CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR – WHEN THE PAST BREATHES
Xinyue did not go home immediately.
Jun's presence lingered in her mind like a bruise pressed too often — not sharp enough to bleed, but tender enough to remind her where she had been wounded before. The rain had thinned into a mist, and the city glowed under streetlamps like a dream that refused to fully wake.
She walked instead toward the river.
The Huangpu rolled quietly beneath the bridge, dark water reflecting ribbons of light from passing boats and distant towers. She leaned against the railing, listening to the hum of traffic and the soft slap of water against concrete, letting the cold air steady her breathing.
Jun had not been just an asset.
He had been her mistake.
Years ago, before she became a whispered warning inside corporate security briefings, she had still believed people could be kept separate from operations. She had let him into a version of her life that did not yet know how to disappear. He had been warm, persistent, and disarmingly patient — the kind of man who made promises sound like quiet truths instead of hopeful guesses.
And she had used that.
Not cruelly.
Not intentionally.
But she had let him stand too close to a system designed to collapse.
When Han Corporation fell, Jun had fallen with it — professionally, financially, socially. She had disappeared without explanation, leaving him to rebuild his life on top of questions that never received answers.
Now he was back.
And he was walking too close to Horizon Gate.
Which meant Horizon Gate was no longer just business.
It was personal.
By morning, her systems were awake again.
Xinyue sat cross-legged on her bed, screens floating with logistics maps, live port feeds, and procurement trails that curved across countries like veins under digital skin. The phantom supplier she had introduced was being praised inside Horizon Gate's private network — tagged as "efficient," "discreet," "ideal."
They were leaning into it.
They were trusting it.
She began planting subtle inefficiencies — shipments that arrived early, staff credentials that mismatched by a digit, automated clearance that rerouted through unnecessary verification channels. Nothing loud. Nothing alarming.
Just friction.
Organizations didn't collapse from explosions.
They collapsed from hesitation.
Her burner vibrated again.
They're accelerating their second phase.
They're nervous.
— Silver Watch
Good.
Nervous systems made mistakes.
She met Mei again that evening.
This time not at the café — but at a quiet bookstore that smelled of old paper and lemon polish. Mei browsed shelves like a casual reader, her voice low as she spoke.
"They're trying to build a closed data city," Mei murmured. "Private security, private servers, private enforcement. They want to step outside national oversight."
"And who's funding it?" Xinyue asked.
Mei slid a thin receipt between two books.
"Offshore trusts tied to three families that lost major holdings when Han collapsed."
Xinyue exhaled slowly.
Revenge.
Organized, patient revenge.
"They want to build a world that can't be watched," Mei added. "And they want to do it using your bones."
That made her smile faintly.
"They always do."
Later that night, Xinyue received a message that made her pause.
Jun.
We should talk.
Not as enemies.
Not as allies.
Just as what we were.
She stared at the words longer than she meant to.
She typed.
That door is closed.
A pause.
You were never good at locking doors, Xinyue.
Her breath caught — not in fear, but in the echo of something unfinished.
She did not sleep easily.
Dreams came in fragments — old apartments, unlit stairwells, Jun's voice calling her name from behind walls that kept shifting shape.
When she woke, she knew one thing clearly:
Horizon Gate was no longer her only problem.
And Jun was no longer just a ghost.
He was a choice.
And choices were more dangerous than enemies.