Chapter 15: The Uninvited Guardian
The days following the "Battle of the Howling Duet" were a study in surreal contrasts. Publicly, Qu Tang was the heroine of the hour, her face splashed across every entertainment and news feed in the Federation. She was the "Battling Songbird," the woman whose voice had become a weapon of defiance. Her subscriber count skyrocketed into the millions. The Arena, capitalizing on the insane publicity, had transformed the full "Crossed Stars" event into a pay-per-view spectacle of galactic proportions.
Privately, however, a cold dread had taken root in her stomach. Jin Chen's attack had been a brutal reminder of her vulnerability. Her cozy apartment, once a sanctuary, now felt like a glass box, its walls transparent to a predator's gaze. Every creak of the building, every unidentified drone outside her window, sent her heart into a frantic rhythm. She jumped at shadows, her sleep fractured by dreams of silent intruders and the sizzle of plasma fire.
Lang Mo had been true to his word. Her digital security was now fortress-like, courtesy of his personal tech team. But digital walls couldn't stop a physical threat. He had offered to station one of his clan members outside her door, a suggestion she had immediately, nervously refused. The last thing she needed was a hulking wolf beastman drawing more attention to her location.
She was trying to project normalcy for a cooking stream, attempting to make "comfort cookies" while her hands trembled slightly, when a new, polite notification appeared. It was a request for a bio-scan signature from her building's AI—a standard procedure for a new resident moving into the apartment across the hall. She absently approved it, her mind on whether she'd added too much vanilla.
The next day, her door chime rang. Peering through the viewscreen, she saw a young man holding a large, flat box. He was tall and lean, dressed in the practical, grey coveralls of a delivery service. He had a friendly, unassuming face, short-cropped brown hair, and kind, if somewhat tired, green eyes.
"Delivery for Qu Tang," he said, his voice a pleasant, neutral baritone.
Cautiously, she opened the door a crack. "I didn't order anything."
"It's from a 'SilentListener,' ma'am," the deliveryman said with a mild smile, consulting his datapad. "Says it's a 'housewarming gift, finally.'"
The use of the name, the private joke, made her relax slightly. Lang Mo. She opened the door fully, accepting the large, lightweight box. "Thank you."
"No problem at all," the man said, tipping his cap. "Name's Leo, by the way. Just moved in across the hall. Seems we're neighbors." He gave a friendly nod before turning back to his own door.
The coincidence was startling, but the city was a vast hive; people moved in and out constantly. She pushed the thought aside, focusing on the box. Inside was a stunning, traditional silk painting of a nightingale singing on a snow-laden pine branch, under a full moon. It was beautiful, tasteful, and utterly unlike the "Sparkly Anvil." It felt like an apology and a promise. A wave of gratitude washed over her. Maybe she wasn't as alone as she felt.
Over the next few days, "Leo" became a pleasant, peripheral part of her life. She'd run into him in the hallway, struggling with a piece of furniture. He'd offered a shy, strong hand. She'd hear the faint, soothing strains of classical music from his apartment. He was quiet, polite, and seemed to have a knack for appearing exactly when a small, physical task proved daunting for her—like when the preservation unit decided to freeze shut.
"Let me try," Leo would say, and with a seemingly effortless application of pressure, it would pop open. He was just… helpful. A good neighbor. His presence was a quiet antidote to her paranoia.
The night before the massive "Crossed Stars" event, the fear was a live wire under her skin. The final rehearsal with Lang Mo had been electric, their musical connection stronger than ever, but it only heightened the stakes. She was pacing her living room, too anxious to sleep, when a faint, metallic scrape from the building's emergency stairwell door froze her in her tracks. It wasn't the normal sound of the building settling. It was deliberate.
Her blood ran cold. The stairwell access was just down the hall. She crept to her door, her heart hammering, and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty. Then, she saw the stairwell door handle slowly, silently turning.
Panic seized her. She was alone. She fumbled for her terminal to call Lang Mo, but her hands were shaking too badly.
A shadow detached itself from the doorway of the apartment across the hall. It was Leo. He wasn't in his coveralls now, but in dark, form-fitting clothing that seemed to absorb the light. His posture was different—no longer slouched and friendly, but coiled and predatory. The kind, tired eyes were gone, replaced by a sharp, hyper-vigilant gleam.
He moved with a silence that was unnerving, flowing across the hall just as the stairwell door cracked open. Two figures, clad in the same black tactical gear as before, slipped out.
They never saw him coming.
Leo's movement was a blur of brutal efficiency. It wasn't a fight; it was a neutralization. A sharp, precise strike to the first man's throat choked off any cry. As the second spun, Leo caught his arm, twisted it with a sickening crack, and drove his knee into the man's diaphragm, dropping him gasping to the floor. The entire confrontation lasted less than five seconds and was utterly silent.
Qu Tang stared, paralyzed with shock, through the peephole.
Leo stood over the incapacitated intruders, his breathing calm. He then did something strange. He looked directly at her door, as if he knew she was watching, and gave a single, slow nod. Then he dragged the two unconscious men back into the stairwell as effortlessly as if they were sacks of flour.
A minute later, her terminal chimed. A message from an unknown, encrypted address. It contained only two words:
All clear.
It was followed by another message, this one from Lang Mo. The perimeter is secure. Get some rest. You have a performance tomorrow.
The pieces clicked into place with dizzying speed. Leo wasn't a deliveryman. He wasn't a friendly neighbor. He was one of Lang Mo's men. A guardian wolf in sheep's clothing, planted right across the hall. The "coincidental" help, the bio-scan she'd approved—it had all been a meticulously orchestrated operation to insert a protector into her life without sending her into a panic.
The emotion that flooded her wasn't anger at the deception. It was a profound, staggering relief. She wasn't just protected by digital walls and distant promises. She was guarded by a silent, deadly shadow who listened to classical music and opened jars for her.
She slid down against her door, tears of relief finally streaming down her face. The fear didn't vanish, but it was now overshadowed by a fierce, burning determination. Lang Mo had mobilized his clan to protect her. He had given her a guardian.
Tomorrow, she would not just sing for herself, or for her fans. She would sing for the Wolf who howled with her, and for the silent protector across the hall. She would step onto that virtual stage with a courage forged not in ignorance, but in the certain knowledge that she was not alone. The thrill of the performance was now mingled with the iron resolve of a soldier going into a battle they knew they could win.