The jet hummed low over Tokyo's patchwork of lights, its engines a steady drone as Ruoxi leaned against the window, the cold glass pressing into her forehead. The Jiang villa's chaos—Mia's poison, Yukang's rage, the phoenix tattoo's impossible glow—clung to her like a second skin. She'd slept fitfully beside Yukang after they'd returned from Kyoto, his arm draped over her a tether to reality, but dawn had dragged her back to the mission. Beijing called, Liang Shuren waited, and yet her mind snagged on the golden pulse that had saved her life.