Ethan barely made it out of the alley. His body screamed in pain with every step, his vision blurred, and the world around him swayed. He had taken too many hits, lost too much blood. The adrenaline that had kept him standing was fading fast.
The streets of Hanoi stretched before him, quiet in the late hours of the night. Lanterns flickered above, casting long shadows across the pavement. Somewhere, a distant motorbike rumbled past, but the city felt empty.
He walked a few more steps.
Then the ground rushed up to meet him.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
⸻
When Ethan woke up, the first thing he noticed was the scent of something warm—herbal, slightly sweet. Then, the soft feeling of bandages wrapped tightly around his wounds. He blinked, adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through a small window.
He was lying on a bed, a thin but comfortable mattress beneath him. The walls were simple, undecorated, and a small wooden table stood in the corner with a steaming bowl of something that smelled like rice porridge.
Where was he?
Before he could sit up, the door creaked open.
The girl from last night stepped in, carrying a tray with a cup of tea and another bowl of soup. She looked different in the daylight—less like a phantom in the night and more like a real person. Her black hair was tied up, her eyes sharp yet calm.
"You're awake," she said, setting the tray down. "I was starting to think you wouldn't make it."
Ethan tried to push himself up, but pain flared through his body. He winced, falling back onto the pillow.
She smirked. "Yeah, no. You're not going anywhere anytime soon."
Ethan exhaled, frustrated but grateful. "Did you bring me here?"
She nodded. "You passed out in the middle of the road like an idiot. If a car had come by, you'd be a pancake."
Ethan managed a weak chuckle. "Guess I owe you one."
"You owe me more than one," she said, handing him the cup of tea. "Drink. It'll help with the pain."
He took a sip, the warmth spreading through his chest. It was strong, bitter, but strangely soothing.
As he set the cup down, he looked at her. "Who are you?"
She raised an eyebrow. "You first."
Ethan hesitated. He wasn't sure how much he could trust her. But after last night, he knew one thing—if she had wanted him dead, she wouldn't have bothered saving him.
"Ethan," he finally said. "Ethan Tran."
She nodded. "I'm Linh."
"Linh," he repeated. "You're… really good at fighting."
She smirked. "I know."
Ethan shook his head in disbelief. "I've trained my whole life, but I've never seen anyone fight like that."
Linh shrugged, leaning against the table. "Maybe you're just not as good as you think you are."
Ethan laughed, then winced at the pain in his ribs. "Fair enough."
Linh picked up the bowl of porridge and held it out to him. "Eat. Then you can tell me why some gang in Hanoi is trying to kill you."
Ethan stared at her for a moment.
It seemed like his search for answers had just taken an unexpected turn.