The black sedan glided to a halt at the curb of the Rothenberg Industry skyscraper. The engine's hum faded, leaving a silence that felt heavy with the weight of unsaid things.
Inside the plush interior, Shu Yao sat frozen. His mind was a chaotic landscape of fear and suspicion. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the empty space in his wardrobe where his soul—his Journal and that torn shirt—used to be. The missing items were like phantom limbs, their absence causing a visceral ache.
His gaze flickered to George, who sat in the driver's seat. The memory of the hospital—the sound of the slap George had delivered to Bai Qi—reverberated in his mind. It was a moment of shattered hierarchy that still made Shu Yao's heart stutter. He felt a profound, lingering guilt; he shouldn't have been the cause of such discord.
Without waiting for the driver to perform the formal ritual of opening the door, Shu Yao reached for the handle himself. He needed to move. He needed to outrun the panic. George scrambled out as well, his golden blonde hair gleaming under the harsh morning sun, but Shu Yao was already a ghost in motion.
Shu Yao ignored George's call to wait. He walked through the automatic glass doors, the cool air of the lobby doing nothing to soothe the fire in his veins. He didn't dare approach the elevators. The trauma of being trapped—of the walls closing in—was still too raw, a jagged wound in his memory.
Instead, he turned toward the staircase. He began the grueling climb, each step a penance, his lungs burning as he sought the isolation of the upper floors.
Outside, George remained momentarily stilled. His presence was a magnet for the employees entering the building. Two women whispered as they passed, their voices carrying in the crisp air.
"See? He is so damn hot," one murmured, her eyes lingering on George's chiseled profile.
"Shhh! Stop talking, he might hear you," her companion hissed, pulling her away.
George heard nothing. He was staring at his phone, his brow knitted in a mask of concern. He had failed to stop Shu Yao again.
His thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of another vehicle. A sleek, predatory sedan pulled up, and George's expression hardened. Bai Qi emerged, his face a landscape of spoiled, aristocratic fury. The return of his parents had clearly stripped away his veneer of composure.
Bai Qi didn't even acknowledge George's presence. He strode past, his movements sharp and dismissive.
"Bai Qi!" George called out, his voice sharp with a sudden, protective anger.
The Monarch didn't turn. The arrogance of the gesture sent a surge of fury through George. He watched the man who held Shu Yao's heart in a fist disappear into the building, oblivious to the storm brewing on the executive floor.
Shu Yao reached the office floor, his breathing ragged.
The hallway was a desert of glass and polished mahogany, silent and oppressive. He approached the grand doors of the inner sanctum and knocked.
Silence.
He knocked again, his knuckles white. His phone vibrated in his pocket—Ting—but he ignored it. He assumed it was the world demanding more of him than he had left to give. He waited, the silence stretching until it became a physical pressure. He wondered if Bai Qi was still drowning in the rage from the hospital or because of he found his journal.
The chime of the private lift broke the stillness.
The doors slid open with a clinical hiss, revealing the Monarch. Bai Qi stepped out, his sharp wolfcut framing a face of cold, obsidian beauty. He was dressed in slim black trousers and a tailored suit that hugged his frame with lethal precision. His hands were buried in his pockets, his gaze fixed forward as he walked toward his office.
He stopped dead when he saw Shu Yao.
The silence between them was a living thing, thick with the history of the last two months. Bai Qi's eyes—those dark, unreadable depths—searched Shu Yao's face. He wanted answers. He wanted to know why that damn journal was currently the only thing occupying his dreams.
Shu Yao flinched, his body reacting to the intensity of Bai Qi's gaze before his mind could catch up. The fear was a cold current under his skin.
He saw the anger in the set of Bai Qi's jaw and felt a sudden, crushing despair. How could he ask about his belongings when the Monarch looked ready to burn the world down?
"Sir... sir," Shu Yao stammered, his voice failing him.
Bai Qi had no patience for the stuttering side of shu Yao. He stepped forward with a long, predatory stride. Before Shu Yao could move, Bai Qi's hand shot out, his fingers locking around Shu Yao's wrists like iron manacles.
A gasp of shock escaped Shu Yao as he was dragged into the office. The grand door was kicked shut and locked with a final, echoing click.
Bai Qi slammed Shu Yao against the door, his body a wall of heat and cold intention. Shu Yao's breath left him in a rush of terror.
"Sir! What... what are you doing?" Shu Yao gasped, his eyes wide as he stared up at the man he both loved and feared.
Bai Qi leaned in, his face inches from Shu Yao's. "Doing what you want, isn't it?" his voice was a low, vibrating growl.
"What... what... do you mean, sir?"
Shu Yao's heart hammered against his ribs. The terror was absolute. If Bai Qi had read the journal—if he knew every secret line of fantasy Shu Yao had penned about him—then there was no escape. He couldn't meet Bai Qi's eyes.
Bai Qi reached up, his fingers hooking under Shu Yao's chin, forcing his face upward. Brown met obsidian. The look in Bai Qi's eyes was a serrated blade, cutting through Shu Yao's defenses. Shu Yao's eyes filled with tears, becoming glassy and translucent.
"Now I will ask the questions," Bai Qi began, "and you will spilled the answers."
Shu Yao struggled, pulling his wrists free with a sudden, desperate strength. He looked away, his voice trembling. "I... I don't know what you mean, sir."
Bai Qi smirked, a cruel, cold expression. "What do I mean? I mean simple little thing about you, where is that damn journal of yours, huh?"
The world seemed to stop. Shu Yao's heart performed a sickening roll. He looked at Bai Qi in total, soul-crushing shock. If Bai Qi didn't have the journal... then who did?
His knees gave out. He reached out, his fingers gripping the lapels of Bai Qi's suit as another panic attack surged through him. He was a creature of wreckage, falling apart in the hands of his executioner.
Bai Qi frowned, his patience evaporating at the sight of such weakness. He grabbed both of Shu Yao's hands and pinned them behind the door, hoisting him up by sheer strength until Shu Yao was forced to stand on his toes.
"Stop pulling these damn tricks on me!" Bai Qi barked. "I asked you a question. Where did you hide it? What is exactly inside that dairy?"
He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Every time I sleep, she appears in my dreams. She tells me to see what you've written. Why don't you save us both the trouble and spill it from your own mouth?"
Shu Yao shook his head frantically, the tears finally overflowing and tracing hot paths down his cheeks. "It's... it's gone, sir."
Bai Qi's brow furrowed. "Gone? What do you mean gone?"
"I don't know!" Shu Yao sobbed, his lower lip quivering. "When I opened my wardrobe... it wasn't there. It was gone. All of it was gone."
Bai Qi scoffed, a sound of pure mockery. "Why should I believe you? You are a master of secrets, Shu Yao. You probably have it hidden away, laughing at how I've let it haunt me."
"I am... I am sorry, sir," Shu Yao choked out. "I don't know who has it. It's truly gone."
Bai Qi felt his own fury rising—a dark, chaotic tide. "Whatever the fuck is going on, I don't know. But why are you panicking so much? Did you write some dirty things about me?"
Shu Yao's head snapped up, his eyes meeting Bai Qi's with a flash of desperate denial. "No! No, sir... it wasn't that."
"Then what? Did you write your fantasies about someone else's life?"
The words were like acid. Bai Qi felt a sudden, visceral revulsion—not at Shu Yao, but at the situation. He realized that if he stayed this close, he might truly break the boy. He released Shu Yao's hands abruptly.
Shu Yao slid down the door, collapsing into a heap on the floor. Bai Qi turned away, his lip curling in disgust. "Always pathetic. You don't even know how to take care of your own things."
Bai Qi strode toward his mahogany desk, his mind racing. His gaze landed on a silver-wrapped gift sitting perfectly centered on the dark wood. He stopped, his brow knitting together.
"Who left this here?" he muttered.
He approached the desk, reaching for the box. He assumed it was an early Christmas offering from a sycophant or a board member. But as he lifted it, his heart skipped a beat. It was light—unnervingly light.
He ripped off the silver paper and the black ribbon with a sense of growing dread. Inside was a card and down underneath was something very secretive. He picked it up and began to read.
The Revelation
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Bai Qi... my dear half-brother."
The blood drained from Bai Qi's face. Half-brother? The word was a poison he hadn't known existed. His eyes scanned the rest of the message, written in Shen Haoxuan's elegant, cruel hand.
His eyes devoured the elegant, looping script of the man who claimed to be his blood.
His eyes devoured the elegant, looping script of the man who claimed to be his blood.
"So, dear brother, is this the most perfect gift in existence? I suspect it is.
I simply wanted to see how hard a Rothenberg can truly fall when the foundation is built on lies. Did you think your 'Pure Assistant''was incorruptible? Ask him about the night of your engagement.
Ask him how it felt to be unmade while you were busy toast-mastering your future. You lost him that night, Bai Qi. I just kept the souvenirs."
A sound escaped Bai Qi—a low, guttural vibration of pure, unadulterated loathing. He crushed the card into a shapeless pulp, his knuckles turning a ghostly white.
"How... How the fuck he did that," he hissed, the words dripping with a lethal venom. "Fuck you to hell, Shen."
On the floor, Shu Yao flinched. The air in the room had turned electric, heavy with the scent of ozone. He looked up at Bai Qi's back, his own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his fragile ribs. He saw the Monarch's shoulders heaving, the sheer physical force of his rage radiating outward like a heatwave.
Bai Qi reached back into the box. As he pulled the fabric out, something else—something solid and heavy—slid from the folds and thudded back into the velvet lining of the box.
But Bai Qi was blind.
He was possessed by a singular, obsidian focus. He didn't hear the dull thud of the Journal hitting the bottom of the box. He didn't see the black leather spine peeking out from the silver paper. All he saw was the white fabric clutched in his hands.
He unfurled it slowly, his movements jerky and mechanical. His eyes widened, the pupils shrinking into pinpricks of shock.
It was a shirt.
But it wasn't just any garment. It was the bespoke, hand-stitched silk shirt Bai Qi had gifted Shu Yao for his twentieth birthday.
Now, it was a rag.
The buttons had been ripped away, the sleeves were shredded as if by a frantic struggle. It was a roadmap of violence, a textile scream that confirmed every dark insinuation in Shen's letter.