The jet touched down on a private airstrip outside Tokyo, the morning sky a dull gray as Ruoxi stepped onto the tarmac, her breath fogging in the crisp air. The Jiang villa's tension still clung to her—Hao's smirk, the elders' wavering loyalty—but Beijing loomed closer, a beacon of answers tied to Liang Shuren and Tianhua. Her wrist itched faintly, the phoenix tattoo a silent pulse beneath her sleeve, its golden flare from Mia's poison haunting her every quiet moment. She'd kept it from Yukang, from Xiao Zheng, but the monk's warning—"life and death dance within you"—felt truer with every step.
Jiang Yukang strode ahead, mask tucked into his coat, his shoulders squared despite the sleepless night. "Tanaka's lead better be solid," he said, voice rough from barking orders over the jet's comms. "Shuren's slippery—Beijing's our shot to pin him down."
