On the afternoon he returned to Caelora, the sky was a flat gray-white, as if someone had erased it with an eraser. Kieran stood under the bus stop sign, looking at the familiar lines of the harbor, the yachts, and the distant lights that existed for tourists—everything was the same as before he left, yet it felt like there was a layer of something in between.

  He touched the small box in his pocket. The black crystal, smaller than a grain of rice, was sealed in a transparent capsule, like a miniature curse.

  Seventy-two hours.

  He had seventy-two hours to get it into Emilia Grey's body. The method was not restricted—food, water, or even letting her inhale air containing the crystal powder would work. Once inside, the crystal would automatically dissolve and spread into the bloodstream, becoming an unremovable tracking beacon.

  And what he needed to do now was to find the most "natural" way.

  *

  Kieran spent a day re-confirming Emilia's patterns of behavior. This time he was more careful, keeping his distance and avoiding her possible "precognitive gaze," following the edges of her life like a shadow.

  She left for school every morning at seven-thirty and got out at three-thirty in the afternoon. On Wednesdays and Fridays, she attended piano lessons, and on weekends, she went out with her parents—sometimes to the park, sometimes to the shopping mall, and sometimes to a restaurant.

  Restaurant.

  This option was the most ideal. Crowded, noisy, with waiters coming in and out, no one would notice a high school student sitting in the corner. Moreover, food and drinks would be delivered directly to her, and he just needed to "intervene" at some point.

  After two days of observation, Kieran confirmed the restaurant that the target family frequents the most—“Sea Breeze Bistro,” a family-style restaurant located in the Old Port area, known for its seafood dishes. Emilia's parents take her here for dinner every Saturday night.

  Today is Saturday.

  At six o'clock in the evening, Kieran arrived at the restaurant early. He was wearing a dark hoodie, a mask, and a baseball cap, looking like an ordinary customer trying to avoid the crowd. He chose a seat by the window in a blind spot and ordered only a black coffee, no sugar, no milk.

  At six forty-five, the Gray family arrived.

  Emilia was wearing a pink thick coat, her hair tied into two small braids, bouncing along behind her parents. Her father—a middle-aged man who looked tired but gentle—helped her take off her coat; her mother—a brown-haired woman with a warm smile—gently reminded her, "Sit still and don't run around."

  They were seated at a four-person table near the kitchen. The location wasn't great, but it was just right for Kieran—he could clearly see their every move without being noticed by them.

  The waiter presented the menu. Emilia excitedly pointed at a dish, saying something with her mouth, while her mother smiled and patted her head.

  Kieran's fingers clenched the small box in his pocket.

  The current problem is: how to place a tracking device in her food without being noticed?

  He scanned the restaurant— the kitchen's service entrance, the waitstaff's pathways, the location of the restrooms. Ideas began to quickly form in his mind:

  Option 1: Disguise as a waiter. The risk is too high; the employees at this restaurant know each other well, and a stranger's face would be immediately suspected.

  Option Two: Intercept her drink while she goes to the bathroom. It's feasible, but requires precise timing, and she might not leave her seat.

  Option Three: Create an "accident" that requires the food to be re-served, then intervene in the kitchen. However, this requires more preparation time and makes too much noise.

  Option Four: …

  After waiting for more than ten minutes, the meals for Emilia's table arrived: the adults had seafood risotto and steak, while the children had creamy pasta, accompanied by a small plate of fries and ketchup. After the waiter left, Emilia grabbed a fry to sneak a bite and deliberately made a face at her father.

  Kieran noted quietly: she ate fries first, then the pasta. She would squeeze the ketchup into a pile.

  He stood up and walked towards the bathroom with his coffee. As he passed through the aisle, he deliberately slowed his pace, as if looking for directions. Then, at the corner closest to her table, he "accidentally" stepped on a crayon that a child had dropped on the floor, causing his shoe to slip, and the coffee cup to wobble—

  “Oops!” he inhaled sharply, bending down to pick up the crayon.

  In that moment, his hand pulled out a box from the inner pocket of his coat, his thumb pressing it open halfway. The crystal was pinched between his fingertip, resembling a grain of black sand.

  He just needed a landing spot.

  The ketchup dish was at the edge of the table, and the fries were almost gone. If the crystal landed in the sauce, it would be brought to her mouth the next time she dipped; even if she didn't eat it, it would stick to her hand and then touch her lips—either way, the implantation would be completed.

  He calculated the height of the table, the angle at which he bent over, and the trajectory of the crystal falling. This was not the first time he had done such "micro-manipulations." During his training at Dreadspire, these kinds of details were considered fundamental skills—subtly altering a person's fate.

  He raised his eyes, confirming that his parents' attention was focused on the dish.

  Just as he was about to let go—

  Emilia suddenly looked up, staring directly at him.

  She was neither startled nor confused. She simply looked at him, as if she had known all along that he would be standing in this corner, bending down, and reaching out.

  Her gaze was very calm.

  So calm that it caused a barely noticeable pause in the muscles at Kieran's fingertips.

  The crystal hovered between his fingertips, not falling.

  The girl's lips curled slightly—not a smile, but more like a form of "confirmation." Then she reached for the ketchup, grabbed a French fry, dipped it, and slowly brought it to her mouth, chewing and swallowing.

  As if to say to him: you’re too late.

  Kieran's gaze penetrated her chest, capturing a subtle wave of energy—one not caused by her eating the French fry, but rather a trace left by her "foreknowledge." That trace was faint yet precise, like a seasoned hunter.

  He didn't dare to take the risk, putting the crystal back into the box, closing the lid as if nothing had happened just moments ago.

  He picked up the crayon and walked over to the service counter not far away, handing the crayon to the clerk and quietly saying it was found on the floor. The clerk thanked him without giving him a second glance.

  Kieran returned to his seat, the bitterness of the black coffee spreading at the back of his tongue. His hands rested on the table, fingers steady as a machine.

  But the device in his mind was recording his heart rate—slightly faster than he thought.

  He looked at Emilia's table. The girl was no longer looking at him, swinging her legs and talking to her parents, as if the earlier eye contact was just an illusion.

  Kieran lowered his gaze, as if examining the black liquid in his cup.

  He needed a second chance.

  And this time, he couldn't let her "foresee" it.

  Suddenly, Emilia slid off her chair and tugged at her mother's sleeve. Her mother leaned down to listen to what she said, nodded, folded the napkin neatly, and took her hand to lead her towards the restroom at the end of the aisle.

  At the same time, the father slid his credit card into the bill holder, stood up, and walked towards the counter. The table was left with only two glasses of drinks still bubbling—an adult's lemon soda and a child's strawberry soda, with straws leaning against the rims and beads of water clinging to the glass walls.

  Kieran did not move immediately.

  He first listens, then looks: the sound of the kitchen's range hood, the rhythm of knives and forks clashing in the restaurant, the sharp laughter of children at the next table. No sound changes because of "him." A waiter is carrying a plate through the aisle, and two customers are taking off their coats at the door; no one notices him in the corner.

  He picks up the coffee and takes a sip, bitter like medicine. Then he puts down the cup and stands up.

  His steps need to be as natural as someone going to the restroom or settling the bill—neither fast nor slow. As he passes by their table, his shoulder slightly tucks in, as if afraid of bumping into the chair back; his left thumb presses the small box in his pocket open, while the tip of his right finger pinches out the black crystal.

  As small as a grain of rice, yet enough to change a person's life.

  His gaze does not fall on the cup but on the children's menu at the edge of the table—featuring a crooked dolphin and a sun. Only his fingertips are at work.

  The crystal falls silently, just a slight weight, passing through the bubbles of the soda, like black sand sinking to the bottom, instantly swallowed by the pink liquid. The bubbles rise faster for two seconds, then return to their original rhythm.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Done.

  Kieran walks past the table without even pausing, as if merely brushing by. He returns to his seat, leaning back against the chair, his hands resting on the table, his posture so relaxed it borders on nihilism. Only his eyes are very dry.

  He waits.

  This is more torturous than murder—waiting for someone else to make that "swallow" motion, while you know exactly what you are waiting for.

  Minutes later, the father returned from the counter, draping his coat over his arm and taking a couple of sips from his lemon soda. He glanced at his daughter's strawberry soda but didn't touch it, assuming, like most parents, that it was for the child.

  He sat back down and lowered his head to scroll through his phone.

  Kieran's fingertips tapped lightly on the table, as if counting down for someone.

  One minute. Two minutes.

  There were no footsteps coming from the direction of the restroom.

  Kieran's stomach felt like it was being squeezed by a cold wire.

  They hadn't come back.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Kieran caught his father's movements—fingers tapping on the table, toes tapping on the ground, his gaze frequently drifting towards the depths of the aisle. Finally, he stood up and walked out of the store.

  Kieran knew what that kind of fear looked like. It would first heat up in the chest, then burn all the way to the throat, making every swallow a struggle.

  Kieran remained seated in his original spot.

  He did not catch up.

  He just stared at the glass of strawberry soda. The pink liquid looked overly sweet under the light, like some kind of cheap happiness. Water droplets on the cup slid down the glass, slowly dripping onto the table, leaving circular wet marks.

  Did he succeed?

  The crystal was already in the cup. It was just a matter of "the entrance."

  However, the conclusion in his mind became increasingly clear—Emilia was not avoiding him; she was guiding him to make a specific move, making him think he finally found an opening. She wanted him to put something into the cup. Then, she disappeared.

  It was foresight. It was a trap. Or—was the force behind her finally making a move.

  Kieran's heart rate didn't spike; Dreadspire's "calibration" dulled his emotions like a blunted blade, but that didn't mean he didn't understand danger. On the contrary, he was clearer than ever: if this drink was taken for testing, if someone discovered foreign substances, if traces led back to him—this wouldn't be a mission failure; it would declare him a risk source to be eliminated.

  He stood up.

  The movement was still natural, like a customer finishing their coffee and preparing to leave. He walked to the counter, took out money, and calmly said, "Check, please."

  The clerk glanced at him: "Sir, you only ordered coffee."

  "Hmm." Kieran placed the money down, said nothing more, and turned to leave.

  As he stepped out of the restaurant, the night breeze filled his lungs with a mix of sea salt and the smell of cooking oil. He paused at the street corner, not walking away immediately, but instead glanced back at the restaurant. The target had once again "disappeared" from his sight; he had been played.

  Kieran withdrew his gaze and walked into the darker alley beside him, then activated his internal communication.

  ‘Sabrina.’ His voice was steady, like reporting the completion of a task, ‘I have completed the deployment. The tracking device has entered the target's drink.’

  He paused for a moment before adding a second sentence—that was the key point.

  ‘But the target and her mother went missing before drinking. Suspected to have foreseen and avoided it. The father left shortly after.’

  There was a half-second of silence on the other end of the communication.

  ‘Are you sure the device is still at the scene?’ Sabrina asked.

  ‘Yes. The cup was left on the table.’ Kieran's gaze dropped slightly, as if replaying in his mind the moment she looked at him, ‘It was as if… she intentionally let me put it in.’

  Sabrina's voice became colder and faster: ‘Withdraw. Do not approach any further. Leave the Old Port area immediately.’

  ‘What about the device—’

  “It doesn’t matter.” Sabrina interrupted him, her tone firm and decisive. “What’s important is that your exposure risk has increased. We will take over from here. You stay home and be on standby.”

  Connection lost.

  Kieran turned and left the scene, hearing the distant chime of the restaurant door being pushed open.

  He did not look back.

  He simply walked deeper into the darkness, his pace neither fast nor slow, like a soldier retreating along a predetermined path.

  But this time, for the first time, he clearly realized: the target was not the hunted rabbit.

  She was the thing that lured the hunter into the trap.

  And that codename—“Chameleon”—was like a cold thorn, slowly piercing deep into his recently calibrated heart, which was supposed to “feel no pain.”

  *

  One of the streetlights at the alley entrance was broken, the light flickering intermittently, like some impatient blinking.

  When Kieran was only two blocks away from home, his steps suddenly slowed.

  Not because of fatigue—but because he caught a whiff of a scent that did not belong to this street: metal, dry herbs, and a faint trace of “clean.” It was neither the briny smell typical of Caelora nor the sour stench from the corner trash bin, but rather a scent that had been “processed.”

  He instinctively stopped, wanting to adjust his route.

  In the next second, the world felt as if someone had gently pushed him from behind.

  His knees lost strength first, followed by his fingers, wrists, and shoulders—numbness poured into his veins like cold water, filling him along the nerves. His vision didn't go dark, and his heartbeat didn't stop; on the contrary, his awareness was terrifyingly clear, so clear that he could hear the brief friction of his shoe soles against the ground.

  He fell, his cheek pressed against the wet, cold asphalt.

  His body felt as if it had been taken apart and then incorrectly put back together—every muscle was still there, but no longer obeyed. Even his throat felt locked, only able to produce faint gasps.

  Nerve block.

  Medical terms immediately surfaced in his mind: localized paralysis, muscle dysfunction, but consciousness retained. It wasn't a sedative; it felt more like a precise intervention targeting the "motor nerves."

  And worse still—he felt no traces of the procedure.

  There was none of that familiar aftershock of a "line" being pulled, no rough magical residue like that from Dreadspire. It was as if the other party had already wiped away all traces, leaving only the result.

  He widened his eyes, staring at the shadow at the mouth of the alley.

  From the darkness came two sets of footsteps, one light and one heavy. The heavy one was steady, with the rhythm of an adult; the light one... almost sounded like dancing.

  Two figures walked out from the corner of the wall.

  One big and one small.

  The small one is the girl—Emilia Grey. She isn't wearing a coat, as if she just walked out from indoors, her cheeks still carrying the warm hue left by the restaurant lights. She looks down at Kieran, her gaze calm, even a bit curious, as if observing an overturned insect.

  The big one is her father.

  But Kieran knew at first glance that something was "off."

  The man's shoulder line, chin, and the point where his weight falls while walking all match the father he saw in the park—but his aura is inconsistent. The outer layer of color seems smoothed out, like a piece of glass that has been wiped repeatedly until it loses its texture; and beneath the glass, something cold and hard is watching him.

  The man stops a few steps away from him, squatting down to meet his eye level.

  "Don't struggle," the man says, his voice low and deep, carrying a deliberately suppressed politeness, "You can only listen now, not move. It's safer for you this way."

  Kieran wants to laugh, but he can't even move the corners of his mouth.

  The girl squats down beside him, resting her chin on her hands, tilting her head to look at him, her tone casual as if chatting: "You trembled a bit just now in the restaurant. That was quite beautiful."

  Kieran's pupils constrict.

  She can see. Not only can she foresee, but she is "reading" him—reading his subtle movements, reading his intentions, even reading the hesitation just before he makes a decision. This is not merely foresight; it resembles a highly integrated perceptual ability: merging future possibilities with present details.

  The man reached out, pressing two fingers against Kieran's neck. It wasn't to check his pulse, but rather to confirm whether a certain node was locked.

  "The calibration of Dreadspire," the man said softly, "has been quite thorough. You seem much calmer."

  Kieran's heart raced suddenly, but his body remained still. The device in his mind had no alarms, no communications—like it had been muted.

  It was blocked.

  Someone had created a "no signal zone" around him, or had directly imposed a blockade on his device.

  The girl leaned in a little closer and said in a volume only he could hear, "When you put the thing in the cup, I knew you weren't an ordinary bad person. Ordinary bad people are afraid of getting caught; you aren't. You only fear..." She paused, as if searching for the most accurate word, "fear 'failure.'

  Kieran's eyes were fixed on her.

  "What is your name?" the man asked.

  Kieran did not answer—he couldn't answer now.

  The man continued speaking as if he didn't care: "You don't need to say. We know who you are. Kieran Vale. The Executor of Dreadspire. I also know what model that thing in your head is."

  He raised his hand and gently tapped the position of his temple with his fingertip, as if indicating the same place.

  “You... are the Order of Solace?” Kieran finally managed to squeeze out a bit of sound, like sandpaper scraping his throat, broken to the point of being almost inaudible.

  The girl smiled and said, “You all like to divide people into two sides. Light and darkness. Like children playing on a chessboard.” She extended her finger and gently poked his forehead, “I’m more like—wanting to survive.”

  The man stood up, pulled up his collar to cover the skin on one side of his neck. He glanced at the alley entrance, as if confirming there were no extra eyes around, then whispered, “Time is short. The people from Dreadspire will soon discover he’s missing.”

  The girl stood up, brushed off nonexistent dust from her skirt, and said to the man, “I want to talk to him.”

  The man frowned, “Thalia—”

  Thalia.

  Kieran's heart felt like it was pierced by a fine needle. He remembered that name all too well— a member of the Order of Solace, the organization's number one target. Appearing in this world with different faces, repeatedly sabotaging the organization's plans, that cunning “chameleon.”

  His current target, the nine-year-old girl Emilia, was just her old trick being played again.

  The girl—Thalia—seemed to enjoy his reaction in that moment, a slight smile curling her lips, her gaze sharp as a knife's edge.

  “You finally recognized me,” she said.

  Kieran let out a barely audible breath from his throat, as if he wanted to curse, or perhaps to confirm.

  “You wanted to kill me that time,” Thalia squatted down, her tone light as if telling a story, “You looked at my heart like it was a fruit that could be crushed. But you stopped.” She blinked, “I’ve always wanted to know why.”

  Kieran's pupils trembled slightly.

  Thalia reached out, her fingertips hovering an inch above his chest, not touching his skin, yet it felt as if she could sense his heartbeat through the air.

  “You stopped again just now,” she said, “You put the tracker in the cup, and then you thought you won. But you were actually waiting for me to drink. What you were waiting for was ‘completion,’ not ‘death.’”

  She looked up at him, her gaze suddenly turning cold: “You’ve been taught by Dreadspire to kill well, but they didn’t teach you—prey can bite back.”

  The man beside them interjected, his voice deeper: “Thalia, enough. Take him away. This place isn’t suitable for a long stay.”

  “Take away?” The alarm in Kieran's mind exploded. He wanted to struggle, but he couldn’t move even a finger.

  Thalia stood up, as if making a decision, her tone decisive: “Not taking him away. He’s too conspicuous; taking him would expose our whereabouts.” She looked down at Kieran, “And I don’t want you to die here.”

  The man was silent for two seconds, as if weighing the risks: "So what do you want to do?"

  Thalia smiled, but her smile was not warm: "I want to give him a choice."

  Kieran's heart skipped a beat.

  Thalia leaned down, bringing her voice close to his ear, soft as the sea breeze:

  “Tell me—do you want to live, or die?”