Li Cheng sat in his office, lost in thought. An open file lay before him, yet the words on its pages had long since dissolved into a blur. The steam rising from his coffee had faded away, leaving the cup cold and untouched. Resting two fingers against his cheek, he gazed through the wide glass window, his expression unreadable.
A sharp knock broke the silence—three raps on the door. Snapping out of his reverie, Li Cheng turned slightly and said in a steady, low voice,"Come in."
Andrew, dressed in a crisp white cotton shirt beneath a black jacket, stepped inside carrying a file."Sir, these are the documents you requested," he said.
Li Cheng composed himself with a curt nod."Hmm."He gestured, and Andrew placed the file on the desk, standing at attention afterward.
When Li Cheng touched his cup, he realized the hot coffee had long since turned cold. Setting it down, he cast a sharp glance at Andrew, who lingered nervously."You seem to have something else to say," Li Cheng observed.
Andrew stammered, "A-actually, sir, we've managed to locate the man you ordered an investigation on."
Li Cheng lifted his eyes, his expression tightening."Good. What did you find?"
"Sir, he's not an ordinary man."
Li Cheng rose from his chair, hands slipping into his trouser pockets as he walked toward the window. Fixing his gaze on the sprawling cityscape, he spoke in a voice that carried the weight of steel."Even if he were the prime minister himself, he would not escape me."
Sweat beaded on Andrew's brow despite the winter chill. His voice quavered."Sir… he's the CEO of Climax Holdings—Clinton Rogers."
At that name, it felt as though a whistle had shrieked through Li Cheng's mind, sharp and piercing, like needles twisting inside his skull. He swallowed hard, forcing composure."Very well. You may go."
"Yes, sir," Andrew replied quickly, retreating toward the door.
The moment he left, Li Cheng whirled around, seized the paperweight from his desk, and hurled it at the painting on the opposite wall. Glass shattered with a crack, fragments scattering across the floor. The noise echoed down the corridor, and Andrew—who hadn't yet fully left—flinched, slipping away hastily. He knew too well that when Mr. Li's temper erupted, nothing and no one in the room was spared.
Li Cheng's chest heaved, his hands clenched so tightly that his nails bit into his palms, drawing thin lines of blood. He gritted his teeth, eyes blazing."Clinton Rogers…" he muttered through clenched jaw."It's time you faced your karma."
___________
Zero sat at the head of the mahogany conference table, the polished surface gleaming beneath the sterile light. Twelve directors lined either side, their eyes weighing him down like lead. He had expected resistance, but the silence that followed his words was thicker than smoke, humming with restrained judgment.
Director Jiang broke it first, his voice sharp but deceptively calm. "Mr. Zeyad, Liam has served this company faithfully for years. He is trusted, respected. You should reconsider."
Zero leaned back in his chair, letting the tension coil around him. A faint smirk tugged at his lips as though Jiang's loyalty amused him. "Director Jiang, that's exactly the problem. We trusted him. But this is business—no one deserves blind trust. Not here."
The words struck. Jiang's composure faltered, his jaw tightening. "You think you understand this business better than I do? You've barely warmed that seat." His tone was lined with contempt, and several directors shifted in tacit agreement.
For an instant, the weight of it pressed down on Zero—his youth, his inexperience, the way their stares measured him against a legacy he hadn't yet proven worthy of. He dropped his gaze to the stack of files before him, then slid them across the table with deliberate calm.
"I'm not here to undermine you," he said, his voice quieter now, but steadier. "But these files don't lie. The irregularities are there in black and white. I want an official investigation into Liam."
Jiang scanned the papers, his silence drawn out, before passing them down the line.
At last, another director spoke, his tone heavy with authority. "Mr. Zeyad, your argument holds weight. You may proceed—but you have seven days. Fail to prove your claim, and you'll be removed as CEO. Immediately."
The words landed like a gavel striking. A few directors exchanged looks, some cautious, others quietly satisfied. Zero kept his face unreadable, though the muscle in his jaw twitched. "Understood," he said simply.
Chairs scraped back, leather against marble, as the meeting dissolved. The echo lingered long after the room emptied.
Back in his office, the silence felt thicker, almost suffocating. Zero tugged at his tie until it loosened, then dropped into his chair, dialing a number with clipped impatience. His fingers tapped a restless rhythm on the desk until the line clicked.
"Hello, Parker," he said curtly.
A sigh floated down the receiver. "Zero, this is the third time today. Sam isn't a criminal. I don't need to stalk his every move for you."
Zero froze for a heartbeat, thrown off by the jab. Clearing his throat, he shifted his tone. "This isn't about Sam. It's Liam."
"Oh." Parker's voice sharpened instantly, sliding into business mode. "That one's slippery. He's bought silence all around him. No one wants to talk."
"Then make them talk," Zero said, his voice low, carrying steel beneath restraint.
Parker chuckled dryly. "I'm a detective, not a hitman."
For a moment, only silence hummed between them. Zero exhaled slowly, pressing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger. "Fine. Just keep me updated."
"You'll hear from me," Parker replied. "Unless you call first." The line went dead with a final click.
Zero let the phone fall to the desk. His gaze drifted toward the far wall, to the painting that had hung there since his father's accident The strokes were bold yet strangely uneven, a storm captured in oil. He could still recall his father's cryptic words: In time, you'll understand the secret hidden here.
Rising, he approached the painting, brushing his fingers lightly across its textured surface. It wasn't flush with the wall. He tapped it gently—the hollow echo told him what he needed to know. Something lay concealed behind it. His pulse quickened.
He searched the edges for a latch, but before he could probe further, a knock at the door snapped him back. He hastily set the painting in place and crossed the room.
"Come in."
His secretary stepped in, carrying a folder. "Sir, this is today's updated schedule. Your next appointment is with the CEO of EDR Holdings."
Zero flipped the folder open without lifting his eyes. "Where?"
"The Silicon Hotel. Tonight at eight."
He stilled, his hands tightening faintly on the papers. "The five-star Silicon Hotel?"
"Yes, sir."
Zero leaned back, the faintest shadow of a smile flickering over his face. "Interesting. That will be all."
The secretary nodded and departed, her footsteps fading down the corridor. The door clicked shut, leaving him alone once more.
Zero's gaze returned to the painting. The silence in the office no longer felt empty—it felt charged, waiting.
Tonight, at the Silicon Hotel, the first piece of the puzzle would fall into place.
______________
Sam was bone-tired that evening. The weight of the day clung to him like dust, every muscle aching with the familiar heaviness of too many thoughts. He glanced at the dimming sky through the café window, then turned toward the counter.
"Sato."
The girl skipped over with her usual spring, ponytail bouncing. "Ani-Sam, what happened?" she asked, her tone light, innocent, like bells chiming.
Her voice softened the edge of his weariness. He smiled faintly. "That's enough for today. Close the shop and head home. You've got exams coming up, remember?"
Her wide eyes sparkled, the corners creasing with delight. "Ani, I do! Thank you so much, Ani-Sam!"
Sam chuckled, reaching out to ruffle her hair in a brotherly gesture. She scrunched her nose but didn't stop grinning. Humming to herself, she flitted back to the counter, wiping surfaces with quick little swipes before flipping the Closed sign onto the door. The click of the lock sounded like a small relief to him.
He gathered his scattered paperwork, each page a reminder of burdens he wasn't ready to face tonight, and stacked them neatly before sliding them under his arm. For the first time all day, the silence of the empty café felt like freedom.
When they stepped outside together, the evening air bit colder than expected. The streetlamps buzzed faintly, one flickering in a stutter of light.
Sato paused, shifting her bag on her shoulder. "Ani… would you please drop me home?"
Sam tilted his head, studying her.
She bit her lip, then tilted her face up with exaggerated innocence. "It's just… the streets are too quiet at this hour, and I get scared."
Sam laughed under his breath, the sound tired but fond. "Watashi no ōkina me no imōto—my big-eyed little sister. Of course I'll take you."
"Yay!" she chirped, skipping beside him, her shoes clicking lightly against the pavement.
Sato was only a high schooler, working part-time to cover her books and little expenses. Her English slipped often, so Sam filled the gaps with Japanese, weaving comfort into their conversations. Walking her home had become a quiet habit, one that steadied him more than he admitted.
He waited until she disappeared safely into the house, her silhouette framed briefly in the doorway before vanishing inside. Alone again, he turned back toward his own path.
As always, he nudged a loose stone along the pavement, kicking it softly, racing his own steps against its uneven roll. It was a ritual without meaning, yet it anchored him—something simple to keep the weight in his chest from spilling over.
That was when he heard it.
"Oh, Sam!"
The stone clattered into the gutter as his body stilled. He knew that voice. His breath caught in his throat before he even turned.
"Elina…" His voice cracked the silence, the name heavier than he intended.
She was breathless when she reached him, hair mussed from running, cheeks flushed in the chill air. "Sam, where have you been? Since the exams you've vanished! You ignored all my calls—I was so worried!" Her words spilled over each other, desperate, as if afraid he'd vanish again mid-sentence.
Sam stood rooted, silent, her presence disorienting. The last memory of her was sharp, bitter—yet here she was, trembling and real.
"Can we talk?" she asked at last, softer now.
Sam blinked, his throat dry. "Yeah… let's sit somewhere."
"Not here," she cut in quickly, almost pleading. "Let's go home. Your home."
His brows furrowed. Something in her urgency unsettled him. But he didn't argue. He simply turned and led the way. Neither noticed the faint clicks of a camera shutter from the shadows across the street, capturing their reunion frame by frame.
Inside, Elina hesitated. Her gaze swept the unfamiliar space—the muted furniture, the scent of cedar and faint smoke lingering in the air.
"This doesn't look like your house," she murmured.
"You're right. It isn't." Sam poured water into a glass, placing it gently into her hands. "But in a way, it is. This is Zero's home."
"Oh…" Her fingers tightened around the glass, unsettled by the name, though she said nothing more.
Sam lowered himself onto the sofa, elbows on his knees. "So. Why are you here, Elina?"
She drew her coat tighter around her, though the heaters hummed faintly in the corners. The silence stretched thin between them before she finally turned, voice trembling.
"Sam… would you give us another chance?"
His head tilted slightly, his gaze steady, unreadable. "But you ended it, didn't you?"
"I know." Her voice cracked. "I was angry. I didn't mean it. Please, Sam. I'm sorry."
He leaned back slowly, exhaling a weary sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep. His eyes softened, but his tone was firm. "Do you think relationships are like crops, Elina? That once you cut them down, they'll just grow back? They're not. They're like black pearls—rare, fragile. One mistake, and even years of love can shatter forever."
Her lips trembled, her eyes burning, but no words came. The silence pressed harder now, suffocating.
At last, Sam spoke again, quieter. "We can still be friends. Good friends. But not more. I'm sorry."
Her eyes dropped, lashes wet. His reasoning left no room for protest.
"It's getting late," Sam said as he rose, the finality in his movements sharper than in his words.
"But it's only 7:30," she whispered, like a last reach.
"Yeah," he replied, his voice flat. "And a girl shouldn't be alone at night with a boy who's no longer her boyfriend. Especially not here." He opened the door slightly. "Good night, Elina."
He didn't wait for her reply. He turned away, disappearing into his room.
Inside, Sam pressed his back against the door, his chest rising unevenly. He wasn't sure himself why he was acting this way—cold, guarded. But something in him had shifted. Since last night, he hadn't been the same.
He remembered it vividly.
The dark of his room. The bath's warm water lapping against his skin. His eyelids growing heavy, the day dissolving. And then—sudden. Sharp. A voice.
Zero's voice.
As if whispered directly into his ear.
Sam had jolted upright, heart hammering, water sloshing over the rim. He searched the shadows, his phone, the silence—nothing. No call, no message. But he had heard it. Clear. Real.
He had sunk deeper into the bath, submerging himself as though the water could wash away the ache it stirred. He held himself under until his lungs burned, then burst back up, gasping.
And with the air came a single thought, raw and unshakable.
Zero… I just hope you're okay.
_______
Sara sat cross-legged in her room, playing the flute. It was her latest obsession—or perhaps just another way to kill time, since her days often stretched into a dull emptiness. She had always been quick with tasks, but that very habit left her restless, bored far too soon.
The soft notes lingered in the air when her phone suddenly buzzed. She lowered the flute and reached for it. The name flashing across the screen startled her.
Li Cheng.
Since that day, he hadn't once met her eyes, hadn't spoken to her. And now, he was calling.
She hesitated, then answered. "Hello, Mr. Li."
"Sara, are you free this evening?" His voice was calm, almost detached.
The question caught her off guard. "Y-yes… I'm free, Mr. Li," she replied hesitantly.
"Good. Be ready. You're coming with me somewhere." His words were strange, almost cryptic.
Sara blinked, uncertain. "All right, Mr. Li."
The line went dead before she could say more. She pulled the phone away from her ear, staring at the screen in confusion. Then, absently, she picked up the flute again, holding it as though it might answer her questions. Lately, her life had been unusually steady—no headaches, no chaos. Even Layall had fallen strangely silent. Whenever Sara thought of that, her stomach twisted with unease.
She set the flute aside, turned toward the window, and stared into the fading light. Restlessness gnawed at her. After a few minutes, she rose, slipped her phone into her pocket, and grabbed her earbuds from the bedside table. She sat at her study desk, pencil and notepad in hand, music streaming into her ears. Her fingers began to dance across the paper, sketching thoughts to the rhythm of the song.
Meanwhile, in another part of the city, Li Cheng sat in his office chair, rocking it back and forth as he stared into the middle distance. His eyes narrowed in deep concentration. Then, with a decisive motion, he snatched up his phone and dialed.
"Be ready. Same place," he said curtly, and cut the call.
He picked up his car keys and strode out of the office. Moments later, he was sliding into his parked car, already dialing Sara as the engine rumbled to life. Soon, his sleek vehicle pulled up outside the offices of Clinton Rogers.
Inside, he was met by Clinton's secretary.
"Manager Li, I'm afraid Mr. Rogers is in an urgent meeting right now," the secretary explained.
Li Cheng's tone was measured. "Oh, I see. Actually, I have something very important to discuss with Mr. Rogers. My apologies for arriving unannounced."
The secretary gave a professional smile. "Mr. Rogers is still occupied, but I'll inform him as soon as he's free. Please have a seat."
Li Cheng inclined his head politely. "Of course."
Thirty minutes later, the secretary returned. "Mr. Li, if you'll follow me."
Li Cheng rose without a word and followed him down the corridor. Inside the office, Clinton Rogers sat bent over his laptop. The secretary cleared his throat, prompting Clinton to lift his gaze. A smile spread across his face.
"Hello, Mr. Li!" He rose, extending a hand.
Li Cheng returned the smile, shaking his hand firmly. "Mr. Rogers."
"Please, have a seat," Clinton said warmly.
The secretary lingered by the door, but Li Cheng's eyes flicked toward him. "Mr. Rogers, I'd prefer to speak in private."
"Of course." Clinton gestured, and the secretary slipped out, closing the door behind him.
Now alone, Clinton leaned forward. "So, Mr. Li, what is it that requires such secrecy?"
Li Cheng adjusted his glasses and spoke evenly. "One of your employees recently applied for a position in our company. In exchange for a generous salary, he offered to sell us your company's internal secrets."
Clinton's posture stiffened, though he quickly composed himself. "Mr. Li, I hardly believe you came all the way here just to tell me that."
Li Cheng's lips curved faintly. "You're right. That's not the only reason. There are other matters we must discuss. But not here. This office isn't safe."
Clinton's brows furrowed. "Mr. Li, are you suggesting I'm unsafe in my own building?"
Li Cheng's smile remained calm, almost disarming. "Mr. Rogers, I came here not as a rival, but as an old friend. Consider this a reminder, nothing more. Business aside, wouldn't it be better to talk properly elsewhere?"
Clinton studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled. "Very well. Let's talk. After you."
Together, they exited the office.
"Why don't you ride with me?" Li Cheng suggested smoothly, pausing by his car.
Clinton hesitated. The secretary rushed forward. "Mr. Rogers, perhaps you should—"
But Clinton raised a hand, silencing him. Without another word, he stepped into Li Cheng's car.
The door closed with a soft thud. Li Cheng slid into the driver's seat, started the engine, and merged onto the main road. For a while, silence stretched between them.
Then, without warning, Li Cheng pulled the car to a sudden stop.
Clinton jerked forward in alarm. "What's happening?"
Li Cheng turned his head slowly, his expression unreadable. Before Clinton could speak again, Li Cheng struck a pressure point at his neck. Clinton gasped once, then slumped unconscious against the seat.
Li Cheng's face remained impassive. He restarted the car, steered smoothly into traffic, and changed routes without looking back.
-_________
Zero was perfectly prepared for the meeting. A dark navy suit, a flawlessly knotted tie, polished shoes — every detail spoke of elegance. His secretary and Liam were with him as well. Of course, Zero had to take Liam along; exposing internal affairs was not an option.
At 7:50, Zero's car stopped in front of Silicon Hotel. The secretary immediately stepped out and opened the car door. Zero, with a serious face and graceful movements, walked inside. The glow of the lobby chandeliers reflected on his polished suit, and his very presence carried authority.
In the conference room, EDR Holding entered with their secretary and manager shortly after. Zero rose to welcome them. Formalities were exchanged, discussions unfolded, and after hours of talk, the outcome was clear: Z Group had successfully secured a contract with EDR Holding.
To celebrate, a dinner was arranged. Glasses of wine were placed on the table. Zero's glass was filled too. He had briefly gone to the washroom, and upon returning, he picked up his glass and began to drink, unaware that something had already been mixed into it.
An hour passed, and gradually the other party began to leave. Z Group's team started dispersing as well. Only Zero, his secretary, and a few staff members remained. Liam had already stepped away, making an excuse about an "emergency call."
Zero felt an odd heaviness in his head. First a wave of dizziness, then his vision began to blur. He held onto his secretary for support, but a strange warmth was spreading inside him — an uncontrollable urge burning beneath his skin.
"I didn't drink that much… my tolerance isn't this weak… then what is happening to me?" he thought, panic creeping in.
His secretary asked with concern:"Mr. Zeyad, are you alright? If you'd like, I can arrange a room for you here in the hotel."
Zero simply nodded faintly. Soon after, the secretary managed to take him to a suite with great difficulty, seated him on the bed, and politely excused himself from the room.
Now alone, Zero's condition worsened. His body felt aflame, breath heavy, heart pounding. Every nerve screamed for touch, for release.
And then, the door creaked open again. A boy entered — slim, half-bare chest, golden hair, fair skin. Even through his blurred vision, Zero could tell someone was approaching.
The boy drew close, stroked Zero's face, and began unbuttoning his shirt. In a haze, Zero whispered weakly:"Sam… you came…"
The boy leaned close to his ear, whispering warmly:"Yes, Zeyad, I came to you."
Those words struck Zero like lightning. Sam never called him Zeyad. Never — except perhaps in moments of extreme anger. The tone, the words… all wrong.
His instincts screamed:"No! This isn't Sam… this is a trap!"
With sudden force, he shoved the boy away and staggered to his feet. His shirt half-open, tie fallen on the bed. He shouted, voice trembling yet sharp:"Who are you!!!"
The boy froze, backing away in fear. Zero, struggling to stay upright, used the last of his strength to stumble into the bathroom and slammed the door shut, locking it behind him.
Inside, he collapsed against the door. The craving still burned through him, but his mind fought desperately to resist. His breaths were ragged, chest heaving violently as if he were drowning.
He clawed at his own skin, nails digging into his chest and throat, leaving red welts behind. Every scratch was a desperate attempt to hold himself back.
He staggered to the sink, turned on the tap, and plunged his face, hair, and neck into ice-cold water. Droplets streamed down, soaking his shirt, but the fire within refused to die.
"Sam… Sam…" His broken voice echoed through the bathroom. Each cry of the name tore at his strength, his eyes burning red, tears streaming without end.
He ripped off his tie, tore open the remaining buttons of his shirt. On the cold floor, trembling, he fought against his own body. Each second was a war: to protect himself, to protect the memory of Sam, to not let this trap consume him.
And in that moment of collapse, he understood —this intoxication wasn't just from the drug.It was from pain.And the only cure for it… was Sam.
Zero collapsed onto the bathroom floor, his body trembling violently as he fought against himself. His wet shirt clung to his skin, suffocating him, until with a sudden surge of frustration he tore it off and flung it aside.
On the cold tiles, he dragged himself, as if the very act of moving could tear away the cravings burning inside him. His nails scratched at his skin, leaving angry marks, his teeth sinking into his own hand just to silence the desperate moans rising from his throat. At one point, he shoved his thumb into his mouth, biting down hard, as though pain alone could drown the unbearable hunger in his veins.
The night stretched on mercilessly. Zero writhed, twisted, battled against urges that refused to relent, his broken breaths echoing in the locked chamber. Each second was an endless war between desire and resistance.
By the time the first pale light of dawn crept faintly through the bathroom vent, his body had given out. Exhausted, shivering, drenched in sweat and water, he finally collapsed. His last conscious thought was of Sam's name on his lips — before darkness claimed him, and he lay unconscious on the icy floor.
____________
Li Cheng pulled the car to a stop in front of an abandoned warehouse. The moment he stepped out, two guards appeared, dragging the unconscious Clinton Rogers from the vehicle and escorting him inside. They forced him into a chair, ropes quickly binding his wrists and ankles, while Li Cheng removed his sunglasses and placed them neatly on the table before settling opposite him with unnerving calm.
One of the guards began laying out instruments of torture across the table, the clink of metal echoing in the empty space. Soon after, a bucket of cold water was hurled over Clinton. He jerked awake with a violent cough, sputtering, gasping for air. His bleary eyes slowly focused, and then froze as he recognized the figure seated across from him.
"You," Clinton rasped, his voice raw. "Li Cheng… you traitor."
Li Cheng rose smoothly, his expression twisting with contempt. "Traitor?" he scoffed, leaning close enough for Clinton to feel his breath. "Men like you dare to speak of loyalty?" He seized Clinton's jaw in one hand. "Do you even know what you've done?"
Clinton struggled against the ropes. "What I've done—?" His words were cut short by the crack of Li Cheng's hand across his face.
"You raped your own daughter," Li Cheng snarled, his voice rising, the fury in it like a beast unchained. "And now you dare ask why you are here?"
Clinton's world reeled. His heart pounded, cold sweat slicking his brow. How could this man possibly know? He stared wide-eyed, panic flooding him. "Who are you… to Sara?" he croaked.
Li Cheng's lips curled in a feral smile. "Who am I? Let me show you."
In a sudden motion, he grabbed a pair of pliers from the table. Before Clinton could plead, the tool clamped onto his fingernail—and with a vicious jerk, tore it free.
Clinton's scream shattered the silence of the warehouse. His body writhed, but Li Cheng was merciless. One by one, the nails were ripped from his hands, his cries of agony echoing until the air itself seemed to tremble. The guards watched in silence, their faces pale. They knew better than to intervene; when Li Cheng was in this state, he was no longer a man but a predator.
Still unsatisfied, Li Cheng reached for a knife. He dragged the blade across Clinton's trembling fingers, slicing away flesh bit by bit, ignoring the sobs and shrieks that filled the room. Blood ran down the chair legs in dark rivulets.
"For three years you tormented her," Li Cheng spat, carving shallow, deliberate cuts across Clinton's chest. "Three years!" His rage was volcanic, erupting in each downward strike until Clinton, pale and soaked in blood, finally slipped into unconsciousness.
Only then did Li Cheng pause. Breathing hard, he wiped the blade clean with a white handkerchief, laid it back on the table, and straightened his shirt. He glanced at his watch, then gestured coldly to the guards. "Don't let him die until I return."
Without another word, he picked up his jacket and strode out. His car carried him straight to the Dragon Citadel.
Inside, he searched for Sara but found no sign of her. He climbed the staircase and knocked on her door. No reply. After three tries, he opened it himself.
The sight disarmed him for a moment. Sara sat at her desk, airpods in her ears, completely absorbed in her sketchbook. The world outside her vanished as her pencil danced over the page. Li Cheng, despite himself, allowed a faint smile to touch his lips. He crossed the room, reached down, and pressed pause on her phone.
Startled, Sara looked up. "Ah, Mr. Li," she said quickly, pulling out her earphones and snapping her notebook shut.
But he had already seen it. The sketch on the page wasn't abstract. It was a face. Maera's face, drawn in painstaking detail. Pretending not to notice, Li Cheng said smoothly, "Seems you forgot what I told you earlier."
Sara blinked, realization dawning. "Oh—I completely forgot. I'm so sorry." She hurried to the wardrobe, pulling out a dress. "Give me just five minutes."
Her five minutes stretched into twenty. When she emerged, dressed properly, Li Cheng was lounging on the sofa, idly toying with his lighter. He looked up at her, then stood. "Let's go."
The drive was quiet at first. Sara stared out the window, lost in thought. Finally, Li Cheng's voice broke the silence. "Sara," he said, his tone curious yet sharp, "if you were ever given the chance to take revenge… what would you do?"
She didn't answer right away. Her gaze remained fixed on the dark blur of the city beyond the glass. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, steady—an oath. "I would kill him. With my own hands."
Li Cheng gave no reply. He didn't need to. Moments later, the car stopped outside the warehouse.
Sara hesitated, confusion flashing across her face. "We're… here?"
"Just watch," Li Cheng said, cutting her short.
Inside, the scene before her froze her where she stood. Her father sat slumped, bound to the chair, his body drenched in blood. His fingers mutilated, his nails ripped away.
Sara's breath caught. She stumbled forward, stopping only when she was beside Li Cheng.
He folded his arms, his eyes fixed on her. "Your revenge," he said evenly, "is before you. Say the word, and everything returns to how it was. Or… you can take control. Right now."
Sara's fists clenched so tight her knuckles whitened. She swallowed hard, her jaw tight, her eyes unblinking as she stared at the broken man who had once been her father. For a long moment, she said nothing. Then, her voice came, flat but unshakable.
"Bring him back to consciousness."
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Sara swallowed hard, stepped forward, and picked up a large knife. She stared at it for a moment before speaking."Take off his pants," she ordered.
Li Cheng froze, utterly stunned. "What?" he asked, thinking he had misheard.
"You heard me right, Li Cheng," Sara said, lifting her gaze to meet his. Her eyes were burning red with bloodlust.
Li Cheng understood. Without a word, he gestured to the guards. Clinton Rogers's face twisted with terror as he looked at his daughter."Sara, my daughter… you… you tell them, please… I haven't done anything!" he pleaded, his voice breaking, trembling with fear.
But Sara didn't hear him. She moved closer, merciless, dropping to her knees before him. Every motion of hers, Li Cheng watched carefully.
"Clinton Rogers," she growled, her voice like venom, "do you know what your punishment is?"
Clinton kept begging, his voice hoarse. "Sara, my daughter, listen to me—please, listen to me…"
But Sara was beyond mercy. With a cold, calculated fury, she drove the knife forward. The warehouse echoed with Clinton's horrific screams—screams so raw that Li Cheng had to turn his face away. The guards quietly slipped out, unwilling to witness the horror.
Blood sprayed, splattering across Sara's face, even reaching her lips. Her hands didn't tremble. With a savage finality, she carved away the last sign of Clinton Rogers's manhood.
And in that moment, he was no longer a man.
Sara rose to her feet. Clinton was still screaming in agony. Without a flicker of hesitation, she wiped the blood-soaked knife on his clothes, then spat on him.
"What should I call you now? You're no longer a father… right? You're nothing but a eunuch."
With that, she turned toward Li Cheng. "Let's go."
She walked out without a backward glance, and Li Cheng signaled his guards to follow before stepping out behind her.
Sara slid into the car, her expression unreadable. When Li Cheng joined her and started the engine, silence stretched until he finally voiced the question that had been gnawing at him.
"Why didn't you kill him?"
Sara's eyes stayed fixed on the windshield, her voice cold as steel."Death would be too easy for him. I want him to die alive—so he belongs neither to the living nor to the dead."
Li Cheng murmured, half to himself, "Interesting…"
Sara fell quiet again, staring at the glass as though it were a mirror to her past. Her entire life replayed in her mind—the torment, the humiliation, the years of abuse at the hands of the very man she had just reduced to nothing. And yet fate had placed her in a position of power, where with her own hands, she had destroyed him.
After a long silence, she spoke. "Mr. Li, I have one more request."
"Yes?" Li Cheng kept his eyes on the road.
"I want my siblings with me in the Citadel."
Li Cheng fell quiet at first, the weight of her words sinking in. Finally, he replied, "Sara, are you sure? No one leaves the Citadel without my permission. Not even you. Its location is top secret. The only time you step outside is when you're with me."
"I understand," she said firmly. "But I can't leave my siblings behind."
After a pause, Li Cheng gave a short nod. "Fine."
He turned the car, changing its course.
_______
When Zero regained consciousness, it was already late. He was still locked inside the hotel bathroom. Slowly, he sat up, his body trembling, his head pounding. His reflection in the mirror was enough to remind him of the night before—the trap, the drugged haze, the humiliation, the desperate battle with himself. Shame burned through him as the memories played on a cruel loop.
He splashed cold water over his face, scrubbed his skin raw, as if he could wash away what had happened. He adjusted his tie, buttoned his shirt with unsteady hands, and finally forced himself out. Without another word, he checked out of the hotel and drove straight home.
He already knew who was behind it. Rage simmered beneath his exhaustion. As soon as he stepped into his penthouse, he called his secretary, his voice low but dangerous."Get me every single recording from last night. I don't care how much it costs. I want the footage—no excuses."
Time slipped by. Two days passed.
It was December 31st—the last day of the year.
At the Citadel, Sara was radiant with joy.
she was reunited with her younger siblings, Hazel and Max. She had brought them to the fortress-like sanctuary, where safety and secrets were guaranteed.
"From now on, you won't have to worry about anything," Sara told them warmly.
Her little brother Max's eyes sparkled as he looked around. "Sister, you live in such an amazing place!"
Sara smiled, her voice soft. "Everything here belongs to you too, my dear."
Hazel and Max grinned, excitement bubbling between them.
"Then why don't we celebrate tonight?" Max suggested eagerly. "It's New Year's Eve—let's have a party!"
Sara laughed, shaking her head. "We can, but remember—no outsiders. No one from outside the Citadel is allowed."
"No problem!" Max declared.
The three of them walked together toward Sara's quarters, their laughter echoing in the cold halls of the fortress. For the first time, Sara's heart felt lighter.
Meanwhile, in another city, Sam stood on the balcony of his apartment, staring into the wintry night. His chest ached with a familiar weight—he missed Zero with every fiber of his being. Zero wasn't just someone he loved; he had become part of Sam's very existence, as essential as his own heartbeat. Losing him felt like trying to live without air.
Sam had his dreams now, his café, his small world built from scratch. Yet, deep inside, he felt hollow, as if some piece of him had been ripped away. The loneliness gnawed at him relentlessly.
His phone buzzed. It was Jacob."Sam! Come on, man—it's New Year's Eve. Let's party!"
Sam let out a small, tired laugh, though a smile tugged at his lips. "Alright, I'll come."
He wound his scarf around his neck, slipped into his shoes, and stepped out into the cold night. The streets were alive with strangers and lights, yet he felt strangely detached, wandering like a lost soul.
At the same time, Zero was still at his office, surrounded by paperwork. His eyes were heavy, his mind dulled from sleepless nights. Finally, he gathered the scattered files, stuffed them into his bag, and reached for his phone.
Three unread messages from Parker awaited him. Curiosity pricked at him as he opened them.
The first was a report.
The second—and third—were pictures.
Zero froze. His breath caught in his throat. He knew that face, the girl standing beside Sam. Elina.The same Elina because of whom, he had picked up alcohol for the first time.,
A storm raged inside him. His hand clenched around the phone so tightly his knuckles went white. He staggered to a halt in the corridor, his chest heaving, eyes stinging with tears.
"Sam…" his voice broke into a whisper. "So it's true. You never belonged to me… not even when I said you were mine."
A tear slipped down his cheek, splashing against his phone screen. He shut the device off, shoving it into his pocket, but the pain refused to be silenced.
Outside, he walked straight to his car, started the engine, and drove recklessly into the night. His destination: Cheer Up Charlie's, a bar on the other side of the city.
Minutes later, Zero pushed through the doors. The atmosphere was loud, warm, filled with laughter. But to him, everything felt suffocating. He dropped onto a stool at the counter.
The bartender slid a cocktail in front of him. Zero downed it in a single swallow, then asked for wine. One glass turned into another, then another.
Each sip fueled the storm inside him. Anger. Betrayal. Hurt.
And then—emptiness.
He was drowning, but he didn't care.
"Hey, handsome."
A young man had approached, smiling with easy confidence.
Zero turned his head slowly, his vision hazy from the alcohol. He managed a faint smile. "Hey."
The stranger leaned closer, playful, bold. Zero let him. He needed distraction. Needed anything to burn away the image of Sam and Elina.
"Wanna have a ride?" Zero murmured, his voice slurred with intoxication.
"Sure," the stranger replied, sliding his hand along Zero's thigh with deliberate intent.
Zero stood, his movements heavy and unsteady. Without hesitation, he grabbed the boy's wrist, pulling him toward the back. The bar had rooms—dimly lit, secretive. Zero pushed the door open and led the boy inside, shutting the world out.
Zero closed the door, pulling the boy in front of him closer. He set aside his jacket, watch, and phone on the table, as if shedding everything that still tied him down. A chain inside his heart tried to hold him back, whispering don't do this — but his pain was too heavy, too suffocating. He wanted to ignore it all, even if only for a moment.
He brushed the boy's hair back, drawing him near. The boy smiled faintly. Slowly, Zero tilted his face closer, and then his lips crashed against the boy's — not a kiss, but a desperate devouring. He kissed him with such intensity it was as if he wanted to consume him alive.
Buttons came undone. First Zero's, then the boy's. He pushed the boy onto the bed, the boy's smile widening.
"You really are the one I want," the boy whispered. "Intense. Dark."
Zero climbed over him, caressing his face, pouring all his torment into the closeness, drowning his pain in fevered passion.
And then — the phone on the side table vibrated. The screen lit up.
A message glowed against the dark room:
"Happy New Year...… Zero."
But Zero had already found his cure for the pain."
TO BE CONTINEUD....