On a snowy night, Nanyuan City was blanketed in white.
Inside a dim room, incense smoke curled faintly upward.
The air in the room was thick, sticky, and humid, broken only by the sound of suppressed breathing, stretching out into the deepest haze of dusk.
Song Qingtang was pressed against the vanity table, the corners of her eyes flushed red.
Her pink lips parted slightly, her nearly breathtaking face tinged with a hard-to-bear blush. Behind her was the cold mirror; in front of her, the scorching body of a man.
She had nowhere to escape, and a barely restrained whimper slipped from her throat.
Her hands pressed against the man’s shoulders, pushing hard.
“You said you wouldn’t touch me…”
Her voice trembled slightly, carrying a wronged, tearful tone.
The atmosphere was intimate and languid, making her voice sound coquettish and soft.
The man said nothing. He simply tilted his head, lowered his neck, and pressed a burning kiss to the back of her hand, then slowly trailed upward.
Until he reached the corner of her lips.
Outside the window, snow fell slowly, the flakes fine and dense.
Occasionally a car passed by, its swaying headlights cutting through the floor-to-ceiling window, momentarily flooding the room with light as bright as day.
The man’s voice sounded by her ear.
It was hoarse, mixed with a barely restrained, ragged breath.
“Qingqing, be good. Just for a little while.”
“…”
Two months earlier.
In September, the temperature in Nanyuan City had already turned cool.
The night’s dampness settled in, and the air was laced with moisture, carrying a hint of chill.
It was already late. The streetlights were on, the roadside vendors had turned off their lights, and few pedestrians remained on the streets.
But the Zhuyue Dance Troupe’s studio at the end of the street was still brightly lit.
Inside.
Everyone had already left, leaving only Song Qingtang alone.
The computer emitted a slightly noisy sound, along with the faint click of a mouse gliding.
Song Qingtang sat in her chair, her gaze fixed on the screen, quiet and meticulous.
Without a trace of impatience.
She was editing the video footage from today’s performance.
Her hair bun was still intact, a silver hairpin holding up countless strands of dark hair, revealing a stretch of fair neck.
Her features were clean and gentle, like a handful of pure white snow atop a high peak.
Willow-leaf eyebrows, upturned eyes, skin as pale as snow, rosy lips and white teeth, with a tall and gracefully full figure.
Two years ago, she graduated from Nanyuan University with a degree in dance. At her graduation gala, a forty-second dance performance made her go viral across the internet.
Her dancing was lively, her eyes holding a pool of spring water, rippling with brilliance.
A few movements, like a fairy who had accidentally fallen into the mortal world, unforgettable to all who saw her.
Because of that opportunity, she successfully joined Nanyuan’s top-tier Zhuyue Dance Troupe and began managing her own social media account.
A gentle ringtone sounded.
Song Qingtang picked up her phone from the desk. Her fingers were slender, her skin delicate.
Like fine jade, or a perfect work of art.
It was Lin Qiaoshi calling. She answered.
“Qingqing, I saw your live performance today! It was gorgeous! When I get back, I have to see it in person!” Lin Qiaoshi’s voice was excited.
Lin Qiaoshi was on a business trip in Xiqing City and couldn’t make it back to Nanyuan to watch her perform.
Song Qingtang smiled, her tone soft. “Alright, when you’re back.”
“Qingqing, you’re not still working at this hour, are you?” Lin Qiaoshi asked.
Song Qingtang nodded. “I’m almost done. Just editing the video, I’ll head back soon.”
“Honestly, you could just leave these things to someone else. No need to do it all yourself.” Lin Qiaoshi felt a pang of concern.
Song Qingtang had always been strict with herself, never allowing a single mistake.
She strove for perfection in everything, without a moment of slack.
“I know,” Song Qingtang said, her voice gentle. “I’m not tired either. I’ll be done soon.”
“Alright then, I won’t bother you. Get home early and rest early.”
“Okay,” Song Qingtang replied.
Then she hung up.
Song Qingtang finished editing the footage, reviewed it once more, and only after confirming there were no errors did she post it on her social media platform.
She also sent it privately to the troupe’s director.
After doing all that, Song Qingtang shut down her computer and walked out.
The cold air hit her face.
The dampness in the air soaked into her body. Song Qingtang blinked, her lashes seeming to be coated with a layer of frost.
She pulled her coat tighter and walked quickly toward home.
She passed by a dead-end alley.
The light was dim, moss growing at the base of the walls. The streetlight spilled in from the edge of the wall, casting shifting shadows.
From the dark corner came a muffled groan of suppressed pain.
Then the sound of fists striking flesh—dull, one blow after another.
From the sound alone, it was clear how vicious the force was.
Song Qingtang instinctively called the police, then pulled the hairpin from her hair, gripping it in her hand. She turned on her phone’s flashlight and walked over.
The alley was quiet, with the sound of dripping water.
Damp and oppressive, the phone’s light was the only source of illumination.
Her footsteps echoed clearly through the alley.
The sound of beating stopped.
Only the pained cries and pleas for mercy remained.
Song Qingtang walked closer, the light illuminating the corner.
The moment the light fell, she saw a man.
Sitting on a stone block, his two legs propped up casually.
As if he had known she was coming all along, or as if he simply didn’t care whether she stayed or left.
His eyes were full of cold indifference and languid ease.
Black motorcycle gear, collar hanging loose, with a few traces of water dripping down his jawline.
Following the lines downward.
Black trousers, making his legs look exceptionally long. The cuffs were a bit dirty, yet there wasn’t a trace of dishevelment about him.
Phoenix eyes, upturned at the corners, pitch-black in gaze, sharp and unruly.
The glaring light shone directly at him, and he didn’t even flinch or shift aside.
He looked utterly casual, yet in the dark, dim corner, he exuded an overwhelming sense of pressure.
After a long moment, he finally tilted his head slightly.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—careless, lazy, and slightly defiant.
“Hey.” He spoke.
His voice sounded as if it had been soaked in rain.
Hushed, yet damp, carrying weight as it pressed against her ears.
“Don’t you know it’s rude to shine a flashlight at someone?”
Song Qingtang paused for a second, about to say something.
The man sprawled on the ground let out a pained wail: “Master Chuan, I wouldn’t dare again, please, let me go…”
“None of this has anything to do with me, I was just following orders…”
Jin Zhuochuan withdrew his gaze and looked down at the man at his feet.
His boot pressed against the man’s back. Hearing the words, he let out a chuckle.
He ground his heel into the spine a few times.
As if in thought.
After a while.
“That does sound about right.” Jin Zhuochuan’s tone was indifferent and casual. “Guess it really isn’t your fault.”
“Yes, yes…” The man echoed.
Jin Zhuochuan withdrew his foot.
The man thought he’d finally gotten his life back and was about to scramble up from the ground.
Jin Zhuochuan stepped on his hand.
“In that case—”
He paused. “I’ll just cripple one of your hands.”
The words fell.
A crisp crack of bone followed, then a heart-wrenching scream.
A moment later, silence.
As if he’d passed out from the pain.
Jin Zhuochuan’s expression sobered, his features turning cold and ruthless.
He stood up and looked at Song Qingtang.
The alley was narrow and dim, the air damp and stifling.
The flashlight beam trembled slightly.
His motorcycle gear was a little dirty, but he didn’t seem to care. His sharp features were cold, his gaze indifferent.
He raised a hand and peeled off the black leather glove, revealing a pair of hands with clearly defined knuckles.
Long, sharp fingers.
The black glove was tossed to the ground, stained with mud, and he stepped over it.
He walked toward Song Qingtang.
Song Qingtang’s hand behind her back gripped the hairpin tightly, while the hand holding her phone trembled slightly.
“I’ve called the police,” Song Qingtang said. “Don’t come any closer.”
Her tone was steady, and not a trace of fear showed in her eyes.
But her palms were slick with a fine layer of sweat.
Jin Zhuochuan acted as if he hadn’t heard her, continuing forward step by step without any pause.
The distance was already close.
Song Qingtang could feel the air itself thickening.
She tightened her grip on the hairpin, ready to strike.
In an instant, her wrist was seized in a vice-like grip.
His palm was hot, and as he held her wrist, the warmth seemed to seep slowly into her skin.
Song Qingtang frowned, pressing her lips together as she tried to wrench her wrist free.
The next second, the man before her forcibly pried her fingers open and took the hairpin from her hand.
He pressed it against her throat.
Song Qingtang’s breath caught. The icy tip of the hairpin touched her skin.
A faint sting.
Jin Zhuochuan stepped forward, then lowered his head and murmured by her ear: “Don’t move if you want to live.”
His voice was low, his tone slow and deep.
Speaking softly by her ear, it sounded like a lover’s whisper.
Song Qingtang froze, not daring to move.
Only then did the man pull the hairpin away from her throat, gently sliding it back into her hair.
His fingers brushed through her strands, the motion practiced and smooth.
Once the hairpin was set, he withdrew his hand.
He lowered his gaze to look at her.
The wariness in her eyes was obvious, and the fear deep within them was plain to see.
Even the corners of her eyes were slightly damp.
He curled his lips into a faint, faint smile.
“With guts this small, you still dare to play hero? Who taught you that?”
Jin Zhuochuan said.
His gaze rested on her face, dark and unreadable.
“Don’t let your kindness run so rampant. It’s foolish.”
[Babies, don’t forget to check the author’s note!]