Around six in the morning, the motion light in the hallway flickered on. A slim figure stepped out of the apartment.
She was wearing his loungewear—the shirt so long it covered her hips, the pants dragging across the floor. The oversized clothes made her look frail, almost ghostlike. Her almond-shaped eyes had lost all their brightness, dimmed and hollow.
She looked terrible. Her cheekbones were sharp, her face bloodless, and the gash on her forehead stood out harshly against her pale skin.
But in his memory, she had always been beautiful. Especially when she smiled—her eyes curved like crescents, a tiny dimple deepening in her left cheek. She'd seemed so sweet then, impossibly pure.
He remembered the first time she came to Southville to find him. He had rushed to the station after her call, and the moment she ran through the gate she'd waved at him, laughing, calling out with that bell-like voice:
"Lucian! Lucian!"
Her eyes had sparkled as if carrying an entire sky of stars, and when she smiled, those stars spilled soundlessly into his heart.
—
When Lucian finally pushed open the door to his apartment later, it was empty. No trace of her remained.
The three hundred square meters, two floors of space, felt colder than ever.
He walked toward the bedroom, his expression carved in stone. Halfway there, he caught a faint trace of food. His eyes shifted instinctively toward the dining room.
The space had been scrubbed spotless. On the long table sat several dishes and even a clay pot still giving off warmth.
Lucian froze, his body stiffening. His steps, however, betrayed him—they carried him straight to the table.
She had cooked so much. From simple sandwiches and egg crepes to delicate shrimp dumplings, siu mai, and braised ribs. She'd heated milk and even made congee. Every dish was arranged neatly, their color and aroma filling the room.
In his memory, she had never cooked. Her family had staff for that—Elena had never so much as touched a pan. And yet here was a spread fit for a banquet.
Who had she learned this for? Who had she bent her pride for, circling a kitchen she had once despised?
His lips twisted into something hard and cruel. He reached for the pale blue sticky note pressed against the side of the table.
Delicate handwriting stared back at him.
Lucian, it's been nearly eight years since we last shared a meal. I don't know if your tastes are the same as before, so I made a little of everything. I hope you'll like it — Elena.
At the end, she'd drawn a smiling stick figure.
It was her old habit. Some things time never changed.
Lucian's eyes locked on her words, on that cheerful, childish face. Fury ignited in his chest, rising and rising until it threatened to detonate.
"Heh… heheheh."
The bitter laugh tore from his throat. His gaze darkened, dangerous, bloodthirsty. One swift kick—
Crash!
The table flipped. Dishes shattered across the floor, the sound sharp and chaotic, echoing despair.
—
"Riiiing, riiing!"
The shrill tone of a phone cut through Lucas's dream. He cursed silently, fumbling for his phone. The moment he saw the caller ID, the blood drained from his face. He bolted upright.
"Hello, Mr. Sterling—"
"Get people to tear down everything in my apartment. Throw it all out!"
The violent command nearly ruptured his eardrums. Lucas shivered. "When… when do you want it done?"
"Now. Immediately."
"…Yes, sir."
Even through the phone, Lucas could feel the rage radiating from his boss. He dared not ask questions. "I'll take care of it right away."
But as soon as he hung up, something nagged at him. He quickly called back to add:
"Mr. Sterling, after demolition, should we arrange for new renovations?"
Beep, beep, beep…
The call had already been cut.
Lucas stared at his screen, dumbfounded, his head spinning like it might explode.
God help me… who pissed off Mr. Sterling this time?
Could it be Miss Sung again?
Yesterday she'd broken into his apartment. And now today… he wanted the entire place gutted.
The thought made Lucas wince. What kind of blood feud do those two have?
—
By four in the afternoon, Elena returned, groceries in hand just as she had the day before.
The elevator rose slowly, and she glanced at the key in her palm, relieved she'd thought to take it this morning. Otherwise, she'd have had to hire another locksmith.
But the moment the doors opened, her relief vanished.
Lucian's apartment door stood wide open. Inside, the foreman barked orders while workers hauled out furniture. From within came the relentless pounding of hammers.
Her heart sank. She ran in without hesitation.
"Hey, hey, miss! Who are you? You can't just barge in—it's dangerous, you'll get hit!" The foreman rushed to stop her.
Inside, chaos reigned. Furniture already cleared out. Wallpaper stripped. Chunks of wall broken, floorboards ripped up, the luxurious ceiling half-collapsed. Dust choked the air, stinging her eyes.
She coughed violently, her voice trembling as she demanded, "What are you doing?!"
"Can't you tell? The place is being torn down for renovations," the foreman replied, trying to usher her out. "Come on, step outside. You'll get in the way."
But Elena grabbed his grimy jacket with both hands, eyes bloodshot, her voice cracking. "Why? This apartment was perfect—why are you destroying it?"
The foreman sighed. "I thought the same thing! When I first saw it, I thought I had the wrong address. But nope—owner confirmed it himself. Said to tear everything down."
He hesitated, then added, "When I asked why, he just said the place had been tainted. Something dirty had entered."
"Maybe he's superstitious, I don't know. Anyway, not my problem. Rich clients can do whatever they want. I just do the job."
Elena barely heard the rest. Her ears rang with only those words—
Something dirty had entered.
Dirty.
She knew exactly what he meant.
To Lucian, the filth wasn't superstition.
It was her.