The apartment was a graveyard of abandoned duty and cheap commercialism.
The guard, a man whose physical stature suggested a fortress but whose spirit was as flimsy as tissue paper, sat ensconced in his worn sofa.
The glow of the television screen illuminated a scene of pathetic idolatry. On the monitor, the Winter Collection for the House of Rothenberg was playing in a high-definition loop.
Bai Qi was there—a monolithic figure of cold, unattainable beauty. He was draped in a midnight-blue hanfu, the silk embroidered with silver cranes that seemed to take flight with every stride.
He looked like an ancient emperor reborn in a world of glass and steel, his obsidian eyes piercing through the camera lens and into the very soul of the viewer.
On the coffee table, nestled between a half-eaten bag of greasy chips and a lukewarm bottle of Coca-Cola, lay a scattered collection of Vogue covers and luxury watch catalogues. Every single one featured the same face.
Bai Qi von Rothenberg. In one, he was the face of a new fragrance; in another, his wrist was adorned with a sapphire-encrusted timepiece that cost more than the guard would earn in a decade.
The guard stared at the screen, a chip hovering halfway to his mouth. He was mesmerized. To him, Bai Qi wasn't just a boss or an employer; he was a god in a tailored suit.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by the shrill, demanding ring of his smartphone.
He ignored it. He was currently watching Bai Qi give a slight, devastating smirk toward the camera during a runway walk.
The phone rang again, louder this time, vibrating against the wooden table with a rhythmic, annoying thud.
"Ugh, god... who the hell is it?" the guard groaned, finally tearing his gaze away from the screen. He leaned forward, squinting at the caller ID. His heart did a violent, panicked somersault in his chest.
Mr. George.
The guard's face went through a rapid transformation from annoyance to a weird, twitching smile. He swallowed hard, his thumb hovering over the green icon.
"Guess he must be pissed off about me running away," he muttered to himself, trying to summon a bravado he didn't possess.
He swiped to answer. "Hello?"
"Where the hell are you?"
George's voice came through the line not as a question, but as a frozen blade. It was cold, calculating, and vibrated with a lethal resonance that made the guard's hand shake.
"Uhh... who, me? I was... uhmm... you see, Mr. George..."
"Stop circling your dramatic act," George hissed, his German accent sharpening the words into jagged glass. "Get to the point. You dare to leave the door unguarded? Do you have any idea how I punish people who fail their contracts?"
The guard swallowed a lump of dry chips, his throat feeling like it was lined with sandpaper. "Well, Mr. George... there was... uh... he was there. You know, my favorite model. My idol."
"What the hell do you mean?" George's voice dropped into a terrifying, sibilant whisper.
"Well—I am deeply, profoundly, historically sorry!" the guard blurted, hands flying into the air like he was surrendering to an invisible firing squad.
His eyes flicked helplessly to the TV mounted on the wall. On-screen, Bai Qi strode through an airport in a sleek black trench coat, jaw sharp enough to cut glass, sunglasses on like a personal insult to gravity.
He swallowed. Hard.
"Mr. Bai said he wanted to see the patient. The patient. What was I supposed to do—ask for ID?"
The TV cut to Bai Qi removing his sunglasses in slow motion. The guard whimpered.
"He's not just a model, sir. He's a cultural event. A walking legend. A limited-edition human being."
He slapped a hand to his chest. "My brain shut down. My training evaporated. I remembered every magazine cover I've ever owned. My hands moved on their own. The door opened. And just like that I let him."
There was a pregnant, horrifying silence on the other end of the line.
"And you know what?" the guard continued, emboldened by his own stupidity. "He actually paid me double! Even when I didn't ask! He's so generous, so—"
The line went dead.
The guard blinked at his screen. "Hello? Mr. George?"
George had hung up. In the hospital hallway, George's blood was turning to liquid nitrogen. Bai Qi was there. He entered the room. He was with Shu Yao this whole time, and this ungrateful wretch didn't call me once.
Back in the apartment, the guard sighed, tossing the phone back onto the table.
"Damn it," he whispered, looking at the screen where Bai Qi's face remained frozen in a gorgeous, icy stare. "I am cooked. Totally cooked."
"You'd better be."
The voice didn't come from the television. It didn't come from the phone. It came from the corner of the room—a shadow that had suddenly gained a voice.
The guard let out a strangled yelp, his body jerking so hard he knocked his Coca-Cola over, the dark liquid soaking into his magazines. He spun around, his eyes bulging in disbelief.
"What the—! How the fuck did you get inside?"
Sitting on the edge of the couch, looking as relaxed as a king on a throne, was a young, gorgeous man. Shen Haoxuan.He sat with his head tilted to the side, a thin, predatory smirk playing on his lips. His eyes were like cold grey stones, reflecting nothing.
"Apologies for entering without knocking," Shen murmured, his voice a smooth, melodic threat. He pointed a long, elegant finger toward the apartment's entrance.
"But the door was already open. You really shouldn't be so reckless, especially when you're so... immersed in your hobbies."
The guard looked toward the door. It was indeed ajar. In his rush to get home and watch the Winter Collection, he had forgotten the most basic rule of safety.
"Did I... did I just leave the door open?" The guard dramatically slapped both hands to his head, his face flushing with embarrassment. "Oh, god. I was so into these shoots that I nearly forgot the world existed."
Shen stood up. His movements were fluid and serpentine, lacking the heavy, rhythmic gait of a normal human. He walked toward the coffee table, his eyes scanning the debris of the guard's life.
The guard watched him, a slow, crawling realization dawning on him. I have a bad feeling, I've seen this bitch somewhere... but where? He recognized the lethality, the way the man moved—it was the look of a professional.
"What do you want from me?" the guard barked, trying to regain his dignity. "Entering like a robber is a hard skill, man. And don't tell me you're here for some illegal deal. I'm done with that shady business. I've got enough trouble with Mr. George."
Shen didn't answer immediately. He reached down and, using only two fingers as if he were lifting a piece of disgusting trash, he picked up a magazine. It was the one where Bai Qi was modeling a "Rothenberg" signature timepiece, his jawline sharp enough to draw blood.
"Shady business?" Shen repeated, his smirk widening into something truly demonic. "No. I was here by accident. I simply saw an open door and a man who seemed to be worshipping a ghost."
The guard snatched the magazine out of Shen's hand, clutching it to his chest like a shield.
"Well, I am! He's the best! Now get the hell out of here, man. I don't like people who walk in the darkness. You give me the creeps."
Shen leaned in, his breath cold against the guard's ear. "Tell me... does your 'idol' know that you let a viper into the room while he was busy playing hero?
The guard's eyes went wide. "What? What are you talking about?"
Shen straightened his coat, his eyes flashing with a metallic, grey light. "Enjoy your magazines, little fan. They're the only things that will be left of you if George finds out what else happened while you were watching TV."
Shen turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open behind him.
Back at the hospital, George stood in the hallway, his fingers digging into the bridge of his nose until it hurt.
He felt a headache blooming behind his eyes—a sharp, pulsing rhythm of frustration. He looked at the closed door of Room 43, the scent of the crimson roses still clinging to his clothes.
"Why is it always you, Bai Qi?" George cursed under his breath, his German accent thick with exasperation. "When will you let him rest?
When will you stop poisoning the air he breathes?"
"You're a fool, Bai Qi," George whispered to the empty hallway. "You think you're the only one who can play this game. But I've been playing it since before you knew how to wear a crown."
Meanwhile inside apartment, Slowly, Shen raised a single, gloved finger to his lips.
He leaned in, his silhouette eclipsing the screen where Bai Qi was still smiling his commercialized, porcelain smile.
Shen whispered a single sentence—a string of words so sharp and heavy they seemed to physically pin the guard against the sofa. The guard's eyes dilated until the emerald-brown of his irises vanished into black pools of terror.
His jaw dropped, but no sound emerged. He was a man who had just seen the blueprint of his own undoing.
Without another word, Shen straightened his coat and vanished into the night, leaving the door swinging on its hinges. The guard remained frozen, the half-eaten chips and the "Winter Collection" forgotten, his mind echoing with a secret he could never dare to utter.
Miles away, Armin stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows of his room.
The city lights below looked like fallen stars, cold and distant. He watched the grey clouds rolling in from the north, heavy with the promise of a bitter winter. He lowered his gaze, his reflection in the glass looking older, more haunted than he felt.
"Soon," Armin whispered, his breath fogging the window. "It will be snow everywhere."
He clenched his fists until his knuckles turned the color of ivory. Another Christmas was approaching. Another holiday season defined by the hollow ache in his chest. It would be another year without his beloved Florian. The festive lights outside weren't a celebration; they were a cruel reminder of the warmth he had lost and the cold he now inhabited.
In a house filled with the scent of jasmine and expensive tea, Han Ruyan sat on a plush velvet couch.
A warm cup of tea rested in her hands, the steam curling around her face like a veil. She stared out at the garden, her heart heavy with the image of her "baby," Shu Yao. She didn't know about the broken ribs. She didn't know about the oxygen mask.
Deep down, she trusted the boy she had raised as much as she trusted the man who now held him. She believed that Bai Qi—the son of her heart—would protect her biological son.
"When the work is over," she murmured to the empty room, a small, fragile smile touching her lips. "Shu Yao will return home. I will have so many presents for him.
She began to plan the homecoming, unaware that the house she was building in her mind was made of glass, and the storm was already at the door.
Outside the borders of China, where the air was thinner and the shadows longer, a different kind of power was stirring.
Niklas paced his private terrace, his phone glowing like a coal in the darkness. He was a man of iron and fire, and right now, his fury was directed at a single target: Shen Baoliang.
How could that man let his son scheme so freely? How could he allow the vipers to circle the nest?
Niklas let out a low, guttural snarl, the sound of a predator reaching the end of its patience. He had watched from a distance for too long.
He had allowed the games to play out, believing his children could handle the weight of the crown. But if anything happened to his sons—if a single hair on their heads was harmed by the machinations of the Shen family—he would not forgive.
"I will destroy him," Niklas swore to the icy wind. "I will let Shen Baoliang pay in blood for every tear shed by Bai Mingzhu. And this time If my children suffer, I will tear down everything he has built until there is nothing left but ash and architectural ruin."
He stared toward the east, toward the city where his sons were being hunted. The "Ice Monarch" and the "Saint" didn't know it yet, but the Lion was preparing to return to the den.