CHAPTER 10
I'm sitting on the edge of my bed, the dim city light filtering through the curtains. Outside, Beijing breathes in its own nocturnal rhythm: the distant hum of traffic, a lone voice, an engine lost in the distance. I'm wearing a silk robe that barely brushes my skin, and I absentmindedly stroke the hem, tangled in thoughts that refuse to rest. Each tick of the clock weighs like a countdown to a decision I don't want to make.
The bedroom suddenly feels stifling, small, unable to contain the turmoil brewing inside me. I get up. My bare feet glide over the cold floor as I walk to the sliding door that leads to the terrace. When I open it, the icy breeze hits me with a sharp gust, but I don't back away. The urban night sky greets me—vast and indifferent—dotted with stars barely breaking through the haze of streetlights. The terrace is intimate, simple: a wrought-iron table, two worn chairs, a few potted plants in the corners.
I wrap my arms around myself, letting the cold temper the chaos within. I sit in one of the chairs, knees pulled to my chest, watching as the city blinks and flickers in the distance, as if its breathing followed a rhythm entirely separate from mine. I close my eyes, and like a door left ajar, the memories burst in uninvited.
I see myself with Liang, years ago, walking the university halls. I remember endless afternoons in the library, surrounded by open books and cold coffee. Him, with his impeccable notes, his infinite patience, his subtle smile that eased my nerves before every exam. Later, our little celebrations: cheap beers in tiny bars, spontaneous toasts every time we reached the top of the class. With him, the world would be predictable, safe.
I imagine a life by his side: an apartment full of shared routines, simple dinners, Sundays spent walking or taking short trips around China. We'd have mild arguments and quick reconciliations. Silence would never be awkward—on the contrary, because we'd always know what the other was thinking. Liang would offer me a life woven from threads of tenderness, quiet affection, and unwavering security. He'd give me shelter where every day would be a peaceful echo of the one before—no shocks, no open wounds.
And yet, no matter how hard I try, that life feels small to me. Because when I close my eyes, it's not his face I see. It's Shi Tong's. With him, the entire world collapses and is reborn all at once.
It's impossible to put into words what he makes me feel. It's not just desire, not just fear. It's an abyss that calls me, a whirlwind that pulls me under before I even have a chance to resist. By his side, logic turns to ash, and every breath becomes a battle lost from the start.
Every time I think of him, my heart slams against my ribs. His nearness sets my blood on fire; when his deep voice whispers my name, it cuts through me like a sweet blade. The way he looks at me, as if he sees past my skin, past my fears, awakens a wild longing in me that terrifies and intoxicates me in equal measure.
Shi Tong doesn't offer promises of peace. He is the starless night, the edge of the abyss, the storm that tears everything apart. With him, there is no certainty, no safety. Only the searing promise of feeling every second as if it were the last. I know that with him, every heartbeat would be a gamble, every day a victory stolen from fate. Life at his side wouldn't be a paved path—it would be a blind sprint against vertigo.
I wonder, as I gaze up at the starry sky, what kind of woman longs for a man who could destroy her. Honestly, I don't know if my soul has always sought someone capable of setting fire to everything I am.
Life with Liang would be a calm enjoyment, a constant serenity. Shi wouldn't have calm for me—not in his day-to-day. Only frenzy and danger.
Safety, or vertigo. White or black. Liang or Shi Tong.
Reason screams at me to choose peace, to take the easy path, the safe path. That with Liang I'd have a home, a life without upheaval, a love without scars. And yet, my heart—that tireless traitor—beats to Shi Tong's wild rhythm.
It beats in vivid red; it beats in danger, it beats in desire.
I don't want this inner war. I don't want this wrenching contradiction that splits me in two. But deep down, I already know the choice has been made.
The cold breeze whips through my hair while the city sleeps, indifferent to the battle raging inside me. And I, with my eyes closed, whisper a truth I can no longer deny, not even to myself.
"It's him I want."
Even if he destroys me. Even if it's the last thing I ever do.
CHAPTER 11
The lights of the Blue Dragon club flicker with a reddish hue that blurs the faces cloaked in shadow. The electronic music pounds faintly beyond the thick walls of the private VIP room where I'm seated. Around me stretches a scene of decadent luxury: black leather sofas, smoked glass tables, and in one corner, a lit aquarium that casts aquatic shadows on a ceiling thick with smoke.
Bao Lin, the host of tonight's clandestine gathering, sits across from me. A man in his fifties—stocky and ruggedly elegant—with a face etched in scars that speak of violence and broken loyalties. On his right hand he wears a jade ring engraved with his family emblem: a coiled snake. I've seen him press that ring several times during our conversation, a nervous tic that betrays his unease.
On the table, two untouched glasses of rice liquor sit waiting. This isn't a night for relaxed toast; it's a business meeting that will define shadow alliances.
My men are positioned strategically around the room: two by the door, one near the private bar at the back. Bao Lin's bodyguards—four in total—are stationed behind and beside him, watching us with professional suspicion. The tension in the air is nearly tangible; even the fish in the aquarium seem to swim faster, disturbed by the heavy atmosphere.
"So," Bao says, breaking the prolonged silence as he sets his untouched liquor glass back on the table, "is our deal sealed, Shi Tong?"
His gravelly voice reverberates low, muffling the distant music. I study him for a moment before replying; my fingers drum once against my knee. In this underground world, even the smallest hint of hesitation can be read as weakness. I keep my expression unreadable.
"It is," I state firmly. "Debts are settled. What you did to my predecessor is in the past. From now on, we move forward—together—against common enemies."
Bao Lin nods, relieved and satisfied. His bulky shoulders relax slightly, and he flashes a wolfish grin. We both know this pact is born of necessity more than friendship: we've both lost men in recent months to a cunning enemy who's profited from our discord. An enemy is named Liu Jian.
"Then let's drink to that," Bao Lin growls, picking up his glass again and raising it.
I take mine. The liquor gives off a strong, sweetly fermented aroma.
"To our oaths," I say slowly, tapping my glass lightly against his.
The crystal gives off a delicate chime that contrasts with the gravity of the moment. We raise the glasses to our lips. The liquor burns down my throat like liquid fire—not my favorite drink, but I tolerate it. I feel the heat spread through my chest, blending with the ever-present adrenaline that never leaves me during meetings like these.
Bao Lin exhales after drinking and smiles more openly.
"A wise decision, young man," he remarks, eyes narrowing like a satisfied old tiger. "Together, we'll make those dogs regret ever provoking us."
I nod once, though only half my mind is in this conversation. The other half is with Wan Yiran, a constant beacon in my thoughts. Not even in the heart of this den of criminals can I shake her from my mind. I remember her face just hours earlier, so close to mine. That memory both soothes and tenses me: it comforts me to know I have something—someone—worth fighting for beyond myself, and it tightens my chest to think of the invisible threads that could snap and hurt her as collateral damage.
"Boss," Sun's voice interrupts my reverie. My second-in-command has stepped discreetly beside me and leans in to speak with urgency. "Our perimeter lookouts report unusual movement."
My muscles go on alert instantly. Outwardly, I lean back into the sofa with apparent laziness, but my senses ignite, mapping out every possible escape or assault route in the room.
"How many?" I murmur through clenched teeth, barely moving my lips.
"At least half a dozen," he replies in the same hushed tone. "Trying to enter through the service door."
Half a dozen or more. My eyes scan the room slowly. I don't want to alarm Bao Lin or his men until the threat is confirmed, but Sun doesn't raise concerns without reason. And the way my own instincts bristle tells me this is real. Only a handful of people knew about this meeting. Bao Lin wouldn't be stupid enough to betray me right after sealing a deal that benefits him. This came from outside. Some old friend of Bao's took the information and planned a preemptive strike. Either way, I'm not going to sit around and wait to find out who it is.
In one swift movement, I rise to my feet.
"What's going on?" Bao Lin asks, noticing my sudden movement.
I don't answer right away. I glance meaningfully toward my men near the door; they nod subtly, ready.
"Bao, do you have another exit besides the main one?" I ask in a low but urgent voice.
He blinks, confused.
"What do you mean…?"
I don't finish hearing his response. Suddenly, the thunder of gunfire shatters the illusion of peace. Two, three sharp shots echo from the hallway outside, followed by the crack of something heavy slamming into the door.
"What the hell…?!" Bao Lin exclaims, jumping to his feet.
His bodyguards have already drawn their weapons—two with pistols, the others pulling automatics from under their jackets. My men do the same. Sun already has his Glock in hand and moves to cover me, while the other two flank the door.
My heart pounds with calm precision; this isn't my first unexpected ambush, and the cold clarity of combat settles over me. But there's a difference now: a small voice inside me whispering Yiran's name, begging me to make it out alive.
The VIP room door trembles under another blow. Someone is kicking or ramming it. The lock holds—for now.
"Betrayal!" Bao Lin roars, immediately assuming I sold him out. He shoots a fierce look at me, hand moving toward the grip of the revolver at his waist.
"It wasn't me, damn it!" I snap, fury tightly leashed, as I pull my own weapon—a black SIG Sauer—from under my shoulder. "They set us both up!"
Another burst of gunfire rips through the door, sending shards of wood and metal flying. One of Bao's bodyguards' curses in Thai and retreats for cover.
"We have to get out of here!" Sun shouts near my ear, loud enough to rise above chaos.
I agree. My eyes sweep the room, calculating options: the only obvious exit is the now-sieged door. There's a wide window behind the couches, covered by heavy velvet curtains. Behind them—maybe just a wall… or maybe a way out to the building's exterior. I bet on the latter; most upscale clubs have translucent windows.
"The window," I signal to Gao and Juying. They catch on immediately and grunt in confirmation.
Bao Lin sees us and shakes his head hard.
"We're on the third floor! We'll die!" he shouts.
"Better than staying here like carnival ducks," I shoot back as I move.
I stride across the room and yank the curtains aside. Behind them is, indeed, a large pane of dark glass, vibrating with the music—and now, the echoes of gunfire. Without a second thought, I raise my pistol and fire three rounds into the glass. It bursts in a cascade of glittering shards.
Cold night air rushes in, carrying with it the distant hum of sirens and the sounds of the city. Outside, Beijing stretches out in lights. Three stories below, a narrow alley with garbage bins promises either a fatal landing—or a miracle.
"You first, Bao!" I order, keeping one eye and the barrel of my gun aimed at the door. "Jump!"
Bao Lin hesitates, but another round of shots striking the wall above our heads makes the decision for him. With surprising agility for his age, he dives through the shattered window and disappears into the night. Two of his men follow instantly, folding into their fall like acrobats. I can only hope they hit the trash bins waiting below.
The other two bodyguards cover our rear, firing back at the door that's beginning to splinter. Juying grabs my shoulder.
"Go!" he urges, shoving me toward the window.
Before jumping, I look at my remaining men.
"Regroup down below! Cover us!"
They nod. One already has a trickle of blood running down his forehead—from a splinter or stray bullet—but they don't waver.
Juying and I climb onto the shattered window frame. The wind slaps my face. For a heartbeat, time slows—adrenaline turns every detail into high definition. I can smell cement dust and gunpowder on my clothes, feel the music's pulse blending with the gunfire and shouting behind us. And in that brief second before the jump, a sharp image of Yiran crosses my mind: her soft smile, her eyes looking at me with blind faith that I'd never break her peace.
I'm not dying today, I swear to myself.
"Now!" I bark, and we leap.
Fall lasts only a couple of seconds—but it feels eternal. The wind whistles in my ears. I glimpse below how Bao and his men landed in the trash bins, cushioning their descent. I aim for the same, arms and legs tucked in. The impact is brutal: a sharp pain shoots through my ribs as I slam into something hard—probably garbage bags, and God knows what else. The stench of rot assaults my nose, but this is no time to be delicate. I stagger to my feet. Juying is already on the asphalt, waiting for me. Bao Lin stands, slightly hunched but unhurt, flanked by two of his men. The others take a few more moments to get up—one limping.
"This way, quick!" Bao Lin commands, pointing to the far end of the alley.
No need to tell me twice. We jump from the bin to the cobbled alley. Above us, figures appear at the shattered window—muzzle flashes light up the night as they open fire on us.
"Take cover!" I shout, shoving Juying and one of Bao's men behind a large green dumpster. Bullets spark against walls and pavement, kicking up chips of stone.
One of Bao's guards, who didn't get to cover in time, takes a hit in the shoulder and screams before dropping behind protection.
I peek out just enough to fire two rounds at the silhouette I spotted in the window. A body falls backward inside. At least one of the attackers is down.
"Is everyone here?" I ask roughly, doing a mental headcount.
Bao Lin and three of his men hunker behind the dumpster with me and Juying. My other two guards must still be upstairs, covering our retreat—I can hear the brutal close-range gunfire still going strong above. I pray they make it out alive.
"Who the hell attacked us?" Bao Lin spits, sweaty and furious.
"Who do you think it was?" I reply, ears straining.
"Fucking Liu Jian!" he growls, reaching the conclusion on his own.
Beyond the chaos above, I hear engines approaching—sudden screeches. Could be their reinforcements… or ours. Juying, as if reading my mind, pulls out his phone in a nearly suicidal move to check.
"Our guys are on the way," he reports, squinting at the screen. "Two cars, one minute."
I nod. A minute in a gunfight is an eternity—but at least there's hope.
"There they are!" a voice shouts from the mouth of the alley. Shit. At least three armed figures block the exit, outlined by the headlights of a truck. We're caught in a crossfire—enemies above and in front.
Without thinking, I shove Bao Lin and the others to the ground just as a fresh burst of gunfire rains down from both directions. Bits of brick fall onto us as bullets smash into the wall. A dull thud tells me one of our men behind the dumpster got hit; a groan of pain follows. This is getting ugly. My mind races for an escape: going up is suicide, forward they're waiting… only one way out is through.
I signal to Juying and one of Bao's guards: we charge head-on as soon as they reload. I count the shots—one, two, three… a faint click in the dark tells me at least one of the alley shooters has emptied their clip.
"Now!" we roar almost in unison.
We swing out from cover and open fire. I spot three attackers: one drops immediately under Sun's bullets, another tries to duck behind the open truck door. I fix my aim on the third—he's wielding a sawed-off shotgun. I pull the trigger twice; the first bullet grazes his ear, the second sinks into his chest with a wet crack. The man collapses against the truck.
But in that same second, a muzzle flash flares from the one crouching. The bullet whistles past me—so close it tears through the fabric of my jacket. A hollow thud against the dumpster behind me means the shot missed by a breath. There's no pain, but my body reacts anyway: pure adrenaline, a jolt like electricity up my spine.
"Boss!" I hear Juying shout, thinking for a moment I've been hit.
"I'm fine!" I bark back through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the shooter. With a growl, I pivot and fire toward his cover. My bullets shatter the truck's window, sending glass spraying over the man. I see him scream, shielding his face. A fourth shot from Juying finishes him off—he slumps to the asphalt, still.
The wave of imminent danger begins to ebb. The gunfire from above has also ceased. Maybe my men took care of the last ones up there—or maybe the attackers upstairs pulled back after seeing their rear lines crushed.
My breathing is quick—not from pain, but from the tension breaking free. I instinctively check my side: no blood, no hole. Just that invisible tremor you get when you brush death by an inch.
Bao Lin limps over, supported by one of his men. There's a cut on his forehead, but he's alive. His eyes meet mine. For the first time since all this began, there's no suspicion in them. Only respect.
"Reinforcements should arrive soon," he says, though it sounds more like a wish than a certainty.
"They better stay back," I mutter. "We've got enough of a mess already."
The roar of engines in the distance announces the arrival of our cars. Two black sedans burst into the alley. Zhang steps out of one, flanked by two more men, weapons ready.
"Boss! Shit! I thought—" He stops when he sees I'm still standing. "You, okay?"
"Yeah, we handled it. Did you lock down the area?"
Zhang nods.
"Those who fled won't get far. Our guys are sweeping the exits."
"Good. Get us out of here."
One of my men opens the back door. Before getting in, Bao Lin walks over and stops in front of me.
"We'll speak again, Shi," he says hoarsely. "I'll make sure those bastards pay for this."
I nod. Nothing more needs to be said. Tonight, blood sealed what words couldn't. He knows I didn't betray him. And I know he won't back out now.
"Take care," he adds with a snort. "You're not as bad as you looked."
"And you're not as old as you pretend to be," I reply.
We share one last look. Then Bao turns and limps away, flanked by his men.
I get in the car. Zhang takes the wheel. Gao slides in beside me, Juying rides up front. No one speaks at first. The engine growls as we pull away from the alley, now shrouded in smoke and the echo of gunfire.
Inside the vehicle smells of leather and gunpowder. Of death and victory. I close my eyes for a moment. Tonight, life reminded me again that I could die at any moment—and I'm not going to hell without first claiming what I want most in this world: her.
CHAPTER 12
I've bought the night to be by her side. No one else will have this moment. Only me.
I don't need to announce my arrival through the intercom. I type in the exact code on the panel, and I hear the click as the door yields to me. No neighbor will see a thing. No guard will trigger the alarm. I've paid more than enough for the interior cameras of this building to shut down during my time here. My men are outside, watching every access point like their lives depend on it. They know no one is to interrupt me.
I leave nothing to chance. Not tonight. Not her.
I step into the elevator. The doors close silently. As I rise, I breathe deeply. Everything in this building has that cheap air of forced cleanliness, like it's trying to hide what it can't. But when I reach her floor, everything changes. This is where she lives. The only part of this world that doesn't belong to me.
Yet...
I enter the second code. The lock obeys instantly. I step inside. I don't need light. The shadows are comfortable, familiar. The moment I close the door behind me, the air hits me with a scent I know instantly: hers. It's everywhere. In the walls, the objects, the floor beneath my feet. A blend of floral soap, soft tea, and something more intimate, warmer. Her skin. Her breath. Her trace. Everything in this house speaks of her. But I don't respond. I only watch.
I move through the living room in silence. On the table, I see a cup. I approach. It's cold, but I'm searching for something more precious: the mark of her lips on the rim. I find it. I stop. I lean in. I drink from the very spot she did. I'm not thirsty. I just want to share her breath, as if doing so could steal a sliver of life from her that might save me from my own.
The taste is bitter. Perfect.
I close my eyes for a moment. Everything else vanishes. The blood, the gunpowder, the chaos of the shootout just hours ago, the adrenaline… it all dissolves. Only she remains. And this moment stays. Her invisible presence soothes the fire that's been consuming me from the inside. I set the cup down carefully. I don't want to erase her imprint—I haven't come to take. I've come to stay. Even if only for a few hours, and in silence.
I glance at the right. I see the terrace. The glass door is closed but not locked. I turn and head toward the kitchen. It's small. Simple. Everything is in its place. Ordered the way only a woman who lives alone can manage. On a small rack, there are clothes hanging: a soft T-shirt, a sweater, an intimate piece, almost hidden between them.
The detail hits me. Intimate, private, human.
I keep going and approach the bathroom. The door is ajar. Inside, the scent of dampness and soap still lingers in the air. I imagine her stepping out of the shower, towel-drying her hair barefoot, walking across this same floor. The image seeps through the cracks in my will. I pass by the room she uses as a study or guest room. Books stacked on the floor. A blanket folded in the corner of the bed. I don't stop. But I see her there. Sitting. Legs crossed. Reading until dawn without knowing I've been watching her from the shadows of my mind.
Because she's already mine, even if she doesn't know it.
Then I reach her bedroom. The door is ajar. The darkness inside thickens—but it doesn't stop me. I approach without hesitation. In silence, in reverence.
She's asleep.
On her side. Curled into herself. Her hair spread across the pillow. One leg stretched out from beneath the sheet. One bare shoulder. Pale skin, vulnerable. No defenses. No mask. No sound.
She's perfect.
I stand still at the threshold. My pulse slows. Everything in me goes quiet. I could stay like this all night, just watching her breathe. The slow rise and fall of her chest. The soft curve of her lips. The barely-there brush of her lashes against her cheek. The darkness in my life has never known anything so pure.
I take a step. Then another. I cross the room. I lean down. I know I shouldn't be here. That I have no right. But after so much chaos, I need to believe this is my peace—even if it won't last.
I sit first. I take off my jacket. I lie down behind her. Let the mattress welcome me. I settle against her back—not touching, but close enough that the heat of her skin seeps through the fabric between us.
I breathe in the scent of her hair. My face sinks into the curve of her neck. My lips brush the skin of her shoulder. Slowly, as if every inch of her were a map I already know—but need to trace again.
"You're mine," I whisper.
It's not a threat. It's a certainty. A prayer without an altar.
And you'll still be, even when you hate me. Even when you run. Because I carry you with me—even when you're not here.
I slide my fingers along her waist, not pressing—just enough to know she's real. To feel her move, breathe, live… for me. I'm not afraid she'll wake. If she did, I wouldn't let her go. I'd make love to her until she couldn't remember anything else. Until her body recognized there's no place it belongs more than in my arms.
But she doesn't wake. And that lets me stay.
I keep tracing the invisible line of her back with my lips. Each kiss is a silent vow. Each brush, a confession I don't dare speak aloud. I close my eyes. I sink into the warmth that radiates from her. And for the first time in years, I feel free.
No blood. No war. No betrayal.
Just her and me. And the darkness that wraps around us like a vow sealed in silence.
*****
The world begins to shift when light brushes against the curtains. There is no noise, no urgency. Only a soft clarity that moves like a respectful visitor, aware that it cannot enter this room without asking permission. I don't open my eyes right away. I keep breathing her scent while the warmth of her body surrounds me, as if I could remain suspended inside this moment that belongs to no time at all.
The back of her neck, warm and close, grazes my chin with every slow exhale. I'm lying behind her. Her back rests against my chest. My left hand is tucked beneath my own head, giving me an excuse to keep watching without moving; the other lies across her waist, open, steady, as if to remind her—even in sleep—that I belong here. To this body. To this dawn I don't want to end.
I breathe deeply. Her fragrance still lingers in the air: hair, warm skin, something indefinable that exists only in her. I tried to stay awake, to fight off sleep so I could watch her until morning, but I failed. Her peace wrapped around me, pulled me into it, and for a few hours turned me into something I'd forgotten how to be: a man without malice, with no blood on his hands. A man who might be worthy of what he was touching.
The sheet has slipped a little, revealing the curve of her neck, the gentle line of her collarbone, the beginning of her back. The desire she awakens in me doesn't burn or ache. It's deeper. Older. It doesn't rise from the body, but from the urgency to belong to her in silence—with no conditions, no interruptions. I could kiss her right there. Let my mouth drift down to her skin and live in that fragile border between sin and salvation.
I lift myself slowly, careful not to wake her. I lean on one forearm and watch her from above. Her lips are slightly parted—soft, vulnerable. One of her arms lies across the pillow, hand open, as if she were reaching for something in her sleep that's already beside her.
She doesn't need to reach. I'm here.
I lean in and kiss her exposed shoulder. I do it slowly, with my mouth barely open, letting my breath brush her skin before my lips. Yiran shivers. A subtle tremor moves down her back and ends at my fingertips. She doesn't wake. And I don't want her to. Not yet. Not in this moment that belongs only to me.
I get out of bed with that strange sensation of still possessing her even when I no longer touch her. I walk through the room without taking my eyes off her. I bend down. Pick up my jacket. I slip it on without hurrying. I don't button it. My shirt is wrinkled. It still smells like her, and that's enough.
I leave the bedroom without closing the door. I let the shadows keep holding her the way I just did. I walk toward the exit. My steps make no sound. Neither do my thoughts. Only her. Only that image of her sleeping, etched behind my eyes like a scar I never want to heal. When I reach the threshold, I stop.
I'll come back.
As many times as it takes. Because now that I've breathed her world, I wouldn't know how to survive outside of it. Because her scent belongs to me—her bed, her silence, her peace. The kind that managed, at least for one night, to quiet a man like me.
I close the door without a sound. The hallway is empty. The automatic lights flick on. The elevator waits. I descend in silence. The world is still the same—but I am not.
The car is parked at the corner. My man at the wheel nods wordlessly. I slide into the back seat. I look out the window while Beijing wakes up, indifferent.
Never have I felt like I was escaping the darkness. This time, I carry it with me… to offer it to her.
Because it belongs to her. Because it has always been hers.
CHAPTER 13
I don't need to open my eyes to know he's gone. I knew the exact moment his warmth slipped away from my back and the mattress grew colder. He left no sound, no shadow. Only that subtle emptiness that lingers when someone important disappears.
But there's no fear, no confusion. Just a strange stillness. As if my body still refuses to accept that he's gone. As if some part of me still believes that if I don't move, if I don't breathe too loud, he might come back.
I inhale deeply. The scent he left on my pillow still floats in the air. There's something of him in it—clean, masculine, almost threatening. As if danger could have a smell. I turn slowly, letting my cheek rest right where his had been. The fabric still holds some of his warmth. I close my eyes tightly. I want to keep him, preserve him, breathe him in like he's necessary air.
I smile. Despite the emptiness. I smile because I had him. Because I felt him like I've never felt anyone before. Because in some moment of this night that no longer belongs to me, I saw him asleep beside me.
I watched him in silence. Holding my breath, my chest tight. His face was calm. Free of the shadows that usually haunt it. As if my bed had been his only truce. As if, for once, rest had surrendered to him.
I leaned in, just barely—a breath of a movement. And I brushed my lips against his. It wasn't a kiss. It was an act of faith. A quiet tremble. A silent wish. He didn't move. He didn't open his eyes. And I curled up on his chest for a few minutes, holding on to the absurd hope that he'd stay until morning.
I slept deeply. Like I hadn't in years. As if his presence had sealed every door fear once crept through. And now that I wake, with gray light scratching at the sky, I realize something more frightening than anything I've lived before:
I don't want to sleep without him again.
I sit up slowly, dragging the sheets with me as if they could still protect me from what I feel. Everything looks the same. Everything… except me. The bedroom holds the usual silence of an empty dawn, but to me it's full of him. His shadow, his warmth, his recent absence.
I get up and walk barefoot to the bathroom. I stop in front of the mirror. I look at myself as if I were someone else. As if I needed to find some trace of what happened. Of what he left in me. There's something different in my eyes. I don't know what it is. Maybe it's tenderness, vertigo, or something like sadness.
I'm not the same after this night.
I go to the kitchen. My hands prepare something quickly. Tea or coffee. I don't think. I'm not hungry, but my body acts for me, as if trying to steady itself in routine. The steam rises in slow spirals. I smell it, I sip it, but everything tastes like him.
His mouth. His breath.
The way his lips brushed my skin like he was learning how to touch. A shiver runs through me. I don't know if it's fear of having felt too much, or cold from having let him go.
"What have you done to me, Shi Tong?"
The question slips out in a whisper, with no one to hear. Then the alarm sounds. The day calls me. The world doesn't stop. It reminds me there are patients waiting, responsibilities that won't go away—even if he did.
I walk back to the bedroom. I stop at the threshold. The side he occupied is still slightly indented. Everything feels so real, it hurts. It hurts more than it should, more than I want to admit.
Will he come back?
I ask it quietly, and I hate myself a little for needing the answer—but I do. I close my eyes. Press my fingers to the doorframe and I pray. I pray that he returns safe, whole, and mine.
*****
The operating room lights hit me like a white slap. I adjust my gloves as the nurse finishes placing the rib spreader on the metal tray. The echo of the cart bounces off the walls, broken only by the irregular beeping of the monitor attached to the patient I haven't even seen yet. On one side, the first-year resident trembles slightly as she puts on her mask. I don't need to look at her to know she's terrified.
"Male patient, nineteen years old. Car accident. Frontal collision. Multiple rib fractures confirmed internal bleeding," reports one of the interns, voice too firm for his bloodshot eyes. "Irregular pulse. SatO2 dropping fast."
I nod, still silent. I glance at the gurney. The body is covered from chest to legs with a surgical drape, broken only by the ventilator and drainage tubes inserted into the lateral abdomen. The exposed skin is bruised all over. The face… there is no face. Just gauze and swelling, as if pain had been sculpted in rage into a human statue.
"Name?"
"Wang Yibo. College student. We haven't been able to reach the family, but a professor signed the consent forms," the head nurse answers.
"That's good enough for me."
Adrenaline hits my bloodstream before the scalpel does. The first cut opens skin, muscle, and the false calm of the operating room. As soon as I break through the fascia, a thick wave of blood surges out like a black tide. The resident gasps. The anesthesiologist tenses. I don't.
"Clamp. Now."
The instrument lands in my hand like an extension of my will. There's no room for error. Not now. I press firmly on the torn artery and feel a faint pulse under my gloved fingers. It's fighting to keep pumping. Refusing to let go. There's still life. A life clinging desperately to a body shattered to pieces.
The monitor lets out a long, flat beep. The anesthesiologist turns his face toward me. The eyes behind his protective goggles say everything: pressure crashing, the heart can't take it. Sweat glistens on his forehead, but his voice is steady.
"No response. Systolic pressure at forty. SatO2 at thirty-five."
"Auto-compressor, now. Bolus Ringer's lactate. Dual line. We are not losing him," I say without raising my voice.
The hands around me move like they're guided by my own pulse. Everything is happening in seconds, but in my mind every motion breaks down into millimetric precision. The resident hands me a retractor without me asking. At least she knows how to watch. But the new nurse to my right hesitates. Falters. Takes one second too long to secure the valve. Just enough to make me turn my head.
"You. Out. Get Ren."
He nods, pale. Fear has no place in a room where death waits. The scalpel quivers slightly in my fingers as I make the second incision. The bleeding doesn't stop. I spot the source between shattered ribs. A liver tear. I try to stem it with direct pressure, but the bleeding won't respond. I ask for cautery.
The smell of burned tissue mixes with warm blood and antiseptic. It's acrid, thick. You can almost chew it. My mask sticks to my face. Sweat runs between my brows. A gauze touches my forehead. It's the head nurse, gently wiping me with almost maternal precision. I'm grateful I don't have to speak.
The monitor changes. Beep, beep… then silence.
"Flatline. Zero rhythm. He's in asystole."
"Epinephrine, one milligram. Prep for manual CPR. No compressor. I'll do it myself."
The resident hesitates. Her first real code is blue. I'd bet she's only practiced on mannequins. I meet her eyes and nod. She steps in. Places her hands and begins compressions.
"Deeper. Steady rhythm. Keep the pressure. If you break a rib, better than dying with a silent heart."
The defibrillator is already charged. I move in. Place the pads.
"Charged to two hundred. Clear."
I press. The body jolts like a fish out of water. No response.
"Again. Three hundred."
Shock. Silence. The long tone sounds like an insult. Like a distant wail.
"Again."
The third shock makes the monitor spike. A beat, another, then another.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
"Rhythm's back. Mild fibrillation. He's coming back," the anesthesiologist announces.
I don't smile. There's no time. The heart is beating, but the bleeding hasn't stopped.
"Pericardial effusion. We need to drain, or he'll drown."
"Here," answers Ren, who entered quietly with the instruments. I'm thankful for his efficiency without saying a word.
I insert the chest tube with confident hands. Blood fills it. Then air. Then… nothing. The monitor stabilizes. The lungs start to expand rhythmically. The ventilator follows. The pressure climbs.
But my body begins to feel heavy.
Sweat soaks my back. The mask clings to my face. I hear the others breathing—fast, shallow. As if they'd all been holding it through the crisis. The white light feels even harsher now, more aggressive.
"Pack it. Three-point suture. Check urinary output. I want a hemoglobin check in fifteen."
The commands keep coming out of my mouth, but my mind is already beginning to drift. Not because I don't care—because I've given everything. I'm exhausted, but I can't allow it yet.
The team starts to clear the room after confirming the vital signs. The resident lingers a few seconds longer. She looks at me like she's witnessed a surgical exorcism—or a miracle. I don't meet her gaze. I don't need admiration. I need her to remember every second of this room.
When I'm finally alone, I breathe.
The lights don't go out, but the silence weighs more than before. I approach the patient. Wang Yibo. His face is still covered. His body is now wrapped in bandages, tubes, and electrodes. He looks like a puppet held up by the will of others.
I rest my hands on the edge of the table. The gloves are stained. Blood has seeped past my wrist, soaked into the cuff of the surgical gown. I feel its warmth trapped against my skin.
I remove them carefully. One, then the other. I let them fall into the red bin. I walk over to the sink. The faucet spits out freezing water. I slide my hands under the stream without thinking. The sting wakes me up. I hadn't even noticed I was cut. A splinter from the retractor, maybe. A thin wound at the base of my thumb.
The water carries the red trace down the drain. I watch it.
Part of me wants to stay here. Silent, submerged. As if the OR were a sanctuary where the questions waiting outside can't reach me. But there's something worse than the questions. It's that lingering image. That different blood. That different body. That sound, that sound. The one I silenced. The one that still haunts me.
It isn't Wang Yibo who's making my chest tighten. It's someone else. Someone who shouldn't be in my head. Someone who never really left.
The monitor keeps beeping, that steady tone marking time's passage. But inside me, my own clock is still on pause. I wait. As if the one sound that truly matters… hasn't come yet.
CHAPTER14
Ten days later...
I'm off duty today.
There's no scalpel waiting on my steady hand, no patients on the verge of breaking under my fingers. I could sleep, I could read, I could spend the whole day on the couch watching TV and thinking about Shi a little longer… but I sit up. The floor is cold, and my steps are slow, as if my body wants to stay where it knows he'll eventually come.
I never hear him arrive, nor do I hear him leave. But when he appears... my back warms against his chest. My waist recognizes the touch of his fingertips, gliding over me like part of a secret language only my skin understands. His breath lands on my nape, warm and damp, and then I hear him. He inhales, deep and slow. As if he's storing the scent of my hair inside him. As if he needs to remember it to survive the rest of the day. His arms wrap around me with the precision of a weapon being drawn: silent, accurate, irreversible.
I'm not always awake when he arrives. But when I am... I don't dare to move. I stay still. Pretending to sleep. Hiding the way I tremble. Concealing my desire to turn around and beg him to stay until dawn. As someone would who belongs to you, even if it's never been said aloud. Because what happens between us doesn't need confirmation. His body knows where to find mine. And I've learned to leave wordless clues.
Since that first night, I've slowly begun to change my routines. Cotton pajamas are a thing of the past; now I sleep in silk nightgowns, soft, nearly weightless. I put lotion on my body before bed, the richest I could find, with a jasmine scent, so his shirt carries my fragrance, so that when he leaves, he thinks of me even in my absence. Just because I don't say it out loud—that I want him to take me with him—doesn't mean I don't wish it. I do, desperately. I've turned my nights into an intimate ritual, a constant act of seduction.
But tonight is not for sleeping yet, but for living… like the rest of the world.
I head to the coat rack and put on a long wool cardigan that covers me down to my knees. My hair is pulled up in a messy bun. I don't wear makeup. I don't need it to go down to the same old store and buy just enough to get me through an afternoon on the couch.
The elevator takes its time. I lean my head against the wall, close my eyes for a moment, wondering if he'll ever call. He has my number—he used it the night we met to call his men. Still, I highly doubt he will. He must have his reasons…
As I step outside, the air smells of suspended dust and old leaves. Beijing in autumn has that grayish, urban scent, not exactly pleasant, but not unpleasant either. The store is just across the street, a short walk, but a nice one. I like walking slowly. Anyone who sees me would think I'm alone, but that's not true.
When I reach the corner, I see the black car parked in the same spot. It's not just any car—it's one of his. I don't go near it. I don't stare. But I recognize it. It's the fourth or fifth time I've seen it there, with its dark windows, engine off, and yet its presence fills everything. I know he's not inside, but his men are. His eyes remain where I am, and his steps protect mine. Strange as it may seem, it comforts me.
I'm not afraid. On the contrary, it reassures me to know someone's watching over me, even without being asked. Deep down, it's as if our souls understood each other before our words ever did. He acts, I accept. He protects, I let myself be protected.
I enter the store and a soft bell rings above the door. The clerk, the same as always, smiles at me from behind the counter.
"Doctor Wan, finally a day off, huh?"
"Yes, at last," I reply with a slight smile as I pick up a small basket.
I wander down the aisles. I grab things at random: a box of chocolates, two packs of sweet popcorn, and a pack of spicy noodles. And finally, a bottle of fizzy pineapple drink. When I reach the counter, he gives me a knowing look.
"Series marathon?"
"Something like that."
"What's on today?"
"A drama. One of those fifty-episode ones that ends badly."
"And why watch it?"
"Because sad things… have their own kind of beauty."
He rings me up in silence after that. I'm grateful for the normalcy. I leave the store with the bag dangling from my wrist. When I glance back at the street, the car is still there. In the same spot. It hasn't moved. But I have. I've changed since he came into my life. It doesn't matter if he returns tonight or a week from now. I wait for him every night. In every corner.
I take the stairs instead of the elevator. Maybe to feel like I still get to choose something in all of this. That I have control over at least the steps I take. When I reach my floor, I don't use the key like I used to. I enter the code—just like he does every time he comes.
Before going in, I look back. Just for a second. Just in case. But no one's there. Or so it seems. When I step inside and close the door, a part of me... smiles.
Because tonight, maybe, he'll return to my bed.
And I'll be ready.
With moisturized skin, a silk nightgown, a bare back… and a heart burning in silence.
*****
The stench of rotting sea mixes with gasoline and hot metal. The dock is covered in grimy shadows, stretched long under the yellow lights falling from the cranes. In front of me, the traffickers laid out their goods on the ground. Open briefcases. Weapons, vacuum-sealed packages, pills, white powder, and damp bills. My men are armed. So are they. No one smiles. No one moves without permission.
"There are a hundred more units than agreed," one of them says, his voice rough from tobacco.
I hear him, but my senses aren't focused on him. I feel the buzz of my phone in the inside pocket of my jacket. A short, precise vibration. I know where it's from. There's only one reason it would interrupt a moment like this.
I slide my hand calmly. No sudden moves. I take it out, glance at the screen, and tilt my body slightly to block anyone from seeing what I want, what I protect. The message is from one of my men. I receive a gift of five photos.
I look at them…
The first: Yiran leaves her building. Hair in a high bun, loose strands, athletic clothes, a long wool coat, and the white clogs I've seen her wear around the house. No makeup. Radiant. Real. Second: she enters the corner store. The third: standing in front of the chocolate shelf. She's holding a box. The fourth: talking to the shopkeeper, smiling. The fifth: heading back home.
The entire world falls silent.
The dock disappears. The lights. The weapons. The voices. Everything dissolves behind that moment. I clench my jaw. My pulse burns. Her. Just like that, stripped of all artifice. Just like I want her. Peaceful, ordinary, everyday. And more beautiful than anything I've ever held in my hands.
I zoom in. I run my fingers over her face. I study the angle at which she holds the bag. The exact way she tilts her body when she speaks to the clerk. I can almost hear her. I picture her arriving home, climbing the stairs with that slow walk she has when she's tired, leaving her keys on the table, slipping off her clogs. I picture her in her nightgown, rubbing cream into her arms, her thighs, her belly...
I inhale deeply. The desire stabs into my abdomen. It's not lust. It's not just sex. It's the primal need to have her against my body, to sink into her skin, to draw from her each night a soft moan and each day a weary, content gaze. My mind betrays me. I can see her sitting on the bed, legs folded, hands slowly running down her thighs, as if she were sketching the map only I know how to read. I get ready. I undress with the silence of a secret lover. I slide in behind her in bed. I hold her. And she... never moves, never says a word, though I know she's waiting for me.
My fingers tighten around the phone. Heat rises my neck. I close my eyes for a moment and suppress the shiver. I can't lose control. Not here. Not now. I look at the screen again. I type a single line:
"Don't let her out of your sight. Not for a second. As if you were me."
I hit send. The pressure in my chest eases. The desire remains, still, pulsing beneath my skin. I pull myself together, adjust my jacket, and return to where the transaction is underway.
"I'll take the extra hundred units," I say, without raising my voice. "But I won't pay a single yen more."
One of them blinks. The one with the scar presses his lips together. Zhang steps forward. He makes sure everyone understands this isn't a negotiation. It's a warning. In the end, they give in. Because they know it's the best option.
"Load it all up," I order.
I cross my arms. My gaze sweeps over the container, the boxes, the faces. But in my mind, she's still there. With her hair down, her silk nightgown, her body wrapped in the cream that leaves its mark on me every time I leave.