Just then, a line of waiters in crisp white liveries moved through the crowd, carrying silver trays laden with flutes of vintage champagne and sparkling mineral water.
One waiter, his movements a bit too fluid, his gaze a bit too sharp for a simple servant, approached their circle. His sleeves were pulled slightly lower than the others, hiding the faint, dark ink of a jagged wing on his wrist—the mark of the Black Eagle Syndicate.
"Refreshments, silver-tier guests?" the waiter asked, his voice a low, raspy drawl.
Meilin's eyes flicked to the waiter's hands. She noticed the slight tremor, the way he positioned the tray so that the drinks were easily accessible to Zihan and herself. Her medical instincts, honed through years of studying toxins, screamed a silent warning. The condensation on the glasses looked… off. Too thick.
Zihan, too, felt the shift. His time in the shadows had given him a sixth sense for predators. He didn't look at the waiter; he looked at the reflection in the silver tray. He saw the way the other "staff" were positioning themselves around the exits, their hands hovering near their waistbands.
They're here, Zihan thought
Su Min reached for a glass, but Meilin's hand shot out, her fingers catching Su Min's wrist with surprising strength.
"Wait," Meilin said, her voice a calm, lethal silk. "I think the vintage is a bit too... young for this table. Don't you agree, Zihan?"
Zihan's gaze met hers. He saw the warning in her eyes. He reached out, not for a drink, but to slowly adjust the cuff of his shirt,
waiter went to bring other refreshments .
Without looking down, her thumb traced the haptic surface of her customized device.
[To: Commander Yan] [Protocol: Red. Deep scan all staff. Sector 4, 7, and 9. Infiltrators among waiters. Secure the perimeter. Now.]
She felt the faint haptic vibration of a 'received' signal. Outside, she knew Yan would be moving—a shadow shifting in the darkness, cutting off the Black Eagle's retreat before they even knew the trap had been reversed.
The center of the ballroom had become a silent island of power. While the rest of the Capital's elite drifted around them like colorful schools of fish, the group gathered around Meilin and Zihan held a different kind of gravity.
Tang Yuze stepped into the circle, his gait easy and his tuxedo fitting him with the effortless grace of a man born to lead. He didn't offer a stiff greeting; he simply raised his glass of mineral water toward Zihan, a flicker of genuine professional respect in his eyes.
"I see the ' Legend' decided to grace us with his presence," Yuze said, his voice smooth. "The ZM launch this morning... it was clean. My team is still trying to figure out how you stabilized live under that much pressure."
"It was a team effort brother yuze," Zihan replied, his voice a low, grounded rumble.
"Mr. Tang," Xu Feng added, nodding toward Yuze. "Your presence provided the foundation. We just built the fortress on top of it."
Yuze chuckled,
a small, white blur streaked across the marble floor. Zimei, having finally wiggled free from Mo Anan's pampering, skidded to a halt at Zihan's feet. The small dog let out a series of happy, muffled yaps, her tail wagging so hard her entire back half shook.
The lethal edge in Zihan's posture didn't vanish, but it softened in a way that only those closest to him could see. He leaned down, his large, scarred hand disappearing into the white fluff of Zimei's neck before he scooped her up.
Holding the dog against the dark charcoal of his suit, Zihan's gaze drifted to Meilin.
His mind flashed back to their first walk in the park—the biting wind, the way the sunset had caught the sharp line of her jaw, and the quiet, stubborn way she had insisted on adopting this tiny, shivering creature. In a world where everyone was a pawn, a target, or a rival, she had chosen to protect something completely defenseless.
You've been a shield for a long time, haven't you? he thought, his thumb absently stroking Zimei's head.
Zimei tucked her nose into the crook of Zihan's arm,