"How?" Ms. Murong sneered, her voice low and bitter. "Apart from undressing me? You think I'll ever be the same after this?"
Tang Ziyi didn't flinch. "Hey," she said lightly, tapping her fingers against the table. "Only I know the information. And I'm not the type to gossip."
She leaned forward, elbows resting on the edge of the table, her gaze sharp yet sincere. "I want you to join us."
Ms. Murong blinked, caught off guard. "Me?" she echoed with a half-laugh of disbelief. "A mercenary? You're soliciting me?"
That flicker of stunned reaction—pride, confusion, defensiveness—was exactly what Tang Ziyi wanted to see. It confirmed her suspicion: this woman wasn't just capable; she had pride in her craft, in her independence. And her ego had just been wounded deep enough to spark introspection.
Tang Ziyi's lips curved into a grin. "That disbelief tells me you've never considered the possibility," she said. "Which is why you're perfect."
