Across the hall, the elevator doors slid open with a soft ding.
A man stepped out.
Zhang Yichen moved through the top-floor hallway with the same composed ease he carried everywhere else, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of his footsteps. He was still dressed in the tailored suit from his shoot earlier that evening, every line of him polished, restrained, and maddeningly perfect.
The media loved to call him the Icy Prince of the Industry.
To most people, the title fit.
Tall, elegant, unreadable.
The kind of man who looked like he had never once lost control of a single thought in his life.
He walked toward the end of the corridor and reached his apartment door, pulling out his key card.
Just as he was about to slide it in, he paused.
Music, Loud music. Very loud music.
It was coming through the wall from the apartment opposite his. Zhang Yichen slowly turned his head, His gaze settled on the door across him.
That unit had been empty for months.
He knew that because Nyx Apartments were known for privacy, silence, and the kind of discretion money could buy in bulk. Most of the residents preferred it that way.
Quiet, controlled ansd civilized.
Not whatever fresh chaos this was. The bass thudded faintly through the hallway.
His brows drew together ever so slightly.
Whoever had moved in apparently had terrible judgment in volume.
He looked at the door for one moment longer, irritation settling into him with quiet efficiency, then turned back and slid his key card into his own door.
The lock clicked.
He stepped inside.
His apartment mirrored the same level of luxury as the rest of the building, dark wood, clean architectural lines, floor-to-ceiling windows, expensive restraint in every detail. It was elegant in the way only very rich people and very emotionally unavailable men seemed to prefer.
He shut the door behind him and loosened his tie as he walked farther inside.
The tie was tossed carelessly onto a chair.
His jacket followed.
He moved toward the bar near the window, poured himself a glass of whiskey, and drank it in one long swallow. The burn was smooth, familiar, and unwelcome enough to pass as relief.
The last few days had been exhausting for him.
Nonstop shoots, Brand meetings, An endless stream of polite faces and manufactured smiles. And, hovering over all of it, the online noise that the industry fed on like a starving animal.
Zhang Yichen set the empty glass down and leaned back against the counter.
For a brief moment, his thoughts drifted again to the scandal that had swallowed headlines for weeks.
The model.
The affair accusations.
The public humiliation.
The fall.
Then the hospital clip.
He remembered the cold look in those eyes.
His gaze shifted toward the wall separating his apartment from the one across the hall.
Mo fei.
That was the name.
A faint smirk touched Zhang Yichen's lips as the clip replayed in his mind. The smirk lingered for only a second before fading.
He let out a quiet scoff.
The industry was never meant for the weak. And Mo fei had always looked weak.
Quiet, Too soft. Too gentle in a world that rewarded cruelty and fed on hesitation.
People like that did not survive in this world.
Zhang Yichen picked up the whiskey bottle again but paused before pouring another drink. After a moment, he set it back down and pushed the glass aside.
He still had work later that night. Sleep mattered more than indulgence.
He headed toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, already unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt as he walked. A shower, then rest. That was the plan.
But the music from the neighboring apartment still throbbed faintly through the wall.
His expression hardened.
Whoever had moved in was already annoying him.
A few minutes later, the sound of running water filled his apartment.
Across the hall, Mo fei had absolutely no such plans for dignity or restraint. At first, the luxury had stunned him. Then it had delighted him, and now it had completely gone to his head.
Left alone in an apartment that looked like it belonged to a movie star or a very successful criminal, he had done what any reasonable man who had died, revived, and woken up in an A-list model's body might do.
He enjoyed himself.
The original body had lived in a world of wealth and elegance and had still chosen to throw it all away by commiting suicide
Mo fei clicked his tongue to himself as he wandered through the apartment.
"What a waste."
A man like him would never.
Not for heartbreak. Not for scandal. Not for anything. If fate had handed him beauty, luxury, and floor-to-ceiling windows, he intended to at least look around properly before losing his mind.
Aria had stocked the fridge with nearly everything imaginable, so he helped himself without guilt. He had a drink. Then another. Music came on soon after that, loud, shameless, filling every corner of the apartment.
He danced around for a while, not gracefully, but enthusiastically.
Why not?
He had died. Or almost died. Then somehow come back in the body of a rich, famous man.
If that did not earn a little reckless celebration, what did? Hours passed.
The apartment glowed warmly under the city lights while music blasted through it without mercy. By the time he began to tire, Mo fei was pleasantly warm from the alcohol, shirt abandoned somewhere behind him, hair a mess, and entirely too comfortable.
Then the doorbell rang.
He blinked.
Was Aria back already?
Drink still in hand, he pushed himself up from where he had been lounging and walked toward the door without bothering to put a shirt back on. He opened it with lazy ease.
"Did you forget something, Ari..." The words died in his throat.
A man stood in the doorway.
For one suspended moment, Mo fei forgot how breathing worked.
The hallway light behind the stranger cast a long shadow across the entrance, sharpening every hard line of his figure. Up close, he looked even more imposing than any billboard or magazine photo could capture.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Perfectly put together even in irritation.
His dark shirt clung cleanly to his frame, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms. His hair was slightly damp, as if he had just come from the shower. And his face, His face was cold. Not casually unfriendly. Not mildly annoyed. Cold in a way that suggested patience was a temporary condition and Mo fei was using it up very quickly.
Zhang Yichen, the industry's Icy Prince was pissed and at that particular moment, he looked like a man being held together by self-control and expensive tailoring.
His eyes moved slowly over Mo fei taking in the full disaster before him.
Messy hair.
Glass in hand.
No shirt.
For half a second, the famous icy composure seemed to crack only slightly.
Then it sealed itself back into place.
His gaze sharpened.
"...You."
The word was low and flat.
Not surprised. Just recognition wrapped in frost. Of course he knew that face.
The entire country knew that face.
Mo fei.
The disgraced model who had fallen from the eighteenth floor and somehow lived.
Behind Mo fei the bass still thudded faintly through the apartment.
Zhang Yichen's gaze flicked briefly past him, into the room, then returned to his face. The kind of calm that carried annoyance so cleanly it almost felt elegant.
"You've been blasting that damn music for hours."
He leaned one shoulder lightly against the doorframe, clearly with no intention of leaving until the issue was dealt with.
Mo fei blinked, rude. Very rude.
Also, annoyingly very handsome. He stared at the man for a moment, trying to place the face more clearly in his mind. He had definitely seen him before. Somewhere. On screens, online, in memory fragments that still did not fully belong to him.
But right now, his brain was splitting its attention between offense and appreciation.
He was tall.
Ridiculously tall.
And good-looking enough to make irritation aesthetically inconvenient.
The heavens, Mo fei thought dimly, really did know how to sculpt people when they felt like showing off.
"Ah... I apologize," Mo fei said quickly.
His tone was more sincere than defensive. He immediately glanced down, patting himself for the remote like a man trying to prove he was not, in fact, a public nuisance with abs.
"I had no idea it was that loud."He found the remote in his pocket, pressed the button, and at once the music cut off.
Mo fei looked back up at him, Now that the noise was gone, the moment somehow felt even more awkward.
He straightened a little, still holding the drink, still shirtless, still very much aware of the other man's stare.
"I'm Bai..." He stopped himself.
Wrong life.
Wrong name.
For a terrifying half second, he almost introduced himself as Bai Ju.
Then he corrected smoothly, if a little awkwardly.
"Mo fei, I'm Mo fei, I just moved in." Mo fei gave him a smile.
Unfortunately, Zhang Yichen did not look like a man particularly moved by smiles.
He was still frowning.
And Mo fei, caught under that cool and unimpressed gaze, found himself wondering whether the original Mo fei had somehow offended him in the past or whether Zhang Yichen simply looked at everyone the way a king might look at disappointing furniture.
For a moment, Zhang Yichen said nothing.
The overhead lights caught faintly in his dark hair as he tilted his head ever so slightly, studying the man in front of him with the same cool precision he seemed to bring to everything.
Of course he knew who Mo fei was.
Everyone in the industry did. He had seen that face on magazine covers, luxury campaigns, gossip columns, and more recently, splashed across scandal headlines and viral videos. But the person standing in front of him now did not quite match the image he remembered.
Messy hair.
Bare chest.
A drink in hand.
And a stupid smile.
That, more than anything, was strange.
Because the Mo fei Zhang Yichen remembered had always seemed guarded. Withdrawn to the point of fragility. The type of person who looked as though harsh words alone might leave bruises.
"You're loud and drunk"
He said it as a simple fact rather than an insult, but there was still an unmistakable edge beneath the calm.
Then he took a step back toward his own apartment.
"This building isn't a nightclub."
And with that, he turned, slid his key card into his door, and stepped inside. The door shut behind him with a soft click that somehow felt ruder than if he had slammed it.
For a second, Mo fei stood there in the hallway, still holding his drink, staring at the closed door across from him.
Then his brows drew together.
Rude.
First of all, extremely rude.
Second of all, annoyingly handsome.
Mo fei frowned as he backed into his own apartment and shut the door.
He didn't like him.
That decision came quickly and firmly, settling into place with all the confidence of a man who had been insulted by someone with a perfect face and far too much composure.
No, he definitely did not like him.
And yet...
Why did the man look so familiar?Mo fei stood there for another moment, hand still resting on the door handle, trying to catch the slippery thread of recognition before it escaped again.
Somewhere in the mess of his memories there was something. Something important.
But it stayed just out of reach.
With a quiet scowl, Mo fei pushed himself away from the door and went back into the apartment, still deeply offended and only slightly distracted by the fact that fate had apparently decided his new neighbor needed to look like that.
Truly, the universe had a sick sense of humor.