The scalpel-sharp edge of a jade chisel trembled in my hand as I stared at the cracked Song Dynasty vase before me—not because it was fragile, but because the pattern matched the one shattered the night I died.\n\nRain lashed against the penthouse windows, blurring the neon glow of Shanghai below. Qiao Muting stood behind me, silent as ever, watching me work. He didn’t know why I’d chosen this piece. He didn’t know I remembered every scream, every lie whispered over my hospital bed.\n\nMy fingers traced the fracture lines. Just like my spine. Just like my soul.\n\nThen the message popped up—anonymous, encrypted: We know you’re alive.\n\nMy breath froze. They thought I was gone. Forgotten.\n\nNow, I have three choices: delete the message and play safe, trace the sender and risk exposure, or send a counter-message with a piece of classified restoration knowledge only I should possess—the first move in a game of vengeance.