In Kambaland City, Pik’s capital, the Yangs were preparing for a siege. Gan had already debriefed the cell. Nearly a hundred Red Eyebrows would be hitting the cache in the Lan Sing precinct. It was an hour on foot from their base, and the Yangs planned to travel light. They were support, nothing more, guiding the bandits to the warehouse, laying down covering fire, and helping wagon out the crates of Vigour patches.

  The Yang safehouse hummed with a sort of nervous energy. Voices overlapped. Boots scraped. Metal clicked against metal. For all the anxiety in the air, Boquin could still feel the thrill underneath it. Plenty of them hated the idea of Master Chong Fan keeping the patches, but the prospect of a fight was stirring the cell all the same. After all, their roles were to be on the edge of the fighting, far from the worst risk, and no one here would lose sleep over the dead mercenaries and dead bandits to come.

  Upstairs, Boquin had finished gearing up early as possible. He kept to himself, dodging conversation. When Zifuan came over to talk, Boquin gave him a curt shrug and slipped out before the questions could start, heading straight downstairs to the storerooms.

  The air changed as soon as he shut the door behind him. The noise thinned to a muffled thrum. Under dim amber bulbs, the storeroom felt smaller than it was, the kind of cramped that could almost pass for cosy if you ignored the humidity and the occasional dead rodent in the corners.

  Shelves stretched down long aisles, loaded with whatever the cell had managed to scavenge and hoard. Expired ration packets. Ammunition for weapons they no longer had. Empty crates from Southern aid shipments.

  Other shelves held the things the Yangs treated with more care: Dongist scripture, copied fragments of the lost trilogy, Yang manifestos, dense scholarly studies. Boquin had spent countless nights here, turning pages and learning what he could from sources you wouldn’t find elsewhere.

  He turned into a narrower aisle and walked towards its centre, his footsteps echoing in the hush. He opened a cardboard box. Inside sat a thick cylinder of fuel, the kind Gan kept for the stoves.

  Boquin hauled one down to the floor and crouched beside it. He fitted a pipe onto the nozzle, then reached into his robes and produced four empty petrol bottles. One by one, he pressed the pipe into the mouth of a bottle and cracked the valve. Clear liquid began to run.

  The first bottle filled. He slid it into his robe.

  The second followed, tucked on the other side.

  He stowed the third in his bag on the floor, wedging it between his pistol and his tools.

  The fourth was only halfway full when he heard footsteps in the aisle behind him.

  Not now!

  He yanked the pipe free, cold liquid splashing his wrist before flashing into vapour. He clumsily shut the box, shoved final bottle into his bag, and lifted the box to place on the shelf.

  A dark silhouette filled the end of the aisle.

  ‘Bo? That you?’

  He exhaled, sharp with relief. Not Gan or the others. Liqui.

  He shoved the box back onto the shelf and straightened quickly. ‘Liqui. What are you doing down here?’

  She walked towards him, eyes flicking to the box he just put back. ‘Probably something less suspicious than you.’ Her voice dropped. ‘I saw you disappear upstairs. I tried to call out to you, but you didn’t hear me, so I came down here.’

  ‘Looks like you found me.’

  ‘I heard hissing. The same sound Gan’s lighter makes when he refills it down here for the lamps.’

  Boquin didn’t answer. He grabbed his bag from the floor, zipped it shut, and put a strap over his shoulder.

  Liqui’s eyes narrowed. ‘What are you planning?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  She gave a short, humourless breath. ‘No one takes petroleum for nothing.’ Her gaze dropped to his bag. ‘You’re taking it to the warehouse.’

  Liqui folded her arms and exhaled through her nose. ‘Of course you are. Zifuan told me about your outburst in Chong Fan’s lair. It’s exactly like you to threaten to blow up a man’s home to his face. And it’s exactly like you to protest Gan’s arrangement with the Eyebrows.’ A pause. ‘But that doesn’t make you right.’

  ‘You’re not going to get it.’

  ‘But I do, Bo. I get it too much, I watched the same advert you did.’

  ‘You didn’t see it in person, Liqui. It was far worse than the video. The acting was shit. But what I saw with my eyes terrified me. Those patches need to be destroyed. Chong Fan is a monster and we’re just handing it to him.’

  Liqui took a step closer. ‘And if our deal with the Eyebrows falls apart, more patches end up on our streets regardless. We’ll have no muscle to stop it then, no advantage over this new Lord, and the Emperor wins anyway.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Sometimes it takes a monster to stop another one. You know that. Gan knows how to put a leash on this one.’

  Boquin shook his head once. ‘Gan doesn’t know shit. He lost his way a long time ago, it just took me until today to see it. You know what Chong and Gan were calling this whole shit? A transaction. Like it’s nothing. It won’t be long until he forgets his own prophet too—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Liqui cut in sharply. ‘Don’t use the prophet as your defence for this decision you alone made. I can assure you Gan probably tells himself the same thing every time he has to make a tough call. It’s just… Self-soothing nonsense!’

  Boquin swung his bag around, ready to walk out. But Liqui caught his hand before he could pull the other strap over his shoulder, stopping him. ‘If Chong Fan realises we cheated him, he won’t just be angry. He’ll turn his whole army against us. And then we’ll have Fa-Ren on one side, and the Eyebrows on the other.’ Her gaze tightened into a frown. ‘Will you be happy that you’ve stuck to your morals when everyone in this cell lies dead by your feet? If I’m dead at your feet?’

  Boquin’s throat bobbed. He didn’t answer.

  Then Liqui guided Boquin’s hands down to his sides and held them there, steadying him. For a moment his hands resisted moving, but the tension drained out of him and his hands went slack in hers. His bag hung awkwardly off his shoulder. Liqui didn’t let go. She just kept her eyes on his.

  ‘Boquin,’ she said, low and careful, ‘I’m not asking you to like it. I’m asking you to think past tonight.’ She swallowed once, then kept going. ‘When we, or our children, or the children of our children, when they take their first breath on the surface… No one will remember the bargains that got us there. They’ll dissolve into the darkness of the universe. All that will matter is the Light that’ll shine on their faces.’

  Boquin felt how cold her fingers were, how they trembled even as she tried to sound certain.

  Liqui released his hands and reached for the bag still hanging beside him. She unzipped it and pulled out the first bottle, half-full, setting it back on the shelf. Then she drew out the second, heavier one and placed it beside it.

  ‘Thank you for listening to me, Boquin,’ her gaze flicked up to his. ‘For understanding. I know it hurts. Please trust that we’re all hurting having to do this. We’ve all been hurting since the Yau bombings.’

  Boquin didn’t speak. He nodded once.

  Liqui zipped the bag and lifted it, guiding it around his shoulder. She tightened the strap against his back, her fingers lingering a beat too long before she smoothed the twist in his robe. Then she crouched and folded the hem of his trousers so they wouldn’t catch under his slip-on shoes.

  When she stood again, her face looked lighter, as if she’d been holding her breath and only just let it go.

  ‘Come, let’s head up together. The others are nearly ready.’

  The catwalk shivered under the weight of Pik’s Yangs. It ran along the face of a massive, dead LED billboard that had once washed the Lan Sing precinct in colour.

  Below was Pik’s industrial park. Whole blocks of plants and warehouses sat hollow and dark, their windows dead, their loading bays sealed. Wind threaded through the empty lanes and swayed hanging lanterns, carrying the smell of cold metal and distant smoke. All of the structures looked dormant, but the Yangs knew exactly which one only pretended to be empty.

  Boquin was among the thirty figures perched high above, watching the Red Eyebrows gather below on the lower terraces that ringed the target warehouse. His hood was up, a dark face cloth pulled up over his nose like the others. Fo Ji pigment darkened the skin around his eyes, a relic of old Dongism that had fallen out of common practice. A few pious monks still smeared it on before prayer. The Yangs wore it openly now, as uniform as any hood or weapon.

  No one spoke above a murmur. Boquin gripped the railing until his knuckles went white. His rucksack was light, but his robes felt heavy. He could feel their weight with every breath. His skin itched beneath the cloth, but he could not bring himself to relieve it.

  After this is done, Boquin thought. I’ll take a cold shower and forget about all this.

  Gan stood near the centre of the gathered Yangs, eyes fixed on the distribution centre holding the Vigour patches. The building was squat, barely two levels tall, with a low roof crowded by vents and ducts that jutted from the sides. No guards were posted outside, but Boquin knew what waited within: fifty to a hundred West Kowlooni mercenaries, paid to guard the patches until the next work-cycle commenced. The warehouse looked ordinary, which made it worse. So much evil hid behind ordinary walls.

  Below, the Red Eyebrows kept arriving. They came in waves, spilling out of side streets and up onto rooftops, rifles slung across bony shoulders, mismatched armour strapped over starving frames. Red cloth covered mouths and noses. Even from this height Boquin could see how thin they were. But their numbers were staggering. Two hundred at least, spread through the streets and perched along the surrounding terraces.

  So many, Boquin thought. Chong Fan has truly raised an army.

  Gan lifted a hand. The motion drew every gaze on the catwalk.

  ‘Signal’s in,’ he said. ‘They’re ready.’ He pointed down towards the terraces. ‘Strike team, you go now. Get the bandits inside. The rest of you stay up here and keep the warehouse under your scopes. If reinforcements show, you tell me. But if any mercenary steps out of that building, you drop them immediately. That’s all the bandits need from us.’

  Boquin swung his legs over the railing with the others. Fifteen in total. Harnesses clipped. Lines tethered at the waist. The rope bit, then held. Their descent began.

  Boquin fed the line through his left hand, lowering himself in controlled slides. Wind pressed at his robes. His bag thumped against his back with each short drop. The terrace below rose slowly to meet him.

  One by one, they touched down on the lower terrace. Boquin unclipped and stepped aside, his pulse loud in his ears. Without thinking, his gaze swept the team, hunting for one face.

  Liqui was already out of her harness, jaw set, a hard crease between her brows. She swung her bag onto her shoulder and scanned the other Yangs as if she, too, was looking for someone. Before her eyes could find his, Boquin looked away.

  She was fine.

  All fifteen approached the front edge of the terrace and dropped into motion together. They took a maintenance stair bolted to the brick wall of the building, boots ringing softly on wet metal, then cut across a narrow service bridge strung between two dead factories. The descent to the alleys of the industrial park was in layered levels: they jumped on stacked pallets, crossed loading docks and climbed fenced generator yards, and ventilation trenches. They slipped past a line of humming power boxes and down a ladder welded to a rusted catwalk, bodies close, moving as one. Boquin made sure to keep Liqui in his peripheral, ensuring she did not slip or fall.

  Halfway down, a squad of Red Eyebrows peeled out from behind a shuttered freight lift and fell in formation with the descending Yangs without a word, their red cloth masks flashing dull crimson as they moved. Another group joined at a broken conveyor ramp, stepping over spilled casings and puddles that reflected the strung lanterns hanging above. By the time they reached alley-level, the Yangs were leading a long column bandit, guiding them towards warehouse’s left side.

  Six of the fifteen Yangs peeled off first, guiding the largest knot of bandits around the far side. Another four broke towards the front through the loading bays and across shuttered doors. That left Boquin with four Yangs at the wide wall with the remaining Red Eyebrows, signalling for them to crouch tight and keep low, tucked between rusting ducts and stacks of rotting wooden crates.

  Boquin looked up at the wall. A long row of square, sliding glass windows ran through the brickwork just beneath the roof’s overhang.

  One of the Yangs drew a field pager from an inner pocket, a compact slab of polymer with a tiny screen set into it. Boquin stared at the Yang intently, the white glow of the screen reflecting off his comrade’s face.

  The screen flashed. A single blue ping.

  That’s it.

  Boquin and the Yangs exchanged quick nods. Then, without a word, they moved.

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  They scrambled up the stacked crates, using the shorter piles as steps to reach the higher ones, boots thudding softly on splintered wood. Below, the Red Eyebrows watched in silence as the Yangs reached the windows and set to work on the locks.

  Two Yangs to his right worked the latch. A moment later the window slid open. The rusted frame screeched along its rails.

  The first Yang ducked through. Three more followed, and then Boquin. They landed on a narrow metal walkway bolted along the interior wall.

  Inside, the lights were on, and the warehouse was partitioned into a maze of low-walled corridors with open tops, the kind built for managers to track the movements of his workers from above.

  The corridors led into three storage bays; massive rooms with walls reaching the ceiling, blocking any view into them. Boquin didn’t need a map to know that the patches were sold in there, including most of the mercenaries guarding them.

  Movement flickered across from him at the same height. Six Yangs slid through a row of windows on the far wall, eye level with Boquin, and dropped onto the same perimeter walkway that ran the warehouse’s length. Liqui was among them.

  Down near the front, a small door beside a closed shutter bay eased open. Four Yangs slid inside and took cover behind a vehicle ramp.

  ‘You two,’ a Yang said from Boquin’s left, ‘get the first bay open. The others will take the rest. Once we signal the bandits in, we go back out through the windows and report to Gan.’

  Boquin nodded and started along the walkway, his steps a soft clang on rust-brown metal. A second Yang fell in behind him. Ahead, the walkway branched and hung over the corridors below, leading to a closed door set into the wall of the first storage bay.

  Across the warehouse, another Yang from the far-side team was already moving along the opposite walkway towards a different bay door, keeping pace in parallel.

  Halfway to the bay door, a soft mechanical scrape rose from below.

  Boquin stopped dead. The Yang behind him froze with him. Along the other walkways, the other advancing Yangs halted mid-step.

  Boquin held his breath as he edged to the railing and looked down.

  Two mercenaries stepped out of the bay doors and moved unhurriedly towards the next storage room. Their voices carried up through the open corridors.

  ‘Fa-Ren’s got a lot on his hands with his Dougam Tounam initiative.’

  They were encased in sleek white armour, Thin seams of light ran through the joints, pulsing along the gaps between plates like a slow heartbeat. Their helmets were smooth and angular, tinted visors narrowed to dark slits.

  ‘Think any of this’ll work?’

  Their voices sounded deep and heavily digitised, stripped of warmth. Boquin recognised the kit at once. Yangs out of District Sham Tsuen had filed reports on skirmishes with these militants, and every report ended the same way: grim, brief, and void of details. His stomach tightened as the memory of those reports surfaced.

  ‘Doesn’t matter as long as he pays the commander.’

  Boquin pulled in a shallow breath. The Sham Tsuen Jau-Ling, he barely muttered. Kowloon’s most expensive mercenary group.

  The two mercenaries rounded two corners, then disappeared through a set of sliding doors into the next storage bay.

  Boquin pulled in a steadying breath, and the Yangs moved again, advancing in sync towards their respective bay doors.

  As he walked, Boquin’s gaze kept dropping to the corridors below. Some sections were roofed over with short ceilings: a control room, by the look of the panels and cabling. Then he saw the one he’d been searching for. A covered room with thick pipes punching up through the ceiling and disappearing through the walls outside.

  Boquin knew what would be inside. Gas intake. Valves. Damp concrete. The warehouse’s throat.

  Boquin and the Yang behind him reached the bay door. Boquin shifted aside and kept watch over the railing while the other Yang knelt and started working the lock with a compact set of tools.

  Click.

  The lock gave. The Yang turned the knob, testing it once, then nodded at Boquin. They slipped back along the walkway towards the others waiting by the window.

  ‘It’s ready,’ Boquin murmured when they were close enough. ‘Call the bandits up. We’re done here.’

  One of the four others climbed through the window, his top-half hanging out, then signalled with sharp hand gestures. A moment later Boquin heard movement outside: boots thudding against wood, sharp whispers, bodies hauling themselves up.

  The Red Eyebrows began to pour in through the windows, one by one. They landed on the walkway in crouches and awkward hops, trying and failing to be quiet. Across the warehouse, other windows filled the same way as the rest of the Yang teams drew their own bandits inside.

  Within minutes the entire perimeter walkway was crowded with red-masked faces. Chong Fan’s plan was simple: hit the bays hard with the first surprise rush, then flood the building with wave after wave through the doors. Overwhelm the Sham Tsuen mercenaries with sheer volume of bandits.

  The Yangs pointed out the unlocked bay doors, then began slipping back out through the windows before the fighting started. Boquin made sure he was last, climbing through the windows and dropping down the stacked crates to the ground outside.

  As Boquin and the others rounded the corner to rejoin the rest of the Yangs, he saw the loading dock ahead. A dense mass of bandits waited by the shutter bays, weapons raised, packed tight and poised to surge inside the moment the doors were thrown open. The bandits already inside would make sure of that.

  The Yangs began their trek back up to Gan. Boquin went with them for a few paces, then stopped short at the corner and slipped behind a stack of crates. He waited until the others had climbed the fence line and vanished, their footsteps fading into the metal hush.

  He dragged his face cloth down for a breath of air and forced his lungs to slow.

  I need to be quick, he reminded himself.

  Then he doubled back to the warehouse. He ran across the wall his team had used to enter the high windows above. Boquin tackled each stack, each tower of crates crashing to the floor. He rounded the corner, the waiting bandits staring at him as he ran across them. He reached the far side of the warehouse and approached the small ground-floor door one of the Yang teams had used to get inside. His hand closed on the knob.

  Gunfire finally erupted from inside.

  Boquin heard the Red Eyebrows answering with a roar, lifting weapons and roaring as they crowded the loading dock and waited for the shutter bays to open and let them flood in.

  Boquin opened the small door. Gunfire was already cracking through the warehouse, sharp and constant now, ricocheting off metal and tile. Above him, bandits sprinted along the perimeter walkway, still pouring in and funnelling through a single bay door. Deeper inside, explosions thumped from the storage rooms, dull blasts that shook dust loose from the ceiling. He hurried into motion.

  Boquin pushed through the corridors, hunting for the route to the room with the gas intake.

  He reached a straight stretch of passageway: two doors on the right, one on the left. Each led into one of the main storage bays. Behind every door, Red Eyebrows and Sham Tsuen mercenaries were locked in close, brutal firefights. As he approached the doors, noise seeped through the seams: screaming, gunfire, carnage. The deaths were already piling up.

  Beside each door was a small green terminal, flush to the wall. A single touch would seal the door.

  Boquin lifted his hand towards the first screen. The sounds inside made him hesitate. For a moment, he stood there, palm hovering, listening to starving men die.

  Then he shook his head once, as if clearing the doubt, and pressed the first terminal. The screen flashed red. He moved to the next. Red. Then the third. Red again. Locked.

  I need to do this, he told himself. Because I’m the only one who will.

  At the end of the corridor was the final door. A small warning placard clung to the panel, its print faded by years of damp. He eased the door open and stepped into the intake room.

  The air hit him first. Warm, humid. Steam fogged the walls. A bank of valves lined one wall, each wheel numbered. Boquin could hear a constant hiss.

  He shut the door behind him. For a moment he just stood there, listening, letting the roar of the raid dull into a distant churn. His heart kept trying to climb out of his throat.

  He reached into his robes and drew out two petrol bottles, full and cold against his palms. The plastic crinkled under his grip. He twisted the first cap off, held his breath, and spilled it all over the ground around him. Liquid splashed onto the damp concrete, darkening it in a spreading stain.

  He poured along the base of the valve bank first, letting the fuel seep into the cracks where the floor met the wall. Then he moved to the pipework, splashing the joints and the bundled cabling beneath, the places where heat would bite and spread quickest. He circled the room with fast, deliberate steps, laying a thin trail towards the door.

  He slipped into the corridor and tipped the last of it along the wall and floor, painting a path back towards the warehouse lanes. When both bottles were empty, he dropped them and let them clatter on the concrete.

  Then he ran back to the room, towards the valves. He grabbed the first wheel and spun it. Then another. Then another, working down the line.

  Each turn answered with a sharp hiss as gas surged out of the pipes.

  ‘And why the fuck are you still here?’ a voice came from behind.

  Boquin turned, and his stomach dropped. A Red Eyebrow stood in the doorway, a metal grinder hanging from his fist, the circular blade still ticking as it spun down.

  ‘The fight’s that way, red,’ Boquin said, forcing his voice steady. ‘Wrong corridor.’

  The bandit sniffed once, eyes narrowing. ‘That smell…’ His gaze flicked to the wet sheen on the floor. ‘Wait. I know that smell.’ He ripped off his red mask and sniffed the air, lips peeled back. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  The bandit surged forward.

  Boquin lunged to meet him, shoulder-first, trying to drive him back into the door. The grinder’s heavy casing smashed into Boquin’s ribs instead and the air left his lungs in a raw grunt. The bandit followed with a booted shove that sent Boquin crashing back into the pipes against the wall.

  His spine jolted.

  The grinder came swinging for his head.

  Boquin ducked. The blade shrieked as it bit a pipe clamp and skipped. For a split second the room flashed with sparks and a burst of hot gas spat out, blasting the bandit in the face. He staggered, swearing, one hand flying to his eyes.

  Boquin went in. One punch cracked into the side of the bandit’s head. The second swung wide.

  The bandit snapped back like an animal. He grabbed a fistful of Boquin’s robes, yanked him forward, and drove a knee into his gut. Boquin folded. The bandit swung him around and he hit a wall and fell to the ground. His breath was gone, cheek against damp concrete, the smell of alcohol in his nose.

  The grinder whined to life.

  Bootsteps approached Boquin slowly.

  Boquin tried to crawl, arms slipping on the wet trail, his head still stunned. He forced himself to lift his eyes.

  The bandit loomed over him, blade spinning, ready to finish it.

  Thwack.

  Boquin’s vision cleared just enough to catch Liqui standing behind the bandit. The man was already down in front of Boquin, sprawled on the concrete, his face fixed in a blank, lifeless stare. Blood seeped through his dark hair and spread in a slow stain beneath his head on the concrete.

  Boquin felt hands on his arms, steady and careful, hauling him upright on the floor. A voice hovered at the edge of his hearing.

  ‘Boquin. Bo. Look at me. Can you hear me?’

  ‘Liqui…’ His throat rasped. He reached for her shoulders to try and stand up, and she braced him without hesitation. ‘Liqui, I – you saved me.’

  ‘I couldn’t find you when we got to Gan,’ she said, breath tight. ‘You were gone.’

  Her eyes dropped past him to the floor, to the wet sheen, then to the valve bank. The pipes hissed, louder now. Something in her face hardened as the truth assembled itself before her.

  ‘Liqui… Listen—’

  ‘I knew you’d do this,’ she snapped.

  ‘Just— give me a second.’

  ‘I felt it,’ she cut in, voice rising. ‘The moment we went back upstairs. I knew you hadn’t let it go.’

  Boquin blinked hard. The room stopped spinning. Her words sharpened. His legs steadied beneath him. ‘Liqui,’ he said, voice firmer now, ‘please. You need to listen to me.’

  ‘Like hell you listen to anyone, Boquin,’ Liqui hissed. ‘You lied to me. After all that, you’re still willing to gamble the whole cell for your own conscience.’

  ‘No,’ Boquin said quickly. ‘Not the cell. If it’s a fire, we don’t have to risk Gan’s alliance at all.’

  ‘I thought you understood me.’ Her voice shook. ‘I thought you’d stop being stubborn for once. For us. For me.’

  Boquin swallowed, forcing the words out clean. ‘Chong Fan doesn’t have to know it was us. The bandits could’ve been responsible for the fire just as anyone else…’

  ‘Fuck Chong Fan.’ She stepped closer, eyes bright and large. ‘This isn’t about him. It’s about you looking me in the face and telling me you’d stopped.’

  ‘Liqui, the patches have to be destroyed.’

  ‘How do you know this won’t—’

  ‘A botched raid, Liqui,’ Boquin cut in. ‘It can just be a botched raid—’

  Liqui stared at him, breathing hard. ‘I thought I got through to you!’

  Boquin stepped in before Liqui continued. His hand found the back of Liqui’s neck, fingers hot against her skin, and he kissed her.

  Liqui went still. Her eyes widened, shock catching in her breath. Then she didn’t move away. For a heartbeat she was there with him, lips warm, parted, the hiss of gas filling the space between them.

  Boquin pulled back, close enough that he could feel her hot breaths.

  ‘Trust me,’ he said, voice rough. ‘Liqui, you have to trust me. If no one else, just trust in me.’

  Her gaze searched his face, torn between fury and letting it all go.

  ‘Okay,’ she whispered at last. ‘I will.’ Then her eyes flicked towards the door. ‘We need to warn the others. The bandits are still inside.’

  She turned to go.

  Boquin caught her wrist.

  ‘No.’

  Liqui snapped her head back. ‘What?’

  ‘They’ll get out on their own.’

  ‘Boquin – they might not even realise what’s happening until it’s too late.’

  ‘They know the layout by now,’ he said quickly. ‘If we go back, they’ll see us coming from the intake. They’ll suspect us. We can’t risk that. They’ll run out as soon as the fire breaks out.’

  Liqui hesitated, doubt tightening her mouth. ‘That’s not—’

  He tightened his grip, not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop her. ‘Liqui. We’re leaving. Now.’

  He didn’t give her time to argue. He pulled her towards the door and she stumbled with him, silent, stunned.

  They burst into the corridor and the noise hit like a wall: gunfire snapping, men shouting, metal clanging. The air was thick with gunfire smoke and sweat.

  Boquin reached into his robes as they ran and drew out a small blowtorch, the kind used for quick cuts and seals. He flicked it on, thumb locking the mechanism so the flame held steady.

  Without slowing, he tossed it behind them onto the petrol-slick trail.

  It landed with a dull clatter, flame licking the concrete. A thin, blue-white tongue of fire raced along the floor.

  The corridor behind them flashed. The room behind exploded and the heat punched their backs. Boquin dragged Liqui close, his arm tight around her as they ran. Her fingers clamped around his hand hard enough to hurt.

  ‘Bo—’

  ‘Don’t think,’ he snapped. ‘Just run.’

  They tore through the winding corridors as another blast thumped behind them, heavy enough to shake the walls. Dust rained down across the floor. A second blast followed, sharper, and the lights on the high ceiling flickered.

  Blue fire surged out through a vent next to them as they ran, nearly touching the pair. Boquin yanked Liqui sideways at the last second, throwing his body between her and the heat as they stumbled past.

  Two bandits appeared ahead, skidding to a halt when they saw the Yangs. They had just enough time to register the blue glow before a side blast tore through the partition wall and swallowed them. The route ahead was blocked by raging blue flames.

  Boquin didn’t hesitate. He scooped Liqui up, one arm under her legs, the other across her back, and surged forward. Heat struck his face. He jumped through the narrow gap where the flames thinned, boots landing hard on the other side.

  Liqui’s arms locked around his neck. She looked up at him, eyes reflecting that wrong blue light. Furious still. Betrayed still. And she still didn’t let go of him.

  Another explosion cracked somewhere deeper in the bays, sharp enough to drown out a distant scream. The roar behind them deepened, clean and devouring.

  They rounded a corner where the air suddenly cooled, untouched by the fire for a heartbeat. Boquin drove his shoulder into a door and ran out into the dark.

  Blue fire spread through the warehouse fast, spilling out of vents and broken panels in bright, harsh sheets. Smoke followed, turning the loading dock into heat and blur. Boquin and Liqui ran for cover, climbing up onto a low terrace where the others had taken position: Yangs crouched behind crates with rifles down, the Red Eyebrows who were posted outside pressed in together, all of them staring at the building as it burned. The noise swallowed everything. Something collapsed inside with a heavy, tearing crash. Nobody spoke.

  Gan was there, still as stone, watching without any change in his face. Nearby, Master Chong Fan stood with his jaw tight, eyes locked on the warehouse, his expression darkening by the second.

  Boquin stayed upright, staring into the blaze. Liqui’s head rested against his shoulder, her breath shallow, ears still ringing. Her eyes stayed on the exits, waiting for the bandits inside to come running out.

  No one did.

  One figure appeared at a high window and jumped. There were no stacked crates beneath him. He hit the ground hard and didn’t move. A second body followed, falling hard beside the first, dead.

  That was all. No stumbling silhouettes. No coughing men spilling from doors. Nothing.

  Liqui lifted her head and looked up at Boquin, a question rising in her throat that she couldn’t make herself ask. He didn’t look shocked. He didn’t look with grief the same way she did. He just watched the fire with a focused look. A cold anxiety settled in her chest at the man Boquin was becoming.

  Then Chong Fan turned and walked off, leading his remaining bandits away without a word.

  Boquin sat at his desk, empty page before. Hands steady. Heart not. He wrote:

  I am a rodent, filthy, but brave,

  This is my small hat, the last thing Mother gave.

  Here is my razor, when my fur grows wild I shave,

  This is my coat, so my shivers behave.

  I have this small linen pouch, where I keep my gold,

  A crust of bread, so my gut won’t turn cold.

  These torn old shoes keep my paws from cracks and mould,

  And a locket at my throat when fear takes hold.

  I scratched my love’s name in it with this small knife,

  A sharp little thing to steady me in strife.

  In Light, I keep it hidden, close concealed,

  From coveting eyes, from hands that hunger, armed and steeled.

  I have a match, to set fire to meat and bones,

  Sometimes it warms me, but I still feel alone.

  I have a bottle to drink, to quiet my woes,

  And strips of cloth round my paws to soften blows.

  This is my inventory. This is my gear.

  I hold it close, and keep it dear.