Night descends like a slow poison over the water. The cranes creak as they finish their endless work, retracting into still silhouettes against the industrial skyline. A 5,000-ton ferry looms at the dock, its lights flickering under the sodium glow of the street lamps. Soon it will cut through the South China Sea, heading toward Shimonoseki by dawn.
The deck is alive with noise — tourists laughing too loud, couples snapping photos that will blur in the dark, businessmen clinking glasses of cheap whiskey in the dining hall. The wind on the balcony carries cigarette smoke and ocean salt.
And then there is Haoran Yue Darius.
He stands apart, near-invisible among the bustle. His suit is plain, his jacket folded over one arm, his posture relaxed. To the casual eye, he is just another passenger. But his expression is wrong — too still, too heavy. It's the look of someone who does not belong in the crowd, a man who could be mistaken for stone if not for the slow, steady rhythm of his breath.
Inside his ear, a voice murmurs through the static of his earpiece.
"Target confirmed. Ryu Jianhong. Using the name Liu Cheng. Navy cap, cheap coat. He's on the move. USB handoff happened minutes ago."
Haoran tilts his wrist and checks his watch. 20:00 sharp. The whistle sounds across the port, splitting the night sea. The ferry shudders, chains groan, and the city lights of Shenzhen begin to recede.
His lips barely move.
"Then the hunt begins."
Haoran descends the spiral staircase with unhurried steps. The corridor smells of fried oil and seawater. Families push strollers, lovers take selfies, drunks stumble between restaurants. Haoran's eyes flicker briefly to each face — calculating, filtering, dismissing.
He doesn't walk like a predator. He walks like a shadow. His presence is… unnatural. People don't notice him, but they feel him. Conversations pause as he passes. Strangers shift uncomfortably without knowing why. An alpha's aura lingers — not loud, not aggressive, but heavy.
When he reaches the lobby, his phone buzzes. He answers without hesitation.
"Hello."
It's not a greeting — it's camouflage. Passengers glance at him, see a man on a call, and look away. Perfect cover.
As he moves, a woman catches his attention. Her coat collar is pulled unnaturally high, her movements too stiff. She stands by the vending machine, pretending to choose a drink. Haoran watches without watching — the slight tremor in her hand, the hesitation before slipping in a 1,000 yen bill, the way she waits until the crowd thins.
Green tea drops into the tray. She collects it, along with the coins, and walks away without looking back. A dead-drop, clean.
But Haoran is already turning his head. His voice drops, calm, flat.
"The courier is gone. Target is next."
And then he sees him.
Ryu Jianhong (alias Liu Cheng) emerges from the lounge. Navy beanie. His stride is stiff, eyes darting, hands shoved deep into his pockets. He approaches the vending machine with deliberate slowness, feeding coins into the slot but never looking at the drinks.
Caution. Paranoia. Guilt.
The muscles in Haoran's jaw tighten, but his smile is faint.
He approaches silently, then reaches over the man's shoulder and presses a button for him. A drink clatters into the tray below.
Ryu stiffens, turning sharply. "What the hell are you doing?"
"You seemed indecisive," Haoran replies softly. His tone is polite, his smile disarmingly faint. But his grip on Ryu's hand is merciless, fingers digging into bone until the agent hisses in pain.
The crowd begins to take notice. Curious passengers slow, some whisper, some grin at the thought of a fight. Ryu's panic spikes.
Haoran leans in.
"Liu Cheng? No… that's not your real name, is it?"
The blood drains from the man's face.
Desperation hits. Ryu slams his other hand into the vending machine lid, trying to pry it open, trying to grab what's hidden inside. But Haoran's foot comes down sharply, pinning it shut.
"You bastard—"
The man grabs Haoran's collar. But the agent's expression never flickers. He calmly takes Ryu's wrist, twists it with quiet precision, and watches pain ripple across the man's face. The tension builds. Passengers gather, whispering, some filming.
Haoran leans closer, his voice low, almost intimate.
"You've been sloppy. Too many eyes. Too much fear."
The man's lips tremble.
"You… you're MSS—"
The words die as Haoran slams his head against the vending machine. A dull thud. Blood beads on his forehead. Screams erupt from the crowd.
The gun hidden in his jacket is seized before he can even draw. Haoran empties the weapon, pocketing it as if it were spare change.
And then — the hostage.
Ryu lunges, dragging a flight attendant into a chokehold, blade pressed to his throat. The passengers scatter in terror. The hostage trembles, urine staining his trousers.
"Give me the USB!" Ryu snarls. His eyes are wild, spit flying from his lips.
Haoran stares at him for a long, cold moment. Then, with deliberate care, he drops the USB. It clatters to the floor. The hostage scrambles to pick it up with shaking hands.
But Haoran keeps walking forward. Step by step.
"Don't move!" Ryu screams. "I'll kill him!"
Step.
Step.
Step.
Haoran's eyes are flat, merciless.
"If you kill him, you die next."
The weight of his pheromones bleeds into the air. The hostage sobs, collapsing to his knees, trembling like prey in the shadow of a predator. Ryu's grip falters, sweat pouring down his face. His instincts are screaming at him to run.
And so he does.
He throws the hostage aside and bolts for the stairs, stumbling, wild. Haoran doesn't chase. Not yet. He straightens his suit jacket, exhales slowly, and then follows at his own pace — steady, inevitable, like death itself.
The ferry has already left shore. There is nowhere to run.
The deck groaned under the weight of footsteps, the ferry rolling as the sea rose and fell in black waves.
"Don't—don't come near me!" Ryu Jianhong roared, his voice breaking with terror.
Haoran Yue Darius raised his pistol. Cold steel gleamed under the moonlight. The knife in Ryu's hand looked pathetic in comparison, trembling like a shard of scrap metal.
Wei Zixin's eyes darted nervously between the scene and his superior, Haoran, but then widened at something behind.
A muzzle flash lit the night. Sparks erupted with a deafening crack. The bullet flew true—but it wasn't Ryu Jianhong who collapsed.
It was Hana Morozova.
Her ivory trenchcoat bloomed red at the sleeve as she fell, clutching her torn right arm. The Colt in her grip clattered to the deck, firing once into the sky as it hit. No one knew if her aim had been at Ryu—or at Haoran himself.
Haoran's expression didn't change. He turned his gaze back just in time to see Ryu fling away his knife and stagger to the railing. His shoulders heaved, his chest rising and falling with panic.
Then he jumped.
Haoran was already moving. His shoes thudded against steel as he rushed forward, Wei Zixin at his heels. They reached the railing in seconds, only to hear the hollow thud of a body striking the sea.
The waves split, foaming white. For a moment Ryu vanished beneath the black water. Suicide. Or so it should have been.
But then—headlights cut across the sea.
An old wooden fishing boat emerged from the darkness, lights low, hull battered from years of use. It had slipped past every surveillance net, every patrol.
A figure hauled Ryu aboard, stripping the wet jacket from his body. Buoys clinked against his chest—prepared flotation. A planned escape.
Ryu raised his hand from the boat, mocking, victorious, his grin twisted.
Wei Zixin cursed under his breath. Haoran simply raised his pistol and fired. The shots cracked the night, but the distance was long, the sea restless. Sparks burst off the wooden planks, but the engine roared on.
The ferry drifted farther away. The gap widened. The chance of capture narrowed.
Haoran exhaled slowly, sliding the pistol back into its holster. His voice was ice.
"Zixin. With me."
Wei Zixin blinked. "Wha—Senior, wait, you're not—"
But Haoran was already moving. He climbed the railing, his coat snapping in the sea wind. His watch flickered red with the tracker he had slipped on Ryu's belt earlier. The dot moved steadily, pulling away.
"Senior, are you insane?!"
Haoran didn't answer. He stepped off the railing and fell.
The air howled around him, black waves rushing up like jagged teeth. His body cut the sea with a violent crash, cold shock slamming into his muscles, stealing his breath. Saltwater flooded his mouth, pressure rattled his bones.
He kicked upward, broke the surface, and inhaled through clenched teeth.
Above the waves, the fishing boat was vanishing into the dark.
The roar of another engine broke the night. A motorboat slashed across the waves—Wei Zixin at the helm, wild-eyed, shouting over the storm.
"Really, Senior! You'll drown yourself at this rate—get in!"
Haoran seized his hand, pulling himself aboard. Water streamed down his hair, his eyes colder than the sea itself. He stripped off his soaked jacket and threw his tracker-watch at Zixin.
"Follow the red dot."
Zixin swallowed hard, gripping the wheel. The motor roared, the boat surged forward, cutting a furious trail of foam toward the fleeing shadows.
The wooden boat turned, a rifle muzzle flashing from its deck. Bullets tore the air. One ripped across the motorboat's hull, splintering wood.
Zixin screamed, jerking the wheel. "We're going to die out here!"
Haoran stood steady, bracing himself against the spray, his voice calm even under fire.
"Then die quieter."
The chase became a dance of death. Spray, bullets, curses, laughter. Haoran's hand finally seized the wheel from Zixin, his aura flaring sharp and suffocating.
Zixin nearly collapsed under the weight of it—this wasn't just an alpha. This was something beyond. Something that made his instincts want to crawl.
The motorboat surged forward, headlong at the fishing boat.
"Senior—Senior we're going to crash!" Zixin shouted, face pale, tears stinging his eyes from the salt.
Haoran's grip never wavered. The boats drew closer, closer—then, at the last instant, he yanked the wheel, spinning it with brutal force.
The boats scraped violently, sparks showering across the dark sea. The fishing boat shuddered, hull gouged, its passengers staggering.
Haoran leapt aboard.
The deck stank of fish and gunpowder. Two figures scrambled to escape into the water, kicking frantically.
Haoran picked up a rusted fishing net, cast it high. The mesh unfurled like a black wing, slamming into the sea, wrapping the fleeing men. They thrashed, but every struggle pulled the cords tighter.
Zixin, shaking but loyal, worked the winch with desperate hands, pulling the net in. The captured spies hit the deck in a heap, soaked and gasping, glaring up at Haoran with hate.
Haoran only adjusted his cuffs, gaze flat.
"Operation concluded."
Then, as the prisoners writhed, his eyes lingered coldly on Ryu Jianhong.
"You should've stayed on the ferry."
Zixin stared, trembling. "What… what do we do now?"
Haoran didn't answer. He was already searching the cockpit, retrieving a black suitcase hidden beneath the driver's seat.
"Call headquarters. Tell them: target captured. USB recovered. Hana Morozova. is restrained on the ferry — Coast Guard will secure her."
Zixin blinked. "What about you?"
Haoran zipped the case shut, stepping back into the motorboat. His voice was flat, final.
"I have other business."
The engine roared. Spray engulfed him as he cut across the waves, leaving Zixin with two prisoners and a sinking wooden hull.
Zixin shouted after him, desperate.
"Senior! You're abandoning me?!"
But Haoran didn't turn back. His silhouette vanished into the storm.
The sea swallowed Zixin's cries, until they were nothing more than wind and waves.
Shenzhen North Station was a storm of motion. Announcements echoed like distant thunder over a tide of footsteps, rolling suitcases, and the smell of steamed buns from a nearby kiosk. Screens above flickered departure times in red characters. The morning sun slanted through the glass ceiling, lighting up a thousand faces and a thousand destinations.
Haoran Yue Darius moved through it like a blade through water — silent, unflinching, his tall frame wrapped in a dark trench, duffel bag slung across one shoulder. His eyes flicked over exits and CCTV cameras without a single pause. It was habit. His body moved like a soldier's, but his face was calm.
His phone buzzed. He glanced down. Mom. The corner of his lips softened. For a moment, the storm inside him stilled.
He climbed aboard the sleek high-speed train, ducked into his reserved seat, and sat. The duffel bag thumped to the floor. The doors hissed shut behind him.
"喂,媽...(Wai, ma…)" he said, leaning back into the seat. His voice lowered automatically, softer than the one he used at work. Hello, Mom…
The line crackled with warmth. His mother's familiar voice came through, already laughing. "你喺邊啊?(Nei hai bin a?)" Where are you?
"係啦,喺火車上啦.生日快樂,媽.(Hai la, hai fo ce soeng la. Saangyat faailok, ma.)" Yes, I'm on the train. Happy birthday, Mom. His lips curved slightly. "希望個蛋糕仲喺度,唔好話俾我聽健俊已經切咗啊!(Heimong go daangou zung hai dou, mh hou wa bei ngo teng Ginzeon ji ging cit zo a!)" I hope the cake is still there and Jianjun hasn't cut it yet!
From the background of the call came a younger boy's shout: "如果你唔快啲返嚟,我食晒嘅!(Juk gwo nei m faai di faan lei, ngo sik saai ge!)" If you don't come early, I'll eat everything!
Haoran chuckled, shoulders shaking once. It was a sound that belonged to another man, another life. His mother scolded Jianjun gently in the background, then came back on the line. "快啲啦,或者雪糕蛋糕比健俊食晒啦!(Faai di la, waakze seut gou daangou bei Ginzeon sik saai la!)" Hurry up or the ice cream cake will be gone.
"我喺路上啦,愛你啊,媽.(Ngo hai lou soeng la, oi nei a, ma.)" I'm on my way. I love you, Mom. He ended the call with a faint sigh, staring at the screen until it dimmed. For a heartbeat, the hard lines of his face eased.
Then the other phone began to ring.
The work phone. The black one. No music tone, just a sharp vibration and a single chime, over and over.
Haoran shut his eyes. "點解打嚟呢…(Dimgaai daa lei ne…)" Why are they even calling me… His thumb rubbed his temple. He had finished the ferry mission, cleaned up what he could, even stayed off-grid for twelve hours. They weren't supposed to call him.
The ringing didn't stop. It buzzed again, again, a wasp in a jar. Passengers across the aisle began glancing at him, murmuring. The train speaker crackled: "尊敬嘅旅客,下一站將會停靠廣州南...(Zyun ging ge leoi haak, haa yat zaam zoeng wui ting kaau Gwongzau Naam…)" Dear passengers, next stop Guangzhou South…
"Oh my fucking god…" Haoran muttered under his breath in English. He yanked the black phone out of his pocket so hard the SIM tray clicked.
"咩事?(Me si?)" he snapped. What.
"啊,點啊?你喺邊啊?(Aa, dim a? Nei hai bin a?)" Chief Bo's voice — warm but iron underneath. Ah, how are you? Where are you?
Haoran's lips curled faintly. "好,咁關你咩事?(Hou, gam gwaan nei me si?)" Fine. Does it matter? His eyes flicked to the window. I knew it would be Chief Bo.
"我哋要傾吓,見面.(Ngo dei yiu king ha, gin min.)" We need to talk. In person.
Inside Haoran's head, a different voice muttered: Is it because of the mess I caused on the ferry? The police were involved. Cleaning the aftermath must be a nightmare.
Aloud, he said coolly: "如果關於任務,已經做到最好啦.(Juk gwo gwaan jyu yam mou, ji ging zou dou zeoi hou la.)" If it's about the mission, that was the best I could do.
"Ai,我知,我知,所以要傾吓.(Ai, ngo zi, ngo zi, so ji yiu king ha.)" I know, I know. That's why we need to talk.
Haoran's jaw tensed. "求下你俾我放假,俾我同媽慶生啦.(Kau ha nei bei ngo fong gaa, bei ngo tung ma hing saang la.)" Please, sir, give me a break. Let me celebrate my mom's birthday.
"I know, won't keep long," Chief Bo replied in English this time, voice clipped.
Haoran switched back. "但係火車已經開咗,你要我跳窗啊?(Daan hai fo ce ji ging hoi zo, nei yiu ngo tiu coeng a?)" But the train is already moving. Do you expect me to jump out the window?
As if summoned by the words, the train screeched and lurched, throwing Haoran forward against the seat. Passengers gasped, luggage rolled.
"Dear passengers…" the intercom blared. "…temporary stop…"
On the line, Chief Bo's voice was cold steel. "落車啦,直升機等緊你.(Lok ce la, zik sing gei dang gan nei.)" Get down. The chopper's waiting. The call clicked off.
Haoran stayed very still for a moment, staring at his reflection in the window — the hard mouth, the eyes that belonged to no one's son. Then he exhaled, long and slow, and pressed thumb and forefinger to his brow.
"If I don't get down, the train won't move," he murmured. "Fuck. I hate my job."
He rose. Passengers watched the tall man with the duffel bag stand and sling it over his shoulder with precise, military grace.
As he reached the door, he pulled out his family phone again. "喂,媽,我會遲啲到啦.你哋開始食先啦,好唔?愛你哋.(Wai, ma, ngo wui ci di dou la. Nei dei hoi ci sik sin la, hou mh? Oi nei dei.)" Hey Mom, I'll be arriving late, okay? You guys should start without me, alright? Love you all.
He ended the call and stepped onto the platform.
Above him, the rotor thrum of a helicopter cut through the station air.