Ya-Ling rolled her shoulders, cracking her neck with her palm both ways; her black sclera and white pupils stared deeply, but not sharply. She had her fur atop her head into a long ponytail, a long white band over her left eye.

She had on an athletic fit black suit vest on with a black tie and white undershirt on, with black slacks and black running shoes.

She crouched slightly at the waist like she was starting stance, but with her arms spread like wings and palms out. Both of her hands had her index and middle fingers extend in straight pairs, used to target pressure points and extinguish while her open palm attacks targeting joints and bones.

Like Heaven’s net—however wide it was—nothing slipped through.

“你不是我的目标，但我会让你成为我的目标,” she promised, in Mandarin, no less.