Tòumíng stood in Ghost Claw's office for a long moment, the weight of her request settling onto his shoulders like a lead blanket. Then his eyes went wide. His hand flew to his pocket, patted his thigh, checked his waistband.
"My car," he said, his voice climbing an octave. "I left my car at the boat rental. The Toyota. The beat-up Toyota that the Ice Queen gave me. It's still there. With the keys in it. And the blood. And—"
Ghost Claw sighed, a long, exhausted sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her soul. "You left evidence at a crime scene."
"I was a little distracted by the whole getting shot thirty times thing!"
"Fair point." She walked to her desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a keyring with half a dozen keys on it. "Take one of the bikes. The cheaper ones. Not the custom ones. You've already destroyed one of my vehicles this week."
Tòumíng grabbed the keys, his fingers already fumbling through them, looking for something that matched the motorcycles he'd seen in the garage. "Thanks! I'll be careful! Promise!"
"Don't crash. Don't get shot. Don't—"
Tòumíng was already out the door, his feet pounding down the hallway toward the stairs. He took the steps three at a time, nearly colliding with Sven who was mopping the landing, and burst into the garage.
The bikes were lined up in a neat row, gleaming under the fluorescent lights. He bypassed the expensive ones, the custom builds, the ones that looked like they belonged in racing movies. He grabbed a beaten-up Kawasaki that had clearly seen better days—scratches on the fairings, duct tape on the seat, mismatched mirrors. Perfect. Inconspicuous. Expendable.
He swung his leg over, inserted the key, and the engine rumbled to life with a cough and a sputter. It sounded terrible. It sounded perfect.
Ghost Claw appeared at the garage entrance, her gas mask tilted, one hand on her hip. "That bike has a tendency to—"
Tòumíng twisted the throttle and shot forward, the Kawasaki lurching out of the garage and onto the street, leaving Ghost Claw's warning unfinished in his wake. The wind whipped past his face, tearing at his hair, drying the tears he hadn't even realized were still on his cheeks. He leaned into a turn, the tires gripping the pavement, and disappeared into traffic.
The ride took forty minutes. Forty minutes of weaving through cars, dodging taxis, running yellow lights, and once accidentally driving on the sidewalk for about half a block when a delivery truck cut him off. The Kawasaki protested the whole way, its engine coughing and sputtering, its suspension bottoming out over potholes, but it kept moving. It kept him moving.
The skyscraper loomed ahead, dark glass and sharp angles, cutting into the night sky like a blade. Tòumíng pulled into the underground parking entrance and was immediately met by armed guards.
Not the butler from before. Different guards. Bigger guards. Guards with assault rifles and earpieces and the kind of dead-eyed stares that came from people who had killed before and would kill again without hesitation.
They raised their weapons, the barrels converging on Tòumíng's chest, his head, his heart. The red dots of laser sights danced across his torso.
"Halt!" one of them barked. "State your business!"
Tòumíng killed the engine and held up his hands, palms out, fingers spread. "I'm here for the Ice Queen."
The guards exchanged glances. The one who'd spoken—a bald man with a scar across his throat, sneered. "You and every other idiot with a death wish. Get on your knees. Hands behind your head. Now."
"No, seriously," Tòumíng said, not moving. "She knows me. I'm... I'm her sugar baby. Or whatever. She gave me a car. A Toyota. A really beat-up Toyota. She said I could pick anything and I picked the cheapest one because I'm practical like that."
The guards didn't lower their weapons. If anything, their aim got steadier.
"He's an assassin," one of them hissed. "A diversion. Nobody's stupid enough to walk into the Ice Queen's lair alone unless they're trying to draw our attention."
"Or he IS that stupid," another countered. "Look at him. He's covered in blood. He's riding a bike that's held together with duct tape. He's either the bravest man alive or the dumbest."
"Probably both."
The bald guard raised his hand, signaling silence. His eyes never left Tòumíng's face.
"If you're here to kill her, you've already failed. We'll put a bullet in your skull before you get within ten meters of her."
"I'm not here to kill anyone! I just need to talk to her! About... about crime stuff! And debts! And Jin Chan! And—"
The bald guard's finger tightened on the trigger.
And then the Ice Queen appeared.
She descended the grand staircase at the far end of the lobby, her heels clicking against the marble steps, her pale blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, her gown—a deep emerald green tonight—flowing behind her like water. She moved with the kind of effortless grace that made everyone in the room hold their breath.
"What," she said, her voice carrying across the lobby, cold and commanding, "is all this noise about?"
The guards immediately repositioned, forming a protective ring around her, their bodies blocking her from view. "Mistress, it's not safe. There's an intruder. Possibly armed. Possibly an assassin. Please return to—"
The Ice Queen's head tilted slightly, her pale blue eyes scanning over the guards' shoulders, searching. They found Tòumíng. He was still sitting on the bike, still covered in blood, still looking like he'd been dragged through several wars and a car wash in reverse.
Something flickered across her face. Recognition. Interest. Something warmer.
She kicked.
Both guards in front of her went flying—literally flying, their bodies lifted off the ground and hurled backward like they weighed nothing. They crashed into a decorative pillar, slumped to the floor, and didn't move.
The remaining guards froze, their weapons half-raised, their training warring with their survival instincts.
The Ice Queen walked through the gap she'd created, her heels clicking against the marble, her hips swaying with each step. She stopped directly in front of Tòumíng, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something floral and expensive and absolutely intoxicating.
She reached out, took his chin between her thumb and forefinger, and tilted his face up to meet hers. Her smile was slow, predatory, pleased.
"Well, well, well," she purred, her voice dropping to a register that made Tòumíng's spine tingle despite himself. "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your face again so soon?"
Tòumíng didn't register the flirtation. Didn't notice the way her eyes traced his jawline, the way her thumb brushed against his lower lip, the way her breathing had shifted slightly faster. He just grabbed her hand—wrapped his fingers around hers, firm and urgent—and tugged her toward the nearest door.
"We need to talk. Quickly."
The lobby went silent. The guards froze mid-breath. Some of them actually ducked behind pillars, covering their heads, waiting for the explosion.
He touched her hand. He grabbed her hand. He DARED to drag her.
The Ice Queen's expression went blank. Completely, terrifyingly blank. Her lips parted slightly, her eyes widening, her entire body going rigid.
"You..." she said slowly, each word measured and dangerous. "You touched... my hand... and attempted to drag me... off..."
The guards exchanged terrified glances. One of them mouthed "oh no" to another. A third made a quick prayer gesture, his lips moving silently.
And then the Ice Queen's anger melted.
Her cheeks flushed pink. Her eyes went soft, unfocused, dreamy. Her free hand came up to press against her chest, right over her heart, which was suddenly beating much faster.
Oh my god, she thought, her internal voice rising to a pitch that would have shattered glass if spoken aloud. Oh my god oh my god oh my god. He touched my hand. He GRABBED my hand. And he DRAGGED me. He actually dragged me. Like I was just some regular person and not the Ice Queen. Like I was just... just a woman he needed to talk to. Nobody does that. NOBODY. The last person who dragged me anywhere was Min-woo and that was 19 years ago and he's DEAD and now this boy this beautiful, stupid, bloody boy is doing it too.
She pressed her knuckles against her lips, trying to hide the smile that was threatening to split her face in half. What is WRONG with him?! Is he suicidal?! Is he just that clueless?! Does he not KNOW who I am?! Of course he knows who I am, he's standing in my building surrounded by my armed guards, he KNOWS. And he STILL grabbed my hand. He still pulled me. He still—
A small squeak escaped her throat. She swallowed it, but not before the guards heard. Not before Tòumíng heard.
*This is insane. This is completely insane. I should have him killed. I should have him tortured. I should feed him to Nergui's dogs. But I WON'T. Because he's INTERESTING. Because he's the first person in YEARS who hasn't treated me like something fragile, something dangerous, something to be feared. He's treating me like I'm just... just someone he needs to talk to. And I CAN'T. I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop—
The Ice Queen's blush deepened. Her breathing became slightly uneven. She bit her lower lip—hard—to keep from giggling out loud like a schoolgirl.
GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF, XUĚ BÀO! You are the Ice Queen! You do not giggle! You do not blush! You do not let some nineteen-year-old miner make you feel like—like—like a teenager with her first crush! This is RIDICULOUS! This is—
Her internal monologue was interrupted by a guard clearing his throat nervously.
"Mistress? Should we... should we shoot him? Or... or something?"
The Ice Queen's expression snapped back to cold composure. She straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and fixed the guard with a stare that could have frozen nitrogen.
"Stand down," she said, her voice steady despite the blush still staining her cheeks. "All of you. Give us privacy. Now."
The guards didn't hesitate. They scattered like leaves in a hurricane, disappearing into side corridors, up staircases, through doorways. Within seconds, the lobby was empty except for Tòumíng, the Ice Queen, and the two unconscious guards still slumped against the pillar.
Tòumíng kept walking, dragging her behind him, not waiting to see if she'd follow. He pulled her through a door, into what appeared to be a private sitting room—velvet couches, a low table, soft lighting, a bar in the corner stocked with expensive liquor.
He closed the door behind them.
"I need to ask you about—" Tòumíng started, turning around.
The Ice Queen's legs gave out.
She collapsed into an armchair, her body folding like a marionette with cut strings, her hands gripping the armrests, her chest heaving. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide, her lips slightly parted. She looked dazed. Shocked. Completely out of it.
"Just... just give me a moment," she said, her voice uncharacteristically small. "I need... I need to sit down."
She was already sitting. But Tòumíng didn't point that out. He just waited, watching her struggle to compose herself, watching the most dangerous woman in the criminal underworld fan herself with her hand like a Victorian maiden who'd just witnessed something scandalous.