The Hong Kong safehouse perched on a Kowloon rooftop, its cramped rooms a patchwork of concrete and neon reflections, the city's pulse a distant hum through shuttered windows. Ruoxi sat on a worn couch, her ribs aching under fresh bandages, the phoenix tattoo a faint glow beneath her sleeve—quiet now, its fire dimmed after Guangdong's brutal fight. The clone's face—her face, hollow and wrong—haunted her, a mirror of what Tianhua and Xia Zhenguo's labs had twisted her blood into. Her shoulder scar throbbed, a reminder of limits pushed too far, but Pang Yuwei's vision—"trust your heart"—lingered, a guide through the turmoil.