?Jun Qingcheng stared at the ceiling, her dark eyes possessing a centered stillness that defied her years.

  ?To evade suspicion, she had to play the part of the fragile daughter to perfection.

  ?“Get some rest then, Miss,” the butler said, his voice lowering in deference. “I shall accompany you to the hospital tomorrow.”

  ?“Mm.”

  ?Once the door clicked shut, Jun Qingcheng returned to her desk, the dossiers fanned out before her like a deck of tarot cards.

  ?In two weeks, the local underworld was hosting a "house-cleaning" banquet—a Hongmen Feast. A significant portion of her list would be in attendance. It was a tempting efficiency; she could prune the garden in one fell swoop. A challenge she found intellectually stimulating.

  ?The following day, through a series of calculated misdirections, she successfully secured her admission to the hospital.

  ?The butler moved her essentials into the room, hovering as if to stay. She dismissed him with a cool wave, suggesting he find someone more suitable for a young lady’s personal care. He agreed, hiring professional nurses to stand guard. By afternoon, she had been moved to a high-end private suite.

  ?At 8:00 PM, while the world thought she was sedated, Jun Qingcheng was boarding a flight. Behind her, two nurses stared at an empty bed in a state of catatonic shock.

  ?She sent a final text to the butler: I’m gone. Handle the nurses. Ensure the illusion of my presence remains unbroken. If a third person finds out, that’s on you.

  ?The butler’s eyelid gave a violent twitch as he read the screen. Is it too late to confess to the Master? he wondered. The girl was gone, vanished into the ether. Even if the Master returned now, he’d be hunting a ghost. His only choice was to wait, pray for her safety, and dread every ring of the telephone.

  ?The first week passed in a blur of motion. While Xiao Yuan remained silent abroad, Jun Qingcheng was a shadow drifting through dive bars, underground casinos, tourist traps, and red-light districts.

  ?In a neon-drenched bar, she trailed a corpulent, lecherous man toward a private room. She knew his routine; she knew he’d be alone. Inside, a drunk receptionist was passed out on the bed, oblivious to the predator entering her sanctuary.

  ?The man stepped inside, clutching a kit of sadistic "toys." As he turned to bolt the door, he realized he wasn't alone.

  ?“Who the hell are you?” he stammered, his eyes widening. Then, seeing Jun Qingcheng’s face, his fear curdled into a greasy, predatory grin.

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  ?She didn't speak. She counted down the seconds as she retreated, then lunged. With a surgical twist, she crushed his larynx. Before he could even grasp at his throat, she used his momentum to pitch him over the balcony railing.

  ?A dull thud echoed from below. The entire execution had taken less than sixty seconds.

  ?The lower floors had no balconies, but he had insisted on the "premium" suite for his exploits. There were no cameras here—a convenience he had paid for, and one that now served his executioner. To any forensic examiner, it would look like a drunken stumble.

  ?She slipped back downstairs, flipped her reversible black hoodie to its original side, and "helped" a random drunk woman out of the restroom. Amidst the thumping bass of the club, a body hitting the pavement was just background noise. By the time he was discovered, she would be miles away.

  ?Next was the underground casino. Her target: a "trust-fund" degenerate, a high-stakes gambler with a trail of victims in his wake.

  ?When he turned into a pitch-black alley, Jun Qingcheng met him with the blunt force of a brick. She pulled his wallet, scattering the cash. In this part of town, money didn't stay on the ground for long. By the time the body was cold, he had been stripped to his underwear by passing scavengers. The police would spend weeks chasing ghosts among the local junkies.

  ?She moved with terrifying economy. Every strike was measured; a fraction more force would have been a waste of energy.

  ?The next morning, Jun Qingcheng sat in a quiet cafe, sipping milk and peeling a crust of bread as the news flickered on the TV.

  ?“Tragedy at the scenic resort,” the anchor reported. “A bungee jumping accident claimed a life yesterday when the cord snapped mid-plunge. Authorities cite a failure in equipment maintenance…”

  ?She smiled. To make a person disappear, one didn't need a grand assassination—just a well-timed "accident."

  ?By noon, she was on a high-speed train to her next destination. She traveled light, her life packed into a single backpack. She wore an oversized hoodie and sunglasses, the image of a studious girl headed to a summer camp.

  ?Her seat was on the aisle. To her left, a girl in a denim jacket snored softly. Across from her, a middle-aged businessman and a well-preserved woman from a beauty clinic struck up a flirtatious conversation.

  ?The girl next to her was roughly her age, but styled in heavy makeup with a black rose tattooed on her collarbone. She looked like a rebel; Jun Qingc