Andre pushed open the studio door at 12:15 sharp, slipping in with quiet steps. Inside, the faint hum of equipment filled the air, layered with Mo Yue's voice echoing smoothly through the microphone. Wei Yuxiang sat across from him at the console, focused, adjusting dials and murmuring technical notes. Both men were immersed in their rhythm, the atmosphere calm but charged with creativity.
The first to notice him was Mr. Guo. He turned, eyebrows lifting.
"You're here. Good." His tone was brisk but approving. "Stay here and take care of him. I've already ordered takeout, so you don't need to worry about food. I have things to do, so I'm leaving this to you. Handle things properly."
Andre gave a small nod. "Yes, sir."
With that, Mr. Guo grabbed his coat and strode out, leaving the faint smell of coffee trailing behind him.
Mo Yue, still inside the booth, glanced up from the sheet music and spotted him. A lazy grin tugged at his lips.
"Yo, you're here."
Andre, ever composed, offered a polite bow of his head.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Mo. Good afternoon, Mr. Wei."
Mo Yue clicked his tongue immediately, feigning irritation. "How many times have I told you to cut out the 'Mr. Mo'? Just Mo. You make me sound like I'm pushing forty."
Wei Yuxiang chuckled without looking up from the console. "Same here. Call me Wei. I don't like the 'Mr.' either. Makes me feel like I should be retired and lecturing in a university."
Andre replied calmly. "Noted. I'll remember."
"Good. Now, let's keep this going," Mo Yue said, turning back toward Wei, who was already queuing up the next track. The two of them quickly became absorbed again, one singing, one adjusting, the studio brimming with energy.
Andre sat quietly in the corner, his role merely to observe for now. Outwardly calm, his posture straight, he gave off the appearance of a dutiful assistant. But his mind was far from still.
He woke late that morning—9:45. Later than usual, but when he blinked awake, he felt oddly refreshed. His body was light, his chest strangely relieved. After last night's chaos, he thought sleep would never come. Yet it had, heavy and dreamless, as though his body had forced him into oblivion.
In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, but the mirror betrayed him.
The moment his gaze landed on his own reflection, the memories surged. Yichen's face beneath him. The way his thin lips trembled, soft yet unyielding. The pale skin he had bitten into, marked deliberately, daringly. The way the man—his stepfather, the unshakable Zhen Yichen—had faltered. Broken.
Andre leaned forward against the mirror, palms flat against the cold glass.
What the hell did I do last night…
Shock flickered in him, but it was shallow. The deeper current was darker, sharper. He should feel disgust. He should feel fear. He should want to forget. But instead… instead, a twisted satisfaction gnawed at him.
"At least," he murmured to his reflection, lips curling, "it'll scare him off for a while."
He told himself that. Repeated it like a mantra. But even as he left the bathroom and walked downstairs, part of him already knew it wasn't true.
The sound of voices floated up from the dining room. His mother's laughter, gentle, warm. And another voice.
Andre froze halfway down the stairs.
When he finally descended fully and entered the dining room, his chest tightened.
There he was. Yichen.
Not gone. Not distant. Not avoiding them like usual. Instead, he sat at the breakfast table across from Celia, a cup of coffee in hand. He looked… different. His skin pale, his eyes shadowed, his posture tight. As if he had barely slept. As if the entire night had wrung him dry.
Andre's silver eyes narrowed. So… he didn't run away. He stayed.
Yichen lifted his gaze briefly. Their eyes met. The man's composure remained intact, as always, but Andre caught it—just for a split second—the faint tremor of unease before he looked away again.
A scoff almost rose from Andre's throat, but he held it back. He slid into his seat, greeted his mother, and pretended not to notice Yichen's discomfort. But inwardly, a dark thrill curled inside him.
He had thought last night would disgust him, that touching Yichen—forcing him, daring him—would make his skin crawl. But no. His body betrayed him. It reacted. He had reacted. And now, seeing Yichen pale and shaken, Andre felt something shift.
Not just hate. Not just resentment. Something worse.
I want to break him.
The thought settled in him, solid and sharp. He wanted to shatter Zhen Yichen, piece by piece. Not just for taking his mother. Not just for making him leave Italy, for stealing his peace, for haunting his nights with dread. But because the man trembled under his touch. Because he, Andre, could make him vulnerable.
Because it thrilled him.
He chewed his toast slowly, gaze flicking between his mother's serene smile and Yichen's quiet stiffness. Celia didn't notice. She never did. She was content, chatting lightly, sipping her tea. Sometimes he wondered if his mom never felt how distant Yichen treat her. Not like a wife at all, especially when they don't sleep in the same room and she doesn't have access to his room. Or he doesn't spend private time with her. Doesn't she see that this man isn't normal.
But Andre saw everything. Yichen's pale knuckles gripping the cup too tightly. His faintly parted lips, hiding the fact he was holding his breath. The way he avoided Andre's stare like it was poison.
You're scared of me now, aren't you?
Andre pressed his tongue against his teeth to keep from smirking. Good. Let's see how far I can push you before you finally break.
Now, sitting in the studio hours later, Mo Yue's voice echoing faintly through the glass, Andre leaned back in his chair. He looked calm, even bored, but his mind was tangled in last night's shadows.
He could still feel Yichen beneath him. Still taste his skin. Still hear the faint, unwilling sounds that escaped him when Andre's lips pressed harder, when his hand wandered lower.
And now, in the light of day, instead of guilt, all he felt was hunger.
It disturbed him. It fascinated him.
He clenched his hands in his lap, unseen by anyone. Do I hate him? Or… do I want him?
The question echoed, dangerous, unanswered. He shook his head, forcing the thought away. He wasn't weak. He wasn't gay. He wasn't twisted.
But then—his lips curved faintly, dangerously—if I become twisted, it will be Zhen Yichen's fault.
Yes. He would keep playing this game. He would keep pushing, keep touching, keep tormenting. Until Yichen could no longer hide behind that cold mask. Until the man either left his mother, or shattered completely in Andre's hands.
Either way, Andre would win.
Mo Yue's laughter suddenly broke through his thoughts.
"Hey, Andre," he called from the booth, voice amused. "Don't just sit there like a statue. You look like you're plotting how to kill someone."
Andre blinked, snapping back to reality. His face still expressionless calmly replies."Sorry. Just lost in thought."
"Don't think too hard," Wei Yuxiang added without looking up. "This business will fry your brain faster than you expect."
Andre nodded quietly, masking the storm raging behind his silver eyes.
But inside, he thought only one thing:
I will break Zhen Yichen. Piece by piece.