The steam from the shower had begun to dissipate, leaving only the cloyingly sweet scent of blueberry shampoo clinging to the air. Shu Yao stepped out onto the cold tiles, a white towel cinched precariously around his waist, another draped over his damp hair.
For a few fleeting minutes under the hot spray, he had almost felt human again. He felt like the boy his mother had just cooked breakfast for, rather than the "Saint" who had been dragged through the thorns of a Monarch's grief. He walked into the bedroom, his feet leaving damp prints on the floorboards, and reached for the heavy wooden doors of his wardrobe.
He expected order. He expected the quiet, monochromatic line of his work shirts. Instead, he found a desecration.
Shu Yao froze. His breath hitched in a throat that suddenly felt as though it were filled with glass.
The wardrobe wasn't just open; it had been pillaged. Clothes were pushed aside, hangers were twisted, and the lower shelf—where he kept his most private belongings—looked like a site of a violent struggle. He crouched down, his fingers trembling so violently they were practically useless.
He searched for the Relic. The torn, shirt he had hidden with such frantic care.
It was gone.
A cold, visceral wave of nausea rolled over him. He fell backward, his back hitting the frame of the bed as the room began to tilt. His chest tightened, the air becoming a thin, useless substance. Who? he thought, his pupils dilating until his eyes were almost entirely black. Mother?
No. If she had found that ruined fabric, the house would not be filled with the smell of fried dough. She would have confronted him with tears and accusations of shame.
He lunged forward again, his hands frantically digging deeper into the shadows of the closet. His fingers brushed against a small, hidden compartment. His heart stopped.
The Journal was missing too.
Shu Yao collapsed onto his knees, a jagged, broken sound escaping his lips.
The shirt was evidence of his suffering, but the journal... the journal was the architecture of his soul. It contained every unspeakable thought, every confession of his secret love for the Monarch, It was the only place where he wasn't a servant or a saint—he was just a boy who wanted to be seen.
"Who came in here?" he whispered, his voice a ghost of a sound.
Suddenly, a terrifying realization crystallized in his mind. Bai Qi. The silence. The lack of messages. The cold void of weeks. Bai Qi must have found it. He must have come here while Shu Yao was unconscious in the hospital. He must have read every word, every secret, and every confession.
"Is that why..." Shu Yao's breath came in frantic, shallow bursts. "Is that why he won't speak to me? Because he finally knows how disgusting I am?"
Ting.
The sound of his phone was a silver needle piercing the heavy silence of the room.
He stayed on the floor for a long time, the silence of the room becoming a cacophony of accusation. Juju sat on the bed, watching him with wide, emerald eyes, his tail twitching in a rhythm of feline anxiety.
Shu Yao forced himself to move. He was a creature of habit, and habit dictated that even when the world was ending, he must be presentable.
He dressed with robotic efficiency. He chose a crisp, black suit—a funeral shroud for his dignity. He adjusted his collar, his fingers still numb, and looked in the mirror. He looked like a porcelain doll that had been shattered and glued back together; the cracks were visible if you looked closely enough.
With a trembling hand, he snatched the device and shoved it deep into his pocket, oblivious to the fact that the message was not from a friend.
The villain had struck his first blow for sport, a cruel reminder that Shu Yao's life was now a script being written by Shen Haoxuan's hand. But Shu Yao felt nothing but the crushing weight of his own assumptions. It was Bai Qi, he told himself as he stumbled toward the door.
He walked downstairs, his footsteps heavy. In the kitchen, Han Ruyan was humming a tune she hadn't sung in years. She turned as he entered, her face falling the moment she saw him.
"Oh, my poor boy," she whispered, her brow knitting in a mask of maternal sorrow. "Why have you become so thin? You look like a shadow."
Shu Yao forced his lips into a smile—a masterpiece of deception. "I am fine, Mother. I have go for work."
"No, Shu-er, stay," she pleaded, reaching out to touch his arm. "You need to rest. You need to eat more, You are too fragile."
Shu Yao didn't answer. He simply leaned forward and hugged her, burying his face in her shoulder. He felt the warmth of her, the scent of the home he was about to leave again. He felt like a soldier going to a war he knew he would lose.
"I'm sorry, Mother," he murmured. "I'll be home soon. I promise."
"I will have dinner ready," she said, her voice trembling with a guilt she couldn't name. "I'll make all your favorites. When you return, okay dear."
Shu Yao nodded, though he felt a cold certainty that "happiness" was a country he no longer had a passport for.
Shu Yao stepped out into the crisp morning air, he lift his phone to call a taxi. But he didn't need to.
A sleek, black sedan was already idling at the curb. The window rolled down, revealing the weary, etched face of Mr. George.
Shu Yao's heart performed a slow, agonizing twist. He felt a wave of shame so profound it made his skin itch. The last time he had seen George, he had been cruel. He had lashed out at the only man who had consistently tried to protect him.
George stepped out of the car, his posture stiff, his eyes scanning Shu Yao's face with a mixture of relief and professional concern.
"Shu Yao," George said, his voice a low rumble.
Shu Yao lowered his gaze, his fingers twisting the strap of his bag. "Mr. George."
"Why did you leave the hospital without a word?" George asked, stepping closer. "George and the doctors were frantic. You aren't healed yet. Your ribs... your spirit... you shouldn't be here."
"I can take care of myself," Shu Yao said, but the words felt hollow even as they left his lips.
George's brow furrowed. He saw the "thinness" Han Ruyan had mentioned. He saw the way Shu Yao's suit seemed to hang off a frame that was rapidly diminishing.
"You shouldn't have come to work," George insisted, his voice softening. "My brother... he isn't himself right now. Go back inside. Just rest."
Shu Yao shook his head, his eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate light. But "I want to see him. I have to see Bai Qi."
George went silent. He looked away, his gaze fixed on the quiet houses of Sheng Street. The silence stretched between them, heavy with the things they both knew but couldn't say.
"How is he, Mr. George?" Shu Yao asked, his voice trembling. "Where is he right now? Is he at the office?"
George didn't respond immediately. He looked at the boy—this fragile, broken "Saint" who was walking straight into the lion's den—and felt a visceral pang of pity.
"I want to see him," Shu Yao whispered, his voice a brittle thread in the wind. "It has been two months and weeks of silence, Mr. George. I want to see him... even if he has decided that I am a ghost he no longer wishes to haunt."
George felt a surge of cold fury—not at the boy standing before him, but at the man waiting in the glass tower downtown. He stepped closer, his presence looming and protective, his shadow swallowing Shu Yao's fragile frame.
"Stop thinking about him, Shu Yao," George commanded, his voice a low, urgent rumble. "Do as I say. Go back inside. Just... rest. You are a silver thread held together by sheer will. If you go there now, you will snap."
Shu Yao looked up, his gaze trembling with a frantic, liquid desperation. The blueberry scent of his shampoo seemed to mock the rot he felt inside.
"But I need to," Shu Yao stammered, his pupils shrinking as the realization of his empty wardrobe hit him again. "I have to make sure..."
George narrowed his eyes, stepping into Shu Yao's personal space, his professional mask flickering. "Make sure of what, Shu Yao? What could be so urgent that you would risk a relapse for a man who hasn't even sent you a single 'get well' flower?"
Shu Yao flinched, the word sacrifice dancing on the tip of his tongue but dying behind his teeth. He couldn't say it. He couldn't tell George that the Relic—the torn shirt—and the Journal—the map of his sins—had vanished. He needed to look into Bai Qi's obsidian eyes to see if the Monarch had finally found the truth. If Bai Qi had read that journal, the world was no longer safe.
The panic attack struck like a physical blow.
Shu Yao's breath became a series of jagged, shallow hitches. The world began to pixelate at the edges. He shook his head frantically, his fingers fumbling with his collar as if it were a noose.
"No," he gasped, fighting the rising tide of darkness in his mind. "I just... I want to see everything for myself. I cannot stay in this house and wonder if the sky is falling. I have to see it."
George watched the boy's disintegration and felt his own resolve crumble. He was a man of logic and duty, but standing before the "Saint," he felt like a sinner who had failed his only charge.
He let out a long, weary sigh, the steam of his breath dissipating in the air.
"Fine," George muttered, his voice defeated. "If you are determined to throw yourself into the furnace, then you had better come with me. I won't have you wandering the streets in a cab, looking like a ghost. I don't want anyone making you feel smaller than you already are."
The driver reached out, opening the heavy rear door of the sedan with a sharp, decisive click. As George spoke, "Get inside, Shu Yao."
Shu Yao obeyed, his movements robotic and stiff. But as he stepped toward the plush leather interior, he paused. He turned back toward George, his eyes wide and shimmering with a sudden, heartbreaking clarity.
"I am sorry, Mr. George," he whispered, his voice dropping to a register of pure, unadulterated sincerity. "For my rudeness... for the things I said when I was in the hospital. I was cruel to you, I said too much."
The apology hit George with the force of a tectonic shift.
A visceral, uncharacteristic blush crept up his neck, staining his cheeks a dusty crimson. He suddenly found the cobblestones of Sheng Street fascinating, looking away as he cleared his throat with a sharp, awkward sound.
"No... Shu Yao," George stammered, his professional composure momentarily shattered. "Why are you apologizing? It was my fault. I overstepped. I shouldn't have been so... so abrasive."
Shu Yao offered a small, weary nod—a gesture of forgiveness that felt heavier than any lecture. He slid into the backseat, the silence of the car wrapping around him like a shroud.
George climbed into the driver's seat, his heart hammering in a rhythm he didn't quite understand. He glanced in the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of Shu Yao's serene, pale face. The boy looked like a masterpiece of sorrow—beautiful, fragile, and utterly devastating.
If he keeps being like this, I might just die by looking at him. How can one person carry so much light and so much wreckage at the same time?
Shu Yao leaned his head against the cool window, watching the city blur into streaks of neon and gray. Every mile brought him closer to the man who might now hold his greatest secrets in his hands.