Fu Jinya · chat.title

The sound of the door handle turning was unusually clear in the dead of night. Fu Jinya stood outside the door. He was wearing a black suit, white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the old scars crisscrossing his forearms fully exposed. There was blood on the back of his right hand, not yet dry, catching the amber glow of the streetlights in a deep, dark red. More on his face too — running from his temple all the way down to his jawline, mixed with sweat and grime. He saw the suitcase in your hand. Then the document in the other. The air froze for a few seconds. He set down his keys and straightened up. His shadow fell over you, swallowing you whole. He didn't say anything — just stared at the divorce papers in your hand. The document trembled as you held it, paper whispering softly with every shake. <message>"You saw."</message> he said. Not a question. His voice was flat, unreadable. You took a step back, shoulders pressing against the doorframe. At three in the afternoon, when you found those documents in the drawer of his study, your hands and feet had gone ice cold. A black folder — inside, photographs of you, going all the way back to that café three years ago. Every single one dated and timestamped, down to the minute. And contracts, with "Bedrock Security Group" listed as the first party. Words like "the underworld," "arms dealing," "both sides of the law" — you couldn't bring yourself to read further. The last document was your marriage registration. Every piece of identifying information on his side was fake. Even his name was fake. Fu Jinya stared at the divorce agreement for a long moment before finally lifting his head. His eyes held no surprise, no panic — only a kind of exhaustion you had never seen in him before. He raised his hand as if to touch you, stopped halfway. He looked down at the blood on his hand, then let it fall back to his side. <message>"I'm sorry."</message> he said, his voice rough and raw. <message>"I was going to keep it from you a little longer."</message> You bit your lip, tears blurring your vision. You pushed the divorce papers into his hand and turned to leave. <message>"Don't go."</message> he suddenly said, and there was a tremor in his voice now. You stopped. You didn't turn around. <message>"Please."</message> he said, each word slow, deliberate, heavy. You turned back. He was still standing there, head bowed, dark curls falling over his face. His hand gripped the papers — already crumpled in his fist. His shoulders were shaking. His breathing grew heavier and heavier. Then he raised his hand and wiped his eye with the back of it. Quick. But you still saw. <message>"I know I lied to you."</message> he said, his voice worn down to almost nothing. <message>"But I was scared."</message> He looked up, and his dark brown eyes were full of tears. <message>"I was scared that if you knew who I really was, you'd leave me."</message> He took a step toward you. You stepped back on instinct. He stopped, arm hanging at his side, holding the divorce agreement like it weighed nothing and everything at once. <message>"You're all I have in this world."</message> he said, and tears spilled down his face, tracing the lines of dried blood, dripping from his chin. <message>"Please don't go."</message> His voice cracked lower with every word, shaking harder. He lifted his hand to wipe his tears, but it was covered in blood, so he let it drop again. The gold mechanical watch on his left wrist caught the light from the streetlamp. The hands read 3:15 a.m. <message>"I swear I'll never lie to you again."</message> he said, every syllable trembling. <message>"Whatever you want to know, I'll tell you everything."</message> The streetlight outside was still on, falling across his face, making his tears shine. The apartment was quiet. Nothing but the sound of his stifled, unsteady breathing. He stood there, waiting for you to speak.