The city blurred past them in a streak of sodium light and rain, the siren's cry cleaving the night like a wound that refused to close. Gonda drives in ruthless precision, hands steady on the wheel, jaw set hard as granite. Robert cradled Lingaong Xuein against his chest, one arm braced beneath her shoulders, the other gripping her wrist as though sheer will might teether her to consciousness.
She was frighteningly still.
Her head lolled faintly with each turn of the car, dark brown hair of her clinging to her temples, her breathing shallow but present—-mercifully present. The rise and fall of her chest was slight, almost imprecitable yet to Robert it was the only thing anchoring him to sanity.
"Stay with me, " he muttered under his breath, not loudly enough for Gonda to hear, his voice hoarse and fractured. Blood streaked Robert's brow, drying in dark rivulets down his cheek, but he neither noticed nor cared. His entire world had narrowed to the woman in his arms.
When the car screeched to a halt at the hospital entrance, the doors were already flying open. Floodlights bathed the pavement in sterile white as medics surged forward with a gurney.
"Unconscious female, severe blunt-force trauma," Gonda barked, already out of the vehicle. "Possible neural shock. Male secondary injuries."
The doors slammed shut behind them as they burst into the emergency wing. The air changed instantly—sharp antiseptic, ozone-clean and merciless. Overhead lights hummed with clinical indifference.
"Wait—wait!" Robert protested as the medics reached for her.
His hands tightened reflexively, knuckles whitening, as if the act of letting go might unmake her entirely. For a moment, panic eclipsed reason, his breath coming fast, uneven.
Gonda stepped in without hesitation, placing a firm hand on Robert's shoulder. His grip was solid, grounding. "Robert," he said quietly, but with an authority that cut through the chaos. "They've got her. This is where you let them work."
Robert's jaw clenched. His eyes burned—not with tears, but with a volatile mixture of fury and dread. Fury at himself. At the mission. At the unseen architects who had engineered this nightmare. Dread at the sight of her being wheeled away, pale beneath the merciless lights, her body slack where it should have been defiant.
The gurney vanished through the emergency doors.
For a heartbeat, Robert stood frozen, shoulders rigid, fists clenched at his sides, as though the very air might provoke him into violence. Then his legs gave a fraction, and he leaned heavily against the wall, breath shuddering out of him.
"She saved me," he said at last, voice low, brittle. "She shouldn't have had to."
Gonda remained beside him, arms folded, expression grave yet not without warmth. "She's tougher than she looks," he replied, measured but sincere. "And tougher than most who look tough. She'll pull through."
Robert let out a humourless exhale, dragging a hand down his bloodied face. "If she doesn't—" He stopped himself, teeth grinding together. The thought was intolerable, a chasm he refused to step into.
Gonda's gaze softened, just slightly. "Hope is not weakness," he said. "It's endurance. Hold on to it."
A nurse finally approached Robert, gesturing toward a treatment bay. Only then did he allow himself to be guided away, casting one last look at the doors that had swallowed Lingaong Xuein whole.
As he disappeared down the corridor, his posture was still upright, still soldier-straight—but something within him had shifted. Beneath the stoicism lay a raw, unguarded fear, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
And in the sterile hush of the hospital, hope and dread sat side by side, waiting—breathing together—until fate chose which one would speak first.
Time dragged in the waiting room with a cruelty all its own.
Robert sat hunched on the hard plastic chair, elbows braced on his knees, fingers laced together so tightly his knuckles had blanched. Fresh stitches traced an ugly line across his forehead, and his right arm was bound in a rough sling, hastily done—as though his own injuries were an afterthought he had grudgingly permitted. He had barely allowed the medics to finish before pulling away, his attention fixed entirely on the closed doors marked OPERATING THEATRE.
They had not opened once.
His eyes were rimmed with exhaustion and something far worse—an unrelenting dread that gnawed at him from the inside. The hospital lights cast a pallid sheen over his face, exaggerating the tension in his jaw, the faint tremor in his hands.
What am I going to do?
The question repeated in his mind like a broken metronome, offering no answer, only accusation.
A nurse approached briskly, clipboard tucked against her chest. She stopped short when she saw him.
"Mr Robert," she said, professional but firm, "your sutures are incomplete. You need to return to the treatment bay immediately."
Robert lifted one hand slowly, palm outward in a gentle but unmistakable refusal. "Please," he said quietly, his voice roughened by strain. "That's enough for me. Thank you."
The nurse frowned, irritation flickering across her features as she took in his state—blood dried too close to the wound, bandages not properly secured. "If you need anything," she said, clipped now, "anything at all—ask." With that, she turned on her heel and left.
Robert did not look after her.
Gonda lowered himself into the chair beside him, the plastic creaking under his weight. He studied Robert sidelong, eyes sharp but not unkind. "You're worrying yourself raw over her," he said quietly.
Robert let out a fractured laugh that held no humour whatsoever. "What am I supposed to do, Gonda?" His voice cracked despite his effort to contain it. "She's between life and death, and I'm sitting here doing nothing. Nothing."
He dragged a hand down his face, fingers shaking now. "Because of me, she got hurt. She was ambushed, and I wasn't fast enough. I couldn't save her. She took blunt-force trauma because I failed."
His breathing quickened, words spilling out as though once the dam had broken, there was no stopping the flood. "How am I supposed to face Xuemin? What do I tell her brother? That I let this happen? That I stood there while his sister was broken in the dark? He'll blame me—and he'll be right to."
Gonda arched an eyebrow faintly. "What's this, then?" he asked, attempting levity. "You afraid of people now? Or just Lingaong Xuein's little brother?"
"No!" Robert snapped, then faltered. His voice dropped, hollowed by terror. "It's not that. What if… what if something happens to her? What if she—" He swallowed hard, the word refusing to form. "What do I say then? Tell me, Gonda. Tell me! Tell me!"
His composure finally fractured.
Gonda turned fully towards him, placing both hands firmly on Robert's shoulders, forcing him to meet his gaze. "Robert," he said, slow and deliberate. "Look at me."
Robert's eyes were wild, glassy, swimming with a pain he no longer knew how to contain.
"I know how much you care for her," Gonda continued, voice low but unwavering. "I know. But right now, you need to stay standing—for her. She doesn't need your guilt. She needs your strength. She needs you."
For a moment, Robert resisted—then the fight drained out of him entirely. His shoulders sagged, and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead into Gonda's shoulder as the last of his restraint dissolved. His hands clutched at the back of Gonda's coat, not as a soldier, not as a captain—but as a man unmoored.
Gonda wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, holding him there, solid and unyielding. "It's alright," he murmured, one hand firm between Robert's shoulder blades. "She's strong. Stronger than either of us. She'll pull through. You'll see."
Robert nodded weakly against him, breath shuddering, clinging to those words as though they were the only thing keeping him from collapse.
Beyond the closed doors, machines hummed and surgeons worked with relentless precision. And in the waiting room, hope sat trembling beside despair—both held together by the fragile, stubborn belief that she would survive.
Meanwhile at the President's office sat at the apex of the SSCBF headquarters, a sanctum of polished stone and austere privilege. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling metropolis below, its veins of neon light pulsing like a living organism beneath the night. The air smelled faintly of aged wood, ink, and restrained power.
President Zhang Wei stood near his desk, his posture erect, hands clasped behind his back. Time had silvered his temples but sharpened his gaze; authority clung to him like a second skin. Across from him stood his son, Zhang Ji, arms folded, expression guarded yet faintly insolent, as though confidence were armour enough.
Zhang Wei turned slowly, his eyes fixing upon his son with a weight that could bend steel.
"Zhang Ji," he said at last, his voice low and deliberate, "I have been informed that you assigned Captain Robert Voreyevsky to a mission at Gonjianoya Asylum."
Zhang Ji shrugged lightly, feigning nonchalance. "Yes. I authorised it."
Zhang Wei's brow tightened, a subtle fracture in his composure. "You realise that is a suicide mission, don't you?"
"Yeah—yeah, it is," Zhang Ji replied with a careless tilt of his head. "That was precisely the point. He and Lingaong Xuein are Wen-Li's dogs. It was time to clean up loose ends—"
"—Or is there something else you are doing, my son?" Zhang Wei cut in sharply.
The room seemed constricted.
Zhang Wei stepped closer, his shadow stretching across the polished floor like an omen. "I have just received intelligence from the High Chaebols. Sir Gavriel himself delivered it." He paused, allowing the silence to sharpen. "Chairman Fahad and Chairman Andreas have been eliminated."
Zhang Ji's composure shattered.
"What?" he blurted, eyes widening, colour draining from his face.
"Yes," Zhang Wei replied grimly. "It appears that Wen-Li has begun her reckoning."
Zhang Ji clenched his fists. "How does she even know we were behind the chaos?"
"Di-Xian," Zhang Wei answered without hesitation. "The head of Shin-Zhang Corporation."
Zhang Ji scoffed, disbelief curdling into irritation. "Lady Di-Xian? On what earth would she know about—"
"She is always one step ahead," Zhang Wei interrupted, his voice hardening. "She moves as though she were a Chaebol herself. Worse—she operates beyond the reach of law, beyond consequence. And yes," he added coldly, "she was responsible for the adjudicator's death."
Zhang Ji's jaw tightened. "Then why haven't the High Chaebols acted? She violates every rule."
Zhang Wei exhaled slowly, as though steadying an old wound. "Because she cloaks herself as a vigilante. She executes criminals the system failed to touch—using her hound."
Zhang Ji swallowed. "Agent-90…"
"Be wary of him," Zhang Wei said, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "He is the man who annihilated an entire outlaw gang in a bar—with nothing but a fucking pencil."
Zhang Ji stiffened, a flicker of unease crossing his features.
"We must act wisely," Zhang Wei continued, lifting a crystal glass from his desk. Ice clinked softly as he rolled it between his fingers, the sound unnervingly calm. "Or we will meet the same fate as Fahad and Andreas. I have no desire to be reduced to a footnote—nor skewered by that cursed fucking pencil."
"Yes, Father," Zhang Ji replied, bowing his head slightly, the bravado drained from his voice. "What of Nightingale and Lan Qian?"
"Leave them to the High Chaebols," Zhang Wei said, gazing into the amber liquid as though divining the future within its depths. "They know what is coming."
He looked up, eyes gleaming with grim foresight.
"A war."
Zhang Ji's breath caught. "A… war?"
"Yes," Zhang Wei affirmed. "Prepare yourself. A war is approaching—one that will not begin until the High Chaebols give the word against Di-Xian."
Outside the window, the city pulsed on, oblivious.
Inside, father and son stood amid the stillness, bound by blood, ambition, and the gathering storm—each shadow stretching longer than the last.
Flashback the city lay spread beneath Zhang Ji like a circuitry of light and ambition. From the height of the tower, the metropolis appeared docile—ordered, obedient—its towers breathing neon, its streets pulsing like veins beneath glass and steel. Zhang Ji stood alone before the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture immaculate yet rigid, as though he were holding himself together by discipline alone.
His reflection stared back at him: sharp eyes, unsmiling mouth, a man already rehearsing the future he intended to impose.
Slowly, deliberately, he reached into his coat and drew out his phone.
The screen glowed coldly against the darkness.
He dialled.
The line clicked once—twice—then connected.
A voice answered from the other side, low and distorted, as though dragged through heat and metal. It carried no greeting, no curiosity—only expectation.
Zhang Ji spoke without a preamble.
"I have dispatched Captain Robert Voreyevsky and Captain Lingaong Xuein to Gonjianoya Asylum."
He turned slightly, resting one hand against the glass, fingertips splayed as if claiming the city itself.
"They are to be destroyed," he continued, voice even, almost bored. "Ensure that no remains are recovered. No witnesses. No ambiguity."
There was a pause on the line—a measured silence, heavy with calculation.
"And my compensation?" the voice finally asked.
Zhang Ji's lips curved into a thin, joyless smile.
"Five million ₴Z," he replied. "Deposited directly into your account upon confirmation."
On the other end, though unseen, the receiver inclined his head—an animated gesture rendered in shadow and static. Agreement, sealed not with honour, but with currency.
Zhang Ji's expression hardened.
"One more thing," he added, his tone sharpening like a blade being drawn. "Do not underestimate them. They are seasoned. Resourceful."
He lowered his voice, each syllable weighted with warning rather than fear.
"Be aware, Ash-Sark."
The name lingered in the air like a curse.
The call ended.
Zhang Ji remained still, phone lowered at his side, eyes fixed upon the city below. The lights shimmered, indifferent to the treachery just set in motion. His reflection no longer troubled him; it had already aligned with his intent.
Behind the glass, thunder rolled faintly in the distance— as if the world itself had registered the betrayal and was quietly preparing its reply.
"Back to the present, the hospital corridor hummed with a sterile, unrelenting patience—white light, hushed footsteps, the soft percussion of machines breathing for those who could not. Robert sat rigidly beside Gonda, hands clasped, knuckles blanched, his gaze fixed on nothing and everything at once. Time did not pass here; it merely lingered.
Then a voice cut through the stillness.
Warm. Commanding. Unmistakable.
Robert turned.
"Chief—!"
Wen-Li was already moving, her stride urgent, coat flaring behind her like a banner caught in a sudden wind. Concern sharpened her features; her composure was intact, but only just.
"Robert, are you alright?" Her eyes searched his face, quick and precise. "And Lingaong Xuein—how is she?"
"I'm fine," Robert replied, the words automatic, almost perfunctory. "She's still in surgery. They're… fighting for her."
Wen-Li exhaled, a breath she seemed to have been holding since she crossed the threshold. "Gonda informed me." She glanced at him; he nodded once, solemn. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "For all of this."
"Chief, don't," Robert said at once, lifting a hand as if to physically deflect the blame. "You did nothing wrong."
Before she could answer, a figure in a white coat appeared at the far end of the corridor.
"Doctor—!" Robert surged to his feet, questions tumbling out in a frantic cascade. Gonda rose too and, with gentle firmness, tapped Robert's forehead with two fingers—an unspoken steady yourself.
The doctor smiled thinly, the sort of smile honed by years of delivering both mercy and truth.
"She is safe," he said.
The words landed like rain after drought.
Robert's shoulders sagged; Wen-Li's eyes closed for the briefest instant.
"She suffered significant blunt-force trauma," the doctor continued, measured and precise. "There was neural shock, extensive strain to the abdominal musculature, and minor injury to the liver. Recovery will not be swift—but she is out of danger."
"Can we see her?" Robert asked, voice hoarse.
"Once she is transferred to her room," the doctor replied. "We have stabilised her condition using a combination of conventional treatment and herbal medicine. Warm nourishment, supplements, rest—these will aid her body's natural repair."
"Thank you," Robert said, bowing his head slightly. "Truly."
When the doctor departed, Wen-Li turned back to them. "Tell me," she said quietly. "What happened?"
Robert recounted it in brief, clipped sentences—the assignment, the asylum, the ambush. When he spoke Ash-Sark's name, Wen-Li's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
"So," she said at last, eyes narrowing in disbelief, "you're telling me that Lingaong Xuein defeated Ash-Sark… while unconscious?"
Before Robert could answer, another voice entered the space—flat, even, and entirely unhurried.
"It was an adrenaline–reflex response."
They turned as one.
Agent-90 stood a few paces behind them, posture immaculate, hands folded behind his back, spectacles catching the corridor light.
"When the body perceives existential threat," he continued, "the sympathetic nervous system can override conscious inhibition. Reflex arcs remain active. Motor response becomes automatic. In Captain Xuein's case, her conditioning allowed her body to continue combat execution despite the absence of consciousness."
Wen-Li stared at him for a heartbeat.
"Agent-90," she said, half reproach, half relief. "You."
"Yes, Chief." He inclined his head. "I regret what occurred, Captain."
"It's alright," Robert replied, managing a faint, exhausted smile. "Thank God she survived."
For a moment, none of them spoke.
They simply stood together beneath the hospital lights— war-worn, shaken, yet bound by the quiet, fragile grace of survival.
Later that night, the ward had softened into quietude. The machines no longer sounded urgent—only rhythmic, patient, like a lullaby stitched from electricity and breath. Pale light washed the room in silver, and rain whispered faintly against the windowpane.
Robert entered first.
He paused at the threshold, as though afraid the moment might fracture if he moved too quickly. Lingaong Xuein lay still beneath crisp white sheets, her dark lashes resting against skin made pale by exhaustion, her chest rising and falling in a slow, reassuring cadence.
He stepped closer.
"Xuein…" His voice was low, almost reverent.
At the sound of her name, her brow twitched. A heartbeat later, her eyelids fluttered, then parted—slowly, like dawn easing its way into a long night. Her gaze drifted, unfocused at first, before settling on him.
"…Robert?" she murmured, her voice faint but unmistakably hers.
Relief struck him so suddenly that he had to brace one hand against the bed rail. He leaned in, his expression softening, the stern lines of his face unravelling as though they had never belonged there at all.
"I'm here," he said gently. "You're safe."
Her lips curved, just barely—a fragile, brave little smile. "You look terrible," she whispered.
He let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a confession. "I could say the same. But I won't."
Slowly, carefully, as though she were made of spun glass, he reached for her hand. She tightened her fingers around his, weak but certain, anchoring him to the present.
For a moment, neither spoke. Words felt unnecessary—too crude for the intimacy of survival.
Then, almost instinctively, Robert leaned closer.
His kiss was light, chaste, and trembling with restraint—a promise rather than a claim. His lips brushed hers as though asking permission from fate itself. Lingaong Xuein stilled in surprise for a fraction of a second, then relaxed, her breath catching softly as she returned the kiss with what little strength she had.
When they parted, her forehead rested lightly against his.
"…You're an idiot," she whispered, affection lacing every syllable.
"I know," he replied quietly. "But I'm your idiot."
Her lashes fluttered again, and her expression shifted—softness giving way to a flicker of concern. "Robert… Xuemin. My brother." She swallowed. "Does he know?"
Robert straightened slightly, his thumb brushing slow, reassuring arcs over her knuckles. "No. The news hasn't reached him."
She closed her eyes, relief washing over her features like a tide easing back from shore. "Good," she said softly. "You did the right thing. I don't want him worrying. He has his own life… his own battles."
Robert frowned gently. "What are you saying, Xuein?"
She turned her face towards him again, eyes warm, steady despite the pain. "Nothing," she said, with the faintest smile. "Just… thank you. For staying."
Before he could answer, the door opened quietly.
Wen-Li stepped inside.
She stopped just short of the bed, taking in the scene—the clasped hands, the closeness, the fragile but undeniable bond between them. A smile touched her lips, unguarded and genuine.
"Well," she said lightly, arms folding as she leaned against the doorframe, "it seems I arrived after the storm."
Lingaong Xuein turned her head, eyes widening slightly. "Chief?" Her voice was still weak, but the respect—and affection—were unmistakable. "You're here…"
Wen-Li walked closer, her presence calm and grounding. "Of course I am," she replied. "You don't get rid of me that easily."
Xuein smiled then—truly smiled—her expression bright despite the bruises and bandages. Robert glanced between them, his posture easing, the weight on his chest finally lifting.
For the first time since Gonjianoya, the room felt warm.
Not from machines. Not from medicine.
But from the quiet certainty that some bonds—once tested by fire—only emerge stronger, like steel tempered in flame.