*Nihari, a rich and flavorful stew, originated in the Indian subcontinent during the Mughal era, long before the partition of India and Pakistan. While its exact origins are debated, it is widely believed to have been created in the kitchens of Mughal emperors in Delhi.
The name "nihari" is derived from the Arabic word "nahar", meaning "morning," as it was traditionally served as a hearty breakfast after the Fajr prayer.
Post-partition, nihari gained immense popularity in Pakistan, especially in Karachi, where migrants from Delhi brought their culinary traditions. Over time, it has become a beloved dish in Pakistani cuisine, often considered a national favorite, with regional variations adding to its appeal.
On 22th May, 2042 in the dark room with light flickering Agent-90 modeling a design he is so focus on his work the time becomes 3:45 am as he takes less sleep and even gets bloodshot eyes. But he cannot focus on his work something flickering in his head about her, the Chief and her family
Abruptly, he hears a knock on the door from the otherside side, Farhan calling him "Hey, mate are you awake?" Agent-90 look at the time it is 3:48 am. In confuse he open the door in front of him standing Farhan, Masud they both look energetic but Roy was yawning from sleep then they reach to Jun's room and tries to wake him up but no respond so Masud got a better idea to wake him up so he take a gumbel of water and drop it onto him. Jun becomes panic mood when he woke up and ask in rage "What the heck man?!"
Farhan laugh and says "Get fresh and ready we will have a breakfast outside"
Jun says in annoyed "Dude, now is 3:50 am of the morning"
Masud says, with light tone "Get fresh and ready we have no time"
Jun "Okay! Okay! I'm getting ready" and went to the washroom. After few minutes they all been ready and walk out at the early morning without telling anyone.
At 4:00 AM, the sprawling metropolis of Lahoraka, (a unique blend of Pakistani and Bangladeshi traditions) awakens with a haunting serenity. The city, divided into sleek high-tech zones and dilapidated ghettos, mirrors its dystopian reality—a city of stark contrasts where the future clashes with the past.
The skyline glows faintly with the eerie light of neon holograms advertising everything from cybernetic enhancements to luxury real estate. The Veil River, which cuts through the city, reflects the lights of towering megastructures on one side and the ramshackle houses of the working class on the other.
The air is thick with contrasting sounds: the faint hum of automated drones patrolling the streets, mixed with the rhythmic recitation of Fajr Azan, echoing from both traditional and digital minarets. The soulful call to prayer blends with the faint chimes of mechanised rickshaws ferrying workers to early shifts.
As the agents walk they feels the aroma of parathas frying in street-side cyber-kitchens merges with the scent of spices wafting from automated stalls selling hilsa curry. In the lower districts, the pungent smell of industrial runoff reminds the inhabitants of the pollution brought by relentless technological expansion.
Jun cannot hold he want to eat as mouthwatering start to drop, "Man, hold on" says Masud as the comes towards Old Lahoraka, it is the Old City, filled with crumbling Mughal-era buildings and vibrant marketplaces, comes alive with vendors setting up their stalls. The bazaars buzz as merchants prepare to sell fusion crafts like embroidered AI-infused garments and spice-printed 3D food packs.
The city of Old Lahoraka awakened not with alarm clocks but with the tantalizing aroma of simmering spices that wafted through its labyrinthine alleys was evident in every cobblestone, every vibrant tapestry fluttering from shop windows, and most importantly, in the irresistible culinary magnetism of its famous Nihari stalls.
It was 4:00 a.m., but the streets were alive, teeming with a motley crowd of locals who congregated for their beloved breakfast ritual. Lanterns and string lights illuminated the scene, casting warm, flickering hues on the polished silver pots where Nihari, the rich stew of slow-cooked beef shank and marrow, bubbled away like liquid gold. The air was thick with a symphony of chatter, clinking utensils, and the occasional melodic hawking of chai vendors.
As the five agents—Roy, Masud, Farhan, Jun, and Agent-90—strolled through the bustling alleyway, their professional stoicism faltered. All eyes turned toward the towering cauldron at the heart of the chaos, where the Ustaad Chef, clad in a stained kurta and wielding an oversized ladle with theatrical flair, served steaming portions of Nihari onto brass plates.
The dish itself was a marvel. Tender chunks of beef swam in a velvety gravy infused with an orchestra of spices—cumin, coriander, and cloves—all crowned with a glistening layer of fat. Freshly baked naan, fluffy yet crisp around the edges, served as the perfect companion, ready to scoop up every luscious bite.
Farhan, always the first to crack a joke, stopped abruptly and sniffed the air like a bloodhound. He turned to the group, his expression one of mock seriousness. "Boys, I know we've got a mission, but do you feel that? That's not just Nihari—it's destiny calling."
Roy raised an eyebrow. "Destiny? Smells more like cholesterol calling to me."
Jun, meanwhile, was transfixed, his gaze locked onto a plate being served to a rotund man who tore into his naan with gusto. "I could demolish that right now," he muttered, his usual composure cracking as his stomach let out an audible growl.
Masud, ever the sensible one, tried to redirect their focus. "We're on duty! We can't just—" He stopped mid-sentence as the chef dramatically ladled a fresh portion, the sight of the tender meat falling apart in the thick gravy momentarily short-circuiting his resolve.
Farhan turned to Agent-90, who stood stoic as ever, his blue eyes scanning the scene. "What about you, 90? Hungry?" Farhan teased.
Agent-90, unflappable, replied in his usual deadpan, "Food is fuel. But... efficient fuel is preferable."
"Efficient fuel?" Jun scoffed. "That's Nihari right there! It's efficiency in edible form."
The group stood there for a beat, staring longingly at the plates being handed out. Farhan, grinning mischievously, leaned in and whispered conspiratorially, "Admit it. You're all salivating."
Roy, trying to save face, mumbled, "It's not salivating. It's... tactical appreciation."
Masud finally threw up his hands. "Fine. We'll grab some to-go. But if anyone asks, this is part of the mission."
As they approached the stall, the chef greeted them with a booming voice, "Ah, newcomers! Welcome to Lahoraka's finest Nihari! One bite, and you'll forget your troubles!"
Agent-90, despite himself, eyed the dish as it was served to Masud. Farhan noticed and leaned closer to whisper, "Even you can't resist destiny."
Agent-90, for once, allowed the faintest of smirks to escape. "Perhaps... efficiency has its indulgences."
Squeezed into a dim corner of the bustling alley, the five agents crouched on the floor with brass plates of Nihari and naan balanced precariously on their laps. The aroma of the rich stew wafted up to them as they dug in, the sheer delight of the meal momentarily eclipsing the discomfort of their seating arrangement.
Jun, wiping a bead of gravy from his chin, declared, "This Nihari... it's magic! Honestly, it's refreshing my mood, like... proper therapy in a bowl!"
Masud nodded in agreement and turned to Roy, who was carefully scooping up the gravy with a piece of naan. "Roy, what's the verdict? First time having Nihari, eh?"
Roy paused, savouring the bite before answering, "It's fantastic! Honestly, it's my first time eating cow meat."
Farhan, mid-bite, froze. His eyes narrowed, his fork hovering in midair. "Wait a minute. What do you mean, first time eating cow meat?"
Roy shifted uncomfortably, sensing the collective curiosity of his companions. "I'll explain after breakfast," he said, attempting to wave it off.
But Jun wasn't having it. "No, no, you've opened Pandora's Box, mate. Spill it now!"
Masud leaned in conspiratorially. "Yeah, Roy, we're all ears. Don't leave us hanging."
Roy sighed, his six senses tingling with regret. "Fine," he began reluctantly. "In my hometown, we weren't allowed to eat cow meat. It was forbidden. Seriously frowned upon."
Farhan raised an eyebrow. "Forbidden? What do you mean? Like, 'You'll get a slap on the wrist' forbidden, or..."
Roy shook his head grimly. "No, like, punishable, forbidden. Eating cow meat was seen as a heinous crime. But here's the kicker," he continued, glancing around dramatically, "instead of eating cow, some people—not me—believed drinking cow urine and using... uh... cow dung was the way to go."
The group froze, naan suspended mid-air, their appetites visibly wilting. Masud's mouth fell open. "Wait... what?"
Jun's face contorted in horror. "That's... that's pure nonsense! How did you even survive that madness?"
Farhan placed his plate on the ground, his expression a mix of disbelief and queasiness. "You're telling me people willingly... drank that?"
Roy nodded solemnly. "Yeah. They claimed it protected them from micro-bacteria or some rubbish like that."
Jun slapped his forehead. "Micro-bacteria? That's not science, that's a medieval fever dream!"
Masud, who had been holding onto his plate with both hands, suddenly placed it down and looked at Roy as though he were an alien. "Mate, how on earth did you stay sane?"
Roy gave a dry chuckle. "It wasn't easy. I survived by sticking to goat and lamb when I could. And trust me, I tried to avoid those... rituals. But extremism was everywhere."
The group sat in stunned silence for a moment, staring at Roy as if he had sprouted a second head. Finally, Jun broke the tension with a groan. "Great. Now I've lost my appetite."
Masud glanced at his plate, then at Roy, and pushed it an inch away. "Same. Thanks for the imagery, Roy."
Farhan, shaking his head, muttered, "Man, I just wanted a peaceful breakfast. Not a crash course in... whatever that was."
Agent-90, who had been silent throughout, calmly took another bite of Nihari and spoke in his usual monotone, "Food is fuel. If you're weak enough to let stories affect your digestion, you're unfit for missions."
Jun rolled his eyes. "Leave it to 90 to ruin the moment further."
Despite their newfound queasiness, they all burst into laughter, the absurdity of the situation overpowering their disgust. And so, in the heart of Old Lahoraka, with their appetites half intact and their spirits oddly lifted, they resumed their meal, albeit with a wary glance at Roy every now and then.
As the Lahoraka people gathered eagerly around Chef Ustad's famous nihari stall, the aroma of slow-cooked spices and tender meat wafted through the narrow alleyway. The crowd jostled for their share of the delectable stew, served piping hot with naan. Amid this culinary frenzy, Jun, carrying his plate of nihari like it was a crown jewel, collided with a portly man who wasn't looking where he was going. The bowl slipped from Jun's hands and splattered dramatically onto the cobblestone street.
"Oi! Watch where you're lumbering, you absolute clod!" Jun bellowed, his face contorted with mock outrage. Without waiting for a reply, he swiped Farhan's plate and lobbed the steaming contents at the man. The target ducked with surprising alacrity, and the nihari splattered onto a bystander's pristine white shalwar kameez.
Pandemonium erupted. Within seconds, the alleyway became a battleground of flying bowls, naan frisbees, and errant spoons. Masud, ever the voice of reason, raised his hands in a futile attempt to restore order. "Gentlemen, this is a market of decorum! Cease this puerile tomfoolery immediately!"
Chef Ustad, towering over the chaos like an irate deity of cuisine, bellowed, "You lot have turned my sanctum of gastronomy into a wretched shambles! If you don't clean this mess, I'll have the constabulary after you!"
Meanwhile, Agent-90 stood aloof, untouched by the melee. He approached Chef Ustad with the air of a connoisseur, adjusting his glasses. "Excuse me, sir. Might I inquire as to the precise methodology behind this culinary marvel?"
Chef Ustad, still red-faced with indignation, softened under the genuine curiosity in 90's tone. "Ah, finally, someone with proper sensibilities. Come, I shall elucidate the art of nihari preparation. It begins with the finest cuts of beef shank, slow-cooked for hours with a secret mélange of spices..."
As the chef expounded, the other customers—those not embroiled in the food fracas—watched the agents with a mixture of amusement and disdain. "Look at them," one elderly man chuckled, "the young gentlemen can't handle a bowl of stew!"
By the time the chaos subsided, the agents stood sheepishly with mops and rags, cleaning up the carnage of their impromptu food fight. Agent-90, still engrossed in his culinary lesson, remained the only one whose dignity was intact. As the laughter of the unaffected customers echoed through the alleyway, Farhan muttered under his breath, "Next time, I'm keeping my food out of Jun's reach."
As they all mops the floor they can see the beautiful rising of the sun from the dawn."
The clock struck six.
Golden rays of dawn slipped through the embroidered silk curtains, casting a soft, amber hue across the quiet expanse of Chief Wen-Li's bedroom. The early light danced along polished wood, gilded edges, and cool marble, coaxing the shadows into retreat.
Stirring from slumber, Wen-Li slowly rose, a delicate sigh escaping her lips. Her silken black hair, tousled and unruly, tumbled across her face. She brushed it back with a languid hand, blinking against the light. The morning was peaceful, yet she awoke with the dull weight of an unsettled mind—like a whisper she couldn't quite silence.
From her perch on the windowsill, Wen-Mi, her snow-white cat, let out a theatrical yawn, tail curling as she stretched and gave a soft, inquisitive meow.
Wen-Li turned to her with a tired smile. "Good morning, Wen-Mi," she murmured, her voice velvet-soft and faintly hoarse from sleep.
Padding barefoot across the marble floor, she winced slightly at the cold that kissed her skin. Inside the washroom, she splashed her face with crisp water, droplets tracing the line of her jaw and falling to the basin below. As she raised her head, her reflection blinked back at her—calm, composed, but with eyes that bore the remnants of restlessness.
She leaned in slightly, still dripping, water clinging to her lashes.
And then she remembered.
Madam Di-Xian.
The way she'd handed her that card—deliberate, personal. No titles. Just Wen-Li. A gesture that transcended protocol, unsettling in its familiarity.
Wen-Li's brow creased.
Why me? Why now?
The card still sat on her dresser. Unassuming. Powerful.
Wen-Mi leapt delicately onto the sink's edge, brushing against her arm with warm, plush fur, purring with regal insistence.
Wen-Li smiled faintly, gently scratching under the feline's chin. "You're too clever, Wen-Mi," she whispered. "You always know when I'm spiraling."
She lingered there for a moment, the cat's presence grounding her.
After a modest breakfast—her appetite more ritual than desire—Wen-Li stood before her wardrobe, fingers gliding across pristine uniforms and tailored suits. She settled on a navy ensemble, sleek and commanding, with subtle gold accents that hinted at authority without ostentation.
As she dressed, her eyes caught on the faint scar etched across her lower abdomen. A jagged line. A token left by the Munafiq, Lee Jong Suk—a name she could never forget.
Her fingers hovered over the scar. A memory flashed: blood, silence, pain... survival.
She inhaled sharply, squared her shoulders, and exhaled the phantom with steadied grace.
Fully composed, she knelt beside Wen-Mi, who sat like a fluffy sentry at the doorway.
"Guard the realm while I'm gone, won't you, my little lion?" she said gently, stroking her fur. "I'll be late."
Wen-Mi gave her a blink of solemnity, her tail swishing once in what could only be described as dignified acknowledgement.
With a final sweep of her gaze across the flat, Wen-Li stepped out into the early morning chill. She approached her motorbike, brushed off a few fallen leaves, and slid the key into the ignition.
Nothing.
She tried again.
Still nothing. The engine spluttered, coughed once, then fell silent.
A sigh escaped her lips—not one of frustration, but of weary resignation.
"Of course," she muttered under her breath. "You pick today to betray me."
Tucking her helmet back under her arm, she pivoted on her heel and strode toward the main road.
The subway it would be—a humbler chariot for a woman with heavier burdens.
The Veilmoor subway hummed with the subdued energy of the early morning commute. Passengers, clad in a medley of business suits, workwear, and street fashion, were immersed in their routines—some leafing through dog-eared paperbacks, others scrolling mindlessly through datafeeds, while a few nodded off, heads bobbing gently with the rhythmic sway of the train.
The air was thick with a blend of coffee steam, synthetic perfume, and the sharp tang of steel tracks—a scent as much a part of the city as the skyline itself.
Chief Wen-Li stood among them, one hand gripping a loop handle with the ease of someone long adapted to urban turbulence. Her eyes scanned the carriage with quiet acuity, cataloguing passengers without suspicion, yet without missing a beat. She was always reading people—demeanour, posture, breath rate.
The train slowed.
An automated voice announced the next stop in a dispassionate tone.
As the doors hissed open, a new wave of passengers boarded. Among them: a young woman in a crop top and shorts, despite the early chill, her long jacket fluttering behind her. She moved with calculated confidence, a touch too alert for a commuter. Wen-Li's gaze lingered momentarily—her instincts stirred.
Moments later, the train rumbled forward again.
Then—chaos.
A sudden explosion erupted several carriages down. The carriage lights stuttered violently, plunging the interior into a grotesque strobe of light and shadow. Screams rang out. Some passengers dropped to the floor, others froze in wide-eyed terror.
Wen-Li stumbled from the impact—only to bump into someone tall, unyielding.
She turned.
Agent-90.
"Agent-90? You—?" she gasped, cheeks flushing pink in the erratic light.
"Chief," he replied coolly, adjusting his black-rimmed spectacles. He carried a weathered satchel, slung over his shoulder like a soldier's sidearm.
Wen-Li exhaled sharply. "Uhh... right. 90, I need you to look after the passengers in this carriage. Keep them calm."
He nodded once, already assessing the scene. "And you?"
"I'm handling the cause," she replied over her shoulder, not turning back.
She slid open the door to the adjacent carriage. There, waiting amidst smoke and trembling light, stood the young woman from earlier—Jane Hamilton—her grin slicing through the chaos like a blade.
At Wen-Li's feet, a grenade rolled across the floor.
Without hesitation, she triggered her Crimson Shackle, the energy field enveloping her in an instant. The explosion rocked the carriage, but the blast broke harmlessly against the glowing shield.
Smoke curled through the air as Jane raised a sleek MS2 rifle. "Well, well," she sneered, voice like poisoned honey. "The illustrious Chief, in the flesh."
"You're part of the Sinners, aren't you? Jane Hamilton," Wen-Li said, voice unwavering.
Jane tilted her head mockingly. "Correct. Pity, though—you always show up just when things get fun."
From the corners of the carriage, armed operatives emerged, rifles raised. Wen-Li's eyes darted between them, calculating trajectories.
Then—she struck.
Like a blade unsheathed, she flowed through them: disarming one, spinning him into another, and dropping them both with precise, anatomical efficiency. Elbows, knees, nerve points—surgical violence.
Jane backed away, face tight with frustration. "Enough of this."
She drew a combat knife, lunging with wild intent. Wen-Li pivoted, caught her wrist, and wrenched it. The knife clattered to the floor.
"You're outmatched," Wen-Li said, calm as still water.
Jane laughed, breathless, manic. "Outmatched? Chief, it's far too late. Everyone on this train is going to die. There's a bomb on board—and it's counting down as we speak."
A single bead of sweat slid down Wen-Li's temple.
"Damn it... if she's not bluffing..." her mind raced. "Where is it? Where would she hide it?"
Suddenly, her comm vibrated on her wrist.
Agent-90.
"Secure Jane Hamilton. I'll find the bomb," he said. Before Wen-Li could respond, the line cut.
Jane, seeing the flicker in Wen-Li's expression, gave a venomous grin.
"Ohhh... is that what this is?" she purred. "You've got a soft spot for the emotionless monster?"
Wen-Li blinked. "What are you on about?"
Jane chuckled darkly. "What do I mean? Agent-90. The coldest killer in the Bureau. No emotion. No fear. Calculated to the bone. They call him—the Velvet Guillotine."
Wen-Li's breath hitched ever so slightly.
"The Sinners, the outlaws… we whisper his name like a curse," Jane continued. "Because he doesn't blink. He doesn't pause. He doesn't feel. And yet—" her eyes narrowed, "you look at him like he's something else."
Wen-Li's jaw tightened. Her voice came low and sharp.
"He's not something else. He's the answer to people like you."
The screech of rails beneath them groaned like the growl of something ancient. Emergency lights pulsed faintly overhead, tinting the carriage in a cold red glow. Sparks hissed intermittently from a shattered panel above the door.
Agent-90 moved swiftly, but with eerie calm—his footfalls silent, his blue eyes sweeping the compartment with predatory precision.
Passengers huddled in corners, trembling, murmuring prayers or muffled sobs. He didn't flinch.
He was filtering data—sightlines, structural weaknesses, air pressure changes, heat signatures.
"One device. Likely on a timed or proximity-based trigger. Magnetic lock. Concealed in plain sight."
He knelt beside a fuse box, removing the panel with one gloved hand. Nothing.
Moved to the overhead vents. Nothing.
His eyes flicked upward—then to the luggage rack.
A faint beep.
His hand darted up.
A black box. About the size of a lunch container. Embedded in the ceiling's steel ribbing, cleverly camouflaged with dust and grime. Wires curled out like vines, pulsing with quiet menace.
Timer: 02:26.
He tapped his comm unit.
"Chief," he said coolly, "I've located the bomb. Two minutes, twenty-six seconds. Securing now."
Wen-Li tightened her grip on Jane's wrist, slamming her against the carriage wall. Jane winced but still smirked, blood trailing from her lip.
"You've lost," Wen-Li hissed. "The train's sealed. The device is compromised. You're alone."
"Am I?" Jane wheezed, her voice cracking under pressure. "Heh… You're always so sure of yourself, Chief. That's what makes you predictable."
Wen-Li drew her sidearm, pressing it lightly against Jane's collarbone. "Where's the backup? How many more on board?"
Jane leaned closer, eyes blazing with manic thrill. "You think this is about me? You think this is just a bombing? You haven't figured it out yet, have you?"
Wen-Li narrowed her eyes. "Talk."
Jane's grin widened, teeth bared like a wolf. "I've already done more damage than you'll know before it's too late. Even if you stop this train—you won't stop what's next."
Wen-Li pressed harder. "You sound awfully bold for someone disarmed and bleeding."
Jane's expression shifted. Her mask cracked—just for a second. Panic. Then defiance returned. "You're wasting time. Tick-tock, Chief. Tick—bloody—to—"
Crack.
Wen-Li pistol-whipped her, sending her crumpling to the ground.
Her comm buzzed.
"90 here. Disarming process started. Secondary trigger detected. I'll handle it."
"Understood," Wen-Li replied, eyes still locked on Jane. "Stay sharp."
Agent-90's hands moved with mechanical grace. No hesitation. He sliced the access panel, revealing a mess of wires and micro-sensors. A small screen flashed with proximity warnings and encryption symbols.
Timer: 01:32.
"Redundant failsafe," he murmured. "Remote sync possible."
He removed a neural pin from his satchel and connected it to his spectacles.
A flicker—an augmented interface appeared before his eyes, mapping the device's circuitry in real-time. His pupils constricted. His breathing never changed.
He reached for the core wire—vibrating faintly.
Timer: 00:52.
He paused.
Listened.
He heard the faintest whirring noise—a biometric sensor concealed inside the battery cell. Pressure-based.
"If I cut the wrong line... chain detonation."
He recalibrated.
Timer: 00:38.
A breath.
Then—snip.
Silence.
The ticking stopped.
Agent-90 stood up slowly, removing his gloves with almost ceremonial calm.
He tapped the comm.
"Bomb neutralised."
Jane slumped against the wall, breathing heavily, her eyes flickering in disbelief.
Wen-Li holstered her weapon. "You're done. The train's secure."
Jane spat blood. "You can stop a bomb… but not an idea."
Wen-Li crouched beside her, cold steel in her gaze. "Then let's see how well your ideas hold up in solitary confinement."
Just then, the train jolted as it began to slow—emergency override activated.
In the distance, the sound of security units moving along the carriages echoed forward.
Wen-Li stood, hair dishevelled, blood along her sleeve—not hers.
Agent-90 reappeared, calm as ever.
"You handled her," he said, glancing at Jane.
Wen-Li exhaled. "You found the device."
He nodded. "Efficiently."
For a moment, their eyes met.
Unspoken understanding. A battlefield rapport only warriors shared.
Jane groaned. "The two of you... make me sick."
Wen-Li leaned in with a smirk. "We're not here to impress you. We're here to bury your kind."
As they reach the SSCBF base headquarter. Jane Hamilton, bloodied and restrained, was hauled off by one agent and Chief of SSCBF, muttering incoherently under her breath as she was escorted inside by the officers
Chief Wen-Li remained behind for a moment, standing beside Agent-90, the rising sun casting a soft golden wash across the building's austere façade.
She turned slightly, stealing a sidelong glance at him. Her cheeks warmed faintly—subtle, but unmistakable.
"Agent-90…" she said, clearing her throat softly. "Would you… consider working with us? With me?"
There was a beat of silence.
"Nope," he replied flatly, his tone devoid of inflection, his eyes still fixed forward.
Wen-Li blinked. "Oh… I see."
Her voice was laced with hesitant curiosity as she pressed again, "But why not work for me?"
At that, Agent-90 turned his head, cool and deliberate. Then—without changing expression—he raised his hand and gave her a simple thumbs up.
"Okay," he said.
Wen-Li blinked in disbelief.
"…What?"
Inside her mind, a flicker of humour sparked through the tension.
"Oh my… That was an abrupt U-turn."
She let out a warm, bemused chuckle, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Agent-90… you're really something. I dare say, you're even funny."
He glanced at her, not quite smiling—but there was something softened in his eyes. The faintest, unspoken amusement.
Wen-Li stepped forward with renewed composure and gave a faint nod toward the entrance.
"Come on," she said with a smile. "Let's go."
And with that, the two walked side by side into the rising light—one a ghost of war, the other the voice of justice—heading toward whatever chaos lay ahead.