The breeze grew harsher, rattling the rooftop rails and scattering a few sheets of paper left behind during the chaos. One page fluttered up, he caught it effortlessly, his reflex sharp even in stillness. It was a torn scrap from a student's notebook, edges crumpled, ink slightly smeared.
Scrawled across it in uneven, trembling handwriting were three words:
Don't trust her.
Huo Qi's brow tightened. The faintest chill crept down his spine, not from the wind but from something colder, intent.
He folded the note carefully, slipped it into his coat pocket, and turned toward the stairwell. His footsteps echoed against the concrete, steady and controlled. By the time he descended the last flight, the faint sounds of distant sirens and the rush of guards moving into position filled the air.
