my eyes—through them. "Our nation has just suffered a severe attack."

  The room grows colder.

  "Lethal doses were injected into four of the Politburo Standing Committee Members." Her voice drops lower. "My husband. The Prime Minister. Secretary Qiuhan. Chairman Huoning." Her eyes focus on something distant, something I cannot see.

  "Luckily—" the word catches in her throat "—none of them are in fatal condition. Keyang is recovering. Qiuhan and Huoning just came out of surgery. They'll survive." A pause. "My husband is not critical. But the injury impairs his ability to work. That's all we know."

  She watches me the entire time, searching my face for something—fear, shock, calculation.

  “Are the injections the same drug?” I ask.

  "The same for three of them." Her jaw tightens. "As for my husband—we don't even know if he was injected. The doctors found no trace of any drug in his system. No needle marks. Nothing." Her voice cracks. "But the pain is gruesome."

  "Can I interview the security chiefs of the four leaders?" I remember what Lyra told me last night.

  "You have full access." She steps closer. "I like you. But if you can't solve this—" Her eyes bore into mine. "You may never leave here."

  Her eyes glint with something that might be humor. But I know better than to take it as a joke.

  "I won't leave, Madam." I hold her gaze. "Not until I find the culprit."