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Lin Ling stares dazedly at a formerly unfamiliar ceiling that he’s spent the last two or so hours getting very acquainted with; on account of it being the much better subject of his wandering gaze compared to, well…
Somewhere distant yet close, he hears the shower turn on. Lying on soft sheets, Lin Ling listens to the sound of the water spray, droplets hitting the floor in a rhythmic pitter-patter. The sound turns muffled, a subtle sign that a body has just stopped under the showerhead, clear rivulets rolling down sharp angles and pale skin—
Lin Ling groans and buries his face into the pillow. He regrets it as soon as he does it when his nose is filled the scent of the person he’s been trying so hard not to think of—mint and musk and something distinctly metallic that reminds him faintly of the smell of blood.
Which, in retrospect, is a lost cause, considering what he just spent the last few hours doing—or what was done to him—and if there’s anyone to blame for this situation, it’s himself.
And Ghostblade. Who kissed Lin Ling till his lip bled at the charity gala. And then propositioned him for sex through text. Ghostblade, who is not further than two metres away from him, showering in the bathroom, because for a hero-assassin, he's a surprising neat freak. The spotless kitchen counters and dust-free shelves he had glimpsed entering the apartment was testament enough.
Lin Ling did not expect this to be how his night would turn out. Schmoozing with rich socialites and millionaires, avoiding eye contact with Dragon Boy as he does whatever the hell he’s doing, and trying not to break down into tears whenever someone brings up Moon?
Yes.
Getting invited to Ghostblade’s home and sleeping with the silent, rank 4 hero, all because Lin Ling happens to laugh and smile like his dead wife?
No!
But reality is stranger than fiction, it seems, and Lin Ling should honestly stop being surprised at such turn of events because the whole reason he was at the gala in the first place can be traced back to him coincidentally witnessing the former ranked 15th hero committing suicide, and getting coerced into assuming said hero’s identity.
How the dominoes fall! Who knew getting fired from his old advertising job would lead to this? Slightly sweaty, a little bit sore, and very floaty. Despite his messy state, Lin Ling thinks he can float away if he weren’t swaddled in blankets like he’s trying to burrow himself into a cocoon. Which, sue him, the apartment is cold!
So, even though he isn’t looking forward to when the assassin emerges from his bathroom and the ensuing awkwardness of literal post-nut clarity, right now, the endorphin high of an admittedly very good first time makes all of that seem almost bearable.
Almost.
Lin Ling sighs airily into the silence of the dark room, the only light being from the window, an unblocked skyline view allowing for a square of moonlight to shine through and bathe the bed in pale luminescence. Backlit by such ethereal light, his partner’s hero title had seemed even more fitting.
Even Ghostblade’s eyes, which Lin Ling had thought, in the privacy of his mind, to be not unlike coins, worn smooth and lifeless by the cruel hands of fate and time, had seemed to glint in the moon’s glow. A fleeting glimmer of life Lin Ling had caught a glimpse in between the heat of their motions, amid the white moonlight.
Unbidden, his mind conjures the image of her.
Lin Ling burrows his face deeper into the pillow. The last time he saw her was under such a cloudless night too. He had stared and stared in shock and incomprehension, as blood wept and stained sandy shores and sea foam frothed red, dyeing the seas scarlet.
By the time he regained his senses, Moon’s murderer had disappeared, and the scene of sunset had transitioned into a sky full of stars, bright and unblinking despite the horror that had just occurred. When he pressed his shaking fingers to her neck, she was still warm, but there was no thrum of life. Moon was gone, killed by someone who was supposed to be a hero, and Lin Ling had done nothing but sit with her moonlight-bathed corpse for hours until he had the wherewithal to stumble back through the portal and call Miss Juan with trembling, bloody hands.
No one believed him, even as he spilt his heart and tears out on that beach, watching black-suited men cart her body away. Miss Juan only gave him a look of sympathy before sitting him down and explaining to him that there was no evidence, and that Treeman couldn’t take another scandal. Asked him, again and again, with escalating frustration, if he had mistaken what he saw, if he was sure it wasn’t a lookalike.
But Lin Ling knows what he saw. E-Soul killed Moon. And weeks later, he still had the gall to continue to pretend he was a hero, ranked 9th at that, as though he didn’t just murder an innocent in cold blood.
God, Moon didn’t deserve any of this. She wanted nothing more than to be free from the shackles of being Nice’s girlfriend, free to chase what her heart desires. Lin Ling should be avenging her, not letting her murderer parade around scott-free under the guise of a hero, and yet he hasn’t done anything, hasn’t stormed up to that bastard and ripped off his mask and hurt him like how he—
Mint, musk, and the smell of something distinctly metallic. Ah, how could Lin Ling have mistaken this for the smell of blood when that scent haunts his memories? This isn’t blood. It’s the smell of polished steel, iron and carbon honed to life’s edge, a blade as unyielding as its wielder, who—
Is kneeling beside him, careful not to crowd Lin Ling with his body. Nimble fingers, spindly, almost spider-like, rub circles into his shoulder blades.
“Breathe,” a deep voice murmurs in his ears, a gentle command that Lin Ling grasps onto as a lifeline. In and out. In and out. Circles turn into characters, numbers lightly traced into flesh.
一， 二， 三， 四
Inhale
七，六，五， 四， 三， 二， 一
Hold
一，二， 三， 四， 五， 六， 七， 八
Exhale.
一
Inhale, hold, exhale.
二
Inhale, hold, exhale.
三
Inhale, hold, exhale.
四
Inhale, hold, exhale.
His heart, which was pounding in his chest, rattling his ribcage and his lungs, starts to slow, with breaths timed to the skating of fingers across his skin.
Tears—when did he start crying?—fall and stain the sheets, a pitter patter just like the shower still running in the background.
Ah. It’s not just his tears wetting the cotton, grey as smoke and silver coins. Ghostblade is dripping wet, his soaked bangs plastered to his temple, having gone straight out of the shower—not even turning the water off—to comfort him.
Somehow, that makes Lin Ling choke a sob, and he screws his eyes shut and clamps his mouth shut so no more tears or cries can escape.
A cold hand wipes away a stray tear from his eyelashes, coaxing his eyes to open. The fingers that were tracing numbers into his flesh switch to spelling out characters.
别压抑
Don’t hold it in
Lin Ling laughs, half-sob, half-hysterical. What a strange situation he’s found himself in, once again, being comforted by a Ghostblade who’s soaked to the bone, yet peering at him with something resembling worry in his eyes.
“I’m fine,” he tries to reassure, willing his voice not to break. Ghostblade doesn’t express his disbelief with anything as explicit as a raised eyebrow, but the corner of his mouth tightens, a minute reaction that only he has the privilege to notice, being so close to the man. Lin Ling has the inane, fleeting urge to reach up and smooth away the crease.
“No, really,” he wipes away his remaining tears with the back of his hand. Evens his breathing. Collects himself. “I just got a little emotional.”
Ghostblade stares at him, silent, before slowly, telegraphing his movements clearly, taking Lin Ling’s hand, turning it so it faces upright. On the younger man’s palm, Ghostblade traces more characters there, making Lin Ling shiver at the sensation of featherlight strokes, decisive yet still so gentle.
我是不是伤到了你
Did I hurt you?
It’s a rather hesitant way of asking, quite at odds with the straightforward and blunt messages Ghostblade wrote out previously on his phone. Nevertheless, Lin Ling shakes his head weakly.
“No, I just…” he trails off. The moon bathes them in its brilliant white radiance, the only other sources of light being the illuminated windows of nearby skyscrapers. His eyes sting, threatening to flow anew.
“I just remembered some things. That’s all.” Remembering the still-running showerhead in the bathroom, Lin Ling jolts. “Shit! You should turn that off.”
“And you’re all wet!” Lin Ling exclaims, only now fully registering, despite his mind noting this particular observation down multiple times already. “Go get a towel! It’s freezing; you’ll catch a cold.”
Ghostblade blinks, as though slowly processing Lin Ling’s sudden shift in demeanour, from tears to an almost nagging concern. The action is owl-like, cat-like, panther-like, and all sorts of predator animal-like. It's unfortunately endearing.
Lin Ling opens his mouth, thinking he needs to repeat his words to push the older man into action, but Ghostblade simply nods and slides off the bed, somehow making the motion seem graceful even when he’s sopping wet and naked—if Lin Ling didn’t just have sex with the man and isn’t all kinds of emotionally overwhelmed he might have felt more embarrassed—returning to the bathroom to turn off the shower and retrieve a towel.
He makes a beeline back towards the bed, quietly but methodically towelling his hair and body dry, to which Lin Ling exasperatedly reminds him: “Clothes. Please put on some clothes.”
Never mind that Lin Ling is also naked as the day he was born under these sheets. At least he’s somewhat covered up by them.
He supposes it’s a bit peculiar to feel body-shy after literally having sex with the man, but still, propriety.
Ghostblade shifts gears at Lin Ling’s implicit request, throwing open the closet in the corner before dressing at a militaristic speed that Lin Ling is honestly impressed at. Clothed in a long, dark-sleeved shirt and loose pants, Ghostblade climbs back into the bed, immediately grabbing Lin Ling’s palm.
你看起来好多了
You seem better
Lin Ling huffs. It seems that they had foregone the Notes app communication entirely. Not that he was complaining much. It felt nice to have his hand held, even if it was just so Ghostblade could communicate with him more efficiently. The contact was warm and grounding.
“I said I was fine,” he reiterates. “I just remembered some bad stuff and got caught up in the emotions.”
And before he can stop running his mouth: “You of all people should know how it feels.”
He regrets the words as soon as they leave his tongue. His passing resemblance to his Ghostblade’s late wife of not, Lin Ling had absolutely no right to bring her up. Especially when he knew intimately what grief felt like. An ever-present shroud that weighs on your every move, and makes every mention of her name feel like a knife through the chest. A wound that yawns and gapes and feels like it will never heal, and hurts even more to touch. Guilt and regrets and hate and shame all rolled up into one, a banquet for your heart to chew on and spit you out.
Lin Ling pulls away, expecting Ghostblade to drop his hand, to level that cold gaze he had first glimpsed on the assassin when they first met; an executioner meeting the eyes of the sentenced before the blade swung.
Instead, fingers encircle his wrist, their hold firm but not forceful, preventing Lin Ling from withdrawing.
There is a beat, where Ghostblade does nothing but just look at him, and on anyone else he would call it hesitance.
她这么样去世
How did she pass away?
Lin Ling lets out a chuckle that sounds empty to his ears. “Didn’t you hear? She got killed by Nice’s nemesis at their—“ Lin Ling pauses.
Ghostblade’s grasp on his hand loosens, having turned almost crushing for one brief second. The older man’s other hand, not holding Lin Ling’s, tips Lin Ling’s chin up so Lin Ling’s gaze can meet steel grey. The younger man almost flinches at the sudden intensity in them, a glint of uncharacteristic seriousness unfamiliar in his normally placid gaze.
He doesn’t need to have words written on his palm to understand Ghostblade’s silent command.
“…Moon, she…” Lin Ling’s voice cracks, a note of sheer grief bubbling up in his throat.
“She was killed,” he repeats, because it's true. Even when Moon had laid down her mantle, she couldn’t escape the cruel fate that awaited most heroes. “She was free, then she ended up on that island, and when I saw her again she wanted to come back with me, but—!”
Lin Ling halts abruptly, panting, his breaths short and quick. His hand spasms, releasing the bruising grip that he had unknowingly inflicted in turn on Ghostblade, who had kept quiet, instead placing his free hand on Ling Ling’s thigh, a reassuring weight to ground him.
“She was murdered,” Lin Ling shuts his eyes, knowing that open or closed, he would see the same thing: Moon’s smiling face moments before a bolt of electricity carved a path into her skull. The culprit, unmistakably the number 9 hero, E-Soul, standing with his hand outstretched, the weapon that had released the killing blow.
Why did he do it? Moon, she— “She just wanted to be free.”
Lin Ling hangs his head, feeling the weight of grief bearing down on him again, a tidal wave that threatens to swallow him whole. He registers Ghostblade squeezing his hand, a short but strong press, and tries to focus on what Ghostblade writes next into his palm.
A single character, yet it makes Lin Ling’s heart drop to the bottom of his stomach.
谁
Who?
His heart leaps back up, past his ribcage, past his lungs, all the way into his throat. Ghostblade watches him with that ever-appraising gaze but doesn’t say a word even as words fall and fail at the cave of Lin Ling’s mouth.
The implication is clear: Tell me who the murderer is, so I can deal with them. Lin Ling’s reactions have already given him away under that sharp eye. Ghostblade knows Lin Ling knows who Moon’s killer is, and has, in turn, rightfully guessed that Lin Ling hasn’t sought out the ultimate revenge.
How could he have forgotten?
The silent killer from which even speech knows no escape
Ghostblade is an assassin, a hero whose scales fall on either side of his blade. Found guilty, and you are mercilessly sentenced to death by the reaper’s hand.
A sweep of motion across his skin startles Lin Ling back to attention, as Ghostblade traces new words into flesh.
以眼还眼
以呀还呀
An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth
In other words, those who kill deserve to be killed.
Ghostblade looks at him expectantly, awaiting an answer. But what can Lin Ling say? Moon’s killer is your fellow agency member and the rank nine hero, E-Soul. Technically, he could, but—
“You won’t believe me,” he says, the first thing that comes to his mind. No one he told believed him. Miss Juan didn’t believe him, even as he begged and pleaded with her. Who would believe the words of a hero who came into being through a lie?
我从来没有吧你当成骗子
I’ve never taken you for a liar
Ghostblade’s increasingly verbose communication aside, even a grade-A liar would hesitate to slander the name of the illustrious rank-nine hero!
But somehow, despite no discernible change in expression, Lin Ling can tell Ghostblade is being sincere. As though if Lin Ling told him the sky was green, he would nod and take it as the new gospel truth.
This realisation made Lin Ling pause. If he told Ghostblade that E-Soul was responsible for Moon’s death, and Ghostblade believed him, what would happen? They were both prominent heroes and part of the same agency. In the hypothetical scenario where Ghostblade went after E-Soul and managed to kill him, he would face intense public backlash over ‘executing’ a beloved hero, and in the best-case scenario, get ousted from being one himself. That is, if it was accepted that E-Soul had it coming because ‘the new number ten hero said the number nine hero’ murdered Moon. Worst case, Ghostblade would probably get locked up by the Hero Commission, maybe even ‘executed’ himself. Lin Ling might get caught in the crossfire, but his title means nothing if he can get justice for one person.
In either case, what did Lin Ling have to lose?
He nearly slapped himself for having such a selfish thought. In the hypothetical scenario that Ghostblade believed him and was willing to accept the consequences of killing E-Soul, there was no way he could subject the older man to such a lose-lose situation. Ghostblade deserves better than to get dragged down because Lin Ling was too much of a coward to exact revenge himself.
And despite all his anger, all his hate, after weeks of thinking about E-Soul and what he would do if they ever came face to face again, Lin Ling had concluded that he wasn’t just a coward. He was a soft-hearted weakling also.
Because deep down, no matter how much he hated E-Soul and wanted him to face comeuppance for his unforgivable sin, Lin Ling didn’t want to kill him or get him killed.
…Truly, what a weak, pathetic coward he was.
“I can’t tell you,” Lin Ling eventually confesses, shaking his head. When he looks took Ghostblade, rather than disappointment, he senses the vaguest hint of…understanding.
你太善良
You’re too kind
He laughs dryly, bordering on hysterical, and wonders at the back of his mind if Ghostblade is seeing the shadow of his late wife; if every single one of Lin Ling’s actions is being measured to that unreachable, intangible standard.
“Really?” He closes his palm, clenching his fist, as though to engrave those words past surface level, past skin and flesh and muscle and bone to seep into his soul. If Ghostblade, the silent exceutioner of the night, of all people, wanted to call his softness kindness, then Lin Ling would let himself be deluded into thinking this weakness was strength. Heroes were supposed to be, first and foremost, kind, after all; Lin Ling has always believed that.
“You know, I think you’re kind too,” Lin Ling muses.
Stoic and placid were the first adjectives that would come to mind when describing Ghostblade. Merciless and unyielding might be second. But what else can Lin Ling call the man who ran out of the shower, not even bothering to turn it off in his haste, to comfort his bedmate? How else would Lin Ling describe the person who kneeled next to him, hands rubbing rhythmic circles into skin to soothe?
He expects Ghostblade to remain as perpetually composed, not a single line on his face out of place, but much to Lin Ling’s surprise, the older man widens his eyes—the first real show of emotion he’s seen all night.
For a split second, Ghostblade looks caught off guard. Wrongfooted. His expression shifts back into his standard and perfectly neutral frown, but it's enough to make Lin Ling question whether he said something wrong.
Sensing the younger man's confusion, Ghostblade softly pries open Lin Ling’s clenched fist, unfolding each finger with delicate precision, to sketch his answer into skin again.
你的话
她也说过
She said the same words as you before
Ah. Of course. Only one person had such influence over Ghostblade. Lin Ling’s words merely triggered a memory.
“I see…” he trails off, feeling awkwardness descend upon him like a cloak. Ever perceptive, Ghostblade caught onto this shift in mood and swiftly conveyed his next response.
别误会, he writes. Don’t misunderstand
对于没个你和她像的地方
我都会记下你和她不一样的地方
For every similarity between the two of you, I also note down where the two of you differ
她的记忆始终纯净
和在我的眼里
你就是你
Her memory remains untarnished, and in my eyes, you are you
They're the longest sentences Ghostblade has written the whole night, not even accounting for the sheer degree of honesty present in them. Somehow, the number 4 hero had managed to pinpoint all of Lin Ling’s insecurities and drill down on them with the same unflinching, candid bluntness Lin Ling had grown familiar with over their brief time together.
He doesn't know if he fully believes in Ghostblade. He knows for a fact that if the older hero hadn't seen such similarities between Lin Ling and his late wife, their interactions tonight would have ended at the gala.
Ghostblade might state—truthfully, because just like what the white-haired man said earlier, Lin Ling didn't take the other hero for a liar either–that he saw Lin Ling as his own separate person from his late wife, but that didn't erase the truth that their entire relationship—if Lin Ling could call it that—was based on Ghostblade seeing her echo in Lin Ling.
But that’s to be expected. Lin Ling spends hours at night staring at the moon, and his eyes instinctively chase every hint of blonde in every room he enters. He understands how it feels to hold onto something long gone, devout and stalwart. There’s no question that Ghostblade is devoted to his wife, never straying in his love for her. Lin Ling is just someone who happens to pass for a cheap substitute.
He shouldn't be upset, nor surprised, because that's how his life seems to be going these days. His resemblance to Nice made him the perfect replacement in the eyes of the public. And try as he might, he can’t forget the way E-Soul had stood over him, when Lin Ling had sunken to his knees in blood-dyed sand, before bending down to cradle Lin Ling’s face. How that murderer held his blood-stained face with a gentleness that made him want to wretch, how under that mask, Moon’s killer had uttered a foreign name with such guilt and longing.
(It's easy to connect the dots when sixteen-year-old Lin Ling had followed the story of an orphan turned rising star so closely. Had followed every up and down with the fervour of a fan unable to tear his eyes away from the underdog’s meteoric rise.
And there, between lines of text on the biography page he had pulled up in his hate-fueled haze, was that foreign name. A few more searches, and he retrieved an obituary, a familiar name listed under the parents section and an even more familiar face staring back at him.)
Just as most of his fans were Nice’s fans, viewing him as nothing but the proverbial torch passed on, and how he and Nice were fashioned in the image of a father’s grief, Lin Ling knows he is nothing but a placeholder for people to project their desires on. His face is but a canvas for people to paint whoever they wish to see—Nice, a dead youth, themselves—and foster their feelings onto.
In the end, that is the true essence of ‘The Commoner’. He is a representative of their wishes, and his power is their power.
Movement on his hand draws Lin Ling out of his musings.
如过你不相信我
那没关系
你而已要相信自己
It's fine if you don't believe me. Just believe in yourself.
Ghostblade finishes his response with a final stroke that feels decisive, almost.
“Believe in myself, huh?” Lin Ling wonders. Ghostblade nods, and brings both of his hands together to clasp Lin Ling’s. Engulfing them in calloused warmth. When was the last time someone touched him so personally, with no other intention but to bring him comfort?
Ironic, that it’s the most controversial of the top ten heroes treating him with such tenderness. That the hands that cradled his face and cup his own are soaked in unfathomable quantities of blood.
But they cradled me, yes?
These hands that are calloused from wielding weapons, from taking lives, are in the end, holding him with such gentleness. Why? Well, it can only be because their owner wants to be kind.
Have you found the direction your heart desires?
He wants to be a hero. He wants to be kind. He wants to believe in himself. He wants to be kind to himself.
He wants to believe he can still be kind.
Does he deserve such softness after failing to reach out to that white-cloaked figure on the roof? After repeating his mistake of standing still as another victim plunges to their self-embraced fate? After letting Moon die right in front of his eyes? Can he still be kind, even when a part of him wants to drench his hands with the blood of her murderer, and the other part of him revolts at the thought of killing, and hates himself in equal measure for not being strong enough to go through with it?
Just believe in yourself, Ghostblade eyes seem to say, kind as their owner.
…
Well, if anything, he’s an expert at making the impossible possible. And how can a hero hold the trust of the public if they can't even trust themselves?
“Yeah.”
Lin Ling smiles, shaky and uncertain, but he knows it’s his first real smile of the night.
”I'll keep that in mind.”
—————
Hours later, in between hours of twilight, Lin Ling whispers a question into pale skin.
“Does it get better?” he feels more than sees with half-lidded eyes, the subtle tense and flex of muscle under his lips.
“The grief.”
He closes his eyes fully. Expects to feel fingers ghost his shoulder blades, a response sketched out in the same area where those very same hands had rubbed circles to soothe.
“No.”
A pause. The moon shines bright above their heads, bathing the world in its pale light.
“But we live on, regardless.”