Wang
The plane hums low around us, a steady vibration that keeps me awake even though Dre and Ezra are already passed out two rows back. Dre's head lolls against the window; Ezra has a book open but his eyes are shut.
Zhan's next to me, knees pulled close, staring out the small oval window at nothing but darkness. He hasn't said much since we boarded.
I reach over and lace my fingers with his. He doesn't look at me, but I feel the tension ease out of his hand just a little.
After a long silence, he whispers, "How did you know?"
I blink. "Know what?"
He turns, finally meeting my eyes. His voice is softer now, but heavy. "What your mom said to me. You weren't even there, but when I told you, you just... said you knew. How?"
I study him for a moment. There's fear in his eyes, and something else, something like guilt. He thinks he's keeping secrets from me, when really, he's the one being dragged into mine.
"I grew up with my parents," I say finally, voice low so only he hears. "I know my mom better than anyone. She doesn't forgive, she doesn't bend, and she doesn't waste her time unless it's for power. So when you walked into that café with her, I knew exactly what she'd say before you ever opened your mouth."
Zhan swallows hard. "...She offered me money."
"I know."
"She told me to disappear. To let you go back to your daughter and your wife." His voice cracks on the last word, though he tries to hide it.
I squeeze his hand tighter. "And you didn't take it."
He stares at me like he's waiting for me to doubt him, to pull away.
Instead, I lean in, pressing my forehead against his. "I don't care what she offered. The fact that you're here, sitting on this plane with me, tells me everything I need to know."
His breath hitches, and I can feel the war in his chest, the fight between wanting to believe me and all the shadows he still carries.
"Zhan," I whisper, steady, certain. "I'm not her. And I don't need you to choose between me and freedom. We'll take both."
For a moment, he just stares at me, like he's trying to memorize my face in the dim cabin light. Then he nods, and his fingers curl around mine like he's never letting go.
The plane shudders slightly as it climbs higher, but his voice is steady when he finally says, "Then let's hunt."
The flight is long, and none of us sleep much. By the time the plane touches down, the horizon is bleeding orange and gray. A new city. A new battlefield.
Dre stretches the second we're off the plane. "God, I hate sitting still. Let's find these bastards already."
Ezra rolls his eyes, scanning exits and faces like he's playing a chess game only he can see. Always calculating.
Zhan sticks close to me, his bag slung over one shoulder, his face pale but set. He hasn't let go of the folded sheet once. We both know what's inside, and I can see the weight of it dragging at him.
I already booked a ride. Within ten minutes, a spacey shuttle bus rolls up, big enough for four men and the kind of gear my first plan requires.
No one mentions the list, or the hunt, or my mother. Instead, we chatter about nothing. Laugh about nothing. For a few minutes, we almost sound normal.
"This is beautiful," Dre says, leaning back against the wide seat as the bus glides through narrow streets.
"Wait till you see St. Tropez at night," I tell him.
Zhan smiles at that, really smiles, and it warms something inside me I didn't know was frozen.
The house I rented sits high above the coast, glass walls catching the light, sleek and modern but comfortable. The kind of place that doesn't ask questions about cash payments or extra deliveries.
The moment we step inside, the guys freeze.
"Holy hell," Dre mutters. "This place looks like a movie set."
Zhan breathes out a soft laugh, his eyes wide. That sound alone makes the money worth it.
But then Ezra's sharp gaze lands on the stacks of boxes piled neatly in the corner. "And those?"
I drop my bag and grin. "That's where the fun starts."
We tear into the packages, the living room filling with shredded cardboard and the gleam of new equipment.
Dre holds up a sleek black rifle case. "Damn. Santa came early."
Ezra lifts a piece of gear, brow arched. "Binoculars?"
"Not just any binoculars," I say, setting up the tripods with steady hands. "Celestron SkyMaster 25x70. And the 20x80. Best glass you'll get without classified clearance."
Ezra whistles low, impressed despite himself.
I flip open my laptop next, cables snaking out as I plug in receivers. The system pings, green lights across the board.
A live feed fills the screen, grainy at first, then sharp. The building across the street, every room lit up for me like a dollhouse. Audio too, muffled at first, then crisp.
"Welcome to the neighborhood," I say.
Zhan hovers close as I hand him one of the binoculars and guide his aim. His breath hitches when he locks onto the face inside.
"Oh, I want to strangle her," he hisses, venom sharp in his voice.
"You and me both," I say with a laugh. "But relax. We'll get there."
After hours of unboxing, calibrating, and running test feeds, the adrenaline fades. The house feels strangely calm now, like the storm is waiting just outside the glass walls.
We take turns showering, steam rolling down the hallways. By the time I step out, the others are already sprawled across the living room in fresh clothes.
"Food's coming," Ezra says without looking up from his laptop. He's cross-referencing maps with the building feed, his concentration unshakable.
"Good," Dre mutters from the couch, flipping through TV channels like he's searching for something worth watching. "Feels like I burned ten thousand calories just unpacking your damn toys."
"Quit whining," I tell him, tossing a cushion at his head. He ducks, grinning.
The food arrives, boxes of steaming noodles, roasted chicken, warm bread. We eat scattered around the table, talking about nothing again. Jokes. Stories. For a few minutes, it doesn't feel like a war is waiting for us.
Zhan eats quietly, sitting close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. He doesn't say much, but I catch the way his eyes drift to the screens every so often. Watching. Waiting.
Later, when the plates are empty and the laughter fades, fatigue sets in.
The house is quiet except for the hum of the city outside and the soft breathing of the two asleep on the couch. Zhan's hand is warm on my lap, his head heavy against me, and Dre is curled around Ezra like he's afraid of letting go. For a moment, it almost feels safe.
When Zhan shifts, I ease his head onto a pillow. Ezra carefully pries Dre's arms from around his neck.
"No," Dre murmurs, half-asleep.
"I want to pee," Ezra whispers back. Dre grunts and finally lets go, flopping onto the couch.
I watch Ezra disappear into the hall. When he comes back out, I'm waiting. One tilt of my head, and he understands. No words needed. He follows.
We step onto the balcony, the sea stretching dark and endless below, the city lights glittering like broken glass across the horizon. I already have the binoculars set up, lenses trained on the house across the street.
But that isn't all.
From my pocket, I pull a burner phone. Slide it into Ezra's hand. The number's already typed in.
Ziyi's number.
"Call her," I say, my lips curling into something between a smile and a threat.
Ezra's eyes widen, then narrow, a wicked grin spreading slowly across his face. He chuckles, low, dark, the kind of sound that means someone is about to regret their choices.
He presses the phone to his ear. "Let's see if the witch picks up."
The line clicks once. Twice. Then a soft voice answers, muffled by distance but unmistakable.
Ezra leans forward, binoculars raised, locking on the figure moving through the lit room across the street. "Got her," he whispers.
I cross my arms, watching the glass, watching her, every movement sharp, controlled.
The sound of her voice on the burner line drifts through the quiet, too faint for Zhan or Dre to hear inside.
Ezra's grin only grows.
Showtime.
"Who's this?" Ziyi's voice is sharp, suspicious.
Ezra leans against the balcony rail, binoculars trained on her through the lit window. His grin is pure poison.
"Your new man," he purrs. "Your cousin gave me your number."
"My cousin gave you my number?" Ziyi repeats, suspicion laced in her voice.
"Mm-hmm." Ezra's tone is casual, teasing, but there's steel beneath it. "Said you were lonely. Said you had... expensive taste."
I watch his smile curl into something dark.
"I don't know who you think you're—" she starts, her voice rising.
Ezra cuts her off smoothly, his words sharp as a blade. "Dinner, Ziyi. You, me, one bottle of wine, no questions asked. Or..." He lets the silence hang for a moment, just long enough to draw her in. "...I can just show up at your house and say hello."
That gets her. Even from here, I can hear the shift in her breathing, fear fighting with pride.
"Who the hell are you?" she snaps.
Ezra laughs low. "Let's just say I'm the man who knows what you did to keep your hands clean. But dirt has a way of sticking, baby. Dinner. Tomorrow night. Seven sharp. Wear red, I will text you the address."
He hangs up before she can reply, the phone screen going dark in his hand.
I lean back, satisfaction humming through me. "Not bad."
Ezra tosses the burner into his pocket and grins. "She's already tearing her hair out, I promise you. Tomorrow, she'll show. Too proud not to. Too scared not to."
I take the binoculars and focus on the window across the street. Sure enough, Ziyi is pacing, phone clutched in her hand, fury written across her face.
"She thinks she's still untouchable," I murmur. "Good. That's when they're easiest to break."
Ezra chuckles. "You want me to soften her up, or do you want the honors?"
I don't answer immediately, my eyes still locked on her silhouette. Finally, I lower the binoculars and let a cold smile tug at my lips.
"Oh, I'll take the honors. You just bring the wine."
We go back inside like nothing happened. Ezra and I pick up the game again, controllers in hand, bantering quietly while Dre snores like he owns the couch.
Half an hour later, Zhan stirs. He sits up slowly, rubbing his eyes, hair falling across his forehead. "I'm hungry," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.
I glance over my shoulder. "We can go out and eat."
He shakes his head and leans against me, almost purring. "Or we can just order. I don't feel like walking."
That smile of his, sleepy, soft, unguarded, undoes me in a way bullets never could. I grab my phone. "Alright. Delivery it is."
For four, I order heavy. Steaming bowls of bouillabaisse, fish and shellfish in saffron broth with toasted bread.
A platter of grilled lamb chops, charred edges brushed with rosemary and garlic butter.
Truffle fries, golden and crisp, buried under parmesan. Fresh baguettes with salted butter. And for dessert, a box of tarte tropézienne—cream-filled brioche dusted with sugar, the pride of this coast.
Ezra whistles when he hears me list it off. "You're spoiling us."
"Shut up and eat when it comes," I mutter, but there's a faint smile tugging at my lips.
Zhan yawns, stretches, then fishes out his phone. He hesitates only a second before standing. "I'll... be back in a bit," he says softly.
"Where are you going?" I ask, though I already see the answer in his eyes.
He lifts the phone, screen glowing with an old contact. His voice drops. "Calling my grandma."
Something in my chest softens. I nod once. "Go."
He slips into the hall, voice fading as the call connects, leaving me with Ezra grinning at me like he knows too much, and Dre still snoring, dead to the world.
An hour later, the doorbell rings. Our food. The smell hits before I even set the bags on the table, rosemary, garlic, butter, and sugar all tangled together.
To my surprise, Dre is already standing there, hair a mess, rubbing his hands like a kid at Christmas.
"I thought you were sleeping," I say, eyebrow raised.
"He woke up thirty minutes ago," Ezra replies dryly, not even looking up from the plates he's already setting out.
"Oh," I chuckle, shaking my head. "Figures."
Then my smile softens as I see Zhan walking toward us from the hallway, phone tucked away, his expression calmer than before. His eyes meet mine, and for a second the rest of the room disappears.
"Perfect timing," I say, pulling out a chair for him.
He sits beside me, his hand brushing mine under the table. Just that small touch makes something in my chest unclench.
"Smells amazing," he murmurs.
"It is," Dre says, already piling truffle fries on his plate. "If you don't hurry, you'll starve."
Ezra swats him lightly with a fork. "Manners."
Laughter stirs around the table as the food makes its rounds, steaming bouillabaisse, lamb chops dripping in garlic butter, fresh bread broken and shared, sweet cream-filled brioche passed hand to hand.
For the first time in what feels like years, it's not about survival. Not about running or fighting or watching shadows. Just four of us, eating, breathing, alive.
And when Zhan leans close and whispers, "Feels like family," I don't correct him.
Because it does.
Plates are empty, scraps pushed aside, glasses half-full. The house is quiet except for the sea outside, waves breaking steadily against the coast.
Dre leans back with a groan, patting his stomach. "Best meal I've had in years. I could die happy right now."
"Don't," Ezra says flatly, stacking plates before Dre can even offer to help.
Zhan chuckles softly, head tilted against my shoulder. That sound alone makes the whole night worth it. For a few minutes, I let myself believe we can stay like this, four people at a table, laughing, alive.
But reality creeps back in, as it always does.
Ezra sets the last plate aside and sits down again, his eyes sharp. "So... what now? We keep playing house, or are we actually moving on them?"
Dre perks up immediately. "I vote for moving. Been too long since I stretched my fists."
Zhan shifts beside me, quieter now, his fingers brushing over mine under the table. He doesn't say anything, but I can feel the question hanging in him too.
I sit up straighter, meeting each of their eyes in turn. "We watch tonight. That's it. No rushing in, no reckless moves. We observe, confirm, and plan. They won't vanish overnight. If we do this wrong, we blow everything."
Ezra nods once, approving. Dre groans but doesn't argue.
Then Zhan finally speaks, voice low but steady. "If we're going to hunt them, let the game begin. But promise me... You will leave Meng to me."
His words hang heavy.
I take his hand openly this time, squeezing it tight. For a moment, none of us moves. Just four people staring at each other in the quiet after dinner, knowing that tomorrow, the blood begins.
"Ziyi is all yours," Ezra says, his tone casual but his eyes glittering sharply.
"Good," Zhan replies, a small, dangerous smile tugging at his lips. "Y'all can have the rest. Between..." He pauses, softer now. "Grandma says to say hi to y'all. And come visit her when we're done."
That pulls a grin out of Dre. "We will gladly."
For a heartbeat, the room feels lighter. Almost normal again.
Then Dre claps his hands once, suddenly and loudly. "Games?"
Ezra groans, but he's already reaching for the controllers.
Zhan laughs, low and warm, and tugs me toward the couch. We sprawl out together, Dre grabbing the best spot on the rug, Ezra muttering curses as the game boots up.
The glow of the TV fills the living room, shadows soft against the glass walls, and for a while, it's just noise, laughter, elbows knocking into ribs, Dre shouting when he loses, Ezra pretending not to care when he wins.
Zhan leans into me, his laughter spilling out free and unguarded. And though the hunt waits for us outside, for this one night, I let us have this.
Because tomorrow, everything changes.
Morning comes slowly, sunlight spilling through the wide glass windows and painting the room gold. For a moment, it's quiet, just the sound of the sea and the soft rhythm of breathing around me. Zhan is still curled against my chest, his hand resting lightly on my shirt, as if even in sleep he's afraid to let go.
I press a kiss to his hair before sliding out of bed. The others are already up. Dre's in the kitchen tearing into leftover brioche, Ezra at the table with the laptop, eyes locked on the screen.
"Got something?" I ask.
He doesn't look up, fingers still flying over the keyboard.
The apartment must reek of cigarette smoke and spilled liquor. Curtains drawn, air stale, the kind of place that hides people who don't want to be found.
Five of them crowd the living room. Meng Ziyi slouches on the couch, legs kicked up on the table, a glass of whiskey dangling carelessly from her hand. Wen Xu sits beside her, shirt wrinkled, laughing too loud at nothing.
Xue Yang is sprawled on the floor, flipping a knife between his fingers like it's a toy, his grin sharp and dangerous. Jin Zixuan keeps his distance, perched stiffly on the arm of the couch, sipping from a bottle like he wants to pretend he's not here.
And then there's Wen Chao, pouring himself another drink even though it's barely morning, his face red.
The table between them is littered with empty bottles, crumpled food cartons, and the faint glow of a half-dead lamp.
"We shouldn't all be here," Jin Zixuan mutters finally, his voice tight. "Too obvious. If they're looking—"
"You're always paranoid," Ziyi hisses at Jin Zixuan, slamming her glass down so hard the liquor splashes. "You should stop drinking if all it does is make you scared."
Jin stiffens, jaw tightening. "Scared? No. Careful. That's why I'm alive and Zhan isn't."
"They're not looking," Wen Chao cuts in, waving his hand. "We paid. We vanished. Nobody's coming."
Xue Yang laughs, cold and high. "Nobody? You sound so sure. That kind of talk gets people killed."
Meng Ziyi snorts, knocking back her glass. "Relax. If anyone was going to find us, they'd have done it by now."
Wen Chao waves her off, his voice slurred but dismissive. "She's right about one thing, Zixuan, you whine too much. We're safe here. Safer than we've ever been."
Xue Yang chuckles, rolling the blade across his knuckles. "Safe? With all of us under one roof? That's not safety, that's bait."
Silence stretches, heavy and ugly.
Ziyi pours herself another drink with shaking hands, trying to mask it with a sneer. "We'll be fine. We have to be."
But her eyes flick toward the door anyway.
The music on the speaker hums low, drowning in static, while the five of them drink and pretend the walls aren't closing in.
And across the street, through glass and lenses, four shadows are already watching.
Dre licks sugar from his thumb. "So when do we kick their door in?"
Not yet," I say, pouring myself coffee.
Behind me, I hear Zhan's footsteps, soft but certain. He looks tired but steady, eyes already on the laptop screen. "Show me," he says.
I pull a chair out for him. He sits, and together we watch the grainy feed.
"Tonight," I say finally, voice steady. "We go closer."
The room falls quiet. No one argues.
Because they all know, tonight, the hunt truly begins.