I haven't missed anyone since arriving in the Ruby Republic. Not really. But as I stand beneath the sterile glow of Capital International Airport, waiting for Evangeline, something stirs. Not mere anticipation—but a quiet ache I don't recognize.

  It transcends strategy. She is part of the solution, yes—but there's more. A pull I won't acknowledge. Not longing, not guilt. Something quieter. Far more dangerous.

  I called Eva back as an emergency measure. At the time, it felt necessary. But since that call, the balance have shifted. The board rearranged itself. I’m no longer sure I should play my trump card this early.

  All Sunday afternoon, Linjun worked with surgical precision, securing approval for a special task force.

  Protocol is clear. Establishing such a force requires three conditions: an egregious crime, urgent need for response, and clear justification for specially appointed investigators.

  The attempted assassination that violated the Ministry of Public Security's residential compound—in broad daylight—satisfies all three criteria.

  In the Republic, firearms are unforgivable. Doubly so within Ministry quarters.

  The urgency speaks for itself. Assailants with military-grade weapons targeting high-ranking officials represent an imminent threat. Swift neutralization is imperative.

  The third condition clinches it. Armed intruders penetrating the Ministry's residence compound screams inside collusion. The logic for bringing in external investigators is unassailable.

  Linjun spent precious political capital pushing approval through on a Sunday. He leveraged Zhenhua Fu—Executive Vice Minister, Deputy Party Secretary of MPS, and member of the Central Political and Legal Affairs Committee. His tentacles reach into every corner of the Ministry.

  Zhenhua formerly commanded the 601 Office—the regime's hammer against religious dissidents. Ruthless. Unrelenting. Linjun served under him before inheriting that position.

  I maneuvered another Vice Minister, Huangwei Meng, to reinforce their efforts. Huangwei oversees the Ministry's foreign affairs and owes me several favors.

  They muscled through the bureaucracy, securing the necessary signatures. First thing Monday morning, official approval landed on Linjun's desk. The 601 Office will oversee the special task force, citing the plausible narrative of retaliation from religious extremists who have infiltrated government ranks.

  I withheld contact with Ruolin until everything was settled. Once approval came through, intervention became unnecessary. Linjun eagerly reached out to her himself.

  Seizing control of the investigation changes everything. Now I'm the hunter, they are the hunted.

  …. …

  First-class passengers slip through a fast-track corridor, bypassing the long immigration queues. I shouldn’t be here, but the airport staff badge I acquired grants me access past the checkpoint—close enough to meet her the moment she steps through.

  Evangeline’s silhouette glides across the polished terminal floor, elegant and composed. But it’s not her wide blue eyes or the soft halo of blonde hair that catches me first—it’s the metallic briefcase in her hand, marked with a glaring biohazard symbol.

  My pulse spikes. The question escapes before I can stop it.

  “What’s in the box?”

  Her expression shifts—not startled, but wounded. A shadow passes through her eyes, and when they meet mine, they’re full of something deeper than regret. They soften, as if bracing for impact.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  And I understand. Every layer of that apology lands with precision. The memories I’ve buried claw their way back—steel cage, the cold sting of syringe, the humiliation of being reduced to a specimen. My throat tightens.

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Let’s talk about it later,” I manage, swallowing the ache. I kiss her cheek, then pull her into a hug.

  She holds me gently, like I might break.

  We leave the airport without another word.

  … …

  Magenta weaves us through the city’s pulse—glass towers, impatient horns, the blur of ambition. The World Financial Center looms ahead, sleek and indifferent. Eva’s apartment is tucked inside the same complex—discreet, high above the noise.

  Inside, everything is soft—muted tones, clean lines, the scent of jasmine lingering in the air. She sets the briefcase on the coffee table, its presence like a third body in the room. I wait while she unpacks, watching her move with quiet deliberation.

  When she finally settles beside me, I ask, “Did he tell you everything?”

  Her voice is low, almost reverent. “He told me what he did to you. And I’m really, really sorry.”

  She leans in, arms wrapping around me—not to soothe, but to anchor. Her embrace is warm, steady, unconditional. For a moment, I let myself believe that forgiveness might be possible.

  “I can’t undo what my grandfather did,” she says, her voice trembling with sincerity. “And I know nothing I do will ever make it right. But I’m yours. Whenever you need me. However you need me.”

  She means it. Every word.

  At twenty-five, Eva is luminous—kind, naive, and heartbreakingly pure. Just like I was, before her grandpa taught me how to bleed.

  When she lifts her gaze, her eyes meet mine with unguarded devotion. There’s no calculation, no agenda. Just love—raw, sparkling, and terrifying in its simplicity. The kind of love I once gave Alaric, before everything changed.

  It nearly undoes me.

  I lose myself in her gaze, in the quiet gravity of her affection. I almost kiss her—not out of desire, but out of something deeper. Something ancient. A longing for connection that transcends flesh.

  Last week, I might have responded. Not with surrender, but with acceptance. A quiet embrace. A shared moment. But I’ve crossed that threshold. I’m no longer fragile. No longer uncertain. The ascension has clarified everything.

  I will live a millennium, maybe longer.

  And she won’t.

  Whatever I feel now—no matter how real—will be fleeting. Just like her heartbeat. Just like her breath.

  Besides, the trap is already set. The Hightowers are walking straight into it.

  I study her face—so open, so sincere. With that kind of innocence, the betrayal will burn. It always does. It made me what I am. I wonder what it will make her.

  But this isn’t the time to dwell. I need her. And the deeper her emotion, the more precise her execution.

  “How’s the stablecoin rollout?” I ask, slicing through the silence.

  She straightens, already shifting gears. “Next week is tight, but we’re pushing hard.”

  “Can you launch before June 12th?”

  “Yes. Definitely before that.”

  "There'll be a trillion Rubian yuan trying to convert to USD in the week or two around June 12th. Can you handle that kind of pressure?"

  She doesn’t flinch. “If there’s profit to be made, the market will come. Speculators will flood in. With the right momentum and marketing, the stablecoin will explode.”

  “Good. If you need help with the campaign, let me know. I know enough billionaires who’ll jump on a deal that smells like blood and gold.”

  “I will. That’s exactly what we need.” Then her expression shifts—soft concern blooming across her face. “You called me back so urgently. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  I nod. “Three snipers tried to kill me. But they can't.”

  She doesn’t gasp. She doesn’t panic. She knows what I am. She knows the legend. She knows bullets don’t matter.

  But the message does.

  “Who sent them?” she asks, sharp and direct.

  “Qiuhan Wang.”

  Her body stiffens. The name hits her like a blade. A flash of fury crosses her face—raw, instinctive. This isn’t political. It’s personal. She hates him with the kind of hatred that doesn’t need explanation.

  “We’ll deal with him,” I say, waving it off. “But first, we need to turn the table, and get on the offensive.”

  Eva leaned forward. "How can I help?"

  I pause. Not out of hesitation—out of calculation. I need to know where everyone stands. Especially Jianhua. He’s embedded too deeply in our infrastructure. If he’s compromised, the entire operation is at risk.

  Yet, suspicion is a luxury I can’t afford. Passive doubt gets you killed. In this game, loyalty is a costume—worn when convenient, discarded when profitable. Everyone’s chasing their own gain.

  So I won’t wait. I’ll bait the hook.

  Give them something irresistible, and they’ll come wagging their tails, no matter which flag they’re saluting today. Ideology is for speeches. Incentives are for survival. And I intend to survive.

  "What motivates people even more than money?" I ask.

  Her eyes gleams with excitement.

  I shift my gaze to the metal briefcase on the coffee table. “Is that my blood?” I ask, softly—as gentle as I could manage, while vengeance burns beneath.

  She nods and opens the fingerprint lock. A soft click. The lid lifts.

  Inside, five vials shimmer beneath the bright midday sunshine—crimson, luminous, alive. My blood. My legacy.

  “Then we bring them to the Sanguine Institute,” I say.

  She pauses. Her eyes widen—not with apprehension, but clarity. “I’ll notify Jianhua and Bao Fang to go to Wuhan wth us.”

  Smart girl. Already three steps ahead.

  It's time to go to the institute where everything started.

  And this time, we won’t just revisit the past.

  We’ll rewrite it.