Ghost Claw dragged Tòumíng down the corridor with enough force that he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to keep up. She moved with the kind of purposeful speed that came from military training, navigating the building's layout like she'd memorized the floor plans beforehand.
They reached a door marked
"Maintenance - Staff Only" in both Chinese and English. She pulled it open without hesitation and shoved Tòumíng inside before following and closing the door behind them.
The room was small—a janitor's closet converted into a supply office. Cleaning products lined metal shelves, mops and brooms hung on wall hooks, and a small desk was shoved in the corner with what looked like work schedules and inventory logs scattered across it.
Before Tòumíng could ask what they were doing in here, Ghost Claw started stripping.
"WHOA!" Tòumíng immediately spun around, his hands flying up to cover his eyes for good measure. "What are you—warn a person before you just—"
"It's not a big thing," Ghost Claw said dismissively, the sound of fabric rustling behind him. "I need to change into operational gear. Stop being dramatic."
"I'm not being dramatic, you just started taking your clothes off without any—"
"Look away if it bothers you that much."
Tòumíng kept his back turned, his face burning with embarrassment despite the extremely serious situation they were in. Behind him, he could hear more rustling, then what sounded like fabric being wrapped and pulled tight.
"What are you doing?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"Binding my chest."
"Your... what?"
"My chest. With sarashi. Traditional binding cloth." Her voice was matter-of-fact, clinical, like she was describing changing shoes rather than... whatever this was. "I'm a J-cup. Literally doing anything that involves jumping, running, or moving fast creates severe boob whiplash. It's a tactical liability."
Tòumíng's brain stalled. "Boob whiplash isn't a real thing. I've seen characters in anime with huge ti—" He caught himself. "I mean, people in action media with large... proportions... and they fight all the time without binding anything."
"You watch too much hentai," Ghost Claw said flatly. "This is basic anatomy, not anime physics. Large breasts move independently during rapid motion, creating momentum that throws off balance, causes pain, and can even result in tissue damage during extreme physical activity. Binding minimizes movement, provides support, and allows for better combat mobility. It's practical, not decorative."
"I don't watch hentai!" Tòumíng protested, his face somehow getting even hotter. "I was just making a comparison about—"
"Stop talking. You're making it worse."
Tòumíng shut up, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the opposite wall while the sounds of fabric wrapping and adjusting continued behind him. The process took longer than he expected—apparently proper binding was more complicated than just wrapping cloth around yourself.
Finally, after what felt like several minutes, the rustling stopped.
"Finished binding," Ghost Claw announced. She was pulling on what sounded like different clothes now—the whisper of cotton fabric, the distinctive sound of cargo pants being fastened. "Basic white t-shirt and tactical cargo pants. Standard operational wear."
Tòumíng was about to turn around when her voice stopped him.
"Don't look yet."
He froze. "What? Why now? I already saw—" He stopped himself before finishing that sentence, but the implication hung in the air anyway.
"Just look away," she insisted.
Tòumíng sighed and kept his back turned, hearing what sounded like something being pulled over her head. Fabric stretching. An elastic strap being adjusted.
"Okay. You can turn around now."
He turned.
Ghost Claw stood there in a plain white t-shirt that was slightly tight across her now-bound chest, black cargo pants with multiple pockets, and, covering her entire face, a gas mask. Not a decorative mask like she'd worn upstairs. A full tactical gas mask with dark lenses over the eyes, rubber seals around the edges, and a prominent filter canister on the front.
"Why the gas mask?" Tòumíng asked immediately. "Is there going to be poison gas or something? Are we going into a contaminated area? What aren't you telling me?"
"It's for hiding something," she said, her voice slightly muffled by the mask but still clear enough to understand.
"Hiding what?"
"Not important."
Tòumíng sighed. The woman had just revealed an entire human trafficking operation, explained blood rubies grown with sacrificial victims, and warned him about drinking literal human blood, but a gas mask was apparently where she drew the line on sharing information.
"Fine. I won't push."
He was about to suggest they get moving when Ghost Claw reached into one of her cargo pant pockets and pulled out items that made Tòumíng's heart stop.
A handgun. Black, compact, professional-grade. Definitely not something a civilian should have.
Two magazines of ammunition. Full, based on the weight she handled them with.
And a silencer, the long cylindrical attachment that screwed onto the gun barrel to suppress the sound of gunfire.
"WHAT EXACTLY IS THE NEED FOR THIS?!" Tòumíng's voice rose several octaves, panic flooding his system. "You said we were just observing! Getting information! Why do you have a GUN?!"
Ghost Claw methodically checked the handgun, ejecting the magazine to verify it was loaded, then slamming it back in with practiced efficiency. The movements were smooth, automatic, the muscle memory of someone who'd handled firearms thousands of times.
"It's not important," she said, screwing the silencer onto the barrel with careful precision.
"What's important is getting past the security personnel on the upper floors. The guards who monitor access to the third floor where the trafficking operations are coordinated."
"And you need a GUN for that?!"
"I'd rather not use it," she said, checking the sight alignment. "Ideally, we slip past unnoticed. But if we're confronted, if they try to stop us, if the situation escalates—" She pulled back the slide, chambering a round with a decisive click. "—then I need to be prepared."
Tòumíng watched her handle the weapon with professional efficiency, her movements confident and controlled, and seriously doubted that she'd "rather not use it." Everything about her body language screamed "trained operator ready to engage targets."
"You're going to shoot the guards," he said flatly.
"Only if necessary."
"That's not reassuring!"
"It's not meant to be reassuring. It's meant to be honest." Ghost Claw tucked one magazine into a cargo pocket and kept the other in her hand, ready for a quick reload if needed.
"The people working security at events like this aren't innocent civilians doing a job. They know what's happening on the third floor. They're complicit. They facilitate the trafficking, maintain the silence, dispose of evidence when things go wrong. If it comes down to their lives or exposing this operation..." She turned to look at him through the dark lenses of the gas mask. "I've already made my choice about which matters more."
Tòumíng stared at her, his mind racing through the implications. This wasn't just information gathering anymore. This was a potential armed infiltration of a facility with private security, with the very real possibility of violence and death.
And he'd somehow gotten himself involved.
"I didn't sign up for this," he said quietly.
"You walked into this building voluntarily," Ghost Claw countered. "You accepted Háo Héng's invitation. You paid the fifty-thousand-yuan entry fee. The moment you stepped through those doors, you became part of this whether you intended to or not."
She was right. Damn it, she was right.
"Okay." Tòumíng took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. "Okay. What do we need to do?"