Chapter Text
No Witnesses.
The bodies were still warm when Hua Cheng stepped over them.
Gunpowder hung heavy in the air—bitter, cloying—clinging to his bulletproof vest like a second skin.
The corridor stank of blood and scorched silk; Jun Wu always did have a taste for the extravagant.
Above, crystal chandeliers trembled ever so slightly, disturbed by the echoes of gunfire that had rung out just minutes before.
“Clear,” came a voice in his earpiece.
Hua Cheng didn’t answer.
He was already moving, boots soundless against polished marble, crimson coat trailing behind him like a whisper of violence.
The compound was supposed to be empty now. No survivors. No hostages.
Just one final sweep before they torched the place and erased it from memory.
And yet—
A sound.
Muffled. Sharp.
A struggle.
He stopped. Tilted his head. Listened.
Down the hall.
Double doors. Thick. Gilded. The kind that screamed someone important is inside.
But what he heard wasn’t fear.
It was resistance.
He moved.
The door groaned open under his boot, the hinges squealing in protest.
The scent hit first—opulent perfume, sour sweat, the sharp sting of fear… and underneath it all, something sweeter.
Roses? No.
Wine. And something decaying beneath layers of silk.
Then he saw them.
A man—broad, sweating—gripping someone by the wrist, dragging him forward by force.
And the one being dragged—
Hua Cheng’s breath caught.
Not because of the situation. He’d seen worse. He was worse.
But because the figure at the center of it all didn’t belong in this world.
A delicate face, hauntingly still.
Skin pale, a soft flush blooming across his cheeks like he’d just stepped out of a fever dream.
Golden eyes—clear and distant, glinting like something rare, something precious, something painfully out of place.
He wasn’t wearing much. Just an oversized white shirt—clearly not his—and loose drawstring pants that clung to narrow hips. Barefoot. Silent.
The implication hit hard. Too hard. Too obvious.
So this was what Jun Wu kept hidden in his palace.
This was the kind of entertainment Heaven’s revered leader reserved for himself.
All that dignity. All that false virtue.
And behind closed doors—this?
Hua Cheng clicked his tongue, the bitterness rising in his throat.
“Fucking hypocrite,” he muttered.
But when he looked again—really looked—at that face, at the aching stillness of it, the quiet kind of beauty that didn’t ask to be seen but couldn’t be ignored…
He hesitated. Just for a second.
And thought,
Well.
Can’t blame him.
Still, that didn’t change the rules.
No witnesses.
He stepped forward.
And then—
the man shouted something incoherent, panic flaring in his bloodshot eyes as he lurched forward, grimy hands shooting up to seize the beauty by the throat, dragging him close like a shield, gun raised with the trembling urgency of someone who had already lost and knew it.
Hua Cheng didn’t think.
He didn’t need to.
A single shot rang out, clean and final. The bullet struck the man between the eyes, and he dropped like a puppet with its strings severed, skull cracking against the concrete, blood spilling out in thick, slow ripples—pooling beneath his head like a grotesque halo, something dark and blooming in a place that had never known light.
But the beauty didn’t scream.
Didn’t stumble back.
Didn’t even blink.
He just stood there, perfectly still, and turned his gaze toward Hua Cheng with a quiet, unreadable expression—neither shocked nor grateful, neither afraid nor relieved—as though this moment had already happened a thousand times in his mind, and he’d simply been waiting for reality to catch up.
As though Hua Cheng, blood-stained and breathless, was not a stranger, not a rescuer, not even a threat—but merely the next inevitable chapter in a story he’d long since stopped hoping would end differently.
Hua Cheng kept the gun raised, hands steady in spite of the adrenaline surging through his veins, unsure if he was still in danger or if he was looking at something far more dangerous than a man with a weapon.
The beauty moved then—not hurried, not startled—but with a calm that felt older than the room itself. He knelt beside the corpse, fingers reaching out with a kind of reverence that felt entirely out of place in a scene like this. Two fingertips pressed gently against the dead man’s eyelids, closing them with a care that suggested he’d done this before—too many times, maybe. Enough that it had become a ritual, not for the dead, but for the living who still had to carry the memory.
There was no sorrow in his face.
But there was a softness. A silence.
The kind of aching gentleness one might find in a forgotten shrine, where the incense has long since burned out and the offerings have crumbled to dust, but the space still holds something sacred, something waiting to be remembered.
The dim light caught his profile just so—casting long shadows over lowered lashes, gilding his skin in warm tones that didn’t quite belong to life, and dusting his cheeks in a flush that wasn’t from warmth or fear, but something more fragile. More faded. Like the ghost of a blush.
And in that moment, standing amid blood and smoke, Hua Cheng thought he looked almost holy.
He didn’t lower the gun.
Couldn’t.
Not yet.
But he didn’t fire again, either.
The beauty stood slowly, every movement fluid and precise, untouched by the death that clung to the room like mist. He turned fully toward Hua Cheng, and for a moment, their eyes locked—something heavy and immeasurable passing between them.
There was no plea in that gaze.
No demand for mercy.
No flinch of fear.
Only a calm that felt unnatural.
A weariness that didn’t belong to someone so young.
A silence that pressed like a hand over the mouth of something that had once screamed itself raw.
And then—just barely, just once—the corner of his mouth lifted.
Not in a smile, not really.
More like the echo of one.
A fleeting twitch, delicate and strange, caught somewhere between resignation and recognition—like someone who had never learned what it meant to be saved, and now wasn’t sure whether to mourn or laugh.
It lingered for just a second too long.
Long enough to feel like a memory.
And then, as if surrendering to whatever came next, he closed his eyes.
Peacefully.
Without fear.
Like someone ready to die.
Hua Cheng’s finger stayed on the trigger.
His jaw tightened. A sharp breath caught in his throat.
Something cold—like water, like dread—slid down his spine and settled deep in his chest.
He stared.
Not at the target. Not anymore.
But at the person standing there—at the softness of his face, the way his lashes brushed against pale skin, the stillness that wasn’t weakness but quiet resignation.
Indifferent, almost—like the question didn’t need an answer.
And for the first time in years—he hesitated.
Just long enough for the weight in his chest to shift.
To change into something he couldn’t name.
Then he moved.
No warning. No thought.
Just instinct.
He stepped forward, grabbed the man by the waist, and heaved him up—
slung him over his shoulder like cargo. One smooth motion. Efficient. Merciless.
The man let out a shocked breath as the world tilted beneath him.
“Wait—! What—! Put me down!”
He kicked his legs, fists pounding uselessly against Hua Cheng’s back.
“Where are you taking me?!”
No response.
Hua Cheng adjusted his grip, one arm locking firm around the man’s thighs.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t explain.
Just headed straight for the balcony, boots heavy, pace unbothered.
The doors slammed open with a gust of wind.
He stopped just long enough to pull off his bulletproof vest and shove it over the man’s upper body.
Buckled it. Tight.
“Hey—what are you doing?!”
“You afraid of heights?”
Hua Cheng’s voice was low. Calm.
But the glint in his eyes said otherwise.
Xie Lian froze.
His breath hitched, just barely.
Then—“Good.”
Hua Cheng bared his teeth in a crooked smirk.
Just enough to catch the edge of a fang beneath his lip—sharp, white, gleaming like something meant to bite.
His grip around the man’s waist tightened by a fraction.
And then they dropped.
The wire snapped taut with a violent jerk, and the world tilted hard beneath them.
Air screamed in their ears, roaring past with the weight of gravity unleashed.
Wind tore at Hua Cheng’s crimson coat, sent it flaring out like blood caught in a storm.
The night around them blurred into streaks of shadow and distant city light.
Xie Lian cried out—sharp, involuntary.
His arms shot up before he could think, wrapping tight around Hua Cheng’s shoulders.
Fingers curled into thick fabric, clutching desperately like he might fall through the air if he didn’t hold on.
He was light.
Too light.
His bare feet swayed slightly with the wind, and his breath came in short bursts against Hua Cheng’s collarbone.
His heart was thudding hard—Hua Cheng could feel it, quick and fluttering like a bird trying to escape a cage.
But he didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look down.
One hand on the wire, the other braced firm against the small of Xie Lian’s thighs, Hua Cheng controlled the descent with unshakable precision.
The line hissed and burned faint heat into his glove, but his eyes never moved.
Focused. Cold.
He just held on.
Not gently.
But securely.
The ground rushed up to meet them.
The landing hit with a muted thump, feet braced and knees bent.
Smooth. Controlled.
Too smooth for something that had felt like free fall.
Hua Cheng unhooked the wire in one practiced motion, the metal releasing with a clean, mechanical snap.
He didn’t pause.
Didn’t even look down.
He simply shifted his grip around the lean, unresisting body in his arms—like it weighed nothing at all—and turned toward the black SUV idling a few meters away.
Two figures stepped out to meet him.
One stood silent, face unreadable as always.
The other let out a long, theatrical groan.
“…Fuck,” He Xuan muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “You have got to be kidding me.”
Hua Cheng didn’t respond.
He didn’t even slow down.
Still pinned under one arm, Xie Lian twisted, struggling to regain some dignity.
“Let me down!”
No answer.
He Xuan squinted, taking in the scene: the oversized shirt, the bare feet, the too-pretty face flushed with embarrassment.
Then he jabbed a thumb toward him.
“What, you stealing people’s mistresses now? Didn’t think that was your type.”
“I’m not a mistress,” Xie Lian snapped, sharp and indignant.
“Yeah. Right,” He Xuan deadpanned.
“Half-dressed, wearing another man’s shirt, dragged out of some secret facility ? Sure you’re not a kept boy.”
Xie Lian opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
A flush crept up the sides of his neck, burning hot across the tips of his ears.
Yin Yu, meanwhile, remained perfectly expressionless.
But his eyes darted to Hua Cheng. Then to Xie Lian. Then back.
There was something in the way he looked like he wanted to say something, but hadn’t been updated on what expression was legally allowed in this situation.
His eyebrows twitched. Once. Almost apologetically.
Hua Cheng didn’t stop walking.
“Get in,” he said.
“Hold on,” Xie Lian snapped. “I’m not—”
But it was too late.
With the same brutal efficiency as before, Hua Cheng opened the car door, shoved him inside, and slammed it shut behind him.
He Xuan raised both hands, half amused, half resigned.
“Hey. Not judging. Just didn’t realize you were into the ‘holy-and-abused’ aesthetic.”
Inside the car, Xie Lian sat stiff as a statue, seething.
Outside, Hua Cheng rounded the front and muttered to the wind:
“Drive.”
Yin Yu wordlessly slid into the driver’s seat.
He Xuan sighed and climbed in next to him.
As the car rolled into the night, silence settled—
thick with tension, indignation, and one very offended not-mistress radiating silent fury in the back seat.