Tòumíng exited Lucy's room and was immediately intercepted by Ghost Claw in the hallway.
"Hold on," she said, her gas mask tilting slightly. "Follow me. If you're going to do something this stupid, you at least need proper equipment."
"I have equipment," Tòumíng protested, gesturing vaguely at himself.
"You have borrowed clothes and a fanny pack. That's not equipment. Come on."
She led him down a different corridor, one he hadn't explored before, and stopped in front of a heavy industrial door with multiple locks. She punched in a code on a keypad, pressed her thumb to a biometric scanner, and the locks disengaged with a series of heavy CLUNK sounds.
The door swung open, revealing what had clearly once been a cafeteria—large, open space with high ceilings, industrial lighting, tile floors designed for heavy traffic.
But it had been completely transformed.
The room was now filled with vehicles. Motorcycles. Cars. SUVs. Even what looked like a heavily modified armored van. All of them in various states of customization, some with visible weapon mounts, others with reinforced plating, all clearly designed for operations that were decidedly NOT legal.
Tòumíng's jaw dropped. He stood in the doorway, his brain struggling to process the sheer VALUE of what he was looking at.
"How... how rich are you people?!"
Ghost Claw shrugged, walking into the garage with casual familiarity. "Rich enough."
That was the only answer she gave. Rich enough. Like that explained the presence of what had to be millions of yuan worth of vehicles and equipment casually stored in an abandoned office building.
Tòumíng couldn't even form words. He just ran forward like a kid in a candy store, his hands touching different vehicles, his eyes wide with wonder.
A sleek black sports car with tinted windows and what looked like bullet-resistant glass. A motorcycle that appeared to be a custom build, all matte black with no visible branding. An SUV with reinforced bumpers and a roof rack that could definitely mount weapons.
Then he saw it.
In the back corner, partially covered by a tarp.
"IS THAT A FUCKING FLYING DRONE VEHICLE?!"
His voice echoed through the garage, the excitement genuine and unrestrained.
Ghost Claw nodded. "Yeah. Think Tink The Tinkerer built that. It's—"
Before she could explain what it did or how it worked, Tòumíng had already moved on, sprinting toward a different section of the garage where the motorcycles were stored.
And there, under perfect lighting that seemed almost divine, sat the most beautiful motorcycle Tòumíng had ever seen.
It was a sport bike—aggressive stance, aerodynamic fairings, the kind of machine built for pure speed. The paint job was a deep metallic blue that shifted to purple depending on the angle of the light. Chrome accents. Racing exhaust. Digital dashboard. Everything about it screamed performance and power.
Tòumíng walked up to it slowly, reverently, like approaching something sacred. He reached out and touched the handlebar, his fingers tracing the grip.
Then he hugged it.
Actually wrapped his arms around the motorcycle and hugged it like it was a long-lost friend.
He looked back at Ghost Claw with sparkling eyes, the kind of pure, unfiltered joy that only came from someone who'd spent his entire life too broke to own nice things suddenly being surrounded by them.
"Can I have this?" His voice was small, hopeful, pleading.
Ghost Claw sighed—a long, exasperated sound that suggested she already knew she was going to regret this decision.
She reached into her tactical vest, pulled out a key fob, and tossed it to Tòumíng.
"You can have it for the DAY. Only today. When you get Xuān Láng and Háo Héng back, you bring this bike back. Undamaged. Understood?"
Tòumíng caught the key fob, his grin so wide it looked painful. "Yes! Absolutely! I promise! Thank you thank you thank—"
"SORRY CAN'T HEAR YOU BYEEEEEEEEEEE!"
He swung his leg over the motorcycle, inserted the key, and the engine roared to life with a deep, powerful growl that vibrated through his entire body.
Ghost Claw was still saying something—probably important safety instructions or operational guidelines—but Tòumíng was already twisting the throttle and shooting forward.
The garage had a massive rolling door at the far end—designed for vehicle access. It was already partially open, probably from earlier use.
Tòumíng aimed for the gap and accelerated.
"WOOOOO!"
The motorcycle burst out of the garage and onto the street. Tòumíng swerved immediately—his experience with motorcycles limited to watching them in movies and playing racing games—nearly losing control as he overcorrected.
The bike wobbled dangerously. His heart leaped into his throat. For a second he was absolutely certain he was about to crash spectacularly.
But somehow—through sheer luck or perhaps the bike's advanced stability systems—he managed to keep it upright. He straightened out, found his balance, and kept driving.
The city streets blurred past. Tòumíng navigated through traffic with increasing confidence, the motorcycle responding beautifully to every input, the power available with just a twist of the throttle absolutely intoxicating.
He entered the highway—merging into traffic with probably less caution than advisable—and opened the throttle wider.
The speedometer climbed. 60 mph. 70 mph. 80 mph.
Barely at the speed limit for highway travel, but feeling like he was flying. The wind rushed past, pulling at his borrowed clothes, the engine roaring beneath him, the road stretching ahead.
Tòumíng's brain was running calculations—not sophisticated ones, just basic geography and route planning based on his knowledge of the area.
If he took the G94 Zhusan Jiao Ring Expressway and cut through the Guanlan Residential District, then followed the river north, he could reach the abandoned Jinwei Metal Components factory relatively quickly. Maybe forty-five minutes if traffic cooperated.
Easy peasy.
He stayed on the highway for another twenty minutes, weaving through traffic with growing confidence, the motorcycle handling like a dream compared to his electric bike that topped out at maybe 30 mph on flat ground.
Then he saw his exit—the off-ramp that would take him to Guì Qīng Lù Road, a smaller arterial that ran along the edge of the residential district.
He took the exit, slowing down as required, and merged onto the smaller road. The traffic was lighter here, the surroundings shifting from urban density to more suburban sprawl.
He followed Guì Qīng Lù for several minutes until he reached the turnoff he'd been planning—a corner that would take him toward the marshlands and wetlands area near the river.
This was the shortcut. The route that would cut significant time off his trip by avoiding the main roads and going through less-developed terrain.
Tòumíng slowed down as he approached the corner, the paved road giving way to a softer, muddier surface. The marshlands here were partially developed—some areas had proper roads, others were just dirt paths that flooded during rain.
He took the right turn, entering the swampy area, the motorcycle's tires immediately finding less traction on the soft, muddy ground.
"Okay, just take it slow," he muttered to himself. "Nice and easy. Don't accelerate too—"
The rear tire lost traction.
Not completely. Just enough. Just a momentary slip as the soft mud shifted under the weight.
But that was enough.
The motorcycle wobbled. Tòumíng overcorrected. The handlebars jerked. His balance shifted wrong.
And then he was falling.
The bike went down on its side, sliding slightly in the mud. Tòumíng went with it, his body hitting the soft, wet ground with a SPLAT that was more embarrassing than painful.
He lay there for a moment, face-down in marsh mud, the motorcycle's engine still running beside him, the rear wheel spinning uselessly.
"Shit."
He pushed himself up, mud covering his face, his borrowed clothes now completely ruined, the pristine motorcycle now coated in brown sludge.
Ghost Claw was going to kill him.