The spy was young.
Too young, really.
Barely out of his adolescence, with wide eyes and a trembling jaw, he looked more like a pageboy than an infiltrator. But the forged orders in his boot were real enough, and the sealed letter tucked inside his tunic bore the Baiguang crest—complete with the faint blood smear that indicated it had passed through military channels.
Sun Yizhen sighed and leaned back in his chair, the long black tails of his robe draping over the lacquered floor like spilled ink. The interrogation chamber had once been a storeroom, and it still smelled faintly of ginger and rice. Someone had tried to scrub the scent out, but Sun Yizhen preferred it. Something sweet to balance the inevitable rot.
He held a peach in one hand. Polished. Untouched.
The spy coughed weakly from where he was tied to the wooden post, arms stretched above his head, feet barely brushing the floor. Not enough to dislocate, just enough to exhaust.
