The cold, stagnant air inside the warehouse did not stir as Madam Su slowly collapsed onto the concrete. Her clothes were ruined, smeared with grease and dirt, but she didn't care. Her eyes were fixed on the polished leather shoes that had stopped just inches from her face.
She slowly raised her head, looking up through the shifting gray fog at Yang Muchen. The light from the flashlights caught the sharp, aristocratic contours of his face, but his eyes were entirely dead—devoid of anger, devoid of humanity, a void of absolute zero.
"Young Master Yang, listen to me," Madam Su groveled, her voice a pathetic, ragged scrape that echoed off the ceilings. She reached out with trembling, filthy fingers, trying to grab the hem of his trousers, but two black-suited security operatives instantly stepped forward, pinning her arms to the floor with clinical, unyielding force.
