They stepped out of the shop. The car was waiting. The driver was one of Yee’s men, but the shadows across the street held the assassins.

She felt a sudden, violent shift in her chest. Lust, Caution. It was a cautionary tale, indeed. She had played the part so well that she had forgotten who she was. Or perhaps, in the arms of the enemy, she had found a truth more potent than any ideology.

"You look tired, Mrs. Mak," he said, his voice low, smoothing his gloves on the table.

The car drove away, disappearing into the grey, endless Shanghai rain. The caution had been ignored, and the lust had claimed them both.

Her target was Mr. Yee. He was the head of the collaborationist secret police, a man whose hands were stained with the blood of patriots. He was a shadow within a shadow, paranoid and cold. For months, Jiazhi had spun a web of boredom and longing around him. She was the one thing he couldn't control, the one distraction he allowed himself in a life defined by mistrust.