6 years later, the Young Zoung District breathed with its own unruly cadence. Neon adverts pulsed across the steel-and-glass facades, their holograms shimmering faintly in the overcast light. The scent of frying oil, coriander, and ozone wove together in a strange tapestry, clinging to the damp air. Children darted like sparks between legs and hover-drones, their laughter punctuating the din of merchants calling out prices in half a dozen tongues. Above, surveillance drones drifted lazily, casting their sterile beams like watchful gods unwilling to descend.
Amongst this cacophony, Lan Qian walked with measured grace, her pale-blue overcoat gathered about her, the emblem of SSCBF hidden discreetly beneath its folds. Her eyes, though alert, softened as she allowed herself this brief respite from headquarters—her mind already salivating at the thought of Wenjing Cafeteria's famed ramen, rich with spice that singed the tongue and soothed the soul.
As she turned onto a narrower avenue, her gaze caught a familiar figure at the zebra crossing. Alvi Taslim stood patiently, her posture calm amidst the surrounding bustle. She wore a deep emerald hijab, its silk catching the neon glow with quiet dignity, paired with spectacles that lent her a scholarly poise. The streams of passersby flowed around her, yet she seemed untouched by the district's chaos, like a solitary tree weathering a flood.
Lan Qian blinked in recognition.
Alvi turned, her lips breaking into a warm smile that softened the austerity of the city's clamour.
"Oh, Miss Lan Qian—what a pleasant surprise!"
Lan Qian paused, then returned the smile, her words tentative yet courteous.
"Ah… Miss Taslim. Nice to see you too."
They stood side by side as the crossing light flickered red. Alvi shifted slightly, her voice low but sincere.
"I'm sorry, truly, for the loss of your President."
Lan Qian's smile thinned, her eyes momentarily downcast. She exhaled through her nose before answering, her tone a careful balance of resilience and melancholy.
"It's all right. Loss… has a way of becoming part of the air we breathe. One learns to move with it, though never past it."
Alvi tilted her head gently, her expression softening with empathy.
"It has been six years now. Time can dull the sharpest blade, though never fully disarm it."
Lan Qian gave a small nod, her voice quieter this time, touched with a gravity that seemed to echo the years gone by.
"Six years… and yet it feels at once a lifetime and a mere heartbeat."
Before the silence could weigh too heavily, Alvi brightened her tone.
"So then—where are you heading?"
Lan Qian hesitated, her lips parting to reply, when her stomach betrayed her with a loud, undeniable growl, audible even over the district's clamour. Her eyes widened in horror, a crimson blush blooming across her cheeks. She clasped her hands to her abdomen as though to muffle the treachery, her voice stammering.
"I—ah—it seems my body has declared the answer for me."
Alvi pressed her hand to her mouth, shoulders quivering as she stifled a laugh. Her spectacles caught a glint of neon as her eyes danced with mirth.
"It appears hunger speaks louder than words, Miss Qian. Come—walk with me!"
Lan Qian blinked, still mortified, her brows knitting as she tried to regain composure.
"Walk with you? To… where, exactly?"
Alvi's grin widened, her tone playful yet inviting.
"To eat, of course! By fortune, I too require sustenance. And they say meals are sweeter when shared."
Lan Qian hesitated for a moment, her embarrassment softening into reluctant amusement. Her lips curved into a small, almost shy smile.
"Very well then… but only if you promise not to mention my stomach's insurrection ever again."
The pedestrian light flickered green, and together they stepped into the river of humanity, their footsteps weaving into the district's living rhythm—a rhythm that thrummed with secrets, with memory, and with unexpected companionship.
The Wenjing Cafeteria was a paradox of old-world intimacy and new-world flair. Its interior was a cavern of warmth, a refuge from the chill drizzle and neon chaos of Young Zoung's streets. Wooden beams, burnished dark with time, crisscrossed the ceiling, from which hung lanterns of amber glass that cast a honeyed glow across the room. Steam coiled upwards in lazy arabesques from bowls of broth, mingling with the fragrant perfume of star anise, chilli oil, and simmered pork bones. The chatter of patrons was softened by the low hum of traditional guzheng music, reimagined through subtle electronic undertones that seemed to bridge eras in every note.
At the far wall, a mural stretched wide: a phoenix rendered in strokes of lacquer red and gold, its feathers unfurling as though caught mid-flight, a symbol of rebirth against the weariness of the city. Narrow booths, padded in faded jade-green upholstery, were filled with workers, students, mercenaries, and wanderers alike—faces weary but comforted by the constancy of food that soothed both stomach and spirit.
Lan Qian and Alvi Taslim slipped into one such booth, its wooden surface marked with the faint scars of time and countless meals. As they settled, a server brought forward two steaming bowls of the cafeteria's famed spicy ramen, the broth shimmering with a crimson slick of chilli oil, crowned with half-moons of soft-boiled egg, a nest of noodles, charred slices of pork belly, scallions, and a garnish of toasted sesame seeds. The bowls were placed before them like sacred offerings, their fragrance almost intoxicating.
Lan Qian inhaled sharply, her eyes widening just slightly, betraying the hunger she tried to mask.
"It smells… rather glorious," she admitted, her voice tinged with uncharacteristic reverence.
Alvi chuckled softly, adjusting her spectacles as she leaned in, the steam fogging her lenses briefly.
"Glorious, yes—and merciless. Wenjing ramen burns twice: once upon the tongue, and once in regret tomorrow morning."
Lan Qian ask, "How so?"
Alvi explain to her, "When me and my colleagues, you have met them before came here to eat most of them especially: Farhan, Masud and Roy can't hold the spicy while me neither but at least I give a try, but Jun and Agent-90 manage to eat it well"
"Oh!" says Lan Qian, after hearing Agent-90's name she want to tell to her what she saw at the surveillance of the death of the late President but she didn't.
"Something wrong Miss Qian?"
"No!" she says
Lan Qian arched a brow, her lips quirking into a faint smirk despite herself.
"Then perhaps it is a trial of character. Only the resolute may survive Wenjing's wrath."
They lifted their chopsticks in near unison, breaking the silence with the clatter of wood on porcelain. Alvi slurped the first mouthful with unashamed gusto, her eyes widening at the heat before she let out a satisfied sigh.
"Ah! That—" she fanned her mouth with one hand, "—that is the taste of life itself. Fiery, relentless, but impossible to abandon."
Lan Qian, ever composed, tried her first bite more cautiously. The broth's searing spice hit her tongue like an ambush, yet beneath the fire was a deep, comforting umami that lingered, rich and soulful. Her composure faltered only briefly as her cheeks warmed, but she nodded gravely.
"It is formidable. And yet… strangely consoling. As though one is punished and comforted in the same breath."
Alvi laughed, her voice carrying a warmth that seemed to soften the dim corners of the cafeteria.
"You speak as though you're composing an epitaph for soup. Tell me, Miss Qian—do you ever let yourself simply live, without wrapping every moment in analysis?"
Lan Qian paused, her chopsticks hovering over the bowl, her gaze dropping to the steaming surface. For a heartbeat she seemed lost in thought, her expression softening.
"Perhaps not often enough. Work… leaves little room for such indulgences."
Alvi tilted her head, her smile fading into something more earnest, her eyes searching Lan Qian's.
"Then let this be one of those rare moments. Six years is a long time to carry grief and suspicion. You deserve… at least the mercy of a meal without ghosts at the table."
For the first time, Lan Qian faltered. Her lips parted as though to speak, but no words came. Instead, she lowered her gaze, a faint blush rising—not from the chilli but from the intimacy of the remark. She stirred her noodles, her fingers trembling just faintly against the chopsticks.
"Perhaps… you are right," she said at last, her voice scarcely above a whisper. "Perhaps even I am allowed the smallest reprieve."
Alvi smiled gently, lifting her bowl in a mock toast.
"To reprieves, however fleeting."
Lan Qian hesitated, then mirrored the gesture, her bowl raised with quiet solemnity. Their gazes met across the rising steam, and for a moment the bustling cafeteria, the noise of the district, even the shadows of the past seemed to fall away—leaving only two women, two bowls of ramen, and a fragile thread of companionship weaving itself between them.
Steam curled lazily between them, shrouding their faces in fleeting veils of warmth. Alvi's gaze, once light-hearted, shifted downwards, fixing upon the metallic band clasped around Lan Qian's wrist. Her brows knit with curiosity, and she leaned ever so slightly forward, one finger rising to gesture at it.
"Lan Qian, if you don't mind—what's that attached to your wrist?" she asked, her tone gentle but edged with intrigue.
Lan Qian lifted her arm, turning it subtly so the light of the lantern above caught the object: the Sentinel Helix bracelet. Its surface glimmered faintly, a serpentine weave of alloy and embedded circuits, pulsing with a muted azure glow. She answered with clinical precision, as though reciting a report.
"Oh, it's a Sentinel Helix bracelet. It helps us navigate, track, and communicate with our officers and comrades. It's… helpful."
Alvi tilted her head, the faintest shadow of doubt flickering in her eyes. She echoed softly, almost incredulously:
"Helpful?"
Lan Qian, matter-of-fact and slightly defensive, nodded once.
"Yes. It is."
A pause lingered, punctuated only by the quiet slurping of noodles from nearby tables. Then Alvi shifted her posture: she leaned back against the booth's wooden frame, folding her arms lightly across her chest. Her spectacles caught the lantern-light, momentarily hiding the intensity of her gaze, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower, conspiratorial, as though she were uttering a forbidden hymn.
"Doesn't it invade privacy?"
Lan Qian blinked, chopsticks still in hand, her brows knitting as she raised her head slowly.
"What do you mean?"
Alvi leaned forward once more, her tone steady yet shadowed by unease. She gestured with one hand, tracing an invisible spiral in the air as if sketching the strands of a helix.
"Well, the thing is… it is attached to your skin. Embedded. Bound. And if it binds with your skin, it may very well bind with your DNA as well." Her voice grew more fervent, though still restrained, the cadence of a scholar revealing forbidden knowledge. "Miss Qian, our DNA itself is the most sacred archive—a record of our very existence. A double helix, they call it, two strands entwined like lovers in an eternal embrace. But when a third helix enters the dance, it entwines with them both, corrupting the purity of the spiral. That third helix, I believe, is not natural. It is engineered—an aperture through which our most intimate codes, our essence, are transcribed and computerised by those who sow corruption."
Lan Qian froze, her chopsticks clinking gently against porcelain as her grip slackened. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating like a mirror struck by sudden light.
"Is it… true?" she whispered, her voice fragile, barely tethered by composure.
Alvi's expression softened, a small, almost apologetic smile tugging at her lips. She shook her head slightly, her tone retreating into ambiguity.
"People say it is mere conspiracy, whispered in the back-alleys and coded forums. But to me, it feels like control masquerading as convenience." She exhaled, her shoulders loosening, the intensity ebbing away as quickly as it had surged. "But never mind—I merely share my view. Do not take it too seriously."
Lan Qian lowered her gaze to the bracelet. The faint blue pulse that moments ago had seemed reassuring now throbbed with a sinister rhythm, like a heartbeat that was not her own. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her expression caught between scepticism and a dawning unease. She smoothed her fringe absently, as though to hide the faint blush of disquiet on her cheeks, and replied softly:
"Very well… I shall not."
But her eyes lingered upon the Sentinel Helix, and though she tried to mask it, a tremor of doubt had been sown—one that no broth, however warm, could chase away.
Lan Qian had just set her chopsticks down when her Sentinel Helix pulsed and vibrated faintly, the ring interface upon her finger glowing in a muted crimson hue. She raised her hand, tilting the band close to her ear, and answered softly, her tone casual and unsuspecting.
"Hello?"
Nightingale's voice burst forth on the other end, taut with urgency, the sound of static and distant alarms weaving through her words.
"Lan Qian, where are you?"
Lan Qian adjusted her spectacles with her free hand, her gaze briefly darting to Alvi before she replied.
"Well—I'm at Wenjing Cafeteria. Why?"
The voice sharpened, almost trembling with restrained dread.
"Lan Qian, listen to me carefully. A group of terrorists are moving towards Young Zoung District. They've been sighted heading straight into your vicinity."
Her back stiffened, her chopsticks clattering to the bowl, broth sloshing against porcelain.
"Can you describe them?" she asked, voice low, her heart beginning to drum against her ribs.
Nightingale's reply came swiftly, breathless:
"Six men, armed with ballistic rifles. Faces obscured by carbon masks, combat vests marked with crimson sigils. Their leader wears a black trench coat, bald head glinting under the streetlamps, with a scar slashing down from brow to cheek. They are brutal, Lan Qian—they kill without hesitation. Hold your ground until reinforcements arrive."
At that very instant, the glass door of Wenjing Cafeteria burst open with a violent crash. The bell above the frame chimed, grotesquely out of tune, as a squad of men stormed inside. Their boots thudded against the wooden floor, heavy and merciless. The description matched—down to the scar etched across the leader's visage. His eyes burned with feral malice, and without a word he raised his rifle, firing a deafening shot into the ceiling. Splinters of wood and plaster cascaded down, mingling with the acrid smoke of spent gunpowder.
The room convulsed into chaos. Patrons shrieked, bowls of ramen and cups of tea overturned in frantic desperation. One woman dropped her tray, the porcelain shattering into a thousand fragments, echoing like broken hope. Parents clutched their children, shielding their fragile bodies against their own trembling chests. A young man, barely more than a boy, froze mid-bite, noodles dangling from his chopsticks as his face drained of all colour.
The staff, too, recoiled in terror. The cashier stumbled backwards against the till, hands raised instinctively, while the cook in his stained apron dropped his ladle, broth splattering across the tiled counter. A waitress pressed herself against the wall, her tray clattering noisily to the ground, her wide eyes brimming with tears.
The leader of the terrorists strode forward, his voice booming like the crack of thunder.
"Everyone down! On your knees! You belong to us now!"
The customers obeyed with quivering compliance, a collective surrender painted in bowed heads and trembling hands. The once-warm haven of Wenjing Cafeteria had been transfigured into a cage of fear, the fragrant steam of ramen now mingling with the acrid stench of terror.
And amidst it all, Lan Qian's heart pounded furiously—caught between instinct and dread—while Alvi, seated across from her, slowly shifted her gaze, a flicker of something unreadable glinting behind her spectacles.
The streets of Young Zoung District trembled beneath the iron thunder of engines. SSCBF jeeps and SUVs carved through the neon-lit avenues with ruthless velocity, their sirens wailing a shrill hymn of urgency. Pedestrians scattered like startled birds, vendors dragged carts hastily aside, and traffic lights became meaningless ornaments as the convoy pressed forward.
At the vanguard, a black armoured SUV surged through the dense traffic, its chassis glinting with the reflected blaze of daylight striking against mirrored windows. Within, the air was taut, strung with the brittle silence of imminent confrontation.
Chief Wen-Li sat in the passenger seat, her posture rigid, gloved hand pressed against the edge of the dashboard. Her eyes, sharpened like blades of obsidian, were fixed on the horizon. The sunlight fractured against her profile, illuminating the faint furrows of tension etched upon her brow.
At the wheel, Captain Robert Voreyevsky gripped the steering column with steady hands. The veins at his wrists stood taut, his knuckles pale beneath the pressure, though his expression betrayed nothing but a soldier's stoicism. His voice, when it came, was measured yet thunderous with resolve.
"Chief, Young Zoung is a nest of serpents. To strike there without forethought is to invite venom."
Wen-Li tilted her head slightly, her lips curving into something caught between a grimace and determination.
"Venom or not, Robert, we cannot hesitate. The citizens are not shields for terrorists. We strike because delay would only sharpen their blade."
In the back seat, Lieutenant Nightingale leaned forward, her voice quivering like the taut string of a violin ready to snap. Her hair, caught in the strip of daylight filtering through the window, gleamed like tarnished copper.
"Chief, Lan Qian is inside the Wenjing Cafeteria. I had her on the line before the signal dropped. She is unarmed, vulnerable—if they discover her identity, they'll use her as leverage against us."
The name struck like a flint against Wen-Li's composure. She inhaled sharply, her gloved hand curling into a fist upon her lap. For a fleeting second, her eyes flickered with an emotion dangerously close to fear, before she forced it back beneath the armour of command.
"Lan Qian…" she murmured, as though uttering a prayer into the void. Then, louder: "We'll not let her become their pawn."
Beside Nightingale, Captain Lingaong Xuein adjusted her belt, her jaw set in iron defiance. Her gaze, directed toward the passing cityscape, blazed with quiet fury.
"Then we must act swiftly. The terrorists won't merely stage a siege—they'll perform a spectacle. A slaughter to brand their cause." She turned her head towards Wen-Li, her voice cutting like the edge of steel. "Chief, grant the order. Every second we tarry is another heartbeat closer to her death."
The SUV swerved violently around a delivery truck, Robert's knuckles tightening further on the wheel. He cast a brief glance at Wen-Li, his baritone lowering to a growl.
"Chief, whatever path you choose, I'll drive us straight through hell itself. But you must know: one wrong move, and we risk turning Young Zoung into a battlefield of innocents."
The cabin quaked as the vehicle leapt a pothole, the shock reverberating through every body inside. Yet the silence that followed seemed heavier still, laden with the weight of decisions no commander wished to make.
Finally, Wen-Li's voice broke the quiet—a voice tempered by sorrow, sharpened by duty, and resonant with command.
"Then steel yourselves. Today, we move as blade and shield. We save the people, we save Lan Qian… and we cut down the terrorists before they can poison the city further. Hesitation is death, and I'll not write that epitaph."
Her words hung in the air like the toll of a cathedral bell, final and unyielding. Outside, the convoy pressed deeper into the labyrinth of Young Zoung, neon signs flickering like dying stars overhead, as the streets braced for the storm racing to its heart.
At the Shin-Zhang Corporation headquarters resonated with the clipped rhythm of hurried boots as the agents swept into the private sanctum of Madam Di-Xian. The office itself was a fusion of austerity and magnificence: lacquered mahogany walls adorned with scrolls of inked calligraphy, a golden lotus fountain murmuring softly in one corner, and a panoramic window through which the daylight filtered like a divine decree.
Jun was the first to speak, his voice edged with urgency, his hand unconsciously tightening into a fist.
"Madam! There's been an incursion at the Wenjing Cafeteria. Terrorists have stormed the place. And—" his voice caught, trembling with a flicker of anxiety, "Alvi was there."
At this, Hella, her eyes wide and lips pressed in a grim line, stepped forward, the crimson light from the stained glass window tracing sharp angles across her features.
"We cannot allow harm to come to her, Madam. She is—" she hesitated, her tone faltering between reverence and apprehension—"too important to risk. If they lay a hand on her…" She trailed off, her eyes burning like coals, her posture a taut bowstring ready to snap.
Yet Madam Di-Xian did not stir. Reclining in her carved ebony chair, her fingers drummed with deliberate elegance upon the armrest, her platinum rings catching the sun's gleam in small flashes. Her face was a mask of composure, untouched by the tremors that agitated her subordinates. The faintest smile—cold, enigmatic—brushed her lips, as though she had anticipated this moment long before it arrived.
"Their blunder," she said softly, her voice smooth as silk stretched taut over steel, "is that they do not know where they tread. The fools have entered a lion's den believing it to be their own hunting ground. Wenjing Cafeteria is ours. It has always been ours."
The room fell silent, the agents exchanging glances as her words coiled around them like smoke from an incense brazier. Farhan broke the hush, stepping forward with a soldier's discipline yet a tremor of hesitation in his timbre.
"Yes, Madam. But shall we intervene? A direct strike?"
Di-Xian lifted her gaze at last, her dark irises shimmering with the calm menace of an abyss. She shook her head gently, her silken sleeves whispering against the lacquered armrest.
"No need," she replied, her tone decisive, brooking no challenge. Then, leaning forward slightly, her smile grew sharper, as though she spoke a secret only she dared voice. "Alvi is not a flower to wilt in a storm. She is the storm's own marrow. That woman carries within her the marrow of resilience, a spirit honed not by frailty but by fire. She does not require rescue—she requires only room to breathe, and she will fashion her own salvation."
The agents bowed their heads, chastened and awed, though unease flickered behind their obedience. The sun spilled across the office in long golden beams, casting Madam Di-Xian in the half-light like an empress from another age—serene, inscrutable, and terrifyingly absolute.
The air inside Wenjing Cafeteria was taut as a bowstring, thick with the clamour of fear—the muffled whimpers of children pressed into their mothers' arms, the anxious shuffle of chairs dragged hastily aside, the metallic tang of gunpowder still hanging after the ceiling shot. Terrorists in ragged tactical garb prowled like jackals, their weapons raised, their jeers masking their nervousness.
And then, with a deliberateness that seemed almost surreal, Alvi Taslim rose from the huddled crowd. She stepped into the open as though the floor were a stage and she its unchallenged performer. Her navy hijab shimmered faintly in the harsh light, her spectacles catching a glint that rendered her eyes unreadable. She squared her shoulders, her voice slicing through the chaos like a scimitar wrapped in velvet.
"Hey—motherfucker," she called to the terrorist leader, her tone laced with derision rather than fear, her lips curling into the faintest smirk. "If you wanted attention, you could've just joined a circus instead of embarrassing yourself with this cheap pantomime."
A stunned silence followed, broken by a suppressed gasp from Lan Qian, who had half-risen instinctively to pull Alvi back but froze, her hand trembling in disbelief at the audacity. The other customers blinked wide-eyed, some choking back nervous laughter through their terror, as if the absurdity of the remark fractured their fear for the briefest of moments.
The terrorist leader, a burly brute with scars crossing his jawline like crude cartography, blinked as though struck by an invisible slap. His nostrils flared; his face darkened to crimson. For a moment he stood frozen, his authority teetering on the edge of mockery. Then, with a guttural roar, he jabbed a finger towards Alvi.
"Get her! Tear that insolent bitch apart!"
His men, uncertain whether to laugh or obey, exchanged puzzled glances. Yet, desperate not to look weak before their leader, they surged forward in a chaotic charge—tripping over chairs, slipping on spilled broth, one nearly smacking his rifle barrel against the low lantern overhead. The scene, despite its menace, carried an air of slapstick calamity, as though fate itself mocked their bluster.
Lan Qian pressed her hand against her mouth, her pulse hammering. Half of her mind screamed to rush to Alvi's aid, yet the other half marvelled with astonishment: this woman, this civilian, carried herself with a calm bordering on defiance—like a reed bowing to a tempest but never breaking.
Meanwhile, on the rain-slicked arterial roads that cut towards Young Zoung District, the SSCBF convoy thundered forward. Jeeps and SUVs tore through traffic with sirens keening, their tyres spitting water into long sprays. The convoy itself resembled a column of black-armoured beetles streaking towards battle, relentless, purposeful.
Inside the lead SUV, the atmosphere was a crucible of silence and suppressed urgency. Chief Wen-Li sat in the passenger seat, her eyes fixed forward with a hawk's intensity, the flickering neon reflected in the glass like shards of fractured thought. Beside her, Captain Robert Voreyevsky gripped the wheel, his knuckles white as he forced the vehicle through narrow gaps with a precision born of both recklessness and experience.
At the back, Lieutenant Nightingale leaned forward, her voice steady though edged with unease. "Chief, it's Lan Qian inside that cafeteria. If they've already begun—"
Wen-Li cut her off, her voice measured, deliberate, yet shadowed by the storm of her mind. "Lan Qian is not without her wits. She will endure until we arrive."
Lingaong Xuein, seated beside Nightingale, folded her arms, her sharp profile catching the sunlight that streamed between looming towers. Her words came low, almost biting. "Endure? Against armed terrorists? Chief, forgive me, but faith is no substitute for strategy."
Robert glanced into the rear-view mirror, his jaw tightening. "Enough. The moment we arrive, we storm. No hesitation."
The SUV swerved, the convoy in unison behind them, weaving like a school of black predators through the city's neon arteries. The Young Zoung skyline loomed ahead, its high-rises shimmering in the daylight haze, the smoke of panic already beginning to curl faintly above the district like an omen.
Chief Wen-Li closed her eyes briefly, her hand resting against the Sentinel Helix at her wrist. She whispered, half to herself, half to the silence of the car:
"Hold on, Lan Qian. Hold on just a moment longer…"
"Lan Qian hold my spectacle for a moment" handing her spectacle
"Okay!" she reply
Alvi's eyes are serious determination
The terrorists lunged at Alvi Taslim like a pack of half-starved wolves, their rifles raised more like cudgels than weapons. Yet she moved with a swiftness that made the eye doubt its own witness. Her hand snapped forward, catching the barrel of one rifle, twisting it so violently that the man yelped as the stock cracked against his own jaw. Another brute rushed from behind, fingers clawing at her hijab.
Her spectacles flashed as she turned, eyes blazing with a fury so pure it silenced the air. She seized his wrist, her voice molten steel:
"Touch my hijab again, and I will ensure you never touch anything again."
With a sickening crunch, she twisted, snapping his arm like a twig beneath a boot. The man howled, collapsing to the ground clutching the limp limb, the sound echoing like a warning to the rest.
Another terrorist, in a desperate gambit, lunged for Lan Qian, yanking her by the shoulder and jamming a pistol against her temple. Lan's breath caught in her throat, her eyes wide, but before a scream could form, Alvi's hand clamped the edge of a nearby oak table. With one effortless motion, she heaved it up and hurled it across the room. The heavy wood slammed into the assailant's chest, knocking him clean off his feet with such force he crumpled into a pile of crockery and shame.
The remaining men charged together, baying with frustration. Alvi ducked, her palm striking one throat with surgical precision, sending the man sprawling. She pivoted on her heel, her hijab swirling like a battle standard, and delivered a bone-shattering kick to another's kneecap. A final thug swung wildly at her head with a steel rod, only for her to duck beneath, seize his ankle, and twist—his body collapsing with a cry as his shin bent in a manner wholly unnatural.
Within minutes, the once-fearsome terrorists lay groaning in a heap of broken bones, clutching limbs as though they were dolls whose joints had been cruelly undone. The customers gaped, slack-jawed, some whispering prayers of gratitude, others suppressing nervous laughter at the almost absurd swiftness of their saviour.
But the leader—the scarred brute with fury boiling in his veins—remained standing. His hand shot into his vest and produced a small black device, a cruel grin splitting his face.
"You fools! One press of this button, and boom! The entire cafeteria goes up in smoke! The bomb is already wired into these walls. You've all got five seconds before you burn with me!"
His thumb hovered above the trigger. He began to count, his voice manic:
"Five… four… three—"
He never reached two.
Alvi vaulted into the air, her body spinning in a flawless arc. Her foot connected squarely with his jaw in a high flip kick so precise it might have been choreographed by the gods of combat themselves. The leader's eyes rolled back, the remote clattering harmlessly to the floor as he collapsed like a felled oak.
Alvi dusted off her palms and turned to Lan Qian, her tone brisk yet calm:
"Find the bomb. Now."
Lan Qian, still trembling from her near-hostage moment, scrambled through the cafeteria. She flung aside overturned chairs, crouched beneath counters, eyes darting. Finally, beneath a false panel behind the staff's tea dispenser, she found it—an ominous black case wired into the mains. Her heart thudded in her ears as she yanked free the wires with trembling fingers until the red light flickered out.
She turned back, her face pale yet triumphant. "It's done. The bomb is disarmed!"
Alvi gave her a small approving nod, lips tugging into the faintest smile.
Moments later, the SSCBF convoy screeched to a halt outside the café, officers storming through the shattered doors with weapons drawn. What they found froze them mid-stride.
The terrorists—every last one—were sprawled across the floor, unconscious or writhing in agony. The customers huddled safe, miraculously unscathed. And at the centre stood Lan Qian, hair dishevelled, cheeks flushed, her chest heaving from adrenaline.
"Lan Qian!" cried Wen-Li, her composure cracking as she rushed forward.
Lan Qian turned, her eyes filling with tears as she ran into her Chief's arms. "Chief!" she breathed, the word breaking like a child's sob.
Wen-Li squeezed her tightly, one hand stroking the back of her head. Her voice was low but fierce, trembling with relief:
"Thank the heavens… You are safe. I thought—no, I will not imagine what I thought."
Lan Qian pulled back, smiling weakly through her exhaustion. "I'm all right, Chief. Truly. Just… shaken, not broken."
From behind, Nightingale exhaled, muttering with a mixture of awe and exasperation:
"She's bloody indestructible, isn't she?"
Robert Voreyevsky rubbed a hand over his face, his deep voice a grumble laced with reluctant admiration. "Indestructible—or simply too reckless for her own good."
Lingaong Xuein arched a brow, arms crossed tightly. "Whichever it is, she's given us all grey hairs. But… I'm glad you're alive, Qian."
Lan Qian's lips trembled into a small smile. She glanced back over her shoulder, gesturing toward the scene of carnage. "Thanks to her."
The team turned—but Alvi was gone. No trace remained save the faint disturbance of a curtain near the back exit.
In a narrow alleyway behind the building, Alvi adjusted her hijab, her breath calm, her spectacles catching a beam of daylight filtering between towers. She murmured, half to herself, half to the unseen world that swallowed her:
"We are the heroes of the shadows, who work in the dark to serve the light."
A wry smile curved her lips. She slipped her hands into her coat pockets and strolled off into the bustling district, vanishing into the tide of humanity as though she had never been there at all.
Whereas the sound of dripping water echoed faintly in the pitch-dark chamber, each drop striking concrete with a hollow resonance that gnawed at the nerves. A single light bulb swung gently above, its filament sputtering in erratic flickers, casting the room into alternating fragments of shadow and cruel illumination.
Gonda Subuichi stirred, his groggy breath rattling through clenched teeth as he came to. His body convulsed slightly against the coarse rope that bit into his wrists, his legs strapped so firmly he could not so much as twitch a toe. Panic rose in his chest as he realised his immobility, his breaths quickening, condensing into white wisps in the cold, stale air.
Then—footsteps.
Measured. Deliberate. Each one struck the concrete floor with the cadence of inevitability, resonating like the tolling of a death knell. From the shadows emerged Chief Ilsle Richter, her presence at once spectral and domineering. The flickering bulb caught the sheen of her platinum hair, which gleamed like moonlight poured into steel, and her immaculate suit seemed carved rather than tailored, each line accentuating her severity.
She paused just at the edge of the light, her silhouette dominating the scene. A faint curl tugged at her lips—an expression that was not quite a smile but something more venomous, a mirthless crescent brimming with malice. Her eyes, pale and glacial, fixed on Gonda with the intensity of a hawk observing prey too feeble to resist.
She clasped her hands behind her back, her posture straight as a blade, her chin slightly raised, as though even gravity dared not weigh upon her. Tilting her head with the grace of a predator toying with its quarry, she allowed the silence to fester until it became unbearable.
At last, her voice sliced through the dark—smooth, measured, and carrying a cruelty veiled in elegance.
"It's been a while, Gonda Subuichi. Let us have a talk, shall we?"
Her tone lingered on the word talk with deliberate menace, as though the conversation to come would be less dialogue and more dissection.
Gonda's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, sweat glistening across his brow despite the chill. His wide eyes reflected both fear and disbelief, darting between her shadowed face and the flickering light above.