Lian woke before the light fully pushed through the curtains. She lay still for a moment, listening. Pipes. A distant bus. Kai breathing in the next room.

  She got up and made coffee strong enough to taste bitter before it tasted warm. By the time Kai shuffled out, hair a mess, she was already dressed.

  “You did not sleep,” he said.

  “I slept enough,” she replied.

  He poured himself coffee and leaned against the counter. “You are lying.”

  She did not argue. They had long ago stopped pretending that sleep mattered the same way it did for other people.

  Kai opened his laptop and started scanning feeds. Traffic cams. Hospital staff schedules. Power logs from the building they had watched the night before.

  “He is back on site today,” Kai said. “Left home early. No detours.”

  Lian nodded. “Routine is comfort.”

  “For him,” Kai said. “Not for us.”

  They spent the next few hours moving. New clothes. Different route. A borrowed motorbike parked three streets away. Lian rode pillion, arms loose around Kai’s waist, blending into the stream of scooters weaving through traffic.

  They stopped near the building and split. Kai took a seat at a cafe across the street, laptop already out. Lian walked, head down, posture unremarkable.

  Inside the building the doctor stood in a small conference room with three others. Two men. One woman. All dressed plainly. No visible insignia. The door closed with a soft click.

  “We are behind schedule,” the woman said.

  “We are within acceptable margins,” the doctor replied.

  “Patients are dying,” the other man said.

  The doctor’s jaw tightened. “Complications occur.”

  The woman leaned forward. “You assured us the delivery method was untraceable.”

  “It is,” he said. “The issue is dosage consistency.”

  Silence hung for a moment.

  “Fix it,” the woman said. “Or we find someone who will.”

  After they left, the doctor remained seated. He rubbed his eyes, then stood and straightened his coat. He looked tired again.

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  Across the street Kai watched the power spike in real time. “They are running something heavy right now,” he murmured into the mic.

  “I know,” Lian said quietly. She was inside now, moving through the stairwell. Her steps were measured. Calm. She reached the third floor and paused, listening.

  Voices drifted from behind a door. Technical language. Clinical detachment. The sound of metal trays.

  She did not go in.

  Instead she slipped into a storage room and waited.

  An hour later the doctor emerged alone. He checked his watch and headed for the elevator. Lian followed at a distance.

  Outside, the air felt thicker. He walked fast, shoulders tense. He did not notice the woman crossing the street toward him until she spoke his name.

  He stopped.

  “Lian,” he said.

  She stood a few steps away, hands visible, expression neutral. “You look tired.”

  “You should not be here,” he said.

  “Neither should you,” she replied.

  People passed around them. No one slowed.

  “This is dangerous,” he said quietly.

  She shrugged. “It always was.”

  He laughed once, sharp and humorless. “You always say that like it excuses you.”

  “I do not excuse myself,” she said. “I accept it.”

  They stood there, rain threatening but not falling.

  “You need to walk away,” he said. “Before you get hurt.”

  She tilted her head. “Is that concern or strategy.”

  He hesitated. “Both.”

  She stepped closer. “People are dying.”

  His eyes flicked away. “You do not understand the scale.”

  “I understand bodies,” she said. “I understand consequences.”

  “You left,” he snapped. “You chose him.”

  She did not flinch. “I chose truth.”

  He clenched his fists. “You think you are righteous.”

  “No,” she said. “I think I am responsible.”

  A car horn blared. Someone cursed nearby.

  “You cannot stop this,” he said, voice low. “Even if you wanted to.”

  “I am not here to stop everything,” she replied. “Just you.”

  His face hardened. “Then you are already too late.”

  She watched him walk away, steps brisk, back straight. She did not follow.

  Kai met her two blocks over.

  “You okay,” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “He is worse than I thought.”

  Kai closed his laptop. “We got confirmation. Active testing. Limited batches.”

  “People,” she said.

  “Yes,” Kai replied.

  They rode home in silence. Back in the apartment Lian cleaned her blade even though she had not used it. Habit steadied her hands.

  Kai sat on the floor, back against the couch. “He knows you are close.”

  “He always did,” she said.

  “That changes things.”

  She met his eyes. “It clarifies them.”

  They ate simple food. Rice. Eggs. No appetite for more.

  As night fell, the city outside buzzed on, indifferent. Lian stood by the window, watching lights flicker on one by one.

  Kai spoke softly behind her. “We do this together.”

  She nodded. “Always.”

  Neither of them said the doctor’s name again.