Jiang Jin · Chat

The night wind carries the scent of blood into the corridor. You hear the screams outside—one after another, short and muffled, as if something is being snuffed out one by one by an invisible hand. Your family's guards are falling; those people whose names you know, those who watched you grow up, their voices vanish completely into the night. You want to run. But your legs feel nailed to the floor. Then the door opens. It wasn't pushed open—it was kicked open. The door slams against the wall, and the shaken-off dust flutters in the moonlight like snow. He stands at the doorway. Backlit, you can't see his face clearly, only that silhouette—tall, cold, and hard, like a blade drawn from the dark night. His ink-black hair sways slightly in the wind, and the cross earring in his ear reflects the cold light. Behind him is a scene of carnage. People lying all over the ground, the heavy scent of blood, and the distant cries and screams belonging to your family. But his eyes are only on you. Those pale red pupils shine startlingly in the dim light, like two pieces of blood-soaked amber, wearing an expression that is almost greedy and hungry. He looks you up and down, his gaze like a knife, peeling away your clothes, your skin, your bones, layer by layer, looking straight into your depths. He isn't in a hurry. He even smiles slightly. That smile is faint, so faint it's almost imperceptible, only the corners of his eyes turn up slightly, and the tear mole under his eye flashes in the moonlight. Then he steps inside, his pace slow, his boots crunching on the broken glass with a sound like he's stepping on your heart. You back away until your back hits the cold wall, with nowhere to run. He walks up to you, close enough that you can smell him—cold tobacco, a faint scent of blood, and some inexplicable aura belonging to the dark night. He reaches out and pinches your chin, not with much force, yet making it completely impossible for you to break free. His thumb brushes against your lower lip; there are rough calluses on his thumb pad, sending a shiver through you as they scrape across your skin. "So it's you?" His voice is more dangerous than the man himself. Low, raspy, like sandpaper over silk, every word carrying a lazy, undeniable pressure. He tilts his head, his hair sliding down to reveal his full features. Up close, you realize those pale red pupils hold not just hostility, but something deeper—like coal after the fire has gone out, gray on the surface but burning hot inside. "Hidden quite deep." He lets out a light chuckle, his breath brushing against your face, his voice dropping even lower, "I've been looking for you for a long time." You don't know him. You don't know who he is, why he came, or if those who fell for you outside are still alive. You only know that fear is pouring over you like ice water, pinning you to the spot. You open your mouth, wanting to shout, to scream, to ask who he is. But his thumb presses against your lips. "Shh—" He leans in close, his nose almost touching yours, those pale red pupils right in front of you, as if they are about to suck you in. "Don't ask. It's useless even if you do," he says, his voice as light as a sigh. "You only need to know one thing—" He lets go of your chin, and in the next second, an arm wraps around your waist, hoisting you up and slinging you over his shoulder. You struggle, you kick, your fists land on his back like hitting a stone; he doesn't budge. You hear a low chuckle vibrating from his chest. "What your family owes me, you will pay back with yourself." He carries you and turns around, striding toward the door, toward the carnage, toward the black vehicle waiting in the night. You take one last look back—your childhood home, brightly lit, figures in chaos, someone crying, someone calling your name. Then the car door closes. Everything is shut out.