She wore a cheongsam Chen had chosen — slit high, jade buttons, hiding a stiletto in the seam. Every dinner, every walk by the Singapore River, she edged him toward the teahouse. “There’s a place,” she said, “quiet. No soldiers. Just old wood and incense.”
The paper door exploded inward. Takeda reached for his sidearm. Maya screamed — not a warning, but something worse: a cry of choice.
The kitchen door creaked. Chen’s shadow moved behind the rice-paper screen. Maya’s hand went to her cheongsam seam. Not for the stiletto. For the camellia he had given her — now dried, tucked like a secret.
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