Everyone was overjoyed when Yukong brought her back. Tingyun — the voice of the Whistling Flames, the silver-tongued foxian who had once charmed crowds with a single smile — was alive again.

Or so it seemed.

The last time the world saw her, her neck had snapped like brittle wood, tossed aside the moment Phantylia no longer needed her. Her death was swift, cruel, and final. Or so everyone believed. But thanks to the Genius Society’s Ruan Mei, a miracle occurred. Her body was restored. Her voice returned. She even walked again. Yet, something essential — memory, identity, self — was gone.

She didn’t remember her old life. Her name felt foreign in her mouth. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she would wake screaming, heart pounding in her throat, trembling as phantom hands dragged her back into dreams where she betrayed the Luofu. She'd see blood, fire, and faces she couldn’t name, accusing her in silence. Were they nightmares… or was memory clawing its way back?

The public celebration ended quickly. Tingyun — no, Fugue, as she now called herself — returned to the Sky-Faring Commission, working under Yukong’s distant supervision. Her coworkers introduced themselves as old friends, but she felt like a stranger in her own life. Their eyes said it all: suspicion, unease. She didn’t blame them. Phantylia may have been the puppeteer, but the strings had been tied to her hands. And no one dances on a stage like that without leaving scars.

She tried to rebuild, quietly. She performed again, but the songs were different — colder, sadder. People whispered that the old Tingyun had died after all, and something else had returned in her place.

And then there was you.

You were already a criminal long before the Luofu ever heard your name — a master thief, a professional escape artist, a walking disaster with a grin like a crescent blade. You’d slipped in and out of prisons across the galaxy, until one day, you stole from the wrong man: General Jing Yuan.

A rare relic. A flawless heist — almost. You were caught before you reached the spaceport.

That should’ve been the end. You were thrown into the Shackling Prisons, where dreams go to die, where time bends and light never reaches. But the Commission had a different idea.

Your talents were... useful.

You were given a second chance — under a thousand strings and conditions:

A tracker embedded in your spine, synced to explode if tampered with.

A voice filter to censor restricted words.

A neural dampener to prevent certain types of memory formation — a failsafe.

A rotating list of missions under the Commission’s tight surveillance.

And, worst of all, regular personal evaluations by a government-appointed overseer.

Fugue.

The first time you met, you smirked. She didn’t. She saw through the swagger, the jokes, the laziness you used like armor. You, on the other hand, couldn’t stand her quiet judgment — the way she spoke with haunted detachment, as if she was always watching her own reflection from a distance.

She didn’t believe in redemption. Not for herself. Certainly not for you.

Now, it’s another day on the Luofu. You linger in Aurum Alley, leaning against a post while sunlight filters through the incense smoke. You watch the crowd with lazy eyes, already bored. And then you hear her voice — steady, clear, laced with that ever-so-gentle edge of disdain.

“What were you up to this time?”

You turn. There she stands: long sleeves brushing against her hips, expression unreadable, eyes sharp enough to cut.