The mysterious woman's eyes gleam—not with light, but with gravity. They don’t just meet mine; they seize me, strip me bare, and weigh my soul.

  I understand exactly what she means. She's offering a blood oath - demanding unbreakable loyalty, complete immersion into her world. This isn't just joining an organization; this is surrendering my identity, merging my fate with hers, binding myself not merely through action but through absolute conviction. My thoughts, my very soul, would become entwined with her cause.

  I think of what I told Mengshu: whatever you want. I said it out of desperation. Now I feel its weight. Its permanence.

  Mengshu is beautiful. But more than beautiful, she is certain. When she gives me instructions. When she said you’ll see him soon. She is absolutely certain. I want to be her. Fierce and fearless. And now I know, she isn't what she is all by herself. She belongs to a power vast and invisible, but she has complete confidence in what she belongs to. I want to be a part of that. I want to stop being prey.

  I nod. Not just with conviction—but with hunger.

  She smiles, and gestures to the Black woman, who leads me into a room that smells faintly of ozone and iron. On the mahogany desk sits a vial—crimson, viscous, alive. The liquid clings to the glass walls as if reluctant to be contained. It doesn’t just shimmer in the light; it pulses, like it’s waiting for me.

  The woman unwraps a sterile syringe with surgical grace. Her movements are exact, reverent. She draws the liquid into the barrel, and for a moment, I swear I hear it hum.

  “Arm,” she says. No warmth. No cruelty. Just command.

  I sit down, extend my arm. My skin feels thin, translucent. Her fingers wrap around my wrist—cool, steady, final.

  “Are you sure?” she asks. “Once it’s in you, it never leaves.”

  I nod. The needle sinks in.

  The sting is sharp, but what follows is worse. The liquid doesn’t flow—it invades. It burns, climbs, coils around my heart like a serpent made of fire. My breath catches. My chest tightens. My vision fractures into shards of light and shadow.

  Then the fatigue hits—like gravity tripled. My knees buckle. The room tilts. I collapse into the chair, sinking into a velvet abyss. My thoughts unravel. My memories scatter. I feel myself dissolving.

  And then—rebirth.

  I wake gasping, as if surfacing from deep water. My vision is crystalline. Every sound is sharper, every color more saturated. My heartbeat pounds—not with panic, but with purpose. It’s no longer mine. It’s older, deeper, as if something ancient has taken up residence in my chest.

  I feel… rewritten.

  Across from me, the Black woman sits in a leather chair, legs crossed, watching. She rises slowly, her movements deliberate, her gaze unreadable until it softens—just slightly.

  She walks toward me, and for the first time, I feel seen.

  “Welcome to the family,” she says.

  Her expression is different. From that detached coldness, it turns into something warm, as if now I finally become her equal. She no longer looks at me like cargo to be delivered, but like blood newly claimed. Like kin.

  "I'm Magenta," she says, "now, take a look in the mirror.”

  I stand. My legs tremble, not from weakness but from recalibration. I walk to the mirror.

  The woman staring back is me—but not. Her skin glows faintly, as if lit from within. Her eyes shimmer with a depth that wasn’t there before. She looks younger, yes—but also more lethal. More awake.

  I touch my face. It’s warm. Unnaturally warm. Like something inside me is still burning.

  "It's stem cell therapy. You are forever marked with our gene," Magenta explains. "You need a dose every year. You’re hers now. Forever.”

  "What's her name?" I am curious.

  "Lyra. The Night Witch."

  … …

  We emerge from the villa into the bleeding edge of dawn. The sky is bruised with light. A black sedan waits, its license marked with armed police insignia.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Lyra slides into the front seat. Chunting and I take the back. He’s quiet, watching me with eyes that don’t quite recognize what I’ve become.

  We drive further west. The road climbs. Trees thicken. The air grows colder.

  Ten minutes later, we reach a military compound carved into the mountain. Armed guards raise the barrier before we even stop. No questions. No delay.

  Inside, the hallway is damp, the walls sweating with secrets. We descend into the basement. The soldier presses a button.

  The door buzzes open.

  Inside the room, a middle-aged man and a woman sit before a steel table. The man wears a crisp white uniform bearing the insignia of a First Class Police Commissioner—an emblem for senior directors of MPS. The woman’s light blue shirt bears a silver star and two bars, her posture rigid, her gaze unreadable.

  The man glances up, eyes narrowing with amusement. “Dragging me out this early, Lyra? The sun’s barely conscious.”

  Lyra’s lips curl into a blade of a smile. "Don't pretend, Linjun. You wouldn't crawl out of bed unless there was something substantial in it for you."

  As they exchange their familiar banter, I feel Chunting's hand suddenly tighten around mine. His fingers dig into my palm with such force that it almost hurts. I follow his gaze to a one-way glass window directly in front of us.

  Inside, a man crouches naked in the five-point stress position—head, knees, and toes pressed against the wall. His body trembles violently, muscles spasming under the strain. Sweat slicks his skin despite the chill. His head slips first, then his knees, and he collapses with a grunt—more animal than human.

  Even from the side, I recognize him instantly.

  Jun Lai.

  The man who once swaggered through interviews with me, who laughed at regulators, who bet 100 million yuan on Me-Tiny's supremacy over the largest state-owned electronics manufacturer. Now he's a heap of flesh and shame.

  A guard fires a high-pressure water jet at his chest. The impact slams him back against the wall. He screams—a raw, guttural sound that strips away every layer of pride. He scrambles to resume the stress position, limbs shaking, breath ragged.

  “Please,” he gasps between labored breath. “I’ve told you everything. Please…”

  Lyra turns to Linjun. “Did he confess?”

  “He admitted paying Caogen Xu to abduct Chunting Zhang,” Linjun replies, glancing at Chunting. His hand is a vise around mine, but his face is stone—eyes locked on Jun Lai with a predator’s stillness.

  "He's still playing dumb about the money sent to Fulong Cult to target me," Linjun continues, his tone casual, almost bored.

  Lyra raises an eyebrow. “And?”

  Linjun leans forward, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial tone. "The fool doesn't realize the case is already air-tight. We've tracked the financial trail from his accounts to Caogen Xu, then directly to key Fulong Cult operatives. Plus transfers to Feng Liu. With the guards' confessions..." he makes a chef's kiss gesture, "it's ironclad."

  A slow, satisfied smile spreads across Lyra's face. Even though I don't fully grasp the intricacies of what they're discussing, one thing is crystal clear – Lyra has masterfully connected Jun Lai to the Fulong Cult.

  “So you don’t need to keep him here,” she states rather than asks.

  "This?" The director gestures toward the glass with a theatrical flair. "This is purely the entertainment you ordered." His eyes glint with malice. "Enjoy the show."

  He nods to a soldier. The man enters the interrogation room, whispers to the guard with the water gun.

  What follows is unspeakable.

  Two guards unbuckle their belts, drop their pants, and approach Jun Lai. I turn away, bile rising in my throat.

  But Chunting doesn’t flinch.

  I look at him—and what I see shocks me.

  His face isn't contorted with disgust or horror – it's eerily calm, his eyes burning with an intensity I've never witnessed. Not rage. Not vengeance. Something colder. Sharper. The satisfaction of a man watching justice take a shape he never dared imagine.

  Jun Lai’s muffled cries seep through the glass. Gagging. Choking. The guards laugh—cruel, hollow sounds. Jun Lai sobs, "Please... I'm begging you... no more..."

  Chunting’s breathing shifts—slower, deeper. When Jun Lai is forced to swallow, ordered not to spill a single drop, Chunting exhales. It’s not relief. It’s release. A slow, seismic letting go of mountains of torment.

  The hand that's been crushing mine finally relaxes, his fingers loosening their grip.

  And then he does something that catches me completely off guard – he turns to me, cups my face with both hands, and presses his lips against my forehead. It's our first real intimate contact since his return. His lips linger there, warm and slightly trembling. I feel wetness on my skin and realize with a jolt that he's crying – silent tears sliding down his cheeks.

  "Justice," he whispers against my skin. "Thank God."

  I reach up, touching his face, feeling the dampness under my fingertips. This moment of vulnerability from him feels more intimate than any passionate embrace we've ever shared. It’s the collapse of a wall he’s held up.

  Lyra watches us, her expression softened by something like grace. She places a hand on my back. “The show’s over. Let’s go.”

  As we walk toward the exit, I glance back—unable to help myself.

  “What happens to Jun Lai now?” I ask.

  "He walks free," Lyra says matter-of-factly. "In this country, money can buy many things—including justice. And we don't have enough to convince the Ruby Five of his direct involvement with Fulong Cult."

  I blink. “After all that?”

  “He’ll pay,” she says. “In cash. In Me-Tiny shares. But most of all, in memory. This night will live in his bones. He’ll never move against you again. Unless…”

  “Unless what?” I press.

  "Unless the political winds shift," she says, her eyes distant. "Power in this country moves like clouds – beautiful patterns that reform in unexpected ways." Then her gaze refocuses, and she gives me that reassuring smile that somehow makes me feel both protected and owned.

  "But don't worry.” She says, “I've been navigating these waters for twenty-five years.”

  “Plus, You’re not just protected now,” her eyes lock onto mine with hypnotic intensity, “You’re transformed. You're not just a new person, you're a new species entirely."

  I feel it. In my blood. In my breath. In the way Chunting looks at me—not just with love, but with awe.

  I’ve crossed a line.

  I don't fully comprehend what the stem cells have done to me, but I know with absolute certainty that I am no longer simply human.

  And there is no going back.