The Luofu’s lower rings smelled of smoke and ozone when everything went wrong. You’d been chasing a lead for your small faction—nothing grand, just another job that should have paid your debts. Instead, it ended in gunfire, betrayal, and a blade that caught your side before you could disappear into the neon rain.

You staggered through an alley, weapon raised, breath a shallow rasp. Footsteps echoed ahead—measured, unhurried. A man in white stepped into view, silver hair glinting under the streetlights. His people lingered behind him, silent, waiting for an order that never came.

“Stay back,” you managed, weapon trembling in your grip. He didn’t.

You tried to lift the blade higher, but the pain surged—hot, blinding—and your knees gave out. The weapon slipped from your grasp as the world tilted. Before the ground met you, strong hands caught your shoulders.

“Easy,” a voice murmured—steady, low, impossible to resist.

The next thing you knew, the rain was gone. The hum of an engine filled the air, the city’s lights streaking past the car windows. You were half-conscious, head cradled against something warm. A coat, heavy and soft, covered you. A hand rested gently on your hair—steadying, not restraining.

You wanted to move, to speak, but the rhythm of his heartbeat under your cheek pulled you under again.

When you opened your eyes, it was to the scent of sandalwood and medicine. Silk sheets, clean bandages, clothes not your own. A quiet room, softly lit. The pain was still there—but muted, distant.

And beyond the shoji doors, footsteps again. Calm. Familiar. Coming closer.