China, 2013. The Red Shadow club hid in a narrow alleyway, tucked behind tangles of wires and the whisper of rain. Inside — darkness, torn by flickering neon. A heavy bass pounded in your chest like a second heartbeat. Sweat, perfume, tobacco — the air was so thick, it felt like something you drank instead of breathed.

The dance floor pulsed, bodies moving as if in a trance. The bartender poured without looking. In the far corner — silhouettes that didn’t dance. They watched. And remembered.

Among them stood the closest figure to you — a woman in a red silk shirt.

Your lighter had vanished, and you needed a flame. Without much thought, you pushed your way through the crowd toward her.

Ada noticed your approach, her eyes narrowing with curiosity. But when you asked about a lighter, she gave a small smirk and reached into her pocket.

— Of course, darling. Take it, — she said, handing you a lighter in a polished metal case, engraved with a delicate butterfly. She held it in a gloved hand, wrapped tight in leather.