Chapter Text
[ 100AG, Eastern Earth Kingdom, some bay ]
The ferry groans against the dock, wood creaking beneath the weight of too many people packed shoulder to shoulder along the rails. Refugees clutch bundles of clothes and wrapped blankets and no one talks loudly. The exhaustion is too heavy for that. Most people just keep their heads down and move, while guards wave passengers forward in uneven lines. Somewhere a child cries.
It should feel like relief when Jet finally steps aboard into his new life— Smellerbee and Longshot close behind him— but Jet wouldn't have survived this long if he'd ever believed good things came without a catch.
So while everyone else settles in for the journey, he finds a place along the railing and scans the faces in the crowd automatically. A habit impossible to break.
Wary ones, dirty and tired, parents with their kids, an old fat man and—
Then he sees him.
There's a guy around his age standing slightly apart from the crowd, not trying to take up space but somehow refusing to disappear into it. Dark hair, an attractive profile, tired posture— broody, with the kind of sullen expression that suggests the world has already decided something about him and he's long since stopped arguing. Exactly how Jet likes them.
Jet studies him for a moment too long before he decides, yes, this one— his feet already in motion.
He slips past a stack of luggage and squeezes between two women arguing quietly over a blanket.
Then the guy turns his head. The other half of his face catching in the light and Jet slows without meaning to, his rhythm breaking. The deck shifts beneath his feet.
The scar.
It cuts across his face. Like someone tried to erase him from this world but gave up halfway and—
Jet doesn't blink as he takes it in— this detail sits there on an otherwise pretty face, wrong and familiar in a way he can't immediately place, yet something in him goes very, very still.
Then his hands flex once, like they're trying to do something before he's decided what. And only after that does a deeper kind of recognition spark that he'd wished, abruptly, that he didn't have.
Rage follows a second later— familiar, sharp and volatile. Somewhere below, the hull groans against the current.
Jet forces himself to keep walking, but now every step is measured. Calculated. Like his body has stopped being part of the crowd and started tracking instead. Because suddenly this ferry isn't mere transport into the city anymore. It's containment.
He stops a few paces away.
"I know who you are," Jet says, fists tightening at his sides. It isn't loud and performative— more like testing, like pressure against glass, looking for the crack. He hopes he's wrong— he's seen enough war-scarred faces to know how memory can lie to you—
But he isn't.
The guy's posture tightens immediately, golden eyes flicking up to Jet's face. And Jet feels it— instant and involuntary— his breath catches before he can stop it. The moment of being seen, attention fully locked back onto him, waiting for Jet to make another move.
Yeah, exactly how Jet likes to—
Jet snaps back into focus.
Fire Nation eyes.
He knows who this is.
He has memorized this exact face from the posters near the outpost at Gaipan.
Something in him tightens— hard. Immediate and slightly disorientating. For a moment, there’s nothing but that fact settling into place with an absolute certainty.
Then a grin flicks into place on pure habit. He takes a small step forward anyway despite the feeling burning under his skin.
The ferry rocks gently beneath them. Around them, refugees continue boarding and a guard shouting directions. None of it touches the space between them.
The Fire Nation stray tenses further, like a caught animal ready to defend itself.
Jet notices. And something in him settles into place. So he pulls out his best weapon— his smile.
“I recognized you immediately,” he says lightly, like they’ve already been speaking for a while and this is just confirmation. “You’re an outcast. Just like me.”
And that's all it takes.
The hook is already in and people hear what they want to hear after that. And for a prince who looks like he hasn’t eaten enough on the road, food should be motivation enough.
The upper deck is nearly empty once they settle on a quick, simple plan. Jet slips between the shadows easily. Behind him, Li— as his uncle calls him— moves without making a sound.
They find the supply crates beneath a canvas covering near the stern. The canvas snaps softly in the night wind. Beneath it, rows of supply crates are stacked against the railing, lashed down with thick ropes that smell faintly of river water and mildew.
Jet starts filling one of the sacks immediately. After a second, Li crouches beside him. No argument. Just hands reaching into the crate, working fast and efficient. It annoys Jet— how little resistance there is, how carefully everything is done.
"You've done this before?" Jet asks quietly.
Li stills. One hand remains inside the crate a fraction longer than the other. "No."
Jet would bet his hook swords on it that it's a lie.
They finish filling the sacks and Li ties off the last one with quick, practiced fingers— definitely trained, definitely hiding something. A part of Jet is still trying to decide what to make of him. He ignores it.
Then a sharp whistle cut through the darkness. Someone is coming. Jet is already moving. "Time to go."
Bootsteps echo from somewhere around the corner, coming closer— a rope drops out of the darkness right on time.
Jet grabs it first. "After you."
Li follows immediately. One hand on the rope, the other steadying the sack, descending smoothly into the darkness below as Jet watches him go.
By the time he slides down after Li, he knows he has already laid all the groundwork he needs.
“I want you to join my crew,” Jet says, one shoulder against the railing as they eat, ignoring Smellerbee and Longshot’s questioning glances and Li’s uncle complaining about the cold tea.
Li gives him a considering look. “No, I don’t think so.”
Jet says nothing after that. Not yet. And he doesn’t mind. Not that he wants him on his crew for real anyway. They’re all starting over in Ba Sing Se for a reason— new beginnings and all that.
Once they reach the station, he gives Li one last glance before off-boarding the ferry— Li’s uncle next to him holds steaming tea now— and something sharp and hot flares in Jet’s chest, confirming what he already knew: This isn’t over yet.
And the city may be huge, but Jet figures that won’t be a problem for him.
First, he wants to know why the banished prince of the Fire Nation is hiding in Ba Sing Se like a refugee.
Then he’ll decide what to do about him.
New beginnings indeed.
[ Ba Sing Se, day 13 ]
Ba Sing Se feels endless the first few days. The streets are a maze, split into narrower streets which split again into tight alleys that feel impossible to navigate.
The city is noisy in layers that are hard to describe. Merchants shouting over each other and ostrich-horses shrieking. Food stalls where thin soup gets stretched for twenty customers too many, the pots clanging loudly. Somewhere distant construction that never stops, the earth rumbling darkly with all the bending accomplishing this. The air smells like smoke, sweat, frying oil and dust.
Refugees crowd every district in the lower ring— families sleeping beneath patched canvas, old soldiers trying to barter broken armor, workers lining up before sunrise in hopes somebody needs cheap hands for unloading carts. There's always something needing to get done in a city this size. The work does exist, technically. But so do thousands of desperate people willing to do it cheaper.
It takes a bit to find a place to sleep and work that pays the three of them dinner but if there's one thing, it's Jet's persistence— a charming smile and a lot can be accomplished with it.
The other thing about Ba Sing Se is its ability to swallow people whole. Nobody looks too long at strangers because everyone's trying too hard not to be noticed themselves. It's the perfect place to disappear. Which means, Jet thinks bitterly, it's also the perfect place for Fire Nation rats to hide.
"Where can I report two fire-benders to?"
The officer gave him a disbelieving look. "There are no fire-benders in Ba Sing Se."
"But the war—"
"There is no war in Ba Sing Se either."
Jet pauses at the tone and phrasing. It seems oddly rehearsed. He doesn't trust it— something feels off about the authorities. Something is rotten here.
“You are right, my bad,” he says, and disengages quickly from the conversation. Better not risk it. He can handle it himself.
It takes him a week to find Li and Mushi again, which is honestly faster than he expected it to take. But then, a charming smile works wonders.
Pao's Family Tea House sits tucked between a tailor's shop and a cramped herbal store, easy to miss if not for the steady line of customers drifting in and out from morning until dusk. Steam clouds the windows even in warm weather, carrying the smell of jasmine, ginseng, and fried dough into the street.
A perfect place to disappear.
His first instinct is to attack, to deal with the threat right there. But a crowded street isn't the forest. There are too many witnesses, too many variables and any strategic opportunity outweighs instinct. The authorities seem useless anyway.
So Jet spends the next few days watching the tea shop, trying to figure out his next approach. By the third afternoon he knows the delivery schedule better than some of the staff. The morning deliveries arrived before sunrise. The flour comes every second day. The herbalist next door receives shipments at irregular hours, which makes him annoying to account for. And today's delivery is late.
"You're doing that thing again." Smellerbee leans against the wall next to him but Jet doesn't turn, looking at nothing that's actually in front of him.
They've claimed a narrow strip of alley between two buildings, one of the few places where the shadows lasts through most of the day and if he leans around the corner just right, he can see the entrance without being seen himself.
Jet doesn't look away from the door.
"What thing," he asks after a moment.
"The thinking too loud thing."
The street in front of them never stays clear for long— fruit carts, laundry baskets, and delivery runners constantly cutting across the view.
The crowd shifts again, briefly blocking his view with baskets of vegetables and a laundry cart.
"I'm observing," he says automatically.
"You're obsessing."
Somewhere behind them Longshot exhales loudly.
Jet's fingers tap once against the hilt of his hook sword before stilling. "He comes out alone sometimes."
"And you want to what?" Smellerbee pushes away from the wall and steps directly into his line of sight. "To jump the supposed Fire Nation guy in the streets?"
"No." Jet says it too fast, then corrects himself, trying to look past her. "Not like that," he amends.
Mostly true.
Smellerbee lets out a short, tired breath and Jet finally pulls her back by her shoulders. "And he's not 'that guy' either."
“Right,” she says as she steps back into the shade beside Longshot. “He’s the prince.”
Jet glances toward the street to make sure he isn't missing anything before turning to his friends. “He is.”
Smellerbee doesn’t blink as she looks at him. “No.”
That stops him more than argument would and Jet’s expression tightens. “You saw the scar.”
“I saw a scar,” she corrects. “That doesn’t make him the Crown Prince of the Fire Nation.”
Jet scoffs once. “It matches the posters.”
“It matches a lot of people,” she shoots back immediately, like she'd been waiting for him to say that. “You’re building a whole war out of one face and a story you like better than what’s in front of you.”
Jet steps further into the alley, voice sharpening. “You think I misidentified him?”
“I think you decided who he was before you knew anything else,” Smellerbee says. “And now you’re bending everything to fit it.”
Jet's stomach twists with a flash of anger. That's what everyone else in Ba Sing Se does. Look away. Explain things. Pretend the Fire Nation isn't standing right in front of them.
But Jet isn't bending anything. He's the only one paying attention.
Jet’s gaze flickers irritated. “I know what I saw with the tea. They are Fire Nation,” he says.
Longshot sighs and Smellerbee doesn’t back down.“No. You know what you think you saw.” She gestures vaguely, cutting through his line of thought.“ That guy isn’t some hidden prince running around Ba Sing Se with secret plans. He’s just a refugee with a scar and a tea-loving uncle and your attention stuck on him like a hook.”
Jet doesn’t answer, no point in arguing when she's so set on not wanting to see the truth.
Smellerbee steps in slightly, voice lower but firmer. "If you’re wrong,” she says, "then you’re not tracking the enemy. You’re stalking a random guy in the Lower Ring.”
Jet’s jaw clenches. He knows that he isn't. He knows what he saw— knows that this is all a cover up for something more. The prince of the Fire Nation hiding in the biggest city in the world wasn't random. It was exactly the sort of thing the Fire Nation would do. Exactly the sort of thing nobody would believe until it was too late.
He just needed access. A way in. To figure out what he's— they are planning.
Smellerbee touches his shoulder, then adds quieter but sharper. “And you know it doesn’t feel like the prince to me either.”
Jet turns away from her and back to the street.
The delayed merchant was finally unloading his cart, blocking half the view. Jet fights the urge to shift positions. Then the merchant moves. The doorway clears and Jet straightenes immediately.
Li steps out just after noon. Plain clothes and nothing that would give him away except the scar. Looking just like any other tired refugee trying to get through the day— just a young man with tired shoulders and the kind of posture that makes him look like he's expecting the world to shove him first.
Jet notices everything and for a second—
Li pauses before choosing directions. The way he doesn't look at anyone for longer than necessary, despite the old woman selling dumplings greeting him now. The way his feet carry him through the crowds like he expect them to make way but learned to blend in anyway.
He's perfect.
Jet is quick to follow and behind him Smellerbee exhales like she's already bored of this, Longshot not bothering to keep up.
[ 100AG, Investigation, Day 14 ]
The insides of the tea shop are narrow and busy. Tables packed close together, chipped cups stacked behind the counter and conversation that never fully settles— merchants complain loudly about prices while old men play Pai Sho in the corner like the world outside doesn't exist.
Steam curls up from ceramic cups and soften everything into a blur.
Near the back, Mushi smiles at everyone like he's known them for years and Li looks like he'd rather be anywhere else - eyes immediately flicking to Jet as he enters, sharp and assessing, like he was already watching the exit before anything else in the room mattered, a look of recognition sliding over his features too quickly to be casual. Then his attention shifts back to the room, checking customers, exits, windows. Watching.
Jet suppresses a grin.
Good. At least one of them is taking this seriously.
Jet slides into a place on the wall, already scanning for the best angle to observe for now—
But Li steps away from the counter and heads straight for him. Jet’s mind blanks for half a beat.
Li steps closer with measured steps that feel deliberately controlled, like he’s aware of every movement he makes in the space. Jet feels his pulse jump and something twist low in his stomach in anticipation. They hadn’t been this close since the ferry. The tea shop suddenly feels smaller.
Jet straightens instinctively.
By the time Li reaches the table, Jet is smirking despite being face to face with the enemy.
Li crosses his arms over his chest, the gesture less defensive than dismissive. “What do you want?” The question comes out flat enough to suggest he’d rather throw Jet back onto the street.
Jet's grin appears instantly, bright and shameless, all sharp teeth and impossible confidence. "I told you." He settles deeper into his chair with practiced ease. "You. On my crew."
Li doesn't so much as blink. "I meant the tea."
Jet huffs once. Right.
For the first time, Jet lets his gaze drift away from Li. It wanders lazily over the shelves lined with neat rows of tins and the porcelain cups stacked behind the counter, as though he's genuinely weighing the question for the first time.
"Your favorite then."
There.
Something tightens at the corner of Li's mouth. Not enough for anyone else to notice. Jet catches it anyway.
He files it neatly alongside everything else.
The expression disappears almost as quickly as it comes and Li looks at him for a moment like he's deciding whether this conversation is worth the effort.
Without another word, he turns on his heel.
Jet watches him go. His eyes follow the measured rhythm of Li's steps as he crosses the tea shop, weaving effortlessly between occupied tables without brushing against a single chair. There is nothing careless about the way he moves back toward the counter and back toward his uncle.
For a second, Jet wonders if that was a refusal. Then Li reaches for a cup.
Jet hides his satisfaction behind an idle smile.
Interesting.
While he waits, Jet scans the room again. Doors and windows, hands and faces. Exit routes. Potential weapons— old habits are stubborn things. But nothing stands out. No one seems particularly interested in him.
More curious still, no one seems particularly interested in Li. That almost bothers him more.
A guy like that should draw eyes wherever he goes.
Li returns a moment later.
Rather than setting the cup down, he drops it onto the table with enough force to send tea sloshing over the rim, spilling onto the wood.
Jet doesn’t react immediately. He watches the liquid spread instead, noting the careless force of the placement.
"What blend is this?" he asks, studying the surface of the tea as though the leaves themselves might offer an answer.
Li shrugs. "Didn't ask."
Of course he didn’t.
Jet hums softly. "...So a tea shop in Ba Sing Se?" He leans back again, draping one arm across the chair as though the question is nothing more than idle conversation.
Li's expression doesn't shift. "Does it matter?"
Jet’s almost smiles. Yes. It matters immensely.
Why a tea shop? Why this corner of the city? Why choose somewhere so public if staying hidden is the goal? Is this merely a disguise? Or has the disguise become something more?
Questions gather one after another, each finding its place inside the careful map Jet is building. There is no need to rush. Answers come more readily when people don't realize they're being hunted.
"Just seems like the skills I saw on the ferry are wasted here."
That lands.
Li stills.
It’s subtle— nothing obvious and most people wouldn't notice— but Jet catches it anyway. A shift in his posture before his face catches up. Something flickers there, recognition maybe, or irritation trying to pass for indifference.
A heartbeat later, it's gone.
Only the glare remains.
Jet files that away immediately.
Li folds his arms again. "I'm not joining you."
Good. He's paying attention.
Jet studies him openly for another moment. There's a dark stain from the tea leaves on the edge of his apron and the left strap is twisted. His shoulders never truly relax. For someone determined to disappear into an ordinary life, he carries himself like someone expecting the next fight.
Jet leans forward. "You didn't even think about it."
"I did."
"When?" Jet tilts his head.
"The same time I said no last time."
Jet clicks his tongue, fingers drum lazily against the tabletop. "Ah, I get it," he says conversationally. "You've got your own plans."
Li’s eyes narrow slightly but doesn't answer. Jet counts that as one.
Jet hums under his breath, pretending to consider something else. Like he isn’t already mapping the shape of it.
He decides not to push. Not yet. Not when Li’s starting to show edges. For a moment—
Jet reaches for another thread instead. "How much?" He nods toward the untouched cup.
"Three coppers,” Li says flatly, like the number is meant to end the conversation.
Jet reaches into his pocket and pulls out three worn copper coins.
Instead of handing them over, he lets them rest across his fingers for a moment— long enough to see if Li reacts.
But Li never looks at the money. There is a faint crease between his brows now that wasn't there earlier, golden eyes narrowed. His attention remains fixed squarely on Jet.
Jet holds his gaze like a challenge. Something hot settles beneath his ribs.
Then— without warning, Jet flicks the coins across the narrow space between them.
Li startles.
Only for an instant.
His hand moves before conscious thought has a chance to catch up. Fingers snap shut and the three coins disappear neatly into his palm without a single one slipping past. By the time he realizes what he's done, it's already over.
Li looks up. And another glare follows. It's sharper this time.
Jet's grin widens impossibly. "Good reflexes."
He pushes himself up from the chair, the legs scraping softly against the floorboards, then steps into the space Li refuses to surrender.
Li doesn't move. Wouldn't.
Neither of them breaks eye contact.
"See ya around," he mumbles, tone easy and light— carefully sanding every edge from the words until they sound almost friendly.
"I hope not."
Jet's smile tugs a fraction wider. He lifts one hand in a lazy wave over his shoulder as he walks toward the door. "I don't."
He doesn't have to check to know that Li's eyes track him as he leaves.
Smellerbee doesn’t even ask where he was all day.
[ Investigation, ongoing ]
The teashop is full that day.
Not merely busy, but filled to the edges in the way only familiar places can be— every table claimed, every chair occupied, every stretch of polished wood crowded with cups, folded newspapers and resting elbows.
Conversation rises and falls without ever becoming one single sound, until the room feels less noisy than densely inhabited.
Jet notices the missing space before he notices anything else. There isn't any.
That shouldn't matter— it does anyway.
Smellerbee and Longshot sit across from him at one of the smaller tables near the center of the room, tucked comfortably into the middle of everyone else's conversations.
Longshot reaches for the little bowl of sugar cubes in the middle of the table. His fingers pause just above it, then he seems to think better of it and quietly slides the bowl toward Smellerbee instead.
She takes one without looking up, dropping it into her tea before stirring with slow, absent circles. The spoon clicks softly against porcelain, a delicate sound swallowed almost immediately by the conversations surrounding them. She sets it aside, blows across the surface once, then again, and finally takes another careful sip like she's in absolutely no hurry to finish it.
Jet's fingers tap against the tabletop without following any rhythm.
Someone near the counter laughs too loudly. Porcelain clinks somewhere behind him. A kettle begins to whistle in the back before the sound disappears beneath the steady murmur of voices.
Nothing is happening. Nothing is wrong.
And that's the problem.
Jet's gaze keeps drifting back toward the counter anyway, almost before he realizes he's looking, finding the familiar figure there with the ease of habit.
Li refills cups behind the counter, eyebrow knitted in concentration.
A woman thanks him on her way out. Li bows automatically— the gesture small and practiced. It's still too stiff to look natural.
Before the door has even finished closing behind her, someone else slips inside to take her place.
Jet narrows his eyes.
"I see what you mean now," Smellerbee says suddenly. Her voice pulls him away from the counter.
"What?" His eyes still don't leave Li. "You finally agree?"
"No." She hums thoughtfully. "But the tea is very good."
Jet's fingers stop halfway through another tap.
Slowly, he looks across the table.
Smellerbee rolls the cup between her palms, turning it a fraction at a time as steam slips between her fingers. She takes another sip, considering it with the same quiet seriousness she gives almost everything, before another satisfied hum escapes her.
Across from her, Longshot doesn't even look up from his own cup. He simply cradles it in both hands without drinking, content to let the warmth seep into his fingers.
Jet stares at his friends in disbelief. He didn't bring them here to critique the tea. He brought them here to observe.
To notice something.
Anything.
Instead they're behaving like actual customers.
He finds himself leaning across the table before he quite realizes he's moved. "So what do you see then?" he asks.
Smellerbee glances toward the counter. "That thing you went on about for a while— something about his eyes?" She tilts her head slightly as her gaze lingers for another moment. "I see that now."
Longshot finally looks up. Somehow, that's even worse.
Jet feels his jaw tighten.
"Yes," he mutters, careful to keep his voice from carrying beyond their table. "Because he's Fire Nation."
He lets the words hang for only a moment. "I need to be thorough."
Smellerbee lowers her cup with complete composure. "You're not even trying to be subtle."
Jet follows her line of sight instinctively, back to the counter.
Li pauses halfway through pouring another cup of tea. For a brief moment, he looks toward the three of them.
His gaze finds Jet's and Jet's pulse gives one hard kick immediately. Then Li turns back to the kettle as though nothing has happened.
But something has.
The line of his shoulders never quite settles again. A stiffness lingers there now, almost too slight to notice, carried in the set of his back as he reaches for the next cup.
Jet notices it anyway.
His fingers begin tapping against the tabletop once more.
Still without rhythm.
[ market, wens wednesday ]
The lower Ring is loud in the way only places built on exhaustion can be. The street is busy in that tired Ba Sing Se way— carts scraping over stone, vendors calling out prices they’ll never get, people moving like they’re trying not to exist too loudly. Everything feels too close together. Too many people, too many faces that stop mattering after a second.
Every street promises to be the last one before opening into something familiar.
None of them are. Markets become alleys. Alleys become courtyards. Courtyards dissolve into another market entirely.
Jet moves through it without thinking as he keeps distance. Not close enough to be noticed. Close enough to see everything.
Li walks ahead with that same controlled pace he always has in public— not relaxed, not rushed, just contained. Like every step is taken to avoid being remembered. Jet has learned that pattern now. Jet has seen soldiers walk like that.
He's wearing the shirt with the missing button again today, but the tear near the cuff wasn't there the day before.
Jet watches Li turn a corner into a wider market street and loses sight of him briefly when a group of workers spills into the market from an adjoining alley.
He hurries to catch up, shifting to the opposite side of the street before the crowd can close around him. The different angle helps, he picks Li out again almost immediately, walking along the wall ahead. Sunlight catches briefly on the edge of his scar before he disappears behind a passing cart momentarily.
And then it happens.
Li stops. Not dramatically and not fully at first— just enough that his rhythm breaks, a hesitation in stride that doesn't belong there.
His head turns slightly and he comes to a halt.
The wall is full of paper. Dozens of notices layered over each other, fluttering slightly in the draft between buildings.
Li steps closer. Not hurried and not casual either but careful.
Jet’s attention sharpens immediately.
This isn’t new behavior. But it’s specific behavior.
Jet narrows his eyes and shifts position back across the street, letting a vendor's cart partially block him. Better angle again.
Li leans forward slightly, just enough to read more. But he isn't looking at the whole wall. Just one specific paper. Jet still can’t see it clearly from there, but it seems to be the fresh notice near the center.
Li stands still for a second too long. Just long enough to matter. A shift in posture. Tiny and controlled but real. His hand tightens once at his side. Then releases. Jet watches his face carefully. Nothing obvious. Of course nothing obvious. But the timing is wrong.
Then he steps back from the wall. Just for a second, his head turns, scanning the street, looking in the direction of the cart half-hiding Jet and Jet freezes. His heartbeat kicks against his ribs— if he is spotted— Li’s gaze passes over him unseen and moves on.
He starts walking again. Too smooth. Too controlled. Like he had to consciously decide to move. Like continuing onward had become a decision.
Jet watches Li disappear into the crowd, then steps closer to the wall layered with paper— older notices beneath newer ones, edges curling, ink faded by sun and weather.
One note is fresher. The ink hasn't faded yet. Jet's eyes scan the paper— squinting at the writing, only managing fragments of the words before he lets the rest blur into shape and guesswork instead.
The missing poster of some... animal?
For a second, the picture means nothing. Then something inside him shifts weight and recognition settles into place.
Jet has seen that animal.
It's the avatar's bison.
Jet doesn’t react outwardly. But something in him locks. Not anger yet. Not even excitement. Just structure clicking into place. He exhales once, low and controlled.
“So that’s what this is,” he murmurs, glancing down the street. Li is already gone.
But now Jet knows something useful. Not what Li is thinking. But what he can’t ignore.
The pause. The stare. The way Li stood there a second too long. Not proof. But it doesn't need to be.
That alone is worth more than half the theories Jet's been building for the last weeks. For the first time since stepping off the ferry, Jet has something real: a reaction.
Jet's mouth curls slightly.
Finally.