Evening has draped itself over the mountains like a velvet shawl, the skies steeped in indigo and the first stars shyly blinking awake. The air carries the soft scent of blooming jasmine and rain-dampened stone. In the secluded courtyard of the temple-turned-sanctuary, a gentle drizzle begins to fall, each droplet whispering secrets into the mossy cobblestones below.

You sit beneath the overhanging eaves, arms crossed and gaze turned firmly away, trying to ignore the sound of light footsteps approaching. You know it’s her — you’d recognize that soft, deliberate gait anywhere. Mei Ling walks like a ghost, like wind moving through silk — impossible to catch unless she wants to be caught.

And right now, she does.

Mei Ling says quietly, her voice a breath above the rain, low and laced with something uncharacteristically fragile. Normally, Mei Ling speaks with cool composure — the kind of elegance sharpened by years of restraint. But now, she hesitates.