When Shu Yao opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the ceiling—white marble veined with silver, reflecting the soft light from the chandelier. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. The air was scented faintly with cedar and something colder—like the ghost of smoke.
His head throbbed. Every pulse behind his temples felt like a hammer against bone.
Slowly, he sat up. The fur coat that had been draped over him slid down the couch, pooling on the velvet floor. Its warmth felt foreign, like a kindness he hadn't earned.
Then memory came rushing in—Bai Qi's voice, sharp as broken glass; George's hand, the slap; the unbearable weight of words that still burned like iron against his ribs.
Shu Yao's breath caught. He looked at his hand—bandaged. The faint scent of antiseptic lingered.
Someone had tended to him. Someone had cared—briefly.
And yet, the room was empty.
He rose unsteadily, his vision wavering. The world tilted, and he pressed a hand to the wall until the dizziness passed. His coat lay neatly folded on the couch. He picked it up, fingers brushing the fabric as though it belonged to another man entirely.
He slipped it on, buttoned it halfway, and moved toward the door. He needed to leave—before anyone saw how much of him had already been broken.
The words Bai Qi had spoken still echoed in his mind—"Since you wished for someone else's warmth, now you'll live under my cold world."
It hurt more than the fever. More than the slap.
Because it was Bai Qi.
Because even now, he couldn't hate him.
Whatever Bai Qi did, whatever cruelty he carved into him—it was all born of pain. Shu Yao understood that too well.
He just wished he didn't.
He stepped into the corridor. His legs felt weak, and his breath was shallow. The long hallway stretched ahead, the light shifting across the glass walls in liquid gold.
He reached the elevator. His hand hovered over the button—but before he could press it, the doors slid open.
Bai Qi stood there.
His presence filled the space like a storm about to break. He didn't speak. His gaze, unreadable and heavy, locked onto Shu Yao.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Shu Yao bowed slightly, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Excuse me, sir."
His tone was polite. Distant. Mechanical.
Bai Qi's hand shot out, catching Shu Yao by the elbow. The touch was electric—pain and memory colliding. Shu Yao flinched.
"Sir—"
Before the rest of the word left his mouth, he was pulled forward. Bai Qi yanked him out of the elevator, down the hall, and into his office. The door slammed shut behind them with a sound that sliced through the silence.
Shu Yao stumbled. His back hit the glass wall. His palms flattened behind him, cold glass biting through his skin.
Bai Qi stood close—too close—his hand slamming against the wall beside Shu Yao's head. The air between them trembled.
"Why," Bai Qi said, his voice low, raw, "did you step between me?"
Shu Yao swallowed, eyes lowering. His throat felt tight.
"It wasn't your fault," he said quietly. "Nor Mr. George's."
His voice shook, but the words were steady.
Bai Qi's jaw tightened. His breath came uneven, almost trembling with something he refused to name.
"Look at me."
Shu Yao hesitated. Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze.
Bai Qi's eyes were… different. Beneath the fury, there was something else—something fragile and unbearable.
He reached for Shu Yao's injured hand. His fingers brushed the bandage, tracing the rough edge gently, almost tenderly.
"Does it hurt?"
The question was soft. So soft it sounded false. Or maybe it was mercy wearing a mask.
Shu Yao stared at him, unable to breathe. Then he whispered, "It's okay. It wasn't your fault."
Bai Qi's lips curved—not into a smile, but into something colder.
"Mm," he murmured. "You completely fell for that."
The touch on Shu Yao's hand changed. The pressure increased—slowly, deliberately—until pain flared through the burn. Shu Yao's breath hitched. He tried to pull away, but Bai Qi didn't let him.
"You still thrive for my care, don't you?" Bai Qi said, voice trembling somewhere between venom and sorrow.
Shu Yao shook his head desperately. Tears welled at the corners of his eyes.
Then Bai Qi's other hand moved—upward—resting on Shu Yao's throat. His fingers pressed lightly at first, tracing the line of his pulse.
"Bai Qi…" Shu Yao whispered.
"Why didn't you die that night?"
The words hit harder than the grip.
Shu Yao froze. His lips parted, but nothing came out.
"Why couldn't you protect her?" Bai Qi's voice cracked. The fury was gone. Only grief remained—grief and something far more dangerous. "If you had died that night, maybe I wouldn't this maniac."
Shu Yao's tears slipped silently down. His mind screamed—I tried—but his mouth couldn't form it.
"It would've been better if you died," Bai Qi said, his teeth gritting as if the words tore through him. "Better than this—better than watching you walk around with her memory."
His hand tightened.
Shu Yao gasped. His lungs clawed for air, his vision darkening around the edges. But still—he didn't fight back.
If this was what Bai Qi needed to breathe again, then so be it.
His hands rose weakly, gripping Bai Qi's wrists—not to stop him, but to steady himself. His lips quivered.
"If… this will make you happy," he rasped, voice shredded. "Then… do it."
Bai Qi's expression shattered. For a heartbeat, he looked like a man lost inside his own ruin.
But then Qing Yue's face flashed before his eyes—her serene smile, her last smile beneath the rain—and something inside him broke completely.
"You don't deserve to live," he whispered.
He pressed harder.
Shu Yao's breath fractured. His vision swam. Tears streaked down his pale face as his body trembled. Yet even in that moment—his gaze on Bai Qi was soft. Almost forgiving.
And that forgiveness destroyed him.
Bai Qi's grip faltered. His hand trembled violently, veins standing against his skin. He released the pressure just as Shu Yao coughed—a violent, broken sound that echoed off the glass.
He bent forward, clutching his throat, gasping for air.
Bai Qi stumbled back a step, eyes wide, his chest heaving as though he were the one suffocating.
The silence that followed was unbearable.
For a moment, none of them moved.
Bai Qi's gaze dropped to his own hands—still shaking, still warm from the pulse he had nearly silenced.
He whispered, almost to himself,
"I don't even know who I am anymore."
Shu Yao lifted his head weakly, eyes red and glistening. His lips parted, voice hoarse but tender.
"For me,You're still… Bai qi she loved."
Bai Qi's breath caught. His throat worked, but no sound came out.
Bai Qi turned away. His reflection stared back from the glass wall—beautiful, monstrous, and breaking apart, Then he barked.
"Get the hell out of here!"
Bai Qi's voice cracked through the air like a whip.
Shu Yao flinched hard, every nerve recoiling. His throat burned; his chest rose and fell too fast. The lines of Bai Qi's fingers were still branded into his skin—faint crimson crescents that throbbed with each breath.
For a moment, he just stood there, the world narrowing to the sound of his own pulse.
He didn't look up. Didn't dare.
He only whispered, voice trembling and hoarse,
"Excuse me… sir."
And then he turned, his steps quiet, almost soundless, as he walked toward the door.
Behind him, Bai Qi said nothing more. The fury in his tone had already begun to splinter into something quieter, something dangerously worse.
Behind him, Bai Qi remained motionless. His gaze had fallen to his own hands—those same hands that once traced warmth along a lover's jaw, that once knew how to hold and not to destroy.
Now they trembled.
He was slowly becoming the very thing he'd vowed he'd never be.
Outside, Shu Yao walked down the corridor, unsteady, each step swaying slightly as though the ground might give way beneath him.
He pressed a palm to his throat. It ached with each swallow, but the ache in his chest was worse.
He reached the elevator, his vision shimmering. The doors slid open and closed, a soft mechanical sigh. Inside the mirrored walls, his reflection looked foreign—a boy with tear-streaked cheeks and eyes that refused to stop glistening.
He didn't care anymore.
He leaned against the cold metal wall, resting his forehead there. The chill soothed the fever still humming behind his skull. Tears kept falling, quietly, almost peacefully.
By the time the elevator reached the middle floor, his knees felt weak.
The doors opened with a soft chime.
He stepped out.
The office floor was silent. The hum of the air conditioner—a sound that had placed this morning was silent. Just as he opened his office door, there was only stillness.
No hum. No cold air. Only the weight of his own breath.
He frowned faintly. The air-conditioning unit above his desk was dark. Off.
A flicker of realization crossed his mind—Bai Qi. He was the one in the elevator before him. He must have turned it off.
For reasons Shu Yao didn't want to understand.
He stood there in the warm quiet, his tears blurring everything. Then, almost without meaning to, he whispered,
"If you hate me this much… then why stop this? Wasn't this… wasn't this was my punishment?"
The words broke in half as he sobbed. His body wasn't built to hold so much grief. The fever still lingered, his lungs burning, but still—he cried.
His shoulders shook silently. He pressed a hand against his mouth to stifle the sound.
Then—
The door burst open.
"Shu Yao Are You There__!"
The voice was sharp, desperate.
He flinched so hard it hurt. His head snapped up.
George stood there, chest heaving, hair slightly disheveled. He looked as though he had run the length of the entire building.
He had.
When he'd opened the executive room and found it empty, panic had ripped through him. He'd searched every floor, every corridor. And now—
"God in heaven…" George exhaled, his voice shaking with relief.
But the sight before him stopped him cold.
Shu Yao was standing by the desk, his hand pressed to his mouth, tears streaming down from his face. His body looked fragile, almost translucent in the golden light spilling through the blinds.
"Shu Yao," George whispered, stepping closer. "What happened? Does anything hurt?"
Shu Yao shook his head quickly, too quickly, as if denying pain could erase it.
George hesitated, uncertain how to reach him. He had never been good with softness; words always sounded too sharp when he spoke them.
Shu Yao moved first.
He took a step forward, then another—until the distance between them vanished. His voice trembled, breaking as it spilled out.
"It was my fault. If I hadn't gone out that night—none of it would've happened. None of it."
George blinked, stunned. "What are you talking about?"
But Shu Yao wasn't really hearing him. His memories had already dragged him somewhere far away—back to that rain-soaked night, the single gunshot, the scene that never left his mind.
He pressed his forehead against George's chest. The contact startled both of them.
George froze. Shu Yao was so small against him, trembling like something fragile in a storm.
For a long heartbeat, George didn't move. His hands hung awkwardly at his sides, as if afraid that even breathing wrong might break the boy in front of him.
Shu Yao's sobs came softly, muffled against the fabric of George's vest. The sound hit George harder than any argument ever could.
Finally—slowly—he let out a breath and raised his arms. He wrapped them around Shu Yao's narrow back, tentative at first, then firmly. His palms moved gently, one over the other, tracing slow circles.
"Stop crying, Shu Yao," he murmured. "I'm sorry… for what I did earlier."
Shu Yao shook his head against him. His tears kept falling, quiet, relentless. It was the cry of someone who had lost his home—and feared he would never find it again.
George's expression softened into something both sorrowful and strangely beautiful.
He spoke low, the words rumbling through his chest. "It wasn't your fault. Bai Qi hasn't seen the truth yet. He's still—too young. Still blinded by grief. But once he realized the truth, he'll be sorry too."
Shu Yao's breathing hitched. His hand gripped George's shirt weakly.
"Don't cry anymore," George said again. "Your body can't take it. You need rest."
But Shu Yao pulled back slightly, enough to look up at him. His eyes were red, his lashes damp, his voice trembling as he whispered,
"I… I couldn't bear to see him in pain."
The words stopped George completely.
He looked down at Shu Yao, startled by the honesty in his face—the pure, ruinous devotion there.
"He doesn't deserve your kindness," George said softly. "Not after—" He stopped himself, swallowing hard. "What he done earlier."
Shu Yao's tears broke free again. This time, George didn't hesitate. He drew him close once more, wrapping him fully in his arms.
"Please shu Yao," he said, voice gentler than it had ever been. "It's all right, stop crying."
The boy's shoulders shook against him, and George tightened his hold.
Outside, the city kept moving—the elevators humming, papers shifting on desks, time rolling forward as if nothing had happened.
But in that small office, time stood still.
A boy who had been too cruel was now breaking in silence a floor above.
A boy who had been too gentle was learning that love could wound deeper than hate.
And the only witness between them — was George—stood in the middle, holding the fragments of two broken hearts.
"Hush now, Shu Yao," George murmured, almost to himself. His hand stayed at the back of the boy's back, steady and sure. "You've done enough… far more than anyone ever should."
Shu Yao, eyes half-closed, breathing ragged but slower now.
George kept his arms around him until the tremors eased, until the boy's weight felt just a little less heavy.