Jiang Yanxu's Fantasy

Yan An.

The name slipped through Jiang Yanxu's mind like a smoke curling in a darkened room—elusive, gone before he could catch it.

A rare flicker of light in a city perpetually drowning in shadows. Amidst the day's wreckage—the deals, the lies, the blood—he hadn't expected something as simple as remembering a name to steady his pulse.

He wanted to see him again.

To stare into his eyes and pretend, for one goddamn second, that he wasn't slowly rotting from the inside out.

He leaned back, letting the cracked ceiling blur above him. The weight pressing on his chest wouldn't lift. No matter how many times he tried to shove it aside. So instead, he closed his eyes and imagined Yan An's face—sharp edges softened by the dim light of memory, framing in a haze and regret.

Yan An hadn't changed much since his past life. But Jiang Yanxu had. And the thing curling inside him now was proof enough—like rust eating away at polished steel.

Their first meeting at the gallery had left a sour taste on his tounge—something unfinished, like a cigarette stubbed out too soon.

And yet, he'd been happy. Genuinely happy. The kind of happiness that leaves bruises after it fades.

But happiness never lasts. Not in this city. Not when the streets breathe lies and the air smells faintly of gunmetal.

And then, like a snake slithering under his collar, Wen Haoyi's voice was heard in his ear.

"Did you two ever fck?"

Crude. Pointless. But it stuck to him like alleyway grime. Words like that didn't wash off easy. They cling, foul and persistent.

It was nearly five goddamn years of marriage, and they'd never touched each other. Not the way he wanted. Not the way that mattered.

Now, the words echoed in his brain, dragging something feral to the surface. Hunger sharpened at the edges like a blade pressed too close to skin.

He wanted to own him.

To burn him into memory.

To close that unbearable, aching distance with flesh and bone.

His body moved before thought could catch up, like a loaded gun cocked without warning. His fingers slipping lower, chasing relief in a city that never offered any. The tension coiled in him, sharp and punishing, like a cigarette burning too close to the filter.

It wasn't enough.

It never was.

He imagined Yan An beneath him—his lips parted. His breath shallow. His eyes smeared in shadow like ink bleeding on wet paper. That face ... sharp and soft in all the right places, blurred by the fog of memory. Each stroke was a punchline in some cruel joke, a futile attempt to fill the hollowed-out places inside.

Desire slithered down his spine, hot and unrelenting. The sweat prickled, breath ragged, the sound of his own pulse roaring like tires screeching down rain-slick streets. His grip tightened, chasing a high that felt more like falling.

The reel played on in his head where Yan An pinned beneath him, gasping—his bare skin lit by the flicker of a dim light through cracked blinds. A scene drenched in black and white, all soft moans and sharp edges.

He came hard, teeth gritted, jaw clenched, the climax hitting like a back-alley brawl—violent, messy, leaving bruises invisible to anyone but him. It emptied him out, leaving him trembling, a man scraped clean and raw.

Silence fell.

He stared at the mess he'd made, wiping it away, like scrubbing blood off pavement. Another secret folded into the creases of the night, and another need buried beneath layers of skin and regret.

He lay there in the chair. His breath get heaving, then staring at the cracked ceiling again.

Silence, again.

The kind of silence that creeps in after the trigger's been pulled, just before the body hits the ground.

But suddenly, his phone vibrated.

"Reply to me when you arrive."

Ye Xinren.

Jiang Yanxu's jaw tensed. The man's words always tasted like spoiled wine—sweet on the surface, bitter underneath. He debated ignoring it. But before he could, the phone rang.

With a sigh sharp enough to cut glass, he answered.

"Why didn't you reply me?" Ye Xinren's voice slid through the line, slick enough to choke on.

"I was about to call you anyway," Jiang Yanxu lied easily, his fingers tapping against the cold surface of the desk.

Another pause. Then, coming up the question he hated the most.

"Do you miss me?"

Jiang Yanxu could've told Ye Xinren how empty the word sounded now. Instead, his voice dropped, silk over steel.

"I do."

That was enough to satisfy Ye Xinren. It always was.

The call ended.

He let the phone fall from his fingers, gaze shifting to the window. Neon lights blinked across cracked concrete, the city pulsing like a dying heartbeat. But something off—sharp, green, surgical—caught his eye.

His breath hitched.

It was a sniper's scope.

Time slowed. Instinct roared.

He hit the floor just as glass exploded around him, raining down like jagged confetti. The chair crashed over, the sound swallowed by the ringing in his ears. His heart was pounding hard, sweat cold against his skin!

Jiang Yanxu lay there—staring at the broken pieces glittering in the dark.

This city wanted him dead.

But it would have to try harder.