In Jiangcheng, down in the southern provinces, night wrapped around the bustling city, and the neon lights scattered across the skyline like a spray of stars.

If people had to sum up Jiangcheng in one phrase, it would simply be: blinding brilliance.

“Cynthia Grayson, you’d better listen up! The Grayson family already sold your life to me. Tonight, you’re dead meat!”

The roar echoed from a filthy, dim alley.

A girl around eighteen or nineteen knelt barefoot at the end of it, clothes torn, body shaking.

Behind her loomed a wall as tall as three grown men.

So noisy.

Cynthia forced her eyes open through the pounding pain in her skull, brows knitting tight.

The thug across from her saw her stand up and let out a sharp whistle. “Damn, this chick’s hard to kill.”

…Was he talking about her?

Cynthia lifted her gaze just in time to see a wooden bat swinging straight at her neck.

Seriously?

Her body reacted before her brain even caught up. She twisted her wrist, slid sideways past the attack, grabbed the thug’s arm, and with one brutal jerk—

Crack.

The sound was crisp and sickening.

Clang—the bat hit the ground.

Right after came the thug’s miserable scream.

Her whole vibe had completely shifted—nothing like the fragile, helpless Cynthia from moments ago. Now she was sharp, intimidating, unfazed.

Seeing their “big bro” taken down in seconds, the rest of the gang lost it. They swung their so‑called weapons and rushed her like a pack of headless chickens.

Cynthia turned, glanced at that stumbling bunch, and rolled her eyes.

They were here to kill her, right? Then couldn’t they at least send someone who didn’t look like he’d trip over his own feet just walking?

She didn’t even bother to move. In just a blink, every single one of the charging thugs hit the ground, collapsing like moths throwing themselves into flames.

The leader watched his underlings fall one by one, eyes bulging like they might roll right out of his skull. His face practically screamed disbelief.

This girl wasn’t Cynthia—no way.

Cynthia glanced at the bodies sprawled all over the ground, her eyes sliding back to the guy who seemed to be their leader. Before he could even process that look, she suddenly sent a sharp kick flying straight at him.

“Ow—!” The man, who had just tried to scramble up and run for his life, was kicked so hard he practically saw his soul leave his body. He collapsed again, breathing like he had half a life left, and wailed, “Big sister, please, spare me! I was just doing work for the Grayson family, I deserve whatever’s coming! You’re the bigger person—please just let me go!”

She was about to say something when her entire body froze. Everything went black.

“Confirmed. A‑Nation’s top female operative, codename Fire Fox, was shot through the heart during a mission. Resuscitation failed. Death recorded.”

A familiar voice echoed in her mind. Cynthia’s expression stiffened. It took her a long moment before she snapped back and grabbed the thug by his collar.

“What year is it?”

The man blinked, stunned, then stammered, “Two… 2011…”

Twenty years earlier?!

She had actually been reborn—thrown into 2011, a time before she even existed?

Wasn’t this the kind of plot you only saw in movies?

A sharp jolt raced through her skull, like someone had hit the play button on a projector and was cramming a whole new life’s memories into her head.

Child star Cynthia, the adopted daughter of Ulysses Grayson, heir of the Grayson family. Her parents had died half a month ago in a bizarre car crash that sent them off a bridge. Then her uncle and aunt tried to swallow the inheritance and framed her for killing them. Yesterday—on her eighteenth birthday—they kicked her out and sent people to kill her.

And this girl just happened to have the exact same name as her.

The alley suddenly tilted in her vision. Her fists tightened, loosened, then tightened again as she stood there, breathing hard.

Not far away, at the corner of the street, a black Bentley was half‑hidden in the night.

The rear window slid down. A man in a crisp suit stood outside the car, bowing slightly as he said, “Sir, those men… have all been dealt with by the young miss.”

His eyebrows twitched like crazy as he spoke.

God knew what he had just witnessed.

A frail‑looking girl taking out a dozen street thugs like she was sweeping the floor—no movie would dare film something that wild.

Seconds later, the car door opened from the inside. A tall figure stepped out, followed by two or three men in black, and walked straight into the alley.

Cynthia’s senses were sharper than most, so the tiny sound coming from the exit instantly caught her attention. She tried to lift her head to check, but it felt unbearably heavy, as if her neck had lost all strength.

A dark figure moved toward her, the flickering headlights outside sweeping across his face. After forcing her eyes to focus, she finally managed to make out his features.

He looked… familiar. Like someone she should definitely know.

Images in her mind flipped past one after another, fast as a film reel on overdrive, until they stopped on a face with striking, deep‑set features.

“Tristan…”

It was him.

It was actually Tristan Montgomery.

Or more accurately — Tristan from twenty years ago.

Hearing Cynthia whisper his name, Tristan paused mid‑step.

Meanwhile, Cynthia could no longer hold herself upright and pitched forward.

He reacted instantly, catching her before she hit the ground. Seeing her unfocused gaze and frighteningly pale face, his eyes darkened. He patted her lightly in a steadying, almost protective way, and said in a low, firm voice, “You’re safe now, sweetheart. I’m taking you home.”