.
"Keep monitoring her tell me what she buys I want to see what she is gonna do. For now, I will get my most trusted people to get antidotes to many poisons secretly. So I can cure the Emperor right away if I'm too late to help him" Nicolás states to the system.
"How?" Fury asked.
The meeting was over between them as jin and Yoongi walked out. I waved at jin and smiled while doing a 180 and glaring at that boy who looked at me with a smirk. Oh boy, I want to wipe that smirk out of his face so bad.
"Oh, sure."
and construct the gene-type for the given phenotype of the living creature
"That's such a crappy excuse, Jordan."
There's a scene in this chapter that I've been unable to shake. Li Heng falling asleep in the car, the neon lights of Tsim Sha Tsui flickering past the window 'like scattered stars,' and her dreaming about that golden place with the glass globe and music box. The imagery is so vivid I could feel the warmth of the blanket and hear the ticking. And then the dream shifts—there's movement beside her, tiny hands and feet, and the crib that was meant for one person suddenly feels like it was always meant for two. I don't even know what this dream symbolizes exactly but it feels important. A crib for two? Twins? A baby that never was? The dream is so lush and sensory—resplendent and golden, soft blanket, clear distant music—then SHATTERED by a car horn. The contrast between that warm, dreamlike safety and the cold reality of the airport arrival hall is brutal. The airport scene itself is also brilliantly rendered. Maggie sitting there in her wealthy wife clothes, 'voluminous curls and dripping in jewelry,' telling police about her old life like she's reading from someone else's biography. The diamond ring flash at the end when she says 'Amin and I are no longer in the same world'—this image of two women who were once inseparable, now separated by class and choice and tragedy, is haunting. And Granny Zhou at the police station entrance, hair completely white, trembling hands gripping the doorframe, pulling a newspaper from her bosom like it's a sacred text. The visual of this old woman crying over a reconstructed skull image of her grandson is something I'll carry with me.
Wander's P.O.V.
Only shooting stars break the mold
I ain't the sharpest tool in the shed
Only shooting stars break the mold