CHAPTER 9: The Message That Wasn’t Meant for Her

POV: Wáng Shuǒrán → Lín Yàonán

.. ΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩΩ ...

Wang Shuoran

The stage was still soaked in dust and velvet rot.

Wáng Shuǒrán stepped through the cracked doors of the abandoned Red Orchid Theater, her heels echoing against splintered floorboards and forgotten applause. Above her, a broken chandelier hung like a guillotine made of glass. She liked it. Symbolic. Predictive.

Liú Shàoxiǎn was already there, boots up on a toppled chair, flipping a throwing knife between his fingers with the bored elegance of a man who killed by suggestion.

"You picked drama today," he said.

"We're well past subtle."

Zhào Yǎrán arrived next, her lipstick violent and unbothered. She arched an eyebrow. "What's the performance?"

"A leak," Shuǒrán replied. "We flood Jian's data channels with falsified intel. Something big. Something shiny. Enough to distract his dogs."

"And draw blood from one," Liú added, not smiling.

"Exactly."

A silence fell, heavy but not hostile. Agreement, unspoken. Shuǒrán pulled a thumb drive from her coat and slid it across the floor.

"Plant this in his secondary transfer node. We burn the feeds and track who tries to clean up the mess."

She turned away, the discussion finished. Until—

"Xīnlėi's pinged something," Zhào said, phone in hand. "You're going to want to see this."

The message was clean. Crisp. No traceable source. Just text:

He didn't miss.

He was never going to pull the trigger.

Shuǒrán read it once. Then again.

The device stayed warm in her hand far too long.

She pocketed it without a word.

That night, she stood alone on the theater stage. Looking into seats no longer filled, lights long since dead. The silence comforted her more than people ever could.

She wasn't sure what unnerved her more: The fact someone was watching her.

Or the possibility it had been him.

Either way, she wouldn't hesitate again.

"Liú," she called.

He appeared like smoke from the shadows.

"Arrange a meet. The traitor from Jian's east quarter. The one who eats his pills like candy."

Liú blinked. "That lunatic?"

"He bled for Jian. That means he knows where the arteries are."

Liú grinned. "Ah. Now that's the Miss Red I missed."

LÍN YÀONÁN

The debrief room was colder than the morgue.

Lín Yàonán sat beneath a harsh white light, hands folded, back straight. He had been here for three hours. Not chained. Not bound.

Just watched.

Qín Mùyĕ sat across from him, elbows on knees, fingers laced. The calm of a handler trained to dismantle men from the inside out.

"You moved early," Mùyĕ said.

No reply.

"You made a noise. You warned her."

Yàonán didn't blink.

"Did you think we wouldn't notice?"

Still nothing.

Mùyĕ leaned back. "Maybe Jian was wrong about you. Maybe you weren't broken enough."

That one landed.

But Yàonán still said nothing.

The silence was louder than any confession.

Finally, Mùyĕ stood. "You'll remain in isolation for reassessment. No missions. No external contact. You speak when we let you."

He left.

The door locked.

And Yàonán, for the first time in years, let his head fall into his hands.

She had looked right at him. She had seen everything.

The grief. The hesitation. The truth.

And still—

He wasn't sure if she saw it as protection. Or betrayal.

Hours passed.

Then a soft rustle beneath the door. A sealed envelope. No markings.

He opened it.

Inside was a photograph.

Shuǒrán, before the fall. Before Miss Red. In white, soft-lipped, mid-laugh. A ghost.

Taped to the back:

Pretty things are only useful when they obey. —J

Yàonán stared at it for a long time. Then he tore the photo in half.

And again.

And again.