"I choose her."
The words landed like a stone. Chen Zhe's hand was steady on the pistol. Light from the single bulb in the abandoned factory tossed their faces into sharp planes and long shadows.
"Don't!" Zhang Hanye shouted. His voice bounced off concrete and metal, small and raw. He lunged for the rope holding Chujiao's arms. Two men held him back.
"Make her run," a caller ordered from the dark, tired voice of the kidnapper. "Five paces. Whoever she reaches, we take him."
"Why are we doing this?" Chujiao spat through a split lip. Blood had dried on her cheek. Her shirt smelled of coal dust and sweat. She counted the ropes in her memory while a man jostled the back of her head.
Chen Zhe stepped forward and tapped the pistol against his palm. He smiled, polite and empty. "It will be fair," he said.
"It won't be fair," Chujiao said. Her voice didn't shake. "You're not a judge, Chen Zhe."
"Truth and order are the same in the end," he answered. "One choice decides."
Zhang Hanye strained, shouted, "I'll give myself—"
"Shut up," Chen Zhe said. He pointed at her, slow and flat. "I choose her."
There was a gunshot. The sound cut through the factory like a blade. A rope overhead snapped. Chujiao's wrists slid free, then the wooden beam tilted, then everything moved in a sick, wrong rhythm.
"Jump!" someone barked. "Run!"
Chujiao shoved off the edge
