The rain in New York falls like a malfunctioning vending machine, spilling over the city. As Els Cohen counts the seventh thunderclap, the backup generator at 23 Wall Street emits a dying hum. Her fingers pause on the keyboard for 0.3 seconds—just long enough for the monitoring system to mistake it for a voltage glitch—before slamming down on the enter key.
"Y'all don't even deserve a shredder," she mutters to the empty archive room, her voice shattering like ice against the rain. Thirty-seven termination agreements blaze on the screen, the flame animations a virus - triggered special effect she slipped in last week. When coffee splashes onto the mainframe, she hears the scrape of leather, like a snake shedding its skin over rock.
"Q3 1998 non - performing asset disposal records," a man's voice drips with the richness of Darjeeling tea. "Worth trading your career for?"
Els' back hits the cold metal cabinet. A silhouette emerges from the shadows, like a Renaissance bronze statue clad in a rain - drenched Tom Ford suit. She notices the Asian man's left eye is lighter than the right, like amber trapping a lick of flame.
"Mr. Lee," she says, letting coffee drip onto his Oxford shoes, "The subprime clauses in your acquisition read like fake blood drawn with lipstick."
Victor Li - Shang's mouth twitches. Els will later learn this is his version of a smile. Now he prods scattered files with his umbrella tip, ink bleeding into strange wing shapes under the lightning.
The shredder jams with a groan, spitting out a torn photo: a pigtailed girl stands by an iron gate, clutching a half - butterfly hairpin. Els feels a sting on her collarbone, where a birthmark throbs as if traced by a red - hot needle.
"Your father also liked rainy days—"
An elevator crash cuts her off. Victor rips his tie loose in a motion that reminds Els of a cheetah's lethal strike in slow - mo. As silk coils around her wrists, the elevator's mirrored walls warp their reflections into a Picasso - esque nightmare.
"Wall Street rules..." His breath mingles cigar and mint. The tie cinches tight. "...are measured in neckties."
In the parking garage, motion sensors flicker on as they walk. Two dozen figures in silence stand among pillars, each clutching a cardboard box, silver butterfly brooches pinned to their chests. Els sees the old Black security guard in front polishing his glasses—last week he taught her to identify Kentucky bourbons.
When Victor tucks a keycard into her shirt pocket, its edge grazes her ribs, a touch both lover's caress and robber's blade. "7 AM tomorrow," his trench coat brushes her calves as he turns, "Come see where your morality lands on the balance sheet."
Taillights vanish into the downpour. Els finds raised coordinates on the card's back: 31°14'N. At her apartment, the smart lock speaks in Victor's voice:
"Security question: Who stole your butterfly hairpin in the summer of 1999?"
The surveillance screen lights up. In pale blue liquid floats a girl with Els' face.
6:59 AM | Headquarters of Li - Shang Capital
Elsa dashes into the glass lobby at the last second, her high - heels clacking urgently on the marble floor. The elevator doors are closing slowly, and she reaches out to stop them—
A hand wearing a black leather glove is quicker than hers, forcefully prying the doors open.
"One second late, and the interest doubles."
Victor's voice drops from above, deep and cold. He is in a sharp suit, with his tie neatly knotted just below his Adam's apple, as if the man who threatened her by tearing his tie in the rain last night was just an illusion.
Elsa looks up and realizes there's no option for the 60th floor on the elevator button panel.
Victor slowly removes his glove, revealing a serpent - shaped tail ring on his knuckle. The ring surface glows coldly under the light. He lightly touches the sensor area with the tail ring—
Beep.
The elevator lurches into motion, and the feeling of weightlessness makes Elsa's stomach tighten.
"Welcome to hell, Miss Cohen," he says with a hint of mockery in his voice.
The mirrored walls of the elevator reflect their figures—Victor is more than half a head taller than her, with shoulders so broad that they almost block all the light. And Elsa's reflection is like a cornered cat, with her back tense and pupils slightly constricted.
He stares directly into her eyes through the mirror: "You peeked at the coordinates on the back of the keycard."
It's not a question.
Elsa's fingertips unconsciously dig into her palm.
7:15 AM | Penthouse Office
Outside the panoramic floor - to - ceiling windows on the 60th floor, the New York skyline wakes up in the morning light. Golden rays refracted by the glass slice through the space, making the entire office like a cold golden cage.
Victor slides a contract over.
"Your new position—my'moral advisor'."
Elsa glances at the terms, and her pupils suddenly contract.
Clause 7.3: Party B must be available on call, including but not limited to 'ethical consultations' at 3 AM.
Clause 12.5: The defaulter will pay the 'butterfly debt'—compound interest calculated by the minute, based on the heartbeat.
She sneers: "This is more shameless than a medieval indenture."
Victor suddenly leans in, the tip of his fountain pen pressing against the birthmark on her collarbone. The pressure is neither too light nor too heavy, just enough for her to feel the coldness of the metal.
"Your heart rate peaked at 138 when you hacked into my system last night," his voice is as low as a snake hissing, "This debt needs to be repaid now."
A hidden drawer under the desk slides open soundlessly—
Inside lies a faded butterfly hairpin, identical to the one in the photo she saw in the shredder.
Elsa's breath catches for a second.
She reaches out to touch it, and the moment her fingertip brushes the hairpin—
Buzz!
The smart glass on the entire floor suddenly fogs up, changing from transparent to opaque milky white, as if blocked by some invisible force.
The alarm rings shrilly, and red lights flash overhead.
Victor's pupils contract sharply, and his fingers suddenly tighten around her wrist: "They've found us."
(Who is tracking them? Why is this hairpin so important?)
Before Elsa can ask, Victor rips open the collar of his shirt—
Under his collarbone, there's an electronic implant. The screen is flashing a scarlet countdown:
23:59:59
"Congratulations. You're now officially my 'hostage'," he says, the corner of his mouth curving into a cold arc, but his eyes are devoid of any smile, "In 24 hours, either help me disarm this bomb, or we'll both become front - page news on Wall Street."
The elevator suddenly goes out of control and drops. In the last second before the lights go out, Elsa sees his phone screen light up—
A encrypted message from 「Siberian Laboratory」:
「Subject E has awakened. She's looking for you.」