Victor burst through the glass door of Ayesha's cabin, his breath heavy, his shirt damp with sweat. His usually calm face was tense, his voice urgent.
Victor (breathing fast): "Ayesha… we finally have it. The White Tiger… he's here. Tonight. London. At Fabric."
Fabric. The name itself carried weight—the largest, most notorious nightclub in London, where neon lights never slept, and the world's most powerful men made their darkest deals under flashing strobes.
Ayesha, seated behind her desk, leaned forward slowly. Her eyes narrowed, her hand tapping the table once—a gesture that meant danger had finally come knocking.
Ayesha: "Victor, are you certain? Not another decoy?"
Victor: "This time, I swear it. He's dealing with a private syndicate. My sources saw him enter London. Four months he's slipped through our hands, left us chasing ghosts. But tonight… he's in the flesh."
Ayesha rose from her chair, her black blazer falling perfectly on her shoulders. She grabbed her badge and holster in one swift motion.
Ayesha (with a calm but commanding tone): "Then we don't give him another chance. Ready the team. We move now."
Fabric throbbed with life. Red lights washed over the dance floor as bodies moved like waves, intoxicated by music and sin. A Spanish song echoed through the speakers—"Bailando… cuerpo y alma…"—its sultry rhythm wrapping the entire club in a strange, almost hypnotic romance.
CBI's agents blended into the crowd, their earpieces hidden, eyes scanning, bodies in motion. Every corner, every exit was slowly being claimed.
From the balcony above, Ayesha's gaze fixed on a familiar face—Zhao Ling, one of China's most powerful businessmen and, secretly, one of Asia's most feared dons. He lounged on a velvet sofa, cigar smoke curling around his face, a glass of vintage whiskey in his hand.
Ayesha tilted her head slightly toward Victor, her voice just above the music.
Ayesha: "What's Zhao Ling doing here? Since when does he waste time in nightclubs?"
Victor (grimly): "When the devil arrives, even kings bow to watch. He's waiting for someone."
And then the music shifted. The bass dropped lower. The lights flickered once, twice, and the air itself seemed to still.
The crowd's chatter hushed as a man walked in through the grand doors. His presence was enough to silence laughter, enough to drain the color from the faces of men who never feared death.
The White Tiger.
His mask gleamed under the strobe lights—white, but scarred with black streaks like claws tearing across a predator's skin. His eyes burned through the holes, sharp and merciless, glowing with a cold hunger. His stride was slow, calculated, each step echoing like a drumbeat of war.
He didn't look at the crowd. He didn't need to. The crowd looked at him.
A hush followed him as he ascended the stairs, boots clicking against steel, his coat brushing the rail with each step. At the top, he didn't hesitate. He sat beside Zhao Ling, as if he were sitting on a throne already his.
The two began speaking in Spanish, voices low, their words like poison mixed with honey. The world's largest syndicates whispered about the White Tiger, but few had ever seen him. Tonight, he was here—alive, untouchable.
From her vantage point, Ayesha's expression hardened. She touched her earpiece.
Ayesha (commanding, cold): "Seal every exit. No one leaves until I say."
Her team moved instantly—agents slipping into positions, blending with shadows, their eyes never leaving the predator now seated above them.
Ayesha herself moved closer, step by step, weaving through the crowd. Her heartbeat was steady, her mind sharp. Every instinct screamed danger, yet she walked forward, fearless.
But just as she reached striking distance, the White Tiger turned his head ever so slightly. His eyes locked on her.
His lips curved into a dark smile beneath the mask.
And in a voice that dripped with venom and knowledge, he spoke one sentence that froze her blood.
White Tiger (softly, almost whispering):
"Welcome… Ayesha."
Her heart stopped. The music drowned, the lights blurred.
How did he know her name?
White Tiger slowly rose from his seat, his eyes locked onto Ayesha's.
For a brief, dangerous second, their gazes tangled — as if some forgotten memory was hidden in the depth of those cold, piercing eyes. Ayesha froze, her heartbeat stumbling against her ribs. Why do these eyes feel so familiar?
But the CBI officer inside her pushed the thought away. She pulled her gun up, aiming it straight at his head.
Her voice was sharp, commanding, the tone of a woman who had stared death in the face before.
"Hands where I can see them! Now!"
The entire club seemed to fall silent under her command, only the faint Spanish song still playing in the background — almost mocking the tension that had seized the air.
White Tiger didn't flinch. He didn't tremble. Instead, he slowly raised one hand toward her… and began to speak, his voice chillingly calm.
"One… Two…"
Ayesha's brows furrowed. What is he doing? Her eyes darted to the corners of the club, instinctively scanning. Every nerve in her body screamed a warning. Something was about to happen.
"Three."
BOOM!
A violent explosion ripped through the club, shattering glass, spraying dust, and drowning out screams. Panic erupted as people ran in every direction. Lights flickered, smoke rolled in, and bullets began flying.
White Tiger moved like a shadow through the chaos. His men and the Chinese Don's men — Zhang Wei's soldiers — opened fire on the CBI team. Tables overturned, chandeliers swayed, gunfire echoed like thunder.
But Ayesha's focus never left him. She raised her gun, aimed, and—
BANG!
Her bullet struck his hand, and the bag he carried clattered to the floor. For the first time, White Tiger froze. His masked face tilted upward, staring directly at her, his chest rising with a deep, deliberate breath.
That moment stretched like eternity — the hunter and the hunted, both unwilling to look away.
Then
BANG!
A bullet whizzed past Ayesha, forcing her to dive behind a pillar. One of White Tiger's men had opened fire. She cursed under her breath, losing her chance. When she turned back, White Tiger had retrieved his bag and was heading toward the exit.
One young CBI officer — new, inexperienced, his hands shaking — stepped into White Tiger's path, gun aimed at his chest.
"D-Don't move!" the rookie stammered, sweat dripping down his temple.
White Tiger stopped. Slowly, almost mockingly, he turned to look at the boy. His masked eyes locked onto the rookie's trembling ones. Then, with terrifying calmness, he grabbed the boy's wrist, twisted it, and shoved the gun back into his own mouth.
Ayesha's eyes widened in horror.
"No—!"
BANG!
The rookie collapsed to the ground, lifeless. His body hit the floor with a sickening thud, blood pooling across the polished tiles.
For a split second, time stopped for Ayesha. Her chest tightened. Rage, grief, and helplessness stormed through her veins. But White Tiger didn't even glance at the fallen boy — instead, he looked directly at her, his masked face eerily unreadable.
Then he turned and strode out.
Ayesha followed, fury burning in her every step. Bursting through the ruined club doors, she saw him slip into a black car. She didn't hesitate — she fired.
BANG!
The bullet hit. White Tiger's head jerked sideways as his mask cracked and fell off, clattering onto the car seat.
The car door was still open when he turned his face toward her.
And in that instant… Ayesha's world shattered.
Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand trembled violently around the gun.
"No… This—this isn't possible…"
Her gun stayed aimed at him, but her finger refused to pull the trigger. Her mind screamed at her to shoot, but her heart… froze.
White Tiger's expression didn't change. No recognition, no softness. Just that same cold stare. He slammed the door shut and the car sped away, leaving Ayesha standing in the smoke-filled night, her entire body trembling.
The gun slipped from her grip as she whispered into the chaos,