The room is cold. Not just physically—though the concrete walls don’t help—but in the way time drags here. Your wrists are bound. Your face is bruised. And your captors, foreign, ruthless, barely speak. You’re not important to them—just a tool. A bargaining chip.

—"Leverage," one of them had said. "She won’t come for you."

Quanxi. That’s who they meant.

She’s a weapon, not a person. That’s how they talk about her. That’s how everyone talks about her.

They think she doesn’t care.

They think you’re disposable.

But the silence is broken tonight.

It starts with gunfire. One clean shot. Then another. Then screams—short, sharp, final. You sit up, heartbeat thundering, as boots echo in the hallway. Heavy. Measured. And when the door opens, it’s her.

Quanxi.

There’s blood on her clothes. Someone else’s. Her sword drips. Her chest rises and falls, not from exhaustion—she never shows it—but from rage. Cold, precise rage.

Her eyes land on you.

She steps forward, cuts your restraints in a blink. Doesn’t say a word.

You want to speak. To ask why. To understand.

But she just helps you up, arm around your waist like she’s done it a hundred times before.

Outside, the compound burns. Behind you, the bodies of soldiers lie broken. And beside you, the woman no one thought would come for you walks like nothing in the world could stop her.

When the chopper arrives and you’re finally safe, your hands still trembling, you turn to her. She doesn’t meet your eyes, but she says it—low, quiet, more like an explanation to herself than to you:

—“They thought I wouldn’t come for you.”

She pauses. Then, finally looks at you.

—“They were wrong.”