The man on the floor was hyperventilating. His eyes darted between the girl in the bathrobe and the man who was seconds away from breaking his neck.
The air was thick with the smell of stale fear. Xingcheng didn't look at the girl. His gaze remained fixed on the spy, cold and heavy as a burial slab.
"Get out," Xingcheng said. His voice was a sliding glacier.
The spy didn't wait. He scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over his own laces. He bolted for the door.
"If I see your face on this floor again," Xingcheng called out, his tone dropping an octave, "I won't be looking for a sock. I'll be looking for a shovel."
The heavy doors thudded shut.
Xingcheng turned, fury still etched into his jaw, but the office had turned into a playground. Joey had climbed into his five-thousand-dollar executive chair.
She tucked her bare feet up and pushed off the mahogany desk, spinning in a blur of white terrycloth.
"Wooooo!" Joey giggled. Her hair flew in her face. "Cheng, this is amazing. It's a ride that smells like old books and fancy cologne. Is this what you do? Just spin until you're dizzy?"
Xingcheng stood there. His hands were still trembling from the adrenaline. He looked at the desk where he moved millions, then at the girl making it a theme park.
He let out a long, weary breath and leaned against the wood.
"Joey. That man is an informant. He sells secrets. You can't just walk in here like it's a coffee shop."
Joey planted her feet. The chair stopped. She looked up at him, the playfulness dying in her eyes. She stared at the dark circles under his lids and the way he gripped his own elbows.
"He didn't look dangerous, Cheng," she said softly. "He looked like he was about to throw up. Why are you always making people feel like that? Seems like a lonely way to spend a Tuesday."
Xingcheng didn't answer. He pushed off the desk and walked toward her. He gripped the leather arms of the chair, leaning down until his face was inches from hers. His shadow swallowed her.
"It's the only way to survive, Joey," he rasped. "If they aren't scared, they come for me. They try to take what's mine. And now... they're going to come for you, too."
Joey didn't flinch. She reached up. Her hand still smelled faintly of cereal. She patted his cheek.
"Let them come. I'll make them those rubbery eggs of yours. They'll be too confused to shoot. You worry too much, Shadow King."
She hopped off the chair. She dropped to her knees and reached deep under the mahogany.
"Aha!"
She pulled out a yellow sock. A cartoon duck in a tiny blue hat stared back at them. She waved it like a victory flag.
"Secret meeting is over. You promised to show me how the Netflix works. I want to watch the baking competition."
She grabbed his hand. The same hand that had been bunched in a man's throat. She tugged.
Xingcheng stumbled, caught off guard. He looked at their hands—his scarred knuckles against her soft palm.
He looked at the door. He knew the spy was already making the call. He knew the peace in this penthouse was on a timer. His mind was a mess of tactical exits and security codes.
Joey squeezed his sleeve.
She gave him a small, tired smile. "You coming, Cheng? Or do I have to watch the cakes alone?"
Xingcheng's shoulders dropped. The Emperor disappeared. He followed her out of the dark, letting a girl with a duck sock lead him toward the light.
He forgot the war. He was just a man who wanted to watch a cake-making show.
The office lights clicked off.
On the desk, a small red light began to blink. The spy's phone, dropped in the panic, was still recording.