Two days later, Lin Wan was discharged from the hospital.
They didn't take her home; they took her straight to Chen Jin's apartment.
Even though her mind was still foggy that day, she could tell this wasn't the same place where everything had happened before. But what difference did it make? A hospital, an apartment—no matter where she was, as long as he was there, it was still hell.
She had thought about resisting, of course. But what would be the point? Resistance meant wasted energy, and energy was the one thing she had none of.
The caregiver helped her into the bedroom and sat her down on a bed that was far too large, far too soft—yet she felt as if she were sitting on needles. The room was neat, almost sterile. There were no personal touches, no signs of anyone ever really living here. That absence, oddly, brought her a small measure of relief.
She wondered then—if she hadn't gone back that night, would things have ended differently?
But the world doesn't work with "ifs."
Now she had to start a life in this unfamiliar space—one that defied all reason and threatened every boundary she had left.
Maybe she would die here. Maybe she would survive. Maybe… something in between.
Chen Jin didn't show up at first.
He had hired a caretaker—a woman trained in basic nursing—to look after her.
The caretaker did her job well. Too well. She made soups that reeked of medicine, claiming they were "nourishing," and stood watch until Lin Wan finished every drop.
Each morning, when the sun poured through the windows, the woman would wheel her downstairs to "absorb calcium and train her muscles." Lin Wan would sit there silently, wrapped in a blanket, eyes half-closed, like a corpse sunbathing.
Occasionally, she overheard the caretaker making calls, reporting her every move in a tone of exaggerated respect. Whoever was on the other end always knew exactly what Lin Wan was doing—what she ate, when she slept, how long she stayed quiet.
It was like being watched by an unseen predator crouched in the dark, breathing just beyond the walls.
She almost laughed at the thought. Did he really think she could still run?
Ten days passed. The doctor told her that the bone had already begun to heal. She could start walking again, slowly.
So she did.
She practiced every day, pushing through the pain until sweat soaked her back. It hurt like hell, but she didn't care. Whether to fight or to flee, she needed her legs back.
That night, as she walked her slow laps across the living room, she heard the sound of keys turning.
The lock clicked.
The man who'd been gone for nearly a month finally returned.
Chen Jin's eyes swept over her leg, assessing. "Don't you know what happens when you rush recovery?"
She didn't answer. What I do know, she thought, is that I can't stand to see your face for even another second.
Without a word, she turned and limped toward the bedroom.
That night, Chen Jin didn't leave.
When Lin Wan had first been brought here, she noticed the closet lined with his clothes—rows of suits, pressed shirts, each one precise and severe, just like him. The sight of it made her stomach twist.
There was only one bedroom. No guest room. Of course, she couldn't expect him to sleep elsewhere. But she could. She refused to lie next to him and wait like some offering.
But the thing she dreaded most didn't happen. Chen Jin didn't touch her. Didn't even speak.
He showered, then disappeared into the study, working late into the night. When he finally returned around eleven, he paused in the doorway, momentarily taken aback.
Lin Wan had neatly folded the spare quilt on one side of the bed and laid it out for him. She'd even pressed a faint crease between the two halves—a literal line between their worlds.
For a moment, he almost laughed. Thoughtful, wasn't she?
Then it hit him—no, not thoughtful.
She just didn't want him crossing the line.
For three nights they slept like that—half a bed apart.
He often came home late, the smell of smoke and liquor clinging to him, to find her already curled up, facing the wall. All he could see was the top of her head and that half-meter gap she'd carefully maintained, like a child building a moat around herself.
When he woke in the morning, she was always still. Quiet. Wrapped tightly in her blanket at the far edge of the mattress. He suspected she was pretending to sleep, but he didn't call her out on it.
Because he knew—if he did, he might lose control again.
And though he wasn't afraid of sin, he was tired of that look in her eyes—the look that said she saw him as something less than human.
That, more than hatred, made him angry.
She looked at him like one might look at trash—filthy, irredeemable.
Trash.
As if he, Chen Jin, could ever be reduced to that.
By the fourth night, he couldn't take it anymore.
Chen Jin turned restlessly from side to side, then sat up, switched on the bedside lamp, and propped his head on one hand. Half a meter away lay the shape of a woman—her back to him, hair falling in a dark, smooth curtain across the pillow.
Her hair caught the light; it shimmered faintly, like silk soaked in moonwater. He reached out almost without thinking, just to feel it.
But the moment his fingers brushed a strand, she jerked up, dragging the blanket over her head as if shielding herself from an attack.
His hand hung in the air. Empty.
He stared at the small section of hair still visible outside the blanket, anger rising like smoke. Can't even touch her?
He threw the covers back. She clutched at them, but his strength was too much—one hard pull, and she nearly came with them.
She sat up, furious. "What the hell are you doing? Are you insane?"
He looked at her calmly and, without missing a beat, said,
"Doing you."
She froze, stunned, then spat the words like poison:
"Rapist."
"If I really wanted to rape you," he said evenly, "a blanket wouldn't stop me."
She had no answer. Their minds didn't even run on the same circuitry.
"Relax," he murmured, his voice dropping low. "I won't force you tonight."
A pause.
"I want you to want it."
Her body stiffened.
She saw what was coming, tried to scramble away, but his arms were already around her, sure and deliberate. His breath burned against her neck as he moved—slow at first, patient, almost methodical.
The first time had been raw hunger, clumsy and brutal.
The second, pure impulse.
This time, he was determined to "study the subject," to master it.
He told himself it was about control, about proving that he could make her yield.
But even he knew that was a lie.
He pinned her wrists above her head, fingers laced with hers; his lips found her mouth, then her jaw, then the hollow of her throat. He bit lightly, testing. She didn't respond.
So he went lower, tracing the line of her collarbone with his tongue, tugging at the thin fabric until he found her skin. His breath was hot; hers was shallow, uneven.
He wanted sound—any sound—from her.
Nothing.
He slid his hand beneath the edge of her shirt, fingers pressing, kneading, coaxing. Still nothing. Only the faint tightening of her brow, the same blank stare she'd had when he walked in.
"Look at me," he ordered, voice rough.
She opened her eyes.
All he saw there was disgust.
"Close them," he snapped, sudden fury rising in his chest.
She didn't move. Didn't even blink.
Something inside him cracked. He grabbed whatever was within reach—a towel, maybe a pillowcase—and dropped it over her face. He couldn't bear that gaze, couldn't stand to see himself reflected in it.
Under the thin fabric, she felt him shift lower, his lips tracing lines of fire along her body. Her skin shivered, but not from pleasure—from the urge to vanish, to dissolve.
He tasted salt, skin, the faint sweetness of fear. His hands traveled downward, searching for response, for surrender, for anything human.
Dry. Unyielding.
He pushed harder, fingers probing the silence, but her body stayed cold, untouched.
For a moment he thought she'd stopped breathing.
Then her chest rose faintly, enough to remind him she was still alive.
He pulled back, breathing heavily, frustration written all over his face. His voice came out muffled against her shoulder.
"Damn it. Are you even a woman?"
Lin Wan finally lifted the cloth from her face.
Her lips were bleeding; she licked the blood away and said flatly,
"You lost."
He blinked, thrown off. "No. You're the one who's broken."
"Maybe," she said quietly. "Now get off me."
She pushed at his chest, recoiling when she felt the heat of his skin.
He chuckled, low and humorless. "Look at me—I'm hard because of you. You'll have to take responsibility."
Her expression didn't change.
His words slithered in the air, obscene and lazy. "Two options: either you do it with me, or you use your hands."
Her face went pale, then red. Rage, shame, disgust—all at once. She turned her head away.
"Go take a cold shower," she muttered.
"With you here?" he sneered. "Why would I need cold water?"
Her patience snapped. "You—fuck—what the hell do you want? Either rape me again or get the hell out and let me sleep!"
He froze. Her shouting didn't enrage him the way he expected; instead, it disarmed him.
Hatred he could handle. But that revulsion—that cut deeper.
He drew in a slow breath. Morning meeting tomorrow. Not worth the scene.
He stood up, straightened the sheets, and said flatly,
"I'll let it go this time. Think of it as charity for the disabled."
Water hissed in the bathroom.
Lin Wan lay in the dark, trembling under the covers.
She'd survived another night.
But for how long?
A rabbit in a wolf's den.
A mouse under a cat's paw.
No matter how long it lived, the ending was the same—torn apart.
And her pain wasn't just physical; it came in cycles, wave after wave, each worse than the last.
Behind the glass, Chen Jin leaned under the shower spray, foam clinging to his hair.
Her voice still echoed in his skull—rapist. Three syllables, sharp as needles.
He told himself it didn't hurt. He told himself he didn't care.
But it did.
Because for once, he didn't know why he kept doing this—why this particular woman got under his skin.
He'd had women. Dozens. None of them mattered.
So why couldn't he stop circling this one?
He laughed under the running water. "So what," he murmured to no one. "The beginning doesn't matter. The process doesn't matter. As long as the ending's mine."
They say forced fruit is never sweet.
He didn't care.
He wanted the fruit.
And he liked the taste of breaking it.