The wind was screaming in my ears as Zian's motorcycle tore through the neon-lit streets of Shanghai. I held onto him tight, my heart racing faster than the engine. Behind us, the headlights of the black cars were fading, but the danger was far from over.
Zian suddenly swerved into a hidden underground parking lot of a skyscraper. He killed the engine, and the silence that followed was deafening.
"Get off," he commanded, his voice sharp.
He led me to a private elevator. As the doors closed, I looked at him in the mirror. He was bleeding from a small cut on his forehead. Without thinking, I reached out my hand to wipe the blood away.
Zian grabbed my wrist mid-air. His grip was like iron.
"Don't touch me, Shifa," he hissed. "I still don't know if you're the one who saved my life or the one who's going to end it."
The elevator opened into a high-tech penthouse. Large glass windows showed the entire city, but inside, it felt like a prison. Zian walked to a wall and pressed a hidden button. A screen flickered to life, showing a map of the world with red dots.
"That pin you have... it belongs to the Red Circle. They are a ghost organization that was destroyed ten years ago. Or so I thought," Zian said, looking at me intensely. "My father died because of them. And now, they've sent a mute girl from India who can predict the future. Why?"
I grabbed a notepad and pen from the table. I wrote quickly: "I don't know who they are. The pin was given to me by a stranger. I only want to act."
Zian laughed, a cold, dry sound. "In this city, nobody 'only' wants to act. Everyone has a role."
Suddenly, my vision flickered. It wasn't 10 seconds this time. It was a single image of the front door of the penthouse.
The lock... it was melting.
I grabbed Zian's shirt and pointed frantically at the door. He frowned, but then he heard it—the faint hiss of acid.
"They found us? Impossible!" Zian grabbed a gun from a hidden drawer under the table. "Stay behind me!"
The door burst open with a silent explosion. But it wasn't men in suits. It was a drone, small and sleek, carrying a speaker.
"Zian," a distorted voice came through the drone. "Give us the girl, and we will let the movie continue. If not, Shanghai will burn tomorrow at the premiere."
Zian looked at me, then at the drone. He pointed the gun and blew the drone to pieces in one shot.
"Pack your things," Zian said, turning to me, his eyes now filled with a strange fire. "We aren't going to the studio tomorrow. We're going to the mountains. If they want a show, we'll give them a war."
The smoke from the destroyed drone filled the luxury penthouse. Zian stood there, his gun still pointed at the door, his breathing heavy. For a superstar, he looked more like a soldier who had seen too many battles.
He turned to me, his eyes softening for a split second before turning cold again. "Why aren't you scared, Shifa? Most girls would be screaming by now."
I looked at him and simply pointed to my throat, then to my eyes. I couldn't scream even if I wanted to. But my eyes had seen the future—I knew the drone was coming.
Zian sighed, putting the gun back into the hidden drawer. He walked over to the large glass window, looking down at the neon lights of Shanghai. "The mountains are three hours away. We leave at midnight. If the 'Red Circle' is tracking that pin, we need to lead them into a trap, not a studio."
He suddenly winced, clutching his side. I noticed a dark stain spreading on his white shirt. The beam from the studio fire hadn't just grazed him; it had left a deep cut.
I didn't wait for his permission. I grabbed the first-aid kit from the counter and walked over to him.
"I told you, don't touch me," Zian warned, but his voice lacked the usual bite. He was exhausted.
I ignored him and gently started unbuttoning his shirt to clean the wound. As the fabric moved aside, I didn't just see the fresh cut. My eyes widened. On his chest, right above his heart, was a tattoo of a Red Dragon—identical to the silver pin I was holding.
My vision flashed.
I saw Zian as a seven-year-old boy, hiding under a table, watching men with that same dragon tattoo take his father away.
Zian grabbed my hand, stopping me. "Now you know," he whispered, his face inches from mine. "I'm not just an actor, Shifa. I've been hunting them my whole life. And you... you are the first lead I've had in ten years."
Suddenly, the lights in the penthouse flickered and died. The backup red lights turned on, casting a bloody glow over everything.
"They're here," Zian whispered. "They didn't wait for tomorrow."
He grabbed my waist and pulled me toward the private helipad on the roof. "Forget the bike. We're taking the chopper. Hold on to me, and whatever happens, do not look back."
As we ran toward the roof, I looked at the silver pin in my hand. It wasn't just red anymore. It was glowing, pulsing like a heartbeat. The dushmans were closer than we thought.
The neon lights of Shanghai blurred past us as Zian's motorcycle roared through the rain. I held onto him tight, my heart hammering against my ribs. Behind us, the black cars were losing ground, but the danger wasn't over.
Zian suddenly swerved into a hidden underground parking lot of a massive skyscraper. He killed the engine, and the silence that followed was deafening.
"Get off," he commanded, his voice sharp like a blade.
He led me to a private, high-speed elevator. As the doors closed, I looked at him in the mirror. He was bleeding from a small cut on his forehead. Without thinking, I reached out my hand to wipe the blood away.
Zian grabbed my wrist mid-air. His grip was like iron, cold and unyielding.
"Don't touch me, Shifa," he hissed, his eyes searching mine. "I still don't know if you're the one who saved my life back there, or the one who's going to lead me into a trap."
The elevator opened into a high-tech penthouse. The walls were covered in screens showing news feeds from around the world. Zian walked to a central console and pressed a button. A symbol flickered onto the screen—a Red Dragon, identical to the silver pin I was clutching.
"The Red Circle," Zian whispered. "They were a shadow group that disappeared ten years ago after my father's death. If they sent that pin to you, it means you're not just an actress. You're a target."
I grabbed a notepad and wrote quickly: "I don't know who they are. I only wanted to act. The pin was left in my hand by a stranger."
Zian laughed, a cold, dry sound. "In this city, nobody 'only' wants to act. We are all playing a role."
Suddenly, my vision flickered. It wasn't a 10-second countdown this time. It was a single, sharp image of the front door. I saw the handle turning, and then—an explosion of gas.
It's happening now!
I grabbed Zian's arm and pointed frantically at the door. He didn't ask questions this time. He grabbed a gun from a hidden compartment under the table and pulled me behind a bulletproof kitchen island.
PSSSSSHHH!
A thick, green gas hissed through the vents. At the same time, the glass windows of the penthouse shattered as three figures in tactical gear rappelled down from the roof.
"Hold your breath!" Zian yelled, handing me a small emergency mask.
He stood up, firing three precise shots that disabled the intruders' equipment. In the chaos, Zian grabbed my waist and pulled me toward a hidden door behind a bookshelf.
"They're not here to kill us yet," Zian said as we ran down a dark staircase. "They want the 'Silent Empress.' And I'm not letting them have you."
As we reached the street level, a sleek black helicopter was already hovering low over the building. Zian looked at me, his eyes filled with a strange intensity.
"We're leaving Shanghai. If we stay, you won't survive the night."