It was an old warehouse, damp and suffocating with shadows, filled with broken furniture and rusted things that could no longer be called useful.
The air smelled of dust, mildew, and rotting wood, sharp enough to sting the throat. My eyes fluttered open, the sting of rope biting into my wrists making me wince. Slowly, my blurred vision focused—Daniel stood there, watching me with the kind of hunger and venom that said I had owed him for decades.
I wanted to scream, but the daggers in his gaze froze the sound in my throat. I knew those eyes well. I had dated him for over two and a half years; they were eyes that promised violence with the smallest spark of defiance.
And so I did what was best—silence.
Not silence born from fear, but from calculation. Every second, I measured his breathing, the twitch of his jaw, the way his hands flexed like he was fighting the urge to lash out. With Daniel's temper, one wrong word could be the end of me.
The truth was bitter.
I had dated Daniel when I was nineteen, back when desperation made me cling to even the illusion of love. He was everything but kind. A fist when I disagreed, a sneer when I cried, a sweet whisper only when he wanted control. Back then, Fei-Fei had asked me, "Why do you still stay with him?" And I had answered honestly—because I was desperate.
And now, here he was, grinning at me in this rotting dungeon of a warehouse. A grin that made bile rise in my throat.
I locked eyes with him, steadying the quake in my chest.
"What the hell do you want?" I asked, my voice cold.
He laughed.
Not just a chuckle—an ugly, deep laugh that rolled out of him like poison, like he was reliving every soul he had broken. He laughed as if my suffering were a comedy staged for him alone.
"You're rich," he finally said, eyes glinting with greed. "You know what I want."
Oh, I knew. I knew far too well. His games had never changed. In my head, I lined up the choices like cards on a table:
Option one: a mansion, bought with guilt and manipulation, because he had once been "nice."
Option two: fake submission and an endless list of small demands, wearing me down bit by bit.
Option three: his final weapon—threats, sharp and merciless, meant to break me.
I leaned forward, my voice like a blade. "So what's option four?"
The question threw him off balance. His smirk faltered for a fraction of a second.
"I've calculated every move of yours," I said flatly, my eyes unblinking. "And none of them are palatable to me."
His smile curled back, uglier this time. "Give me the money."
"So you and your whore of a mistress can rot in luxury while bleeding others dry?" My voice sharpened, every word dipped in venom. "That's filth crawling out of a holy mouth."
His hand struck across my face before I finished the sentence. The slap cracked through the silence, snapping my head to the side. The burn spread across my cheek, but I forced my lips into a trembling smile. I would not give him my fear.
"Ten billion," he hissed. "That's all I ask. For someone like you, it's nothing."
Nothing? As if I hadn't clawed and bled for every cent. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in me, escaping in a bitter snort. I'd rather donate every coin to an orphanage, to strangers, to anyone—anyone—than give him a single dime.
The second slap came harder, rocking my head back. I bit my tongue, tasting copper. My hands trembled against the ropes, but I whispered, voice hoarse, "Hurry up, Fei-Fei…"
His cruelty escalated. A stick struck across my arm, the sting fiery. Then, the document appeared. Sleek, crisp, with edges so sharp it almost looked romantic, elegant. But I knew what it was.
The control document.
Once my signature stained it, I would be finished. My entire life's work siphoned into his greedy hands.
I shook my head frantically, the ropes cutting deeper into my skin. Each refusal seemed to fuel him, his grin widening with every shake. Torture was his relief.
One of his thugs stepped forward, dragging a hammer across the ground. The scrape echoed like a scream. Another twirled a chain in the air, the clinking sound crawling into my skull.
"No…" The word cracked out of me before I could stop it.
The chain wrapped around my neck, tightening. My breath hitched, the world closing in, my hands jerking uselessly against the knots. Panic clawed up my throat.
"Hold her legs," Daniel ordered coldly.
Two thick hands clamped down on my ankles, pinning me.
"Stop this!" I cried, though my voice was weak, breaking. Tears stung my eyes as laughter thundered around me. Daniel's laughter—cruel, deafening, triumphant. This was his favorite game. Break me, watch me crumble, then repeat.
The laughter drowned me, and I thought it was over—until the warehouse door burst open.
Shouts. Crashes. In an instant, the thugs were on the floor, groaning, weapons clattering uselessly across the concrete.
And there she was.
Fei-Fei, storming in like a scene stolen from a drama. The dim light caught her figure as if she'd stepped out of a fashion show runway, elegance and wrath braided together.
In one fluid motion, she untied me, her fingers fast and steady. Then, with a vicious twist, she dislocated Daniel's wrist. The crack echoed in the room, sharp enough to make even me flinch.
"Are you okay?" she asked, her eyes scanning me, soft and furious all at once.
Though my chest was still heaving, though fear rattled my bones, I smiled weakly.
"Other than the chain and the near harassment, I'm fine," I whispered, collapsing into her arms.
"Thank you for another escape," I murmured, hugging her like the anchor she was.
"Always," she breathed, pulling back. Her brows drew together, anger flashing through her relief. "But you—stubborn hag—you nearly killed me with worry."
I laughed shakily. "I cross my heart."
The nightmare seemed to end there. Daniel writhed on the floor, but before I could savor the victory, something unsettling washed over the room.
Daniel's eyes rolled back, then snapped open, glinting with something unnatural. He looked like a corpse dragged back from death, lips trembling as if whispering a secret only he could hear.
I glanced at Fei-Fei, and she nodded grimly.
"Whatever filth he's stumbled upon—double the security, I don't care. Keep him alive if he dies, then start fresh."
We turned from his pitiful wails, leaving him behind like a ghost.
Two weeks later.
The memory of that day lingered like a shadow, haunting the edges of every quiet moment.
But today was different. I stood beside the school principal, smile polished and bright, cameras flashing as I handed over a check. My donation—money redirected from greed to hope.
The day passed in a blur of applause, polite handshakes, and the sickly-sweet flattery of people I liked to call butt-leakers.
When it was finally over, I slipped away as I always did.
The street beyond was quieter, freer. I inhaled deeply, savoring the peace—until a sharp voice split the air.
"Why don't you stop pestering me? Old men and their lack of privacy!"
My head turned. A boy, no more than twenty-one, sneered at an old man whose shoulders sagged with exhaustion. The boy's arrogance clung to him like perfume, his words sharp with spoiled entitlement.
At first, I wanted to walk past. To ignore. But then I saw it.
The old man's eyes. Resigned. Broken. And then—the boy shoved him.
Something inside me snapped.
My hand moved before thought, landing across the boy's cheek with a crack that silenced the street. He staggered back, clutching his face in shock, his eyes wide.
"What the—!" he started, sputtering.
"Respect, young man," I cut in, my voice razor-sharp. My gaze shifted to the old man, whose lips trembled as though words had long deserted him. "You don't let brats like him treat you like garbage."
The boy gawked at me, stunned. The old man blinked, tears shimmering in his tired eyes.
I gave one last glare at the brat before my phone rang—Fei-Fei's name flashing across the screen. Perfect timing.
I turned and walked away, my heart still burning with the echo of that slap.