When the steady rhythm of his breathing filled the room, Lin Wan finally opened her eyes.
The ceiling above her was pale and silent, like a tombstone. She had never really fallen asleep — not for a second. Her mind had stayed awake, sharp and cruel, replaying everything with a precision she wished she didn't have. Every motion, every push, every breath of the man beside her, etched into her nerves like a branding iron.
If only she could forget.
If only her body had granted her mercy enough to pass out.
She sat up slowly. Every joint protested; her legs trembled like they no longer belonged to her. Each step toward the edge of the bed felt like stepping on broken glass. Something sticky clung to her foot, and when she looked down, the sight made her stomach twist. The remnants of what had happened glistened faintly in the dark, mocking her.
She turned away quickly, her throat tightening. The air reeked of sweat, alcohol, and something worse — a sour trace of violation that clung to everything. On the bathroom floor lay her ruined dress, wrinkled and twisted like a dead thing. The tiles were wet. She realized with a jolt that he had washed his hands there — or perhaps washed her.
At the doorway, she bent down to put on her shoes, but then froze. Something inside her shifted — a heat rising through her skull, a pulse hammering behind her eyes. Her fingers trembled as she set the shoes down again and turned back toward the bed.
The man was still sleeping. His body sprawled across the sheets, half-covered, face tilted toward the moonlight. The faint curl of a smile hung at the corner of his mouth — the kind of smile that followed a victory.
Lin Wan's chest rose and fell with uneven breaths. She didn't understand what drove her to stay. She could have walked out, disappeared, vanished forever into the night.
But something — something dark, primal, heavy — whispered: Not yet.
Her gaze fell on the pillow beside him.
The thought struck like lightning. She flinched from it, terrified of herself. But the thought did not leave. It grew louder, clearer, more rational, until her veins burned with it. Her fingers reached out, hesitated — then curled around the edge of the pillow.
Her hands shook violently.
She could still stop.
But she didn't.
She climbed back onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, the pillow pressed tight in her hands.
For a heartbeat she simply stared at him — the rise and fall of his chest, the shadow of his throat — then she lowered the pillow.
The resistance came immediately — a sudden twitch, a gasp, a struggle beneath her. His hands clawed instinctively, trying to breathe. She pressed harder, her arms trembling with the effort. The sound he made was terrible, raw and wet.
Lin Wan had seen scenes like this in films.
They always made it look quick.
It wasn't.
It was long.
And it was hell.
She could feel his chest convulsing beneath her, his body thrashing like a trapped animal. Her arms screamed with pain. Her mind split between fear and rage, between the will to kill and the horror of what she was doing.
When the struggle began to fade, she almost screamed herself — not from victory, but from the unbearable silence that followed. Her breath came in sharp, uneven bursts; her body trembled with something colder than exhaustion.
Then, before she realized what was happening, the world flipped.
A violent force struck her side, sending both her and the pillow crashing to the floor.
For a moment she saw nothing — just darkness, stars, noise. Then came the sound of heavy breathing, close, dangerous. The lamp snapped on.
He stood over her.
Bare-chested, skin glistening with sweat, eyes gleaming with something far beyond anger.
He looked like a god carved from stone — one that had learned to enjoy destruction.
Lin Wan's pulse roared in her ears. She tried to crawl backward, but her limbs felt useless, her back hitting the wall. There was nowhere left to run.
He came closer, each step deliberate, almost graceful — the slow, predatory stride of a panther who already knew its prey couldn't escape.
He stopped in front of her.
For a fleeting moment, the room was so quiet that she could hear the ticking of the wall clock — steady, cruel, indifferent. Then his hand moved.
The sound of the slap broke the silence like a gunshot.
Her head snapped to the side; pain bloomed across her cheek, hot and sharp. The taste of iron filled her mouth.
"Bitch," he hissed, the word low and venomous.
Lin Wan felt the world tilt, the hum in her ears growing louder, drowning everything. Her face burned; her nose began to bleed. But before she could even breathe, his hand was in her hair, yanking her upright.
"Thought you could kill me?" His voice was steady — almost calm — which was somehow worse than if he'd been shouting. "You really don't know what death feels like, do you?"
Her scalp screamed under his grip. She saw his face distorted above her, eyes bright with rage, veins pulsing at his temple. He shoved her backward. Her head hit the wall with a crack, and light burst behind her eyes.
For a moment she thought she really might die — not from the impact, but from the quiet that followed.
Then his hand slid into her throat.
The touch was almost gentle at first, his thumb resting against the hollow of her neck.
"Regret it?" he asked softly, almost whispering. "You were close. So close."
Before she could answer, his fingers tightened.
The world shrank.
Air vanished.
Her hands clawed at his wrist, nails scraping uselessly at skin that felt like steel. Her lungs burned, her vision blurred, her mind filled with the single, instinctive scream that her mouth could no longer make.
Her heartbeat slowed.
Her arms fell.
And in that stillness — in that collapsing silence — she saw his face above her, serene and terrifying.
Then, suddenly, he let go.
She collapsed to the floor, coughing violently, gasping for air like a drowning person breaking the surface.
He looked down at her with cold amusement. "Dying's too easy," he murmured. "I told you — I want you alive. I want you to remember."
He flexed his fingers, massaging his wrist as if shaking off dust. The expression on his face was almost casual now, the fury drained, replaced by something darker — the satisfaction of a man who believed he had restored order.
"Get up," he ordered.
She didn't move. Her body trembled uncontrollably, every muscle refusing command.
His patience broke again. He kicked her — once, twice — hard enough to draw a hoarse cry from her throat. "I said get up!"
Lin Wan's body curled inward, a broken reflex of protection. She didn't even recognize the sound that came from her own mouth.
The third kick missed its target and hit the wall instead, producing a hollow thud. Her head slumped sideways, striking the corner as she fell.
This time she didn't move.
The room went still again.
Chen Jin stared down at her — her pale skin, the thin line of blood under her nose, her motionless chest. For a heartbeat, something that might have been fear flickered through his eyes.
He crouched, pressed a finger under her nose.
Warm breath.
He exhaled, half in relief, half in contempt. "Playing dead? Fine. Stay that way."
He straightened, wiping his hands with a tissue, grimacing at the faint trace of red that refused to come off. The smell of sweat, blood, and something sour filled the air. He didn't look at her again. He simply turned off the light, climbed back into bed, and pulled the blanket over himself as if nothing had happened.
The sound of his breathing returned — calm, rhythmic, indifferent.
The woman on the floor lay still in the shadows. Her cheek pressed against the cold tile, her body limp, her skin fever-hot.
When dawn seeped through the curtains, the world had not changed — except that she hadn't moved at all.
He opened his eyes, stretched lazily, and turned his head.
She was still there.
Exactly as before.
For the first time, his heart skipped.
He sat up, leaned over, pressed his hand near her lips. There — faint warmth, fragile as a dying flame. Her skin was burning.
A fever, he thought. Not death. Not yet.