The gunshot echoed deafeningly through the nearly stagnant air.
The still-warm muzzle of the gun had been less than five centimeters from Yun Che's temple. He hadn't pressed it flush against his skin, as someone truly desperate for death might—he needed that fraction of distance, that sliver of space, to leave room for the Demon King who held absolute power over life and death… a space for his "mercy" to act.
Only in death's embrace could one find a path to life.
This gamble with his life was the only strategy Yun Che could conceive in his extremity, the highest risk maneuver possible. With the transmission logs as irrefutable chains binding him to the pillar of the traitor's shame, with any verbal defense as feeble as smoke in the wind, the only faint glimmer of hope was to stake his bloodied fate on the table. He wagered his life, betting that the cold-hearted Demon King harbored a sliver of tolerance—even if it was just a shred of possessively inclined "softness"—towards him.
The superheated metal projectile tore through the air, spinning towards its target. But in the fraction of a second before it could kiss the vulnerable flesh of his temple, an immense, space-distorting force silently unfurled! The air thickened like viscous colloid, instantly solidifying and warping! The death-dealing brass bullet screeched as its trajectory was violently wrenched aside!
Whizz—THUNK!!!
The projectile sheared past the strands of Yun Che's disheveled black hair and slammed into the hard floor several meters behind him, exploding in a shower of sparks and shattered stone.
The colossal impact sent Yun Che staggering sideways. Only his lightning-fast grab at the nearby conference table kept him from sprawling to the floor. His heart hammered against his ribs like a drum against his eardrums. Cold sweat instantly plastered his hair to his forehead, running in rivulets down his ashen face, stinging as it dripped into the corner of his eye. The profound shock of survival, coupled with the searing pain in his wrist, made the arm braced against the table tremble visibly. His chest heaved violently, each ragged breath feeling like a fresh tear.
Success… for now. Yun Che closed his smarting eyes, breathing silent relief. The Demon King's power was truly terrifying.
Dead silence reclaimed the conference room. Time itself seemed shattered by the gunshot. Everyone remained utterly stunned, paralyzed by the audacious suicide attempt and Ye Jin's miraculous, god-like intervention. Only Yun Che's harsh, gulping breaths of survival rasped against the quietude, abrasive in the stillness.
After what felt like an eternity, or perhaps merely half a minute, the silver-haired Demon King leisurely rose from his seat.
Ye Jin walked unhurriedly over to Yun Che. Toweringly tall, his gaze descended upon Yun Che's sweat-soaked, disheveled form with unnerving composure. He lifted a hand; cool fingertips brushed against Yun Che's cheek, the pad of his thumb wiping away the moisture trailing from the corner of his eye—whether sweat or the aftermath of shock and pain, it was impossible to tell—with a strangely gentle touch.
"Was there a need to go that far?" Ye Jin's voice reverted to its deceptive softness, the cold depths of his red eyes now masked by a veneer of limpid warmth. "I never stated you were the spy. It was just… a suspicion." His fingertips trailed down Yun Che's cheek to rest under his chin, the gesture disturbingly reminiscent of soothing a deeply frightened but stubborn creature. "Look, you nearly frightened my Bambi to tears."
Yun Che flinched violently, revolted by the intrusively intimate touch and the nickname. He wrenched his head away. "...Sweat," he rasped, his voice rough and dry. He emphasized, "Not tears."
Ye Jin seemed unperturbed by the rejection. He withdrew his hand, smoothing the front of his jacket as he did so, the smile at his lips deepening. "Fine. If you say no tears, then no tears." His words carried a hint of indulgent concession. "I believe your innocence. You're shaken, clearly exhausted. Go rest." The crimson gaze swept meaningfully over Yun Che's tense face. "Dinner… another time."
"Yes… Thank you for your trust, Lord." Yun Che bowed his head quickly, unable to meet those unnervingly perceptive eyes any longer, fighting to suppress the tremor of post-survival shock in his voice. He turned, steps slightly unsteady, and made for the door.
Cang Ming, standing guard at the entrance, silently moved aside. As Yun Che brushed past him, he heard Cang Ming's voice, low and perfectly calm: "Mr. Yun Che, your wrist appears sprained. Do ensure you seek medical attention."
"Thanks for the reminder," Yun Che mumbled, barely coherent. He didn't slow down, practically fleeing into the relative obscurity of the hallway beyond.
Only when the sound of hurried footsteps faded completely down the corridor did the mask of gentleness slough away from Ye Jin's face, revealing only frozen indifference. He walked back to the head of the table and reopened the file he had been reading.
Tucked within its pages was a slightly yellowed, curling resume form. A passport-sized photo of a boy who looked impossibly young was affixed to it. The teenager's eyes held a deceptively clear, untroubled gaze – expertly feigned purity – but the angles of his youthful face already held a sharpness far beyond his years. Nineteen-year-old Yun Che.
Ye Jin's fingertip slowly traced the contours of the youthful face in the photograph. Five years. The bloody, near-dead young man collapsed before his car, spinning a tale of hunted exile with nowhere to go… Who would have imagined he was a poison-tipped dagger painstakingly forged by Human intelligence and thrust deep into the Demon King's heart?
In those long five years, the warning signs hadn't been entirely absent. Perhaps it had been deliberate ignorance? Or a personal inclination he hadn't bothered to examine? He had permitted the dagger to remain, even polished its gleam with his own hand. Now, however, evidence lay practically beneath his nose, the cold reality forcing him to confront a situation he had long anticipated… yet utterly resisted.
Outside the vast windows, the last remnants of crimson twilight vanished entirely. Deep night enveloped the land; scattered stars glimmered fitfully behind thick banks of cloud.
Ye Jin waved a hand. The black-clad guards vanished as silently and swiftly as shadows released. Only Cang Ming remained by the door, his expression clearly hesitant, filled with unresolved questions.
"Problem?" Ye Jin asked without turning, his gaze fixed on the infinite darkness outside. A finely crafted silver lighter danced through his fingers, the flickering flame reflecting eerily in the fathomless depths of his red eyes.
Cang Ming stepped forward carefully. "My Lord, forgive my presumption… Yun Che offered no substantive explanation. And you… seem disinclined to press the matter?" His tone was cautiously probing.
Ye Jin chuckled, a low sound devoid of discernible emotion. "Indeed," he agreed, turning slowly and leaning his hip against the table edge. His red eyes fixed on Cang Ming. "He managed to slip out of that fatal situation with a dramatic ploy of suffering and self-sacrifice." He paused, a hint of perverse fascination curling his lips. "Gentle as a cat when placated… but corner him, and he dares bare his claws, wagering his very life against mine."
Cang Ming's bewilderment deepened. "But why didn't you…?" Why not expose him immediately?
"Expose him?" Ye Jin cut him off, spreading his hands in an elegant gesture that belied the icy ocean within his gaze. "Our legal code holds to an old maxim: 'Innocent until proven guilty'." He regarded Cang Ming with a touch of cynical guidance. "Without utterly irrefutable, ironclad proof… how can one convict a man?"
"But those transmission logs…" Cang Ming caught on instantly, his pupils constricting. "Could they…"
"The records are genuine," Ye Jin stated flatly. "Information did travel from within my domain to a secret receiving port controlled by the Human United States."
"However," Ye Jin paced deliberately to the window, looking down on the estate sprawling like a slumbering behemoth beneath the night sky. His voice took on a note of controller's calm… laced with almost cruel patience. "…they were never 'locked' onto Bambi's specific ID. At best…" He turned his gaze outwards again. "…the trail vaguely suggested it originated near his vicinity."
A chill ran up Cang Ming's spine. "Then… Lord, you…"
Ye Jin watched the indifferent twinkling lights of the distant cityscape reflected in his crimson eyes. His voice dropped to the cadence of deepest midnight. "We wait. A cornered animal…" He turned his head slightly, offering Cang Ming a smile utterly devoid of warmth, chillingly gentle. "…will panic, revealing the tail it has hidden in the shadows. It will leap… and ultimately commit the truly irreversible act. Isn't that so?"
Cang Ming shivered violently. For reasons he couldn't fathom, though his sovereign's tone was calm, even carrying that hint of a smile, he felt as if he could see a soul-freezing tempest swirling within those red depths. Was this monumental fury born purely of betrayal? Or were there far more complex reasons? He dared not probe. He only knew that if Yun Che was indeed the spy, the punishment that awaited him would likely be… infinitely more horrifying than death itself.
He could only pray silently: Let it all… just be a mistake.
…
Midnight.
Yun Che sat alone on the stone ledge of his penthouse balcony. Bare feet rested on the cold surface, the night wind tangling strands of black hair across his forehead. Below, meticulously cultivated flora swayed in the nocturnal breeze, emanating a false aura of vibrancy. No lights burned inside; only the pulsating crimson ember of his cigarette glowed in the boundless darkness, a falling star captured on Earth.
Finally, the cigarette burned down. Yun Che ground the smoldering butt fiercely against the cold stone railing with a soft sizzle. He swung down agilely, pulled open the heavy sliding glass door, and stepped back into the apartment's shadowed warmth.
He flipped on only the desk lamp. A pool of yellow light surrounded his thin frame. He powered up the special laptop, the one never connected to any network. Fingers flew over the keys, accessing a phantom account protected by three physical security keys and ever-shifting passcodes.
Finally, an encrypted message, scrambled with triple-layer encryption, winged its way into the void.
Destination: Special Operations Division, Human United States Security Bureau. Code Name: "Carrier Pigeon".
Decoded, the message contained only eight icy, desperate words:
IMMINENT EXPOSURE. REQUEST EXFILTRATION.
The moment he hit send, an indescribable weariness crashed over him. Yun Che slumped back heavily into his chair, eyes squeezed shut against the sting. Cold logic interrogated him: Was he a competent spy?
The answer was a resounding no. Unlike the "perfect weapons" from the Agency's training camp—those utterly brainwashed youths ready to sacrifice themselves without hesitation for the mission—Yun Che, from the core of his being, despised the very concept of sacrifice. He was life. They were life. Why should he be crushed beneath the indifferent gears of massive state machines, mere fodder to be expended?
He admitted his impurity. From the moment he was plucked from the orphanage at thirteen and hurled into the brutal crucible called "Project Fledgling," while comrades around him transformed into fervent, death-seeking disciples, a voice deep within him screamed rebellion. Why? Why should he be ground to dust for this colossal machine of nations? He only wanted to live. To seize even the faintest glimmer of hope, to claw his way out of hell and back to the world of the living!
Five years. Five endless years spent treading on thin ice, dancing on the edge of knives, all under the predatory gaze of the Demon King Ye Jin. The classified files recorded thirty-two successful transmissions of priceless intelligence. He remembered the exact number precisely because each piece of data sent was accompanied by cold sweat soaking his shirt, heartbeats skipping in panic—a death-defying tightrope walk performed under the scythe of the Reaper. His nerves were perpetually drawn taut as overstretched wire, ready to snap at any moment. The slightest error, the merest flicker of suspicion, could have plunged him into irrevocable damnation, burying him without a trace.
Enough. He had done enough. He had lived up to his initial promise, justified the resources poured into him. But loyalty and duty were not the sole meaning of his existence. This was just… hazardous work performed at the cost of his life. He didn't want to "die in the line of duty," at least not within this frigid, demonic stronghold. While Ye Jin still seemed to harbor a shred of doubt (or perhaps only the cruel patience of a cat toying with its mouse), while there was still a fleeting chance… he had to seize it!
Yun Che pushed himself up, walked to the corner bar, and carelessly poured a half-glass of deep, blood-red premium wine. The expensive liquid sloshed with dark crimson light in the cut crystal glass, yet its value was utterly meaningless to him. He didn't even bother to savor its fruity bouquet. Tipping his head back, he swallowed the contents in a single gulp, like taking bitter medicine.
The spirits burned a path down his throat, offering a momentary, deceptive warmth, followed by profound exhaustion. For five years, this cup had been his cheap crutch—his mind stretched too long as a taut bowstring, unable to sink into even a moment of unguarded, deep sleep without alcohol's numbing embrace.
The effects rose swiftly, a warm fog clouding his thoughts. Yun Che kicked off his slippers, stumbled toward the bathroom, and let the cold water stream wash over his exhausted body. Pulling on soft pajamas, he collapsed onto the large, comfortable, yet utterly cold bed.
Darkness descended like a gentle net, slowly enveloping his frayed senses.
As consciousness slipped away, he whispered into the void, a bleak confirmation:
"Must… get out…"