Shards of Vengeance, Threads of Love.

– Return in the Rain

**Jiang City. 4:45 A.M.**

Rain pounded the pavement like war drums as Sophie Zhi stepped through the iron gates. Her short hair clung to bruised cheeks, prison shoes soaking with every step.

A boy clutched her hand—five years old, solemn-eyed, with a crooked smile far too familiar.

“Mommy,” he murmured, voice muffled beneath the storm. “Is this home?”

“No,” Sophie said. “Just the battlefield.”

They climbed into a waiting taxi. She gave the address coldly. “Xingyun District. Tower 8.”

The driver blinked at the child. “Rain’s no place for kids. You just get outta—”

“Drive,” she cut in. Her tone carried frost. He obeyed.

Outside, neon signs flickered like memories she’d buried in concrete. Her jaw tightened.

**PING.**

The voice came not from the radio.

**SYSTEM ONLINE. Initializing protocol: HATE-HARVEST. Current target—Ethan Bo.**

Her fingers twitched against the seat. Leo stared up at her.

**Objective: Elevate target’s hatred to 100%. Neural lock release upon completion. Failure = cardiac failure. Estimated mortality window: 72 days.**

“You came back,” Sophie whispered, eyes narrowing. “I thought they purged you.”

**Reinstated due to residual implant activity. Mission countdown begins now. Hate Level: 2%.**

The number blinked blood-red in her mind’s eye.

“Who are you talking to, Mommy?” Leo asked, hugging his worn plush tiger.

“No one,” she said softly. “Just the past.”

The cab swerved to avoid a puddle. Sophie watched the Bo Consortium’s skyline tower above the city like a crown forged in fire.

Six years ago, Ethan Bo’s voice had echoed across a courtroom.

> “She killed my child. She confessed.”

Six years ago, he didn’t even look her in the eye when he signed her sentence.

Six years ago, she realized love could kill more brutally than bars ever could.

“Mommy,” Leo said. “You’re squeezing my hand too tight.”

She loosened her grip. “Sorry, baby. We’re almost there.”

The taxi stopped outside a high-rise where steel and glass gleamed with artificial light. She handed over a wad of crumpled bills.

“Keep the change.”

The driver grunted and pulled off.

Inside, the elevator reeked of bleach and old perfume. Leo pressed his cheek to her hip, clutching her tighter as they ascended.

**SYSTEM NOTICE: Implanted device linked to minor. Signal interference minimal. Monitor recommended.**

She ignored it.

Tower 8, Unit 1803. The door swung open with a fingerprint scan—hers. She’d arranged it all from prison. Offshore accounts, false IDs, shell companies. Ethan Bo’s world taught her to play dirty. She’d learned well.

The apartment was sparse—steel, obsidian, bulletproof glass. She’d designed it herself: a fortress dressed as a showroom.

Leo wandered to the window. “The lights look like stars.”

“They’re not,” she said. “But if you pretend hard enough, they’ll fool you.”

He turned. “Will I go to school?”

“Yes. The best. We’ll blend in.”

“Will I have a daddy?”

She froze.

Then calmly said, “No. But you’ll have a future.”

**SYSTEM NOTICE: Lie detected. Emotional conflict. Recommend target exposure.**

She sat at her drafting desk and opened a case of dull metal scraps—remnants of her cell bed. With pliers and fire, she began twisting steel into a choker, eyes distant.

Leo hummed behind her.

**PING. Incoming feed from Jiang City News.**

A holographic screen projected in the air:

> “Bo Consortium announces new AI partnership. CEO Ethan Bo praises expansion into neural tech.”

Sophie’s lip curled.

“He's still building empires on ashes.”

**Hate Level: 3%.**

Too slow.

“Is that him?” Leo asked suddenly, pointing to the screen. “He looks... like me.”

Sophie didn’t look. “No. That’s just someone pretending.”

But the resemblance was impossible to ignore. Same steel-grey eyes. Same quiet storm beneath the surface.

**SYSTEM NOTICE: Subject match confirmed: 99.3% genetic overlap. Target recognition inevitable. Recommend accelerated exposure.**

The choker hissed as it cooled. Sophie held it up—barbed edges softened into curves, elegant despite its origin.

“Tomorrow,” she said to no one. “I become someone he can’t ignore.”

---

**The next morning.**

Bo Tower buzzed with urgency. On the 28th floor, Ethan Bo sipped black coffee as screens flicked through trade charts. His assistants flanked him like chess pieces.

“Mr. Bo,” an aide whispered, holding out a tablet. “There’s... something you should see.”

He barely looked up.

> “PRISON-FORGED JEWELS SHOCK EXPO—DESIGNER SOPHIE Z.”

He froze.

“Repeat that.”

The aide replayed the news footage. Holograms bloomed: a woman in shadow, her neckline encircled by repurposed prison steel. Her voice echoed across the screen:

> “True value survives any furnace.”

Ethan’s coffee hit the table.

“That name,” he muttered. “It can’t be—”

Another assistant pulled up photos. Side profile. Obsidian eyes. Cropped hair. A familiar fire behind every glare.

“Background checks hit sealed records,” someone said. “We think she’s using offshore LLCs to bypass licensing.”

He stood abruptly.

“Schedule a meeting. Expo site. Today.”

“But sir—”

“Make it happen.”

---

**GemWorld Expo – Setup Day**

Sophie stood in the center of a rising installation. Mirrors wrapped the exhibit like petals, obsidian and chrome, forcing every visitor to see themselves as they moved.

“Mirrored judgment,” she murmured.

Her assistant, a wide-eyed teen named Xiao Mei, stared. “You’re really going through with it?”

Sophie nodded. “Bo Consortium will walk through these halls. I want him to see the reflection he buried.”

“He might sue.”

“He might kill me. Let him try.”

Behind her, Leo played with his toy plane on the floor, lost in imagination.

A gust of air announced new arrivals.

A Bo Consortium rep stepped forward. “Mr. Bo wishes to discuss a potential acquisition.”

Sophie’s smile was slow and razor-edged.

“Tell Mr. Bo I don’t sell my scars.”

---

**Back at Bo Tower**

Ethan stared at the one-line response printed on crisp paper.

> “Tell Mr. Bo I don’t sell my scars.”

His jaw clenched.

“It’s her,” he whispered.

“But her record—”

“Was sealed. And she still made it out. I need her close. Get me that invitation list for the gala.”

He signed the bottom with a flourish.

The same flourish that once sealed her sentence.

**SYSTEM NOTICE: Hate Level increased to 6%.**