The exhaustion shaft hides in the corner of a forgotten garden near the Western Perimeter Wall, its opening concealed beneath a large decorative rock formation, shrouded by bamboo.

  Three yards away, beneath the gravel path, lies the assassin's tunnel exit.

  "May I have a detailed map of the Summer Palace?" I ask Shajun, who hasn't let me out of his sight since this began.

  "Why?" His eyes narrow. "That's classified.”

  "I need the location of every Ruby Five that night." I hold his gaze.

  "Even more classified." He crosses his arms.

  “Look,” I explain patiently, voice steady. “This is where it started. And where it ended. I need to see the killer’s path—every step in between.”

  "Have you considered joining the army?" Shajun asks suddenly, a hint of amusement flickering across his face.

  “Why?” It's my turn to ask.

  "After this case, we may never let you leave the Summer Palace." He tilts his head, studying me. "The only place you could work would be Unit 8341."

  He seems to be joking, but the weight behind his words tells me otherwise. I swallow and push the thought aside.

  He snaps his fingers at a nearby soldier, ordering him to bring a map. Three minutes pass. The soldier hasn't returned. Shajun's jaw tightens.

  "I have to do everything myself out here now." He exhales sharply. "Everyone is new."

  He strides through the labyrinth of palace paths with practiced ease, and I hurry to keep up. He leads me to a building—ancient facade, modern interior. Along one wall stands an interactive map.

  His fingers move across the surface, marking locations with the initials of the injured Ruby Fives.

  "Chairman Yan Wang too," I say quietly.

  "Why?" Shajun pauses. Clearly, I'm on a need-to-know basis.

  "He's the only one who wasn't attacked. Why? Was he too far to reach?" I step closer to the map. "Or was there another reason?"

  Shajun's brows furrow. He nods slowly. He knows more than I do that the political struggles within the Party are a fight to the death. It wouldn't be strange at all if one of the Ruby Five tried to eliminate another. The very fact that Chairman Yan Wang remains untouched makes him a suspect.

  "One more won't hurt." He marks another location, his touch deliberate.

  I lean in, studying the positions carefully—not just distance, but accessibility. Roads, walls, doors, guards. My mind maps invisible lines between them.

  I want to ask for the night patrol schedule, but bite my tongue.

  Instead, I mark several locations on the screen. "I'd like to see the video recordings from these spots."

  "These videos have been watched already. Nothing out of the ordinary." He sounds dismissive.

  "I'm looking for things your people might not have been looking for." I meet his eyes steadily.

  "Sure." A slow smile spreads across his face. "The more you know, the higher the likelihood you'll be reporting to me in the future. I wouldn't mind having a sharp woman on my team for a change."

  He brings me to a cramped room lined with monitors, their blue light casting shadows across his face.

  Two technicians help me locate the requested recordings, playing them at five times speed. When something catches my eye, I lean forward. "Slow down." They switch to half speed.

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  Shajun watches me work for ten minutes, shifting his weight from foot to foot, before walking out. He clearly doesn't have the patience for this.

  Three hours later, I emerge from the room, blinking in the brighter hallway light. A soldier has been waiting—the moment he sees me, he snatches up his walkie talkie. Minutes later, Shajun appears, walking briskly toward me.

  "Let's talk to the security chiefs," I say.

  He nods curtly. "Follow me."

  The security chiefs of Qiuhan and Huoning know nothing. Both were sleeping soundly. No guards alerted, no nurses awakened, no one hurt or knocked unconscious. The assassin came and went like wind, leaving nothing behind—no footprints, no fingerprints, no fabric, no hair. Only a needle mark and drugs coursing through their bosses' veins. They were notified by Shajun after Keyang's security chief discovered the Prime Minister had been injected. Only then did they check their own charges.

  Keyang's security chief, though—he was making his rounds, checking on patrols and guards, when he noticed the Prime Minister's bedroom window standing open. Something about it struck him as wrong, so he went to investigate.

  "Is it really that strange to leave the window open while sleeping?" I ask, genuinely curious. "The weather isn't cold, and the garden smells lovely."

  He stiffens, his expression hardening as if I've insulted him.

  "What are you implying?" His voice edges toward hostility.

  "Nothing." I raise my hands slightly, keeping my expression open and innocent. "I really don't know."

  He pauses, jaws working while he decide whether to trust me. "The Prime Minister always kept his windows shut at night. Always."

  "So you entered the room." I lean forward slightly. "What did you see that made you suspect something was wrong?"

  "The breathing." His eyes grow distant, as if reliving the moment. "The Prime Minister's breathing felt labored, unnatural. I was already suspicious, so I moved closer to check."

  "What did you see?" I press gently.

  "Nothing at first." He shakes his head slowly. "But I was certain something was wrong. So I called Kejun—the Prime Minister's nurse. She took one look and immediately knew. Called the doctors. I went straight to report to the Director." He gestures toward Shajun.

  "Thank you." I bow my head slightly. "I don't have any more questions right now, but I may need to speak with you again."

  … …

  As I step through the doorway, Shajun's voice cuts through the silence. "Where to next?"

  "Your quarters."

  "What?" His voice spikes, sharp as a blade. "You suspect me?"

  I gesture toward the empty corridors, where new faces stand guard. "Within forty-eight hours of the attack, you replaced every soldier and guard. You let the potential suspects walk away." I hold his gaze. "Shouldn't I be suspicious?"

  His mouth opens, then closes. The silence stretches between us like a taut wire. Finally: "It wasn't my decision."

  "But it was your recommendation." I let the words hang in the air. "Wasn't it?"

  His eyes flash with frustration, caught between loyalty and logic. "Sure." His voice wavers, indignant yet powerless. "Whatever you want."

  He leads me through the garden paths, each step heavy with resentment. The playful edge from earlier has vanished completely.

  His residence sits inside a modern two-story townhouse, an incongruous addition to the Summer Palace's ancient elegance.

  "Does anyone live with you?" I ask as he fumbles with his key.

  "No. My family stays outside." The lock clicks open.

  The moment the door closes behind us, I turn and collapse against him, my head finding his shoulder, my body trembling.

  Shajun goes rigid. His hands hover uselessly in the air. Then he hears the sound—a soft, broken sob escaping my throat. Tentatively, his hand comes down to stroke my hair. "What's wrong? What happened?"

  I lift my head slowly, letting him see the tears pooling in my eyes, spilling over. My voice cracks. "I'm scared. I'm going to die."

  "What are you talking about?" Confusion clouds his face.

  "Can't you see?" The words tumble out, raw and desperate. "The person who ordered this—he's untouchable. And now he knows I'm the one who figured it out. The moment I leave the Summer Palace, I'm dead."

  Shajun is many things—blunt, impatient, utterly unsuited for detective work—but he isn't stupid. I watch understanding dawn across his features, slow and terrible.

  "Are you certain?" His voice drops to barely a whisper.

  "Yes." I nod, and my forehead nearly brushes his stubbled chin.

  I feel the shift in his breathing, the sudden tension in his frame. A beautiful woman—one whose mind he respects—pressed against him, vulnerable and trembling, seeking his protection. The air between us crackles with an awareness neither of us can name.

  But he knows better. His hand stills on my back. Gently, deliberately, he steps away, creating distance where there was heat.

  "Wait here." His voice is steady now, focused. "I'll speak with the First Lady. I'll be back as quickly as I can."

  He bolts from the room, leaving the door swinging in his wake.

  I exhale slowly and move into the living area. The space is monastic in its simplicity—a plain sofa facing a low wooden table, military commendations mounted on one wall, a small television gathering dust in the corner, the kind of space that suggests a man who spends very little time at home.

  In the bathroom, I find a mirror. I study my reflection with clinical precision, then reach for my makeup bag.

  I dab powder beneath my eyes, erasing the evidence of manufactured tears. Apply lipstick—not bold, not timid. Professional. The face of someone who has solved the unsolvable, someone who deserves protection.

  I need the First Lady to see a woman with answers. A woman worth keeping alive.

  I lean closer to the mirror, examining my work. The woman staring back knows exactly what story to tell. Every detail locked into place, unassailable.

  Now comes the only question that matters: Will the First Lady choose to shield me—or silence me herself?