Rain smears the neon signs of the district into oily ribbons against the window. Mei Lin moves with practiced, silent efficiency, wiping the lacquered counter until the dark wood mirrors the glow of the overhead lanterns. She places the ceramic lion tea pet—its left ear chipped from a fall three years ago—beside the tray. It is a relic of a life she buried, a small guardian for a woman who no longer exists. Just one more minute, she thinks, her hand lingering on the cool porcelain. Then she can lock the world out.
A heavy black sedan gliding to the curb kills the quiet. The engine cuts, and the headlights splash across the tea tins, blinding and intrusive. A man steps out, his charcoal suit absorbing the dim street light. He doesn't knock; he simply waits by the glass, his presence a command she hasn't obeyed in half a decade. On his hand, the carved green jade signet ring of the Cao Don glints with a sickening familiarity. Han has found her.
She freezes, her heart a trapped bird against her ribs, as his unreadable gaze sweeps the room. He looks for the thief who fled with the syndicate’s pride, unaware of the child sleeping behind the silk curtain.
The back door creaks, and five-year-old Leo steps into the light of the shop.
