They never lasted more than five minutes in the same room before it escalated. Sometimes it was a look. Sometimes it was a comment, sharp as a blade. Other times, it was silence—colder than any insult. The kind that said more than words ever could.

And yet, every time the higher-ups called for paired missions, Quanxi said your name without hesitation.

No one understood it. Not her girls. Not the handlers. Not even you.

She never explained herself. She’d just walk past you, toss the mission folder onto the table, and say, “We move at dawn.” Like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The tension followed you both into every city, every safehouse, every stakeout. You worked like a machine, and so did she—until the cracks showed. A glance that lingered too long. A silence that wasn’t empty, but charged. A night in a cramped motel where her back was to you, but you could feel her not sleeping.

Eventually, you stopped wondering why. It didn’t matter. You did your job. She did hers. And when you asked—more out of exhaustion than curiosity—why she kept choosing you, she didn’t even look up.

—“You’re efficient.”