‌Chapter 39: I’m a Proper Person

Her white blouse clung to her skin, damp with sweat like translucent paper. The lace pattern of her bra pressed clearly against the fabric, exposed to his gaze.

She couldn't bear it any longer. Scanning the elevator—a sealed metal coffin—she pounded the door, hoping someone outside might hear.

"I'd stop that if I were you," Ye Chenghuan drawled. "We're stuck between floors. Shake it too hard, and—" The elevator lurched downward. Zhao Yalin grabbed his arm, pressing against him. The faint scent of tobacco cut through her panic, sharp and disorienting.

The car shuddered to a halt.

Zhao Yalin trembled, sweat-damp hair plastered to her cheeks. She stayed frozen against him until reality snapped back. Shoving him away, she crouched, fingers raking through her disheveled hair. The invincible corporate warrior had been defeated by a malfunctioning box.

Ye Chenghuan leaned against the wall, studying her crumpled form with perverse satisfaction. "Not so high and mighty now, are you? Can't shout orders here. Just you, me, and gravity."

She glared up. "You're trapped too!"

He shrugged. "I've had worse. Former security guard, remember? This is just another Tuesday."

"I don't complain," she snapped. "I grew up in an orphanage. Everything I have, I earned."

His smirk faded. "Orphanage?"

"What's it to you?" She stood abruptly. "You want to mock me? Fine. My father died clearing landmines on the Vietnam border before I was born. My mother…" Her voice cracked. "She gave me away. No photos. No memories. Nothing."

The elevator hummed.

"The orphanage sent me to school. Top of every class." Her laugh turned brittle. "Weekends, classmates ate at restaurants while I counted coins for dumplings. Once, I ate five bowls at Zhang's stall. Five! Then starved on steamed buns for a week to afford it." She mimed clutching imaginary coins. "They asked if I was dieting. I weighed less than 90 pounds."

Her laughter dissolved. A tear traced her cheek. "You called me stubborn. You're right. I chase perfection because anything less feels like… like that hungry girl still counting coins."

Ye Chenghuan's hand hovered awkwardly. The air thickened with shared ache.

"Know what a lone wolf is?" he finally asked.

She wiped her face. "What?"

"Weakest creature alive." His eyes turned glacial. "No pack. No shelter. Prey becomes predator—vultures, jackals, even deer will turn on it. Surviving means eating rot, drinking mud. Becoming less than animal."

The emergency lights cast bloody shadows.

"War taught me that." His voice dropped. "Seen men beg for death as their guts spill? Blood pumps out triple-fast from special blades. You choke on it. Hallucinate. Pray to die, but your tongue's too swollen." He leaned closer. "Survive that, and hunger makes you a demon. Friends' corpses? Just meat. Morality's a joke. You'd lick maggots off bones to live another hour."

Zhao Yalin gagged, doubling over.

He watched coldly. "That's reality, Director. Your dumpling tragedy? Cute."

The intercom crackled. "Maintenance here. Step back from the doors."

Metal groaned. Daylight flooded in as the elevator settled. Zhao Yalin stumbled out, heels clacking against marble. She didn't look back.

Ye Chenghuan lingered, sniffing her abandoned citrus perfume. From his pocket, he pulled a wrinkled photo—a teenage girl clutching textbooks outside an orphanage gate.

"Should've stayed hungry, Zhao Yalin," he murmured. "Full bellies make soft hearts."