Lin Zian's collar was clamped tightly in Jie's grip, the pressure biting into the hollow of his collarbone through the fabric. The force made his breathing sink, his chest rising and falling in small, steady movements.
Suddenly, the corner of his lips lifted, a smile blooming with both provocation and malice. He leaned forward slowly—an intentional move, carrying the kind of daring heat that looked as if he might press his lips to Jie's at any second.
Jie's pupils contracted sharply. Instinct took over—he turned his face away, a flick of his wrist shoving Lin Zian hard to the ground.
"What the hell are you doing?" His voice trembled faintly from both shock and anger. He lifted his hand and wiped at the corner of his mouth, his brows drawn tight in guarded vigilance.
Lin Zian sat on the floor, blood smudging the corner of his lips, yet his smile was light, almost lazy, as if he were enjoying an amusing performance. He casually wiped the blood away with his fingers, but for a moment, his gaze drifted, unfocused—
—
It was during his middle school years.
Back then, he was thin as a reed, with narrow shoulders and prominent collarbones, his pale skin giving the impression he could be snapped in two by a strong gust of wind. He wasn't tall, always ending up at the back of the line, so quiet he might as well have been invisible.
One day, he received a neatly folded slip of paper—thin, yet it felt like someone had tapped directly against his heart.
"Meet me on the rooftop."
The one who passed the note was a boy he secretly liked. In that moment, a small but undeniable ripple stirred in his chest.
But when he pushed open the rooftop door, the faces waiting for him weren't the familiar smile he'd imagined—they were three strangers from another class, their expressions dripping with malice.
"So it's true, huh? You actually came."
"So you really do like boys?"
The mocking words, carried on the winter wind, stabbed into his ears like icy knives. Before he could react, fists and kicks rained down on him like a sudden storm.
All he could do was wrap his thin arms over his head and face, curling his body in on itself, taking every blow in silence. He had neither the strength to fight back nor the courage to resist.
—
From that day onward, Lin Zian swore to change.
He began running—first one kilometer, then five, then ten. He started working out, building his body from frail limbs to tight, powerful muscle. He learned to forge strength through sweat, and to seal away the fragility in his chest with silence.
By the time he entered high school, his body had transformed completely—broad, solid shoulders; arms carved with smooth lines of muscle; a waist and abdomen honed with clean strength. Yet his features still carried the refinement and coolness of his boyhood—sharp, sculpted brows, thin lips naturally shaped with a cutting curve. A physique like an athlete's, paired with a face like a K-pop idol's, made him the first person anyone noticed in a crowd. Admirers came one after another; gender had long since blurred for him, and relationships were nothing more than brief stopovers.
—
Jie's punch had yanked him out of those memories like a hook tearing through deep water.
By the time he snapped back, his collar was once again locked in Jie's grip.
He didn't fight back. Instead, his gaze dipped, then rose again with a mischievous curve to his lips—leaning forward in that same provocative way, feigning another attempt at a kiss.
Because he'd long since understood—violence was never the only way to deal with a problem. And sometimes, the surest way to break someone's control… was to throw off their rhythm entirely.
Jie reacted even faster this time, shoving him away with brutal force. Lin Zian's body hit the ground hard, the impact reverberating through his frame.
He raised a hand to wipe the blood from his lips, and the amusement in his eyes sharpened into something like a blade, flashing cold as he locked eyes with Jie—
"What gives you the right… to say I'd hurt Di?"
His voice was low, pulled from deep within his chest, steeped in both anger and provocation. Every word carried an edge, slicing straight into the taut air between them.
The atmosphere froze solid, their gazes clashing without a flicker of retreat—until the tension between them felt like a storm poised overhead, ready to break at any moment.