The decision takes exactly nine minutes. It is a Wednesday morning, squeezed precisely between an 8:00 AM briefing and an 8:09 AM client call.
At 8:07 AM, Zhifan moves Lin Yuyan out of the acquisition file and reclassifies him as an operational asset. It isn't an emotional pivot; it is a resource reallocation, which is the only language Zhifan speaks before his third cup of coffee. The acquisition firm Yuyan runs is lucrative, but the man himself is the real anomaly. Yuyan doesn't perform unimpressedness the way rivals do to gain leverage. He is simply, fundamentally, unmoved.
To Zhifan, that absolute lack of theater is the rarest commodity on the market.
He picks up his phone. He books Wenhe. For two.
The First Dinner
Yuyan arrives at seven-fifteen. Not a minute early to signal eagerness; not a minute late to play a power game. The reservation is for seven-fifteen, and Yuyan treats time as an unalterable physical law rather than a social message.
He steps into the dining room, and his gaze cuts across the space in a single, sweeping arc. He isn't checking if the ambiance matches his status. He is mapping the room. In two seconds flat, Yuyan has logged the fire exits, the blind spots behind the columns, and the exact distance between their table and the nearest waitstaff.
Then he sits down, looks at Zhifan, and strips his face of all of it.
Zhifan watches the transition, a quiet thrill tightening in his chest. Fascinating.
Forty minutes in, Zhifan drops the bait: the Beihai problem. He details the regulatory gridlock, the four months of frozen licensing, and his legal team's repeated failures. He pauses, lifting his wine glass, waiting for the standard social currency—the 'I might know a guy' or the hollow sympathy.
Yuyan doesn't offer currency. He simply finishes Zhifan's unfinished sentence.
He recites the specific regulatory clause the board is hiding behind. He cites the 2019 legal precedent that invalidates it.
"The appellate contact who handled that case is named Ren Shuyi," Yuyan says, his tone level and dry. "Her office is in the old district. She doesn't take cold calls. I can provide the referral, if it's useful."
Zhifan holds his glass halfway to his lips, letting three seconds tick by in absolute stillness.
I am being managed, Zhifan realizes. And I can't even see the horizon line.
He sets the glass down. "That would be useful."
The Desk
At 2:00 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.
The Second Dinner
Three weeks later, the Beihai license clears at 10:47 AM.
Zhifan looks at the official notification, and Yuyan's voice echoes in his mind, detached and precise. He types out a brief text: The license cleared this morning.
The reply takes four minutes: Good.
No exclamation points. No professional congratulations. Just a single syllable.
Zhifan stares at the word on his screen. Then, he books Wenhe again. For Thursday—because Thursday is the day Yuyan's schedule traditionally opens up, a detail Zhifan realizes he has memorized without ever intending to.
They sit at the same corner table. Between the first and second course, Zhifan extends his arm, pressing two fingers lightly against the back of Yuyan's hand.
It isn't a grip. It is the feather-light pressure you use to test the temperature of stone. Zhifan doesn't interrupt his own sentence. He doesn't look down at their skin. He keeps his eyes locked entirely on Yuyan's face.
Yuyan doesn't stumble mid-word. His pupils don't dilate. The micro-muscles around his jaw don't flinch. He finishes his thought at the exact same, measured cadence, looks back into Zhifan's eyes, and waits for a reply.
He treats Zhifan's fingers as if they are simply part of the room's architecture.
Zhifan lets his fingers linger for one heartbeat longer than necessary before drawing his hand back. He answers the question, his mind already spinning the equations.
There are only two possibilities. Either Yuyan is genuinely dead to physical proximity, or he processed the contact and chose—in the span of a millisecond—to manufacture an absolute vacuum.
Zhifan orders the second course, entirely consumed by the riddle.
What Zhifan doesn't see, hidden beneath the heavy drape of the tablecloth, 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.
...
Later. Yuyan's apartment.
Zhifan does not announce the intention. He simply does not
leave when the dinner ends — he follows the evening the
way you follow a sentence you are not yet ready to finish.
From the restaurant to the street. From the street,
eventually, here.
The apartment is as Zhifan has catalogued it: spare, the
desk lamp lit, nothing on the walls. The specific quality
of a space that is inhabited but not settled in. He has
been here before, for functions he can categorize. Tonight
does not have a function he can categorize.
He is aware of this. He proceeds anyway.
Yuyan is standing near the window when Zhifan closes the
distance.
He does it without drama — the simple movement of a person
who has made a decision and is executing it. He is tall
enough that at close range his presence becomes a different
kind of fact. He watches Yuyan's face when he arrives at
the threshold.
What he sees: nothing. The surface holds. The controlled,
measuring expression, the stillness that has no clean
category.
What he does not see:
Something arrives at the back of Yuyan's throat — metallic,
old, the specific taste of a thing his body remembers before
his mind gets there. The rust. It arrives when Zhifan is
close enough that the warmth of him is a physical fact —
the faint scent of fabric, the specific quality of a person
whose proximity has weight.
Yuyan's mind files it: *contact imminent, maintain surface,
operational requirement is compliance.*
The rust does not care about the operational requirement.
Zhifan sits on the edge of the desk. He sets his hand on
Yuyan's thigh — lightly, with the specific confidence of
someone who does not ask permission for the space he
occupies. He watches Yuyan's face.
The surface holds.
What is underneath the surface: Yuyan has counted seventeen
seconds since Zhifan crossed the threshold. He knows the
weight and temperature of the hand on his thigh as a fact
separate from his own body — as if the information is being
received by someone he is observing rather than by himself.
This is the thing his body does when it decides the situation
is too large for normal processing. It steps outside and
watches.
He has been watching from outside for seven years.
He looks at Zhifan.
*Dependency confirmed,* some operational part of him notes.
*Exposure increasing. Phase Three viable.*
Another part of him — smaller, older, the part that still
knows what it felt like to be in a room with this person
before all of this — simply notes that Zhifan is here, and
that the hand is warm, and that warmth is the most dangerous
thing in the world when you have been cold for a very long time.
He does not name this.
He does not name any of it.
'I know what you're doing,' Yuyan says.
His voice is level. The same register as always.
Zhifan looks at him. The corner of his mouth moves — not
quite a smile. 'I know you do.'
He does not move the hand.
Neither does Yuyan.
"I know," Yuyan says.
Zhifan watches him. He stands abruptly
Then closes the distance further,his shadow stretching long across the room and falling over Yuyan just as he 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 Zifan'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.
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 .
He grips Zifan's cheeks tightly, forcing his lips apart as he leans closer. He kisses Zifan recklessly, sucking on Zifan'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 use his another arms wrap around Zifan'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 hang 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 at midnight. 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.
Those eyes are truly beautiful, not in any simple sense. Some people's eyes are beautiful because of their shape. His are something more. Zifan's eyes are beautiful because of their gaze. Perhaps because he is a born actor, every glance he casts is laced with charm. He can beckon people into descending into hell alongside him.
.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.