The small room felt smaller tonight. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting long, jittery shadows across the cracked linoleum.
Outside, a siren wailed in the distance—a piercing reminder of the world Lu Xingcheng had just stepped out of.
Joey stood by the door, her hand still frozen on the light switch. She hadn't moved since they'd walked in. Her eyes were fixed on the dark, wet bloom of red on Xingcheng's navy-blue "BOB" shirt.
The "Sunshine" was gone from her face, replaced by a furrowed brow and lips slightly parted in dawning horror.
"Cheng…" her voice was barely a whisper. "Is that blood? What happened at the park when you went for that napkin?"
Xingcheng stood in the middle of her tiny kitchen, his massive frame blocking out the light. He could smell the copper tang of it—a scent he'd been numb to for years.
"The mustard," he said, his voice too smooth, too practiced. "From the hot dog, Peppercorn. I told you I'm a messy eater. It's just the lighting in here."
Joey didn't back down. She took three steps forward, entering his personal space until she could feel the heat radiating off him.
She reached out, her fingers hovering an inch from the stain. She didn't touch it. She knew.
"Mustard isn't that shade of crimson, Cheng. Mustard doesn't soak into fabric like that. And you're touching your left ear."
Xingcheng's hand was indeed hovering near his earlobe—a subconscious habit he'd developed as a child when lying to his father.
He dropped his hand instantly, his fist clenching at his side.
"You only do that when you're hiding something," Joey pressed on, her eyes searching his.
"You did it when I asked if you liked the noodles. You did it when I asked if you had a family. Talk to me."
For a split second, the weight of the "King" mask became unbearable. He could tell her a cat scratched him.
He could tell her he tripped. But in this twenty-square-foot room, the lies felt like they were choking him.
"I got into a fight," he finally rumbled, his voice dropping into a low, jagged growl. "A man tried to take my wallet while I was at the trash can. I… handled it."
"Was he hurt?" Joey asked after a long, heavy silence. "Are you hurt?"
"He won't be coming back. And I'm fine. It takes more than a common thief to break me."
Joey let out a long, shuddering breath.
Her shoulders dropped, but instead of backing away in fear, she stepped closer. She wrapped her arms around his waist, burying her face against his chest—carefully avoiding the bloodstain.
Xingcheng stood like a pillar of salt. His arms remained at his sides, frozen. He had killed for territory, for revenge, and for power, but no one had ever told him he was safe.
"Oh, Cheng," she muffled against his shirt.
"You don't have to be a tough guy for me. You don't have to fight the whole world just to protect your pride. You're safe here. In this house, you're just Cheng. Nobody is going to hurt you. I won't let them."
You're hugging a monster, Joey,*he thought, his eyes filling with a sudden, painful confusion. And you're calling it safety.
The irony was staggering. The most feared man in the province was being "protected" by a girl who could barely afford her electric bill.
He slowly, hesitantly, brought his hands up to rest on her shoulder blades.
*SLIDE.*
A heavy, black envelope—thick, expensive cardstock—slid through the gap under the door. It hit the linoleum with a metallic clink.
In the center was a pool of dark, crimson wax stamped with the Lu Syndicate Crest: a wolf entwined with a dragon.
The Executioner's Summons.
"What's that?" Joey pulled away, blinking. "Did the landlord leave a notice?"
She reached down, her fingers inches from the Mafia seal.
"DON'T TOUCH THAT!" Xingcheng barked.
Joey flinched, her hand jerking back as if she'd been burned.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and filled with a new, sharp kind of fear.
She had never heard him use that voice—the voice of a man who commanded armies.
"Get back, Joey," Xingcheng breathed, the Shadow Emperor fully exposed in the flickering light. "Now."