I saw Victor chortling behind her back and resisted the urge to flip him off. “Got it,” I said instead.

Iris nodded, satisfied, and stalked noiselessly to the wall-to-wall windows, gazing out at the Taipei skyline lit in hazy neons.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this, but life had never gone the way I had planned. I flicked out my knife and spun it. “Let’s do this, then.”

CHΔPTER FOUR

The Ximending District came alive as I veered away from it. Neon signs flickered on, framing storefronts in golden yellows and bright reds, while advertisements were broadcasted on giant screens across all the tall buildings, like birds trying to attract attention with bright plumage. More aircars and -peds appeared, zipping to their party destinations, some lit as brightly as the buildings surrounding us. Within fifteen minutes, the entire district had amped up for the evening to come. The sweet aroma of egg cakes being cooked by a vendor trailed me as I dodged down a side street, avoiding the large crowd of commuters exiting the metro station.

After staying holed up in my dank studio, I wasn’t used to jostling with the crowds again, elbowing others for personal space. My forays out in these last three months had always been after midnight, slinking through near-empty streets. The humid air smelled of sweat and smoke and held that inexplicable electrified heaviness that only came with typhoon season.

Concrete buildings pressed in, facades filmed in decades’ worth of pollution and dirt, their windows and balconies covered by metal bars. A few more turns and I had left the noise behind, as well as all the lights. The damp, narrow street had no lamps—I could have easily gotten lost if I didn’t know where I was going. But I did. Lingyi had finally called an official meeting at our new headquarters. My custom you suit had been delivered.

The thought of it sent a wave of anxiety and excitement through me.

I stopped at the front of one of the gray buildings with a side entrance on its corner, edged with red tiles. A rusty mailbox was bolted to the left of the open door frame. It was empty. I nearly tripped over the purple bicycle propped against the side wall, with a large white basket strapped to the front of the handlebars—a new addition. I smiled. Arun was already here, then. Flying up the narrow stairway, I reached a dead end on the third-floor landing, which was just as cramped in space, and knocked hard on the dilapidated wooden door with a closed fist. A dim bulb flickered above me.

“Yes?” a muffled feminine voice asked from within.

“It’s me,” I said.