For three long days, that little room had been my prison, my only reality.
I spent each hour staring into the void, into a silence so loud it pressed on my chest like a weight. There was no sound, no movement—just the ever-present hum of fear in my veins.
Twice a day, the young guard with the jagged nose brought me food. Bland, stale, and barely warm. I hesitated each time—debated whether or not to eat it. Part of me wanted to spit it in his face, to refuse what they offered. But in the end, I ate. Every last crumb. I had to. I needed to survive.
Ever since that night, I hadn't let myself relax. Not for a second. Not after Kang. Not after what he did. I swore then and there that if he tried it again—if any of them did—I would fight. I would kill if I had to. It would be the last thing he ever did.
And yet… I still didn't understand why I let it happen in the first place. Why hadn't I screamed louder? Fought harder? The shame twisted like a knife in my stomach. I hated it. Hated him. Hated myself. Even now, I could still feel his hands, like a stain that wouldn't wash off.
Even if I bathed in fire, I doubted I'd ever feel clean again.
The creak of the door cut through the silence.
The young guard swaggered in like he owned the place, standing just inside the threshold with that same smug expression I'd come to loathe.
"You're to come with me," he said flatly.
I glanced toward the tiny window, half-hoping I was finally going outside. "Where?"
He didn't answer.
Instead, he walked forward and gripped my wrist tightly, his fingers digging into the bruises already blooming beneath my skin. I yanked away instinctively, but his grip only tightened.
"Let go—!"
Without warning, his free hand cracked across my cheek. Fire erupted across my cheekbone.
"Where am I going!?" I shouted through gritted teeth.
He didn't reply. Just dragged me through the filthy hallway, past door after door, until we reached a small, grimy bathroom that stank of mildew and rust.
He shoved me inside, slammed the door behind us, and turned me to face him.
"Take off your clothes," he ordered.
"No."
He rolled his eyes like I was being unreasonable, then struck me again. Harder this time. "I said—take them off."
I spat blood at his feet. "I said no."
He growled. "Unless you want more than a slap, I suggest you do as you're told, bitch."
I stared at him, jaw clenched, hatred radiating from every inch of my being. But eventually, with trembling hands, I reached for the hem of my shirt. I peeled it off slowly, dragging every second out in silent defiance.
Humiliation washed over me like cold oil. Sticky. Impossible to cleanse.
I unclasped my bra, slid off my underwear, and stood bare beneath the flickering lightbulb.
"Shower. Now," he barked, giving me a shove toward the rusted faucet.
I stepped under the freezing stream and grabbed a bar of cheap soap. The cold water stole the air from my lungs, but in a twisted way, it felt good—like punishment, like penance. I scrubbed myself raw, trying to erase Kang's touch from my skin.
Behind me, the guard didn't move. I could feel his eyes on me. Burning. Measuring. Wanting.
But he didn't touch me.
Not yet.
"Hǎo de. (Alright) That's enough," he said after a few minutes.
I turned off the water and caught the towel he threw at me. I wrapped it tightly around my body and stood still, dripping and shivering.
Then, once again, he grabbed my arm and dragged me back into the hallway.
We didn't go far.
The next room was some kind of decrepit living room—if you could call it that. Faded furniture. Peeling walls. The air thick with stale smoke and rot.
And on one of the couches, lounging like a predator at rest, was Yuta.
My breath hitched.
Him. Of all people, I didn't want to be alone with him.
Panic clawed at my throat, and I dug my heels into the ground. The guard growled, shoved me forward, then kicked me hard in the ribs when I resisted.
I collapsed to the floor, gasping. His boot struck me again and again until I curled up, shielding my head, pain blooming in waves across my side.
Then a voice cut through the violence. Calm. Dangerous.
"Zúgòu," (Enough) Yuta said.
The guard immediately stepped back, disappearing into a shadowed corner.
Yuta's voice came again, smooth and controlled. "Have a seat."
I wiped blood from my lip and shot him a glare. "I'll stay right here."
"And why's that?"
"I want to be as far from you as possible."
He smirked, unbothered. "Suit yourself. But don't mistake that distance for safety. It won't save you."
"Stay away from me," I warned.
He tilted his head. "And that's up to you?"
"Touch me and I swear to God, I'll..."
He laughed. Actually laughed. "If you're worried about me touching you—"
"Don't. Ever." My voice cracked.
His expression hardened. "You are in no position to make demands."
I drew a shaky breath. "Just don't. Please."
His eyes slid over my form, slow and assessing. "I won't. Not yet, anyway."
His words made me want to vomit.
"I'll give you anything," I said suddenly, desperation rising. "Money. Whatever you want. Just not that. Please."
He raised an eyebrow. "Don't bother negotiating, Línjū.(Neighbour) It won't work."
"There must be something you want."
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, watching me like a puzzle. "And what makes you think that?"
"Everyone wants something."
"Not me. I have everything I need."
"Power? Status?" I tried.
"I already have it," he said flatly.
"Oh, right. Dragon Head's son." I couldn't help the venom in my voice. "Must be so proud."
His face remained still. Masked.
I pushed. "Your family's crimes make me sick. As if I'd give anything to you."
His eyes narrowed slightly. "My family?"
"You're Li Wei's son. Am I right?"
No denial. No surprise.
I smirked. "I know all about him. And let me tell you—your family's as messed up as they come."
He clenched his jaw, the only sign of emotion. "You don't know anything."
"Oh, but I do…"
And then I told him.
Told him everything I knew about his father. His past. The murder. The detective. The brothel. The empire built on blood and fear.
"Your father was introduced to a powerful Chinese detective—who was also a notorious gangster—by a friend. His wife, a criminal herself, favored your father. Though the detective wasn't part of the Silver Dagger Gang, your father became his enforcer for gambling and opium. He surrounded himself with bodyguards and lived a lavish life, frequenting the city's best nightclubs and brothels. His rise to power culminated in buying a four-storey mansion, where he kept a wife, dozens of mistresses, and three sons.
His true breakthrough came after the detective was arrested for murdering another mobster's son. Your father used his influence and money to secure the detective's release, after which the detective stepped down and handed his empire to your father. That's when your father became known as the Dragon Head, ruling over gambling dens, prostitution, protection rackets, and several legitimate businesses. Oh, and he's a Sagittarius."
His silence was almost louder than his voice.
When I was finished, he rose slowly and loomed over me. "Who are you?"
I stood too, gripping the towel tighter. "Someone you should've stayed far away from."
His voice dropped. "Where did you get this information?"
I didn't answer.
He grabbed my chin, yanked my face to his. "Tell me."
I jerked free. "I'm Maggie fucking Lee."
"I don't care about your name. Tell me how."
"Never. You'll just have to kill me."
A long pause.
Then he smiled.
"Do you want to know why you were brought here today?"
I blinked. "What…?"
"My father was prepared to let you go," he said. "Ten million dollars. That's what he thought your silence was worth."
My heart stopped.
"But now?" Yuta shrugged. "You know too much. And we can't let that kind of knowledge walk free."
"No… no, please—"
"Hùsòng tā dào tā de fángjiān," (Escort her to her room.) he ordered.
I shook my head. "Yuta, please—! Let me go!"
He stepped closer and sneered. "You should've kept your mouth shut, Línjū." (Neighbour)
I shoved him. "Let me go!"
He grabbed my wrist, eyes dark. "You're mine. Do you understand?"
I writhed, trying to break free. "You're hurting me!"
His hand instantly dropped, but a moment later, he cupped my cheek gently.
"I'm going to do more than that, Maggie," he whispered. "I'm going to ruin your fucking life."
Then he seized my neck, his grip bruising, and pulled me close.
"Fuck it." His mouth crashed down on mine, not gentle, not even close. It wasn't a kiss; it was a challenge, a dare, a punishment. My back slammed against the wall with a thud, breath catching as he caged me in with his body. My hands shoved at his chest, nails scraping, but he didn't back off—instead, he pressed in harder.
Our mouths battled more than kissed. Teeth clicked, lips bruised, my fingers tangled in his hair to yank his head back, but he caught my wrists and pinned them above my head with one hand, the other gripping my hip hard enough to leave a mark.
I hated the heat curling low in my stomach just as much as I hated the smug way his tongue slid against mine. Hated the way his body fit too perfectly against mine, hard and hot and maddening. I bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.
He groaned, dark and rough, and grinned against my mouth.
Then, just as suddenly, he shoved me away, his eyes stormy.
He turned his back and walked out of the room.