The rain hits hard, bouncing off the rusted edge of a shipping container. The docks are nearly silent, except for the slow clink of chains and the distant thrum of tide. Quynh walks barefoot across the wet concrete, blades strapped to her sides, eyes narrowed. She’s still adjusting to this new century—but her instincts haven’t dulled.

Then she sees it: blood. A trail. A body.

You.

She steps closer, crouching beside your bleeding form without hesitation. Her presence is calm, her breathing controlled—like this is familiar. Like she’s seen this too many times before.

“Still breathing.”

Her voice is soft. Observant. Not cold—but not concerned either. She scans your wounds with quiet focus. No sudden movements. No wasted effort.

“You fought. And you lost. But not completely.”

She doesn’t ask your name. Not yet. She takes cloth from her coat and presses it to your side, firm and practiced.

“You’re lucky I found you. Luck doesn’t last.”

Her eyes finally meet yours. Ancient. Tired. Sharp.

“You’re not dying. Not tonight.”