The memory hall in Li Xuan's penthouse was a sanctum carved from another era—its tall shelves, lined with leather-bound volumes, pressed close like silent witnesses to a parade of old secrets. Under the filtered morning light, the shelves seemed almost sentient, their spines whispering as if they would spill their contents out in a hush if only the wrong word were spoken. This was no mere archive; it was an altar where the weight of history pressed against the present, patient as a ghost.
Zhou Yu, wrapped in a linen robe that clung to him like a second skin, woke with the tender ache of a night survived—moonlight still vivid in the memory of his senses, the Moon Mark at the base of his neck aglow beneath the fabric. The world outside the penthouse was cleansing itself from last night's storm, but inside, the air was dense with residual tension. Raindrops on the windows hummed softly in the quiet, as if the weather itself remembered every shiver, every touch, every broken plea.
Li Xuan sat at the far end of the hall, framed by books and shadows. Eyes closed, posture disciplined, he looked less like an apex predator and more like a scholar, yet the air was thick with his scent—a blend of Crimson Frost and steely resolve. Cameras, half-hidden, blinked quietly, capturing the subtleties of movement and breath that would be catalogued, analyzed, dissected later.
Zhou Yu observed him, tracing the geometry of the room the way a general mapped a battlefield. Each narrow corridor of books marked a possible strategy, a flare of temptation or danger. The past lingered, unspoken, tensing every nerve. The walls felt less protective and more imprisoning—intimate, but in a way that warned of confession and consequence.
He hesitated. Words perched at the edge of his tongue, too fragile for what he carried. Old wounds ached, shame and humiliation picked at his pride. But something softer began to grow in the corners of his mind—a memory of tenderness, of a strange safety found in unexpected hands.
Li Xuan's eyes opened, glancing over Zhou Yu with a cool gleam; not the feral dominance of a predator but the measured desire of someone who had lived too long with heavy truths. He didn't move, but the moment became tight with anticipation.
"Roused from peaceful dreams, Zhou Yu?" Li Xuan's voice was soft, coaxing, but each syllable was edged as a blade. The sound, as always, could comfort or command.
Zhou Yu answered with controlled defiance. He dragged his toe along the carpet, refusing to meet Li Xuan's gaze. "Roused from what, exactly—a nightmare or a memory you've dressed up as a wedding?"
A slow, nearly invisible smile tugged at Li Xuan's mouth. "Better question: which memory would you rather forget?"
For a moment, it seemed as though the doors of the memory hall closed of their own accord, sealing the two men in an arena where time collapsed, where old pains and new desires could no longer be separated.
Zhou Yu trembled, recalling the night before—Li Xuan's touch as both judge and savior, the shudder that ran through his own body when he realized how far he might fall. The soft ache in his neck, still glowing with the Moon Mark, reminded him of everything unsaid. Pride warred with vulnerability; exhaustion tangled with the allure of surrender.
Li Xuan watched with the care of a surgeon observing a patient's pain: every movement, every sound, every breath was a data point, another variable in this ongoing experiment. The room wasn't silent so much as swollen with ghosts, as though the shelves themselves might speak.
A shift, then—the memory flickered, reality giving way to recollection. Zhou Yu was again the ambitious student in a university auditorium, his voice echoing through the cavernous space as he demonstrated a pheromone experiment. He had been nervous, cocky, too certain of his own place. The faces in the crowd blurred, but Li Xuan's memory stood out—shoulder squared, eyes unreadable, wounded by Zhou Yu's careless joke about fate and scent.
Zhou Yu had never realized the depth of Li Xuan's embarrassment, nor the raw nerve he'd touched in front of an audience quick to judge. In hindsight, he saw the minor misstep for what it became—a fissure that grew into a great divide: Li Xuan, ever cautious, ever private, scarred by being forced to perform in public and branded by the judgment of others. Zhou Yu's obliviousness had driven the wedge still deeper.
The regret was sharp and present. Now, as a man bruised by loss and ambition, Zhou Yu recognized his own part in Li Xuan's mistrust. The contract between them was no longer just business. It was a stage for old wounds to play out, for power and humiliation to tangle until neither could be sure which was which.
Zhou Yu watched Li Xuan carefully: the meticulous way he straightened a thread on Zhou Yu's garment, the careful modulation of his words, the precise timing of every touch and command. All of it was a script, a play in which both had underestimated the depth of their own roles. The bond, as real and rare as the contract, had become something else—a vessel for holding pain and, perhaps, for holding a second chance.
But there were cracks. Zhou Yu saw them now—moments where Li Xuan's jaw tightened not in fury but in hesitation, where his eyes softened at the mention of Zhou Yu's lost prospects. When Zhou Yu's fear flared, Li Xuan would pause longer than necessary, as if tempted to reach out in comfort rather than in command.
Publicly, their dance was perfect—the stoic CEO, the poised omega. In the privacy of the library, the masks slipped. The shelves enclosed them, lights low and soft. Their pheromones rose in light threads, silver and crimson weaving, the air dense with longing and suspicion.
They traded careful words beneath the glow:
"You're playing a long game, aren't you?" Zhou Yu asked, mocking and wary, his gaze daring.
Li Xuan's answer was calm, almost bored: "Patience is a necessary skill when you're gambling with lives. Yours included."
A brief flash of frustration. "And if I break the rules?"
He didn't blink. "Then you'll learn just how enforceable the boundary can be."
It was a prelude to battle, a marking of territory not only in words but in scent and glance and the subtle shift of weight from foot to foot. The room vibrated with the knowledge that neither could quite keep to their roles.
The nature of their bond grew quietly between them; it was not an explosion, not a cataclysmic event, but a slow, unwinding revelation. Zhou Yu felt it in the tremor when Li Xuan touched him unexpectedly, in the strange softness that sometimes replaced steel in Li Xuan's grip. These were moments when past pain started to lose its teeth, replaced not by forgiveness, but by wary curiosity.
Shared memories haunted them, urging them to remember not just the wars they had fought, but the moments they had reached out—accidentally, instinctively—to protect. Zhou Yu remembered once, years before, when Li Xuan's arm had steadied him during a public humiliation. That memory was still there, like a line of gold through the darkness.
Bonded nerves sang with each glance, each accidental collision of hands. The world outside faded, leaving only the pulse of breath and the urgent promise that maybe—not today, not tomorrow, but one day—neither would have to play the part alone.
The spell was broken by a shimmer of blue light—an encrypted message intercept crackled to life. The penthouse's security screen blinked with coded warning: a rival Alpha was watching, and he was not fooled by their performance.
Li Xuan tensed, voice dropping to a low growl. "If anyone discovers this bond… it could ruin everything we've built."
But Zhou Yu was done with passivity. His laugh was bitter. "And yet, you chose to chain me anyway."
The truth was a live current between them, dangerous and compelling. The real threat was no longer each other. It was the world just outside, claws poised and ready to strike at the smallest sign of weakness.A hush stole back into the library as the distant storm rumbled, no longer outside but inside, in the tight space between two men teetering on the edge of something irrevocable.Zhou Yu's gaze met Li Xuan's—a silent agreement that whatever came next, their control, their perfect facade, could shatter at any moment. The memory hall's quiet was now suffused not with comfort, but with the awareness that both were seen, both were exposed, and the storm outside was nothing compared to what had taken root between them.And for the first time, both understood how easily everything could collapse.