The First Bloom 36

The room flickered—no, shifted—like a scene being rewritten before his eyes. The dim lighting darkened, turning sickly yellow. The air grew heavier, damp with the stench of sweat, iron, something acrid. His stomach twisted before his brain even caught up.

Zhenfeng was still there. But this time—this time—it was worse.

He was strapped to a chair, wrists bound behind him with thick, twisted rope. His head lolled forward, dark hair falling messily over his eyes. His breathing was rough, uneven, like it physically hurt to keep going.

Jianyu's blood ran cold.

A hand—thin, bony—grabbed Zhenfeng's jaw and yanked his head up. His face was a mess of bruises, cuts, blood smeared across his skin in streaks like someone had wiped it away carelessly.

Zhenfeng's lip curled weakly, the ghost of a sneer. "That all you got?" His voice was hoarse, cracked at the edges.

Jianyu flinched.

Someone laughed.