The Devil's Penthouse
Darkness swallowed the room.
For a moment, Lin Yue didn't move. She sat frozen on the edge of the bed, her ears straining. The storm outside had stopped, but the mansion felt charged, like the air before lightning strikes.
She reached for her phone—dead.
A hum ran low in the walls, the sound of backup power struggling to kick in. Somewhere in the distance, footsteps echoed against marble floors.
Slow. Deliberate.
Lin Yue stood, her bare feet whispering over the rug as she crossed to the door. She cracked it open just enough to peer into the hallway.
Nothing.
The silence felt heavier than the darkness.
She stepped out. The corridor stretched long in both directions, dim emergency lights casting a faint glow. She hesitated, then turned toward the staircase, moving as quietly as she could.
Halfway down, she heard it again—the unmistakable shatter of glass.
This time, closer.
Her pulse kicked hard in her throat.
The sound had come from the west wing, the part of the mansion Mo Chen had warned her never to enter. The house has rules. Break them, and you'll regret it.
She should turn back. She should go to her room, lock the door, pretend she heard nothing.
But her feet kept moving.
The west wing corridor was colder, the air sharper. Heavy doors lined the hall, all shut tight—except one.
A faint line of light bled out from the gap at the bottom.
She stepped closer, her hand brushing the wood.
And then she heard him.
Mo Chen's voice—low, clipped. Speaking to someone she couldn't see.
"No mistakes this time." A pause. "If she finds out, we're finished."
Lin Yue's breath caught. Was he talking about her?
The reply came muffled, male, but she couldn't make out the words.
Mo Chen's voice sharpened. "I don't care what it costs. Do it."
She leaned closer, her heartbeat drumming so loudly she was sure they could hear it.
Her fingers closed around the door handle. Slowly, carefully, she turned it.
The door opened a fraction—and the scent hit her first. Metallic. Sharp.
Blood.
Her eyes adjusted to the dim light inside. She caught flashes—papers scattered across a desk, a map with red markings, and Mo Chen standing with his back to her. His black suit jacket was off, his white shirt rolled to the elbows… and soaked through at the sleeve with deep crimson.
For a heartbeat, she just stared.
Mo Chen—the man who had seemed untouchable, invincible—was bleeding. Badly.
His head turned slightly, as if sensing her, and their eyes met.
The look in his was unreadable. Not shock. Not anger. Something colder.
"What are you doing here, Lin Yue?" His voice was soft, but the weight in it made her skin prickle.
She opened her mouth, but the words tangled on her tongue. "I heard… something break…"
His gaze flicked to her hand still on the door, then back to her face. "I told you not to come here."
Her instinct screamed at her to retreat, to run—but her eyes dropped to the spreading stain on his arm. "You're hurt."
"It's nothing," he said, turning back toward the desk.
"That's not nothing," she shot back, stepping inside despite every nerve in her body warning her not to. "You're bleeding."
He didn't look at her. "You're a guest in my house, Lin Yue. Guests stay where they belong."
Her hands curled into fists. "I'm your wife, remember?"
His eyes lifted to hers then, sharp as glass. "In name only."
The words landed like a slap. She swallowed them down, glancing again at the blood on his shirt. "Who did this to you?"
"No one you need to worry about."
"I'm already worried," she said before she could stop herself.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, without warning, his knees buckled slightly.
She was at his side before she could think, catching his arm. Up close, she could feel the tremor running through his muscles. The heat of his skin. The way his breath came shorter than it should.
He looked down at her hand on him, and something unreadable flickered across his face.
"Go back to your room, Lin Yue."
She shook her head. "Not until you tell me what's going on."
A muscle ticked in his jaw. "You're not ready to know."
"Try me."
He didn't answer. Instead, his eyes drifted past her toward the hallway—sharp, alert.
Before she could ask what he saw, he moved. In one swift motion, he shoved her behind him, his body tense like a shield.
A shadow filled the doorway.
And then came the glint of metal in the faint light—a gun, pointed directly at Mo Chen's chest.
Cliffhanger: The trigger clicked.