Zhao panicked; he didn’t expect Yamile to lose control. Yamile looked furious as she walked toward the man they were interrogating.

The atmosphere in the warehouse suddenly turned tense. The air seemed to thicken, choking anyone present's breath. The dim lamp hanging from the old ceiling swayed gently, casting moving shadows on the walls. In the middle of the room, the short-haired man—their captive—bit his lip, trying to suppress the fear gnawing at his mind.

Zhao glanced at Yamile but did nothing to stop her. He simply stared with a blank expression, as if Yamile’s presence wasn’t significant enough to warrant a reaction. Yet in that silence, there was meaning. Zhao understood well that in some situations, fear planted in someone’s mind could be far more controlling than any wound from a physical blow.

He chose to let Yamile say or do whatever she wanted, knowing that unchanneled tension would only amplify fear. For Zhao, instilling dread without laying a finger could be an even more effective form of control. In that stillness, he allowed fear to do its work.

“I’ll ask one more time,” Zhao said firmly. “Who leads the Split Sun group?”

The man stayed silent, lowering his head, no longer daring to look at Yamile. “I don’t know. I was just following Madam Recha’s orders.”

“Who is she? I mean, what does she look like?” Zhao asked again.

“She’s a woman in her forties, beautiful, with long hair. Her laugh is terrible—grating—and painful to the ears,” the man answered.

Zhao immediately recalled the Kalanak who had attacked him the previous night. That meant there had already been two Kalanaks who attacked them—Rana and now Recha. He was certain the one who ambushed him was Recha.

Yamile clenched her fists. Her breath quickened as her eyes locked on the man, akin to a hawk about to strike its prey. Zhao, standing slightly off to the side, watched her every move cautiously, even though he appeared calm on the surface.

Suddenly, Yamile drew her trident and attempted to stab the man. Zhao was shocked and quickly pulled the man aside to avoid the deadly blow.

“What are you doing?” Zhao snapped.

“Just kill him. We’ve got all the information we need,” Niroki said.

“Arrrgh!” Yamile screamed. “Get out of my head, you stupid demon!”

The trident in Yamile’s hand vanished, and her awareness returned. She gasped for air and sank to the floor, clutching her head. “Damn it, he tricked me again.”

“You okay?” Zhao asked softly.

Yamile nodded, then rose and sat on the plush couch.

Meanwhile, Zhao resumed the interrogation. “What did Madam Recha order you to do?”

The man still trembled in fear. “She just asked me to make my friends commit suicide. Get them addicted to drugs and indebted to her.”

“Where is their base?” Zhao asked again.

“In the mansion at Block A, Paramoria Street,” the man answered, terrified.

“Please, let me go!” he pleaded.

Zhao ignored the plea. Instead, he chose to re-bind the man, tightening the restraints and gagging him with cloth. For Zhao, they had gathered enough information—now they just needed to stop the crimes of the Split Sun group.

“Our job would’ve been done faster if we had interrogated one of their members earlier,” Zhao said while sitting beside Yamile.

Yamile seemed deep in thought, recalling what Zhao meant. They had caught one prisoner before, but Yamile had let him go.

“Different case, fool! This guy’s still a school kid. If threatened, he’ll spill everything. The person before was a professional—he wouldn’t crack,” Yamile said.

“So what do we do now?” Zhao asked.

“Nothing. Let’s think about it tomorrow. I’m tired—I want a bath and then sleep,” Yamile replied casually.

Zhao gave her a cynical look. “You’ve gotten so spoiled lately!”

“Next time, don’t lose control again. You’re a real hassle,” he added.

Yamile yanked Zhao’s ear. “This is all your fault,” she said with a menacing smile.

She then got up and headed for the bathroom.

This wasn’t just an ordinary warehouse—it was actually Yamile and Zhao’s base in the city center. The warehouse was just a front; inside, it contained weapons and various support equipment.

Yamile opened a door and stepped into a small room. It turned out to be an elevator that led to their underground base.

The lift slowly descended, piercing through layer after layer of the city’s concrete. The soft hum of machinery accompanied Yamile as she stood still, staring at her reflection on the metal walls.

When the elevator doors opened, artificial cool air greeted her. Bright white lights illuminated a long corridor filled with monitor screens, weapon lockers, and digital strategy boards. Several computers lit up automatically, detecting Yamile’s presence.

She walked past the main room toward her private chamber. The room was simple but fully equipped—including a hot shower and emergency medical tools. Yamile threw herself onto the bed for a moment before deciding to bathe. The warm water washed over her body, calming her tense nerves.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Zhao remained seated, staring at his phone. He launched Google Street View to investigate the mansion rumored to house the Kalanak base.

“This place is far too neat and fancy for criminals,” Zhao muttered.

He squinted, examining the details of the house on Block A, Paramoria Street, as mentioned by the hostage. The house featured a large balcony with wrought iron railings, stained-glass windows, and a spacious yard that included a small fountain; everything about it looked too sterile and too "normal." And that’s what made him suspicious.

“If they’re distributing drugs, why haven’t the police arrested them?” Zhao muttered again.

“Suspicious.”

Suddenly, a faint moan came from the corner of the room. The captive started to stir, writhing and wide-eyed in terror. Zhao stood up and walked over with a cold expression.

“Relax. I just need to take care of one more thing,” Zhao said flatly.

He then clenched his fist and, without hesitation, punched the man’s temple until he passed out. The man slumped unconscious. Zhao dragged him outside the warehouse and dumped him by the roadside, near the bus stop where they had met earlier.

“Useless trash,” Zhao muttered as he tapped the man’s head.

Zhao returned to the warehouse and headed to the underground base to join Yamile. The lift descended slowly, and soon, the doors opened—Zhao had arrived at their base.

He didn’t immediately rest or bathe like his sister. Instead, Zhao went straight to his favorite weapon—a semi-automatic sniper rifle equipped with thermal tracking and a red-line targeting system used only by elite forces.

He approached it slowly, almost like a ritual. He touched the barrel as if greeting an old friend, then placed it on the table. His hands moved skillfully, checking the lubrication, aiming range, and grip tension.

“Soon we’ll strike again—taking down the enemy in a single shot,” he muttered.