The old house stood still, forgotten at the edge of the city, where cracked pavements met silence and time had long stopped caring. Its broken gate squeaked in the breeze, and rust stained the corners of the mailbox where letters hadn't come in years.
Inside, Bai Zhiqi poured water from a battered kettle into a chipped mug. The steam curled into her face, but she didn't flinch. She had grown used to heat, to pain, to silence.
The floorboards creaked under her bare feet as she moved to the window and peeked out. The streets were empty. She wasn't expecting anyone — she didn't have anyone left.
Then a knock came.
Three times.
Sharp. Controlled.
Her eyes narrowed.
She walked to the door slowly, barefoot, fingers brushing the edge of the rusted wrench on the nearby table. She opened the door, and the gray light from outside framed a figure so starkly out of place it almost looked like a dream.
Ji Yanluo.
Tall. Immaculate. Wrapped in black from coat to gloves, his hair neat, his expression colder than winter.
For a moment, neither spoke.
"You," she said, voice dry.
His gaze swept over her. "You look thinner."
"You look like someone who doesn't belong here."
"I don't."
He walked past her into the house uninvited. She didn't stop him.
"Quite the welcome," she muttered, shutting the door behind him.
Ji Yanluo stood in the middle of her crumbling living room — where dust and dampness lingered in the corners, and the air still carried the scent of abandonment. He didn't sit.
"You've been out for three days," he said calmly. "No phone. No bank account. No one to call. No place but this." He paused, scanning the stained walls. "Your mother's house?"
"She died while I was inside."
Ji Yanluo turned to her. "I know."
She hated how calm he sounded. Like none of this — none of her suffering — mattered.
"Why are you here?" she asked.
"To offer you a future."
"I didn't ask."
He stepped closer, not threatening, but deliberate. "I don't wait to be asked."
Bai Zhiqi looked up at him. His eyes held no pity. Just power. Cold, detached power that made her want to scream or surrender. Or both.
"You think I need saving?"
"No," he said. "You need strategy."
She snorted. "Strategy doesn't rebuild reputations. It doesn't erase five years of false labels and betrayal."
"No," he agreed. "But revenge does."
She stilled.
Ji Yanluo's voice lowered. "You want them to pay."
"Don't put words in my mouth."
"You've already thought it. Every second since you walked free."
Bai Zhiqi turned away, fists clenched. Her voice trembled, not from fear, but fury. "They destroyed me. Framed me. Watched me rot. And now they walk around with clean hands."
"You want justice."
She spun around. "Justice doesn't exist for people like me."
A silence stretched between them.
Then he asked, "Do you want power?"
Her lips parted.
"Because I can give it to you," Ji Yanluo said. "But it comes with a cost."
Bai Zhiqi didn't answer immediately. She studied him — the man with money, influence, and secrets. The man who shouldn't care about a disgraced ex-pianist with a ruined name.
"Why me?" she asked.
"Because you lost everything… and still stood."
A faint scoff left her. "You want me as a weapon."
He didn't deny it. "And you want war."
She didn't respond.
He moved to the door. "Think about it."
"And if I say no?" she asked behind him.
He looked back over his shoulder, eyes unreadable. "Then I walk away. And they win."
The door clicked shut behind him.
Bai Zhiqi stood there for a long time, her heart racing, palms shaking. The wind outside howled through the broken window. In the dimness of the room, she saw herself in the dusty mirror — not the prodigy, not the prisoner… but something else.
A spark had been lit