Chapter 3: The Monster in the Alley

The morning light filters through the tall windows of Madame Zhao's Academy for Young Ladies, casting golden streaks across the neatly arranged rows of desks. The scent of fresh ink and pressed flowers lingers in the air as a group of girls bend over their embroidery hoops, their delicate fingers moving with careful precision.

You are not one of them.

Slumped at your desk, you twirl a needle between your fingers like a dagger, barely resisting the urge to stab it into the floral fabric before you.

"Your stitches are a disgrace, Liang Yue."

Madame Zhao's sharp voice cuts through the classroom, her disapproving gaze fixed on the tangled mess of silk thread in your hoop.

You feign an apologetic smile. "Oh dear. I suppose I'll never make a good wife."

A few girls stifle giggles. Others, the ones who prefer whispering behind their fans rather than laughing outright, exchange pointed glances. Madame Zhao's lips thin, but she moves on, unwilling to waste more breath on a lost cause.

The academy is a prison disguised in silk and calligraphy, with lessons in proper etiquette, nutrition, flower arranging, and the ever-pressing topic of how to be an ideal wife and mother. To you, it is excruciating.

Yet, despite your disdain for the curriculum, you find ways to entertain yourself.

In poetry class, you make up scandalous limericks about government officials.

In calligraphy, you write conspiracy theories between the lines of Tang dynasty verses.

In embroidery, you stitch an almost invisible rebellion into the hem of your robes—tiny, hidden characters that spell out irreverent phrases like I refuse to be a caged bird.

Some of the girls adore you for it, whispering about how daring and modern you are. Others cling to tradition and find your behavior shocking, even vulgar.

But you don't care.

You endure the tedium, your patience thinning by the hour, until finally—mercifully—lessons end.

As the other girls gather in groups, gossiping about suitors and the latest silk imports, you slip away.

The academy's back garden holds your secret—a small, unguarded gate leading to the narrow alleyways of the city.

Tucked beneath the stone wall is your freedom: a bicycle, purchased under the pretense of needing new dresses for Lunar New Year.

Smiling, you lift your skirts just enough to swing onto the seat. Then, with a push, you're off.

The city rushes past in a blur of red lanterns, wooden stalls, and the scent of roasting chestnuts. Your long braid bounces against your back as you pedal faster, the wind catching the loose strands of your hair.

Where to? You could go anywhere.

But today, you want to do something bold. Something fun.

Then, it strikes you.

A mischievous idea takes root in your mind as you slip through the streets of Shanghai, the city alive with late-night chatter and the glow of lanterns.

Your destination? A leftist newspaper office, known for its fiery anti-Japanese rhetoric. It's the perfect place for a bit of harmless mischief.

The building is nearly empty at this hour, the scent of fresh ink lingering in the air. Stacks of half-edited articles cover the desks, and printing presses stand ready for the next day's edition.

With a practiced hand, you scrawl an anonymous "tip" in elegant script:

"Confidential sources reveal that General Aoki, despite his ruthless reputation, secretly adores French opera. Rumors suggest he has been seen humming arias behind closed doors."

You chuckle to yourself as you slip the note into the editor's stack and vanish into the night before anyone notices.

But just as you step outside, the city's usual rhythm falters.

The hum of Shanghai's nightlife surrounds you—rickshaws rattling over stone roads, the chatter of foreigners spilling from teahouses—but the alley ahead is too quiet.

Your instincts prickle.

Three men stand in the alley. Two are Chinese, their stances rigid, their eyes darting with unease. The third—Japanese.

And not just any Japanese.

Even in the dim light, you recognize him.

Ren Shirakawa.

A feared military officer, whispered about in hushed tones, known for his brutality in Beijing. A man who leaves destruction in his wake. A ghost dressed in iron.

His uniform is perfectly pressed, a katana strapped to his hip, his posture relaxed yet commanding. But it's his face that strikes you.

Sharp cheekbones. Cold, obsidian eyes. A mouth set in a permanent line of disinterest. His dark hair, slightly tousled, gives the illusion of effortless refinement—like a nobleman who stepped out of a portrait.

But he is not a nobleman.

He is a storm in human form—handsome in a way that unsettles, like a blade glinting in the dark.

And the blood staining the edge of his glove reminds you exactly what kind of man he is.

The Chinese men hand over a crate—wooden, unmarked. Weapons, most likely.

Your breath hitches.

A weapon trade. Illegal. Dangerous. You should not be seeing this.

Your hands tighten around the handlebars of your bicycle. You should leave—quietly, unnoticed.

You shift your weight—ready to push off.

A loose stone shifts beneath your front wheel.

The sound is deafening in the silence.

Shirakawa's head snaps up.

For a brief, terrible moment—your eyes meet.

Then, he moves.

Too fast.

You shove off, legs pumping, but before you can gain speed—

A sharp yank at your collar.

Your breath vanishes.

Your body is wrenched back violently. The bicycle jerks beneath you, wheels skidding, and the handlebars slip from your grip.

For a split second, the world tilts.

Then—his other hand slams against the frame, stopping your fall completely.

Steel. A cage. A trap.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. Your feet barely find the ground before he's there—too close, too steady, too in control.

"Who sent you?" His voice is low, edged with quiet menace.

You force a smirk, masking your fear. "Oh? You think I'm a spy? That's almost flattering."

Shirakawa's gaze doesn't waver. "No civilian girl stumbles into something like this by accident."

You shift under his grip, but his fingers remain locked at your collar—casual, unbothered, but unyielding.

"Maybe I was just taking a ride."

His thumb moves—slow, deliberate—pressing lightly at the hollow of your throat. Not hard enough to choke, just enough to remind you: he controls this moment.

"Do you know what happens to spies?" he asks, voice dangerously soft.

You swallow. You are in real danger.

But you refuse to show it.

"I imagine something very unpleasant," you say breezily. "But since I'm not a spy, perhaps you should let me go before I start screaming about how an honorable officer is harassing an innocent young lady."

For a moment, he just studies you.

Then—his grip loosens, just slightly.

Not releasing. Just testing.

"You talk too much," he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

Your heartbeat stumbles.

Then—a voice cuts through the night.

"Sir! We have to move—now."

The spell breaks.

Shirakawa's head tilts slightly, irritation flickering over his otherwise unreadable face. For a second, it seems like he's going to ignore the interruption.

Then—he exhales sharply. Annoyed.

Without another word, he releases you.

You stumble back, nearly knocking over your bicycle.

His attention shifts, but before you can even think of escaping, his voice reaches you one last time—low and edged with certainty.

"Let her go. But keep an eye on her."

Your stomach twists.

He is letting you leave.

But you are not free.

You don't hesitate. You kick off the ground, tires skidding against the stone, and ride—fast, without looking back.

But somehow, you know this is not the last time you will see him.

Not even close.