The night had ripened to its quietest hour—when even the stars held their breath and the breeze dared only whisper.
Shu Yao stepped away from the last light of the courtyard.
No one called his name.
No one stopped him.
And so, like dusk slipping into night, he left.
He walked past the grand glass gates, which parted without sound—two regal arms folding open for a boy who had nowhere left to stay. Outside, the air was colder, and the silence sharper. It wrapped around his frame like a coat he hadn't asked for.
He turned once.
Just once.
To look back.
Through the wide archway of light, he saw them still seated—Bai Qi and Qing Yue. Their faces turned toward each other, aglow with laughter. Warm. Whole. Complete.
Shu Yao let his gaze linger.
Then lowered it.
And walked on.
He moved like the wind—quiet, steady, unseen. Just another shadow among many, drawn out long beneath the streetlamps.
Like the sun before it dips behind the mountains…
Like the final note of a forgotten song…
He was gone.
No car waited for him. No driver leaned against the curb. The road stretched ahead, silvered by moonlight, scattered with faint traffic. Cabs passed now and then, their interiors lit like tiny stages where strangers played out their small lives. But Shu Yao didn't lift his hand.
Perhaps he didn't want a ride.
Perhaps he didn't want to be seen.
He walked.
The heels of his shoes clicked faintly against the pavement, echoing like the ticking of some lonely clock. His long brown hair, tied loosely with a ribbon, fluttered with each passing breeze. A few strands had slipped free, clinging to the curve of his cheek—soft against the melancholy slope of his jaw.
His eyes—those quiet brown eyes, so deep they could drown secrets—remained fixed ahead. But they held weight. Too much. The weight of love never returned, of words never spoken. Of dreams too tender to survive morning.
The city wasn't dead. But it wasn't kind, either.
Lights blinked from towering buildings above. Cars purred past in waves, casting momentary shadows across his face. Somewhere nearby, laughter burst from an open bar window. Somewhere far, a siren sang.
Shu Yao flinched.
Just slightly.
His steps slowed, as if his body remembered what his mind didn't want to admit—he was still afraid. Of the city at night. Of strangers with too many questions. Of roads that whispered danger beneath their polished surface.
But he didn't complain.
He never did.
He simply pulled his coat tighter, lowered his gaze, and kept walking.
His home was far. But not unreachable. The journey would be long, and lonely. Still, he chose it. Because some hearts are too proud to call for rescue—especially when the person they need saving from is someone they love.
"I hope I don't see anyone," he whispered to the night. It wasn't a plea. Just a soft confession, breathed to the moon like a prayer no one was supposed to hear.
He walked on.
And the city blinked around him.
Silent.
Watching.
Unforgiving.
But Shu Yao moved through it like mist through wire—graceful, fragile, but never breaking.
Each step echoed.
Each breath steadied.
And as he vanished into the ink of night, one couldn't help but wonder—
Who would ever chase after a boy who only knew how to leave in silence?
The city stretched behind Shu Yao like a cold, endless corridor. He was still only halfway home—feet aching, breath beginning to catch. The streets had grown narrower, lined with iron fences and alley mouths that yawned like blackened teeth.
And then—
The sound.
Distant at first.
A hum. A purr.
Then a roar.
Engines.
Three motorcycles burst into view from the far bend, their headlights slicing through the night like blades. Their arrival was sudden, deliberate—loud in a world that had forgotten how to echo.
Shu Yao flinched.
His shoulders stiffened, but his feet kept moving. It's nothing, he told himself. Just noise. Just passing noise.
But they didn't pass.
They slowed.
Then circled.
One by one, the motorcycles formed a ring around him—glinting like black wolves under moonlight. Their engines snarled low, rumbling like a threat not yet spoken. The air thickened. Shu Yao stopped walking, heart thudding like a war drum in his chest.
He stood in the center—fragile, cornered, lit only by the moon and three sharp beams of headlight that painted long, cruel shadows across his face.
Then—
One of the motorcycles revved and coasted to a stop directly in front of him.
The rider dismounted.
He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Covered in sleek black from boots to helmet, gloves gleaming faintly beneath the silver sky. He moved like someone born to be feared—not fast, not loud, but with the eerie calm of someone who'd done this before.
The helmet came off with a slow pull, revealing a handsome face—young, maybe early twenties. His eyes were pale grey, like ash cooled over fire. His hair, dark and slightly tousled, reminded Shu Yao of someone… Bai Qi.
But this boy was shorter. Harder. His gaze lacked softness.
He placed a cigarette between his lips without breaking eye contact.
Then, he lifted a gloved finger toward it.
Another rider—a lanky boy in a red scarf—stepped forward, flicked open a lighter, and lit it for him.
The flame sparked.
The cigarette hissed.
The smoke curled.
The grey-eyed boy took a long drag. Held it.
Then he stepped closer to Shu Yao.
Too close.
The smoke exhaled—not into the air, but directly into Shu Yao's face.
Shu Yao staggered slightly, the bitter burn stinging his eyes. He didn't speak, but his breath caught in his throat. His fingers twitched at his side like trembling leaves.
The man's voice was calm—low and deliberate.
"Whatever you've got," he said, words like ice sliding into a wound. "Give it to me."
Shu Yao blinked. His legs wouldn't move. His voice barely surfaced. But he stepped back, one trembling foot at a time.
"I… I don't… have anything," he said, the words barely holding shape.
The grey-eyed man gave a small, amused smile—crooked, slow. "Really?"
He tilted his head, studying Shu Yao with unsettling ease. "From your face? Your hair? That little ribbon?" His eyes dropped lower, scanning the fine-cut coat and delicate
He began.
"Doesn't look like nothing to me."
Then he nodded—to someone behind.
The boy on the far left dismounted silently, boots crunching gravel, and began to circle behind Shu Yao.
Shu Yao's breath hitched. His chest rose in panic. He turned slightly, eyes wide, steps moving in reverse—but he was trapped in a triangle now. Nowhere to run.
"Easy now," said the grey-eyed leader. "I'm asking nicely."
He flicked ash from the cigarette. The ember flared.
"If you just hand over whatever's valuable," he murmured, "this night ends without a bruise."
But Shu Yao had nothing to give.
Nothing but his trembling hands, the aching weight of heartbreak, and the slight shimmer of tears at the corners of his eyes that refused to fall.
The wind pressed through the street like a hush over graves.
He wanted to run. Every nerve screamed for it.
But he'd seen it.
The glint of metal beneath the boy's coat.
A gun.
Resting against his hip like a second breath.
Even the moonlight seemed to recoil from it.
"I… I told you," Shu Yao stammered. "I don't have anything."
The other rider laughed softly—cruelly.
"What do you mean?" he said, circling closer. "I can smell you from here." His eyes gleamed, animal-like. "You reek of top-shelf liquor and perfume. You've been somewhere expensive. And now you say you've got nothing?"
He leaned in, whispering near Shu Yao's ear.
"You're either lying… or stupid."
Shu Yao clenched his fists. His knees trembled.
But he didn't fall.
Not yet.
He was terrified.
But he was still standing.
Still made of glass, yes—but glass that hadn't shattered.
Not yet.
The night held its breath again.
And the road stretched on—
silent,
waiting.
The street was hushed beneath the hum of engines, and Shu Yao stood still—surrounded.
The tall boy with grey eyes and black hair exhaled smoke through parted lips, letting it curl between them like the breath of something ancient and cruel.
"It's fine," he said softly, stepping forward. "I won't do anything—so long as you hand over whatever's precious."
But Shu Yao had nothing. Nothing but the coat wrapped around him, the cold air tightening his skin, and the weight of memories that would never turn into gold.
The grey-eyed boy kept approaching.
Step by step.
Until Shu Yao could feel the breath between them.
He flinched.
His back met the circle of riders behind him. There was no more space to retreat. Nowhere to hide.
Then—
A hand grabbed his wrist.
Hard.
Unyielding.
Shu Yao's eyes went wide—so wide they seemed to drink in the whole night. His heart pounded, thunder trapped beneath porcelain skin. The faint flush from earlier drinks had vanished. There was only fear now. Raw. Real.
"L-Let go…" he stuttered, voice barely formed.
But the boy leaned closer, the smoke between his teeth curling along Shu Yao's jaw.
"How about impressing us?" he said—mocking, like a knife dipped in silk.
The words struck Shu Yao in two places at once—humiliation and fury.
Without thinking, without calculating, he raised his trembling free hand…
And slapped him.
A sharp sound cracked the air.
The night recoiled.
For a moment, silence froze the world.
The other boys tensed. One took a step forward, anger flaring in his eyes.
But the leader—the one with grey eyes—raised a single finger.
Don't.
He didn't yell. He didn't curse.
Instead, he smiled.
Slowly.
But it wasn't a kind smile. It was the kind that came before a fire—before everything in the room turned to ash.
His grip on Shu Yao's wrist tightened, bone grinding against muscle.
Shu Yao winced, trying to pull away—but it was no use.
"Fierce, huh?" the boy said, voice colder now. "Let's see how long that lasts."
He reached to his hip.
And in one smooth motion, pulled a small pistol from beneath his coat—gleaming black and terrible under the moonlight.
With calculated ease, he pressed the barrel beneath Shu Yao's chin.
Lifted it.
Shu Yao froze.
The steel was cold. Heavy. Final.
His breath hitched. His eyes—once filled with tears—now shimmered with something deeper. Desperation.
Why me?
Why always me?
Why couldn't he have a quiet night, a peaceful walk, a single moment where he wasn't the target of the world's cruelty?
His silence was the only answer.
The grey-eyed boy tilted his head. "No pockets? No wallet? No phone?" he muttered, voice laced with suspicion and something else—an unsettling curiosity. "Maybe you're just one of those expensive things that walk around pretending not to be."
He snapped his fingers.
Two boys moved forward, quick as shadows, grabbing Shu Yao's arms from either side.
"No—don't touch me—!" Shu Yao twisted, struggled, but the hands on him tightened. The pressure on his shoulders made him bend slightly, as if the weight of the moment was too much to carry.
His breath turned frantic. His coat slipped from one side.
Though his whole body trembled, though his knees threatened to give, he raised his chin as much as he could, even with the gun still nudging against it.
Shu Yao struggled, his voice cracking. "If you don't let go—I'll scream."
That only earned him a laugh.
"A scream?" the leader said, cocking his head like a crow studying a corpse. "Are you a woman then? So fragile, so loud…"
He stepped forward.
Smiling.
And it wasn't a smile made of joy—it was hunger painted in politeness.
He raised a hand—gloved, slim, practiced—and pressed two fingers to Shu Yao's side. Then slowly, mockingly, he traced up the line of his ribs.
Shu Yao flinched.
Hard.
He turned his face away, breath hitching, cheeks ablaze with fury and shame.
The boy's fingers reached his throat, brushing against the collar of his pristine white shirt—platinum-toned, still perfect under the long coat.
And then—
Rip.
The button came undone, torn away by force.
Shu Yao gasped. Not from pain. From the sound.
It echoed in his mind like glass breaking inside a cathedral.
The boys behind him laughed—short, sharp, cruel. But he didn't hear them. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath shallow and ragged.
His mind was spinning upward and downward at once—like he had been thrown into a bell tower and left to fall, again and again.
Make it stop.
His heart cried.
His mind cried.
His soul cried.
But no voice came out.
His body was frozen. His eyes, glistening with the weight of unspoken rage, humiliation, and sorrow, stared past the boy, past the night, past everything.
And in that moment—
Shu Yao was no longer the fragile one.
He was porcelain, yes.
But porcelain that had been fired, cracked, glued, and fired again.
The beauty of him now was not just in the sadness.
It was in the fact he was still standing.
Still breathing.
Still here.