The car rolled to a stop, and two diminutive soldiers approached briskly, their arms adorned with blood-red armbands and their hands gripping the ominous black barrels of rifles.
Qin Yao lowered the car window, speaking swiftly in Burmese. Moments later, the car door was yanked open, and the cold, unyielding barrel of a rifle pressed directly against my forehead. I had no choice but to step out of the vehicle.
As I disembarked, clutching my daughter tightly in my arms, I could feel her small body trembling uncontrollably.
My heart ached for her, and I whispered softly to reassure her, "Mommy's here. Everything will be okay."
But before I could steady myself, a sharp kick struck the back of my knees, forcing me to collapse onto the ground.
Twisting my head, I saw the driver casually stepping out of the vehicle. There was no trace of surprise on his face; instead, he greeted the soldiers with familiarity, lighting a cigarette as if this were an ordinary day.
In that instant, a chilling realization washed over me—this was no accident. Every step had been meticulously planned, and the puppet master orchestrating it all stood before me: my so-called best friend.
The warmth and cheer that used to adorn her face were gone, replaced by an icy indifference. Her gaze held no trace of familiarity; to her, I was nothing more than a stranger—or perhaps even less than that.
"Qin Yao... why..." I stammered, a mix of terror and disbelief filling my voice as I looked at her.
She didn't bother to answer, her expression unyielding as she uttered two cold words: "The password."
I knew exactly what she meant. She was after the digital currency I had painstakingly converted from the illicit money over the years—funds I had intended to leave entirely to my daughter.
Summoning all my courage, I gritted my teeth and said, "Unless I'm in a safe place, I won't say a word." It was the only leverage I had left.
Her lips curved into a faint, mocking smile. "Oh, you'll talk," she said, rising to her feet with an air of chilling certainty.
Then, she turned and spoke a few curt instructions in Burmese to the soldiers. Without warning, one of them lunged forward and wrenched my daughter from my arms.
My daughter shrieked in terror, her legs kicking frantically as she emitted panicked, guttural cries—her desperate plea for help.
Desperation surged within me, and I threw myself forward, trying to reclaim her. But before I could reach her, a soldier slammed me to the ground with brutal force.
As I struggled, a dull, heavy thud struck the back of my head. A numbing wave of pain reverberated through my skull, and the world around me dissolved into darkness.