The room seemed to close around him the moment the door was locked, a silence thick enough to echo. Shu Yao take a exhausted breath, shoulders faintly trembling, the weight of the long day pressing against his slender frame. His fingers tugged at the collar of his suit jacket, loosening it as though it were a chain wound too tightly about his throat. Piece by piece, the polished armor of the office came undone—jacket folded with deliberate care, tie coiled like a strangled serpent, shirt and trousers placed neatly aside on the chair by the desk.
He moved across the room with weary precision, every gesture slow, deliberate, as though his body might collapse if he dared quicken his pace. The bathroom door creaked open, releasing a faint breath of cool tile and sterile light. Shu Yao turned the tap, and at once the water surged, crashing against porcelain with a steady, rushing rhythm. Steam began to rise, blurring the edges of the mirror until his reflection vanished behind a veil of mist.
He stepped beneath the cascade, the shock of warmth enveloping him. The streams clung to his pale skin, trailing over collarbones and spine, tracing faint scars that had once marked him like cruel signatures. Yet time had softened them—what were once harsh welts of torment had faded to pale shadows, barely visible now, like secrets whispered too long ago to hold power. He tilted his head back, allowing the water to pour across his face, his eyes closing as though to let the world dissolve with it.
For a moment, it felt as though the water might wash the exhaustion away. But when he finally reached for the handle and silenced the cascade, the silence returned heavier than before.
Shu Yao wound the towel around his narrow waist, drops of water trailing from the ends of his damp hair to darken his shoulders. He stood before the wardrobe, bare feet sinking into the carpet, gaze wandering without intent. His fingers brushed the edge of the sliding door and he drew it open. A row of garments stared back at him—orderly, colorless, practical. Yet what caught his eyes was not his own.
A coat, dark and elegant, hung at the corner. George's.
The sight drew him still, his breath caught between his lips. He had forgotten to return it. Or perhaps—had he truly forgotten? The faint scent of cologne still lingered in the fabric, one that stirred memories he dared not hold. His chest tightened, and swiftly he shook his head, dismissing the thought as though it were a trespass. Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow, he would return it.
He turned away, retrieving a pair of pale pajamas from the shelf. The soft cotton slid against his skin, light as a whisper, but the moment he dressed, his body sagged beneath the unseen weight pressing down on him. With each step back toward the bed, his legs felt heavier, his breath slower, his head thick with a weariness that sank to the bone.
He lowered himself onto the mattress, the springs sighing beneath his frail weight. The towel he had used still clung to his hands, and he lifted it lazily to dry his hair, rubbing until the strands fell in damp curls against his temples. The task, mundane as it was, felt monumental. Yet when he finished, he placed the towel neatly aside, just as he had folded his clothes and set them in their place.
Even in exhaustion, Shu Yao could not let chaos linger in his space. He moved with quiet insistence, restoring order piece by piece, as though tidiness might hold the fragments of himself together. His hand reached the drawer, sliding it open with a soft scrape.
Inside lay the small amber bottle. Its presence was unassuming, its purpose unspoken, yet it glimmered beneath the lamplight like temptation itself. Shu Yao hesitated, fingertips grazing its cool surface, before he unscrewed the cap with a muted twist. Two pills fell into his palm, white against the faint tremor of his skin.
He poured water into the glass, the sound clear, delicate, almost too loud for the room's silence. He lifted it to his lips and swallowed, the pills slipping down with a chill that lingered in his throat. Then, with practiced care, he replaced the bottle inside the drawer, closing it firmly as though to shut away the truth along with it.
At last, he sank back against the cushions, his body sinking into the mattress like a ship surrendering to the tide. The blanket rose over him, cocooning him in its faint warmth, though his bones still felt cold beneath the surface. His gaze lingered on the ceiling, tracing cracks only he could see, until the heaviness of his lids began to pull him under.
He exhaled slowly, the kind of breath that carried more than fatigue—it carried surrender. The silence of the room deepened, and Shu Yao lay waiting, patient and still, for the medicine to reach him. For sleep to blur the sharpness of the day. For shadows to dissolve, if only for a few fleeting hours.
And in the hush, with the moon a pale witness through the curtained window, Shu Yao drifted into the waiting arms of night, a fragile figure bound in exhaustion, his secrets folded tightly within him.
The car rolled to a halt before the towering gates of the Rothenberg villa, its engine humming one last note before falling silent. The night air was velvet, brushed with the faint fragrance of garden roses, their perfume drifting beyond the high white walls.
Bai Qi moved first. The driver, trained and poised, hurried to reach the handle, but Bai Qi's impatience prevailed—he pushed the door open himself, stepping out with that unmistakable confidence etched in the line of his stride. The crisp cut of his black tailored suit caught the silver glow of the streetlamps, sharp against the darkness.
On the other side, the driver managed to open the door for Armin, who unfolded his tall frame from the car with measured grace. The elder brother's presence was quieter, more reserved, yet no less commanding. He looked up at the villa with a gaze that revealed little, though within him thoughts stirred like restless waves.
"Come on, bro," Bai Qi said lightly, reaching over to place a hand on Armin's shoulder. "I'll show you around. This place is wasted if you don't see it properly."
The wrought-iron gates, white and gleaming with delicate curls of craftsmanship, creaked as they opened. Beyond stretched a driveway of pale cobblestones, winding toward the grandeur of the estate. The Rothenberg villa revealed itself like a painting come alive—symmetry, power, elegance, all bound in marble and stone.
At the center of the courtyard rose a magnificent fountain, its tiers carved in spirals of white and green. Water arched into the air, catching light in liquid diamonds before falling back in a chorus of sound, rhythmic and serene. Around it, manicured lawns spread in perfect squares, edged with flowerbeds bursting with violets and hydrangeas. Tall conical shrubs lined the paths, their emerald tips pointing skyward as though saluting the villa's majesty.
To the left stood a small open garage shaded by striped umbrellas, a luxury car gleaming beneath it like a jewel. To the right, pathways curved toward a shaded garden corner, trellises entwined with climbing vines, their shadows weaving patterns across the ground. Beyond the main structure, lights shimmered against the surface of an expansive pool. Its waters glowed a shade of cerulean, broken only by the soft ripple of a floating swan ornament, while white loungers and a shaded pavilion waited at its edge.
The villa itself loomed in dignified symmetry, its pale stone façade bathed in soft amber light. Arched windows stared out like watchful eyes, their glass reflecting the night sky. Balconies crowned with ornate balustrades stretched outward, catching the soft perfume of gardens below. At the heart, a double staircase led to great wooden doors, flanked by columns carved with timeless precision. It was not merely a house but a declaration—of wealth, of lineage, of power unbent by time.
Armin stepped forward slowly, his tall shadow trailing long across the stone. Bai Qi's hand still rested against his shoulder, light yet grounding, urging him toward the entrance. But just as they crossed the threshold of the gates, another sound fractured the moment—the low growl of a second engine.
Bai Qi turned, brows lifting. Another car had drawn to a halt at the curb, its headlights cutting sharp beams across the courtyard. The driver hurried out, pulling the door open with practiced precision.
From within emerged George.
His expression was carved in irritation, his jaw set, eyes narrowed as though he had little patience left to spend. Yet when his gaze landed on the figures before him—Bai Qi with his infectious grin, and Armin standing tall, statuesque under the garden lamps—something in George softened. The edge of his annoyance dulled, the hard line of his mouth easing fractionally.
"Uncle George!" Bai Qi's voice rang out, bright, almost mischievous, slicing through the evening's formality. "Come on. Let's get inside together."
The words were delivered with the warmth of a host welcoming family, though beneath them glimmered the faint trace of authority Bai Qi could never fully disguise. He belonged to this villa, to its grandeur, to its legacy—and he expected those he called his own to belong here as well.
George's eyes flickered briefly between the two brothers. He exhaled, long and quiet, then stepped forward, his polished shoes striking the cobblestones with deliberate weight. The storm he had carried in his chest cooled slightly, tempered by the sight of kin awaiting him.
Together they advanced—the three figures framed by wealth's architecture. The fountain whispered behind them, the gardens stood in disciplined silence, and the villa rose before them like a monarch's throne. The doors, tall and golden with brass handles, loomed closer, promising warmth, wine, and perhaps new arguments within.
Bai Qi was the first to climb the steps, his hand brushing briefly against the marble rail as though claiming it. Armin followed with his usual measured pace, his expression unreadable but his eyes absorbing everything—the elegance, the weight, the unspoken pride that saturated the air. George lingered a half-step behind, his gaze sweeping across the estate with something caught between resentment and reluctant admiration.
And then, as they reached the threshold, the great doors opened inward. Light spilled across them, gilding their faces, welcoming them into the heart of Rothenberg power.
"Now back to shu Yao"
The silence of the room deepened, the ticking of the clock falling into a muffled hush as the pills began to dissolve into Shu Yao's bloodstream. His lashes fluttered once, twice, before surrendering at last to the heavy pull of slumber. The faint lamplight spilled across his cheekbones, softening the exhaustion etched into his pale face. Slowly, inexorably, his body yielded, sinking beneath the quilt as though the weight of the world was finally lifting from his narrow shoulders. Sleep claimed him like a tide, dragging him beneath its veiled waters.
And in that quiet sea, the dream unfurled.
At first, it was colorless, a gray expanse where nothing stirred, but then—petals. Scarlet, vivid, impossibly alive. They bloomed one after another in the void until the dream was drenched in crimson roses. Amid them stood Bai Qi. His tall figure loomed, sharp against the storm of blossoms, his black tailored suit stark as midnight. In his hands he carried a bouquet of roses—thornless, immaculate, as though he had carefully stripped away every sharp edge before holding them.
Shu Yao's breath caught. His steps faltered, then carried him forward, hesitant yet compelled, like a moth toward a flame. The roses looked impossibly soft, and for a moment, Bai Qi's expression was unreadable, hesitant—as though reluctant to hand them over. Then shu Yao move toward Bai qi, and he stopped once when his gaze fixed on Bai qi eyes, as he said
"Do you… want me to give these roses to Qing Yue?" Shu Yao asked, his voice trembling between curiosity and dread. His eyes lifted, searching Bai Qi's face for the answer, for warmth, for any sign of truth.
Bai Qi scratched at the back of his neck, his lips curving into a weary, almost nervous smile. "No," he said simply.
Shu Yao blinked. His heart thudded once, loud and heavy. "Then why are you holding them?" His words were no more than a whisper, weighted with fragile hope.
Finally, Bai Qi's voice came, low and reluctant, yet it cracked open the dream like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. "It's not for Qing Yue," he murmured. His gaze wavered, unable to hold steady. "It's for you, Shu Yao."
The world seemed to pause. Shu Yao's cheeks flamed, his lips parting in disbelief. His chest tightened with something he could not name, an ache so sweet it felt like pain. He lowered his gaze, too shy to withstand the intensity of the moment, yet his trembling hands reached forward, yearning to touch, to accept.
But just as his fingertips brushed the air between them, something shifted.
Bai Qi's face hollowed, the warmth bleeding out as if stolen by shadows. His obsidian eyes sharpened into cold steel, and that smile—the smile Shu Yao had clung to—twisted into a cruel smirk. The same smirk. The same merciless curve he had seen in yesterday's dream.
Shu Yao flinched, his breath caught in his throat. He searched desperately for the warmth that had been there a moment ago. "Bai Qi… ?" His voice cracked, fragile as glass.
But Bai Qi only let out a low, disdainful "tch". "How pathetic."
The words fell like a dagger. Shu Yao's heart sank, plunging into cold waters. Terror clawed up his chest. This was not the Bai Qi he knew, nor the one who had spoken his name with such gravity.
With a casual cruelty, Bai Qi let the bouquet fall. The roses tumbled to the ground, scattering their petals across the dark soil of the dream. Shu Yao gasped as Bai Qi's polished sole pressed down. One step, then another, grinding the blossoms beneath his heel until they were nothing but crushed red ruin.
"No… stop it!" Shu Yao's knees hit the ground as he reached out in desperation. His slender hands trembled, but he did not weep. His throat burned as though each word had been torn raw,
and though his autumn soft eyes shone with the sharp sting of unshed tears, not a single one was allowed to fall. His chest heaved beneath the weight of silent anguish, his restraint holding against the collapse.
"Please… stop…"
Bai Qi tilted his head, looking down at him with that hollow amusement, as though watching a struggling insect. His voice was calm, even mocking.
"Do you know why I didn't want these given to Qing Yue, huh! Shu Yao?"
Shu Yao froze, lips parting but no sound escaping. His chest heaved. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, but his words abandoned him.
Bai Qi crouched down, eye to eye now, his breath sharp with derision. "Because Qing Yue's favorite flowers… are lilies."
Shu Yao's eyes widened, the truth striking him like lightning. His chest quaked with silence, his voice broken into fragments too small to gather.
"And do you know," Bai Qi continued, his smirk deepening, "why I crushed these roses?"
Shu Yao's throat constricted. His lashes trembled. His lips parted, but the words withered before they could form. His entire body stiffened, paralyzed, awaiting the cruelty he sensed would come.
"Because roses," Bai Qi whispered, leaning close enough that his voice brushed like venom against Shu Yao's ear, "are your favorite. Aren't they,
The dream suffocated him. Shu Yao's heart stopped, then pounded painfully, as though trying to tear free from his chest. His entire frame froze, consumed by horror, by betrayal, by the unbearable truth of that cruel mockery.
In the silence that followed, the crushed roses lay scattered like his own spirit, broken and bleeding beneath Bai Qi's unyielding heel.