As the city clock struck 2:47 AM, Jiang Zhiqing leaned back in the plush leather seat of the car, her legs elegantly crossed, her demeanor unreadable beneath her oversized black shades. The streetlights outside flickered across her face in passing glows, but she didn't blink once.
"Tomorrow evening," she said coolly, "7 o'clock. Arrange the press conference."
Du Xiaoman glanced at her through the rearview mirror but didn't question her tone. She only nodded. "Where to now?"
Zhiqing peeled her eyes from the window. "Cloud Paradise Club."
Du Xiaoman's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel, but she didn't argue. From the passenger seat, Song Xi shifted, her brows knitting together before quickly schooling her expression.
The name of that place wasn't ordinary. And neither were the people associated with it.
Yet neither of them said a word.
A sharp silence enveloped the car again, like a blanket soaked in gasoline—waiting for a match.
Cloud Paradise Club, nestled in the heart of Beiyuan's nightlife district, was still alive at this late hour. Neon lights flickered over the entrance, music pulsing through the ground like a heartbeat. Inside, it was an intoxicating swirl of sound and color—thumping basslines, the clink of glasses, slurred laughter echoing from karaoke rooms, and perfume-laced air heavy with secrets.
But not all corners of the club were meant for revelry.
On the top floor, past soundproofed walls and guarded staircases, the VVIP suite was cast in shadows. Velvet-black drapes. Dim amber lighting. And a silence broken only by—
A man's painful, muffled groans.
Two bulky bodyguards in bouncer-style casuals stood like statues on either side of the door—sunglasses on even in the dim hall, arms folded across broad chests.
When they saw Jiang Zhiqing approaching, their posture snapped straight. They lowered their glasses and bowed slightly.
"Miss Jiang."
Zhiqing gave a soft nod, her heels clicking against the black marble as she slowed to a stop.
"Is your missy inside?" she asked, her voice laced with amusement.
One of the guards answered, voice low and respectful, "Yes, Miss Jiang. But… Missy is busy right now. She's teaching a lesson to a rat in the family. It's… very bloody."
There was a pause.
Zhiqing's lips curled into a small, wicked smile. She tilted her head slightly, her voice a velvety purr.
"It's alright. I can handle that much blood." Her eyes gleamed. "In fact… I rather crave the smell of it."
The two bouncers stiffened instinctively, as if a phantom breeze of ice had swept down the corridor.
That chuckle. Low. Dark. Beautifully terrifying.
Zhiqing reached for the ornate handle of the VVIP room and pushed the door open herself.
The guards didn't dare stop her.
Inside, the atmosphere was a sharp contrast to the noise of the club below. Deep red carpets soaked the floor, and a single antique chandelier hung above, its light casting long shadows across the room.
In the center, a chair. Leather-bound.
A man—face bruised and swollen, blood trickling from his mouth—struggled against the restraints but barely made a sound now.
And in front of him stood a woman in a figure-hugging black suit, her long legs crossed, a glass of wine in one hand, and a crimson-stained switchblade in the other.
An'Ran.
Her eyes flicked up as the door clicked shut.
"Well," she said, smirking without surprise. "You came."
Zhiqing stepped further in, shrugging off her coat, calm as a queen surveying a kingdom of ashes.
"I heard you were having fun," she said, her voice smooth. "Thought I'd join in."
An'Ran laughed lightly, raising her glass. "There's enough blood for both of us tonight."
The man whimpered.
But neither woman looked at him.
Their attention was entirely on each other—and the next move that the world was not yet ready for.
Looking toward the bloody face of the middle-aged man slumped in the chair, Jiang Zhiqing's eyes narrowed with icy disdain.
A smirk curled at the edge of her lips as she stepped closer.
"Oh… it's our legendary uncle," she said coldly, her voice dripping with venom. "The one who couldn't keep his filthy hands off the little daughters of his own brother… and his friend."
The man's swollen eye twitched. He tried to speak, but only a gurgle came out through his busted lip.
Zhiqing didn't wait.
She turned her gaze to the side table, where a sleek, blood-slicked knife gleamed under the chandelier's dim light. She picked it up with practiced ease, its grip warm from recent use.
Without hesitation, she stepped forward—and drove the blade clean through his right palm, pinning it down to the armrest.
"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"
The man's scream ripped through the room like thunder, shrill and agonizing. Blood gushed from the wound, splattering across Zhiqing's cheek and chin like a twisted badge of justice.
She didn't even flinch.
Instead, she stared at the trembling figure, her gaze sharp and expression unreadable. Then, without another word, she turned away, the echo of her heels tapping coldly against the marble floor.
Behind her, the only sound left was the man's whimpering—and the steady drip of blood onto the carpet.
The man's ragged breathing slowed… and then stopped altogether—he had passed out from the searing pain. His body slumped against the blood-soaked chair, head lolling to one side.
An'ran didn't even blink.
She gave a sharp snap of her fingers, and two silent assistants immediately stepped forward, gloved and composed. One moved to check the man's pulse; the other began preparing the medical kit and towels.
"Clean him up," An'ran said flatly, sipping from her dark red wine glass as if nothing unusual had occurred.
Zhiqing removed her gloves with deliberate calm, tossing them into the biohazard bin in the corner. Then she looked at An'ran with a raised brow.
"When was this bastard released from prison?" she asked, her voice cool but laced with irritation. "Why don't I know about this? You're having fun without me now?"
An'ran leaned against the velvet sofa, swirling her drink, her painted lips curling into a knowing smile.
Before she could answer, the door creaked open slightly—and a young girl stepped timidly into the blood-scented room.
She was pale, with hollow eyes and smeared mascara. Her dress was short and cheaply sequined, exposing more than it covered. The way she clutched the doorframe revealed her hesitation, but also her desperation to stay invisible.
Zhiqing's eyes narrowed in amusement.
"And who is this chick?" She asked dryly, nodding toward the girl. "She doesn't look like your usual brand."