The morning light was thin, weakly seeping through the pale curtains. The world outside still smelled faintly of rain, wetness clinging to the pavement and the walls of the quiet house. Shu Yao emerged from the bathroom, the towel wrapped around his waist like a fragile shield. His skin was ghostly pale, almost luminous in the soft morning light, and the faint tremor in his fingers betrayed the remnants of his fever.
He moved toward the bed with deliberate slowness, the chill of the air brushing against his damp shoulders. His body shivered, though he ignored it, He reach for the suit that laid carefully across the bed. Laying it flat, he traced his fingers along the fabric, feeling the crisp weight of it in his hands.
Juju sat perched on the edge of the bed, tail flicking, green eyes fixed intently on him. Shu Yao ignored the cold biting at his skin, sliding into the suit. The fever had ebbed, though it lingered faintly beneath his skin, a dull throbbing at the temples.
He lifted the brush and ran it through his hair. The strands had grown longer, falling past his waist. Slowly, he tied it back at the nape of his neck, a simple knot that held the untamed autumn waves in place. His gaze lingered on the mirror, and he felt the quiet ache of loneliness creep into his chest.
The kitchen below was empty. No clatter of plates, no laughter, no warm voice teasing him or calling him for breakfast. Just silence. Shu Yao drew a long breath, a low, shivering sound that seemed to stretch the emptiness even further. He bent over to rub Juju's head gently.
"You must be hungry," he murmured.
Juju blinked at him, then followed him silently as he descended the stairs. The small padding of the cat's paws against the wooden floor sounded louder than it should have, echoing faintly in the empty hall.
In the kitchen, Shu Yao opened the cabinet carefully, scanning for the cat's food. Each can and packet was a small reminder of solitude, of mornings that were never this quiet. He found it at last and poured it into a bowl. Juju dove in immediately, the soft sound of eating filling the space.
Shu Yao watched him, lips trembling despite the effort to smile. "Qing Yue… used to feed you like this too every morning," he murmured, voice low and raw.
The cat licked the food, pausing to glance up at him. Shu Yao's expression faltered, sorrow threading through the fragile mask of calm.
"It's my fault, isn't it?" he whispered.
Juju purred as he brushed a tentative paw against Shu Yao's hand. The gesture was small, yet it held warmth enough to anchor him.
Shu Yao rose and scanned the dinning room, every corner echoing absence. The aroma of his mother's breakfast was missing, leaving the air hollow. His gaze drifted to the dining table, where Qing Yue had once laughed brightly, teasing and texting Bai Qi with ease. The memory struck sharp.
His lips trembled, unsteady, as if they carried the weight of every unspoken regret. For a heartbeat, just a fleeting moment, he saw her there — Qing Yue. The bright curve of her smile, the soft glint in her eyes, the gentle tilt of her head as though she were still there, still alive in that memory.
Shu Yao's chest constricted. He reached out instinctively, fingers stretching toward the empty air where her warmth had once lingered. But his hand met only cold wood. The chair was bare. Silence waited, patient and indifferent, filling the room like thick fog.
He sank slowly into the chair, letting his shoulders slump. One hand pressed against his chest, as if he could hold his heart in place. The tears came unbidden, warm and heavy, rolling slowly down his pale cheeks. His voice, choked and brittle, barely rose above the hush of the room.
"I'm sorry, Qing Yue… I'm so sorry," he whispered, each word a trembling confession.
Juju, sensing the shift in the air, stepped onto the table. His paws made soft, cautious sounds against the polished wood. He meowed once, small and gentle, a quiet note breaking the stillness. Shu Yao looked up, startled.
The cat padded closer, hesitating just a heartbeat before brushing his warm, small body against Shu Yao's chest. The touch was light, almost imperceptible, but it carried a weight all its own — an insistence, a reminder that he was not alone. Juju's green eyes met Shu Yao's, bright and brown, as if urging him to breathe, to stop the tide of sorrow that had claimed him so thoroughly.
Shu Yao's hands fell to his lap, and he let his tears slow, the hiccuping sobs fading to quiet, shivering breaths. He clutch his head slightly, brushing his fingers on juju, letting the warmth of Juju's body brush against him.
The silence around him no longer felt empty, exactly. It was filled with the soft, steady presence of the little creature — a fragile bridge between memory and reality, between loss and comfort.
He blinked several times, gathering fragments of composure, letting the warmth seep into his cold limbs. Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his hands to his face and wiped away the tears, leaving streaks of pale dampness along his cheeks. A fragile smile forced its way through, fractured but real.
"I'll be going now," he whispered to himself, almost inaudible. "I… I need to wash my face. I'll be right back, okay?"
Juju meowed again, low and soft, as if acknowledging, as if to say he would wait.
Shu Yao rose slowly, the movement careful and deliberate. Each step toward the hallway bathroom felt weighted, as though he were carrying the memory of Qing Yue alongside the lingering ache in his chest.
He entered the bathroom, paused, and met his own reflection. Red-rimmed eyes, pale cheeks, fragile lips — the mirror reflected more than just his appearance. It showed the quiet sorrow, the lingering exhaustion, the thin thread of resolve that tethered him to the world outside his grief.
With trembling hands, he splashed cold water across his face, the droplets sharp and electric against his skin. The icy touch chased away the last remnants of sleep and fever, leaving him raw, aware, and painfully present.
He lifted the towel, pressing it gently against his cheeks. His eyes, glassy and red, met his own in the mirror. For a long moment, he simply stared, fragile as porcelain, a soft sigh escaping his lips.
The towel fell back into his hands. He placed it carefully on the counter, then closed the door behind him. Outside, the quiet of the house seemed softer now, just enough for him to take a shuddering breath, gather himself, and face the day ahead.
He drew in a long, measured breath, letting it fill his lungs before it trembled out in a soft exhale. His hands shook faintly as he adjusted his collar, the pale fingers betraying the quiet battle inside him. Today, he would return to work. Despite George's silent admonitions. Despite the lingering fever, the dull ache in his chest. Despite the exhaustion that pressed against his bones like an unseen weight.
The world beyond the door waited, bright and indifferent. Sunlight spilled across the hallway in lazy beams, but Shu Yao barely noticed. All that existed was the fragile resolve tightening in his chest, a small, stubborn flame against the cold that lingered both outside and within.
He straightened his back, shoulders stiff, and brushed a loose strand of hair from his face. The mirror had reflected a ghost of himself only moments ago, eyes rimmed with red and glassy, pale skin stretched taut over fragile bones. Yet now, he looked at himself and saw not just the exhaustion, not just the sorrow, but the quiet insistence to keep going, to face the day even when his body begged him not to.
Juju, ever patient, pressed against his ankle. The cat's soft, warm weight grounded him, tethered him to something tangible and alive. Shu Yao bent slightly, fingers grazing the soft fur, and felt a faint flicker of comfort.
"I'll be going now," he whispered, his voice almost swallowed by the quiet of the hall. "Okay… you'll wait for me, won't you? I'll be back as soon as possible."
Juju's tail flicked lightly, brushing against Shu Yao's leg one final time before he slipped ahead to wait by the stairs. The little heartbeat of life in the silent house reminded him of the world that still moved forward, indifferent yet steadfast.
Shu Yao exhaled, shoulders easing slightly despite the lingering ache. One hand lingered on the doorknob for a moment longer, a silent farewell to the quiet of the house, the shadows, the memories, the emptiness.
Shu Yao step outside fingers still lingered on the door handle for a moment, the quiet weight of the house pressing against his chest. With a soft click, he locked the door behind him, the sound final, deliberate.
He bent down, carefully placing the key under the mat. A small gesture, a thread of order in the hollow emptiness, a bridge between the world he was leaving behind and the one waiting outside.
For a moment, he stood still, the street silent around him. The first light of morning trembled across the wet pavement, hesitant and pale. Juju, perched at the window, blinked once, small and steadfast, a guardian of the emptiness within.
He straightened, shoulders tense, and lifted his hand to signal the cab. The minutes stretched, quiet and measured, the street waiting with a hushed patience.
Then headlights cut through the mist, and the soft hum of the engine filled the empty street. Shu Yao slipped into the backseat, the warmth of the car brushing against his chilled skin.
Before the cab pulled away, he turned his head toward the house one last time. Juju sat by the window, small and steadfast, the cat's green eyes catching the light. Shu Yao lifted his hand in a gentle wave.
"Take care, Juju," he whispered, voice thin but steady.
The taxi began to roll forward, the tires whispering against wet asphalt. The house receded into the fog, silent and empty, and Shu Yao lowered his gaze, letting the soft ache in his chest fold into the quiet of the morning.
Shu Yao leaned his head against the cold glass of the car window, eyes closing for a brief moment. The city lights smeared across the pane like distant stars, and in that fleeting blur, his thoughts drifted to Bai Qi.
Because of my carelessness… he whispered silently. You're suffering.
His gaze dropped, recalling those cold, unyielding eyes. He could barely believe it was Bai Qi—the same man now commanding him with frozen restraint. He couldn't even say his name aloud. Bai Qi had forbidden it. Forbidden the company. Forbidden everything. Shu Yao's chest ached, but there was no anger, no blame. He would never blame Bai Qi— for anything.
The sharp trill of his phone broke the reverie. Shu Yao's hand froze above his lap. The screen illuminated a name that made his stomach twist:" Sir ".
He swallowed hard. Why would Bai Qi call him? The contact—once casual—was now formal. Sir.
Hands trembling slightly, Shu Yao lifted the phone. His voice, almost reverent, whispered: "Hello Good morning… sir."
On the other end, Bai Qi's tone was calm. Dangerously calm.
"Shu Yao. Where are you?"
Shu Yao straightened, squaring his shoulders as if professionalism could steady his racing heart. "I'll be there in minutes, sir."
"You are my personal assistant," Bai Qi's words were clipped, precise, carrying a quiet weight that pressed against him. "If you don't handle things, then who will?"
"I'll be there… just in time, sir. I promise," Shu Yao replied, each word measured, careful.
A pause. Then the line went dead. No good morning, no lingering warmth—only silence and the faint echo of the click.
Shu Yao exhaled, his breath shaky. He placed a hand over his chest, feeling the rapid thrum beneath his fingers.
Why was Bai Qi so calm?
The question lingered like smoke in his mind, curling and twisting, impossible to chase away. Calm. Precise. Cold. It wasn't anger. It wasn't fear. It was… certainty.
And Shu Yao, despite the ache, despite the weight pressing against his ribs, felt the fragile spark of resolve.
He would go. He would do what was needed. He would not falter.
Even if Bai Qi's calm left his heart suspended somewhere between fear and longing.