CHAPTER 5: Scars and Silk

Blended POV: Wáng Shuǒrán ⇔ Lín Yàonán ⇔ Jian Zhìhèng

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The silence that followed the Whisper Room kiss wasn't peaceful.

It followed Wáng Shuǒrán like smoke into the bathroom of her private suite, a surveillance-free haven Madam Qíng had insisted on installing in every high-risk location. She braced herself against the marble counter, heart pounding, lips still bruised from the force of something she shouldn't have let happen.

Yàonán had tasted like tension and regret. The kind of kiss that wasn't about lust—but weakness. Hunger. A man at war with himself.

And yet she'd kissed him back.

Hard.

Not because she trusted him.

Because part of her still remembered his voice from the rooftop, before the fall.

Behind the mirrored wall of Jiān Zhìhèng's penthouse, a wine glass trembled in his grip.

He had watched every frame. Listened to every breath.

He saw how Yàonán had responded. The way Miss Red's body curled into his. That wasn't seduction. That was memory. Familiarity. Possession.

Jiān's jaw ticked. "She dares."

Lán Xīngyǎ, silent in the corner of the room, didn't answer. Her eyes lingered on the screen a moment too long.

"Send someone to test him," Jiān murmured. "Let's see how well our agent performs when he's cornered."

Far below, Shuǒrán pulled a blade from her vanity drawer. Not for protection.

For control.

She needed to remember who she was. What he turned her into.

Yàonán stood alone outside Jiān's observation hall, stripped of comms, unarmed. His shirt still smelled faintly of her perfume—spice and something darker. He shouldn't have followed her into that room. He shouldn't have responded to her challenge.

But when her fingers had pulled at his tie, something inside him had snapped loose.

Now, his thoughts replayed the moment frame by frame.

He hadn't meant to kiss her. He hadn't meant to need it.

Miss Red reappeared later that night in the tower's lounge, untouched glass of baijiu in hand, gaze cold. She watched Jiān across the room with the precision of a hawk disguised in silk.

He looked at her. But didn't approach.

She wanted him to. Wanted the confrontation. The permission to destroy him with civility.

But Jiān's cruelty was never theatrical. It was calculated.

Yàonán entered the lounge from the far side, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. Their gazes met—not a collision, but a compression.

Everything unsaid between them gathered in that glance.

Are you protecting me? Are you betraying me?

Neither answered. Neither needed to.

Yàonán walked past without breaking stride.

Shuǒrán downed the drink.

Later, in the security room, Jiān stared at a paused frame—Yàonán's lips on hers. His expression unreadable. Behind him, a faint tremor of wine rippled in his glass.

He set it down.

"Get Mùyĕ on the line. I want eyes on Lín."

And with that, the trap began to set itself.

In her suite, Shuǒrán touched the bruised corner of her mouth. Not tenderly.

As if marking the place she'd let herself slip.

She wouldn't again.

And if Jiān thought he still owned any part of her—past or present—she'd show him exactly what she'd learned in the dark.

Let him bleed for it.

Let them both bleed.