The mansion was deep in the silent, heavy hours past midnight. Yichen, unable to sleep, was doing a final perimeter check, walking the quiet halls on soundless feet.
As he passed the master bedroom, a sharp, brittle CRASH shattered the silence.
He didn't hesitate. He shoved the door open.
The scene inside stopped his heart. Zhiyuan was on his knees beside the bed, one hand gripping the nightstand so tightly his knuckles were white. On the floor, a shattered water glass lay in a spreading puddle. He was gasping, each breath a ragged, desperate pull for air that didn't seem to reach his lungs. His face was ashen, drenched in a cold sweat that soaked through his pajama shirt.
He was reaching a trembling hand towards the empty space where his pill bottle used to be, his movements weak and uncoordinated. His body was visibly shaking, beginning to slump.
He heard Yichen enter and turned his head. His eyes, wide with pure, animal panic, locked onto him. All pride, all anger, was gone. Stripped away by the violent revolt of his own body.
"Y-Yichen..." he choked out, the name a wet gasp. "Please... the medicine... you have to... give it to me..."
He tried to push himself up, but his arm gave way, and he crumpled further. "I can't... I can't breathe... it feels like... my heart is stopping..."
"Zhiyuan, listen to me," Yichen said, crossing the room in two strides and dropping to his knees in front of him. He placed his hands firmly on Zhiyuan's shaking shoulders. "You can breathe. It's the withdrawal. It's terrifying, but it's not a heart attack. Your body is lying to you."
"NO!" Zhiyuan cried out, a raw, broken sound. He clutched at the front of Yichen's shirt, his fingers clutching the fabric. "You don't understand! It's killing me! Give me the pills! Please, I'm begging you! Just one! Just one to make it stop!"
Tears of sheer agony and fear streamed down his face, mixing with the sweat. He was trembling so violently Yichen could feel it through his own body.
"I can't," Yichen said, his own voice thick with the pain of denying him. He kept his grip steady, an anchor in the storm. "I can't give it to you. I'm so sorry, bao bei, but I can't. You have to ride this out."
"Don't call me that!" Zhiyuan sobbed, pushing weakly at his chest. "If you care, you'll help me! You'll give them back! You're letting me die!"
"You're not dying," Yichen said, his tone fierce with conviction. He pulled Zhiyuan closer, wrapping his arms around him, holding him tight as he shuddered and gasped. "I've got you. I won't let go. Breathe with me. You're not alone. Just match my breath."
Zhiyuan fought the embrace for a moment, his pleas dissolving into incoherent, pained whimpers. But the violent tremors and the crushing terror were too much. Exhausted, he collapsed against Yichen, his forehead pressing into the crook of his neck, his desperate, hot tears soaking into Yichen's shirt.
"Make it stop... make it stop..." he whispered over and over, a broken mantra, as Yichen held him on the floor amidst the broken glass, rocking him gently, repeating the same steady promise into his ear, "I'm here. I've got you. It will pass. I'm here." The battle was no longer against assassins in the dark, but against the poison in his own blood, and Yichen was his only shield.
The storm of panic began to ebb, not because it was over, but because Zhiyuan had no strength left to fuel it. He was slumped against Yichen, utterly spent, his body still trembling with aftershocks. His breathing was still too fast, too shallow, but he was trying. He clung to Yichen's shirt with a death grip, his knuckles white, as if letting go would mean being swept away by the terrifying current inside him.
Tears continued to leak silently from his closed eyes, tracing paths through the sweat on his cheeks. He was scared a deep, childlike fear that had nothing to do with boardrooms or assassins.
"T-they won't stop..." he whispered, his voice raw and hollow. "Their faces... they're all smiling... but their eyes..." He flinched, pressing his face harder against Yichen's shoulder, as if to block out the visions of his aunt, his uncles, their kind expressions twisting into something demonic and hungry.
"Don't look at them," Yichen murmured, his voice a low, steady vibration against him. He kept one arm wrapped firmly around Zhiyuan's back, the other hand gently stroking his damp hair. "Don't give them space in your head. Push them out. Think about something else. Something good. Something peaceful. What do you love? What's a happy memory? The happiest one you have."
It was a lifeline thrown into the murky water of his mind. Zhiyuan grasped for it, his thoughts frantic, slippery. Happy? Peaceful? His life was a tapestry of pressure and expectation. Then, like a sunbeam breaking through storm clouds, an image surfaced.
He was eight years old.
Not in this cold, modern mansion, but in the old, sun-drenched study of the Liang family home. The air smelled of old books and sandalwood.
He was sitting on the thick Persian rug, not at a desk. In front of him was a complex model ship, half-assembled. And beside him, sitting on the floor with him, was his father, Liang Wenhao.
Not the fearsome, legendary CEO. Just his dad. His sleeves were rolled up, a smudge of glue on his finger.
"See, Zhiyuan," his father's voice was warm, patient, a sound he could almost hear now. "The mast isn't straight because the foundation is shaky. Here, let's fix this part first. Everything important needs a strong base."
He had guided Zhiyuan's small hands, helping him slot the wooden piece into place. There was no talk of empires or stock prices. Just the quiet concentration of building something together. His father had laughed a rich, genuine sound when Zhiyuan got glue on his own nose.
"You're a mess, my little captain," he'd said, wiping it off with his thumb, his eyes crinkling with affection. "But a determined one."
That was it. A perfect, crystalline moment of pure, uncomplicated love. Safety. A time before the puzzles, before the distance, before the "accident" that stole it all away.
As the memory enveloped him, Zhiyuan's desperate grip on Yichen's shirt loosened, just a fraction. The violent shaking in his limbs subsided into a gentle quiver. The devilish faces of his relatives faded, replaced by the kind, focused eyes of his father.
A soft, shuddering sigh escaped him, different from the panicked gasps. It was a sigh of grief, of longing, but also of profound relief. He was still clinging to Yichen, but now it felt less like drowning and more like holding on to the only solid thing in a world that had suddenly become soft and treacherous.
"He... he was sweet," Zhiyuan breathed out, the words almost inaudible, spoken into the fabric of Yichen's shirt. "My dad. He was... the sweetest person."
Yichen held him, saying nothing, just letting the peaceful memory do its work. He felt the change in Zhiyuan's body, the slight softening, the anchor of that good memory finally steadying him in the turbulent sea of withdrawal. The battle wasn't won, but for this moment, they had found a safe harbor.
Yichen continued to rock him gently, a slow, steady rhythm, until the last of the tremors faded and Zhiyuan's ragged breaths evened out into the deep, exhausted cadence of sleep. Even in unconsciousness, his brow was faintly furrowed, but the look of sheer terror was gone.
Carefully, so carefully, Yichen slid his arms under him. He lifted Zhiyuan as if he were made of the most fragile glass, cradling him against his chest. He carried him the few steps to the bed and laid him down on the cool sheets, pulling the blanket up to his shoulders.
He stood there for a long moment, just watching. In the dim light, with the defenses of wakefulness stripped away, Zhiyuan looked heartbreakingly young and vulnerable. Yichen reached out and gently brushed a strand of damp hair from his forehead, his touch feather-light.
"How can anyone be so cruel," he whispered, his voice a raw ache in the quiet room, "to an innocent soul like you?"
The words carried a weight of knowledge, of secrets he couldn't yet share. He saw not just the powerful CEO, but the lonely boy raised by a maid, the man drugged into submission by those meant to care for him, the target of his own family's greed.
A powerful, dangerous impulse surged through him. A desire to bundle him up, to steal him away from this gilded prison of betrayal, to take him somewhere far from Shanghai, where no one knew the name Liang and the only threats were the weather and the passage of time.
He leaned down, drawn by the peaceful curve of Zhiyuan's lips, by the overwhelming need to offer some form of solace his words couldn't convey. He was inches away...
Slap!
The sharp sound was startling in the silence. Yichen had brought his own hand up and struck his own cheek, hard. The sting was a welcome shock.
"Stupid," he hissed at himself under his breath, his eyes squeezed shut. "Don't be stupid, Yichen. Do you want to get yourself killed?"
He straightened up, his expression hardening from tender protector to cold operative. The moment of weakness was locked away.
He gave Zhiyuan one last, long look. "Sleep," he murmured. "I'll handle the wolves."
Then he turned and walked out of the bedroom, closing the door softly behind him. The hall was dark, but his path was clear. He pulled out a secure, encrypted phone from his pocket and dialed a number, putting it to his ear as he strode towards the mansion's exit.
The voice that answered was low and immediate. "Yes, sir?"
"Gather the team," Yichen ordered, his voice now all sharp edges and command. "The quiet phase is over. We have a doctor to visit. It's time to teach someone a very direct lesson about what happens when you poison the people under my protection."
The line went dead. Yichen didn't head for the servants' quarters. He headed for the garage, for his motorcycle, for the night. The man who had been rocking Zhiyuan to sleep was gone. In his place was the shadow, the enforcer, the weapon that had been carefully placed to guard the treasure. And now, that weapon was being aimed.
The location was an abandoned textile factory on the outskirts of the city. Rusted machinery loomed like skeletons in the gloom, and the only light came from a single, harsh work lamp hanging from a beam. Under its pitiless glare, Dr. Fan was tied to a metal chair, his usually impeccable suit torn and dirty, his face pale with terror.
Two of Yichen's men, silent and efficient, stood watch by the doors. Yichen himself stood before the doctor, his expression devoid of any of the warmth or teasing Zhiyuan had seen. Here, he was pure, chilling intensity.
"Who ordered you to drug Liang Zhiyuan?" Yichen asked, his voice flat.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Dr. Fan sputtered, trying to muster indignation but failing. "It's medication! For his condition!"
Yichen didn't react. He simply nodded to one of the men. The man stepped forward with a pair of heavy-duty bolt cutters.
"Wait! Wait! You can't do this!" the doctor screamed, struggling against his bonds.
"Last chance," Yichen said, his eyes like chips of amber ice. "The name."
"I'm his doctor! I was treating him!"
Yichen gave another nod.
The man with the bolt cutters moved with practiced speed. He grabbed Dr. Fan's left hand, splayed it against the arm of the chair, and positioned the cutters over his index finger.
SNAP.
The sound was horrifyingly crisp in the silent warehouse. A short, choked scream tore from the doctor's throat as his finger was severed cleanly. Blood welled and dripped onto the dusty concrete floor.
"Ten years of poisoning," Yichen said calmly, as if discussing the weather. "That's ten fingers, Doctor. We have nine more to go. Or you can start talking."
Tears and sstream mixed on Dr. Fan's face. "You're a monster!"
"Compared to a man who slowly destroys a child's mind for money? I'm an amateur." Yichen nodded again.
SNAP. The middle finger.
The doctor's screams echoed off the high ceilings. "STOP! PLEASE!"
"Who gave you the drugs? Who paid you?" Yichen's voice never rose.
SNAP. The ring finger.
The pain was overwhelming. The doctor was sobbing, hyperventilating. The sight of his own mutilated hand broke the last of his resistance. The threat of losing his thumb, his entire hand, was too much.
"OK! OK! I'LL TELL YOU!" he wailed, his body sagging in the chair. "Just stop!"
Yichen held up a hand. The man with the cutters stepped back.
Dr. Fan gasped, choking on his own tears and blood. "It was... it was his uncle. Ten years ago... Zhiyuan was a teenager. He got very sick... a high fever, for days, after... after his best friend died in an accident. He was grieving, traumatized."
He took a shuddering breath. "His uncle, Liang Shuren, came to me. He said the boy was too emotional, too unstable. He said he needed to be 'calmed down' for his own good and for the family's reputation. He gave me a drug. Powerful sedatives. He told me to keep injecting Zhiyuan with it until he was 'well.'"
The doctor's voice dropped to a horrified whisper, as if he were confessing to himself. "The boy... he became dependent. Withdrawal was terrible. So when he asked what was wrong... I lied. I told him he had a severe anxiety disorder, a chemical imbalance. That he would need medication for life. And Shuren... he kept supplying the pills. He told me exactly what to prescribe. He said if I ever stopped, or told anyone... he would ruin me."
He looked up at Yichen with pleading, broken eyes. "Shuren... CFO Liang Shuren. That's all I know! He's the one! He said it was to protect the company, to make Zhiyuan... manageable. Please... I need a hospital..."
Yichen stared at him, the pieces clicking into a vile, perfect picture. A grieving, sick teenager, deliberately addicted by his own uncle to turn him into a pliable puppet. A decade of stolen clarity, of manufactured weakness.
He turned away from the sobbing doctor, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. He looked at his men. "Clean him up. Get him to a discreet clinic. He doesn't talk to anyone. Then bury every record of his practice. He no longer exists."
He walked towards the exit, the cold night air doing nothing to cool the fury burning in his chest. He now had a name. Liang Shuren. The bitter, overlooked uncle. The man who hadn't just tried to kill Zhiyuan with fire and knives, but had spent ten years murdering his mind, his will, his very self.
The game had just changed. And Yichen was no longer just a bodyguard. He was an avenger.
Next morning...
Sunlight filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed. Zhiyuan woke to a dull, throbbing headache the ghost of last night's withdrawal but also to a strange, heavy warmth across his waist.
He blinked his eyes open, his mind still fuzzy.
And then he saw it.
Chen Yichen was in his bed. Shirtless. Deeply asleep, his face peaceful, one arm thrown possessively across Zhiyuan's waist, holding him close. His bare chest, all defined muscle and smooth skin, was pressed against Zhiyuan's side.
For a full three seconds, Zhiyuan's sleep-addled brain simply short-circuited.
Then, with a yelp of pure shock, he reacted on instinct. He drew his legs back and kicked out with all his might.
THUMP.
Yichen was unceremoniously shoved off the bed, landing on the plush carpet with a pained "OOF!"
"What the hell was that for?!" Yichen groaned, pushing himself up on his elbows, his hair adorably messy, his face a picture of sleepy offense.
Zhiyuan had scrambled to sit up, clutching the duvet cover to his chest like a scandalized maiden. "What did you do to me?!" he demanded, his voice higher than usual. "Why are you… why are you shirtless?!"
Yichen rubbed his sore hip, a grin slowly spreading across his face despite the fall. "I was hot. And my shirt was uncomfortable. I stayed by your side all night protecting you from… I don't know, nightmares or withdrawal seizures or something. And this is the thanks I get? A kick out of bed?"
"You should have slept in your own room!" Zhiyuan snapped, but his glare lacked its usual fire. He was too busy trying not to stare at the expanse of bare skin and muscle now sitting on his floor.
"My room is too far away. What if you needed me?" Yichen said, standing up in one fluid motion. As he did, the low-slung waistband of his sweatpants dipped, revealing the hard, sculpted lines of his lower abdomen and the defined V that pointed downwards. And there, just above his hip bone, was a long, pale scar, half-hidden.
Zhiyuan's eyes, against his will, tracked the movement. He saw the abs, the scar… and his brain unhelpfully supplied the thought: He looks… hot.
Yichen, who missed nothing, caught the flicker of his gaze. The grin turned into a full-blown, wicked smirk. He took a step closer to the bed, placing his hands on the mattress and leaning in, making his abdominal muscles flex deliberately.
"See something you like, Zhang?" he purred, his voice low and teasing. "Wanna… touch them? Make sure they're real?"
Zhiyuan's eyes went wide. He felt a treacherous heat rush up his neck to his cheeks. He gulped, his mouth suddenly dry. He was frozen, caught between outrage and a horrifying, magnetic attraction.
Yichen's smirk deepened. He leaned in a little closer, his face inches from Zhiyuan's. "Cat got your tongue, boss?"
That broke the spell. The word 'boss,' delivered with that teasing tone, was the splash of cold water he needed. Humiliation and annoyance surged back, hotter than the blush.
His fist clenched in the sheets. Without a word, he drew his leg back and delivered another sharp, swift kick to Yichen's thigh.
"OW! Not again!"
"Get out!"Zhiyuan hissed, his face now fully flushed with a mix of anger and acute embarrassment.
Yichen backed away, laughing softly, hands up in surrender. "Alright, alright! I'm going! So violent in the mornings…"
Zhiyuan didn't wait. He threw the covers off and practically fled from the bed, storming past a chuckling Yichen and into the ensuite bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him with a definitive BANG.
He leaned against the cool door, his heart hammering. He stared at his own flushed, furious reflection in the mirror.
Idiot. He's an idiot. And you're an idiot for looking.
But the image of those amber eyes smiling into his, of that scar and those abs, was stubbornly imprinted on his mind. The headache was forgotten, replaced by a whole new, confusing, and infuriating kind of turmoil.