CHAPTER 15
I type in the code with precision. The door opens without resistance. There are no shadows here to scare me, no locks to stop me. In this house, everything recognizes me, everything waits for me. I close the door behind me without a sound. I let the dimness welcome me with its damp embrace. The hallway is short, warm, steeped in her scent. I move forward without turning on any lights. The darkness is mine. In it, I move as if it were a familiar skin.
I pass through the living room without looking too closely. I don't need to. I know there's an empty bag of sweet popcorn on the table, candy wrappers, and a half-finished bottle of pineapple juice. I know she's been watching one of those long, sad dramas she loves. Then she cried without anyone seeing her and then went to shower and rub that intense cream all over her body that drives me insane. I don't touch anything. Tonight, I haven't come to look around. I've come to sink into her.
I cross the threshold of her bedroom, and the world stops. She's asleep. The silk nightgown slides over her skin as if caressing her for me. One leg peeks out from under the sheets—pale, long, warm even in the dimness. Her loose hair covers part of her face, but I can still see the perfect curve of her cheek, her slow breath, her parted lips. There's such brutal peace in her that my chest tightens. Not from anguish, but from hunger.
I take off my jacket and drape it over the chair. I undo two buttons of my shirt. I don't take it off. The heat of her presence already seeps into every pore of my skin. I sit on the edge of the bed. I haven't touched her yet. I need to watch her. I need to absorb her. Does she know? She can't not know. For weeks she's been changing her nighttime habits. She no longer sleeps in loose pajamas. She wears soft nightgowns. She puts on perfume before bed. She rubs cream all over her body as if expecting me to come breathe her in. And I do. Every night I can. Always after midnight, when the city sleeps, when the world lets down its guard, when only those who can't sleep remain. Like me.
I lie down slowly behind her. My hand doesn't touch her. But my breath does. I watch her. Her neck, her collarbone. The way the silk clings to her hips. The barely perceptible rise and fall of her chest. Everything about her is hypnotic. And everything, for some reason that destroys me, seems to have been made for me. Sometimes I wonder if I'm sick. If this is love or madness. Then I look at her, and the questions disappear.
I move a little closer. I trace the tip of my nose along her shoulder. I inhale, close my eyes, and the world vanishes. Only she remains. Tonight, it's not enough to watch her. It's not enough to lie still beside her. Tonight, I want to sink into her body without touching her. I want to let the desire rise slowly, like a sweet poison caressing my throat.
My left hand rests on the sheet. I still don't touch her. But I can feel the heat of her skin through the fabric. Desire stirs, but I don't unleash it. Not yet. Not without savoring it. This is my form of prayer. She is my altar, and I am the most devout sinner to ever exist.
I don't move, don't sigh. I let gravity pull me closer to her. My tongue slides her name inside my chest like an ancient prayer. I don't say it aloud because I don't want to wake her. Not yet. Not now. Tonight is mine. Mine alone.
Her breathing is soft and steady. I listen to it as if it were a mantra. From here, I can't see her lips, though I imagine them parted, moist, innocent. And just that image is enough to ignite hunger. I move my face close to her neck, to the exact spot where her collarbone begins. I breathe in her scent. My mouth barely brushes her skin, and my breath blends with the air we share. I want to turn her toward me and press her against my chest. I want to take her and bury myself in her body until I'm empty. But I don't. Not yet.
The silk has slipped a little. I can see the top of her breast, the hollow where I could bury my face for hours. My mouth goes dry. The hand I keep on the sheet trembles. How much can I endure without touching her? I close my eyes. I drown in her scent. It's sweet, warm, and clean. But there's something else. Something that's only hers. That perfume that clings to my skin after every night I spend beside her. No matter how much I shower. It doesn't fade. As if she marks me—and I want her to.
With my eyes still closed, I slide my free hand down to my abdomen. I don't move fast. There's no rush. I trace the line of my pants with tense fingers. The erection has been throbbing since I crossed the threshold of this room, but I've held back. I've prepared myself for this.
My other hand, the one resting near her waist, still doesn't touch her. But it imagines. I imagine her skin under my fingers. The exact curve of her hip. The soft silk barely covering her body. The wetness that might be hidden between her thighs. I bite my tongue. I feel my blood boil.
I open my eyes. I look at her, and I touch myself. It's not sex, nor vulgar desire. It's need. Hunger. My hand moves over my erection. My breathing quickens. I make no sound. I can't. Every movement of my palm is a suppressed sigh. She's still asleep. Perfect and serene.
I lean in. My lips brush her collarbone. Barely a touch. My breath stays caught between the fabric and her skin. I tremble. Pleasure stirs inside me like a caged animal.
I stroke myself faster. My fingers glide wetly. I close my eyes again. I imagine her on top of me. Her hands on my chest. Her mouth is on my neck. Her voice, low, breathless, telling me not to stop. I moan, though it makes no sound. The sob catches in my throat.
My other hand finally slides over her skin. Just a second. Just a touch. Barely grazing her waist. I want to imprint her warmth. I want to know it was real. And then… I come.
My body convulses. I collapse into the sheet, clinging to the edge of the bed, teeth clenched. I don't say her name, but I think it. I scream it inside. My entire body floods with her. Her image, her scent, her silence.
I fall onto the pillow, gasping. Not from exhaustion. From relief, from pleasure, and from pain. I look at her one more time. She's still asleep. Still. Innocent. She doesn't know what I just did. Doesn't know what it meant to me. But her chest rises calmly, and inside me, something calms too.
I get up, still trembling inside. I go to the bathroom. The cold water in my hands doesn't erase the tremor, but it forces me to breathe.
When I return, she has changed positions. She's turned toward my side. Her arm is outstretched, as if searching for me. I smile. I lie down beside her. This time, closer. I let her forehead brush against my chest. I adjust her nightgown so she won't get cold. I close my eyes. Not to sleep. But to stay. And dream of the moment she'll finally be mine… awake.
CHAPTER 16
The light hasn't fully reached the sky yet, but it's already visible on the horizon. A faint, silent, gray glow begins to trace its profile across the rooftops. Beside me, Yiran sleeps. She hasn't moved since I surrendered against her, since I let her breath mix with mine and her skin calms the storm that drags me under. Her face, now so close to mine, holds a peace I could never imitate. She sleeps like someone who carries no guilt. I... never could.
Her lips are slightly parted. Her breath rises and falls in a slow rhythm that blends with the invisible beat of my chest. I've stayed too long watching her. Too long pretending this moment could ever belong to me. But I know it can't. I have no right to this. And yet, here I am. Like every night. Like every shadow that never asks for permission.
I sit up carefully. My shirt is wrinkled. My skin still burns from what I did. And even so, I feel cold as I pull away from her body. The heat she radiates is another form of dependence. A drug with no cure. I place my feet on the floor. I stay like that for a moment. In silence. Listening to her breathing is my only certainty.
I lean over her. I kiss her forehead. Not like someone saying goodbye, but like someone leaving behind an unspoken vow. My hand glides over her cheek with barely a trace of a touch. I don't want to wake her. I don't want to face her gaze. Not today. Not after what I've done.
I move away and cross the room without making a sound. Every step is a restrained echo. My body still vibrates with the memory of her skin, her scent, her closeness. As I walk, I feel as though I'm committing a sacrilege… and at the same time, that she belongs to me.
I don't need light. I know this place. I could move through the deepest darkness and still find her. I open the door to the small laundry room, where the laundry basket is. I've seen it before. I don't stop thinking. I reach inside. The damp, warm fabric of a pair of panties brushes my fingers. I pull them out. Silk. Black. Still carrying the scent of her skin. I don't know if she wore them today or yesterday. I don't care.
I bring the fabric to my nose. I inhale. I close my eyes. The entire world vanishes. This isn't perversion. It's need.
No woman on this planet has ever made me feel this. None. Only her. Only this silent creature who sleeps every night as if she doesn't know I'm her guardian, her shadow, her sickness. I lean against the wall. The soft feel of the fabric between my fingers contrasts with the tension in my muscles. I press my lips together. I don't want to lose control. Not here. But this piece of her smells like her.
Like her desire. Her body. Her dawns. And everything in me stirs.
I tuck it carefully into the inner pocket of my jacket. I don't crumple it. I don't fold it. I gather it as one would gather something sacred. Because it is. Because I won't have her body for the next few days. Because I have to travel to Hong Kong to finalize a deal that may bring me more power, more enemies, more blood. I'll leave her alone, and though my men will watch over her… it won't be the same.
I won't be able to sleep beside her. I won't be able to touch the back of her neck before closing my eyes. I won't be able to breathe in her scent while she pretends to sleep, knowing I'm there. And that tears me apart.
I return to the bedroom. I stop at the threshold. I watch her one last time. Her nightgown has ridden up a little. One leg sticks out from under the sheets. Her hand rests on the pillow, open, as if reaching for me even in sleep.
I leave the apartment without making a sound. The door closes behind me with a soft, obedient, almost reverent click. In the hallway, the dimness smells of silence and sleep. I pause for a second. I breathe in the last trace of her lingering in the air. Then I move on. I don't look back. If I do, I won't be able to leave.
The street is quiet. No one is out at this hour. The sky begins to brighten—pale and cold. The streetlights are still on, clinging to the darkness the way I cling to her memory. I walk forward with steady steps. My coat flutters in the faint wind of early morning. The car waits for me in front of the building.
One of my men opens the door without saying a word. His eyes don't meet mine. He knows better. I settle into the back seat. The interior smells of control, of power, of distance from everything I've just left behind.
"Let's go," I say.
The car pulls away. We've barely driven one block when five more vehicles join behind us. They make no sound. They don't draw attention, but they're there. Each with four men. My network. My shield. My armed shadow.
I look out the window and exhale. Then I slip my hand into the inner pocket of my jacket and pull out the garment.
Small, delicate, and worn.
I bring them to my face and inhale her scent, her essence, her body. It's not a filthy gesture or vulgar. It's an act of possession, of reverence. It's the only part of her I'll have for the next few days. I close my eyes and remember her asleep. Her parted lips, her nightgown slipping over her skin.
Did she feel me?
I put the garment away again and lean back against the seat. I close my eyes, and the only thing I can think about… is her. Her smile, her voice, her skin against mine, the warmth in my chest when I feel her back…
She doesn't know it yet…
But she can no longer escape me.
*****
I wake up with the certainty that he's no longer here. There's no startle, no surprise. Just a warm absence in the sheet grazing my side, a silent indentation my body recognizes even before my eyes open. The air still smells of him, that undefined scent that blends tobacco, sandalwood, and something else I can't name but that lingers, trapped in my pillow. I stay like this, lying on my side, breathing in that scent with held breath, as if moving might make it disappear.
He's gone. I knew it before I opened my eyes.
And yet, some part of me still hopes to find his silhouette in the dim light of the room—his shadow sitting at the edge of the bed, his rough voice whispering that it's not time yet.
He's not here, and that hurts—but it doesn't sadden me.
I sit up slowly. The nightgown slides over my skin like a caress that still remembers his touch. I remain seated on the edge of the bed, bare feet on the floor, and allow myself a single moment of silence. Just one. The sheet still holds the shape of his body, the exact indentation of his presence. The pillow still smells like him.
I run my hand over the mattress. I do it slowly, with the kind of tenderness reserved for absences. I don't dare close my eyes. If I did, I'd picture him here again, with me. Touching himself while whispering my name, while brushing my skin with his fingertips to feel me without waking me.
Shi Tong wants me. And I want him...
I stand up. Walk slowly toward the bathroom. The cold tiles wake me a little, though sleep still clings to my body like a warm memory. I stop in front of the mirror. My eyes look different. Darker. More... aware.
I turn on the shower. Steam rises quickly, fogging the edges of the glass. I slip off the nightgown as if shedding a new skin I haven't quite learned to recognize. The water welcomes me without questions. I let it run over my shoulders, my nape, my back—the one he touched with devotion. I don't rush to wash, but I don't linger either. I just… let it carry me.
Afterward, I dry off automatically. I get dressed without enthusiasm. Clean uniform. Simple underwear. Lab coat folded over my arm. I tie up my hair as I do every morning, though today the elastic resists more than usual, as if it too knows I'm not ready to be held together.
In the kitchen, I pour coffee I don't drink. I let the steam dissolve in the air as if it could carry away the knot beneath my sternum. I force myself to eat something. A tasteless piece of toast. A couple of sips of juice. The clock on the fridge waits for no one. Not for him. Not for me.
I grab my bag. Make sure I have my stethoscope, my keys, and my shift folder. As I pass through the hallway, I don't look back. I don't want to see the bed and wonder if he'll return tonight. I prefer to focus on every day. And right now, it's time to work.
I leave the house and feel a wave of relief when I see the black car still parked in the same spot. That means I'll have him again. When? I don't know. But as long as they're there, he'll come.
The white lights of the surgical hallway bring me back to a reality where things have names and shapes and diagnoses.
I assist births, sign charts, save lives, walk down corridors with a calm face.
The day continues: a child with a fever, a poorly healed fracture, a patient crying before entering surgery. Everything moves forward. So do I. But beneath the white coat, beneath the steady voice giving instructions, there's a tremor that won't stop. Everything inside me vibrates with the echo of a presence that isn't here. Sometimes it only takes a patient standing too close, someone's breath brushing my neck by accident, and my heart slams against my chest with a kind of ancient violence.
At lunch I see Liang. He's sitting in the hospital cafeteria, a steaming cup in his hands and his gaze lost somewhere beyond the window. When he notices me, he straightens slightly, as if uncertain, and finally gives a small nod. I return the gesture with the kind of politeness one gives a distant neighbor. I approach, out of courtesy. Not desire.
"Do you have a moment?" he asks, trying to sound casual.
"Yes, of course," I reply.
I sit across from him. There's an awkward pause before he speaks. He tries to fill the space with comments about the hospital, the new residents, and the report he still hasn't submitted. I let him talk. I smile faintly, without intention. I don't want to hurt him, but I won't soften what's already obvious either.
"Yiran…" he begins, lowering his voice with a mix of tension and resolve, "I need to talk one last time about how I feel for you. And I'll accept your decision, whatever it is."
I raise my eyes. I know what's coming. I've always known, even though I've done everything to avoid facing it.
"For years, I tried to convince myself that friendship was enough. That being near you, helping you, listening to you would be enough. But the truth is… I never stopped feeling more."
I don't say anything. I don't deny what I already knew. I just wait.
"You never gave me false hope. I know that. But I… insisted. I clung to the idea that if I waited long enough, if I was patient, one day you'd see me differently."
"Liang…"
"Let me finish," he interrupts, not angrily, but with urgency. "I don't expect you to change your mind. I just needed to say it clearly. Because living halfway is consuming me. And if I don't say this now, I know I'll never be able to let you go completely."
My voice is calm, firm, but not cruel.
"I'm sorry, Liang. I really do care for you. But I can't give you what you're looking for."
He nods slowly, though I can see the blow in his tense jaw, in the way his fingers tighten around the edge of the table.
"Is there… someone else?"
"Yes," I answer without hesitation. "And it's not temporary. I'm waiting for him to make a decision, and when he does, I'll be there."
Liang lowers his gaze. The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable. It's necessary.
"Are you sure that man loves you?"
"Yes."
He closes his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, there's something different in his face. Not bitter resignation, but a kind of quiet acceptance. Painful, yes—but clean.
"Thank you for being honest, Yiran. And for not pushing me away with contempt. Not everyone would do that."
"I respect you, Liang. And I don't want this friendship to disappear."
He stands up. And for the first time in a very long while, he seems lighter.
"I hope you'll be happy."
"You too."
He lingers a moment longer. Looks at me as if unsure what to do with his hands, his dignity, his pride. And without another word, he leaves.
I stare at the empty chair and feel no guilt. No sadness. Only a quiet peace. As if, in leaving, he also took a part of me I no longer needed. A version of Wan Yiran that no longer represents who I am.
The afternoon passes like so many others. Checkups, reports, overlapping shifts. But everything feels unreal, as if the whole day were covered by a thin layer of fog. My thoughts return to him without permission.
At the end of the day, I go home. Silence welcomes me like a domesticated animal. Everything is in its place: the dim light, the warm air, the stillness suspended in the furniture. But I'm no longer the same person who left this morning.
I walk to the bedroom. Not looking for traces. Not with the anxiety of wondering whether he'll return. I sit on the edge of the bed and finally let my body rest. The guilt no longer weighs on me. The confusion no longer holds me down. Liang is behind me.
I sigh, lie down slowly, and stare at the ceiling. I don't know if he'll come back tonight. I don't know if fate will bring him to me again in the middle of the night, wrapped in shadow and desire. But I know this: for the first time, if he comes back… he won't have to seek permission from my doubt. Because I choose him. Not as an escape, not as punishment, not as revenge. I choose him because my body holds no space for anyone else.
CHAPTER 17
Hong Kong fades behind like an exhausted body.
The plane rises slowly, slicing through the night with that solemnity unique to returns that weigh heavy on the chest. My men accompany me, as always, guarding without interfering. I'm on my way back, and I can feel my heart race at the thought that I'll see her in a matter of hours.
The private jet cruises calmly, as if it too understands that some things must remain unspoken. I look out the window, though I can't see anything. Only darkness. But I know that somewhere down there, her world is pulsing—in some corner of the map where she sleeps… or doesn't, unaware that I'm in the sky for her, that every kilometer I cross is nothing but a countdown to see her again.
I turn on my phone screen without thinking. The image appears on its own: her, asleep, hair tousled across the pillow. I took it without permission one night when I stayed too long watching her, as if staring at her could make her mine. That photo is mine, just like the memory of her steady breathing, her body wrapped in calm while I debated between staying… or walking away forever.
She knows nothing about me. Not where I was born, not how many people I've killed, not how many bullets carry my name. We're practically strangers, and yet, if I were to die tonight, hers would be the last name I'd whisper before I fell.
I frown. The thought bites from within. I remember what happened nights ago: the precision of the shot, the cold of steel against skin, the perfect line of death drawn by a bullet that, thanks to an instinctive turn of my head, didn't pierce my skull. If I hadn't moved at exactly that moment… I wouldn't be here now.
And it wasn't fear I felt then. It was worse. Because I didn't think of myself, or my men, or my legacy, or everything I'd leave behind. I thought of Yiran. That if I died, I'd never see her again. I wasn't angry about the attempt on my life—I was furious about what it would have taken from me. About the silence it would have left in her bed.
The traitor was easy to find: some no-name, no-past bastard who sold information in exchange for a car, a few doses, and the promise of a life that would never come. We dragged him into a basement. I tied him to a chair and held his gaze. It wasn't hatred boiling in me. It was something else. Something more visceral. More primal.
I broke his fingers one by one, without haste; not as punishment, but as procedure. I wanted to hear the exact snap of each bone, wanted his pain to take form, wanted him to understand that the only reason I was still alive was because I couldn't afford to die before seeing the one woman who gives me peace in this world again.
Then I drove a knife into his thigh. I didn't finish him. I just made him scream. And when he spat blood and muttered that he wasn't afraid of me, I ripped out his tongue. The blood splattered my shoes, but I didn't flinch or lower my gaze.
The plane begins to descend, and I haven't slept, haven't spoken a word, haven't taken a calm breath since I left. I don't need rest. I don't crave peace. I have no room left for more death. I only want one thing: a touch that doesn't exist only in my dreams.
I drink the last sip from my glass. The ice has melted. The taste no longer matters. I close my eyes. She isn't here—but I feel her. Like a hum beneath my skin. Like an old perfume etched into my bones that refuses to fade.
As the plane's wheels touch down with restrained screech and the metal vibrates beneath us, I understand with brutal clarity that I am no longer the same.
And I won't be again—unless I hold her in my arms tonight.
The engine noise begins to fade. The cabin fills with that bluish light that always precedes the quiet movements of the crew. I unbuckle my belt without hurry, while the rest of the aircraft remains silent, as if waiting for something more than the end of a journey.
A flight attendant approaches. Her voice is soft, almost reverent.
"Mr. Shi, welcome to Beijing."
She doesn't smile. She doesn't seek conversation. She simply bows her head in respect. I rise slowly, adjust my jacket, and pick up the briefcase without looking at anyone. When my shoes meet the first step of the stairway, I know that every move will be watched, discussed, feared.
There's no room for mistakes. Not tonight.
I descend with a stride that no longer needs rehearsal. Sure and measured. As if each step bore my name engraved into it. At the end of the path, a figure waits for me. He doesn't approach. He just bows his head with a curt gesture that means more than any welcome.
"Juying," I murmur as I pass him.
"Boss," he replies softly, without looking me in the eye.
We walk together across the empty tarmac. There are no curious stares—no one dares linger their gaze on us more than necessary—and the few workers crossing at a distance do so with furrowed brows, as if wondering who the hell just landed here, no name, no protocol, no noise… but with the world parting in his wake.
A car waits by the side entrance of the airport. No visible security detail, no official plates—just polished metal, tinted windows, and a silence more eloquent than any display of luxury.
The driver sees me coming and, without lifting his head, opens the rear door with precision. I pause a moment, inhale the dense air of the city that belongs to me… and then step inside.
Inside the car, everything is as it should be: perfect temperature, the neutral scent of new upholstery, leather molding to my body like it's been waiting for me. In the distance, I hear engines starting—my men, scattered in their vehicles, joining the convoy without needing orders. Each one knows his place, his role, his distance.
The first car starts, then another, and another. Seven in total. Silent, dark, coordinated like a symphony of muted power.
I lean my head against the backrest. The driver says nothing; he doesn't need directions. The route is set. And while Beijing stirs beneath headlights slicing through the fog like blades, I close my eyes for a moment to reclaim the only thing that matters to me tonight: Yiran. I haven't seen her in seven days, and that absence has clung to my skin like a silent fever.
I've tried not to think about her. I've filled my hands, my schedule, my minutes… all of it in vain. Because it's not just about being near her, or watching her sleep—it's something more intimate, more ravenous. It's wondering whether she changed the sheets that still carry the imprint of my body, whether she missed the empty space I leave on the other side of the bed, whether, when she touched herself, she thought of me.
I have no answers to that. Only the painful certainty that, during these days, there hasn't been a single place in the world where I'd rather be.
For years, I've kept my distance from anything resembling peace. I've lived in constant motion, like a loaded weapon with no holster, ready to go off at the slightest touch. And yet, now, sitting in this car moving unhurriedly through the streets, the only thing I want—the only thing burning through me like fevered longing—is to step back into her world.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, but I don't take it out. I don't care who it is. There's no voice, no message, no face that can offer what I'm missing. Because what consumes me now isn't power, or revenge, or blood. It's her. The way she looks when she thinks no one is watching, the dim tone in her voice when she's exhausted, that small furrow between her brows when something bothers her.
The car turns down the right street—the one I could follow with my eyes closed, where every paving stone seems to remember me. I tense. Something stirs inside me, like a beast that senses the end of its captivity. And then I see it: the light is on.
My throat tightens. I don't think. I only feel that blunt blow in the center of my chest, that hollow thud of certainty. She's awake... My breath catches. I don't know why. Maybe because I expected to find her asleep.
"Stop," I murmur to the driver, without looking at him.
The car brakes gently. The engine stays on, humming like it too is holding its breath. I stay still, looking up at that lit square window that brings me back to life.
I've crossed that door too many times without being invited. I've been inside like a ghost, like a thief stealing seconds, like a man who knows he has no right. But tonight is different. I don't want to enter through shadows, don't want to open without permission, don't want her to find me there without choosing me first. This time, I want her to open the door. I want her to decide. I want the gesture of welcome to come from her. If she gives it to me—if she lets me in—I won't leave again. I couldn't. Because this hunger is devouring me from the inside. Because nothing else can quiet me… but her.
I open the car door. My shoes crunch against the pavement. The air is dense, laced with that metallic scent that only appears when the city sinks into the deep silence of night. I look up. The light is still on. My body reacts like it does before every important threshold—those that need no name because their meaning burns in your blood.
A figure emerges from the shadow with the stealth of someone who has survived too many wars. I recognize him before he says a word. One of mine. Always watchful, always discreet. His expression is composed, as it should be, but there's something in his eyes that watches me differently—as if he sees a crack in my face, a tremor that wasn't there before.
"Boss," he says softly, without raising his voice. "All clear. She only went to the hospital. Came back a few hours ago. No one else has gone in or out."
I nod without pausing. He walks a few steps beside me, like he's carrying something in his throat—something burning inside that he hasn't yet said.
"And the doctor?" I ask, needing no clarification.
He swallows and pauses for just a moment before answering.
"They spoke a few days ago. After that, he requested an urgent transfer."
My jaw tightens. The silence between us stretches just enough for a slow breath to escape my lungs. It's not relief I feel—but something deeper, more final… a certainty that doesn't comfort me, but somehow frees me more than that bullet that missed by millimeters.
"Good work," I murmur.
He nods without replying, like a man who understands the weight of a moment without needing to grasp its full meaning. He withdraws without another word, knowing there's nothing more to add.
I'm left alone in front of the building. The facade hasn't changed: cracks in the steps, peeling paint on the doorway, a canopy worn down by time. Everything's the same—except me.
I lean in and find her floor. Press the buzzer. A brief beep breaks the silence, and suddenly, everything stops. The hum of the intercom still vibrates in my ears when I hear her voice. It doesn't sound like I remember it's lower, quicker, like she had to run across the house. There's a tremble in it—not from fear, but from tightly held urgency.
"Who is it?"
It's barely a whisper, but I recognize it like it's been tattooed beneath my skin all my life. I lean into the panel. I don't want to leave room for doubt. Not this time.
"It's me," I say—and my voice is rougher than I expected, barer, like something has broken inside me.
The silence that follows can't be measured. It's thick, heavy, as if the entire night has contracted around us. The distant hum of traffic fades, humidity trails down my back like a living breath, and in the midst of that suspended moment, only one question pulses violently: Will she open the door?
"If you let me in... I'll never leave your life again."
It's not a plea, not a threat. It's a vow. The only one I can give. I don't have a clean past, or a guaranteed future. Just this present that bleeds. This body full of scars and a hollow shaped exactly like her. If she opens the door tonight, she'll know there's no turning back—no version of me left untouched by her name.
I've been many things: son of no one, echoless shadow, wounded animal, man of everyone… but I've never been so human as in this second, waiting for her.
If she rejects me, I won't shatter—but something inside me will close forever.
And if she lets me in, if she crosses that invisible line between doubt and desire, she'll know I don't plan on leaving again.
A metallic click sounds on the other side. Small. Sharp. Reverent.
She opened the door.
For a moment, I don't move. My heart pounds with violence I can no longer hide. I don't smile, don't breathe out. I just stand there, still, feeling everything, I've been holding in collapse silently.
The world could fall apart right now, and I wouldn't care—because that click means everything.
She has chosen.
I clench my jaw and step through the door. The hallway greets me with its scent of old paint and dust. The light flickers overhead, but I don't notice it. I move forward. Every stair is a heartbeat. Every step, a return to life.
I don't run. I don't want to look like a desperate dog or a man stumbling toward something. But inside, everything burns. Something in my gut twists with hunger and vertigo. I don't know what's waiting for me on the other side. Whether she'll meet me with crossed arms or tear-filled eyes. Whether she'll look at me like a stranger… or like someone who recognizes the fire that once consumed her.
I stop in front of the door. Take a deep breath. Press my knuckles to the wood and knock three times.
For the first time in my entire life… I'm not the one who decides. I'm the one who silently begs to be let in.
CHAPTER 18
Night falls like a heavy shroud over the rooftops of the city. For days now, I haven't been able to tell one from the next; they repeat with surgical precision, as if someone had decided to erase any sign of change, any proof that time is actually moving forward. I shower as always, with the same mechanical gesture as I turn off the tap, using the exact same towel hanging from the second shelf; I wrap myself in it without rush, dry my body, my hair, without really paying attention to myself. I'm here—but not completely.
In the bathroom mirror, hairdryer in hand, I see the reflection of a woman who doesn't know if tonight will be just another silent one… or the last before his return. There are no signs, no messages, no calls, no promises. There never have been. And yet I find myself waiting for him every night, like an unwritten ritual. I have no reasons—only routines. Only a half-made bed and a scent embedded in the pillow that my skin still recognizes, even if my nose has started to forget.
I don't know if he's alive, or if he's coming back. I don't know if his silence is a form of punishment, a necessary distance, or simply a final decision. But here I am, drying my hair like I have every night since he disappeared.
At the hospital, I fake normality. I treat patients, review reports, do my rounds. But I'm not the same. I force myself to keep my voice steady, my steps straight, my hands stable—even though something inside me has come undone, like my soul has been waiting for days for a sign, a sound, any message, something that says: "I'm alive. I haven't forgotten you. I'm not completely gone."
There are nights I wake up startled—chest tight, legs tense, a distant echo of something that hasn't happened. I reach for the mattress beside me and it's empty. I know it is—but I touch it anyway, just in case, because some part of me still believes he could appear without a sound, that his breath alone would be enough to justify the wait.
I turn off the hairdryer with a soft click. Silence settles like a dense fog, as if the whole apartment is holding its breath. I stay still for a second, hair still damp over my shoulders and listen. There's no noise. Only the faint electrical hum of the powered-down appliance, and my breathing, a bit faster than usual.
Then I hear it…
A brief sound. Unexpected. Not loud. Not urgent. But enough to freeze my blood. The hairdryer slips from my hand into the sink. It doesn't break. I don't care. I run barefoot to the window. I lean out, the robe clinging to my body—and I see it. There's not just one car now, but two. Parked without any pretense of moving, engines off, lights out, only the latent threat of something… or someone who has returned.
My heart pounds. I don't know if it's him. I don't know whether to be afraid or cry with relief. I cross the living room, trip on the rug, reach the intercom panel, press my finger to the button, and speak.
"Who is it?" I ask, my voice is too soft for the volume inside my chest.
And then I hear it. That voice. The one I haven't heard in seven days and yet recognize as if it were tattooed on my spine.
"It's me."
I don't move. I don't breathe. There's not a single part of me that doesn't react to that sound. It's as if my entire body had paused—just to come back to life with that voice.
And then he says it:
"If you let me in… I'll never leave your life again."
The silence that follows his words is unlike any other; it has weight, density, as if it had poured over my shoulders, forcing me to stay still—suspended between desire and fear. My hand still rests on the intercom button, but it's no longer pressing. It's frozen, like the rest of my body.
My throat burns—not from emotion, but something more primal, more animal. As if that man's voice from across the building had opened a floodgate buried days ago. As if his sound alone could break me—and hold me together at the same time. How can it hurt so much to hear what I long for the most?
Part of me wants to run. Not to the door—but away from it. Wants to scream at him that he has no right to return with a line like that, that I'm not a place you come back to when it's convenient, that he can't keep unraveling my life with a single sentence, with a single look, as if saying my name were enough to rewrite me. That isn't fair.
But that part doesn't get to decide.
The other one—the part that belongs to him, the one he doesn't know exists, the one he's cultivated deep inside me with every silence, every night he didn't come and yet I waited—that part… that one already answered for me. Because when his words crossed the receiver and struck my chest, I had already chosen him.
I don't know what it means to have him, nor what consequences will come from letting him in. I know he won't give me safety, or peace, or a place to grow old in comfort. But I also know there's no place more real than his presence, that the world makes sense again when he's near, that my body recognizes him as if it's carried him inside long before ever knowing him.
"I'll never leave your life again," he said.
And I'm not sure I want him to.
I walk toward the door slowly. The click of the building's front lock still rings in my ears like a foreign heartbeat. I'm trembling. I feel it in my knees, in my fingers, in my chest. But it's not fear. It's not a doubt. It's something closer to euphoria—to the vertigo of a decision made by the body before the mind had a chance to interfere.
I lean against the hallway wall for a second. I need to breathe. The mirror in the entryway reflects an image I barely recognize hair still damp, robe cinched tight, face paler than usual. But there's something in my eyes that does feel familiar—that light only he can awaken, that restrained glow that doesn't respond to logic, but to the tremble of something that's stayed alive against all certainty.
I haven't seen him yet. I don't know if he'll come up. I don't know if he'll change his mind. But my body is already prepared to receive him.
I hear the elevator. The old mechanism kicks in with a low hum, a metallic creak that slices through the night with the brutality of a sentence. Every second it takes to rise is torture. My fingers press against one another. Anxiety climbs up my throat. I stop in front of the door. Place my hand on the handle—but don't turn it. I just breathe. Once. Twice. Three times. I close my eyes. I feel my heart pounding against my ribs like it's trying to break its way out. I don't know how I appear so composed on the outside. Inside, I'm a storm on the verge of breaking loose.
And then I hear them—three knocks. His. There's no doubt.
The hand resting on the handle trembles. Not just the finger. Not just the wrist. All of me.
It's not the tremble of weakness. It's much deeper.
It's desire.
It's hunger.
It's the brutal certainty that something is about to happen, that I'm opening the door to a before and an after.
I tighten my grip, steady my hand on the knob—
And turn it.
CHAPTER 19
The door opens slowly, without a creak. Just the soft scrape of metal against the frame, as if even the lock knew this moment had to be held in silence. It takes me a millisecond to dare lift my gaze.
And there he is.
Standing still. So real that, for a moment, I can't breathe. His dark eyes pierced through me with the same intensity I dreamed of on all nights he didn't come. His chest rises with restrained breath; his jaw is clenched; his lips, slightly parted, as if he has something to say but doesn't know where to begin.
He doesn't speak. And he doesn't have to.
In his silence, I read everything. The desire. The rage. The surrender. The mute plea of a man who hasn't come to bargain—but to stay. Or burn. Or to die, if that's what it takes, just to touch me again.
Still in my robe, with damp hair falling over my shoulders, I feel something inside me collapse. My legs tremble, but I don't back away. I don't think. I don't have a reason.
I just take one step. One.
And when I'm close enough to feel the heat of his skin, I lift my face and, with courage born of desperation and longing, press my lips to his.
The kiss explodes between us with the force of every time we imagined it. A surge of energy shoots through me as our lips finally meet. It's clumsy at first, just a trembling brush of mine against his—cold, hesitant. But the moment he exhales a surprised moan into my mouth, something ignites. His hands wrap around my waist in a swift movement, pulling me tight against him. The chill of his clothes mixes with the feverish heat rising from deep within me.
I let out a soft moan as he takes control of the kiss. His lips come alive against mine, first tracing them gently, then deepening with growing urgency. I open my mouth, shamelessly inviting him to taste me. He does: his tongue brushes mine in a wet caress that sends a shiver of pure pleasure down my spine. He tastes like tobacco and mint, of danger and salvation. A sweet heat spills through my belly—and lower—awakening a need I didn't know could exist.
My hands rise instinct, winding around his neck. My fingers tangled in his hair, clutching as if afraid he might vanish. I feel the strength of his arm around my back, holding me firmly, while the other hand slides up my cheek and into my hair. Every point of contact sparks electricity.
Time loses all meaning. The world around us fades away. The universe, the walls, the past, the future—none of it exists no longer. Only him. Only me. This kiss is everything.
A clumsy movement makes us bump into the entry table. The lamp on top wobbles and crashes to the floor with a crunch—but neither of us reacts. I open my eyes for a split second, startled by the sound, but Shi Tong seizes the moment to catch my lower lip between his and suck on it with tenderness… and hunger. It makes me forget everything instantly. I moan his name into his mouth, and he responds with a low growl from his chest—like a satisfied animal, and yet still starving for more.
I don't know how long it will last. It could be seconds or years. When, at last, our lips part just enough to breathe, we're both gasping. I rest my forehead against his, still clinging to him, feeling his heart hammer wildly against my chest. My lips tingle, my breathing is erratic… and a breathless, joyful laugh escapes my throat before I can stop it.
Shi Tong looks at me, and for the first time, I see a genuine smile slowly stretch across his lips, swollen from our kisses. His dark eyes shine with something I can only describe as bliss—and wonder.
"Yiran…" he murmurs, brushing my cheek with the back of his fingers, tucking a damp strand of hair away from my skin. His voice is intimate, soft—so different from the usual hardness in his tone.
I don't answer with words. I just kiss him again, now with small, tender kisses across his mouth, his chin… tasting the new happiness that pulses between us. He closes his eyes, breathing raggedly with every touch I give him.
"I'm here…" I whisper against the corner of his lips. "With you."
Yes. I'm here. Without fear. Without hesitation. With this kiss, with this vow of skin against skin, everything that existed before crumbles. It turns to dust around us.
Shi Tong wraps his arms around me tightly, lifting me slightly off the floor in silent ecstasy. Our laughter meets in the narrow space between our faces. There's nothing left to say. Clinging to him, my legs wrapped around his waist, because the world around me is spinning, I understand that I've finally fallen into that abyss…
And he's there to catch me.
Then, with a swift turn of his body, he closes the door behind us— as if sealing, with that gesture, the place he's chosen to stay.