I’m mesmerized the moment I step into Lyra’s house. The entryway alone is larger than my entire apartment—vaulted ceilings, a chandelier scattering light like shattered diamonds across polished marble. It’s not just wealth. It’s power, distilled into architecture.

  My footsteps echo as I move through the living room. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Fragrance Hills like a painting. The furniture is pristine, symmetrical, untouched. This isn’t a home—it's a fortress of privilege where Lyra dwells in isolation. Perfectly suited to her nature, yet unsettling in its emptiness.

  I run my fingers along the countertop. I don’t belong here. But tonight, I’m not myself.

  The auburn wig is tight against my scalp. Lyra's red dress clings to my frame—elegant yet provocative. My own 34D breasts barely fill the daring neckline even with the help of push-up bras. Yet, tight at the waist like a second skin.

  My makeup application was painstaking—matching her Caucasian skin tone with precise contouring, dramatic eye shadow, and those signature crimson lips that demand attention in any room.

  No one can truly replicate Lyra's regality—that commanding presence, that magnetic pull she exerts over men. But I only need to convince a distant observer through a rifle scope and tree canopy—just enough grace and power to sell the deception.

  The moment I stepped out of the Rolls-Royce Phantom with Magenta at the wheel, invisible alarms must have triggered. Messages sent. Targets acquired.

  It’s 6:15 p.m. now. The sun is slipping behind the hills. In the city, darkness comes by 7:30. Here, it arrives earlier—maybe 6:45. If they move fast, they’ll strike before 7:00—civil twilight offering just enough visibility for them while providing sufficient shadow for concealment.

  I uncork a bottle of Chateau Margaux, pour the premier Bordeaux into crystal, and settle by the window with the case file. I present just a quarter profile—enough to confirm my resemblance to Lyra. Not enough to spot the difference.

  The beauty bush that sheltered the first shooter two days ago would be optimal, but they won't make that mistake twice. The Fragrance Hills slope offers countless vantage points. Last time they deployed two shooters. Logic suggests they'll do the same, from different positions.

  Nervousness grips me. My life hangs in the balance if Lyra has overestimated her ability to capture them. Yet her track record has earned my trust—she's pulled off the impossible before.

  The file in my lap has thickened. Linjun's team certainly knows how to extract confessions. I'm grateful I wasn't present when they took the guards to the 601 Office dungeon. Haojin later mentioned one of them confessed just from seeing the torture instruments.

  Feng Liu, Director of Political Security Protection, personally called when two men in army uniforms carrying long cases approached the gate. His instructions were explicit: let them through without inspection.

  Such orders weren't unprecedented. People seeking favors or evading prosecution passed through these gates daily, bearing exotic bribes in various packages. The guards learned not to look too closely—you never know who the gifts were meant for. No one anticipated an assassination attempt against a Ministry of Public Security director within the Ministry's own residential compound.

  The two men later fled through the same gate unchallenged—they'd been authorized entry by the overseeing director. Despite commotion at the shooting scene, the distance from the gate prevented any alert. Silencer-equipped rifles ensured the guards heard nothing.

  Linjun wasn’t surprised. He and Feng Liu are rivals—both vying for the Vice Minister seat.

  Yet we hit a wall. We can't simply interrogate a Ministry director, even with evidence. Our best recourse is presenting findings to the Minister later. In this realm, political calculations outweigh justice.

  Still, one question gnaws at me: how did they track Lyra?

  Linjun assumed he was the target, which aligned with his understanding of events. I know better.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Lyra had to identify herself at the gate and state whom she was visiting. This information entered their computer system. But unless someone knew to check, that data would sit buried.

  Lyra insists she wasn't followed, and her Korean-made phone was clean and turned off, yet the shooters arrived barely thirty minutes after she entered Linjun's apartment.

  If Magenta is reliable, then only one explanation remains: the Department of Transportation's camera network, which provides real-time traffic monitoring and can track specific vehicles.

  The Ruby Republic possesses cutting-edge surveillance technology for government control, yet maintains abysmal records locating missing persons and trafficked children.

  They wouldn’t hack the system. Too risky. But if someone can command Feng Liu, they can certainly access DOT’s surveillance. That means someone inside Transportation is part of this conspiracy.

  That’s where we dig next.

  As I scan the case file for overlooked details, darkness descends. I switch on the reading lights and pour another glass of wine.

  Doubt creeps in as minutes tick by. In the shooters' shoes, I'd approach cautiously—this scenario reeks of a trap.

  Yet thorough reconnaissance would reveal no trap signatures—no perimeter security, no police presence, no surveillance equipment. Someone with connections could verify no tactical teams have been mobilized. Lyra says all she needs is for them to be curious. To come close.

  I can't fathom how Lyra plans to capture them. Despite her extensive network and formidable power, her strategy eludes me. She remains an enigma, wrapped in secrets I've learned not to question.

  … …

  Headlights flash across the curtains, sharp beams cutting through the dim interior. Tires crunch on pavement—deliberate, unhurried.

  I spring from the lounger and stride to the door, pulse quickening. Outside, the Phantom glides to a stop, headlights dimming to predatory slits.

  Magenta emerges from the driver's side, her movements fluid and economical. I meet her at the threshold.

  "Come here." She opens the rear door with a surgeon's precision, gesturing me closer.

  Inside, Lyra sits between two men in camouflage uniforms, holding them upright like broken marionettes. Their heads hang at unnatural angles, eyes closed, bodies limp—a tableau of conquest.

  In the trunk, a third man—eyes wide with terror, mouth gagged, limbs bound with zip ties. He makes a strangled sound when he sees me, like a drowning man spotting a distant shore.

  “Who's this guy?” I ask.

  "The spotter." Magenta's voice is a low rumble of distant thunder. "Lyra found him first. Everything fell like dominoes after that."

  I can picture it—Lyra's ruthless efficiency, the man's inevitable surrender, the trap closing around unsuspecting snipers.

  "He will be a problem," I say, mind racing through implications. Linjun won't touch the soldiers, but this civilian would break in the 601 Office dungeons, revealing Lyra as the true target. I need Linjun's full commitment, not his hesitation.

  Magenta's smile turns glacial. "No worries. He'll disappear."

  The man thrashes against his restraints, guttural sounds escaping around his gag. His eyes scream what his mouth cannot.

  With swift precision, Magenta grips his hair, exposing the vulnerable nape of his neck. One fluid movement of her hand, and he goes still—instantly, completely. She carries his limp form into the garage like discarded baggage.

  Lyra steps out of the car, regal even in victory. She hands me two military ID cards bearing Unit Number 8341.

  She exchanges a knowing glance with me—Unit 8341, the elite force that protects the Ruby Republic's highest officials.

  “Give these to Linjun,” she says, her voice a caress. “Tell him to keep them hidden."

  Our eyes lock. "Thank you," I say, the words weighted with genuine emotion. "For everything.” Without her, I’d still be buried in traffic duty—invisible and irrelevant.

  "Darling, you deserve it." Her smile—I realize now it doesn't just captivate men. It ensnares everyone in its orbit.

  “I'll be away.” She adds. “If you need anything, ask Magenta.”

  And Magenta emerges, efficient as ever. She returns with a medical kit. Syringes. Vials. Moving with clinical grace, she doses each unconscious man with practiced ease.

  We transfer the men into an unmarked SUV in the garage. The spotter is nowhere—vanished as completely as if he never existed.

  “Call your team,” Magenta says. “Meet us at the old Shougang Steel Plant.” She hands me a bag. My uniform.

  I make the call. Then follow Lyra inside.

  The bathroom becomes an arena. Tension coils in the air as layers fall away. Makeup dissolves under my fingertips. Lyra’s tactical blacks lie folded beside her porcelain skin. Our nakedness fills the space with electric promise.

  She approaches, and oxygen becomes scarce in my lungs. Her body—sculpted perfection—radiates heat that crawls across my skin. Years of mentorship crystallize into this moment of raw vulnerability.

  She leans in, her breath grazing my ear. “Linjun will be impressed. But don’t fall for his charm. It’s not his. It’s power’s. And in this country, power and corruption are lovers in the same bed.”

  Her embrace is brief but searing—soft curves pressing into mine, lips brushing my cheek with deliberate restraint. Then she's gone, moving through her domain unclothed, confident as an empress.

  I stand transfixed, desire pooling low in my belly. I want to stay. I want to please her, just as I have pleased numerous men. Only this time, it's for my pleasure too.

  But duty calls. My team awaits.

  I don my uniform with methodical precision, sweep my hair into place, and face the mirror. The woman staring back wears triumph like perfume—subtle, intoxicating, impossible to ignore.