The private lounge of the Qianbei Club shimmered under golden chandeliers, the walls lacquered with soft ivory and trimmed in antique jade.
Soft music played in the background — a pianist's gentle strokes echoing like murmurs through silk.
A circle of the city's most polished daughters surrounded the low table, each one styled to perfection: velvet lips, porcelain skin, designer handbags they couldn't pronounce but desperately needed to own.
But none of them held a candle to Gu Shuli.
Seated with the ease of someone born to rule, Gu Shuli didn't flaunt. She didn't need to.
The shimmer of her pearl-white dress clung to her frame like it had been stitched from moonlight itself.
Every move she made was deliberate — from the soft lift of her wrist to the lazy swirl of champagne in her slender fingers.
And now, with Mo Ziqian publicly standing behind her — with cold pride and the force of the Mo name — she had become untouchable.
"I heard Shen Fuyue has been completely cast out by the Shen family," a young woman whispered, feigning sympathy, though her lips curled with glee. "Disowned by Shen Hanxing himself. Can you imagine the shame?"
Another woman laughed behind a beaded fan. "Shame? It's a miracle she even dared to show her face in public after… all that. Tsk. Some people don't know when to stay buried."
"What a fall," someone else sighed dramatically. "From the daughter of a rising company to a public disgrace. What was her father thinking, letting her run wild?"
"It's not like she had a mother worth anything either," the youngest one chimed in, biting into a sugared plum. "Her whole bloodline was bound to crumble. Honestly, her disappearance is a blessing. Society has standards."
There was a pause — all eyes turning toward Gu Shuli.
Someone smiled too brightly. "Shuli, didn't you and Shen Fuyue attend the same academy? You must have known her. What's your take on all this?"
Gu Shuli slowly raised her head, her eyes glimmering like moonlight on porcelain. Her fingers swirled the stem of her champagne flute as if deep in thought.
The curve of her lips carried the faintest suggestion of a smile — not cold, not warm, simply… ethereal.
"She and I were acquainted," she said, voice soft and melodic, each word measured with practiced grace. "What happened… is unfortunate. I believe everyone deserves dignity in times of hardship."
There it was — perfectly neutral, exquisitely vague.
A diplomatic answer wrapped in grace. Neither defense nor condemnation. The kind of reply that made people nod and admire her restraint.
"Spoken like a true lady," one woman sighed, envy gleaming behind her mascaraed lashes.
"So gracious," someone whispered.
"Truly magnanimous."
"That's why she's the only one Mo Ziqian acknowledges."
They kept speaking, their voices weaving tighter around Shen Fuyue like a noose, each word another insult masked as gossip.
And then the conversation slipped into new gossip — some actress's plastic surgery, a politician's mistress, a yacht party in the south district.
But Gu Shuli no longer responded.
She sat still, elegant as a painting, her eyes distant as though she stood not in a garden surrounded by envy and cruelty, but in another world altogether — above them all.
She raised the glass to her lips, took a delicate sip, and let silence fall around her like a silken curtain.
Unreachable.
Unmoved.
Untouched by the very chaos her silence permitted.
***
Darkness wasn't still.
It slithered, it laughed, it pressed down on her skin like hands—cold, crawling, groping.
Shen Fuyue thrashed violently in the sterile sheets of the hospital bed, her breath ragged, strangled by invisible threads of terror. In her dream—no, her nightmare—she was back in that warehouse. The shadows crept closer, voices dripping with mockery, laughter slicing through her ears like blades.
"No one's coming for you, Young Miss Shen."
The hands came again—grabbing, forcing, holding her down.
"No one will believe you."
She screamed in her sleep. Loud, broken, primal.
Then the dream shifted.
The world turned red.
The walls of the warehouse melted into flames. Blood spilled across the ground like a river—thick, endless. Screams echoed all around her. People ran. Fell. Died. The sky turned black, clawed through by lightning and suffocating clouds. Buildings collapsed, fire devoured flesh, and cries for help pierced the air like mourning bells.
But she stood in the center—untouched. Frozen.
Like a ghost among the ruins.
Then she saw her.
A woman stood ahead, only a few steps away. Her figure was drenched in blood, unmoving, her back to Fuyue. Something about her silhouette struck a chord deep in her chest—a strange, harrowing familiarity. Shen Fuyue's breath caught in her throat.
Who—?
And then the wind blew.
The smoke and ash parted.
The woman turned.
It was her.
Or rather, it wore her face.
But it wasn't her.
That woman's eyes were cold. Not blank—but full of something far more terrifying.
Control.
Power.
Hatred.
Like a predator who had stopped running, stopped bleeding, stopped begging—and had started hunting.
Her lips curled into a slow, almost mocking smile as she stared at Shen Fuyue.
And then—
"AHHHH!"
Shen Fuyue jolted awake with a scream that rattled the walls. Her limbs flailed in panic, heart thundering against her ribcage, sweat soaking her body as if she had drowned in her fear.
"Fuyue-jie!" Shen Yuri leapt from her seat, horrified. "Fuyuè-jie! It's okay—it's just a dream! I'm here—I'm right here!"
But Shen Fuyue didn't hear her.
Her eyes were wide and glassy, filled with a terror so deep it looked ancient. She kept thrashing, lips trembling, gasping words incoherent—
"Don't—don't touch me! No, please—stop!"
"Fuyue—Fuyue-jie, it's Yuri! It's me! You're safe now, it's not real!"
But the name didn't reach her.
Only one name left her lips between strangled sobs:
"Bàba… Bàba…"
And then she screamed again.
Shen Yuri, tears welling in her eyes, pressed the emergency button with trembling fingers. "Nurse! Please—someone come quickly!"
Within seconds, two nurses rushed in. Calm, trained hands restrained Shen Fuyue gently but firmly as she sobbed, her body trembling like a brittle leaf in a storm.
"Sedative, now," one ordered.
A thin needle pierced her arm.
The screaming slowed… fell into whimpers… into breaths… into silence.
But just before she lost consciousness, her lips moved one last time.
A whisper.
A plea.
A name.
"…Fuyue…"
Her own name—yet it slipped from her tongue like a stranger's.
***