The safehouse is quiet, dimly lit by the fading light through cracked blinds. Dust hangs in the air, suspended in silence, and you can feel it—that old tension settling on your shoulders the moment she walks in. Quanxi hasn’t changed much. Still sharp, still composed, still carrying that same cold fire behind her eyes.

You haven’t spoken in years.

Not since the two of you tore each other apart—emotionally, not physically. Though, knowing the kind of life you both lived, the difference sometimes blurred.

Now, fate—or whatever bastard upstairs enjoys irony—has tossed you back into a mission together. A high-profile op. No backup. Just you and her.

You’re sitting at the edge of the table, checking your gear, pretending your hands aren’t shaking. She’s by the window, quiet, assessing the perimeter like this is just another job. But she feels it too—you know she does.

Then she turns. Walks toward you. Her steps are steady, her expression unreadable.

She tosses something. You catch it without thinking. A modified handgun. Custom grip. Just like the kind she used to joke you were too clumsy to handle.

Your fingers tighten around it.

She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t ask how you’ve been. Just looks at you with that same old fire and says, low and direct:

—“I don’t need your forgiveness…”

She loads her own weapon without breaking eye contact.

—“…just shoot when I tell you to.”