The sea wind was cruel, cold enough to bite through silk and skin. Bai Xueyi sat on the jagged rocks by the shore, watching flames devour what was left of Pier 17. The horizon glowed faintly red—the same shade that had once swallowed her world.
Behind her, footsteps crunched through gravel.
Mo Liuxian dropped his jacket over her shoulders without a word and sank down beside her. His knuckles were bleeding, his eyes hollow with exhaustion, yet his presence steadied the storm inside her more than the rain ever could.
"You should've let me handle it," he said finally.
"And what? Watch you die in my place again?" she replied, not looking at him.
"It wasn't supposed to go like that."
"Neither was my life," she said softly.
The silence that followed wasn't empty—it was heavy, full of things they couldn't yet say.
The police would arrive soon, the press would follow, and the wreckage of Pier 17 would be labeled accidental fire. Just like before.
History had a twisted sense of humor.
Xueyi pulled the jacket tighter. "Han Ze knew every move before we made it. Someone's feeding him information."
Liuxian nodded grimly. "Someone inside the house."
She turned to him. "Then we don't go home."
He blinked. "You want to vanish?"
"Temporarily. He can't hit what he can't see. We disappear, build from shadows, strike where he doesn't expect."
"You already planned this," he said.
"I had to," she said, eyes on the waves. "I never make the same mistake twice."
They left the coast before dawn, exchanging their ruined car for a small fishing truck from an old contact of hers. By sunrise, the city skyline had vanished behind them.
Liuxian drove in silence, the road stretching like a gray ribbon through the mist. After an hour, he asked quietly, "Where are we going?"
"A place that doesn't exist on your maps."
It was almost noon when they reached it—a hidden safehouse on the edge of the mountains, cloaked by wild bamboo and fog. The air smelled of rain-soaked earth and pine resin.
Inside, everything was simple: one wooden table, two chairs, a small fire stove, and a narrow bed tucked under the window. No luxury, no pretense—just the kind of quiet that could break a man used to control.
"I bought it years ago," she said. "Before I married you. I used to come here when I wanted to remember who I was."
He looked around slowly. "You planned for escape even back then."
"A woman who loves a man like you doesn't survive without an exit door."
Her words stung more than they should have. He set down his briefcase and ran a hand through his damp hair.
"I didn't know you had this side," he admitted.
"That's because you never wanted to see it."
For a moment, neither spoke. The world outside whispered with wind and the hum of unseen cicadas.
Then Xueyi broke the silence. "When I woke up after the fire, I promised myself one thing: I would never live for anyone else again. Not love. Not revenge. Just… truth."
He met her gaze, voice low. "And if the truth kills us both?"
She smiled faintly. "Then we die knowing we burned the right things."
Later, when night fell, she sat by the stove, combing her wet hair while Liuxian patched a cut on his arm. The dim lamplight painted both of them in shades of gold and smoke.
"You always used to hum when you worked," she said suddenly. "Now you don't."
"I lost the tune."
"Then maybe I'll remind you."
Her voice—soft, low, and haunting—filled the small room. It wasn't a song of joy, but of remembering: of the girl who had once believed in forever, and the man who had forgotten how to.
Liuxian's hands froze mid-motion. For a long time he simply listened, each note cutting through the armor he'd spent years building.
When the song ended, he whispered, "You shouldn't still sound like forgiveness."
She turned her face toward him, eyes gleaming. "Forgiveness is overrated. I just learned how to live with ghosts."
He laughed once—a sound half pain, half disbelief. "You and I make a strange kind of alliance."
"Not alliance," she corrected. "War pact."
"And if we survive it?"
"Then we decide what to become after," she said. "Maybe enemies again. Maybe something else."
At midnight, she woke to the sound of rain on the roof. Liuxian was still at the table, studying a set of files under candlelight. She padded over quietly, barefoot, and saw the photographs spread before him—surveillance images of Han Ze, Wen Qingmei, and something else.
A single picture of herself—younger, smiling, unaware of the trap she'd been living in.
He didn't notice her until she spoke. "You keep staring at her like she's a stranger."
"She is," he said softly. "That woman was everything good in my life, and I killed her without even knowing it."
She laid a hand on the table beside his, their fingers almost touching. "Then prove she didn't die for nothing."
He looked up. "I intend to."
Their eyes met across the flickering candlelight—two broken reflections finally finding focus.
Outside, thunder rumbled somewhere beyond the mountains, and she thought:
The storm isn't over. It's just learning my name again.