Celia had found a shopping basket inside the safe house, which gave her something to 1ddle with as she passed the soldiers outside the building.

She kept her face inclined down. She knew Oliver would be observing from the window, so she didn’t look until she had made her way around the building and put herself out of view, afraid that she would be giving up their location if she so much as glanced in that direction.

A soldier watched her turn the corner. Celia resisted the urge to Ainch, though she did reach up to tug her qipao collar. Maybe she should have taken her pendant oP, on the chance that the soldiers had been told to look for it. Surely too many years had passed for anyone to remember the details of Kathleen Lang’s usual state of dress in Shanghai. Then again, Celia hadn’t thought anyone would start calling her Kathleen again, and yet the Nationalist channels were probably abuzz with her dead sister’s name. It could have been worse. It could have been the name her father wanted her called at birth—and thank the heavens he wasn’t anywhere near involved with this.

Celia stepped into a small fruit shop. She needed to look natural. As though she were merely running errands before stepping into the telegraphy office. Her attention moved from the apples to the apricots to the men standing guard on the other side of the street. She bought a bag of apricots. Once she placed it neatly in her shopping basket, she stepped out, eyes on the telegraphy office.

“You there!”

Celia’s stomach dipped. She paused, glancing behind her shoulder to source the shout. As soon as she saw that the soldier was only stopping the man behind her, she let out a low exhale, resuming her path as if the interruption hadn’t been anything strange. In reality, her heart was pounding so hard that she didn’t hear

the door close after her when she entered the telegraphy office, its thud adding to the drumbeat in her chest.

There was a customer at the counter already. With only one clerk taking messages, the office was quiet save for their confused back and forth regarding the price of sending two telegrams to two diPerent locations. Neither the clerk nor the other customer paid Celia any attention as she went to the table and set her basket down. She tried to even her breath. Her handwriting shook as she picked up the pen attached to the tabletop and scribbled a message.

She set the address for a safe point that sorted all mission communications incoming and outgoing to Shanghai. It was too dangerous to contact liaison stations in the event that a physical location was exposed and communications were traced. Safe points, on the other hand, did nothing except move messages back and forth.

Which was why, when the other customer 1nished and Celia took her missive to the counter, the clerk took one look at the intended address and said, “Oh, there’s a message that came in from this location too. Is it yours?”

“An incoming message?” Celia asked. Who would be contacting them? They

hadn’t gone silent long enough for central command to be worried yet. “When did it arrive?”

The clerk leaned to look behind the counter. After someone at the office translated the incoming Morse, they placed the missives onto the shelf—he scanned the topmost row for a moment before identifying the right one and plucking it out.

“Half an hour ago. It’s only addressed to a Mr. Yin. We were about to start looking through the records to 1nd a registered recipient.”

The safe house was under a Mr. Yin, undoubtedly. Celia just couldn’t 1gure out if it was actually a missive for her and Oliver—that someone was sending it to their last-known location and simply assuming they might be residing at the nearest safe house—or if this was intended for any operative nearby to pick up.

“Yes, it’s my father’s,” Celia said. “I will receive it.”

She paid for the outgoing message and took the incoming envelope, thanking the clerk. The exterior of the envelope provided no further clues to the mystery, no markings or indicators as to what might be inside, so she slipped it into her

basket with the bag of apricots. Just as she was coming down the steps of the telegraphy office, two soldiers hurried by, and though Celia ducked her head again, intensely focused on making sure the apricots were sitting right, they barely paid her any heed.

“… vehicle identified. Rope it off.”

“Oh no,” Celia muttered. That was probably their car. This was bad. Very, very bad.

She slinked through the shadows, walking the 1nal block to return to the safe house. As soon as she was outside the building, Celia dropped the shopping basket and picked up the envelope, shoving it into her qipao. They had to go. There was too much risk waiting for nightfall now.

“It’s me.” Celia knocked frantically on the door. She kept knocking until Oliver opened it, and then almost bowled him over when she barged through. “We’re leaving.”

“What?” Oliver demanded.

“They found our car,” Celia said in a hurry. “It’s as good as con1rmation that we are in the vicinity, so we need to Aee immediately.”

“Without a car?”

Celia found a lumpy-looking scarf in the wardrobe and shoved it at him. “We’ll walk on foot until we 1nd a vehicle to take hostage.”

“We’re in the rural countryside. We’ll collapse before we 1nd a transportation method to take over.”

“I am very aware.” Celia found a second lumpy scarf and looped it around her neck. “However, we’re out of options.”

At that moment, a rumble of activity sounded below, and both Celia and Oliver hurried to the window, concerned. Soldiers 1led through the alley, half entering the neighboring building and the other half coming into theirs.

Merde.

“They’re going door to door,” Oliver stated plainly. He didn’t sound panicked enough for Celia’s liking. She knew that he was an internal person, but a small showing of hysteria for their terrible situation would have been nice.

“Rooftop?” she asked.

Oliver shook his head immediately. He pointed to the trapdoor beneath their feet. “We must hide.”

“Hide? While they come in?”

“I don’t like this either, but as you said before: we’re out of options.”

There were three exits that were within the realm of possibility. The front door, though it would be impossible to navigate the rest of the building when the Nationalist soldiers were coming from that direction. The window next to them, though there were soldiers directly below on the two ends of the alley. And, on the other end of the safe house apartment, there was a window in the washroom, which led out a diPerent dead-end alley that the Nationalists would have no reason to guard, although Celia had peered along it earlier, and it didn’t look like there was any way to scale down the wall.

All to say, there was no way out. How had they gotten to this point?

With a muttered curse, Celia yanked a corner of the rug back; Oliver pulled the trapdoor open.

A door slammed on the 1rst Aoor. When Celia jolted, her inhale was ice-cold, a physical sensation gliding down her throat.

“Go, go,” Oliver said in a rush.

With a stiAed wince, Celia stepped through the trapdoor, entering the hideout. It wasn’t quite right to call it a cellar when it was jammed between levels, but it felt close enough to one. The restaurant below was built with attic storage, which meant there were gaps in the Aoor plan that the apartment above could 1ll downward. There was only enough space for Celia to be perfectly kneeling while Oliver needed to keep his head ducked when he stepped through too. One water pipe ran along the side, gurgling in greeting.

“Wait, listen.” Celia’s whisper was sharp. She grabbed Oliver’s elbow, stopping him from closing the trapdoor. The rumble downstairs seemed to be… lessening. Or perhaps dispersing, voices spreading in a way that made them hard to track.

Then there was a burst of footsteps thudding into the apartment, and Oliver reached to yank the trapdoor closed, its click echoing. Needle-thin light 1ltered through the gaps in the Aoorboards.

Celia realized two things at once. One: there was blood on the Aoor—a large stain in the corner that had sprayed droplets onto the wall too, illuminated in the faint light. Two: there really shouldn’t have been any illumination coming through the hideout space in the 1rst place. Because if there was light 1ltering through the Aoorboards, that meant the rug wasn’t pulled over the trapdoor and its lines were visible, and they would have no way of pulling the rug back into place while they were hiding anyway.

Which culminated in making her realize, three: if there had been an encounter here in the past and someone had gotten shot, then maybe the Nationalists already had this safe house location on their radar.

“Celia,” Oliver said suddenly. With his tone alone, she knew he had made the same guess.

“It’s going to be 1ne,” she assured him before he could continue. “They won’t 1nd us.”

Footsteps came up the stairs. Soldiers, calling instructions and reports back and forth.

Oliver pivoted quickly, searching the small space. “Is there something on that pipe?”

“The pipe?” Celia echoed. She shuAed over two steps. Her knee scraped against the rough Aoor. “Not that I can see.”

A thud traveled down the corridor outside. Though Oliver had asked the question, his gaze was turned to the trapdoor. She knew that look. He was about to do something terrible.

“If they’re checking every building, they will not be making a very thorough search,” Celia whispered. “It is mere logic. It is not hopeless.”

Oliver turned to her. His mouth opened and closed, and then Celia grew even more concerned, because rarely did Oliver look alarmed, but this was as close to it as she had seen him. As if he were already resolved to the fact that a soldier was going to 1nd the trapdoor and lift it.

“It might be around the other side,” he said. Celia didn’t comprehend. “Excuse me?”

“Help me check,” Oliver clari1ed, reaching for the pipe himself. He ran his hand along the side closer to the wall. Rather puzzled, Celia hurried to search

too, but her 1ngers only brushed dust. “There’s nothing here.”

A call—getting closer.

“Please don’t be angry at me,” Oliver said suddenly, “because this might be the last chance I have to do this.”

Before Celia could ask what he was talking about, before she could so much as grasp the meaning of his words, Oliver slid a hand along the side of her neck, then kissed her on the mouth.

She froze.

Utterly and entirely, a statue made of warm contact and incomprehension. Perhaps it would have taken another mere second for her to snap out of it and kiss him back, but she would never know: there was the sensation of something sliding around her wrist and the tightening pressure of string.

When Oliver drew back, he had already used that time to tie her to the pipe. “Don’t you dare,” Celia immediately hissed. She pulled against the string. It

was secured around her 1rmly, a double knot holding her in place. “Oliver Hong, I swear—”

“Please don’t yell,” he said. “Don’t make this for nothing. Please.” “Oliver—”

He opened the trapdoor. Celia yanked as hard as she could on the string, but she couldn’t tear herself away from the binding.

“—stop!”

The door closed. As soon as he put the rug into place above ground, the light faded, and Celia was left in complete darkness.

GODDAMMIT, OLIVER, YOU SELF-SACRIFICING PIECE OF—

COMMENT OSES-TU ESSAYER—PUTAIN DE BORDEL DE MERDE—

He had said not to yell, and Celia was logical enough to abide by the request, releasing her violent anger with only the barest thump of her 1st against the pipe. It wasn’t anger, though, not really. Beneath it was terror, because he had just given himself up to keep her safe, and no one survived being captured by the Nationalists. Her breath came short. Her lungs were deathly tight.

In all their time together, she had always known that allowing someone to care about her would result in this. Throwing themselves into the battle head

1rst, acting counter to what was right.

She hated the world at that moment, but she also hated herself. She had caused this. Her.

Don’t, don’t, please don’t—Come back—

His footsteps moved to the window. Celia heard the glass pane being opened, then Oliver’s steps heading for the direction of the door instead. Whether he was trying to create the illusion of Celia having already Aed, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she needed to clap her other hand around her mouth when an involuntary sob tried to make its way out, narrowly drowned out by the sound of soldiers rushing in.

One gunshot shattered the silence. The room erupted in a cacophony of shouting, so chaotic that no single voice could be discerned. Celia felt an overwhelming urge to scream, to give away her position just to relieve the tension, but she was an operative, not a child. She had to remain hidden and unscathed; Oliver’s capture had to mean something if she hoped to escape. They wouldn’t kill him—not yet. The soldiers had strict orders: bring the enemy back alive. How else could they extract information from the resistance?

Another gunshot rang out. Celia pressed her hand harder over her mouth. Her cheeks were damp and growing colder with each passing second, and she could barely move to wipe away the tears. Above her, chaos reigned—shouting, commands, and the thunder of footsteps that shook the floorboards so violently she feared the trapdoor might give way and expose her.

Then a voice cut through the noise: “To Shanghai. Let’s move before his backup arrives!”

Shanghai—the prison cells and war generals awaited there. A place where they could celebrate their capture and eliminate every internal threat to their power, one by one, regardless of what lurked beyond their borders.

The footsteps began to fade. The voices grew clearer, demanding Oliver be taken away.

Summoning her resolve, Celia slowly lowered her hand, now free from the risk of making noise. She tugged at her restrained arm once more, and finally, the string around her wrist snapped, releasing her from the pipe. It hardly mattered now; Oliver had only meant for it to be a temporary bind, and there was no point in following him when she could hear the soldiers leaving the building.

Celia listened. Her 1sts were clenched to the point that she could feel her nails cutting into her skin, drawing sharp pain along her palms.

The safe house had fallen silent. Celia waited another minute to be sure that they were gone, that there were no more eyes left on the room.

Please don’t be angry at me, because this might be the last chance I have to do

this.

“Goddammit—” Celia wiped at her face harshly, clearing the tears. If Oliver was resolved to become their torture subject, Celia was going to raise a damn battalion to insist otherwise.

She lifted the trapdoor. Swore under her breath, punching away the rug that tried to lift alongside the latch.

“I’m going to kill you,” Celia muttered, clambering out from the Aoorboards. “I’m going to save you, and then I’m going to kill you. Cut you into tiny chunks. I’ll feed you to the fish.”

The safe house was quiet. As was the building when she carefully entered the hallway. Celia felt like she had left the house and forgotten to put on clothes. Like she had marched into war without a shield. Oliver missing from her side was an appalling feeling.

Celia 1nally emerged outside. She shivered, wrapping her scarf tightly around her face. The 1rst matter at hand was 1nding transport. Then she needed to fetch help, which happened to have been her next destination anyway.

Zhouzhuang.