Shu Yao refused to leave the bed. The duvet was tangled around his fragile frame, yet he held it tighter, as though it could shield him from the relentless torment of his own mind. His nightmares had once been a cruel inconvenience, but now they were becoming something far more vicious. They had begun to twist Bai Qi into a figure he did not recognize—merciless, sharp-eyed, cruel.
But Bai Qi was not cruel. Not in reality. In truth, Bai Qi had always been kind to him, kind to Qing Yue, kind in ways Shu Yao never deserved. That contradiction ripped at his chest like glass splinters. He pressed his head between his knees, clutching himself, trying to muffle the tears glistening at the corners of his eyes.
Was this punishment? Did Bai Qi somehow know—did his subconscious betray him in these dreams? Had his heart's secret love conjured a darker, crueler version of the man, to remind him of what would happen if the truth ever surfaced? The thought was unbearable.
Shu Yao stayed like that for nearly ten minutes. Ten minutes of quiet sobs, ten minutes of fragile breaths breaking in his throat, ten minutes of replaying the cruel night that haunted him more than all others. A night Bai Qi might remember as a passing memory, but for Shu Yao, it was the night the world split apart. A doomsday. A moment he had carried in silence, pressed deep beneath his ribs.
And Bai Qi must never know.
Bai Qi must never know, because if he did, he will see me as "stained" or "unworthy, the desperate way he ached whenever Bai Qi was near—then perhaps he would transform, just as he did in those nightmares. Perhaps he would sneer, call him pathetic, crush his fragile world without hesitation. That was a risk Shu Yao could never take. He had chosen silence long ago, and he would remain silent until his final breath.
He wiped the last of the tears from his face, though the traces of salt still clung to his pale skin. His hands trembled, but he forced them still, gripping the sheets until his knuckles whitened. He told himself—again and again—that this was how it had to be. Shu Yao should never tell Bai Qi. Shu Yao never had, and he never would.
If Bai Qi knew, if his heart's truth was exposed, everything would shatter.
Finally, he lifted his head from the haven of his knees. He could feel the throb behind his temples, dull and insistent, like a clock ticking in his skull. He had no strength for work today. He didn't even have the strength to pretend. He was too tired. Too worn down. And sleep—traitorous, mocking sleep—was no refuge anymore. Sleep had become the cruelest betrayer, the stage where his torment was replayed in merciless loops.
So he stayed like that, cocooned in his room, with the weight of silence pressing down on his chest. His breath hitched; he sniffed, trying to erase the evidence of his fragility. But his hair betrayed him—his autumn-colored strands shimmered in the morning light filtering through the curtains, catching every glint, making his exhaustion impossible to hide. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed in red. His gaze wandered without focus, blurred by the remnants of sorrow and the pounding in his head.
The thoughts circled endlessly, cruel as knives, refusing to let him go.
Shu Yao folded deeper into himself, fragile and restless, as the world outside moved forward without him.
The house was quiet, save for the faint hum of morning settling into its bones. his body curled inwards as if the position alone could shield him from the weight pressing down on his chest. His eyes burned; his lashes were still damp, the salt drying on his skin. He had no strength to rise, no courage to face anyone—not like this, not when his heart still carried the jagged edges of the nightmares cruelty.
Then, the sound came.
Soft at first—footsteps, measured, deliberate, climbing the stairs outside his room. Each creak of the wooden steps crawled into his veins, and his body stiffened. Panic surged, sharp and unrelenting. He wasn't ready. He couldn't be seen like this: face swollen, eyes bloodshot, a shadow of the gege Qing Yue didn't know. He looked… pathetic. Unfit to be looked at.
The footsteps stopped outside his door. Silence stretched, then—
Knock. Knock.
"Gege?" The voice was gentle, familiar, laced with worry. It slipped through the crack of the door and pierced him deeper than the nightmare had. Qing Yue.
Shu Yao's heart lurched. He dragged the back of his hand across his cheeks, as though smudged tears could be erased in an instant. His throat was raw, his voice ruined by sobs he'd fought to swallow. He forced himself to clear it, to mold something that sounded passably normal.
From the other side of the door, Qing Yue continued, her tone light but firm:
"Gege, have you woken up already? It's almost nine. I have something to talk to you."
Nine. Shu Yao's pulse spiked with shock. Nine? His mind reeled—the clock mocked him. He had never slept this long, not once. He always rose before dawn, sharp as ritual, his life measured in discipline.
To find himself still tangled in bed at such an hour felt like a collapse, a betrayal of his own nature. Panic surged through his veins—what about his work? the files waiting on his desk, the routine that kept him alive in the silence of his days? He was late—disgracefully late—and the thought of it clawed at his chest until his breath came short, until the shame and dread tangled with the grief that had already undone him.
His lips parted, and what came out was a hoarse whisper, fragile as a thread.
"I—I was just about to get shower."
Silence. Then he could almost see her frown through the wood. Qing Yue knew him too well. She knew how his habits never wavered, how his timing was always sharp as a clock. She would know something was wrong.
Still, she played along. "No problem, Gege. You take your shower and come down for breakfast. I have a good news to tell you."
Her footsteps shifted, a faint turn on her heel. Shu Yao exhaled, the air escaping in a shaky relief. But then she paused, the hush hanging thick before her voice came again, softer this time, carrying a thread of insistence:
"Gege… take your shower, and come down directly, alright?"
It wasn't just a request—it was her way of saying she wouldn't let this go.
Shu Yao pressed his forehead against his knees, whispering to himself, Just hold it together. He rose with sudden urgency, forcing his body into motion before she returned. His voice cracked, but he managed a reply through the door.
"Yes… just like you said."
Qing Yue's footsteps retreated down the stairs, leaving silence behind.
Shu Yao wasted no time. He staggered toward the bathroom, his body heavy, his head pounding as though his thoughts had circled endlessly until they bruised him. Inside, he stripped away his pajamas with frantic hands, peeling the fabric from his clammy skin. His reflection in the mirror glared back—pale, fragile, eyes rimmed in red. He did not linger. He could not.
The shower hissed to life, cold water crashing down in an unrelenting stream. He stepped beneath it, the shock of it biting into his spine like glass. His breath hitched, his muscles flinched—but he did not move away. He endured it, just as he endured everything else.
The water coursed over him, tracing the shape of his bones, carrying the remnants of his tears down the drain. He pressed his palms flat against the tiled wall, his head bowed as the cold sank into him. It numbed the sting in his skin but did nothing for the ache lodged deeper, where no touch could reach.
Endure. Endure. That was all he knew how to do.
And so he stood beneath the torrent, still as stone, washing away nothing and everything all at once.
Shu Yao emerged from the bathroom, droplets still clinging to his skin, a white towel wrapped snugly around his slender frame. His hair, damp and slightly disheveled, left faint streaks of water across his shoulders as he moved toward the wardrobe. He tugged the doors open, his hand lingering over the neatly pressed suits within, each one a uniform of routine—evidence of the clockwork life he clung to.
But before he could decide which armor to slip into, a sharp vibration cracked the silence. His phone, tossed carelessly on the nightstand, rattled against the wood, the sound unnerving in its suddenness. Shu Yao's heart jolted with it.
He reached for the device with hesitant fingers, his breath shallow. The screen glowed with a name that made his spine lock stiff Mr Niklas. His superior. The one man whose voice could both anchor him and unravel him in a single syllable.
Shu Yao swallowed hard, the motion audible in the still air, and pressed the phone to his ear. "I—I am very sorry, sir," he began, his tone laced with panic, words tumbling over
one another. "I overslept, but if I leave now, I can still arrive by nine-forty—"
Niklas's reply cut through him like a blade, strict yet strangely calm, carrying a sigh that seemed too untamed, too weary to be rehearsed. "I am excusing you from work today, Shu Yao."
The words landed heavy, almost foreign, leaving Shu Yao momentarily mute. His lips parted but no sound followed. A day off? His mind scrambled. That wasn't how this worked. He was supposed to apologize, to fix, to compensate—not to be dismissed with a casual wave of permission.
"but, sir—" Shu Yao stammered, his chest tightening, "I know I was late, but I can still—"
"No," Niklas replied, voice controlled but not unkind. "There is no need. Come in tomorrow."
The line clicked dead before Shu Yao could form another plea.
He stood frozen, the towel still wrapped around him, phone clutched in hand like a foreign object. The room felt suddenly too wide, too quiet. He sat down slowly on the edge of the bed, the damp fabric pressing cool against his skin, and stared at the blank screen.
Did I do something wrong? The question looped through his head like a mantra, unanswered and unanswerable. His body was exhausted, his thoughts frayed, yet his mind refused to grant him rest. Each possibility twisted itself into another—perhaps he had disappointed Niklas more than he realized, perhaps he was being tested, perhaps tomorrow would bring punishment rather than reprieve.
But he was too tired to chase those thoughts to their end. Too tired to be both the machine and the man it inhabited.
Mechanically, he rose again, letting the towel drop, replacing it with the soft neutrality of plain clothes—no suit, no tie, just something light, something ordinary. His reflection in the mirror startled him. Without the armor of his work attire, he looked younger, almost fragile, like a man unmoored.
At the door, Shu Yao hesitated. His hand rested on the cool metal of the lock, his breath caught in his throat. He exhaled slowly, trying to ground himself, to prepare for whatever lay beyond. The outside felt larger than it had any right to be, a place he wasn't sure he had the strength to face.
Still, he turned the lock.
The door gave way with a reluctant click, the thin line of daylight spilling across his feet like an invitation—or a warning. He stepped forward, one heartbeat at a time, caught between exhaustion and curiosity, shame and a fragile thread of freedom.
Shu Yao turned the brass knob with a trembling hand, easing the door shut behind him as though the wood itself might betray his unrest. The staircase waited before him, narrow and polished to a faint gleam. He gripped the railing, descending step by deliberate step. His limbs felt heavier than his body, and the thought struck him—if he hurried, if his balance faltered, the stairs would swallow him whole. So he moved slowly, as though each step were borrowed.
By the time he reached the final stair, a voice broke the hush of the house.
"Gege, come on! You promised you'd eat breakfast," Qing Yue called, emerging from the kitchen with the warmth of the morning clinging to her.
Shu Yao barely had time to spoke before she was at his side, her hand sliding into his with sisterly insistence. He let himself be led, half-aware, half-adrift, until the familiar dining room opened before him. The scent of tea and fresh bread should have anchored him—but it was the sight at the table that seized him instead.
Bai Qi.
He was seated casually, one elbow propped on the chair's arm, the other hand resting near a porcelain cup. When Shu Yao's eyes fell on him, his chest jolted as though struck. Every fiber of his body screamed to recoil, for the nightmare he had endured still clung to him like smoke. His breath hitched; the floor tilted.
Bai Qi only smiled.
"Should I say good morning," he teased lightly, "or is a simple hello more fitting?"
The sound of his voice—gentle, amused—stabbed through Shu Yao's silence. He didn't care about the words. All he cared about was that Bai Qi was here, in the flesh, while the phantom from his dreams rose to overlap him, merciless and cruel. The two faces blurred, warred in his vision, until Shu Yao felt as though time itself had stalled.
"Gege? What are you waiting for?" Qing Yue's tone carried a puzzled fondness. She tugged his arm, urging him forward, and before he could resist, he was seated across from Bai Qi.
Shu Yao drew in long, uneven breaths, each one an attempt at composure. Pretend. He must pretend. His eyes flickered upward—just a glance. Bai Qi's smile lingered, bright and without shadow, nothing like the figure who haunted his sleep.
And yet, for Shu Yao, the difference felt razor-thin.