No one else but you

The cipher in the canvas

The apartment on Rue Caulaincourt smelled of turpentine and antiseptic, a chemical marriage that clung to the back of Lingling’s throat. Dawn filtered through the lace curtains, painting pale fractals across the hardwood floor. Camille slept on the sofa, an IV bag dangling from a makeshift stand fashioned from a coat hanger and duct tape. The blinatumomab dripped slowly, each drop a countdown.

Orm sat cross-legged on the floor, sketchbook open in her lap. She hadn’t slept. Her eyes were swollen, but her fingers moved with purpose, tracing the lines of Camille’s final drawing—the three of  them on the bridge. Lingling stood at the window, arms folded, watching the city stir. She had calculated the exact moment the sun would crest Sacré-Cœur: 07:14:22. She was off by 11 seconds.

A soft knock broke the silence. Nia, the driver from the airport, stood in the doorway, raincoat dripping. She held a manila envelope.

“This came for Mademoiselle Valois,” she said in French. “Hand-delivered. No return address.”

Orm took it, frowning. The envelope was heavy, sealed with red wax imprinted with a lotus flower. She turned it over. On the front, in elegant script: *For the sisters Kwong.*

Lingling’s spine straightened. Kwong was her name. Orm had kept Kornnaphat for business, a quiet rebellion against merging empires. The wax seal was identical to the one on Kwong Corporation’s legal documents—her father’s design.

Orm broke the seal. Inside was a single canvas, rolled tightly, and a flash drive. The canvas unfurled to reveal a painting: a younger Camille, perhaps sixteen, standing in a Bangkok alley. Behind her, a mural of a woman with Lingling’s face—exact, down to the faint scar on her left eyebrow from a childhood fall. The woman in the mural held a Rubik’s cube, colors bleeding into the night sky.

Orm’s breath caught. “This… this is impossible.”

Lingling took the canvas, her fingers precise. The paint was oil, still tacky in places. Fresh. The brushstrokes were Camille’s—frenetic, layered, alive. But the mural… she had never posed for it. Never been to that alley.

Camille stirred, eyes fluttering open. “What’s that?”

Orm showed her. Camille’s face drained of what little color it had.

“Where did you get this?” she whispered.

“Nia brought it,” Orm said. “It’s addressed to us. *Sisters Kwong.*”

Camille struggled to sit up, wincing as the IV tugged. “Put it away. Please.”

Lingling’s voice was steel. “Explain.”

Camille’s eyes darted to the window, the door, anywhere but their faces. “I can’t.”

“You will,” Orm said, softer but no less firm. “C, what is this?”

Camille’s hands twisted the blanket. “It’s… a message. From someone who knew we’d be together.”

Lingling’s mind raced. The lotus seal. The mural. The precision of her likeness. Someone had access to her childhood photos, her biometric data. Kwong Corporation’s servers were unhackable—she had built the encryption herself. This was personal.

She took the flash drive, slotting it into her tablet. A single file: *Play me.*

The video began. A darkened room, lit only by a projector. A figure in shadow, voice distorted through a modulator.

“Camille Valois,” it said. “You have 72 hours to deliver the ledger. The bridge painting is a reminder. You know where. Fail, and the sisters Kwong pay the price.”