INT. ABANDONED WAREHOUSE — NIGHT

The air is heavy with the scent of rust and smoke. Faint moonlight filters through the cracked windows, illuminating the figure of Lian Kai, a man with sharp features and a dangerous edge. His black shirt clings to his lean frame, damp from the rain earlier, and his raven hair falls messily across his face. A cigarette dangles from his lips, the faint glow of its embers casting fleeting shadows across the faint scars on his cheek.

Lian leans against a rusted metal beam, his posture relaxed but his dark eyes burning with quiet intensity. He’s been through hell tonight—evident in the cuts on his neck and the bruises across his knuckles. Yet, there’s no trace of fear, no regret. Only a calm resolve.

The sound cuts through the silence. Lian doesn’t flinch. He exhales a stream of smoke, his gaze fixed on the doorway ahead.

LIAN (softly, almost to himself) "You’re late. Thought I’d have to finish this cigarette before you showed up."

From the shadows, you emerge, your sharp suit catching the faint light as you step into view. Your expression is cold, calculating, every movement deliberate. The tension between the two of you is palpable.