Bai Qi stood before the mirror like a man facing judgment.
The morning light leaked through the half-drawn curtains, brushing against the fine lines of his obsidian suit. His fingers worked stiffly at the silk tie, pulling, adjusting, tightening until the knot sat at the hollow of his throat like a quiet threat.
He was beautiful, objectively — dangerously, brutally beautiful — the kind of elegance sculpted from discipline and rage. His hair, that jet-black wolfcut, had been pushed back neatly, revealing his sharp jawline, the high cheekbones, the quiet ferocity of his eyes.
Those eyes.
Rimmed red.
Not from exhaustion.
Not from a wound.
But from something he refused to name.
"Pathetic," he muttered at his reflection.
His bandaged hand twitched. The white cloth was wrapped carelessly, unevenly — clearly the work of a servant. Not the careful, gentle wrapping Shu Yao always used to give, back when Bai Qi hadn't yet drowned the boy in hatred.
The thought burned like acid.
Shu Yao.
The name itself slashed through his chest like a blade dipped in poison.
His jaw tightened. He looked away from the mirror, almost violently, as if ashamed of having let the boy cross his mind at all. With rigid control, he adjusted the cuffs of his suit jacket, slipped on his polished watch, and grabbed his coat from the valet stand.
He didn't bother to look back at himself. He didn't want to see the man he had become.
The gates outside shifted open with a muted groan.
Armin's silver sedan waited at the front, engine humming, the driver's door open like an invitation Bai Qi had no choice but to accept. Armin leaned against the car, golden hair catching the morning sun like molten metal. His blue eyes — sharp, penetrating, uncomfortably perceptive — narrowed the moment he saw the bandage.
Armin saw too much. Always had.
As Bai Qi stepped outside, the cold morning air wrapped around him like invisible armor. He moved with the kind of elegance that comes from anger — each stride controlled, each breath measured.
Armin straightened, arms crossing loosely.
"Well," he said, voice deceptively casual, "you look like you're about to murder a boardroom."
Bai Qi opened the passenger door without acknowledging the comment.
Armin clicked his tongue. "Right. We're doing the silent treatment today."
They both slipped inside. The door shut with a smooth thud. For a moment, there was nothing but the soft hum of the engine and the ticking of the dashboard clock.
Then Armin spoke again. Quietly.
"Can you explain what you've done to your hand?"
Bai Qi's eyes closed, lashes lowering like shutters. His jaw flexed, sharp enough to cut glass.
"It's none of your business."
Armin's brows lifted — not in anger, not in offense, but in subtle, familiar disappointment.
"You say that," he murmured, "as if I'm not your brother."
Bai Qi didn't respond.
Outside the window, the mansion's ornate gates drifted farther away. The world beyond opened like a battlefield waiting for him.
Armin watched him carefully, noting the stiff shoulders, the clenched hand resting against his knee, the way Bai Qi's breathing went shallow anytime emotion brushed too close.
He waited.
He always waited.
But Bai Qi remained silent — a man stitched together by pride, pain, and secrets he refused to share. The kind of silence that wasn't empty at all… but overflowing.
Armin finally sighed.
"When our parents left," he said quietly, "I wouldn't thought you'll became someone like this. Maybe grow closer to someone. But instead…"
Instead, you became someone I hardly recognize.
He didn't say it aloud.
He didn't need to.
Bai Qi's eyes remained closed, but the line of his jaw betrayed something brittle.
Something breaking.
Armin glanced once more at the bandage.
At the hand that should have been healed by gentler fingers.
Meanwhile, Shen Haoxuan stepped out of the car like a man arriving to collect a debt from the universe.
The door swung open, held respectfully by his assistant. Morning light struck the obsidian-black wolfcut resting against his jaw, turning each strand into gleaming charcoal. His beige tailored suit fit him with surgical precision, outlining a frame made of privilege and danger.
His grey eyes, sharp and cold, skimmed the towering building before him.
Rothenberg Industry.
His lips curved—slow, venomous, amused.
His father's first enemy.
His very first rival.
"Well," Shen murmured, adjusting his cufflinks, "let's see how much noise they make today."
His assistant fell into step beside him, matching his pace exactly as they strode toward the gleaming entrance.
Across the city, tension had sunk claws into a smaller, quieter kitchen.
Shu Yao sat hunched on the chair, a glass of water trembling in his hands. His eyes were swollen red, lashes still wet. Even now, little hiccups broke through his breath, his chest shuddering with every uneven inhale.
George crouched in front of him, hand firm on Shu Yao's shoulder.
"Shu Yao… you should rest," he said gently. "I'll go and discuss the matter myself."
Shu Yao lifted his head—slowly, like it weighed too much to move.
"I… I can't do that, Mr. George." His voice cracked. "I should be present. I'm Bai Qi's personal assistant. I need to be there."
George frowned. "But you don't look fine. You're shaking."
Shu Yao wiped at his face with the sleeve of his suit, embarrassed by his own vulnerability.
"I'll come with you," he whispered. "I have to."
George exhaled, long and heavy.
"You're too stubborn for your own sake," he muttered, picking up the scattered pages and sliding them neatly into the file. "But… if you insist."
Shu Yao nodded, though his hands still trembled around the empty glass.
George stood, straightened his tie, and offered a hand to help him up.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Let's face this together."
Shu Yao rose—unsteady, eyes still wet.
Shu Yao nodded, the gesture almost imperceptible. He kept his gaze lowered, a small, fragile shield against the weight of George's penetrating concern. He sensed the unspoken pity, the fierce, protective anger coiled in the older man's posture, and hated that he was the source of it.
He adjusted the lapel of his suit jacket—a mechanical, habitual gesture of an assistant preparing for duty. The fabric felt like a borrowed skin.
"Give me ten minutes," he managed, his voice a ghost of its usual soft tone—hoarse, scraped raw from spilling tears and the agony of the past hour. "I'll be ready."
George, ever observant, saw the effort it took just to form the sentence. He knew the boy was dissolving inside, yet he offered no argument, only a concession. "It's still early, Shu Yao. Take your time."
Shu Yao moved toward the back of the house with a chilling, automatic grace. His feet followed the same worn path to the small, washroom.
Inside, the light was muted, kind.
He leaned over the porcelain sink. The first thing to go was the bandage. He peeled it off, the sudden exposure of the wound a small, sharp pain. The skin wasn't healing yet, the skin shallow and angry. He cast the bloodied cloth aside, a relic of a carelessness he refused to name.
Cold water—shockingly cold—splashed onto his face, clearing the haze of exhaustion and grief. He forced himself to hold his gaze in the mirror, searching for the boy who was supposed to be impeccably professional.
He found only exhaustion. He smoothed his autumn hair, plastering it down, neat and obedient. The transformation was purely superficial.
He emerged from the bathroom, his steps soft on the polished wood floor, and moved toward a quiet, dusty cabinet high on the wall—the old linen closet. The First Aid kit, tucked beside his mother's sewing box, was the final piece of his armor.
George, meanwhile, had begun silently searching the kitchen, picking up the last remnants of the disastrous file that had scattered like treason across the floor. He heard the cabinet creak and stiffened.
He moved, swift and silent, into the hall, finding Shu Yao near the old closet, fumbling with a fresh roll of gauze, his pale fingers trembling so violently he couldn't grasp the end.
The image—the small, slender frame trying to mend a wound he likely inflicted himself—caused George's heart to lurch with a visceral, painful ache.
"Why didn't you call me?" George's voice was low, laced with restrained fury and immediate tenderness.
Shu Yao startled, the gauze slipping from his grasp. He quickly lowered his eyes, shame flooding his features. "I already caused too much problem for everyone."
George closed the distance between them in two purposeful strides. He didn't argue with words. He simply took Shu Yao's hand, his own grip firm and steady. The touch was a quiet command, demanding surrender.
As George began the meticulous work of re-bandaging the hand, Shu Yao's gaze was fixed on the floor, his mind consumed by a terrifying certainty: the file.
He was afraid. Not of the forged contract itself, but of the unveiling—of Bai Qi's absolute, final destruction when he realized Shu Yao was connected to the ruin.
"You didn't cause anything, Shu Yao," George said, his voice a deep, reassuring balm against the panic. He secured the gauze with expert, gentle care. "Just stay calm. I'll do everything I can."
Shu Yao looked up, his eyes glassy, his thoughts a chaotic swirl centered entirely on Bai Qi's transformation. The gulf between the boy he adored and the man who despised him felt wider than the world.
George finished the knot. "It's done, Shu Yao."
Shu Yao blinked, absorbing the finality of the statement. He tightened his grip on the edges of his own suit.
"Mr. George," he began, his voice barely a breath. "If Bai Qi didn't understand me… promise me. You won't force him on anything. You won't get in a fight with him."
George's eyes widened, the shock palpable. He stopped breathing for a moment, staring at the boy's misplaced devotion.
"Shu Yao, Bai qi isn't the same anymore. You don't need to defend him."
Shu Yao shook his head vehemently, the denial absolute. "No. It was my fault. He is right in every way."
George recoiled, the statement an agonizing blow. "Stop saying that, Shu Yao!"
Shu Yao's eyes swam again, tears gathering instantly, the perpetual wellspring of his sorrow. "I deserved it, Mr. George."
George's heart lurched. He reached out, resting his hand firmly on Shu Yao's shoulder, offering a small, desperate solace. "Okay, okay. I promise. I won't."
A smile broke across Shu Yao's face—a slight, fragile lifting of the lips that was infinitely more tragic than any tears. It was a mask of martyrdom, the acceptance of his own ruin, and it shattered George's composure.
George swallowed hard, the effort visible in his throat. He wanted to shield Shu Yao from every cruelty, yet every protective instinct he acted upon seemed only to drive the boy into deeper trouble, trouble Shu Yao then bore with an unnerving, self-destructive meekness.
"Come on, Shu Yao," George said, his voice now entirely composed, a rigid barrier against his internal devastation. "Let's go."
He turned first, walking toward the door. He was composed, armored for the corporate battlefield ahead, but inside, he was dying for the boy who would endure endless suffering for the sake of a man who hated him.
Shen Haoxuan walked through the hushed, cavernous lobby of Rothenberg Industry, a figure of lethal grace and privilege. The polished marble reflected his obsidian-black wolfcut and the surgical precision of his beige tailored suit.
Staff members straightened immediately, offering low, respectful bows—an acknowledgment of his power, if not his welcome. He moved with the assured slowness of a predator that knows its prey is cornered.
He reached the private executive elevators. The polished steel door slid open with a soft, anticipatory chime.
His assistant, slipped in first, head bowed, his posture a study in deference and anxiety. Shen followed, his presence instantly shrinking the already confined space.
The elevator car began its silent, rapid ascent toward the boardroom floor.
Shen's lips curved—a slow, venomous smirk that held a frightening amusement. He was contemplating the scene waiting for him: the shattered composure of Bai Qi, the terrified board, and the final, broken image of Shu Yao.
He reached up, smoothing a stray strand of his wolfcut. His physical similarity to Bai Qi—the dangerous elegance, the piercing eyes—was uncanny, an artistic twin forged in cold steel.
while Bai Qi's eyes were the void of obsidian black, Shen's were a shocking, cold ash-grey, glittering with sharp, merciless intelligence. At 190 cm, he stood just a shade beneath his rival, but his shadow felt immense.
"How will you defend yourself this time?" Shen murmured, his voice barely audible above the hum of the mechanism, speaking to the ghost of Shu Yao. The question was a low, calculated taunt. "Even your friend has abandoned you."
He didn't mean George or Armin. He meant the person Shu Yao needed most: the one he would never betray, the one who had already condemned him.
The elevator slowed, gliding to a stop. The door began to open, revealing the polished silence of the executive floor.
Shen stepped out, his grey eyes gleaming. The battlefield was waiting.