Chapter 4

I drove back to the safe house on the edge of the dock district. After the engine died, only my rough breathing remained in the car.

My left cheek still throbbed with pain, the metallic taste lingering in my mouth. I fumbled for my keys, hands shaking so badly it took three tries to unlock the door.

Inside was dark, only sparse light from the harbor seeping through the window.

I didn't turn on the lights, walking straight to the workbench.

It was piled with things: scattered weapon parts, yellowed blueprints, several used first-aid kits, and a custom dagger in its sheath. A gift from Adrian.

He'd said this dagger was like me—elegant, lethal, unique.

Now I realized it was probably like my fate—a tool he could discard at will.

I picked up the dagger and drew the blade. The cold steel gleamed blue-gray in the dim light.

I gripped the blade with my left hand, not hesitating, and pulled hard.

Sharp pain came. Warm blood immediately welled up, running down my fingers and palm edge, dripping onto a blank weapon design paper spread on the table.

That was the special paper for drawing the final assembly diagram of "Shadow's Kiss."

Perfect.

I dropped the dagger and pressed my bleeding finger to the upper left corner of the paper. A clear, chaotic bloody fingerprint spread out.

Then, dipping in my own blood, I began to write. The strokes were crooked, the color gradually changing from bright red to dark brown.

"By the time you see this, I will have fallen into the deep sea."

"Five years of marriage, a scam to build Olivia a stage."

"The diary and bullet necklace in the armory wall record every betrayal."

"My designs became her talent, my blood became her medals."

"Adrian, your love is a poisoned bullet. Olivia, your friendship is a knife in my back."

"Don't search. The stage is yours. May you fall into hell forever in your lies."

"—Keira Thorne, on the night of complete awakening."

Finished. I looked at those hideous blood-written words, my heart hollow and empty, no sadness, just a cold, burned-out ash. The bleeding had stopped, the wound beginning to contract, the stinging sensation becoming clear and regular.

This pain kept me clear-headed.

I began to act.

I tore from my neck the thin chain he'd given me, with a micro data storage device hanging from it, containing encrypted backups of all our "beautiful memories." I threw it into the metal scrap bin at my feet. From the depths of the closet, I pulled out an old canvas bag and swept everything personal from the workbench into it: some changes of clothes, a pair of sturdy boots, a small bag of cash, several perfectly forged passports and driver's licenses, and that new, untraceable encrypted phone. Elliot's preparation.

Then I walked to the safe in the corner of the room and entered the password.

Inside was no money, just documents. My unofficial records from five years of executing tasks for Adrian, some potentially damaging communication fragments I'd privately saved, and... that engagement ring.

I took it out. The black diamond looked like a lump of congealed inferior ink in the dim light, the band cold but heavy.

I'd once treasured it so much, thinking it symbolized a dangerous but genuine promise.

Now it was just an expensive piece of trash.

I walked back to the workbench and gently placed the ring next to the blood letter. The black diamond pressed on the dark red writing, forming a grotesque and ironic image.

Time to destroy traces.

I opened a small high-temperature incinerator in the corner, stuffing in all the irrelevant papers from the canvas bag, old photos, even the champagne and tear-stained corner of the silver evening gown I'd worn tonight.

I pressed the button. Orange-red flames rose, quickly devouring everything with soft crackling sounds.

Finally, I changed into a dark gray hooded work outfit, tucked all my hair into the cap, and shouldered the light canvas bag.

I glanced at this place where I'd stayed for five years, this room filled with the smell of gunpowder, machine oil, and lonely waiting. No nostalgia.

I pulled down the brim and closed the door without locking it. Let it stay open.

I knew the route to the old dock well. The dock district at night was quiet except for the sound of waves hitting pilings and the blurred outline of distant cranes. The salty wet wind blew across my face, taking away the last bit of warmth belonging to "Keira Black."

Elliot's message from an hour ago: "Boat in position. Underwater team on standby. Take care."

Berth Seven. An ordinary-looking old fishing boat was moored there, rising and falling gently with the waves.

I boarded the boat. The engine rumbled low, the hull vibrating as it slowly left the dock, heading toward the pitch-black open sea. I stood at the bow, looking back at the city's brilliant lights, that luminous place I'd once killed for, endured for, and that had ultimately devoured me. Farther and farther, more and more blurred.

The boat traveled for about twenty minutes, stopping in an empty stretch of sea away from the main shipping lane, with only the sound of waves.

The helmsman came over, handing me a small respirator wrapped in waterproof cloth and a micro signal transmitter. "Hold the mouthpiece, jump down. About ten meters below there'll be light signals from the pickup submarine. Follow the light. The transmitter will guide you. They'll get you out. After that, your brother will handle things."

I took the items and nodded. My fingers were somewhat stiff from cold and tension, but I still efficiently secured the respirator to my mouth and strapped the transmitter to my wrist.

The helmsman glanced at me, his voice flat: "Good luck, ma'am."

I didn't respond. I climbed onto the railing at the boat's edge, taking one last look at the starless, moonless, ink-black horizon. The icy sea wind penetrated my work clothes, raising a shiver.

Then I leaned forward and plunged into the boundless, dark, icy seawater below.

The seawater instantly enveloped me, enormous pressure and cold squeezing from all directions. In the last moment before my consciousness was swallowed by the cold, a clear thought flashed through my mind: Keira Black is dead.

And the person who survives will have nothing more to do with them.