CHAPTER 35
I don't sleep. I don't even try.
Yiran rests in bed, naked beneath the rumpled sheet, one leg exposed, and her hair spread across the pillow like a soft echo of what this morning was: a surrender without restraint, a gift of skin, fruit, and moans that carried my name between her teeth.
But I can't stay beside her—not while something inside me is screaming. I slip out of the bedroom in silence, leaving the door ajar, and walk down the hall to the surveillance room. I don't turn on the lights; I know every corner of this house, every shadow. I activate a single screen while the others stay dark. There's no sign of movement, nothing disturbing the apparent calm of this place that used to be enough—and now, no longer is.
I grab my phone and dial Zhang. He answers in the first ring.
"Boss," he says, nothing more.
"We're heading back tomorrow," I murmur, peering through the window. "She can't miss any more days of work, and I… I can't keep holding her here without her starting to suspect."
"Understood. Has something happened?"
"No. And that's exactly what unsettles me."
Zhang falls into the silence I know so well. Not hesitation—alertness.
"Liu?" I ask.
"Still. Silent. Too absent. When he doesn't move… it's because he's planning."
I run a hand over the back of my neck, feeling tension anchor itself to the bone.
"I want men escorting her the moment we set foot back in the city. Day and night. I don't want even the air getting close."
"Already in place. I just needed your order."
I nod, though I know he can't see me.
"And Zhang… if anyone tries to follow her or get close to her…"
"They'll disappear," he finishes with the same lethal calm I carry.
We hang up without saying goodbye. We've never needed to.
I slip the phone into my pocket, but the tension stays lodged in the center of my chest like a formless warning, a nameless premonition. I know what's coming—and this time, I won't hide.
I return to the bedroom.
She's still asleep, lost in dreams, unaware that I've just arranged our return, that I've begun outlining the borders of her protection—her confinement, her salvation… without asking whether she wanted to be saved.
I sit on the edge of the bed and watch her. There isn't a single second, not a single glance, when I don't want to keep her—even if it means losing everything. Even if protecting her means locking her away.
I trace my fingers across her cheek. She shifts slightly but doesn't wake. Her body seeks me instinctively, resting her head on my thigh like it's the safest place in the universe. And maybe it is. Because as long as she breathes, as long as she's alive, no one will lay a hand on her without paying for it in blood.
I'll lie for her sake. Because if she ever finds out how close they've been—if she ever suspects that monster has breathed in her presence—she wouldn't survive it. Neither would I.
My fingers trail down her neck, along the curve of her shoulder peeking out from under the sheet. The mark I left this morning is still there: a faint red stain on her collarbone, a bite that wasn't just desire… it was an anchor. Mine.
Sometimes I think love hasn't made me better. It's made me wilder, more irrational. But also more human. Because she's the only thing that makes me want to live. And that… changes everything.
I lean down and kiss the top of her head. She sighs, still lost in her dreams, her lips brushing my leg as she murmurs something unintelligible. I stay like that, forehead resting against her hair, for minutes that feel eternal. My chest quiets. But not my mind.
"I'd die for you," I whisper into her hair. "But first… I'll kill for you as many times as it takes."
And I stay there. Unmoving. Awake. Until she opens her eyes and I have to tell her we're going back.
CHAPTER 36
It's been a week since we came back to the city. Seven days pretending everything's calm, that routine has brought us something close to normal, that the threat has vanished like mist under the sun. She knows nothing about it. The only thing she should think about is the days we spent at the cabin. She needs to live in peace, to keep her routine, her life.
But I haven't allowed myself a single second of rest.
This morning, Zhang called. He told me Lucheng finally wants to talk. And now I have him in front of me, on his knees in a windowless room, arms tied behind his back and his face split open in more than one place. Blood seeps from his eyebrow, his mouth, and from fear. He's not begging yet, though his body trembles like it's already started. He smells of stale fear and desperation.
I don't get close. I don't need to. It's enough just to watch and wait.
"Shi Tong…" he stammers at last, voice broken from the inside. "I can give you something valuable. Something you need to know. If… if you let me live."
I don't even blink. Silence makes everything more lethal.
"I'm not interested in your life," I reply coldly. "Only in what you know."
He swallows hard, searches for air, and then lets out the sentence that changes everything.
"It's about the doctor."
Tension locks into my fingers, my stomach, the base of my skull. But outwardly, I remain still. Not a single muscle betrays the tremor ripping through me.
"What doctor?" I ask, feigning a calm I don't feel.
"The one… the one with you. The woman. Liu talked about her."
My jaw tightens, but I keep listening.
"Speak," I order, my voice low.
"I overheard a conversation. Liu was talking to Chen Gui. Chen had doubts—he said what they were planning was insane, that you couldn't be attacked just like that, that it was too risky. But Liu told him he'd already found a way. That he'd break you where it hurt most. That he'd met a woman who was your weak spot. That he was going to destroy you through her."
"What are they going to do to her?"
"I don't know. That's all I heard. That if they hit you through her, they'd tear you apart. That if she falls, you fall with her."
My blood freezes. Not because of what he's said—but because I know it's true.
"Did you tell anyone else about this?"
"No! I swear. No one knows. Only you. Now…"
I nod once. I crouch slowly and look him in the eye. He thinks he's just saved his life. That his confession has bought him mercy. But he doesn't know he was already dead the moment he said that word: doctor.
I draw the knife. I say nothing. The cut is quick, precise, without spectacle. He collapses to the side, eyes still open in surprise. Blood spills across the floor, forming a dark pool that tells me nothing. I clean the blade and slide it back into its sheath with the same calm I used to wield it. I walk out of the room without looking back.
I get into the car, but his voice echoes in my head, as if still trying to rip through my hearing with that cursed phrase.
The doctor.
She has no name to him, and yet he said the only thing he shouldn't have. I light a cigarette. The smoke doesn't calm me, but it reminds me I'm still here, that I'm breathing, that she still sleeps in my bed—unaware of the hell clawing at her heels.
Zhang watches me through the rearview mirror. He doesn't need me to repeat the order.
"If that bastard dares touch a single hair on her head," I murmur, eyes locked on the horizon, "I'll kill him with my own hands. I'll skin him. Cut him to pieces. One by one."
My voice doesn't tremble. There's no visible rage. Only calm that smells like blood. Zhang nods silently. And as the car rolls through the sleeping streets, I no longer think about defense.
I think about the hunt. Because Liu hasn't declared war on me. No. Liu has signed his death sentence. And this time… it will be final.
*****
The sun has already set when I arrive. The street is quiet, bathed in the warm glow of the streetlamps and a breeze that barely stirs the treetops. From the outside, the building where Yiran lives looks identical to the others: plain, discreet, ordinary. But I know there isn't a single inch of this block that isn't under surveillance. I know how many men are stationed nearby, how many hidden cameras, how many blind spots no longer are. She doesn't know. She can't know. And it has to stay that way.
I take the stairs. I avoid the elevator. I like arriving without noise, without warning. As if each step were a secret act of faith—or penance. When I open the door, the scent hits me hard: her scent. Soft soap, warm soup, home. That home I never asked for, and now don't know how to let go of.
I see her before she realizes I'm here.
She's in the kitchen, leaning over the sink, humming a melody I don't recognize. She's wearing a loose, sleeveless T-shirt and shorts that barely skim her thighs. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun, stray strands falling across her neck, and the steam from the rice rises in delicate columns from the pot. Something is boiling in a pan—something that smells like home, like an improvised dinner, like tenderness. And for a moment, that scene—so far removed from the violence of this afternoon—paralyzes me. I feel out of place. As if what I've done, what I am, has no space in this peace.
Then she turns.
"Shi...?" she whispers, her voice trembling with the deepest kind of surprise.
The spoon slips from her fingers and clatters onto the counter. The pot lid rests off to the side, releasing more steam, but she doesn't notice. She crosses the kitchen with quick, barefoot steps—no questions, no hesitation. She runs toward me with wide eyes and open arms, and when she reaches me, her body crashes into mine like only my chest can hold her.
She kisses me before I can say a word.
Her lips find mine with hunger. She kisses me hard, like a week has been an eternity. I grip her with the waist, then lower, and pull her against me until there's no space left between us. Her mouth tastes like salt and fire. I'm lost. Anchored.
"You're back," she says against my lips, smiling with tearful eyes.
"Of course I am," I answer, and my voice comes out more broken than I expected.
She kisses me again—softly this time—then takes my hand and gently pulls me toward the dining room with a sweetness that shouldn't hurt… but does.
"Come. I was making dinner. If you'd arrived five minutes later, you'd have missed my signature dish."
"Signature dish...?" I murmur, letting myself be led like an obedient child.
"Well, signature for me." She laughs, and her laughter becomes the only music my body recognizes as relief.
She makes me sit in one of the chairs. The tablecloth is simple, with pastel embroidered flowers. Two glasses are already set, fresh white rice, stir-fried vegetables, a bowl of miso soup, and a small plate of golden tofu that smells far too good not to hurt a little. It's so domestic, it's frightening.
"No fruit?" I ask, barely containing the sarcasm in my voice, tilting my head like a playful provocation.
She pauses. Turns to me with a smile so bright, so clean, that for a second I forget to breathe.
"No, Shi. No fruit," she replies in a soft, amused whisper. And for a moment, her cheeks turn pink.
The image hits me hard. I remember her naked on the table, open for me, with strawberries, peaches, and honey spread across her skin. Her voice. Her trembling. Her orgasms wrapped in fruit.
I swallow.
"Shame," I mutter, unable to help myself.
"Don't make me lose my mind, you wicked man," she replies, and I can't tell if it's mischief or tenderness—but it pierces me like a honeyed spear.
She begins to serve dinner with an almost sacred calm. Every movement is slow, deliberate. As if by feeding me, she could also restore me. As if her way of caring for me were her way of loving. I realize I've been staring at her without blinking. I haven't said a word since I sat down. Silence owns me.
"Everything okay?" she asks, still holding the spoon in her hand.
"Yes," I reply, but the word has no weight. It doesn't fully belong to me.
She watches me for a second. Then she sets the spoon down and comes closer. She crouches until she's level with me, brushes my cheek with her lips. It's a brief kiss. Silent. Warm. But it breaks me.
"You're here. That's all that matters."
And while she returns to her place, smiling, light, unaware of the fire burning inside me, a single sentence echoes in my head and won't let me breathe.
Yiran will keep breathing—even if one day, I no longer do.
CHAPTER 37
The first thing I feel is the emptiness in the bed, that cold hollow where his body should be, now holding only the echo of his absence. I open my eyes slowly, still wrapped in the haze of dawn, and it takes me a few seconds to register the solitude in the mattress. The sheet is rumpled only on my side, while his remains untouched—just as it's been for hours. I sit up carefully, sensing how the silence in the apartment thickens, almost heavy, as if it had swallowed something vital while I slept.
I get to my feet, wrapped in the cotton robe I always leave folded on the chair beside the bed. I walk barefoot, feeling the softness of the floor under my feet, and as I pass by the bathroom, the faint glow of outside light confirms he's not there. Everything is the same: his toothbrush in the cup I picked for him, the razors he barely uses, the bottle of soap with that neutral scent he likes.
I keep moving, slowly. The apartment remains dim, but I know every corner. The dining table still holds two unwashed cups, remnants of last night's dinner, the napkin crumpled beside an empty plate. Every small detail speaks of his constant presence, even though we never know how long he'll stay. Because Shi Tong doesn't announce his arrival or promise his permanence. He simply appears—and that alone is enough to make everything make sense.
When I reach the living room, the night air drifts in through the cracked balcony door. I hear him before I see him: a slow exhale, followed by the brief crackle of a cigarette being lit. I pause beside the slightly open door. He's there, nearly hidden in shadow, leaning against the balcony railing, unaware that I'm watching. His body tilts slightly forward, as if carrying a weight too heavy for one man alone.
And then I notice it.
He's wearing the hoodie and sweatpants I bought for him. When I made space in my closet for him, I did it without expecting anything, never imagining there'd come a day when he'd wear the clothes I chose with such care… and yet, now he's wearing them. Seeing him wrapped in what I picked touches me in a way I can't explain—warmth pricks at my eyes.
I take a deep breath, steadying myself while I remain hidden in the shadows, watching him, resisting the urge to run into his arms. His head is lowered, and the cigarette burns between his fingers with a slow, almost ritual pace. It hurts to see him like this—so quiet, so burdened by all that he doesn't say. Then his phone vibrates. A sharp, brief buzz that cuts through the silence like a blade.
I freeze.
For a moment, reason begs me to turn back, not to listen, to respect his closed, shadowed world. But my intuition screams louder. I feel it in every pore: something is about to break, and if I don't understand, if I don't listen, something terrible could happen. I won't stand by just because he thinks silence protects me. So I take one step closer—just enough to hear clearly.
"Any news?" he says quietly, exhaling smoke.
A tense pause.
"Good. That's good," he replies. "He won't take long to figure out she's… here, with me…" Another pause—longer this time. "And then he'll act. We need to be meticulous with this. Liu Jian won't get another chance to get near her. I want him dead before he even touches a strand of her hair."
His words hit me like a punch. The threat is real. And the target… is me.
Even though he doesn't say my name, I feel it pulse through every syllable. I am the reason he doesn't sleep, why he stands there smoking with empty eyes, why someone is going to die. The phone goes silent for a few seconds. Then I hear him say:
"Yes, that's right."
And he hangs up.
My throat tightens. Fear clamps down on my lungs. But it's not fear of Liu Jian. It's fear of what Shi Tong is willing to do for me… without telling me. For the first time, I've invaded his privacy. And I know it. But I don't regret it. Because now everything makes sense.
I take one more step—on purpose. Let the floorboard creak and announce me.
He turns slowly. He sees me. His eyes shine, surprised, but there's no reproach. Only something deeper. Unspeakable. He opens his arms, with a faint, defeated smile.
"Come," he whispers.
And I do.
I walk to him and sink into his arms. The warmth of his body, his chest against mine, the breath still tinged with the trace of nicotine… they wrap around me like a shelter. I cling to him without needing to ask anything. Because I've already heard it all.
"Why did you get up?" he asks softly, pulling me closer.
"Because you weren't there," I reply, like I'm scolding him—even though my voice trembles at the end.
He laughs, soundless, just through his chest.
"Guilty," he murmurs, looking at me.
His lips curve slightly, tight. He presses them together, as if waiting for me to kiss him.
And I do.
A gentle kiss. Warm. Slow. No fire. No hunger. Just comfort. When we pull apart, his hands stay on my back.
"I love having you like this," he says, his voice husky.
I rest my head on his chest. His heartbeat is slow, as if he could calm just by having me close.
"I wish the world would stop, just so I could stay with you forever," he whispers.
I don't answer. I don't need to. Because I know that his words… are the closest thing to I love you he can give me.
*****
When I wake again, the soft light of dawn has already filled the room. I don't know how long I've been asleep in his arms, but when I turn my head and see him still in bed—with one arm draped over my waist and the other tucked under my pillow—something inside me loosens. As if, in spite of everything, his body knows it can't let me go completely, not even sleep.
I lie there for a few minutes, watching him in silence. His face is relaxed, though his eyelids twitch slightly, as if he's dreaming of things he doesn't want to show. I trace my fingers along his cheek, slowly, feeling the faint prick of stubble. The touch sends a soft ache through my chest. Every time I see him like this—serene, without the armor he wears against the world—I understand how deeply human this connection is. And at the same time, how dangerous.
I get up gently and head to the kitchen to make breakfast. I don't make coffee just for myself anymore. There are two mugs in the cabinet, and a larger bowl for when he feels like eating noodles at any hour. On the counter are the usual ingredients: eggs, bread, butter, some fruit. I pick up a mandarin and start to peel it while the scent of coffee fills the air. And I think, without meaning to, of that day. Of the strawberries. Of his mouth on my skin. I swallow hard and wipe my hands. The memory still leaves me breathless.
I hear his soft footsteps behind me before he speaks.
"You're up early," he says, his voice still a little hoarse, as if he just got up—though I know he's been awake for a while.
"When I'm hungry, I can't stay in bed," I reply without turning, knowing he's there, watching, as if the back of my neck were speaking to him.
His warm, heavy hands settle on my waist. He wraps himself around me from behind and rests his chin on my shoulder. His breath brushes my ear, and I close my eyes for a second. His body surrounds me. And for a moment, it's easy to forget that outside this kitchen there are armed men and enemies who never forget.
"Smells good," he murmurs, kissing my neck.
"Just eggs, toast, and coffee," I say, turning to face him.
His hair's a mess, he's barefoot, with that look of a man who doesn't need to pretend around me. And yet, there's still that dark glint in his eyes, that fatigue that hasn't left since we came back from the lake house. I hug him and rest my forehead against his chest. He holds me without saying a word.
"Do you have plans today?" I ask, knowing I won't get a clear answer.
"Nothing that can't wait a couple of hours," he says—and it sounds like an attempt to give me a sliver of his time before going off to do something I'm not allowed to know.
I let him sit at the table while I serve breakfast. We don't talk much. Just a few scattered words. He watches me as I drink my coffee. I focus on my toast to avoid asking everything that's burning inside me.
"Weren't you going to the hospital this morning?" he asks after a while, with casual indifference.
"No, I switched to the afternoon shift. Are you staying?"
He raises an eyebrow, as if he doesn't like my change of plans. But I don't ask why. I've learned it's better to stay silent. I get up, take his cup and mine, and carry them to the sink. Only then do I notice my hands are trembling.
He comes up behind me in silence and wraps his arms around me again. This time, his embrace is stronger. Longer. Sadder. As if he knows there are things he can't tell me but still needs me to understand somehow.
"It's been five months today since I met you," he whispers into my ear.
I go still—because I'd counted too, but I didn't expect him to.
"Five months since you saved my life," he adds, with that quiet gravity of his that turns every sentence into an anchor.
I turn slowly. Look at him. He's serious, though there's something different in his eyes. A tenderness hidden behind layers of shadow. A rare glimpse of fragility.
"I don't know how to thank fate for letting me find you," he says, not breaking eye contact.
My heart stops for a beat. Then it starts again—so hard it nearly knocks the breath out of me. I don't say anything. I don't smile. I just hold him.
And in this moment, that's enough.
CHAPTER 38
The rhythmic beeping of heart monitors blends with the muffled murmur of conversation and the occasional hiss of automatic doors. The air smells of medical alcohol, freshly opened latex gloves, tired bodies and sweaty skin. At this point in the afternoon shift, I've lost track of how many patients I've seen. Bruises, fevers, dizziness, sprains. Nothing the protocol doesn't cover. Nothing that disturbs the routine… until the main door swings open and a woman bursts in, carrying a bloodied child in her arms.
"Please, help! He fell and cut his forehead!" she cries, her eyes overflowing.
That's all I need. I stand up instantly. My uniform stretches under the tug of the white coat, and the stethoscope around my neck hangs like a cord that already knows me by heart.
"Here," I say, pointing to Room 3 without raising my voice. "Take him quickly, but don't run. It's okay."
The woman nods, choked by sobs. The boy is whimpering. He's about five years old, hair damp with sweat, and eyes full of fear. On his forehead, a two-centimeter gash bleeds heavily, though it shows no signs of dangerous depth. What matters now is keeping calm—not just for him, but for his mother, too.
"What's your name, champ?" I ask, crouching to his level as she sets him on the exam table.
"W-Wenhao," he stammers through tears.
"Wenhao… that's a brave name. You know who else is called that? A soldier I once met. I bet you're one too. Will you let me help take care of that wound?"
The boy looks at me warily, but his crying eases a little. I gently stroke his arm.
"Does anything else hurt? Are you dizzy? Seeing blurry?"
He shakes his head clumsily. His mother speaks quickly:
"He fell at the park, was running, tripped on the edge of a cement bench. I brought him as fast as I could."
"You have a wonderful mom," I tell him with a big smile, "and you don't want her to worry any more, right?"
"No," he whispers, gripping her hand so she won't leave.
But she won't. A mother doesn't leave her child when he's in pain.
"Alright, Wenhao, I need to clean your wound and give you a couple of stitches," I explain. "But I promise I'll be gentle and careful. Do I have your permission?"
"Is it going to hurt…?"
"Only a little at first, but I've got magic medicine that makes the skin fall asleep," I smile. "Want me to give you a superhero mask?"
He hesitates. I open the drawer and pull out a black-and-red one, like Spiderman's. I also grab a soft, squishy ball with a smiling face.
"This ball has special powers. If you squeeze it tight, the medicine works faster. But only if you promise to take good care of it."
Wenhao nods, more curious than scared. I place the mask gently over his eyes, letting the fabric cover the upper part of his face. His mother holds his hand the whole time, whispering soothing words.
Gloves, gauze, saline solution, lidocaine, fine needle for infiltration, monofilament suture thread, dissecting forceps, needle holder… Everything prepared, everything clean.
"You're going to feel a little pinch," I tell him as I rest my hand on his forehead and locate the edge of the wound. "But then, nothing. You can count to ten, okay?"
"And after that, you'll sew me up?"
"Yes, but like a stuffed animal that needs some love. Do you like that idea?"
"I do."
Injecting the anesthetic takes only seconds. I wait the necessary time, then test for numbness with a light touch. He doesn't react. I proceed. The needle pierces the skin with surgical precision. I make the first stitch with an exact knot. Then the second. Wenhao doesn't cry. He just breathes deeply.
"One…" his mother says, stroking his hand.
"Two…" he continues, squeezing the ball.
And so, stitch by stitch, I close the wound cleanly. Three stitches are enough. No complications.
"All done, champ. You were amazing."
I apply a soft dressing with hypoallergenic tape. Then I let him choose a dinosaur sticker from a handful. He picks a green, smiling one. His mother is crying now—quietly—with relief heavy in her eyes.
"Really… thank you, Dr. Wan. Thank you."
"It was a pleasure meeting a hero," I tell the boy, ruffling his hair. "Take good care of her. And if anyone at school asks about your scar, tell them you fought a dragon."
He nods. Climbs down from the table slowly. I walk him to the door. The nurse hands them the report and a prescription for topical ointment. The mother leans toward me, her voice low:
"I thought he'd faint from fear, but you… you were a miracle."
I smile, unsure what to say. They leave. And when the exam room door closes, I stay there for a moment. In silence. My heartbeat slow and steady. I look at the table, at the mask left hanging from the edge. The stress ball is still on the tray. I pick it up and squeeze it tightly, as if it, too, could absorb the fear I never confess.
*****
I walk down the hallway with slow, dragging steps, and I don't know if it's from accumulated exhaustion or the tension I haven't shaken off since the shift began. I feel… good. Exhausted, yes, but the kind of tired that leaves your heart full. It's been an intense few hours: six patients with febrile seizures, a disoriented elderly woman who couldn't remember her name, a young man with an open fracture and a face twisted in pain. And before all that, Wenhao—the five-year-old I stitched up with a gentleness I didn't even know I still had in my hands.
The lights flicker from time to time, as if they, too, are tired of holding up the day. I glance around and realize I'm alone. There's an unusual calm for this hour, a kind of warm silence that shouldn't unsettle me… but it does. Maybe it's the day, the overload of emotion, or maybe just the fact that I've been living on edge for weeks, my senses sharpened to a knife's edge.
I sigh. Rub the back of my neck. I decide to head to the coffee machine at the far end—the one we sneak off to when we want to steal a few minutes from the chaos, even if the coffee tastes like dirty water. I need to wet my lips, take a deep breath, and reconnect with something that isn't urgent or tears.
As I walk, I mentally review every patient, every gesture, every look. I stop in front of the machine, fumble some coins from my coat pocket, and select a black coffee. The machine hums, spits out a steaming stream, and I let my fingers wrap around the cardboard cup as if it were a source of comfort. And just as I'm about to turn around, I hear it.
"Doctor Wan…"
I freeze. That voice. Dry. Low. With a vibration that prickles down my spine. I turn slowly. And then I see him.
Just a few feet away. A man wearing a surgical cap, light blue mask, and gray orderly uniform. He's holding a clipboard under one arm. His posture is relaxed. Too relaxed. His eyes give away nothing… but the way he looks at me, the way he leans slightly forward, makes me take a step back.
"Do you remember me?"
That tone… It's not from a hospital colleague. It's not professional. It's not casual. It's a trap. I open my mouth to answer, to ask who he is, to piece together that face beneath the mask… but I don't get the chance.
I see him move. His arm lifts. Something metallic flashes briefly in his hand—and then everything explodes.
The blow hits me in the temple. A sharp, brutal crack that splits the world in two. I feel the cardboard cup slip from my fingers, the ground tremble beneath my feet, a stabbing pain that gives no reprieve. The air leaves my lungs before I can scream.
I try to stay on my feet. I swear I try. But my legs won't obey. My knees give out. Everything becomes noise. A high-pitched ringing that drowns even the beat of my own heart.
Then, only shadow.
And finally… nothing.
CHAPTER 39
The cigarette burns down between my fingers as the thick night slides across the window like a lurking shadow. It's cold, but I don't feel it. The car window is slightly ajar, and the smoke drifts upward like an omen. The hospital lights shine with impassive coldness. People come and go without seeing me: patients, nurses, orderlies... all caught up in their routine, unaware that someone dangerous is so close.
Because tonight, I'm the one waiting for Yiran.
It's not Zhang, or Sun, or anyone else from my team. Because when she told me she was switching to the evening shift, something inside me stirred. It wasn't a hunch. It was certainty.
I lean my head against the seat and glance at the clock again. She should be out by now. Yiran is never late—at least not more than it takes her to wash her hands, grab her things from her locker, and say goodbye with a tired smile. According to my men, she always leaves between ten and fifteen minutes after her shift ends, but never more than half an hour.
I check the time again: 11:36 p.m. Something's wrong…
I pull out my phone and open my contacts. I hadn't called her before, even though I've had her number since the day we met. I didn't tell her, so she wouldn't be waiting for a call from me—that would wear her out. I didn't tell her either that, while she slept in the bed at the country house, I embedded a tracking device in her phone. That would have alarmed her. And I just want her to live in peace.
I dial her number. It rings once, twice, three times. No answer. I try again. Nothing. Not even another ring. Her voicemail kicks in. Her sweet voice, recorded with barely contained laughter, cuts me short. I hang up. The silence hits me like a gunshot.
I get out of the car. The outside air tears through my lungs—dense, dirty, full of invisible presences. I enter the hospital and cross the lobby with steady steps. The reception area is half-empty. I walk up to the counter and place both hands on the edge with a firmness that allows no argument.
"Wan Yiran. Evening shift. Has she left?"
The nurse looks at me, and for a moment I think she's going to deny me the information, but something in my eyes makes her change her mind. She focuses on her keyboard and types.
"Dr. Wan ended her shift at 11:00 p.m., although it's odd—there haven't been any records of visits since seven thirty, and she didn't clock out."
"What does that mean?" I ask, tension sharpening my voice.
"It means that, since that time, it appears she hasn't been in the hospital."
My mind goes blank. A dull buzzing explodes in my ears. No. It can't be. Yiran wouldn't leave without finishing her shift. Never. She's not the type to walk away. She's the kind who stays until the very last second, who says goodbye with tired but steady eyes.
Something's wrong. I feel it in my chest, like a weight crushing me from the inside. My heart tightens, my throat closes up, I can't breathe.
"No…" I whisper, not knowing who I'm speaking to.
I spin around and take off down the hallway. The world blurs. The lights spin around me. I pull out my phone while dodging an orderly. I dial. Zhang answers on the second ring.
"Boss?"
"Yiran's gone. She's been out of the hospital for over five hours. Track her location! Now!"
"On it," he says, and in the background I hear him starting to type quickly on his laptop.
The clicking of the keys pounds in my chest like a countdown. Silence. A few seconds. An eternity.
"Boss… she's behind the hospital."
I hang up before he can say more. My legs move on their own. I run like death is chasing me, like the air is slashing my lungs, like the entire world is a trap set just for her.
The automatic doors burst open. I turn the corner. The alley behind the hospital is dark, bare, cold, soaked in the kind of silence that brings no peace. I search through shadows, through trash bags and dumpsters. My hands shove things aside without care. My voice won't come out. I don't see her. No blood. Nobody. But no relief either.
Not finding her only means one thing: they took her.
And then I hear it. A short, insistent, electronic beep. A phone. Her phone. The sound is coming from a trash can at the end of the alley. I lunge for it. I grab it and see it's receiving a call from an unknown number. But deep down, I already know who's behind this.
"Liu," I spit as I answer.
A pause.
"Hello, Tong," says the voice I hate most in this world. "Guess who I've got with me?"
The world shatters. My teeth clench so hard they creak. Blood pounds in my temples—not from fear, but from a rage so pure and dense it burns through my chest.
"If you've touched her…"
"Shhh," he cuts me off with that slick tone that poisons me. "Why so tense? Aren't you happy to know we're together?"
I clench my free hand. My knuckles crack. In the earpiece, I hear something in the background. A dull thud. A gasp. Is it her? Is she alive? Are they hurting her?
God…
"You're never going to see her again, Tong. Not whole, at least," he adds. Then he laughs—a slow, calculated laugh that stabs me in the gut. "Though you already know that, don't you?"
"I'm going to kill you."
"Maybe. But first… you're going to learn what it means to lose."
Click. Silence.
The phone slips from my fingers and falls to the pavement. It doesn't break. I do. I collapse to my knees. The cold ground bites into me, but I don't feel it. My arms hang limp. My breath falls apart. I feel something warm slide down my cheek. I don't know if it's rage or if, finally, I'm crying.
Beijing feels like a hole now. A pit with no light. And in the middle of that darkness, only one brutal certainty remains:
Liu Jian has Yiran. And I will burn my way through hell to find her.
*****
I get into the car without looking back, my chest overflowing and my hands splayed like claws. The slam of the door echoes behind me like a gunshot. I sink into the back seat as the vehicle starts without a word. Zhang has already given the order. The driver knows the route. Everything's in motion. But me… all I can think about is her. And I don't know if that's what's keeping me sane or what's breaking me completely.
I rest my head against the seat and lean toward the side panel, where there's a hidden compartment. I open it with an automatic gesture. Inside, there's everything: pistols, magazines, a backup sidearm, knives, zip ties, ampoules of liquid adrenaline. The bare minimum for any high-risk operation. I go through it without blinking, like someone straightening their tie before a meeting. I prepare what I need. Secure one of the pistols in my belt holster, adjust my jacket, and close the compartment. The car moves through deserted avenues and blinking traffic lights above a city that, tonight, has lost its soul.
"Zhang," I say into the phone as I bring it to my ear. No greeting. No need.
"Here, boss," he replies immediately, with that military stiffness he only adopts when there's no room for error.
"I want you to review the full recording of Lucheng's interrogation. From the first second to the last. Word for word. Write down every place he mentioned as belonging to or invested in by Liu Jian. I don't care if he said it as a joke, muttered it in fear, or spat it out through broken teeth. If that bastard spoke, we need to hear it."
"I'm on it right now. Lucheng mentioned three locations vaguely. I'm cross-checking the data with the commercial registry, with fake documents, with transactions through shell companies. Some are properties with no listed owner, others show as abandoned or under renovation for years."
"I want those places surrounded before dawn. Drones too. Silent surveillance over the perimeters. If there's more than one exit, I need to know. If there are records of night deliveries, strange activity, fake invoices, I want everything. Down to the last goddamn screw."
"Understood. And if we find someone in one of those places?"
"I want them alive. All of them. In the warehouse. I'm going to extract every last word out of those sons of bitches."
"Yes, boss."
I hang up without another word.
The car keeps moving as I lean slightly to one side. My body looks whole, but inside, my ribs feel hollow. The air doesn't come in. Or maybe too much does. The city blurs past the window as my mind drifts back to her. I remember her silhouette by the country house window, wrapped in the white shirt she stole from me without asking. Her wet hair after the shower. Her skin smelling like jasmine. Her voice… that voice I don't know if I'll ever hear again.
Where are you, Yiran? Are you afraid? Are you crying? Are you thinking of me? Do you hate me now for dragging you into this? Are you cursing me under your breath for not letting you keep your life at the hospital, with shifts and patients who adore you?
I wish I knew what they've done to you. I wish I could tear it out of my head.
The image of her—blindfolded, hands tied, mouth bloodied from a hit—hits me in the chest like a bullet. I feel a sting behind my eyes. I don't know if it's fury, if it's pain, or something worse. I clench my fist over my thigh so tightly that my tendons creak. If Liu laid a hand on her… if someone looked at her the wrong way… there won't be enough flesh left to bury. I'm not going to shoot from a distance. I'll rip his nails out one by one. I'll record his voice as he tells me where she is. And after that… not even his shadow will remain.
The whole city feels like a target now. There are no more red lines. No diplomacy. This isn't a turf war or a clan dispute. It's something far simpler. They took the only woman who matters to me. And now, everything else turns to smoke.
The car turns. It's approaching the warehouse. My men are there. No one speaks as I step out. They look at me. Some bow their heads. Others stand at attention without thinking. I don't need to give orders. They already know what's coming.
"I want all three locations ready in fifteen minutes. Checked. Surrounded. No one goes in. No one comes out. If anything smells off, you call me. If someone breathes wrong, I want them here, in this room. And they better know they'll bleed before they even open their mouth."
Everyone nods.
I lock myself in the office upstairs. From the window, I watch the team in motion. Radios crackle. Digital maps light up on the screens. The city's layout appears like a chessboard, and I've already chosen the king I want to take down.
I stay there, still, while Zhang sends updates. A drone is flying over the Tongzhou house. Another is heading toward the Daxing warehouse. The abandoned house on the northern edge seems to be linked to a hidden electrical transformer, which suggests someone's inside. It's possible. But not enough. I won't move based on maybes.
The phone vibrates.
Zhang:
"One of the drones detected human movement at the Zhonglou East Street property. Seems recent. Sending a team."
I don't reply. I just stare at the message.
Outside, no one sleeps. The city waits. It doesn't know it's about to ignite like a nest of gunpowder.
I don't close my eyes either. I sit in that chair, back straight, eyes burning, hands resting on my knees as if holding invisible blades. I feel the fury rising inside me like lava—unseen but searing hot.
And in that thick silence, I swear this:
If she's alive… I'll find her.
And if she's not… I'll turn this city into a graveyard.