The door closed behind him with a muted click.
Su Ye did not turn around immediately. He remained standing there, one hand resting against the door, his tall frame rigid, as though the barrier between the outside world and the woman within was the only thing keeping his restraint intact.
The apartment was quiet, almost unnervingly so, yet the stillness did nothing to soothe the violent turbulence churning beneath his calm exterior.
His face was dark.
Not the kind of anger that burst forth in reckless displays of emotion, but something far more dangerous—cold, compressed, and deliberate.
His brows were drawn low, his jaw clenched tightly enough that the muscles along his cheek and neck stood out sharply. Every breath he took was measured, controlled, as if he were forcibly suppressing an instinct that demanded release.
In his mind, Mo Yuzhen was already being dissected. Not metaphorically but systematically.
