When Zhenyu woke again, the city was still dark — a deep, oppressive shade that clung to the window like soot. The clock on the crooked wall read just after three. His mouth tasted stale, the bitter trace of ginger clinging to the back of his tongue no matter how many times he swallowed.
He hated ginger. Always had. Even as a kid, he'd complain when his mother forced him to drink it for coughs and chills. Yu Bai knew that — he'd known since he was small enough to sit on Zhenyu's steps, nose running, eyes big with silent hunger.
Now, years later, the boy who once waited at his door was the man sitting in his kitchen like he owned every inch of it.
Zhenyu lay still, breathing through the rasp in his chest. The low murmur of Yu Bai's voice drifted in from the narrow kitchenette — calm, quiet, but edged like a knife under velvet. He couldn't catch the words, only the steady rhythm, like an executioner whispering lullabies.
A rustle. The faintest scrape of chair legs. A door creaked open down the hall — the hallway that led to the stairs Zhenyu's neighbors never used at this hour.
Zhenyu pushed himself up, fighting the dizziness that sparked behind his eyes. The couch cushion stuck to his cheek with sweat. He didn't remember falling asleep, didn't remember finishing the soup — but the empty bowl sat on the floor beside him, a dark smear of broth at the rim.
I should've spat it out, he thought bitterly. I should've—
"Awake?"
Zhenyu flinched. Yu Bai stood by the table, phone gone, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the faint pink line that curved around his left wrist — an old knife scar, faded but impossible to forget. Zhenyu's eyes caught on it, then on the cuff of his shirt — a tiny brownish smear that could've been rust. Or blood.
"You should sleep more," Yu Bai said, his voice warm, patient — the same tone he'd used as a boy asking for scraps. Except now, it settled on Zhenyu like iron.
"You should leave," Zhenyu croaked, swinging his legs off the couch. He wrapped the blanket around his shoulders even though the room was stifling.
Yu Bai's smile curved, indulgent. "I did. But the hallway was cold."
Zhenyu forced out a dry laugh. "Right. The hallway. And the men standing by the stairwell?"
Yu Bai didn't flinch. "Security."
Zhenyu stared at him, then pushed himself upright, swaying slightly. "You don't need security. This is just a moldy box in an old building. No one comes here."
Yu Bai stepped closer. "Exactly."
The word sent a chill through Zhenyu that no blanket could warm. He shoved past Yu Bai toward the sink, fumbling for a glass. The tap squealed as he turned it, the water running rusty at first, then clear.
"You're making this worse," Zhenyu muttered, rinsing the lingering taste from his mouth. "The press will find you. If they see you with me—"
"They won't."
Zhenyu turned, glass half-raised, water dripping down his wrist. Yu Bai stood in that cramped kitchenette like it was his personal throne — easy smile, eyes soft, but the darkness at the edges of his mouth said he'd kill to keep this place quiet.
"You think you can just make them stop talking?" Zhenyu's voice cracked. "My reputation is trash. They'll drag you down with me."
Yu Bai leaned back against the counter. "They won't. They already know better."
Zhenyu's throat closed around the water. "What did you do?"
Yu Bai didn't answer at once. He rolled his sleeves down, covering the scar, the stain. When he spoke, it was like a father explaining bedtime rules — gentle, final.
"I bought the photos. The reporter you argued with last month? He's off the story now. The neighbor who keeps telling stories to the tabloids — the old woman on the third floor — she's decided she wants to visit her sister in the countryside. For a long while."
Zhenyu's pulse pounded at his temples. "How?"
Yu Bai's smile didn't move. "Business."
Zhenyu slammed the glass down on the counter, water sloshing over the edge. "That's not business. That's—"
Yu Bai stepped forward so suddenly that the words stuck in Zhenyu's throat. He trapped him against the sink, but didn't touch him — only leaned close enough that Zhenyu could see the ghost of stubble on his jaw, smell the faint iron under his cologne.
"It's protection," Yu Bai said, softer than the drizzle tapping the window. "You can call it what you want."
Zhenyu swallowed. His eyes flicked to Yu Bai's wrist, where a dark line peeked out under his cuff.
"What happened to your sleeve?" he whispered.
Yu Bai's eyes glinted. He glanced down, then shrugged, as if the stain was an inconvenience — a smudge of dust, not blood. "A stubborn man made a mess."
Zhenyu's stomach lurched. "You—"
Yu Bai's hand came up, thumb brushing the corner of Zhenyu's mouth. He didn't push, didn't hold — just hovered, a promise of warmth or violence, impossible to read.
"You hate ginger," Yu Bai murmured. "But you drank every drop."
Zhenyu's laugh cracked out like broken glass. "I was half-asleep."
Yu Bai's eyes softened. "No. You were hungry."
He stepped back before Zhenyu could retort, smoothing his cuffs, his shirt. The shadows under his eyes looked almost delicate in the low light.
"You're too thin. You need real food. Rest. And a lawyer."
Zhenyu flinched. "Don't start."
Yu Bai ignored him, stepping into the main room, glancing around the apartment like he might tear the walls down with his eyes. "This place is falling apart. Damp. No locks that matter. I'll have a man fix it tomorrow."
"No."
Yu Bai tilted his head. "No?"
Zhenyu's hands clenched in the blanket. "This is my home."
Yu Bai's smile curved, cold at the edges. "Your home is rotting around you."
Zhenyu stepped forward, shaking. "I don't need your pity—"
"It's not pity," Yu Bai snapped — the edge so sudden that the word bit into Zhenyu's chest. "It's what you're owed."
He turned back to the window, sweeping the curtain aside. Outside, Zhenyu caught the shadow of two men standing at the curb — dark suits, umbrellas held low. Waiting.
"How long have they been here?" Zhenyu whispered.
Yu Bai didn't look at him. "Long enough."
"Why?"
Yu Bai let the curtain fall. He faced him again, all polite warmth — except his eyes were still winter-cold.
"You think they won't come for you again? The debt collectors. The cameras. Your ex-wife's new husband."
Zhenyu's shoulders stiffened. "Leave him out of this—"
Yu Bai's voice dropped. "No. He started this. He'll finish it when I say so."
Something inside Zhenyu snapped. He closed the distance, shoving at Yu Bai's chest. "Stop! You can't just clean up my life like this! It's not your—"
Yu Bai caught his wrists. Not hard — just enough to hold him still. His hands were warm, steady, the same way they'd been when they'd wrapped around Zhenyu's bruised fingers years ago, back when the world felt less rotten.
"I can," Yu Bai said, softer now. "And I will."
Zhenyu's throat worked. "Why?"
Yu Bai's lashes lowered. For a heartbeat, Zhenyu saw something raw slip through the cracks — a hunger so old and deep it made his knees threaten to buckle.
"Because they should never have touched you."
Zhenyu wrenched free, turning away. His chest burned with the taste of soup, ginger, shame.
"Just leave," he rasped. "Go protect your business. Leave me with my filth."
Yu Bai's laugh was almost gentle. "Gege, you are my business."
---
By dawn, Zhenyu was alone. He didn't remember drifting off again — didn't remember the faint knock, the low voice by the door telling him to lock up behind him.
When he woke, the groceries were there. Fresh rice, vegetables, even a neatly wrapped bag of ginger root with a note: Good for you. — B.
Zhenyu wanted to throw it all out. But when the rain started tapping at the window again, he cooked the rice anyway.
Outside, the street was too quiet. No cameras. No neighbors whispering at the stairwell. Just the soft hum of a black car idling by the curb, its headlights off.
Zhenyu told himself he wouldn't look. That he wouldn't check if Yu Bai's men were still out there.
But he did.
And when he crawled back under the blanket, the taste of ginger still burned the back of his throat — something sharp, impossible to spit out.
---