Chapter 7: What Survives the Silence

Summary: When buried truths come to light, Yao finds herself surrounded by unwavering loyalty, quiet strength, and the fierce protection of a man who would burn the world to keep her safe.

One-Shot

 The base was dark, the kind of quiet that settled only after hours of practice, long after the lights had been turned out and the others had retreated to their rooms. The only sound that stirred was the low hum of an open window letting in the faint wind from the gated courtyard between ZGDX and YQCB. 

Lu Sicheng hadn't meant to wake, but he had, body tightening with unease the second he realized her door was open and she wasn't in her bed. He didn't know why he checked the terrace. Maybe because her scent lingered faintly there after mornings spent curled up with Da Bing and her laptop. Maybe because, somewhere in the silence, something told him she was not okay. What he didn't expect—what he never expected—was to find her like this.

Curled tightly into herself, knees drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped around her legs so tightly her knuckles were white. The blanket clutched around her shoulders trembled as she rocked gently, rhythmically, her face buried in the safety of her knees, and her voice—small, cracked—murmured over and over, "It was just a nightmare. Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare…"

Lu Sicheng froze. Not out of hesitation. But because everything in him locked down at once. This wasn't normal. This wasn't her being startled by loud sounds, or flinching when someone moved too fast near her. This was something else. Something buried so deep it had never surfaced until now. And she looked… she looked broken. For once, there was no teasing, no wry commentary. He crouched slowly in front of her, lowering himself until he was eye-level, careful not to touch her, not to speak too loud, not to push. His voice dropped low, gentle, steady.

"Smiling."

Her shoulders twitched.

"Tong Yao," he said again, softer now, deliberately choosing her real name. "You're awake. You're safe. Look at me."

It took several heartbeats before she moved, before her head lifted, her face pale and tear-stained, her eyes hollow and glassy like she wasn't entirely there. When they finally locked onto his, her lips trembled, and the next words that came out of her mouth cracked the last of his calm. "He came to the base today."

Lu Sicheng didn't need to ask who.

"I thought I was past it," she whispered, voice broken and barely audible, "I thought—I thought I was okay, but seeing him again—he just stood there like nothing ever happened—and I—I couldn't breathe—"

His hands hovered near her face but didn't touch. Not yet. He forced himself to stay still. "Yao," he said slowly, "what did he do to you?"

She blinked at him. The silence dragged between them, heavy, choking, but he didn't back down. Didn't let her look away. And something in his eyes—something quiet and steady and safe—unlocked the truth she had never told anyone. "After I broke up with him," she said finally, her voice so soft he had to lean in, "he came to my dorm a month later. Drunk. Angry. Said I owed him. Said I led him on. I tried to close the door, but he shoved it open. He grabbed me. He—he pushed me down on my bed and tried to…" her throat convulsed, but she forced herself to go on. "I fought him. I fought him with everything I had. I bit him. I screamed. My RA came and yanked him off me—but because his father's a police commissioner, they made it disappear."

Every muscle in Sicheng's body coiled with barely restrained violence, his jaw tightening so hard it ached.

She wasn't done. "My parents… my family took money. Told me to let it go. Told me it wasn't worth ruining our future over a mistake. They signed papers. They never looked back. And I never told anyone. Not Jinyang. Not Ai Jia. Not anyone."

Lu Sicheng didn't ask why. He didn't demand to know why she had stayed silent. He knew why. Instead, slowly, deliberately, he reached forward and laid his jacket around her, covering the shaking blanket. Then, with painstaking care, he lowered himself beside her, his body curved around hers without touching, anchoring her with his presence. "You're not alone," he said, voice low, steady as a storm held at bay. "And I promise you this—he will never get close to you again. Not while I'm breathing."

She didn't say anything. Just leaned, slowly, until her head rested against his shoulder.

And Lu Sicheng, the man feared by half the league, who ran information networks and crushed careers with a few words, didn't think about revenge. He planned it. Silently. Thoroughly. Because Jian Yang might have gotten away with it then. But now? Now he had to answer to him.

The terrace remained cloaked in silence, the kind that wrapped itself around the heart like a vice, cold and relentless, broken only by the sound of her breathing—still shallow, still catching every so often as though her lungs had forgotten how to trust the air.

Yao didn't cry anymore. She just sat there, pressed into his side, her small frame trembling beneath the weight of her truth, beneath the suffocating memories she had carried alone for far too long. Sicheng didn't move. He didn't speak. He just let her rest there, with his jacket curled around her like a second skin and the world held back by the sheer force of his restraint.

But his mind?

His mind was not still. He was already thinking—calculating. The name of the RA. The school's old housing roster. The year she lived in that dorm. Security cameras. Witnesses. Anyone and everyone who had seen Jian Yang walk in that night. There were always cracks. Always holes in stories fabricated by men drunk on power. And Lu Sicheng? He lived in those cracks.

It took almost an hour before Yao's breathing evened out again. When she finally stirred, blinking up at him with those wide, tired eyes, her voice was hoarse and uncertain. "You should hate me."

He turned to face her fully, sharp amber eyes catching hers with a steadiness that made her stomach twist. "I should what?"

Her lips parted, but she couldn't speak. He saw it—the fear, the self-blame, the deep-rooted shame that came not from what was done to her, but from how the world had taught her to carry it. "Because I didn't tell you," she whispered, voice cracking. "Because you trusted me on your team and I came with all this—baggage. I'm not—clean."

The moment she said it, she regretted it. She turned her face away, but she didn't get far.

Because Lu Sicheng's hand came up, gently but with unshakable precision, fingers tilting her chin back toward him. Not harsh. Not demanding. Just firm. "Listen to me, and listen carefully," he said, each word low and deliberate, as though etched in steel. "You are not dirty. You are not broken. What happened to you? That's his shame. Not yours. And if you ever say something like that again, I will correct you every damn time until you believe me."

Her throat convulsed, eyes glassy.

He let his hand drop, but he stayed close, voice softer now—threaded with something so rare, so quietly reverent, it stole the air right from her chest. "You didn't come to this team with baggage, Tong Yao. You came with strength I have never seen in another player. You came with scars that you wear like armor. You came with fire in your hands, and I've watched you walk into battle every day like you don't even realize you're blazing."

She stared at him, speechless.

"And you don't owe me anything," he finished, voice tightening at the edges, "but now that I know? I'm not letting this go."

Her voice came out in a whisper. "What are you going to do?"

Sicheng looked at her. Not with fury. Not with pity. With purpose. "Whatever I have to." He helped her up carefully, one arm sliding around her shoulders, holding her steady as she swayed from exhaustion. She didn't resist. She didn't ask questions. She just leaned into him as they walked back through the terrace doors and down the quiet hall, passing the softly humming computers, the game chairs, the empty kitchen—silent witnesses to the night that had shattered one thing and reforged something stronger. When he got her to her room, Da Bing was already curled on the bed, eyes half-lidded, tail flicking like he knew. Sicheng pulled the covers back, helped her settle in without a word, tucked his jacket around her again, and only when she was half-asleep did she reach for his hand.

"Stay?" she murmured.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. He sat beside her. Awake. Silent. Planning. Because Jian Yang had left her alone in the dark that night. And the world had let it happen. But this time?

Sicheng would drag that monster into the light. And burn him to ash.

The change was subtle at first, small enough that no one dared comment aloud, not in the moment, not when Lu Sicheng's presence had always been a stormcloud on the horizon, cold and controlled and edged in something lethal. But over the next few days, the shift became undeniable.

It started with where he stood.

Always behind her.

Not hovering. Not obvious.

But there.

Every time they walked into the practice room, he stood just slightly behind and to the left of her chair, coffee in one hand, watching the screen with unreadable eyes as if daring anyone—anyone—to make her flinch.

Then came the sharpness.

They were mid-practice. A standard scrim against YQCB. Yao had missed a rotation. Just one. She was quiet about it, voice clipped with frustration as she rewatched the replay, fingers twitching against her mouse. It wasn't unusual, everyone made mistakes but it was Lao K, standing behind them with his usual dry drawl, who muttered under his breath, "Miss Ming Shen yet?"

The room froze.

Sicheng didn't even look up from his screen. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. "Say that again," he said, the words cold and flat, the kind of cold that made the temperature in the room drop ten degrees. "And I'll remind you why I am the team captain, not Ming."

Lao K blinked, startled into silence.

Yao didn't say anything. She just went back to watching the replay, lips pressed tightly together. But her hands didn't shake this time.

Later that day, Yue made the mistake of trying to be funny.

Tong Yao had left her machine running during break, and Yue, ever the playful troublemaker, had nudged her mouse and logged in to check her queue build. He hadn't even touched her matches, just poked around.

Sicheng's voice cracked like a whip from across the room before Yue could blink. "Get away from her account."

Yue looked up, grinning. "Relax, ge, I didn't play on it, I just—"

"You touch it again without her permission," Sicheng said, rising from his chair so slowly that the floor creaked, "and I'll kick you off this team myself. Permanently."

The silence was immediate.

Even Rui, who had just walked in with a clipboard, paused and arched a brow.

Yue slowly stepped back, hands raised, his smile faltering. "Noted," he muttered, ducking away to the other side of the room.

Sicheng didn't look at Yao. Didn't explain. He just sat back down beside her, his arm resting casually behind her chair, the very picture of ease—except for the eyes, those sharp amber eyes that never stopped watching. Protecting.

By the third day, no one was asking questions.

Lao Mao started carrying her favorite drink without comment. Pang brought snacks and left them on her desk. Rui quietly shifted her work schedule so she wouldn't have to worry about her hours when she experienced her time of the month. Ming, who normally barked at everyone with equal disregard, hadn't raised his voice at her once, even when she missed a meeting and arrived ten minutes late, face pale and drawn.

Because they all saw it now.

The shift.

The way Lu Sicheng stood closer. The way his voice softened, only for her. The way he'd linger just a moment longer when she sat down, the faintest brush of his hand at her back as if to remind her: You're not alone.

She hadn't said anything. Hadn't explained the sudden dread in her eyes when Jian Yang's name was mentioned, or why she froze the first time they watched CK's replays that week. But they didn't need her to. Because Sicheng had made it crystal clear. Tong Yao belonged here. And anyone—anyone—who made her feel otherwise would answer to him.

The mood in the ZGDX practice room that morning was quiet in a way that felt off . The usual banter had dulled to faint clicks and murmurs as everyone focused on prep. Yao sat in her usual spot, focused and composed, her oversized hoodie wrapped tightly around her as Da Bing slept near her feet. She looked fine—calm, professional—but Lu Sicheng had watched her long enough to recognize the signs. Her posture was tighter. Her focus was locked in a way that screamed she was pushing something down.

He hadn't asked. He wasn't going to. But he hadn't left her side either. The door opened just after noon, and Rui stepped inside, holding his tablet like it might explode. His expression was tense, the kind of expression that made the room brace for impact.

"Got a message from HQ this morning," Rui began, his tone neutral, "They're planning a cross-team PR campaign between ZGDX and CK. Some full-roster joint stream nonsense, friendly interviews, maybe some exhibition matches, all of it filmed for a series."

Silence.

Everyone slowly turned from their monitors.

"No," came the immediate response, quiet but razor-sharp.

Rui blinked. "I knew you'd say that, Sicheng, but—"

"No," the Captain repeated, rising from his chair without haste, though the air shifted the second he stood. His voice wasn't raised, but the cold steel beneath each syllable had everyone else falling completely still.

"They're not pushing this lightly," Rui said carefully, "Madam Lu is backing it. She thinks—"

"I'll remind my mother," Lu Sicheng interrupted, his tone now dipped in lethal frost, "that she holds a seat on the board only because I allow it." The silence that followed wasn't just tense. It was absolute. "She does not own this team," he continued, each word carved from unshakable authority, "She has no operational power. Neither does the board. The league might forget that, but they're going to remember today."

Rui didn't respond, eyes narrowing as he studied the younger man, clearly trying to measure the source of such sudden finality. "She is pushing because of recent rumors," Rui added quietly, glancing—briefly—toward Yao before continuing, "About ties between certain players. She thinks this would neutralize them."

"She's wrong," Sicheng replied flatly.

Behind them, Yue muttered under his breath, not looking up from his seat, "Wow. Protective much."

The room shifted again.

Sicheng turned his head, slow and deliberate, gaze locking onto his younger brother like a vice. He didn't raise his voice, didn't even frown—but his words cut clean. "Do not speak on things you don't understand."

Yue raised his brows but said nothing more.

Pang cleared his throat quietly and leaned toward Lao Mao, whispering, "Okay… what the hell just happened?"

Lao Mao shrugged once, low under his breath. "Captain's pissed. That's all we need to know."

Sicheng didn't respond to the commentary. He just returned to his seat, dropped back into his chair like the discussion was already over, and added coolly, "Let HQ know the answer is no. If they want a stunt, they can use someone else. This team isn't available."

Rui paused, then nodded. "I'll handle it."

As the door clicked shut behind their manager, the room slowly relaxed. The tension thinned, though it never fully left.

Tong Yao didn't say anything. She hadn't flinched, hadn't spoken, hadn't reacted. She just kept her eyes on the screen in front of her. But in that moment, with everyone else caught between confusion and caution, there was only one thing Lu Sicheng was thinking. That the world may not know what had been done to her. But he did. And as long as she was under his banner, they would never force her into proximity with the man who had hurt her. Not while he was breathing.

The call came late.

The base was quiet, the team scattered in their own corners—Yue in the lounge dozing with a controller half-slipped from his fingers, Pang raiding the kitchen, and Yao in the training room still reviewing CK's match history with headphones on and Da Bing curled beneath her desk like a silent sentinel. Lu Sicheng had stepped into his private office only minutes earlier, his expression unreadable, his steps calm. But when his phone lit up with the name Madam Lu , he didn't sigh.

He didn't hesitate. He answered it. "Mother," he said evenly.

Her voice, smooth and polished as always, came through like ice wrapped in silk. "I just heard from Rui that you turned down the campaign with CK."

"I did," he replied simply.

There was a beat of silence, then her tone sharpened.

"I advised it for your benefit, not just the board's. Do you have any idea how much exposure and positive press you're throwing away? You're thinking emotionally, not strategically—"

"Stop." His voice cut across hers with such precision it cleaved the air in two.

For a moment, there was only silence on the other end.

Then, "What did you just say to me?"

Lu Sicheng rose from his chair slowly, the full weight of his composure descending like winter across his shoulders. "I said stop," he repeated, his tone lower now, edged in something final. "I've let you play at influence long enough. Sit at my board. Offer suggestions. Play matriarch over something you didn't build. That ends today."

"Sicheng—"

"You want to use my team," he said, voice flattening into something glacial, "to push narratives that put one of my players at risk. You want to erase her voice, her discomfort, and her safety, for what? Optics? A campaign?"

"She's just a player, Sicheng. This is bigger than her."

"No," he said coldly, "this is mine. My team. My call. And if you think you can maneuver around me using your position—let me make it simple." He paused, letting the silence sharpen like a blade before delivering the final blow. "Clear out your desk."

Her breath caught.

"You don't mean that."

"I do," he said, with all the certainty of a man who never, ever repeated himself. "You are no longer welcome at ZGDX's HQ. Your access is revoked. Your seat on the board is dissolved. If I see your name anywhere near my team again, I will burn the whole structure down and rebuild it from ash without you."

"You're choosing her over me?"

"I'm choosing what's right," he said, his voice hollow of hesitation. "Something you forgot how to do a long time ago." He ended the call. No dramatic gestures. No shouting. Just a soft click that echoed like the end of a reign.

Outside, in the hallway, Yue had paused near the door, frozen in place, having caught only the tail end of his brother's words. His mouth opened to speak, but when he saw the look in Sicheng's eyes as he stepped out of the office—quiet, cold, done—he closed it again.

Lu Sicheng didn't explain. He simply walked past. Because some lines, once crossed, left no way back. And tonight, his mother had found hers.

By morning, Lu Sicheng was already dressed in black. No logos. No team jacket. Just a sleek buttoned coat over a crisp shirt, his hair combed back with sharp precision, and his expression as still as polished obsidian. He didn't tell anyone at the base where he was going. He didn't have to. The silence in his eyes said more than words. It was a private jet, of course, the flight to his grandfather's estate was maybe about two hours. Quiet. Efficient. Lu family assets moved like blood in veins—fast, silent, invisible to the public eye. The car that picked him up was one he hadn't ridden in since he was nineteen, and yet the driver greeted him the same way he always had.

"Second Young Master."

"Just Lu Sicheng," he replied calmly.

The old estate loomed like a cathedral of legacy and judgment. Every tile gleamed. Every corridor echoed. And at the end of the main hall, seated in a leather armchair beneath a vast Lu family crest stitched in gold thread, was the only man in the country whose name could command more weight than his own—

Lu Wenshou. The old dragon. His grandfather. He didn't rise when Sicheng entered. He didn't smile. He didn't scowl. He simply studied his grandson over a porcelain teacup, aged eyes steady, silent as the grave.

Sicheng bowed, low and respectful, but not submissive.

The old man finally spoke. "Sit."

Sicheng did.

There was no warmth in the air, but there was respect—iron-hard, cold-blooded, and precise.

"I received the alert," his grandfather said simply, setting down the cup with a soft clink. "You removed your mother from the board."

"Yes."

"You burned every bridge she tried to build."

"She built them on someone else's pain," Sicheng replied. "I don't carry that kind of blood."

A long silence.

Then, "I heard Jian Yang was involved."

Sicheng's eyes didn't flicker. "Not directly. Not yet. But I won't allow him or any association with him to come within ten feet of my team. She is my player. She is under me. That is all the justification I need."

"And your mother?"

"Put her hands where they don't belong."

His grandfather hummed, neither pleased nor disapproving. "And if she retaliates?"

"She won't be able to," Sicheng said simply. "Not now."

Another moment passed.

Then, slowly, the elder Lu reached into the drawer beside his chair and pulled out a black lacquer box. Inside was a single seal—gold, aged, encrusted with the Lu crest at its center.

Sicheng stared at it.

"The family has been waiting," Lu Wenshou said calmly, "for a hand strong enough to grip the reins without shaking. Your father… was not it. And your mother never understood legacy. Only leverage." He paused. "You do."

Sicheng didn't speak. He waited.

"You were raised with teeth and trained with knives," the old man continued. "You already command nations in silence and run operations beneath the public eye. You know the difference between control and power. You've earned what they wasted." And then—he picked up a pen, opened the file beside him, and without pause, signed everything over. Estate. Holdings. Corporate shares. Voting rights. Control of every Lu entity from Asia to the States. When he set the pen down, he looked up at his grandson with the same calm, unreadable weight as always. "Congratulations, Head of the Lu Family."

Sicheng didn't flinch. Didn't exhale. He reached forward, took the seal, and closed the box. And in that moment, the world shifted. Not with fanfare. Not with press. But with the quiet transfer of absolute authority from one generation to the next.

The dragon had chosen.

And now, Lu Sicheng held the throne.

Not for wealth.

Not for power.

But because someone had dared to touch what was his to protect.

And now?

There would be consequences.

By the time Lu Sicheng stepped back into the ZGDX base, the winter gray light of afternoon had slanted across the floor, throwing sharp angles through the high windows and casting long, cold shadows across the lounge. He wasn't tired. He wasn't tense. In fact, his posture was relaxed, his coat still buttoned, his scarf folded neatly across one shoulder as he stepped in with all the composed silence of a man who had just made the world kneel without lifting his voice. He had barely crossed the threshold when the first phone went off.

Then another.

And another.

Not just one. Not just in the lounge. The ripple traveled—like a silent detonation—as screens lit up across the base. Yue blinked at his, scrolling with widening eyes. Rui, already walking in from the hall, stopped mid-step, his tablet vibrating in his hands. Pang swore under his breath. Lao Mao let out a slow whistle.

Tong Yao, seated in the corner curled up beside Da Bing, looked up slowly as her own phone buzzed on the cushion beside her. She didn't reach for it immediately, but everyone else?

They were staring.

And then—

Sicheng's own phone lit up.

A single alert. No frills. No speculation.

Just a headline across the top of his private news feed:

"Breaking: Lu Wenshou Appoints Eldest Grandson as New Patriarch of the Lu Family Empire."

The message beneath it bore the unmistakable mark of the Lu Family's private PR division—unmistakably high-caliber, coldly corporate, and devastatingly final.

Effective immediately, all operational, financial, and legacy holdings formerly overseen by Lu Wenshou shall transfer into the full legal and administrative authority of Lu Sicheng. The former patriarch recognizes him as sole Head of the Lu Family and master of all Lu holdings and interests, both public and private.

No mention of his father. No mention of Madam Lu. The throne had shifted and the world knew it now.

Sicheng stared at the screen for one still second. Then his lips curled—slow, sharp, lethal. Not warm. Not smug. Just cold satisfaction. He looked up, eyes scanning the room, meeting every stunned gaze without blinking, and then lowered his phone as if it were no more significant than a grocery list.

Yue, slack-jawed, finally managed a whisper. "Holy shit."

Sicheng moved past him without comment, heading toward the kitchen with the steady gait of a man who didn't need to explain himself to anyone. He opened the fridge, pulled out a bottle of water, and took a slow sip. Only then, as if it were a casual footnote to a much larger event, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for the room to hear, "About damn time." And just like that…. The King had returned.

The silence in the lounge hadn't yet settled from the gravity of the announcement—phones still buzzed on the edges of tables, news headlines stacking in notifications, unread messages pouring in from sponsors, partners, and nosy contacts who suddenly remembered Sicheng's number. The others barely dared to speak, not because they feared him, but because the sheer weight of what had just unfolded left no room for casual commentary.

Until, from the corner of the room, Yue finally found his voice. And not just any voice but that familiar mix of disbelief, nerves, and barely restrained panic that only the younger Lu sibling could manage with such flair. "So…" he began slowly, drawing out the word like it might shield him from the fallout, "…does this mean all blind dates are stopping now?"

All eyes turned to him.

"Because—" Yue cleared his throat and straightened up in his seat, "—I swear to every god in every pantheon, I was one email away from buying a one-way ticket to Kenya. Not joking. I looked up visa requirements. I had a bag packed."

Lu Sicheng didn't even lift his eyes from his water bottle as he replied in the same calm, measured tone he'd used when dismantling his mother's empire hours earlier. "Yes."

Yue blinked. "Yes?"

"No more blind dates," Sicheng confirmed, turning and leaning one arm on the back of a nearby chair. His expression was unbothered, the smirk faint but unmistakably wicked. "No more social obligations. No more arranged meetings with daughters of third-tier stockholders. And definitely no more brunches hosted by women who think matchmaking is a divine calling."

Yue let out a dramatic breath of pure relief, slumping in his seat like a man narrowly saved from execution. "Thank God. I was gonna fake my death and everything. I even had a guy who owed me a favor with access to a crematorium."

Sicheng arched an eyebrow. "You're an idiot."

Yue grinned. "But I'm a free idiot now."

Tong Yao, still seated quietly beside Da Bing, didn't say anything, but her eyes flicked from one brother to the other, her fingers curled just slightly around her phone. She didn't fully understand what had just happened—only that the world outside the team had shifted, and somehow, she now stood under the protection of not just ZGDX's captain…

But the man who now controlled one of the most powerful family empires in Asia. And that man? Was currently peeling open a bottle of water like he hadn't just shattered his mother's ambitions and erased his father's influence with a single conversation.

Yue, sensing the weight returning, cleared his throat again. "So does this also mean we can finally block her number? Because mine's been set to do not disturb since last spring."

Sicheng took another sip, then deadpanned, "Block it. Change it. Tell her you're in Kenya. I don't care. She's not my problem anymore."

Yue lit up. "Okay, now you're officially my favorite brother."

"You only have one."

"Exactly."

Sicheng rolled his eyes and finally turned back toward the hallway. As he passed Yao, their eyes met just for a breath. He didn't say anything. But he nodded once. And she knew that the storms at her back were done. Because the man now leading one of the most feared families in the country had drawn the line. And she was behind it.

The message came quietly—delivered with none of the dramatic edge that usually followed Lu Sicheng's summons. Just a short ping on a phone: "Office. Now."  Sent directly to ZGDX_Smiling from ZGDX_Chessman.

Yao hesitated when she saw it. The others were still reacting to the wave of breaking news and her presence had largely gone unnoticed, which suited her fine. She didn't like attention, not when it painted her into the corner of someone else's narrative. But this wasn't public. This wasn't press. This was him. She rose silently, Da Bing trailing after her like a shadow as she slipped into the hallway, the sound of the door closing behind her muffled, final.

Lu Sicheng was already seated at his desk, a sleek, minimal space that never looked like it was used until he needed it. No clutter, no warmth—just sharp edges and locked drawers and a man who commanded silence without lifting his voice. He didn't look up as she entered. He didn't need to. "Sit."

She obeyed quietly, curling into the armchair across from him, legs tucked beneath her as Da Bing settled at her feet like a stone guardian. She watched him, waiting, but he didn't posture, didn't waste words.

He simply looked at her and asked, "What do you want done about Jian Yang?"

The question landed in the room like a blade dropped between them, too sharp to ignore, too direct to soften.

Yao blinked, mouth parting. "I… what?"

Sicheng leaned forward slightly, amber eyes narrowing just enough to press the weight of his words against her without crushing her beneath them. "I'm not asking whether he deserves it. I'm asking what you want."

Her lips trembled, just a little. "What about his father?"

Sicheng's smirk didn't hold warmth. It was cold. Surgical. "Handled."

Yao stared at him.

And then, he spoke—not as Captain Lu Sicheng of ZGDX, but as Chessman, the name whispered in shadows long before the esports world ever knew his face. "Before ZGDX, before tournaments, before this version of my life—" he began smoothly, "—I graduated at the top of my class from China's most prestigious Law and Science University. At twenty. Passed the bar exam two weeks later." Her breath hitched. He didn't stop. "I built ZGDX on my own terms. But the foundation was strategy. Structure. Knowing how systems worked—so I could break them if needed." He leaned back slightly, tone still calm. "And my mother's brother, Wang Ju, is currently ranked two levels above Jian Yang's father. Chief Commander of the Ministry of State Security's northern division." He let that sit in the silence for a moment. "He's been waiting for an excuse to crush Jian Jiancheng like the corrupt little bug he is."

Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "Why?"

Sicheng's smile faded to something colder. Older. "Because I asked him to keep his hands off until I had a reason." He stood, walked to the bar cabinet against the wall, and poured her a glass of water. No theatrics. Just a man offering calm in the face of chaos. He brought it over, placed it in front of her, and crouched until they were eye-level. "You survived. Alone. And you were never supposed to." Her eyes welled, but no tears fell. "So I'm asking you now—no handlers, no headlines, no outside voices. Just me, asking you…" His voice dipped lower, iron hidden in velvet. "What do you want done, Yao?"

Not do you want justice . Not should I move .

What do you want.

The power in the question wasn't in what he could do. It was that he had already decided she would be the one to choose. The throne he sat on now? He was offering its weight to her. And whatever she chose. He would make it happen.

Tong Yao had always been quiet. Not meek. Not weak. Just quiet. Measured. The kind of quiet that masked the storms she'd weathered, the kind of quiet that carried the weight of all the things she'd never been allowed to scream. But now, seated across from him in the still, sterile calm of his office, Lu Sicheng saw something break. Not loudly. Not dramatically.

Just one tear.

One silent trail down her cheek as her lips trembled, her hands clenched in her lap, and her breath came shallow and uneven, like she was choking on air that had turned to glass. Her fingers twitched. Her voice—when it came—was wrecked. "I want him destroyed." The words fractured on their way out, torn from her throat, raw and gasping. Her next breath shuddered. "He can't—" she choked out, her eyes dark and wet as they locked with his, not pleading, but begging to be believed —"he can't be allowed to do what he tried to do to me… to someone else. He can't ."

The pain wasn't just in her voice. It was in every inch of her body. The way she curled forward, as if finally speaking it out loud had pulled the air from her lungs. The way her hand moved to her chest, like she was trying to hold herself together. The way Da Bing stood from his place at her feet and pressed against her leg, silent and still, sensing the shift, the breaking.

Lu Sicheng didn't speak immediately. He didn't rush to comfort her. He didn't offer meaningless platitudes. He just stood, quietly, with the kind of silence that didn't judge. The kind of silence that saw . And then he nodded.

Once.

A movement precise, firm, final.

"Then that's what we'll do."

He walked back to his desk, his fingers already moving across the secure keypad built beneath the surface—locking down communications, initiating encrypted protocols, and triggering the first wave of motion from the network that had once operated under his code name. Not ZGDX's captain.

But Chessman.

The one who had toppled corporations.

Erased names.

Ended empires.

"You won't have to see his face again," Sicheng said quietly, his tone no longer cold, but deadly calm. "Not on television. Not at the arena. Not in passing. Not in memory. I'll scrub him from the league and from the network. I'll give Wang Ju everything he's been waiting for." He turned back to her, watching her shake, watching the tears she didn't know how to stop. "And when it's over, I'll put the final report in your hand," he said, voice soft as ice sliding into water. "Not to prove that it's done. But so you know—there will never be another girl who has to survive him the way you did."

She didn't thank him. She couldn't. Because this wasn't a favor. This was justice.

And Lu Sicheng?

He was already moving to deliver it.

Tong Yao sat there still trembling, her voice raw from the words she had finally let herself speak, her fingers curling tighter around the sleeves of her hoodie as Da Bing pressed into her legs for comfort. Her breathing was starting to even out, though her eyes remained glossy with unfallen tears, and her body still carried the residual hum of tension that had lived in her bones far too long. She shifted, drawing in a slow breath, then grimaced, her brow furrowing slightly as another worry clawed its way forward. "What about interviews?" Her voice was quieter now, hoarse and uncertain. "The MVP ones after matches. I've been watching them, and they always… they always try to talk about gossip. About personal things. What if someone asks again? Or worse, he gets brought up on air?"

Sicheng looked up from the secure interface he'd been working on, his expression calm, but his eyes burning with that same deadly focus she'd seen only once before—when he'd made the call to strike Jian Yang from her orbit. He leaned back slightly in his chair, voice quiet but edged with dark satisfaction. "They won't."

She blinked.

Sicheng tapped his index finger once against the desk, almost absently, as he explained, "A week ago. Kickoff match. Hostess tried to get clever with her phrasing. Asked me—on live national news, mind you—what I personally thought of your performance." He paused, letting the words settle. "She didn't ask about the match. She didn't ask about your macro. She asked what I thought of you—with you sitting right next to me."

Yao flinched, the memory coming back in a sharp, unpleasant burst.

"I pulled us from MVP interviews that night," he said plainly.

Her eyes widened. "Wait—what?"

He nodded once. "Permanently. ZGDX doesn't participate anymore."

"But… the league—"

"They pushed back," he replied, his voice like glass. "So I reminded them of the three-year streaming contract I negotiated on their behalf that funds half their regional network. And then I reminded them of the replacement sponsors I could bring in should ZGDX ever decide to form its own media platform."

Her mouth parted slightly.

His smirk didn't reach his eyes. "No one asks questions now."

Yao stared at him, stunned into silence. "You… did that for me?"

"I did that," Sicheng corrected quietly, "because a professional athlete should be respected for their skill, not reduced to bait for gossip peddlers who wouldn't recognize game sense if it walked up and jungled their entire broadcast schedule."

She choked on a laugh, watery and broken.

He leaned forward then, folding his arms on the desk, his voice gentling. "You don't owe the public a single piece of yourself. Not your pain. Not your past. Not your smile. Not your silence. You owe them nothing." Her eyes locked onto his, the words settling deep. "So from now on, Yao," he said, soft but certain, "you play. You win. You walk off stage. That's it. That's all they get." 

And for the first time since she had stepped into the ZGDX base, she finally, truly believed…. She was safe.

Night had settled heavy over the city by the time the last echoes of movement faded from the base. ZGDX had gone quiet—practice stations logged out, keyboards stilled, the others long gone to their rooms or retreating into the calm that followed a hard day's grind. But behind the thick wooden door of Lu Sicheng's office, time hadn't stopped.

It had just shifted.

Soft breathing filled the space, barely audible beneath the hush of circulating air. On the leather couch tucked beneath the high windows, Tong Yao had fallen asleep without intending to. She hadn't even made it past one full match breakdown—her head had drifted down against the armrest, body curled protectively into herself, Da Bing nestled tightly beside her, half-buried beneath the heavy, slate-gray blanket Sicheng kept folded across the back of the couch for nights like these. Her shoes had fallen off. One arm dangled slightly over the edge. Her lips were parted just a little, cheeks still tinged from earlier tears, but her breathing had finally evened out.

And Sicheng watched her for a moment—just a moment—before he turned back to his desk and reached for his secure line. There was only one number in that contact file. He pressed it. It barely rang once.

The voice on the other end was sharp, clipped, the tone of a man who didn't like being disturbed unless the reason was compelling. "Wang Ju."

"Uncle," Sicheng said calmly.

A pause.

"Sicheng," came the reply, firm and immediate. "I saw the release. Patriarch now, are we?"

"You knew it was coming."

"I expected it two years ago."

"Then let's not waste time."

Wang Ju chuckled, a dark, knowing sound. "So. What moves are you making?"

There was a long pause on Sicheng's end. His gaze drifted back to the girl asleep on his couch, so small, so quiet, her breathing soft enough to vanish beneath the hum of the city outside. He stared for one heartbeat longer. Then his voice, when it returned, was low. Steady. Lethal. "Jian Jiancheng's son," he said quietly, "tried to assault a college freshman two years ago." The silence on the other end shifted. Became heavier. Sicheng continued. "He forced his way into her dorm. Put hands on her. Tried to force more. She fought him off. It never made it to court because the school buried it. Her family was bribed into silence. And his father made it all disappear."

"You have proof?" Wang Ju asked, his tone sharpening.

"I'll have the names of witnesses, floor reports, dorm logs, and the RA who pulled him off her by the end of the night."

"And the victim?" Wang Ju asked.

There was a brief pause.

Sicheng's voice dropped an octave, cold and sharp. "She's the reason I'm calling you now."

"Who is she?"

"My Midlaner."

Wang Ju was silent for a long moment. And then, in a voice that carried the weight of state command, intelligence wars, and a personal code sharper than law, he said, "That bastard's son always thought his father could protect him. I've been waiting years for him to slip. And his father's gotten too comfortable covering his tracks."

Sicheng said nothing. He didn't need to.

"Send me everything you have," his uncle continued. "I'll handle the rest. Quiet if you want. Or public, if you prefer."

"I'll let you know what she decides," Sicheng replied smoothly.

There was another pause.

"You've never asked me for anything personal, Cheng."

"This is personal," he said simply. "She survived him. I won't let her carry that alone anymore."

Wang Ju's voice softened—not kind, but approving. Cold steel recognizing tempered fire. "Good. It's time someone paid."

And with that, the call ended.

Sicheng set the phone down. He didn't speak. Didn't move toward her. He just returned to his desk, opened the file folder he'd already been building, and began writing the future out with a calm, calculating hand. Behind him, Tong Yao slept on—safely, deeply, for the first time in far too long. And this time, when the storm came for Jian Jiancheng and his son. It would not pass quietly. The soft rustle of movement broke the quiet rhythm of Sicheng's pen scratching across parchment-thin paper. He didn't look up right away, but his hand stilled as he heard it—the faint shift of a blanket, the warm huff of Da Bing stretching, and the slow exhale of someone waking from deep, dreamless sleep. When he finally turned, Tong Yao was curled on the edge of the couch, one hand rising to brush strands of hair from her face, the blanket slipping from her shoulder as she blinked toward him. Her eyes were still heavy with sleep, but they held clarity now—no fog, no fear. Just thought.

She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter, gaze finding his with quiet resolve. "You stayed," she said softly.

"Of course," he answered simply. "You needed rest. I needed answers."

Her lips curled faintly, but didn't smile.

There was no need to build toward it. He leaned back in his chair and fixed her with a steady look, voice low and precise. "Yao," he said, "what do you want?"

Her breath caught.

She looked down, her fingers curling into the soft folds of the blanket. Then she whispered the truth with a throat still raw from everything she had finally said aloud. "Public." The word cut the stillness like a blade—soft, but irrevocable. Then she hesitated, swallowing hard. "But… I don't know if I want my name attached."

Sicheng didn't look surprised. He only nodded once, voice as calm and controlled as it had been when commanding the league. "We can keep it from the report," he said. "We can redact identifiers. But people…" His gaze met hers with quiet certainty. "People aren't stupid. Especially not the ones who want to make noise. They'll put it together." Her lips pressed into a thin line. "And if they do," he continued, "you'll need to be prepared. For interviews. For questions. For them trying to spin your pain into a story that fits their headline."

Tong Yao bit down hard on her bottom lip, then closed her eyes. She sat in that silence for a moment, breathing—steady, slow, controlled. Then she opened them, and her voice, when it came, was sharper. "If they put my name in that report…" She looked at him directly now, gaze unwavering. "…then I want them to put in everything. I want them to write—clearly—that my parents took money. That they were paid off. That they let it happen because it was easier to protect a family name than their daughter." Her hands were trembling again, but she didn't flinch from her own truth. "They don't get to show up here," she added, her voice cracking. "They don't get to walk through that door and pretend they were ever on my side." Her next breath hitched, but it didn't stop her. "Ban them, Sicheng. If I'm doing this—if I'm putting my name on it—then I don't want to see their faces ever again."

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then Lu Sicheng stood. Not quickly. Not dramatically. He walked around the desk, crouched in front of her like he had that night on the terrace, and spoke in that same quiet, controlled voice he always used when something mattered. "Done," he said. "I'll have Rui update the visitor access list. Their names will be flagged. They'll never step inside."

She nodded, exhaling through her nose, the tension in her shoulders slightly looser. "And the report?" she asked.

He reached for her hand, not to grip it, not to claim anything, but to steady it—just enough to ground her. "I'll make sure it's written the way it should've been from the beginning."

"And the fallout?"

Sicheng's jaw tightened. "I'll take it."

She inhaled deeply, and for the first time, didn't look away. "I will too," she whispered. "Because it's mine. And I'm not running from it anymore." And in that moment… She wasn't just a survivor. She was a storm with a name.

The living room of the ZGDX base was unusually quiet that morning, a stillness settling over the space like fog, thick and heavy with something none of them could yet name. They had all gathered out of habit more than necessity—lounging on the sectional, half-eating, half-scrolling, their post-practice routines broken only by the steady ping of phones going off nearly in unison.

Lao Mao looked down first, brow furrowing as he tapped the headline. "Lu Family's PR firm dropped something heavy."

Pang, mid-chew, snorted. "What, another expansion? New brand partnership?"

Yue was already scrolling fast, his smirk slowly fading. "Uh. No."

Ming leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he read the subheading aloud. "'Statement regarding the actions of Jian Jiancheng, former Police Commissioner, and his son, former CK Captain Jian Yang…' Wait— what ?"

Rui had just walked into the room with his tablet, only to stop cold at the sound of Jian Yang's name, head snapping toward the cluster of phones as everyone's screens now matched.

And then—

The full press release loaded.

An internal investigation prompted by newly submitted evidence has uncovered long-concealed criminal misconduct, including attempted assault, unlawful influence, and bribery of an academic institution. The victim, a former student, has since gone on to become the only female professional esports player in Asia. Her identity is being protected per legal counsel, though those close to her are likely aware of her experience. The Lu Family has made this statement public to ensure accountability, transparency, and the end of Jian family immunity. Jian Jiancheng has been placed under investigation by Commander Wang Ju. Jian Yang has been permanently removed from all league activity and banned from competition along being detained and being placed into custody.

And just like that—

The room fell silent.

Mao's phone slipped from his fingers and landed facedown on the table.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Until the soft sound of slippers against wood made them all turn their heads at once.

Yao stood at the bottom of the stairs.

Pale.

Still.

Her oversized sweater hanging just a little off one shoulder, her hair unbrushed, her hands gripping the hem of her sleeves like she was holding herself together by threads. Her eyes were wide—not with fear, not with shame—but with the raw awareness of being seen .

No one spoke.

Their phones were still glowing. The release still open. The unspoken truth now sitting between all of them like a second heartbeat.

It was Pang who broke first, voice cracking as he asked—soft, horrified— "Yao…?"

She didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

Because the weight in her gaze as she met each of theirs, one by one, stripped away every possibility of denial.

And when Yue finally whispered, "You were the girl in the report…?"—his voice no longer teasing, but fragile and afraid—Yao only nodded once.

Just once.

Then said, low and even, "I didn't want you to find out like this."

Ming stood slowly, setting his phone down with a care that felt almost ceremonial. "You weren't supposed to tell us," he said, voice even but trembling just beneath. "You were supposed to survive."

Yao swallowed, standing there with her arms clenched tight against her sides, chin barely lifted. "I didn't just survive," she said, voice steady now, soft but iron-edged. "I chose to fight."

That was when Pang stood. Then Mao. Then Lao K.

No one rushed to touch her.

No one spoke another word of the report.

They just stood—with her.

And behind them, from the shadows of the hallway, Sicheng watched it all, his expression unreadable but his hands at his sides clenched just tight enough to tremble.

Because they had seen her now. Not as their Midlaner. Not as the girl who joined their team months ago with shy smiles and oversized hoodies and a cat who never left her side. But as the survivor who had burned her past to the ground. And walked into the fire herself.

Tong Yao didn't speak as the silence stretched. The weight of her confession still hung in the air, not heavy with pity, but with stunned reverence. Her team said nothing more, and for that, she was quietly grateful. No apologies. No misplaced comfort. Just presence. It was enough. But the moment fractured when her phone buzzed again—vibrating with relentless insistence in the pouch of her hoodie.

Buzz.

Buzz.

Buzz.

She didn't need to look to know who it was.

Her fingers clenched. Her jaw tightened. And then, with excruciating calm, she reached into her pocket and pulled it out.

Five missed calls from Mother .

Eight messages from Father .

Jinyang's name appeared next, then Ai Jia.

The notifications kept flashing, each more frantic than the last.

She swiped without opening a single one, opened her messages briefly—just long enough to scan the gut-punching parade of half-assed apologies, guilt-laced justifications, and thinly veiled attempts to regain control of a narrative they had surrendered the moment they took that money. Her hands didn't shake this time. She didn't say a word. She turned toward the kitchen instead, the sunlight catching on the pale flush of her face and the dark storm in her eyes as she walked straight to the counter where Pang had brewed sweet iced tea that morning.

The pitcher was full. Clear. Cool.

Without flinching, without hesitation, she took off the lid, held her phone over the top—and dropped it. The plunk echoed through the room with almost sacred finality. Then she sealed the lid again.

Turned.

And walked back toward the center of the lounge without missing a step.

Behind her, Pang blinked. "Did… did she just—?"

"She did," Yue whispered, mouth half open.

Sicheng didn't even bat an eye. He was already reaching into his pocket, withdrawing his own phone. "I'll have a new one sent to your room," he said simply, voice low and steady, as if she had just asked him to restock snacks and not destroyed the only direct link to the people who had silenced her once before.

Yao paused in front of him, glancing back over her shoulder toward the pitcher. Then back at him. "Make sure the next one can block every number from my past," she muttered.

Sicheng's gaze flickered, the barest hint of something dark curling at the corner of his mouth. "I'll make sure it only connects to the people who earned the right to call you."

She nodded once. And for the first time that morning, her shoulders dropped. Not from defeat. But release.

The pounding on the front door rattled through the base like a shock-wave.

Not timid. Not cautious.

Urgent.

It cut through the quiet that had settled since Yao had retreated upstairs with Da Bing curled protectively in her arms, leaving the others in varying states of heavy silence—processing, anchoring, respecting. None had dared break the calm she so clearly needed.

But the pounding didn't stop.

Not once.

Until Lu Sicheng moved. His stride was even, unhurried. His expression unreadable. The others watched from the kitchen and hallway with widened eyes and subtle frowns, already guessing who it could be. He opened the door in one swift motion.

And there she was.

Chen Jinyang. Hair a mess, makeup smudged from crying on the drive over, eyes red and glassy. She didn't wait for an invitation—just stormed forward, pure fury and heartbreak stitched together in every line of her body. "Where is she?!" she demanded, voice cracking as she tried to shove past him. "Why the hell didn't she tell me?! I'm her best friend, I should have known, I should've—let me in!" She tried to move past him.

He didn't let her. His arm came up like a silent gate, calm but immovable. "Stop."

Jinyang's chest heaved. "Get out of my way, Lu Sicheng."

"No."

Her eyes widened. Her lip trembled. "You don't get to stand there like you're the gatekeeper of her soul—I've known her since we were kids—"

"And I've only known her a few months," he interrupted, voice low, but not harsh. Not cold. Controlled. "But I know this," he continued, gaze locked onto hers with the full weight of who he was, "You would burn the world down to protect her. You would kill for her. You would reduce cities to ash if someone so much as made her cry."

Jinyang's breath hitched again, tears slipping freely now.

"But right now," he said, his tone softening just enough to let the edge melt into steel patience, "she doesn't need fire. Or fury. Or someone throwing themselves into the storm." He tilted his head slightly, still blocking her path. "She needs comfort. Peace. She needs soft."

Jinyang closed her eyes tightly, trembling.

"And if I let you in," he asked, voice low, honest, final, "can you be that?"

She swallowed hard. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You're handling it?"

"Yes," he said simply. "Everything."

Jinyang opened her eyes again, gaze meeting his. The anger was still there—but buried now, weighted by something deeper. She nodded once. "I can be soft," she whispered. "Just let me see her."

He stepped aside.

And with that, Jinyang walked into the base, no longer the wildfire threatening to burn down the walls, but a girl carrying the kind of love that wrapped around pain and held. Because if Lu Sicheng was the shield that stood between Yao and the world. Then Jinyang, when she reached the top of the stairs and knocked quietly on Yao's door with a voice so gentle it didn't sound like her at all, was the arms waiting to hold her when she opened it.

The soft creak of steps broke the silence like a ripple across glass, every eye in the lounge turning in quiet unison toward the staircase as movement returned to the base.

Tong Yao descended slowly, one hand lightly skimming the railing, her platinum hair tucked behind her ears, her expression calm—but not untouched. She had changed into one of her oversized hoodies, sleeves pulled long past her hands, Da Bing trailing at her heels like a white ghost guarding his mistress. Her steps were steady, but her eyes betrayed the rawness she still carried. Not weakness. Just the echo of everything she had finally allowed herself to say aloud.

And right behind her, like a shadow refusing to leave her side—was Jinyang. The fiery best friend who had stormed in hours ago like thunder now followed her softly, her expression locked in a quiet protectiveness that hadn't dulled in the least. There were no tears now. No shouting. Only a kind of reverent silence that came from understanding that her best friend had bled in silence and never asked to be bandaged. The moment they reached the base of the stairs, Yao paused. She didn't say anything. She didn't need to.

Because Jinyang stepped forward without hesitation, reached out, and wrapped her arms gently, securely, completely around her from behind—folding her into her chest, resting her cheek lightly against the back of Yao's head. "My bei-bei," she whispered, voice choked but soft. "I've got you."

Yao didn't cry. She just closed her eyes. Let herself be held. Not like glass. Not like something broken. But like something precious.

Sicheng watched from the edge of the lounge, arms folded, eyes sharp—but quiet now. There was nothing for him to do in this moment. No action to take. No defense to raise.

Because Yao had always been surrounded by soldiers, he could be the blade.

But Jinyang?

Jinyang was the home she forgot she still had.

No one spoke.

Not Yue. Not Pang. Not Rui, who stood just a few feet off to the side and silently deleted every call request from the media as they rolled in. The team watched, hearts caught in their throats, as the quiet wrapped itself around Yao like armor. And as Jinyang held her best friend tighter, not with desperation but certainty, the message was clear: You don't carry this alone anymore.

The door didn't knock this time.

It burst open.

A rush of footsteps followed, uneven, desperate, pounding across the hardwood like something feral had escaped the storm outside and thrown itself through the base. The team didn't have time to react before a familiar voice choked out Yao's name—

And Ai Jia came crashing through the threshold. His hair was a mess, disheveled and tangled like he hadn't slept, hadn't even paused to look in a mirror. His shirt was half-untucked, his jacket askew, eyes swollen and rimmed in red as though he'd run through half the city crying and hadn't stopped until he got here.

Jinyang barely turned before he lunged past her.

Yue stepped forward instinctively. "Ai Jia, wait—"

But it was too late.

Tong Yao, who had only just begun to lean back into Jinyang's embrace with a soft, steadying breath, didn't even flinch as Ai Jia all but threw himself over the back of the couch and wrapped his arms tight around both of them, dragging them into his chest like a man on the edge of breaking.

He buried his face into Yao's hair, his breath ragged and shaking as he whispered, over and over, "I'm sorry—I'm so sorry—I didn't know, I should've known, I should've seen it, why didn't you tell me—" His whole body trembled, and for once, Ai Jia—the usually poised, grounded Midlaner of YQCB—looked completely shattered.

Jinyang, startled for only a moment, tightened her arms around Yao even more, shifting so Ai Jia could press in closer, their warmth shielding her like a second skin. 

Tong Yao didn't speak—she didn't cry or recoil or move to calm him. She just let him hold her. Because in that moment, his grief wasn't a burden. It was recognition. Slowly, her hand moved—reaching back to grip his wrist gently, fingers tightening just once, grounding him. "I didn't tell anyone," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

"I'm your best friend's boyfriend," he croaked. "I should've seen it."

"You weren't supposed to," she murmured. "No one was."

"I would've burned the school down," he rasped against her hair. "I still will if you ask me."

"You don't have to," came Sicheng's voice, quiet but edged in something darker. "That's already in progress."

No one in the room laughed. No one breathed easy.

But no one stopped Ai Jia either. Because grief doesn't always belong to the ones who were hurt. Sometimes it belongs to those who were too far away to shield the blow—and now feel it anyway. And as he held her between them, curled in the arms of the two people who loved her without condition, Tong Yao finally stopped holding her breath. Because this time? Everyone knew and no one let go.

The base door was still ajar from Ai Jia's dramatic entrance when ten minutes later, the quiet hum of a car outside was broken by a second rush of footsteps—measured, deliberate, but no less urgent. The air shifted as YQCB stormed in like a wave rolling through concrete, each of them with a tightness in their posture, a fire behind their eyes that left no doubt: they knew.

Ying Rong.

X-Bang.

Liang Sheng.

And at their head—taller than the rest, sleeves rolled, jaw set like steel—was Lee Kun Hyeok.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the tension inside the ZGDX base deepened. No one moved to stop them. No one dared.

Tong Yao hadn't moved from her place on the couch, still held tightly between Ai Jia's arms and Jinyang's quiet strength. Her fingers were now loosely curled into Ai Jia's shirt, and her expression, though still pale, had softened into something not quite peace—but no longer fear.

Kun Hyeok's sharp eyes landed on her instantly, but he didn't greet her. He didn't ask if she was okay. He didn't speak to her like she might break. He stopped just a few feet from where she sat, standing tall in the living room of his rival team's base, and said clearly, without pretense or warmth, in a voice as cold as the sea, "Do you want Jian Yang dead?"

The room froze.

Everyone, even the other members of YQCB, blinked.

Ai Jia turned slowly, eyes wide. Pang coughed into his hand. Yue muttered something under his breath about escalation, and Lao Mao looked like he wasn't sure if he should start laughing or sharpening a knife.

Tong Yao blinked, stunned.

Kun Hyeok didn't flinch. "I'm serious."

Sicheng, still leaning near the kitchen counter, exhaled heavily and dragged a hand down his face. "Kun Hyeok…" he muttered, voice somewhere between a sigh and a groan, "Not in my house."

"I'm just asking," his best friend replied casually, not even glancing at him. "I have connections. No one would find the body."

"Jesus," Yue hissed.

"It wouldn't even trace back to us," Kun Hyeok added, as if he were offering her an umbrella for a rainy day and not casually planning a hit. "It'd be a gift. Considerate, clean, fast."

Tong Yao just stared at him for a second. Then, as if something inside her had cracked wide open, she let out a sound halfway between a disbelieving breath and a startled, exhausted laugh. "That's… possibly the most horrifyingly sweet thing anyone's ever offered me."

"I wasn't joking," he said bluntly. "You say the word, and I'll handle it."

"She already said what she wants," Sicheng said, finally stepping in with that signature cool weight in his tone, crossing the room now, his presence settling the air like gravity. "I'm handling it. Legally. Strategically. Publicly."

Kun Hyeok finally turned his eyes on his best friend. "That's slow."

"It's permanent," Sicheng replied smoothly.

There was a beat.

Then Kun Hyeok nodded once, turning back to Yao with the kind of respect he didn't offer lightly. "Alright. Legal. For now. But if he so much as breathes in your direction—"

"She'll be standing behind me," Sicheng cut in, "and I'll be between them and then I will end him personally and put him in his grave."

Another long pause.

Then Kun Hyeok sighed like a disappointed big brother and turned to Ai Jia, muttering, "You're hugging her too tight. She can't breathe."

"I am not," Ai Jia shot back, still clinging like his life depended on it.

"You are," Jinyang snapped. "But we're not letting go either."

Kun Hyeok just raised both hands and walked toward the kitchen, muttering something about needing coffee if no one was dying today.

YQCB settled in like they belonged there. And somehow—somehow—the moment didn't feel too loud, or overwhelming. It felt… full. Protected. Because now? Tong Yao wasn't just backed by one team. She was protected by two.

In the heart of Shenzhen, where the suits were sharper than knives and reputations lived or died in hushed meetings behind reinforced glass, Commander Wang Ju did not pace. He never paced. He calculated. And today, he stood at the center of his war room—dark tile floors gleaming beneath high halogen light, massive screens displaying synchronized data streams and live footage, legal files projected across the wall like execution orders—all of it moving with the steady rhythm of a man who had waited far too long to end this.

Behind him, his second-in-command hovered with wide eyes and hesitant breath. "Sir, are we—"

"We're moving now," Wang Ju said, his voice a smooth blend of gleeful steel and lethal satisfaction. "Let's make history."

A click of his fingers sent a sequence of commands through the network. Across the city, unmarked vehicles shifted into motion. Five separate teams. Simultaneous strikes. No leaks. No delays. No mercy.

Wang Ju watched the screens as Jian Jiancheng stepped out of his luxury government car, flanked by two aides, the same self-important stride he had carried for decades—untouchable, untouchable, untouchable.

Until now.

The agents didn't yell. They didn't posture. They simply moved—swift, coordinated, absolute. One took the briefcase from Jian's aide. Another slid cuffs over Jian Jiancheng's wrists before the man could fully register what was happening.

"Excuse me?" he snapped. "I am a Police Commissioner! Who the hell do you think—"

Wang Ju's voice came through the portable line in the agent's hand, a single line delivered with cold, amused cruelty, "You were."

Jian Jiancheng froze, his face draining of color. "You can't do this—"

"I just did," Wang Ju replied coolly. "Effective immediately, your credentials have been revoked. Your assets are frozen. Your pension is voided. You are under arrest for obstruction of justice, criminal bribery, suppression of assault allegations, and conspiracy to protect a known offender. Any attempt to resist will be classified as defiance of state authority."

"I am state authority!"

"Were," Wang Ju corrected again, his smirk now audible. "Now you're just another roach that thought a badge made him bulletproof."

On another screen, his aides were pulled aside. Phones confiscated. Office swept. Every wiretap they had placed in Jian's network was activated, transmitting decades of buried filth directly into a growing digital archive already pre-approved for criminal court.

Wang Ju turned to his assistant, voice now a blade. "Public release. Schedule the press conference. Push the reports to the military communications channel. I want it on every desk at Internal Affairs by noon."

"Yes, Commander."

Wang Ju folded his hands behind his back and walked to the edge of the room, watching the final feed as Jian Jiancheng, still struggling to shout, was shoved into the back of a black government vehicle and driven toward a very different destination than the one he'd planned for. He smiled then. A slow, vicious thing that carried decades of waiting in its teeth. "Tell Sicheng," he said calmly, "I kept my promise." He paused. "And if that bastard son of Jian's so much as breathes in this country again?" His smile widened. "I'll bury him next to his father."

Commander Wang Ju had just dismissed his staff, the screens slowly dimming as the final documentation was sent to the Office of Judicial Oversight. Jian Jiancheng was now in a secure holding facility with two dozen lawyers refusing his calls and the media circling like sharks. Everything was going according to plan.

It was, in fact, a perfect morning.

Until his private line began to ring.

He glanced at the screen.

Saw the name.

And immediately pinched the bridge of his nose.

Lu Wang Lan.

He didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a deep breath, counted to three, and only then did he slide his finger across the screen and lift the phone to his ear. 

The screech began before he could even offer a greeting.

"—HE STRIPPED ME OF EVERYTHING, WANG JU! EVERYTHING!"

He winced, pulling the phone a few inches away from his ear with a groan only thinly veiled by a sip of his cooling tea. "Good morning to you too, dear sister."

"Don't you patronize me!" she snapped. "Do you know what that little ingrate did?! He removed me from the board! Froze my executive access! Had me escorted out of the ZGDX headquarters like I was some clerk! Even Father won't override it!"

Wang Ju leaned back in his chair, eyes closed as he calmly responded, "Because your Father in law understands something you never did—Sicheng doesn't bluff."

"He humiliated me!"

"He put a boundary in place and enforced it," he corrected smoothly. "You're just used to trampling them."

"I built his career—"

"You arranged blind dates, meddled in his company, and tried to push a PR campaign that would've forced a trauma survivor to sit across from her abuser on live television," Wang Ju said, his voice now clipped and sharp. "Congratulations, sister. You earned your exile."

"He's my son! I gave him everything—"

"You gave him a constant headache, not everything," he interrupted coldly. "And the one time he asked you to stay out of something, you trampled over him in stilettos like you were still queen of Beijing society. Now he is the crown, and you're screaming because you no longer hold the leash."

Silence flared for a heartbeat. Then a shriek of frustration. "My husband won't even look at me right now. He says this is a 'private Lu family matter' and went to his retreat house!"

Wang Ju laughed. Actually laughed. "Because your husband has sense enough to retreat before you start blaming him for your own mistakes. Again."

"He's useless!"

"And yet you married him," he replied dryly.

"You always take his side—"

"I'm taking Sicheng's side," Wang Ju said, tone sharpening into something glacial. "Because unlike you, he knows what loyalty looks like. He's the one who came to me. He's the one who had the spine to face Jian Jiancheng's wrath and the intelligence to gather evidence. While you were busy scheduling gossip-driven interviews, your son was planning how to save someone's life."

Wang Lan went quiet. Just for a moment.

And Wang Ju, tired now but still smiling grimly, ended with a sigh, "You lost your seat at the table, Lan'er. And for once, it wasn't because you were overruled—it's because your son finally stopped asking for your approval." Before she could scream again, he hung up. Silence returned. And after a long, satisfying breath, he swiveled his chair back toward the screen and whispered under his breath, "Should've stripped her credentials years ago."

Wang Ju stared at the now-silent phone in his hand for a long moment, the echo of his sister's screeching still ringing in his ears like the tail-end of a warning bell. He didn't sigh again. He didn't roll his eyes or grumble like a frustrated sibling.

No.

He simply reached for his keyboard.

Because Commander Wang Ju had learned long ago that with people like Lu Wang Lan, words were useless. Tears were weapons. Tantrums were distractions. And the only language she truly understood was loss. Tangible. Absolute. Unforgiving.

"Qiao," he called calmly, summoning his most trusted aide through the comm.

"Yes, sir."

"Bring up the access logs for the Wang family executive accounts—corporate, financial, and internal development grants. Add Lu Wang Lan's name to the blacklist and terminate all her permissions."

Qiao paused. "...All of them?"

"All," he said, voice steady, unshaken. "Access to discretionary family funds. Corporate voting shares under her name. Charitable board roles. Security credentials. If it bears our crest or our legacy, she is no longer part of it."

"Yes, Commander."

The orders were executed within minutes. Every shared asset, every board seat, every privileged connection that once flowed effortlessly to Lu Wang Lan's accounts began shuttering, one by one. Her black card was voided. Her portfolio credentials failed the second they refreshed. Her secure login to the Wang Group's charitable development branch—denied. The event fund she'd used for high-society galas? Frozen.

Wang Ju watched the system log each action with the same detached satisfaction of a surgeon excising rot. He wasn't just doing this for Sicheng. He was doing this for the family—because the stain Wang Lan had left with her conniving, image-obsessed desperation was one that would no longer be tolerated. Not now. Not under his watch. Because if she had dared to risk their blood—Sicheng's blood—in order to maintain her carefully curated facade? Then she no longer deserved the name she'd wielded like a weapon her entire life. Once the final access key turned red, Wang Ju folded his hands calmly in front of him and stared at the glowing console. For a long moment, there was only the gentle hum of control reestablished.

Then he muttered to himself, voice low and cold, "Let her learn how it feels to be locked out of something that once belonged to her."

And with that, the gate closed behind her and Lu Wang Lan was no longer Wang in anything but name.

The living room had slowly regained its rhythm. It wasn't back to normal—normal had been rewritten the moment the truth came to light—but there was something softer in the air now. A gentle buzz of conversation, quiet reassurances passed between teammates, and the occasional crack of a joke half-whispered to lighten the mood.

Yao was still curled between Ai Jia and Jinyang on the couch, her head resting lightly on her best friend's shoulder as Da Bing snoozed contentedly at her feet. The warmth of her team—her people—was wrapped around her like a second skin.

And then Yue's phone rang. Loud. Sharp. Unexpected. He glanced at the screen, brows lifting. "Huh. Uncle."

Sicheng, leaning against the counter sipping from a mug of black tea, looked up from over the rim. "Wang Ju?"

"Yeah."

Yue hit answer and—because he was Yue and never one to miss an opportunity for drama—he immediately tapped speaker and said cheerfully, "Hey, Uncle! You've reached the future disappointment of the family, how may I—"

"Brat."

The voice that snapped through the speaker was sharp, clipped, and unmistakably unimpressed.

The entire room paused.

Yue blinked. "...Hi?"

"I've decided you're going to be the heir."

There was a beat.

Yue sat up straighter. "...What?"

"You heard me," Wang Ju snapped. "I'm not listening to your harpy of a mother rant about her legacy when she's already wrecked hers with that self-important tantrum. And your brother—while terrifyingly competent—is already buried managing the Lu Empire, your family legacy, and a billion-yuan esports company full of hormonal man-children."

Rui coughed loudly. Pang immediately elbowed Yue. "He means you ."

"Shut up," Yue hissed.

"Which means," Wang Ju continued, "I've decided. I don't have kids. I don't want kids. I don't like kids. But I tolerate you."

"Oh my God," Yue whispered, staring at the phone like it had betrayed him.

"You're the heir to the Wang Family holdings effective immediately," Wang Ju said flatly. "I'm emailing you the paperwork for Heir Apparent status. It's all monthly. You'll need to review stocks, sign quarterly letters, and send me your long-term plans for legacy projects. If you slack off, I'll know."

"Wait, what—"

"Congrats, brat," Wang Ju added, with the tone of someone gifting a live grenade to a squirrel. "Try not to bankrupt us. Or piss me off. I'll be watching. Email incoming."

Click.

The call disconnected.

Yue stared at his phone. Then up at the room. Everyone was staring at him. "...He just—he just made me the heir. Of the entire Wang family. Me."

Silence.

Yue stood, slowly, like the floor might disappear. "Do you know what this means?! I have paperwork. Responsibility. I'm not even the serious brother!"

Pang choked on his drink. "You are the paperwork now."

Yue whirled toward his brother. "Sicheng! Say something!"

Sicheng didn't even blink. "Don't drag me into this. I'm already raising you and running a dynasty. You're on your own."

Yue's mouth opened. Closed. "I hate all of you."

Ai Jia muttered, "Don't worry, you'll be able to cry into silk-lined financial reports."

"Do heirs get spa days?" Rong asked, completely unhelpful.

Tong Yao blinked slowly, lips twitching just the faintest bit. "Does this mean you can finally pay back that time you borrowed my card for takeout?"

Yue stared at the ceiling in existential crisis. "I was going to Kenya. I had plans."

Pang smirked. "You have a legacy now."

"A what?!"

Sicheng calmly sipped his tea, utterly unbothered. "Welcome to adulthood, Wang Yue."

And across the base, the entire team finally laughed.

The room was still rippling with laughter from Yue's very public mental breakdown, the kind that only came when you were casually handed the future of one of the country's most powerful families with all the tenderness of being tossed a live grenade. He was still dramatically sprawled across the floor, one arm flung over his face as he muttered something about fake passports and permanent relocation to Iceland.

Jinyang had made herself quite at home, now cross-legged on the couch beside Yao, smirking as she sipped from a stolen mug of Sicheng's coffee and teased, "Come on, Yue. It's not like Wang Ju made you emperor. Just heir to everything. I'm sure it'll only eat, what? Twenty hours of your week?"

"Minimum," Yue groaned from the floor. "Minimum!"

"And don't forget to bow when you enter rooms," Jinyang added sweetly. "It's tradition."

Yao, curled under the blanket with Da Bing nestled between her legs and chin resting on her knees, finally spoke—her voice dry, calm, and sharp enough to cut through the air with just a flick of tone. "You're one to talk, Jin-er."

Jinyang blinked. "What?" she asked innocently, immediately on edge.

"You do remember," Yao said slowly, lifting her head, hazel eyes narrowing ever so slightly, "that your elder brother has been trying to make you the Chen Family Heir Apparent since last year. Or are you still pretending not to know that his personal assistant sends you monthly documentation with increasingly passive-aggressive notes?"

The room turned.

Jinyang's face froze in horror.

Pang coughed loudly. "Wait what?"

Even Yue lifted his face from the floor, blinking. "Chen Family heir? You?"

Yao tilted her head sweetly. "She's been dodging his calls. For months."

Jinyang turned to Yao with a betrayed expression that could've stopped traffic. "You traitor."

"You teased Yue first," Yao said primly, shrugging beneath her blanket like a little queen exposing royal secrets with a straight face. "Fair is fair."

Sicheng didn't even look up from his laptop. "I wondered why Chen Ren had been unusually irritable at the last board event. Now it makes sense. His heir's been ghosting him."

Jinyang made a strangled noise. "I am not heir material! I have no filter, I swear too much, I buy too many handbags—"

"You threaten to stab X-Bang weekly," Ai Jia added mildly.

"I love you," Jinyang said to him with wild eyes, "but shut up."

"You do know," Rui said carefully from the corner, "that refusing his offer will probably lead to a twenty-person delegation showing up at your condo with ceremonial documents and very expensive wine?"

"I blocked his assistant!"

"You blocked his assistant?" Yao asked, horrified.

"I panicked!" Jinyang hissed.

Yue sat up slowly from the floor, blinking wide like a child seeing light for the first time. "You were going to mock me about being an heir," he said solemnly, "when your brother is literally waiting to crown you queen of Chen Holdings?"

"I am a fashion executive! I run a label! I cannot run an empire, I don't even understand quarterly margins!"

Yao sipped her water, eyes glittering with silent delight. "Then maybe you should've been nicer to Yue."

Jinyang turned, muttering. "I hope your next eyeliner smudges permanently."

Yue just grinned and held out a hand across the couch. "From one future burdened heir to another—welcome to the club."

Jinyang stared at it. Then slapped it away. "Don't touch me."

And the base? Once again…. Erupted with laughter.

The night was cool, but not cold—one of those rare in-between evenings where the air no longer carried the heavy wet heat of summer but hadn't yet sharpened into autumn's chill. The terrace was still, the glass doors drawn open just wide enough to let the soft rustle of wind weave through.

She sat cross-legged on the wicker bench, a thin sweater wrapped around her shoulders, bare feet tucked beneath her. The blanket she'd dragged from the couch inside rested loosely across her legs. Da Bing, for once, was not curled beside her—he was asleep inside, too exhausted from guarding her all day.

Tong Yao wasn't crying. Not tonight. Her face was tipped toward the stars, soft moonlight washing over the pale sweep of her cheekbones and catching in the strands of platinum hair that fell loosely around her shoulders. Her eyes were wide but calm, dark irises reflecting back the faint light of the sky as though searching for something not yet named. She didn't flinch when the door behind her slid open a little farther. Didn't even turn. She knew it was him.

Lu Sicheng stepped onto the terrace in silence, his footsteps slow, deliberate. He didn't say anything as he approached. He didn't need to. He stopped a few feet from her, watching her for a moment, eyes tracing the soft lift of her chin, the relaxed curve of her posture. Not guarded. Not braced.

Just… still.

"I'm not crying this time," she said after a moment, voice barely above a whisper.

"I noticed." He came to sit beside her, the bench creaking just faintly beneath his weight. They didn't touch. He didn't reach for her. He just sat there, solid and quiet, a presence wrapped in composure and unspoken promise.

Yao exhaled slowly, her fingers curling into the blanket over her knees. "Is it strange that I feel lighter?"

"No."

"I thought I'd feel… raw. Exposed."

"You are," he said quietly. "But you're also free."

She turned her head then, gaze meeting his—not with tears or fear, but with something stronger. Something like certainty. "Do you think people will hate me for it?"

Sicheng leaned back against the bench, tilting his head to look up at the stars as she had, his tone as calm and immovable as stone. "If they do," he said, "they'll forget soon enough."

"And if they don't?"

He shrugged once. "Then they'll learn. The hard way."

Yao let out a soft breath. It could've been a laugh. Or maybe just the exhale of someone finally, finally, letting the weight slip from her chest.

They sat in silence for a while after that, shoulder to shoulder but never touching, watching the stars stretch above them in distant, endless quiet.

It was Yao who spoke again, her voice softer than before, not afraid—just… wondering. "Did I do the right thing?"

He didn't answer right away. When he did, his voice was low, firm, certain. "You survived," he said. "You spoke. You demanded justice. And you didn't burn for it." He paused. "He will."

She nodded, folding herself a little tighter beneath the blanket.

Sicheng shifted slightly, finally reaching over—not with intensity, not with heat, just with quiet care—and placed his hand gently over hers, his fingers warm and steady. "Look up," he said.

She did.

The stars above them shone brighter than they had all week.

And for once—

She felt like she could breathe under them.

The terrace had long since fallen into stillness, the kind of silence that wasn't hollow but whole—the deep, warm kind that wrapped around the edges of something tender and left it untouched, unbroken. The sky stretched dark above them, velvet and endless, pinpricked with stars too far away to touch but close enough to make you feel.

Tong Yao hadn't said anything for nearly half an hour. She hadn't needed to. She had stayed tucked into her spot on the bench, legs drawn up beneath her, blanket draped lazily over her lap. Her breathing had slowed, deeper now, more rhythmic. The kind that told him she was no longer watching the sky but drifting into something softer.

At some point, her head had tilted, inching closer—

Until it found a home on his shoulder.

Sicheng didn't move. Didn't breathe too hard, didn't dare speak. He just sat there, arms relaxed along the back of the bench, his entire frame locked into stillness while her cheek rested softly against the curve of his neck, the light weight of her body gently curled beside him. His arm lifted only after several long minutes—slow, steady, unhurried—and settled around her shoulders, pulling her in the final distance until she was completely folded against his side.

She didn't stir. Not once. She trusted him. Without words. Without armor. And it wrecked him.

Lu Sicheng sat there beneath the stars, holding her close, his hand resting lightly on her arm beneath the blanket, and he let his mind drift—dangerously, selfishly—through every moment since she had stepped into his team and unraveled his world. He had seen a quiet girl in an oversized hoodie and too-big headphones who never raised her voice and never asked for space—because she never expected to be given it. He had seen the way she read opponents like chessboards, calculated under pressure, took hits without flinching. He had seen her eyes, wide and tired, reflecting pain she never let anyone name. And he had watched—helpless and seething—when the truth had crawled out from under her skin and spilled into his hands.

She had survived alone.

But not anymore.

Not now.

Because he had power. Not just titles or names or wealth—but the will to use it. And if the world thought he was ruthless before? They had no idea what he would become for her.

His eyes burned into the horizon, the stars blurred now not by tears but by purpose. He would destroy anything that touched her. Burn down every system that failed her. Silence every voice that dared twist her name into anything but honor.

And if she ever turned those soft, storm-touched eyes toward him and whispered that she would let him—if she ever gave him the smallest permission to love her out loud…. He would never let go. Not in this life. Not the next.

His hand curled slightly, thumb brushing over her sleeve. She shifted in her sleep, only the smallest sound escaping her, a sigh of comfort that landed like a promise against his chest. And with the stars above them, and her breath against his neck—

Lu Sicheng made his vow.

Silently.

Fiercely.

He would earn her heart.

And no matter what it took—

He would protect it with fire.

Notes:

Author's Note: The Muse would like to say that all comments, even small ones, are very much welcomed and they very much enjoy reading them!