The lower-rank employee jabbed the elevator button with the impatience of a man already done with the day.
Nothing happened.
He hissed under his breath. "What the hell…?"
He pressed again. Harder.
The elevator remained stubborn, sealed, lifeless—its metallic doors reflecting his growing irritation.
Before he could curse again, hurried footsteps slapped the hallway tile.
A service staff member rushed in, breath puffing, bowing apologetically.
"Sir—sir—allow me to check—"
The employee stepped aside with a scowl.
The service worker knelt, examined the panel—then froze.
His face blanched.
He stumbled back so quickly he nearly tripped.
"S-sir… there must be—someone inside the elevator I am sure he's stuck."
The employee blinked at him, stunned.
"What are you talking about? Did someone really got stuck inside"
He tried prying the doors apart, banging once, twice.
"Hey! Is anyone in there?!"
The sound echoed down the hallway but returned hollow and unanswered.
"No use, sir," the service worker murmured. "We need emergency response. Immediately."
The employee exhaled long and tired.
"What a cruel day…"
He turned—only to nearly collide with George, who was striding toward the lift, expression set in his usual calm authority.
The employee stiffened and bowed low.
"Mr. George! —wait!"
George paused, brows knitting. "What is it?"
"There's—there's a problem with the elevator."
George frowned.
"How? I just used it minutes ago—"
He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes narrowed. A chill of realization slithered down his spine.
"How," he repeated quietly, "did it stop working?"
The employee swallowed hard, voice shrinking. "S-sir, we're not sure. But… there's someone inside. Whoever he is—he's not responding to us."
George's entire body went still.
"What… did you say?"
"A person, sir. Trapped. Probably some worker. We don't know—"
George lunged toward the doors.
He banged his fist against them with a force that startled the employee.
"This can't be—"
The employee stared, confused and frightened by George's sudden shift.
"Mr. George… who do you think is inside?"
George didn't answer.
He snatched his phone and dialed one number instinctively—
the number his heart whispered before reason could catch up.
Shu Yao.
He pressed the phone to his ear, pulse hammering.
The line rang.
And rang.
And—connected.
George's breath hitched.
"Shu Yao? Shu Yao—are you in there?!"
INSIDE THE ELEVATOR,
Shu Yao did not lift his head.
He was curled in the cold, metallic corner of the elevator,
knees drawn so close they trembled against his chest,
head buried in his arms like a boy trying to vanish into himself.
His breath stuttered.
Shoulders shaking.
Tears dripping down his wrists.
Quiet.
Soundless.
Breaking.
His hair fell in disheveled strands over his forehead, still aching from Bai Qi's brutal yank.
Every breath hurt.
Every thought hurt more.
He whispered into his knees, voice barely alive.
"I'm the problem… I'm always the problem…"
The darkness flickered.
The bulb above him hissed like an angry ghost, then dimmed.
And his phone vibrated.
The sudden buzz jolted him—
a shock that rattled his bones.
His trembling fingers fumbled.
He dragged his phone out with effort, palms slick with sweat and tears.
George's name shone on the dim screen.
His heart dragged painfully.
Shu Yao inhaled shakily and pressed the call.
"Mr… George… can you hear me…?"
But the connection was thin, brittle, broken—like it had to climb out of a deep, suffocating pit.
"Shu Yao!" George's voice burst through crackling static.
"Shu Yao—are you really inside?!"
Shu Yao tried to steady his voice.
It came out in fragments.
"M-Mr… George… the signal… it's not… clear—"
George's voice grew more frantic.
"Are you hurt?! Are you breathing?! Shu Yao, answer me—hello?! Hello?!"
Shu Yao's lips shook.
"I… I'm here… I'm inside… I—"
The line crackled.
Then died.
Flat, empty silence.
Shu Yao stared at the dead screen, eyes widening in despair as the phone slipped from his hand and clattered onto the floor.
Outside the thick steel doors, muffled and faint—
George's voice roared.
"Shu Yao! Shu Yao—can you hear me?!"
But Shu Yao didn't lift his head.
He curled tighter, as if trying to protect what little remained of him.
Tears streamed again, blurring everything.
His voice cracked into the dim air, small and raw.
"If… if Bai Qi found out… would he even care…?"
His chest tightened painfully at the name.
He knew the answer.
He knew it too well.
"He doesn't want me near him…
He doesn't even want me breathing…"
The more he thought—
the more something inside him split apart.
He wiped at his tears desperately, but they spilled faster.
Hot. Endless.
Like everything he bottled up finally broke free.
And in that suffocating dark…
that trembling loneliness…
He whispered the name that hurt him the most.
"Bai Qi…"
His voice trembled like a wounded child's.
"Bai Qi… I'm sorry…"
His breath hitched.
His ribs seized.
His throat shut with panic.
"I… I can't breathe here…
I can't… breathe without you…"
A sob escaped him—
thin, cracked, strangled by heartbreak.
He pressed the back of his hand to his eyes, trying to stifle the sound.
It didn't help.
The tears spilled through his fingers.
"Bai Qi…"
He said it again, almost a prayer.
Almost a curse.
Almost magic.
But Bai Qi wasn't here.
He wouldn't hear.
And that made the silence sharper than any blade.
Shu Yao's voice dissolved into a whisper, barely more than breath.
The emergency team arrived in a rush of boots and clattering toolkits. The corridor hummed with tense electricity. George stood planted before the elevator doors, jaw taut, shoulders squared like a barricade against catastrophe.
"Sir, please," one technician murmured, prying open the metal panel. "We need time. An hour at most."
"An hour?" George's voice thundered. "He's trapped. Shu Yao is alone in there."
The employee flinched. "Yes, sir—but the internal circuits are jammed and—"
"We can't wait." George shoved his hands between the faint seam of the doors, trying to force them apart. Metal groaned but didn't budge.
"Sir… that won't open by strength," the technician whispered, rattled. "Please trust us."
Trust.
What a useless, ornamental word at a moment like this.
George exhaled shakily, but he never moved away from the door. Not even a step. He hovered like a guardian lion—panicked, furious, helpless.
The employee backed away with a worried glance.
Silence fanned out through the hallway like frost.
Inside the elevator, time had dissolved into something cruel.
Shu Yao's breath rasped in thin, frantic fragments. His long brown eyes—usually soft, if not sad—were swollen, rimmed red, lashes clumped with tears that wouldn't stop spilling. His chest hitched as if each inhale scraped against something raw.
He pressed his palm to the cold steel wall, the tremor in his fingers uncontrollable.
The lights had flickered out minutes ago, plunging him into a dull grey half-dark that made every shadow look like it was reaching for him. When the power died entirely, the elevator jerked hard, tossing him onto his knees.
His heart hadn't recovered since.
He crouched now in the corner, arms wrapped around himself so tightly he looked folded back into childhood. Cold sweat dampened his hairline. His breath came too fast, too shallow, as if oxygen refused to obey him.
Minutes felt like hours.
It felt like suffocation.
A sharp tremor pulsed through his chest—white-hot, instantaneous—like a spark catching dry tinder.
Shu Yao gasped, clutching the center of his sternum. Pain flared again, bright enough to make his vision blur. He tried to steady his breathing, but the elevator seemed to shrink around him, the steel walls pushing in, carving away all the space he had left.
His gaze fell on his phone lying a few inches away. With trembling effort, he crawled forward to grab it, fingers dragging weakly over the cold floor.
Missed calls.
George's name repeated over and over.
But there were no bars. No signal. No rescue through plastic and glass.
His hand loosened around the phone. It clattered softly as he let it fall.
Another stab of pain. Sharp. Deep.
It stole his breath in a clean sweep.
"Ah… what is happening," Shu Yao whispered, squeezing his eyes shut. "to me…"
The echo of Bai Qi's voice sliced back through his mind.
The accusations.
The look in Bai Qi's eyes—grief, fury, possession, heartbreak twisted into a blade.
His mind tried to run from it, but the memories clung like thorns.
Shu Yao tensed, curling into a tighter knot, trying to force himself into stillness. He couldn't tell where the fear ended and where the pain began. Everything blended—emotional fractures, physical distress, exhaustion dragging him under like a cold river.
His breaths shortened.
His fingertips tingled.
His legs felt weightless, almost numb.
"Why can't it stop…" he whispered.
The elevator groaned again—just a mechanical shift, harmless—but Shu Yao flinched, body jolting as though struck. His palms pressed against the floor, trying to ground himself.
It didn't help.
His chest throbbed in irregular, alarming beats. His vision dimmed at the edges. He blinked rapidly, fighting the blur, fighting the black spots drifting across his sight like falling ash.
Just stay awake.
Just stay awake.
He lowered himself slowly, trembling, until his cheek pressed against the cold steel floor. His skin looked pallid, almost translucent in the weak emergency light. He felt distant from his own body, as if watching himself from far away.
"I… can't…" Shu Yao whispered, breath cracking.
His eyes fluttered, heavy as stone. His mind spiraled through every fear he had tried so hard to bury—every wound, every memory, every unspoken plea he'd swallowed to stay quiet, obedient, small.
The room began to fade.
The world began to tilt.
And just before unconsciousness swept him entirely, he breathed one last name—soft as a broken prayer.
"Bai Qi…"
There, Bai Qi sat behind his mahogany desk, the polished surface gleaming under the muted office light. His hands clawed at his head, hair tangled between his fingers. Frustration gnawed at him, sharp and relentless. He felt hollow. Betrayed. Useless.
Nothing—nothing made sense.
Then, a sudden image flashed in his mind: Ming Su. That innocent, soft smile—the same smile Qing Yue had once worn, fragile and luminous, like light trapped in glass. His chest tightened.
No.
He shook his head violently. No, she isn't Qing Yue. She is not.
But still… his heart thumped, erratic and loud, as though echoing through his ribs. He gripped the edge of the desk, white knuckles scraping the polished wood, trying to dislodge the feeling, to dismiss the rhythm that didn't belong to him.
Yet it wasn't Ming Su. It wasn't Qing Yue.
It was something else. Something… faint, distant, but urgent.
A heartbeat.
Somewhere, someone's heartbeat was weakening—and the pull of it gnawed at him. Sharp. Piercing. Unrelenting.
Bai Qi's brow furrowed. He scowled, trying to think it through, trying to name it, to rationalize it. He had kept himself insulated, untouchable. His heart? It was his own, iron-bound and secret.
Yet the ache refused to leave.
Something had gone wrong. Something vital.
Bai Qi shook violently, trying to rid himself of the thought. His mind lashed at itself, unwilling to make the connection. The girl—Ming Su, Qing Yue's echo—she was the obvious answer. That must be it.
And still… he felt it. A devotion so fierce, so absolute, it radiated through the distance, through the silence. A heartbeat, weakening. Straining. Calling out. And he… he couldn't reach it.
He couldn't see clearly, couldn't name the source, but the intensity of it—burning through the fog of misunderstanding—was undeniable.
Bai Qi exhaled sharply, trying to steady himself. This was not just fear. Not just nostalgia. Not just guilt. Something else—something vital—was at stake. And he could feel it in the hollowness of his ribs, in the thrum of panic beneath his skin, in the longing he refused to name.
But he told himself, over and over: it's her. Ming Su. That's why my chest hurts. That's why my heart is racing. That's why I can't breathe.
And he remained utterly unaware.
The one whose heartbeat haunted him, whose devotion tore at the edges of his control, whose life teetered on the brink… was not the girl he saw in his mind.
It was Shu Yao.
Meanwhile Infront of the elevator, George's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, as he stared at the stubborn elevator doors. Time crawled. The half of the hour was almost waste.
A voice crackled from the emergency service headset. "Almost done, sir. Just a few more turns and the mechanism should release."
George's heart pounded in his ears, a frantic drumbeat he could not still. He swallowed hard, throat dry. "Almost… done?" His voice barely held steady.
"Yes, sir. Stand by."
The air around him seemed to thicken, each second stretching impossibly long. George's pulse raced; his mind was a blur of panic and dread. Shu Yao…
The technicians moved with careful precision, each twist and lever echoing ominously in the narrow shaft. George could barely watch. Every small click, every faint metallic groan sent shivers down his spine.
Then—the button. A sharp, deliberate click reverberated through the shaft. George's entire body tensed.
The doors quivered.
A whisper of movement.
His heartbeat thundered in his ears, deafening. Every muscle coiled tight.
And just as the gap began to widen…
George's breath caught. His fingers itched to reach forward. His chest constricted with both hope and terror.
The doors were about to part.
The moment hung suspended, fragile and electric, between fear and relief.