The Desk
At 3:00 PM the next day, Yuyan opens the subsidiary file on his screen.
He scrolls through the four encrypted layers: the holding structure, the intermediary vehicle, the shell company disguised as background noise, and finally, the recall clause. It is buried deep within the legal framework, built like a load-bearing pillar inside a drywall—invisible from the outside, but holding up the entire ceiling.
Yuyan wrote those conditions himself. He knows every syllable. Yet, he reads it again anyway.
He closes the laptop, places both hands flat on the mahogany desk, and stares at the wall. He doesn't move. He doesn't allow himself to catalog the strange, heavy thing that had shifted in his chest when Zhifan said 'That would be useful'—not with the smooth cadence of a businessman, but with the terrifying gravity of a man who actually meant it.
Yuyan doesn't give the feeling a name. He opens the next file.
...
In the afternoon, Yuyan continues working. Unable to stay focused, he just stares blankly out the window.
That night, Yuyan works even later than usual, leaving the company at one in the morning without even having dinner. He is a little hungry, and seeing that the 24-hour convenience store across from the company is still lit up, he goes over.
He buys food and sits down at the convenience store. Before he even starts eating, he hears the convenience store's sensor announce, "Welcome."
Someone comes in, but Yuyan doesn't turn around to look until he hears a voice.
"Checkout."
A very familiar voice, like Zhifan's voice.
Yuyan turns to look at the counter, but unfortunately, his view is mostly blocked by the shelves next to him. He can only see half of the person standing behind the counter.
He keeps staring until the person finishes paying and turns to leave the convenience store.
It really is Zhifan.
Zhifan is dressed all in black, wearing a black baseball cap and mask. His profile is so striking that Yuyan recognizes him immediately. After leaving the convenience store, he doesn't go far, but stands at the entrance, opening the pack of cigarettes he has just bought. He lights the cigarette, takes a puff, and looks up at the building across the street.
The bright convenience store lights shine on him, yet leave him with an air of loneliness. His fingers are so slender that the cigarette seems almost too delicate to hold.
He and Zhifan, one standing at the convenience store entrance, the other sitting behind the window.
Although Zhifan lights the cigarette, he only takes a puff, then lets it burn between his fingers. The crimson cigarette butt stands out in the night like a wanderer who hasn't returned home yet, conspicuous yet forlorn. When the cigarette butt is almost burning his fingers, Zhifan looks away and goes to find a trash can. There, his eyes meet Yuyan's in the window.
He blinks slightly, then his rose-red lips curve into a smile. That smile is vibrant and alluring, captivating and mesmerizing.
...
Zhifan tosses the butt, pushes through the glass doors, and slides into the seat directly across from him.
"How do you know my office is here?"
Yuyan asks the person in front of him.
Zhifan answers somewhat casually, "A quick search with your name will tell you; your company is very famous." He turns to look at Yuyan, a flicker of unreadable emotion in his beautiful eyes, "Are you still angry with me?"
Because of that night.
The rest doesn't need to be said; both of them know.
Yuyan looks out the window, thinks for a moment, and then says, "I wouldn't say I'm angry."
Zhifan rests his chin on his hand, his eyes crinkling as he looks at Yuyan.
You can tell the person in front of you is complex, and you know that getting too close to him could lead to utter ruin. But when those eyes look at you, you might think, "So be it, let him be!"
Those eyes are truly beautiful, not just in a simple sense. Some people's eyes are beautiful because of their shape, but his are more than that. Zhifan's eyes are beautiful because of their gaze. Perhaps because he's an actor, every glance he makes is full of charm. He beckons people to descend to hell with him.
...
As they head toward the counter to leave, Zhifan takes a box of condoms from the shelf shein front of Yuyan. Before paying, he looks at Yuyan, his eyes seeming to say that if Yuyan stops him, he won't buy it.
Yuyan glances at the condoms on the counter, slowly turns his eyes away, and hears Zhifan's soft laughter.
After leaving the convenience store, Zhifan looks around. It is almost 2 a.m., and there are hardly any cars on the street. Occasionally, he sees a car, either a private car or a taxi that already has a passenger.
"You work so late, let's go to your place." Zhifan turns to look at Yuyan.
Yuyan looks ahead. "Alright."
Zhifan's lips curl slightly. "To your place then."
When they are in the elevator, neither of them speaks. One stares at the constantly changing numbers, while the other stares at the clean elevator door.
The elevator stops on the fourteenth floor.
Yuyan steps out of the elevator first, and Zhifan follows behind him.
When he reaches the door, Zhifan glances at Yuyan, suddenly reaches out and grabs Yuyan's hand, and presses it into his pocket, which contains condoms.
His voice is gentle, "It's not too late to regret it now."
Yuyan pauses, slowly withdraws his hand, and asks, "Why regret it? We're both adults." He looks at Zhifan, "Or do you have a partner?"
"No. Still single." Zhifan chuckles.
What Zhifan doesn't see, hidden beneath jacket pocket, is Yuyan's left hand. His thumb is pressed firmly against his own wrist, tracking the rhythm of his artery. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to count against.
His pulse is perfectly even.
Because he is forcing it to be.
Yuyan opens the door. He has left the lights on in the entryway. Yuyan goes in first, followed by Zhifan. He reaches out and grabs Yuyan's arm, pulling him back, "Wait."
"What are you going to do?" Yuyan looks at the person so close to him.
Zhifan is very close to him; with the slightest movement, their faces will be touching.
"I want to kiss you, is that okay?" Zhifan's voice is low. "You can refuse me, but I need to think about it before deciding whether to accept your refusal."
Yuyan reaches out and places his hand against the other's chest. "Let's take a shower first, is that okay?"
Inwardly, Yuyan sneers. He has always known Zhifan uses intimacy as leverage — it is simply how he acquires what he wants from people. He simply doesn't expect Zhifan to be this impatient with him.
"Sure, but you owe me a kiss."
Before the words are finished, his lips are already on Yuyan's.
Zhifan affectionately touches Yuyan's cheek. "Okay, let's go take a shower."
When Zhifan comes out, he finds Yuyan already dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed. The curtains in the room aren't drawn, and the person is looking at the night view outside.
...
Zhifan watches him. Abruptly
closes the distance further,his shadow stretching long across the room and falling over Yuyan just as Zhifan sits on the mattress.
Zhifan is tall enough that his presence becomes overwhelming at close range . This near, Yuyan can even smell the faint scent of laundry detergent on his clothes.
The distance is far too close — well past the threshold between strangers. Yuyan's body tenses instantly, entering a state of high alert.
Zhifan further closes the distance. Bending down, Zhifan places a hand on Yuyan's thigh, His fingertips trace the smooth lines of Yuyan's legs, gently touching the skin on the outside of his thigh with just the right amount of pressure.
Yuyan tries to struggle, but the hand seems to be attached to him.
The hand slowly sliding it upward to his waist, brushing lightly against his hip bone, and before Yuyan can react, it precisely grasps his wrist.
Through the fabric, Yuyan feels the heat of his palm—warm, burning like a furnace.
The temperature is a violent echo of a past he tries to keep buried.His mind goes blank; he remains silent for a long time.
Without blinking, Zhifan looks up into Yuyan's expressionless face. Moving his hand from Yuyan's thigh, Zhifan suddenly grips his waist, lifting him slightly before pressing him back down onto the bed.
His face flushes, his eyes fill with lust.
Zhifan shifts, straddling Yuyan's hips. He reaches out, grabbing Yuyan's chin and forcing it up with formidable strength. His lips are slightly parted.
In the next second, Zhifan's mouth crashes into his. His tongue presses against Yuyan's, stealing the kiss without consent or hesitation.
The cool, slippery liquid wraps around Yuyan's lips, the chill instantly spreading throughout his body.His mind goes blank with a buzz.
Yuyan trembles.
Zhifan's Adam's apple bobs slightly.
Zhifan clearly doesn't expect him to feel so... innocent. A low chuckle escapes Zhifan; he looks down at Yuyan with mischief in his eyes and bites his own lip.
Sensing the shift in dynamics, Yuyan grabs Zhifan's hips, pulling him tightly against him. "Is that so?" he whispers into Zhifan's ear. "Then guide me."
Zhifan's cheeks flush further, his wet hair clinging messily to his forehead as he pants.
He grips Zifan's cheeks tightly, forcing his lips apart as he leans closer. He kisses Zifan recklessly, sucking on Zhifan's bottom lip before forcefully inserting his tongue.
But Zifan, seemingly used to such intimacy, easily responds to the attempt, exploring Yuyan's mouth freely. Their tongues intertwine, sucking and rubbing together as Zhifan softly caresses the inside of Yuyan's mouth.
In an instant, Yuyan wraps his other arm around Zhifan's waist
and arms, locking him firmly in place.
Trembling, suppressing his discomfort , Yuyan
finally makes his move , Yuyan takes back control, he bites Zhifan's lip hard enough to draw blood, scraping his teeth against Zhifan's tongue. Forced to yield, Zhifan tries to lean back, the hands gripping his waist tightening securely.
It isn't a kiss. It is a brutal marking, a mutual devouring.
As the metallic taste of blood fills their mouths, Zhifan shakes his head,as he rasps, his fingers digging into the silk sheets, struggling to pull away. He breaks the kiss, panting ,his chest rising and falling rapidly.
"Hey, relax. You're hurting me. Take it easy," he says with a laugh. His tone is deceptively slurry as he licks the remaining blood from his lips as if savouring the memory.
Zhifan Leans in again to lick the remaining glistening saliva from Yuyan's lips devouring every last drop of moisture kiss his cheeks.
Zifan glances back at Yuyan , whose expression remains perfectly inscrutable, his body entirely motionless.
When they finally separate, Yuyan's breathing is unsteady. Zhifan's gaze lingers on Yuyan's mouth giving Yuyan a sweet smile. "It's swollen," he whispers, flashing a bashful look. Zifan's usually calm eyes are now completely blown out with desire, hazy and watery.
Yuyan begins to tremble, sweat trickling down his spine, soaking through the thin fabric, clinging tightly to his skin.
"You are sweating." Zhifan says.
"Lean on me."
Zhifan's nose almost touching Yuyan's damp neck. Then forehead to chin, from eyelids to the side of the lips — as if tasting every inch of Yuyan's exposed skin.
The performance is flawless, but the moment the physical pressure of Zhifan's body lessens, the adrenaline masking Yuyan's horror begins to crack.
Sweat has long since soaked Yuyan's temples, a few strands of damp hair clinging to his neck and forehead, swaying slightly with his suppressed trembling.
Yuyan is on the verge of being overwhelmed by immense nausea and panic. The sensation of something agile and slippery probing his mouth, greedily sucking up his breath, tasting his saliva—it brings an extreme, visceral resistance tinged with raw fear. He pants, his eyes squinting against the memory.
*Crazy, disgusting jerk,* Yuyan thinks. Intense disgust and hatred surge within him.
He wants to put his hands around Zhifan's throat to strangle Zhifan.
He doesn't
He can't. Not now.
He wants too much, so he cannot rush things. He will weaves his net slowly, lays his trap slowly, never revealing his true face until his prey is completely trapped
...
Zhifan murmurs, his breath warm against Yuyan's jaw. A low, soft chuckle vibrates in the narrow space between them. "Are you really that nervous? There's no need to tremble."
Zhifan notices the slight flinch—of course he does. He never misses a single micro-expression. A slow, arrogant smirk tilts the corner of his mouth as he leans in closer. He wraps his long legs around Yuyan's waist, pulling him entirely against his sticky, sweat-slicked body. Zhifan's hands, which have always been so warm , rest heavily on Yuyan's hips.
Looking at Yuyan with absolute seriousness, he confesses, "I love you, Yuyan."
His face looks completely sincere, without a single trace of deceit. Yet, Yuyan can clearly read the cold calculation lurking just behind his irises. If those eyes are truly confessing love, then Zhifan is indeed a madman.
...
The tension hangs in the air, a weapon disguised as a surrender. Yuyan offers nothing in return—no reciprocation, no
rejection, just the same inscrutable stillness. It is a stalemate. Having deployed his final play for the evening and found no cracks in the architecture, the charade reaches its natural conclusion.
Zhifan doesn't stay the night. He leaves a few hours later.He pauses at the door, as if about to speak. Yuyan doesn't look up, staring blankly at a single point in the void, his gaze unfocused.. After a long silence, Yuyan hears the faint rustling of clothes and the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps fading into the distance.
Silence returns.
Yuyan slumps onto the couch, his lips pressed tightly together, his dark hair disheveled, his face pale as paper. He stares at the ceiling for a long time.
It seems that simply moving is enough to exhaust his strength, leaving him limp on the couch for a long time, unable to straighten up, every finger weak, powerless, and unresponsive.
He becomes increasingly agitated.
Yuyan's lips tremble.
The humiliation of the forced violation stings deeply.
Disgusting.
So disgusting.
In utter exhaustion and riding a wave of nausea, Yuyan's consciousness begins to drift, sinking and plumbing into a bottomless, vicious abyss.
His thoughts became increasingly chaotic. He subconsciously curled up, and all sorts of jumbled memories flashed before his eyes. The pressure in his chest and the lingering warmth on his lips made him lose track of time
That night, Yuyan dreams of the past. It is something he hasn't done in a long time.
Before the surgeries, before the carefully constructed identity of Lin Yuyan, he was Shen Wei. Born to a poor family, raised entirely by a single mother, his life was mundane, defined by quiet hardship and struggle. When Shen Wei, a special talent, was admitted to a prestigious high school on a scholarship, he thought his life would simply stay that way—safe, unremarkable, secure.
Until he met Zhifan.
Zhifan was too dazzling. It was inevitable that Shen Wei couldn't help but run toward him, like a moth to a flame.
You can tell Zifan is complex, and you know that getting too close to him could lead to utter ruin. But when those eyes look at you, you might think — so be it. Let him.
Back then, he had thought those eyes were beautiful in a way that defied simple shapes. It was the gaze—the magnetic, effortless charm of a born actor. Even then, Zhifan had been beckoning him to descend into hell, and like a fool, he had followed.
He thought there was plenty of time to consider the future. That was what he believed, then.
But in the blink of an eye, the dream shattered, plunging him into absolute darkness. He had been too young, too painfully naive.
Seven years ago, Zhifan didn't just frame him. He played a game called "The Sacrifice." Zhifan pretended to be the only person who cared for him, manipulating Shen Wei into falling madly, crazily in love. And then, just to win a sick bet with his rich friends, Zhifan staged a life-or-death situation. He forced Shen Wei to save him.
Like a fool, he had done exactly that. He never stopped to consider how Zhifan could be the only one trapped but still emerge completely unscathed while Shen Wei burned so badly his own skin had to be grafted and replaced. He didn't wonder why Zhifan texted him a random address instead of calling emergency services.
And he didn't question any of it until far too late — until he understands that the fire is arranged, from the beginning, by Zhifan.
And Zhifan never once came to visit him in the hospital! He had been gripped by extreme panic—he had lost his face, his identity, everything. He was broken, entirely alone in a sterile room. His lover wasn't there. He had no one.
When he finally dragged his ruined body out to find Zhifan, he heard only one thing: Zhifan and his friends, laughing, drinking, and collecting the money from the bet.
And his mom...
...
Suddenly, his unfocused gaze sharpens. He realizes his face is wet. He is crying. Sweat and tears mingling and streaming down his pale cheeks,
It is not weakness. It is not surrender. It is rather a surge of psychological exhaustion rising from deep within him.
He is completely alone in this room, left only with a throbbing pain deep inside of him.
Disgusting.
Despair and rage churn in his chest.
Yuyan unconsciously bit down on his lower lip, nearly tearing off a piece of flesh, drawing out sweet, metallic blood.
The subtle pain is the only reality at that moment. But a deeper, more intense pain and impact makes Yuyan's vision blur.
Just then, an extreme, chilling ruthlessness suddenly overwhelms all the hatred and resentment, rising from the depths of Yuyan's eyes.
The hatred brings a glimmer of light back to his unfocused eyes.
Ignoring his limp limbs and exhaustion,
he uses the last ounce of strength to slowly props himself up, feeling the rhythmic pulse deep within his chest. Each beat strikes his taut nerves and shattered will, proclaiming his inescapable, irrecoverable past and his inevitable mission.
He will take back the life debt.
His left hand, resting at his side, is uncovered.
He only covers it in public, but tonight he is acutely aware of the air on the scarring. An hour ago, Zhifan was in this room. The hand was in a pocket. The boundary held.
Then he remembers the restaurant. Zhifan reaching across the table. The stillness. *All right.* The right hand had been on the table. Zhifan's hand had covered it. In that moment, Yuyan hadn't separated the two hands in his mind. He had only been aware of the weight—a weight he recognized before he could intercept it.
*I know what I am doing,* he tells himself. *The plan is intact. The execution is on schedule. The last thirty-six hours are a known variable, an interference I am managing.*
The plan document remains on the desk, closed.
In seven years, he has never left it closed this long.