After riding out yet another wave of headache, Lin Wan finally lost patience. She climbed out of bed and yanked open the curtains. Bright sunlight spilled in, kindly flooding the room. In the bathroom, the woman in the mirror startled her—hair a wild thicket, face so pale it had a bluish cast, heavy bruised moons beneath her eyes. Only her lips were their usual red, which now looked all wrong.
"This won't do," she muttered, shaking her head. She looped her hair into a rough bun with a rubber band, threw on a jacket, and headed downstairs.
At the neighborhood market, she drew stares—some doubtful, some pitying. No one could connect this hollow-eyed, haggard woman to the bright, quick girl she used to be. Pushing a cart through the aisles, she gnawed at one question: Why? How had they ended up like this—one stuck forever in the dark, never seeing the sun again; the other a walking corpse in broad daylight—while the ones who sinned strutted around, polished and self-righteous? Why?
She bought a pile of instant food—nutrition be damned, convenience only. She added two bottles of red wine and one of baijiu. Back home, she took a hot shower, changed into pajamas, and sat cross-legged on the sofa, pouring herself a brimming glass of red. She hadn't known she could hold her liquor. Half a bottle later, her head was still clear. She counted her fingers with both hands—ten exactly… not one more, not one less.
So she chased the wine with half a glass of white. The fiery liquor burned down her throat, making her cough and tear up; a hot coal seemed to ignite in her stomach. The raw discomfort felt perversely good—like scratching a wound.
Dizziness finally arrived. Good. She set down the glass, staggered to the bedroom, and, hands trembling, pulled a blue velvet box from a drawer. When she opened it, a pair of platinum rings—one large, one small—glowed softly in the sun, reflecting each other's light.
There's a Western saying that a ring on the little finger binds a vow of life and death. So they had chosen matching pinky bands. She took the larger one out and pressed a kiss to it with her eyes closed. Tears welled, slid over her cheeks, ran past her lips, and soaked into her collar. She sat on the floor, motionless, letting the taste of longing spread across her tongue.
It turned out to be bitter.
After a long while, she put the ring back, stared at it a moment more, then closed the box and drew the curtains tight again. Darkness reclaimed the room. She lay on the bed and listened to her own breathing and the clock ticking—tick, tick—each beat needling her frayed nerves. "Wang Xiao…" she whispered, and felt as if she were lying in a vast, silent graveyard—cold and black. Is it like this on your side, too?
—
A familiar sound cut through her sleep. She blinked awake, listening, and finally realized it was the doorbell. Great. So much for sleeping like the dead. She didn't want to move, but the bell kept ringing, relentless as a summons. She shuffled to the door in her slippers, rubbing her hair, assuming it was the utility company. Life was a hassle: you could try to ignore people, and they'd still come knocking.
She opened the door; light spilled in and made her squint. When her eyes adjusted, a tall figure filled the threshold.
You've got to be kidding me.
Her first thought was to turn, grab a kitchen knife, and chop him down. But… she weighed her strength. The odds were slim; more likely he'd take the knife away and, in a temper, carve her instead.
So she slammed the security door shut with a clang. Out of sight, out of mind.
He didn't force it. Through the metal, Chen Jin's voice drifted in, mild as ever. "You're not taking your wallet back?"
She froze. Right—she must have lost it during the struggle in his car. The memory made her grind her teeth. She wanted him gone. But she couldn't refuse the wallet. Replacing cards would be a nightmare, and there was something more important inside.
She opened the door, thrust out her hand, and snapped, "Leave it. You can go."
Instead, he brushed past her extended arm and her, strolling inside as if he owned the place. He frowned. The flat was pitch black—like a tomb. It fit the ghostly look of its owner, he thought.
She rushed after him and planted herself in his path. "Who told you to come in? Get out." She shoved at him, trying to drive him back.
He slid her hands away with absurd ease. "Can you not be so childish?" he said, amused. He crossed the room, yanked the curtains open, and threw the windows wide. Sunlight and fresh air surged in. Lin Wan flinched, covering her eyes. Then she yelped, "Stop! That's my bedroom!"
He didn't. Of course, he didn't. She stomped after him, furious. "Are you a pervert—just barging into people's rooms?"
He ignored her, busy with curtains and windows. In a blink, the bedroom went from mausoleum to daylight. The only remnant of her self-made crypt was a tangle of abused sheets. The disarray invited the obvious thoughts. His gaze snagged there for a beat before he finally faced her, letting his eyes travel from head to toe.
"Pervert?" he echoed, meaning layered.
Her pajamas were modest in cut but thin for summer, and she wasn't wearing a bra. She folded her arms over her chest and said coldly, eyes down, "I don't want to fight. Give me my wallet."
He acted as if he hadn't heard. Stepping closer, he looked down at her. "How long since you ate properly?"
She rolled her eyes and turned away. Kicked by a donkey, she thought. Coming here to play the good guy?
"You've been drinking," he said, nostrils flaring, anger tinting his voice.
"Yes. And it's none of your business." She met his gaze, defiant.
"Drowning your sorrows?" he snorted. "No one told you that trick's useless?"
"No one told me that," she said with a thin smile. "But plenty of people keep saying, 'Good will be rewarded, evil punished. If the retribution hasn't come yet, it's because the time isn't ripe." She bit off the last four words with icy clarity.
He looked down at her challenging face and bright, feverish eyes and merely smiled. "Great. Let's wait for that day together. At the rate you're going, though, you won't live to see it."
With that, his long arm swung and steered her toward the bathroom, his tone shifting into the easy authority of someone close: "Wash your face. Comb your hair. We're eating."
She yanked back, resisting. He caught her again, frowning. "Your forehead—" He reached up to check, but she slapped a hand over the spot, shoved him away, and dove into the bathroom, slamming the glass door shut.
Through the frosted pane, he watched her flailing shadow and shook his head. He pulled out his phone and told his secretary to have food delivered.
—
In the bathroom, she washed her face, brushed her teeth, combed her hair—and tried to make sense of his behavior. A man like him never came without a reason. He wouldn't show up in person just to return a wallet, much less pretend to "care." A weasel wishing a hen a happy New Year. She thought of the way he'd "accidentally" touched her before and felt a chill. The wolf was already inside the house. All she could do was brace, defend, and counter.
Steeled, she hurried to the bedroom to dress and then returned to the living room. The suited intruder lounged on her chintz sofa, frowning critically at the decor. Loathing prickled over her skin. She marched up, held out her hand from above, and said, flat as a gavel: "Wallet."
He seemed not to hear, his gaze lingering on her hand in a way that made her skin crawl. She drew it back. Before she could speak again, the doorbell rang. He lifted a finger to his lips—shh—then, to her bewilderment, went to open the door himself.
She caught on a beat too late—whose home is this again?—and hurried after him. It was the delivery guy. Chen Jin paid in cash, waved off the change. The kid under the baseball cap left grinning.
He turned with a stack of containers—and met Lin Wan's face, etched with disdain. He only crooked a corner of his mouth. "Eat," he said. When she didn't move, he reached as if to grab her by the collar. She flinched back and, grudgingly, went to the table.
He dropped the boxes and drifted back to the sofa. When she still stood there, he asked, amused, "Want me to feed you?"
She glanced at the hotel logo stamped on the lids, then at him. "Wallet first."
He laughed. "You're like a broken recorder—one line on loop. Eat. You can have it afterward."
She bit her lip and sat, opening a box with stiff, careful motions. "Relax," he teased. "No poison."
She lifted the lid; the aroma rose, rich but not cloying, colors bright. Her stomach—abused by days of instant noodles—quivered at the sight of meat.
"And no knockout drops," he added, the smile audible, coaxing like a child.
She shot him a glare and dug in. Hunger made her clumsy; she dropped food twice. His soft chuckle made her want to flip the table. She speared a rib and imagined it was him, tearing into it with vengeful care—may you one day be like this meat.
Two calls saved her digestion. He took them onto the balcony, which didn't put him far, but far enough. Most of what she heard was the other side reporting in; he only cut in now and then. Sometimes he went off like a bomb: "You're asking me that? What do I pay you for?" "Can't you do it? Don't come back. Find a hole and bury yourself." She nearly bit through her chopsticks. Psychopath. Rabid dog.
After she was about eighty percent full, she dabbed her lips with a napkin and held out her hand again, mechanical: "Wallet."
His phone rang. "Excuse me," he said, stepping away. This time his tone was surprisingly gentle. "Don't worry… I've got it… stop overthinking… I have to go."
She remembered what he'd said: I have people to protect, so I can only be cold to others. How convenient. The ones he "protected" basked in heaven. Everyone else he shoved into hell.
He went back and looked down at her across the table. "You can have it," he said evenly, "after you promise me two things."
She swallowed a dozen insults. "Name them."
"Eat on time. No more drinking."
She wanted to laugh—wanted to say, none of your business—but what was the point? She nodded.
He didn't believe her. After a beat, he added, "Don't let me see you like this again."
She nodded again. You won't. I won't give you the chance.
—
The uninvited guest finally left. Before he did, he laid a personal card on the table with the wallet and said, as if performing concern, "This is my number. If you need anything, call me."
She nodded perfunctorily. What I need is your brother's life. Can you give me that? I need justice. Can you give me that? Everything I need, you can't give it. Everything you offer, I don't want. I'll never call you. I never want to see you again.
Five minutes later, she had to dig out the charger, power up her phone, and dial the number on the card.
Her voice was sharp with fury. "Chen—where are my photos?"
He picked up immediately, as if he'd been waiting. His tone was infuriatingly casual. "Oh, those two? I didn't like one of them, so I tossed it. The other looked pretty good, so I kept it."
"…," Lin Wan sputtered. What kind of logic is that? Bandit logic.By what right?
"If you want them, you can come get them," he suggested—magnanimous, like a thief offering directions to his own den.
"If you're not afraid of nightmares, keep it," she bit out, and slammed the phone onto the sofa. It bounced twice and thumped to the floor.
In his car, the thud from his Bluetooth startled Chen Jin. He frowned—then chuckled. "Temper," he said aloud, amused rather than angry.