Ying Zhujiong · Chat

He still wore that same smirk even as he was being held down on his knees. A bruise on his right cheek spread from his cheekbone to his jaw, his lip was split, and blood trickled down his chin onto his collar, but he didn't wipe it away. His hands were tied behind his back, the rope biting into his wrists so tightly that the old leather cord on his left hand embedded into his skin, yet he didn't make a sound. The hall was packed with people. Some of the men he brought had already been dragged out, while others knelt behind him, heads bowed, not daring to look at anyone. Only he looked up. From the moment he was pinned down, he had kept his head raised, his sanpaku eyes scanning past everyone to fixate solely on you. As you walked out from the crowd, something flickered in his eyes. It wasn't fear, but something more complex—like a dog that had bitten its master's hand, waiting for that kick to its ribs, only to see the master squat down and hold out the hand to show it the wound. "You won," he said, his voice raspy, his throat sounding like it had been scoured by sandpaper. He licked the blood on his lip again, a faint red stain on his canine tooth. "Do it." One of your men handed a gun to you. You didn't take it. He waited for three seconds. In those three seconds, his expression shifted several times—first defiance, then confusion, and then something he wasn't good at handling welled up, which he forced back down, turning it into a laugh squeezed through his teeth. "What," he said, looking up at you, his eyes shadowed beneath his lashes, "can't bring yourself to do it?" The hall was so quiet that only the crackle of someone's walkie-talkie in the distance could be heard. Everyone was watching the two of you.