Night.
He Qian emerged from the bathroom, droplets of water clinging to the stray hairs on his forehead. Sitting alone on the sofa, he began cramming oranges into his mouth with desperate intensity.
It was a retaliatory act bordering on self-harm, yet it was the only method He Qian could devise to escape the constant surveillance. He had a place he needed to go and someone he had to see. He ate until he felt like vomiting, but he did not stop.
Soon, the oranges were gone. With a chilled stomach and a pallid face, he returned to his room and lay down. As he reached to turn off the light, his gaze was drawn to the cigarette pack on the nightstand. It belonged to Zhou Xuying, a man who loved to smoke.
He Qian switched off the light.
Morning.
A servant knocked on He Qian’s door with breakfast but was promptly driven away. He Qian claimed he had no appetite. He did not want to eat anything at all today. The servant returned several times, even relaying Zhou Xuying’s specific instructions, but received no response.
Half an hour later, as expected, He Qian’s phone rang. It was Zhou Xuying.
Cold sweat drenched He Qian’s brow. The cramping in his stomach was so severe that he rolled across the bed in agony. He answered the call, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
“Grown capable now, have we? Hmm?” Zhou Xuying’s breathing on the other end was slightly ragged, and his dissatisfaction with He Qian had reached a boiling point.
He Qian’s thin lips trembled. “I, I am in pain.”
“What?” Zhou Xuying’s voice tightened instantly. “Where does it hurt?”
“Zhou, Zhou Xuying, it hurts so much.”
“He Qian!” Zhou Xuying’s voice was hoarse, and the syllables were laced with a distinct tremor.
Not long after the call ended, the bedroom door was thrown open. The servant assisted the housekeeper in rushing a near-unconscious He Qian to the hospital.
It was acute gastroenteritis. He Qian’s stomach had been chilled, and he was running a high fever with incessant vomiting, all consequences of the oranges from the night before. After taking medication, he lay weakly in the hospital bed, receiving an intravenous drip to bring down his fever.
“Mr. He, the Young Master is already on a plane heading back.”
“Mhm.” He Qian gave a faint, weak response.
Suddenly, his stomach churned. He scrambled out of bed and stumbled into the restroom to retch. The housekeeper stood guard at the door.
“Mr. He, are you alright?”
“I am fine. I will feel better if I crouch here for a bit.”
The housekeeper was about to say more when his phone rang. Glancing at the screen, he stepped away to take the call. Hearing the housekeeper’s voice fade into the distance, He Qian frowned and stood up. He rinsed his mouth at the sink, threw on his coat, and slipped out of the restroom behind a woman leading a child.
He went unnoticed.
Once out of the hospital, He Qian walked nearly a kilometer, feeling as though he was on the verge of dehydration. Finally, he turned into a small alley and stopped before the door of No. 37 Chang’an Lane.
Looking at the locked door, He Qian’s hands shook slightly. He did not knock. Instead, he circled the building to a window. Peering through the iron mesh screen, he looked at the person inside.
Sitting on the sofa was a sixteen-year-old girl with hollow eyes, her body connected to various tubes. She was the victim from six years ago, Xia Tian.
He Qian’s heart felt as though it were being scraped by a blade. He trembled with agonizing pain. Xia Tian was the daughter of a street vendor at his primary school entrance, a girl who had been gentle and sensible. He Qian had never believed the media’s narrative. He had once begged his family for help, wanting to fight the legal battle for her, but he had failed.
First, there was insufficient evidence. Second, Xia Tian’s mental state had deteriorated, making her testimony questionable from a legal standpoint. Third, the principal involved held significant power and status.
At thirteen, He Qian had been too young and powerless to help her. He had decided to study law precisely because he never wanted to experience that helpless incompetence again. Yet, at nineteen, he could not even save himself, let alone the girl inside that room.
He watched from a distance for a while. Just as he turned to leave, he ran into a haggard man, Xia Tianming, Xia Tian’s father.
“You, who are you!” Xia Tianming dropped the groceries he had just bought and snatched up a nearby wooden stick, his face full of suspicion.
“Uncle, I mean no harm. I,” He Qian tried to explain, but Xia Tianming had heard such words too many times over the last six years. He wanted to hear no more. His eyes, bloodshot and weary, cut him off: “It has been so many years! What more do you people want!”
His wife was gone, his daughter was mindless, his reputation was ruined, and he had been doxxed. Years of suppressed emotion surged at once. Xia Tianming’s fists shook with rage as he swung the wooden stick directly at He Qian.
It was the fury of a father. He Qian could not dodge in time and took two solid hits to his upper right arm. Cold sweat broke out on his forehead, and his face turned deathly pale. His stomach seized with another bout of nausea and sharp pain. His slender frame swayed unsteadily in the golden morning light.
As He Qian’s vision began to blur and he prepared to collapse, a pair of warm hands caught him by the waist, circling him firmly. The scent of nicotine enveloped him, thick with tension. A long, straight leg kicked out without hesitation, sending Xia Tianming sprawling to the ground.
With what remained of his consciousness, He Qian grabbed Zhou Xuying’s wrist. “Don’t, don’t.”
Then, He Qian blacked out.
Zhou Xuying lifted He Qian in a bridal carry. Fresh blood seeped from his own wrist, staining his bandages crimson. Under the sunlight, his sharp features were etched with an endless chill.
When He Qian opened his eyes again, he was back at the Zhou residence. Zhou Xuying sat by the bed, his brow furrowed, and his sharp profile was cold and handsome under the incandescent light. He reached out to help He Qian sit up.
Still disoriented, He Qian’s pupils caught a flash of deep red. Instinctively, he raised his hand to block it. His fingertips came away wet with blood.
As his vision cleared, a bowl of steaming porridge was held to his lips. Zhou Xuying’s jaw was set tight, and his expression simmered with suppressed rage. To him, He Qian’s disappearance was classified as an escape.
This time, Zhou Xuying was thoroughly incensed.
He Qian looked down at the warm porridge and reached out to take it from Zhou Xuying’s hand, but his arm throbbed painfully, and his entire body felt weak and limp. He could not even lift his hand.
“I don’t want to drink it,” He Qian said defiantly.
“He Qian, did I not warn you? If you ran again, I would punish you!” Zhou Xuying’s voice was bone-chillingly cold.
He Qian gave no answer.
The only response was endless silence. Zhou Xuying’s hand trembled as he gripped the spoon, stirring the porridge with a sharp, suffocating clatter against the porcelain.
The next second, a loud crash echoed.
In a fit of rage, Zhou Xuying hurled the bowl down. Porcelain shattered, and hot porridge splattered across the floor, some flecking his suit trousers. He Qian’s eyelashes fluttered in fear, and the corners of his eyes reddened.
Zhou Xuying walked out with downcast eyes, lighting a cigarette as he left the room. He summoned the housekeeper to bring more porridge to He Qian.
When the housekeeper went in to feed him, He Qian showed no great emotional fluctuation. He simply drank the porridge in silence, appearing exceptionally submissive. When the housekeeper emerged, Zhou Xuying glanced over. Seeing the empty bowl, his heart felt as though it had been pricked.
After finishing the porridge, He Qian regained some strength. He wanted to get up and bathe, but as he pulled back the covers, he saw the bloodstains on his fingertips. That flash of red from his delirium was blood.
Was it Zhou Xuying’s blood?
He Qian walked out of the room and saw the living room filled with smoke. Zhou Xuying sat alone on the sofa, unwrapping his bandages. The strips taken from his wrist were a startling, vivid red.
As Zhou Xuying turned his slender, prominent wrist bone, the swollen, festering wound came into view. It was gruesome. Zhou Xuying calmly placed a new dressing over the wound, expertly wrapped it with a fresh bandage, bit one end to hold it, and clipped the other with scissors. His movements were fluid.
Zhou Xuying looked up.
When their eyes met, the coldness in Zhou Xuying’s gaze was like midwinter snow, filling the quiet villa. It was a coldness that made one shiver. He Qian ignored the frost and looked away.
Zhou Xuying strode over on his long legs, hoisted He Qian onto his shoulder, and began heading toward the bedroom. Detecting the scent of alcohol on Zhou Xuying, He Qian panicked.
“Zhou Xuying! Stop, I want to bathe! I want to take a bath!” He Qian’s voice trembled slightly.
Zhou Xuying paused, then turned toward the bathroom. He set He Qian down, locked the bathroom door behind them, and pulled off his tie with one hand.
He Qian gasped. Zhou Xuying arched an eyebrow. “Wash.”
“I want to wash alone.”
Zhou Xuying did not move.
“Zhou Xuying, my stomach hurts right now.”
“I won’t hit your stomach.”
“Zhou Xuying, f*ck you!” He Qian spat out the curse.
The refined young master’s cursing was particularly intense, stripping away the layers of his cultivated upbringing. The crude words made one want to hear more. Especially since He Qian had grown up in Beijing, his speech carried a distinct Beijing accent, which made the cursing sound even sharper and more chaotic.
In Zhou Xuying’s eyes, a surge of excitement flickered, impossible to suppress.