Rain poured down in sheets, the roar of a helicopter tearing through the night sky.
A-Jie abandoned his motorcycle in the mud, didn’t even take off his helmet, staggering toward the helipad. Rain blurred his vision—he couldn’t tell if what streamed down his face was sweat or water—only one message burned in his mind: *"They're lying to me... Raji never arranged rescue. He said wait for the rain to stop, but the building’s collapsing!"*
And now, the helipad blazed with light.
Raji stood beneath a black umbrella, polished shoes gleaming, suit immaculate. An attendant shielded him from the storm as the helicopter’s rotors slowly spun. He looked like he was attending a gala, not leading a life-or-death evacuation.
A-Jie dropped to his knees in the mud with a dull thud.
“Please… take her! She’s still on the 37th floor—the whole building is shaking! I’ll pay, I’ll work, I’ll serve you for the rest of my life—just take her!”
Raji looked down at him, as if observing a crawling insect. A smirk curled his lips.
"Do you even deserve to ask?"
The radio crackled: "Mr. Raji, weather warning upgraded—we must take off immediately."
"Then take off." He turned, tilting the umbrella to block wind and rain—and blocked the man kneeling behind him.
A-Jie watched, helpless, as the door closed and the helicopter lifted into the stormy sky, vanishing into the swirling mist.
He lunged toward another machine—an abandoned rescue chopper left broken three days prior. No key, no fuel, the dashboard dead. But he knew how to fix it. He had been the lead engineer on this project—had drawn its circuit diagrams himself.
Ten minutes later, the engine roared to life.
When that rust-covered helicopter shakily ascended into the sky, the entire city stared in shock.
Then his phone vibrated.
An unknown number sent a photo—a news clipping from twenty years ago: a mining disaster, a list of the dead. One name stood out: "Lin Wanrou"—his fiancée’s mother.
Below the image, a line appeared:
**"Raji isn’t a tycoon. He’s a murderer. Back then, he ordered the shaft sealed—three hundred people buried alive."**
The rain kept falling.
A-Jie gripped the controls, eyes blazing red.
Over the comms channel came his fiancée’s faint voice:
“A-Jie… can you hear me? He says he’ll throw me down… he says… I shouldn’t have survived…”
He pressed the transmit button, voice low, like a beast’s growl:
“Listen. I’m coming.”
“This isn’t a rescue.”
“It’s reckoning.”
