The night stretched thin and bitter. Zhou Peng's breakdown had unraveled into something ugly—he stripped Fang Yuqing in a fever of humiliation and rage, heedless of the –60°C air that bit their skin. She lay there, limp and hollow-eyed, too weak to fight. In his delirium, Zhou Peng tried to force what he no longer had the strength for. The cold and exhaustion had taken more from him than pride; he couldn't perform. When his body betrayed him, humiliation curdled into fury.
"Get up! Get up!" he screamed, a sound that cracked the room like an animal's last roar. Fang Yuqing only sneered, voice thin: "You're useless." The apartment echoed with Zhou Peng's frantic, collapsing cries—desperation louder than any plea.
After a long, sleepless day, Zhou Ke'er finally made her decision. The test Zhang Yi had given her was a hard one, but refusal meant staying a pawn to Chen Zhenghao—or worse. She was a doctor; she still had ethics. But the world had changed. Morality alone would not keep her alive.
That night, when Chen Zhenghao and his men sat down to their grim meal, Zhou Ke'er rose and offered to help with the cooking. Chen Zhenghao smiled cruelly. "See? You broke—anyone would with two days without food," he said. He accepted her presence as proof of his power. She kept her face calm, choked by the stink in the tiny kitchen and the taste of fear.
As the men ate, Zhou Ke'er did what she could to blend in. She busied herself with the pots, pretending to move water and stir broth while her hands trembled. When an underling left the stove unattended, she slipped a small bottle from her sleeve, poured a measured amount of sleeping tablets into the pot, and stirred until she felt her heart pound.
Thirty minutes after the food was served, one by one the thugs slumped. Eyes closed, heads nodded, breathing slowed—the pills had done their work. Zhou Ke'er moved quickly but quietly, checking pulses, ensuring the men were merely unconscious. Her skin crawled as she dragged a limp arm here, a heavy shoulder there; fear sat heavy in her throat.
She messaged Zhang Yi: "They're out. I drugged them."
His reply was a single, clinical line: "Drag them to the balcony."
The cold hit her like reality as she stepped out into the stairwell with her burden. Every movement a gamble; every creak might wake them. She hauled the unconscious bodies to the ledge, one after another, and left them there in the snow like discarded luggage. Each thud against the frozen concrete made her stomach drop, but she kept going. Survival required a certain cruelty, she told herself—an ugly arithmetic that had no place for sentiment.
Back inside, Zhang Yi prepared. He donned his heavy cold suit, checked his ropes, slung a loaded crossbow over his shoulder, and readied a pistol—safety off. He had opened the three locks on the floor-to-ceiling window for the first time since the storm, and the frame hummed in the bitter wind.
Zhou Ke'er stood at the panes, shivering, and whispered, "Are you really going to—?"
Zhang Yi's grin was flat. "Not me," he said, flinging the coil of rope at her feet. "You are."
She swallowed, the weight of what she'd done and what she was about to do settling on her like ice. There was no honor left in hesitation. If she wanted to live, she would have to cross the line she'd sworn never to touch—and in that crossing, she'd secure a precarious place beside a man who measured loyalty in usefulness.
Outside, the night waited, cold and indifferent. Inside, Zhou Ke'er tightened her gloves and picked up the rope.