The night had grown strangely cold.
Outside, the wind whispered along the glass of the window, low and mournful, as though the world itself exhaled sorrow. Shu Yao slept through it, his lashes trembling against his cheeks, his breath shallow. And then—slowly—the darkness thinned.
When he opened his eyes, the cold was gone.
He stood barefoot on a field that shimmered with lilies—white, endless, swaying like waves in a tender wind. Their perfume floated in the air, sweet and dizzying, and the sky above him stretched vast and blue, brushed with clouds that looked almost too soft to be real.
Shu Yao blinked. The warmth beneath his feet was real, yet he didn't remember how he came here.
He turned, scanning the horizon. Silence. Then—a silhouette.
A figure stood a short distance away, her back to him. Her long autumn-brown hair flowed down her back, fluttering with each breath of wind. Something about her posture—the slight tilt of her head, the calm stillness—pierced straight through him with a sense of aching familiarity.
He took one hesitant step forward.
And another.
"Who…" His voice broke apart before the wind could carry it.
The girl turned. Slowly. Gracefully.
And then the world fell away.
Her eyes—warm brown, luminous like amber—met his. Shu Yao froze. His throat constricted. His pulse quickened until he thought his chest might burst.
"Qing Yue…" The name slipped from him like a prayer.
She smiled—the same gentle, radiant smile he remembered days ago. "Gege," she said softly, voice like sunlight through thin glass. "Come here."
His legs moved before his mind could think. Shu Yao ran, faster, faster, the lilies bending beneath his steps until he fell into her arms. The warmth of her body hit him like memory reborn. Tears burst from his eyes, his shoulders trembling as he buried his face against her.
"Qing Yue… you—why did you leave me like that?" His voice broke. "Why did you go?"
She laughed, a sound so tender it ached. Her fingers brushed through his hair, the same motion she used to soothe him as a boy. One hand cradled his cheek, her thumb tracing the wet path of his tears. "Stop crying, gege," she whispered. "I'm still here."
Shu Yao hiccupped, clutching her tighter. "Come back to us," he pleaded. "Bai Qi is… too sad. I can't watch him like this. He's breaking, Qing Yue. He's really breaking."
Her gaze softened, and she lowered herself until their eyes met. The light caught in her pupils, shimmering with quiet knowing. "If Bai Qi truly needs a shoulder to cry on…" She paused, a smile touching her lips. "…then it should be yours, gege."
Shu Yao stared, confused, trembling. "W-what do you mean?"
She reached for his hand, her touch dreamlike, fragile. "Promise me," she said gently, "that you'll tell him the truth. Tell him everything about the misunderstanding between you and me."
His heart thudded violently. "No… I can't." He lowered his gaze, his voice cracking. "If I tell him, he'll think it's ugly. He'll never look at me the same again. He's already hurting. I can't make it worse."
Qing Yue smiled, though her eyes flickered with something brittle—something like pain. "Then make him happy," she said softly. "By telling the truth. Tell him it was always you, gege. There was never anyone else."
Shu Yao's eyes widened. He shook his head helplessly. "No… he misses you too much. He needs you."
Her smile trembled, but she didn't waver. She brushed her thumb across his cheek once more, tender as moonlight. "You're stronger than you think. Don't run from the truth."
She rose, the hem of her dress swaying among the lilies. The air around her shimmered faintly, the edges of her body beginning to blur.
Shu Yao's breath caught. "Qing Yue?" His voice was sharp now, urgent. "Don't—don't go!"
She looked down at him, her expression calm, serene. "Gege," she said softly, "I won't come into your dreams again… not until you confess to Bai Qi."
He stood abruptly, reaching out—but his hand passed through air. Her image was dissolving like mist. "No! Wait!" Shu Yao's voice cracked as he stumbled forward, reaching for her shadow. "Please—don't leave me again!"
Qing Yue turned one last time, her hair catching the light like falling leaves. "Don't be afraid," she whispered. "I believe you'll tell him the truth."
Her voice echoed faintly as she vanished.
And then there was only wind—and lilies bowing in silence.
---
Shu Yao gasped. His eyes flew open.
The world rushed back: the dim room, the pale dawn filtering through the curtains. His chest heaved, damp with sweat. His face was streaked with tears. For a moment, he lay still, trembling, his breath uneven, the name still on his lips.
"Qing Yue…" he whispered hoarsely.
"why can't you come back?"
His mind felt feverish, his body weak. The dream clung to him like fog. He dragged himself upright, pressing a hand against his pounding temple. Outside, the sky was paling—the faintest trace of dawn.
He turned his head.
Beside him, Juju was still asleep, curled under the blanket. Shu Yao's expression softened. He reached out, brushed the cat furr hair, and sighed.
His hand trembled as he touched his forehead. The ache was deep, but he didn't care. He couldn't afford to care. There was work waiting, and feelings were a luxury he'd long ago forbidden himself.
"i need to get ready," he whispered to himself.
He sat there for a moment longer, letting the silence steady him. Then he rose, his bare feet cold against the floor, and walked toward the bathroom. Each step felt heavy, the echoes of the dream still following him like a second heartbeat.
Behind him, dawn bloomed faintly through the window, scattering pale light over the bed.
And though the morning had come, the lilies of the dream still swayed quietly in his mind—ghostly, eternal, and full of her voice.
The sound of rushing water filled the bathroom—harsh, unrelenting.
Shu Yao stood beneath the stream, the cold biting against his fevered skin. His breath came out in ragged clouds as he pressed his palms against the tiled wall. He feared the heat building in him—the fever that would swallow his strength whole—so he forced the chill to numb it. The water stung, but he didn't flinch.
When he finally stepped out, droplets slid down his pale shoulders like glass.
He moved mechanically, as though his body no longer belonged to him. His mind was somewhere else—still trapped in that field of lilies, still hearing Qing Yue's voice echo softly: "Tell him the truth."
He caught his reflection in the mirror.
The suit hung perfectly on him, immaculate and precise, but his body trembled beneath it. His cheeks were faintly flushed from fever; his half-lidded eyes dulled by exhaustion. He tied his hair back at the nape of his neck, fingers slow and clumsy.
"I'm sorry, Qing Yue," he whispered to the mirror. His voice barely reached his own ears.
"I can't do anything about how I feel… about him."
He drew a deep breath that trembled. "And I'm sorry, Bai Qi," he murmured. "Because of me… you're suffering too."
He adjusted his collar, buttoned his coat, and slipped his shoes on with steady precision—every motion practiced, routine, safe. It was the only way to stay upright. The clock ticked softly. Outside, dawn was spreading its pale wings across the sky.
By the time he stepped out the door, the cold air hit him like a reminder that he was still alive. Barely.
He waved down a taxi, climbed in, and told the driver his destination: Rothenberg Industries. His voice sounded foreign—thin and distant. The city passed by in a blur of grey and light, and he pressed his forehead against the window, watching it all smear like an unfinished painting.
"I'll manage," he whispered, though the words felt hollow in his mouth.
---
Across the city, the morning sunlight slipped through the grand windows of the Rothenberg estate, scattering gold across marble floors. Bai Qi stood before his mirror, buttoning his ivory shirt with measured calm. His expression was carved from restraint.
Behind him, Armin lounged on the couch, arms folded, his face unreadable. His eyes followed every quiet motion Bai Qi made.
"Bai Qi," he said finally, voice soft but edged. "I know what these last few days have been like."
There was no response. Bai Qi continued fastening his cuffs, gaze distant, his reflection cold and beautiful as glass.
Armin sighed, running a hand through his hair. "If you're tired, I can go in your place. You don't have to—"
Bai Qi's voice cut through the air, calm yet perilous. "Father left everything for me to handle."
He looked up then, obsidian eyes meeting Armin's ice-blue stare. The silence between them sparked like flint.
Armin blinked, startled by the sharpness in his tone. "Then at least let me come along," he said, standing. "You're not well either."
But Bai Qi had already turned away. He reached for his tailored coat, slipped it on without another word.
At that moment, George entered the room—his composure impeccable, his silver pocket watch glinting faintly. "Bai Qi," he said, adjusting his gloves, "I'll be attending a meeting at the Luminous Garden Hotel Hotel. I'll return by evening."
"Just as you said, Uncle," Bai Qi replied quietly.
Armin only nodded. His gaze followed their uncle as he left, the sound of the door closing echoing through the vast hall. The air seemed heavier after.
By the time Armin looked back, Bai Qi was already gone—leaving only the faint scent of cold cologne and cold air behind him. Armin muttered under his breath, frustrated, "He never listens."
He reached for his coat. "Fine then," he whispered. "If you won't let me come, I'll follow you anyway."
---
Outside, the world stirred to life.
Engines hummed, streets gleamed faintly with the morning dew. Shu Yao's taxi rolled to a stop in front of the tall glass towers of Rothenberg Industries. His hand lingered on the door handle, hesitant.
For a heartbeat, he simply sat there—breathing through the ache in his chest, the fog of fever pressing behind his eyes. Then he stepped out.
The wind caught the edge of his coat, carrying the faintest trace of perfume.
Shu Yao blinked slowly, steadying his breath before the driver spoke.
"young man, we're here."
Shu Yao nodded faintly and reached for his wallet. His fingers trembled, not from cold but from the quiet storm inside him.
"Keep the change," he murmured.
The driver frowned, glancing back. "You sure, young man?"
"I'm in a hurry," Shu Yao interrupted softly, forcing a fragile smile. "Thank you for the ride."
He stepped out into the morning air, which carried the sterile chill of polished marble and perfume advertisements. The building loomed high above, its mirrored surface cutting into the pale sky. He exhaled, his breath forming a thin mist.
He adjusted his coat and was about to turn toward the entrance—when a black sleek car glided to a stop beside the curb.
The sound of its engine, low and smooth, froze him in place. Shu Yao's heart sank. He didn't need to look to know who was inside.
He turned his head slightly, his reflection caught in the car's window—blurred, trembling.
The door opened.
Bai Qi stepped out.
Even in the simple charcoal suit, his presence drew the eyes of everyone nearby. His every movement was sharp, deliberate—an image molded by fame and tragedy. Cameras flashed from passersby; whispers rippled through the small crowd.
"It's him! Bai Qi!"
"He's even more beautiful in real life—look!"
"Poor man… his fiancée, Qing Yue… she died so young."
Their voices twisted through the air like smoke. Shu Yao lowered his gaze immediately, afraid even his shadow might offend.
Bai Qi walked past the car with silent authority, face expressionless. His name had painted half the city overnight—billboards, perfume ads, suits, watches. The brand had devoured the world with his image, making him a symbol of perfection. But the eyes behind that perfection held something unyielding, hollowed out.
Shu Yao tried to move aside, heart pounding, ready to slip quietly past. But fate—always cruel—had other plans.
Their shoulders collided.
The impact was soft, yet it burned. Shu Yao stumbled back, muttering an apology. Before he could step away, Bai Qi's cold voice broke through the noise.
"Pathetic."
One word.
Sharp enough to wound deeper than any blade.
Shu Yao froze. His throat tightened, but he said nothing. He only lowered his gaze further, whispering inwardly—I don't blame him… It was my fault.
The murmurs around them rose, a mix of curiosity and discomfort, as if the crowd sensed something raw beneath the surface but couldn't name it.
Bai Qi's gaze lingered for half a second on the pale figure before him—the boy whose presence suffocated him with guilt, grief, and something else he dared not name. Then he turned away, walking through the company's entrance without a backward glance.
The glass doors parted soundlessly, swallowing him whole.
---
Behind the black car, another vehicle had been idling quietly.
Inside sat Armin von Rothenberg, Bai Qi's elder half-brother.
From the passenger seat, Armin's ice-blue eyes followed the scene. He had seen everything—the collision, the word, the silence that followed like a curse. His fingers curled against the car door.
Is that how you've changed, Bai Qi?
He had known his brother's temper, his restraint. But this—this quiet cruelty—was something new, something colder than even the Rothenberg winter blood.
Armin's jaw tightened as he looked at Shu Yao—small, shivering, but standing with a kind of fragile grace. Even in humiliation, he bowed his head instead of breaking.
And for a fleeting second, something cracked open in Armin's chest. A feeling he hadn't wanted to recognize.
He turned his head sharply away, eyes closing. Why does he look like that?
The curve of Shu Yao's lips, the sorrow in his eyes—it was too familiar. Too much like him.
He couldn't bear it.
Armin exhaled hard, jaw flexing. "Drive."
The driver hesitated. "just as you say, Sir—"
The driver nodded and pulled forward.
When the car stopped before the entrance, Armin stepped out. His expression was carved from storm clouds, sharp and unreadable. Cameras turned toward him now, too—another Rothenberg heir, the older one, the colder one.
Whispers chased him immediately.
"Isn't that Armin Volker von Rothenberg?"
"The elder brother! I thought he stayed overseas—"
"He's even more intimidating than Bai Qi."
Armin ignored them. Their admiration was as worthless as the perfume advertisements flickering above. His mood was already poisoned by what he had seen.
He straightened his coat and muttered under his breath, "I shouldn't have come."
But his feet moved anyway—toward the same glass doors where Shu Yao had vanished moments ago.
The automatic doors parted soundlessly, reflecting his rigid figure back at him before he stepped inside. The chill of the lobby wrapped around him like a warning.
Somewhere in this tower, his brother was nursing his rage. And somewhere else, that trembling boy was forcing himself to keep breathing.
Armin's expression hardened. He told himself it wasn't his concern. He didn't care.
But his chest still burned.
He shook his head, trying to extinguish the feeling.
Outside, the city kept moving—cars sliding through the morning haze, billboards flashing with Bai Qi's perfect face.
Inside, the Rothenberg tower stood still, waiting for another collision neither brother could yet imagine.