The city never truly slept; it only dimmed itself down to a softer kind of cruelty.
Midnight wrapped the river in a blurred halo of reflected neon. Screens still burned in office towers, a constellation of unpaid overtime. The rain had rinsed the air clean but left behind the smell of asphalt and metal, sharp as bitten tongue.
On the twenty-seventh floor of an anonymous high-rise, Sheng Anqi tried to breathe like nothing had changed.
The problem was—her apartment finally matched her.
Cold. Efficient. Immaculate.
The problem was—she could suddenly see where it didn't.
Her coffee table was bare. No architectural sketches rolled carelessly open, no mechanical pencil forgotten beside a laptop she never remembered closing herself. The brass floor lamp in the corner was leaning at a familiar, infinitesimal angle, because the stabilizing screw had loosened again. No one had quietly tightened it, or taped a Post-it to its base with the muttered note: "Stop abusing your furniture, Anqi."
The torn hem of the gray throw blanket at the end of her couch—she tripped on it two weeks ago coming in from a red-eye—still gaped open, threads fraying silently. No discreet mending. No new blanket, neutral in color and twice as soft, appearing like a ghost with a receipt she had never asked to see.
It was stupid, the way her lungs tightened over fabric and screws and missing Post-its.
She flipped her phone over.
The chat window still glowed on the screen, the last message from Li Xian pinned at the top like a bruise.
[From now on, I'll communicate with you through the project channel. It's clearer that way.]
Polite. Punctuated. Clean.
Until tonight, his messages had always been a strange mixture of undercurrent and excess. Photos of buildings he passed with captions like, Thought you'd like the lines of this. Voice notes at 2 a.m. reminding her to eat something before her morning presentation. A stray "Good luck," once, after she tore into him for double-checking her data without permission.
This one…fit in the official thread. It could have been sent to any colleague.
She had stared at it for twenty minutes.
Then she had opened their private chat and typed [Okay.]
No smiley. No "Li Xian." That would have been too much acknowledgment. Too much concession.
Backspace had eaten the word, stroke by stroke, until nothing remained.
Now, her reflection stared back at her from the darkened TV screen across the room—loose bun, pressed blouse still tucked into trousers, bare feet braced against the hardwood floor.
Functional. Controlled. Unbothered.
"Ridiculous," she muttered, to no one.
She stood abruptly, walked to the kitchen, opened cabinets for the sake of the sound. The click of hinges, the soft thud of doors closing. She was not hungry, but she boiled water anyway. A cup of instant coffee at midnight, because she could. Because no one was here to see and make that quiet, tight-lipped disapproving face before swapping her mug out with herbal tea.
The kettle whistled. Steam clouded the under-cabinet lights, the glow turning hazy.
Her gaze slid to the narrow shoe cabinet by the door.
The umbrella wasn't there.
For three years, there had always been an umbrella leaning against the side of the cabinet. The same black one he kept replacing whenever she lost it. The one she grabbed this morning without thinking when the sky was a solid sheet of steel outside her window.
She had left it in the office.
She had walked home in the rain tonight, hair plastered to her cheeks, making a point of not thinking about how he used to appear at the lobby entrance when the weather turned, umbrella tilted over both their heads, one shoulder wet, one dry.
She sipped black coffee and tasted metal.
Her phone buzzed on the coffee table.
For a moment, stupidly, her heart leapt in that traitorous old way.
She padded across the floor and picked it up.
[Han Jinyu]: I'm downstairs.
Of course.
Her shoulders loosened. Then tensed again.
She typed: [No need. I'm fine.]
The three dots appeared, pulsed, vanished.
[Han Jinyu]: Tell that to the twenty unanswered calls in my log.
She frowned. The call log screen showed only seven.
She hadn't noticed.
She set the mug down, grabbed the first cardigan on the back of a chair, and walked to the door. The hallway outside her apartment was brightly lit, too clean, too narrow. She locked the door behind her twice.
Downstairs, the lobby's marble gleamed. Security guards blinked at screens that showed nothing but the possibility of crime.
Jinyu stood just inside the sliding glass doors, hair damp, glasses fogged. His shirt was buttoned wrong at the collar; she knew he'd left his own work half-finished the moment her last unread message tipped the scale from "busy" to "concerning."
He saw her and exhaled, the way people do when something heavy they've been pretending not to carry finally eases.
"Why are you here?" she asked, instead of hello.
He pushed his glasses up. "You didn't answer."
"I was in the shower."
"For three hours?" His brows lifted. "Did you drown and resurrect, or…?"
She scowled. "Don't be dramatic."
His gaze traveled over her face, caught on the too-bright whites of her eyes. The slight twitch in the muscle along her jaw.
"What happened?" he asked.
"Nothing."
"Anqi."
He didn't push further. He simply tipped his head toward the glass doors.
"Walk?"
It was easier to nod than to argue.
Outside, the city hummed at a lower pitch. The streetlights turned the wet pavement into an unrolled strip of bronze. Cars hissed past, tires whispering secrets to the road.
They walked side by side, an unspoken rhythm between their steps. The same rhythm that had carried them through muddy schoolyards and gaudy university campuses, through the cramped lanes of their old neighborhood that now existed only in memory and in the margins of property development contracts.
He shoved his hands in his pockets. "You saw him today?"
She didn't ask who.
The river wind clawed past her ears. "We had a meeting."
"Hm."
He never said Li Xian's name unless she forced him to, as if the syllables tasted like obligation.
"How was it?" he asked.
She considered saying, "Normal." That was her favorite word. Her shield. She had survived worse than a man's quiet retreat by insisting everything was normal long past the point of fracture.
But the memory unfurled like a bruise under pressure.
The meeting room in the Chenghai Group's glass tower. A table long enough to stage a war on, all polished walnut and power outlets. The client's team lined up: suits in shades of compliance.
Li Xian at the far end, not by her shoulder.
An architect, an external consultant. As of last week.
He had nodded to her when she entered, professional, his expression a smooth expanse. No frown at her late arrival, no half-hidden relief that she'd made it.
He had spoken when spoken to. Presented his drawings with distilled clarity, no asides aimed in her direction, no small glances checking her reaction.
At one point, she'd reached for the bottle of water in front of her, fingers closing around cool glass that wasn't there. It took her a heartbeat to realize: he wasn't sitting close enough to slide it toward her without being noticed.
It was such a small thing. So microscopic she wanted to tear the fabric of the room just to give the sensation somewhere to go.
"The project is moving," she answered now. "He's…efficient."
Jinyu snorted. "He was efficient before. That's not new."
"It's cleaner," she said, surprising herself. "No unnecessary noise."
He glanced at her. "You mean no unnecessary you."
Her steps faltered.
He caught it. Of course he did.
"You wanted this," he went on, voice even. "Distance. No…smothering, was it?"
The word lodged somewhere under her ribs.
"He's not—" she started, then stopped. "He knows boundaries now. That's a good thing."
"For who?" Jinyu asked quietly.
They turned down a side street where small restaurants huddled shoulder to shoulder, their signage buzzing faintly. The air smelled of charcoal, scallions, and frying oil. A cat threaded itself between plastic stools, queen of the midnight kingdom.
Anqi suddenly remembered the last time she'd come here with Li Xian. Rain had hammered the awning. He'd ordered too many side dishes because "you always say you don't want anything and then steal mine." She'd rolled her eyes and eaten half his bowl.
She had thought, back then, that his constancy was like city infrastructure—annoying, obstructive, but inevitable. Power lines humming overhead. Subway tunnels underfoot. You didn't thank the people who made sure the bridge didn't fall while you slept.
You just drove on it.
They passed a noodle stall. A couple sat opposite each other, sleeves rolled up, leaning in over shared broth. The steam blurred their faces into something tender, undefined.
Anqi looked away first.
"Let's not talk about him," she said. "How's work?"
The redirection was obvious; Jinyu let her have it. "The usual. Data, deadlines, upper management learning the difference between 'urgent' and 'anxiety.'"
She huffed a breath that almost counted as a laugh.
He nudged her with his shoulder. "Meilin messaged me twelve times today about brand partnerships and prenup clauses. I've learned more about influencer tax structures than I ever wanted to know."
If his tone hadn't been so dry, she might have missed the way his fingers twitched inside his pockets.
"Since when are you and my brother's sister chatting?" she asked.
He did not trip. But there was a split-second hitch in his gait.
"Since your brother disappeared and left you, me, and the fashion hurricane to manage the emotional aftermath," he said calmly. "She's very…organized."
The pause before the adjective was too careful.
Anqi narrowed her eyes. "You hate organized people."
"I hate people who weaponize organization," he corrected. "She's more…weaponizing outfits."
Images flashed through her mind from social media: Meilin in the front row of a runway show, eyes lined sharp, mouth curved in a smile that never reached them. Meilin laughing into champagne. Meilin dragging Li Xian out of the background of her live streams with the fierce familiarity of someone who has fought too many wars by his side.
"You don't like her," Anqi said.
"Didn't," he corrected again.
She stopped walking.
He walked two more paces before halting, then looked back at her, face a study in composure.
"Didn't?" she repeated.
He rolled his shoulders once, as if a shirt sat badly there. "People evolve."
"Jinyu."
He met her gaze, unflinching. The streetlight cut a line of light across his glasses, turning his eyes into twin dark mirrors.
"Is there something you want to tell me?" she asked, something in her chest tightening around the question.
A beat of silence.
On the corner, a bus hissed to a stop, doors sighing open and closed. A handful of passengers stepped off and scattered into the night, each carrying their own invisible wars.
Jinyu smiled. It was the particular, careful smile she had seen him wear only in front of bank managers and landlords.
"Only that you should sleep," he said. "You look tired."
The evasion flicked against her like cold rain.
Before she could push, his phone buzzed.
He glanced down. For just a moment, his face did something unguarded. A softness, quick and involuntary.
Her eyes dropped to the screen before he angled it away.
[Li Meilin]: Don't forget the 9 a.m. call. I can't be the only adult in this marriage.
Marriage.
The word detonated silently between them.
He locked the phone too quickly.
"Who was that?" she asked.
"Work," he said.
They had never lied to each other. Not outright. Not like this.
Something slipped, tiny and important, in the space between them.
He must have sensed it, because he added, "Meilin wants me to look over some contract language for a sponsorship. She's hopeless with legal jargon."
"Since when do you do free work for my brother's sister?" her voice came out flatter than intended.
"Since it made sense," he said.
The non-answer was an answer.
In another life, another night, she might have pressed. Might have demanded, You're hiding something. From me.
Tonight, she had another absence filling her lungs, another silence growing teeth.
She let it go.
For now.
"Walk me back," she said.
He nodded.
They moved in parallel again, their shadows stretching out ahead of them, elongated, nearly touching but not quite.
Across the river, in a quieter part of the city where new developments sprouted like glass and steel mushrooms, Li Meilin balanced a sheet mask on her face and stared at her phone.
The apartment she and Jinyu now technically shared was twice the size of his old one and half the size of the brand deals that had paid for the furniture. White and chrome, with pops of curated color—so photogenic it almost felt fake even when no cameras were on.
On the coffee table, two mugs stood side by side. One half-drunk and forgotten, lipstick print smudged at the rim. The other empty but washed, turned upside down on a coaster. He always did that. As if drying a mug thoroughly could keep other parts of his life from mold.
The contract still lay open on her laptop screen, its clauses and subsections tidy and indifferent.
Marriage, it said.
Not: the way his hand had hovered awkwardly above her back when she'd stumbled in heels last week before settling, warm and firm, between her shoulder blades.
Not: how he listened when she ranted about algorithms at 3 a.m., eyes exhausted but attentive.
Not: the way he'd looked at the number on his family's hospital bill, jaw clenched, and said, Thank you, Meilin, with a sincerity so raw she'd wanted to tear the whole glossy city down so he'd never have to say it again.
She reached for her phone, saw his last message: [Out to check on Anqi. Don't wait up.]
An old reflex flared—resentment, sharp and irrational. Always her, always orbiting around Sheng Anqi, even now.
But then she remembered the way his voice had gone tight on the phone earlier, the plea he had not put into words: I'm worried. Please tell me she's okay, even if you hate that she hurt my friend.
So she had gone. Upstairs, knocking on Anqi's door, pretending she was there to return a book Li Xian had lent her years ago. The apartment had been empty. The echo of that emptiness still clung to her skin.
So we vanish for him, then, she had whispered to the dark when she got back. For her brother. For all his noble stupidity.
Her ring caught the light now as she flexed her fingers. Simple band. No diamond. No story to post.
She hadn't meant to feel its weight.
She typed: [Don't stay out too late. 9 a.m. call. I refuse to be married to someone who can't form sentences on camera.]
She erased "married" and replaced it with "contractually attached."
Then hit send.
On some far balcony, Li Xian stood with his hands wrapped around a mug he hadn't realized he'd brought outside. The tea had gone cold.
The city sprawled below, an intricate organism of light and distance. His new apartment was smaller than the last one, chosen not for its view but for its anonymity. No one knew this address except his sister and his lawyer.
His phone lay on the table behind him, screen dark. No unread messages. No self-sent reminders to pick up Anqi's favorite snack on the way to her office. No calendar alert for the anniversary of the day they met, which he had quietly marked every year with some unnoticed adjustment in her life—a chair fixed, a subscription renewed, a stray notification cleared before it bothered her.
He inhaled. The air was cool, smelling faintly of wet concrete and the sea.
This, he told himself, was better.
Silence was honest. Polite distance was sustainable.
He did not have to catalog every small way she did not choose him. He did not have to stand perpetually at the ready, a human firewall between her and the chaos she summoned.
He was allowed, finally, to occupy his own life.
And yet.
His gaze caught on a billboard across the river, pulsing with an ad for some luxury brand collaboration. A familiar face turned toward the camera, lips painted, eyes laughing—the public version of his sister.
Beside her, in small print at the bottom, was the logo of the company that had hired a data consultant named Han Jinyu to oversee their analytics integration.
Threads, he thought. Invisible, tying people together even as they spun away from each other.
Below, traffic lights changed, routing strangers through well-ordered lines.
Above, in stacked layers of apartments and offices and secrets, four hearts beat at their own irregular tempos.
Presence had weight.
Absence, he was learning, had a shape.
Far away, in her too-perfect living room, Sheng Anqi lay awake on her couch, the ceiling blurring overhead. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw small missing things: an umbrella, a tightened screw, a water bottle nudged just within reach.
For the first time in years, there was no one to catch what she dropped without comment.
The realization did not yet hurt.
But it something inside her leaned, slightly, toward the void, as if listening for footsteps she had spent three years pretending not to hear.
No one moved first that night.
The city, patient, waited.