“F*** you…”
Li Jian tried to get up, but Duan Yan grabbed him by the neck and slammed him against the wall.
His fingers tightened, and Li Jian’s face turned red from suffocation.
“Say that again.”
Duan Yan’s voice was calm—no emotion in it at all.
But Li Jian saw something in his eyes.
Something cold to the bone, like he was looking at a dead object.
His straight brows were pressed low, eye sockets deep-set. Shadows sank into them, making those eyes look even darker.
He just stared at Li Jian so calmly, like he was looking at something completely insignificant.
Li Jian was terrified and shook his head desperately.
Duan Yan let go. Li Jian collapsed to the ground, gasping for air.
“Why are you suddenly saying this to me?”
Duan Yan crouched down and met him at eye level.
Li Jian coughed, not daring to speak.
Duan Yan grabbed his throat again, his fingers digging into the flesh.
“I asked you a question.”
“I… I just…” Li Jian stammered, “I was just talking nonsense…”
“Did you go find my girlfriend?”
Duan Yan’s tone was still calm, as if he were asking about the weather.
Li Jian clenched his teeth and said nothing.
Duan Yan released his chin, then grabbed his throat again.
“Speak.”
Li Jian’s face turned purple; his eyes were about to bulge out.
He slapped at Duan Yan’s hand, making broken choking sounds.
Duan Yan loosened slightly, and Li Jian coughed violently.
“A… a few days ago…” Li Jian clutched his throat, his voice hoarse. “I… I was drunk… I knocked on her door…”
Duan Yan stood up and looked down at him.
Li Jian raised his head and met his eyes.
No anger. No emotion. Only coldness.
“If you dare harass her again,” Duan Yan said softly, “I’ll make sure you can’t stay in Beijing.”
Li Jian tried to say something, but Duan Yan kicked him hard in the ribs.
The impact made Li Jian curl up in pain, letting out a muffled groan.
Duan Yan turned around, picked up his toolbox, and climbed back up the ladder.
The whole thing took less than two minutes.
On the ground, Li Jian lay there, not daring to move.
Duan Yan tightened the lamp cover. The motion-activated light turned on.
A dim yellow light filled the corridor.
She was hit in the face, but his expression stayed calm—like nothing had happened.
He put away his tools, climbed down the ladder, and walked past Li Jian.
His footsteps gradually faded down the corridor.
Only after a long while did Li Jian finally tremble and force himself to his feet.
…
When Duan Yan returned to the room, Rong Jiqiao was cooking in the kitchen.
Hearing the door, she poked her head out.
“You’re back?”
Duan Yan changed his shoes. “Mm.”
Rong Jiqiao looked at his hand. “Why is your hand red?”
Duan Yan raised it and glanced at it. The knuckles were slightly scraped.
“It’s nothing. I bumped it.”
He walked into the bathroom and turned on the faucet.
Cold water ran over his hand.
The water washed away the blood, revealing the swelling underneath.
It wasn’t serious. It would heal in a few days.
Duan Yan turned off the faucet and dried his hand with a towel.
In the mirror, his expression was calm, his eyes undisturbed.
As if the one who had just beaten someone wasn’t him.
Rong Jiqiao brought over a bowl of hot soup. “Drink this, I just made it.”
Duan Yan took it and lowered his head to drink.
The soup was hot—so hot it numbed his tongue.
He finished it slowly, then set the bowl down.
“It’s good.”
Rong Jiqiao smiled. “Then I’ll make more next time.”
Duan Yan looked at her, the coldness in his eyes slowly fading.
“Mm.”
…
In the following days, Rong Jiqiao noticed that Li Jian had changed.
He used to “accidentally” run into her in the stairwell and greet her with a smile.
Now, every time he saw her, he turned and walked away.
Once, when she met him at the stair landing, he even retreated immediately and only came out after she left.
Rong Jiqiao found it strange, but also felt relieved.
At least she didn’t have to be on edge anymore.
She assumed Li Jian had been scared by the police and wouldn’t cause trouble again.
On the weekend, she went grocery shopping.
On her way back, she saw Li Jian downstairs smoking.
His face was bruised in several places, and there was still faint swelling at the corners of his mouth.
She paused.
When Li Jian saw her, his hand jerked, and he immediately turned away.
His walking looked slightly off, as if he was injured somewhere.
Rong Jiqiao stood still, watching his back.
Had this guy been beaten?
She went back home and put the groceries in the fridge.
Duan Yan was sitting on the sofa scrolling on his phone, not even looking up.
“What did you buy?”
“Ribs, and some greens.” Rong Jiqiao sat down next to him. “I just saw Li Jian.”
Duan Yan’s fingers paused slightly. “Mm.”
“He had bruises all over his face. Looked like he got beaten up.”
Duan Yan kept looking at his phone. “Maybe he just got drunk and fell.”
Rong Jiqiao thought about it and felt that made sense.
She didn’t dwell on it and got up to cook.
Duan Yan put down his phone, lightly tapping his fingers on his knee.
The injuries on his knuckles had already scabbed over; in a few days, they would heal.
He stood up and leaned against the kitchen doorway, watching her.
“What do you want to eat tonight?”
“Anything.” Duan Yan said. “Whatever you cook, I’ll eat.”
Rong Jiqiao turned to look at him and smiled.
“Then I’ll make more. You’ve gotten thinner recently.”
Duan Yan didn’t answer, just kept looking at her.
The kitchen light fell on her face, outlining it softly and clearly.
Rong Jiqiao’s features were delicate—slightly upturned almond eyes, a natural hint of charm at the corners, yet made gentle and clean by her simple appearance. Her eyelashes weren’t especially thick, but each one was distinct, casting faint shadows on her eyelids.
Her hair was casually tied into a low ponytail, with a few loose strands falling along her cheeks, swaying slightly as she cut the vegetables. She wore loose loungewear, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, revealing a pale forearm.
The kitchen exhaust hummed steadily. Outside, Beijing’s night traffic roared on, but all that noise felt separated by a thin layer of glass. Only the rhythmic “thud thud” of the knife on the cutting board remained—clear and steady.
Duan Yan leaned against the doorframe, his gaze fixed on her profile, unmoving.
He suddenly thought of what Li Jian had said.
You’re just a security guard—can you even afford to support her?
Duan Yan’s eyes darkened.
He pressed his lips together and turned back to the sofa.
His phone buzzed. A message from the property manager.
“Xiao Duan, can you work more shifts next week? Paid hourly.”
Duan Yan replied: “Okay.”
He stared at the word for a few seconds, his finger still resting on the screen.
This little bit of money wasn’t enough to give Rong Jiqiao the life she wanted.
Far from enough.