The car tore through the night like an arrow loosed from a bow.
Engines screamed, slicing the darkness apart.
For a moment, everyone thought they were clear. Safe.
But in the rearview, headlights cut through the distance. Two of them. Stubborn. Chasing.
"Not lost them," Allen said, voice low.
Tiffany bent down, wrapping her arm wound with quick, precise motions. She tossed the medkit onto Lucien lap without a glance, voice flat, cold.
"Your turn."
She turned her head toward the driver.
"Allen, dim the rearview. I need to change."
"You've got the black tactical top and high-waist combat pants in your bag. Easy to move in," Allen said, eyes fixed on the road.
Tiffany didn't hesitate. Every movement was sharp, controlled.
Even in the cramped backseat, there was no chaos.
She slipped into the tactical top. Then the pants—zip straight to the side, waistline sharp, cold, lethal.
Only then did she pull the champagne-colored dress from her shoulders, bloodied and discarded it casually beside her. No hesitation. No grace wasted. Wild. Sharp.
"Done."
Lucien propped his injured foot on the seat in front. Dim cabin light.
When he reached to apply ointment, his hand brushed Tiffany's.
She recoiled immediately, brow knitting.
"Seriously? Watch it. This isn't your cabin alone. Life-or-death situations aren't for your theatrics."
Lucien flared instantly.
"Theatrics? If I hadn't had your back today, you'd have been taken advantage of already—and now you throw a fit?"
Tiffany let out a cold laugh.
Before she could speak, Lucien hand shot up. His fingers gripped her neck.
"Mind your tone."
Unfazed, Tiffany's knee snapped up—right into his injured leg.
A muffled grunt. He loosened his grip.
She yanked his perfectly styled hair backward.
"If I hadn't been dragged into this mess, I wouldn't be bleeding. I wouldn't be wiping your ass, getting chased and shot at. That little money of yours isn't worth it."
Lucien eyes flared red.
"Not worth it? I put up the money, the scene, and protected you. And you dare talk back?"
"Shut up!" Allen's roar split the cabin.
A quick turn of the wheel. The car jolted.
"Keep arguing, I stop. You drive yourselves."
Silence hit the car like a hammer.
Lucien panted. He grabbed Tiffany's chin, jerking her back.
Her spine slammed into the door. A muffled sound escaped her lips.
Only the engine and the wind remained, howling as the two cars tore through the night.
After a beat, Tiffany spoke. Low. Calm.
"Allen."
"Yeah?"
"The ones who blocked us downstairs… what did you notice?"
"The upstairs and downstairs teams aren't together. Different gear, different uniforms." Allen paused. "Downstairs… they look familiar."
"Familiar how?"
"Like Hao's people." Allen recalled the fight, the voices. "I caught a phrase. 'Don't care about that.' The tone—definitely his men."
Tiffany's gaze went ice-cold.
"Ease off. Close the distance. I'll confirm."
"How?"
"They won't touch me. Reaction tells everything."
Allen slowed. The rear vehicles crept closer.
Tiffany cracked the door slightly, leaning out. Night wind ripped through her black tactical suit.
The men behind froze. Two flashes of headlights. No gunfire.
Allies.
She slid back in, door clicking shut.
"Stop the car."
Allen slammed the brakes. Tires screeched against asphalt.
Two cars. Empty road. Silence.
Tiffany stepped out. Tall. Sharp. Cold as ice. Each step toward the rear vehicle carried lethal intent.
Her voice sliced through the night, without warmth: