Click.
Click.
Click.
Then—
Silence.
A woman with ashen-gray hair.
For a moment, she didn't move. Didn't even breathe.
Then, her pupils—**dark, dilated with terror—**shrunk violently. Her chest heaved once, twice, a shallow, shuddering gasp pulling at her throat.
Realization crashed down.
"No—no, no, no—"
She staggered back, her legs trembling so violently they nearly gave out beneath her. Her lips parted—wet, raw, forming the shape of a scream before the sound could catch up.
Then—
She screamed.
"You bastard—!"
The words tore from her, raw and shrill, like a wounded beast clawing against a death it could already feel closing in.
The room flinched.
Her voice—too high, too sharp, like something breaking apart midair—ripped through the thick, suffocating silence like a blade.
"You think you'll get away with this?!" she shrieked, her voice cracking under the weight of hysteria. "You think you won't suffer?!"
And then—
The others moved.
Not out of mercy.
But because they knew.
Knew she could have been them.
Would be them.
"Yeah!" A voice—hoarse, shaking—rose from the crowd, spurred by the sheer, suffocating horror. A man with sunken cheeks, skin pallid with fear. "You think you're untouchable?!"
A sharp, ragged breath from the side.
Then—another voice.
"You think you won't die like the rest of us?!"
The words spread like wildfire.
They weren't pleading. They weren't cursing out of hatred.
They were screaming because it was the only thing left.
A last, desperate struggle against the inescapable.
"You'll burn for this!" someone spat, their voice raw, cracked.
"You think—!" A choked sob. A shuddering, manic breath. "You think you won't rot?! That the heavens won't rip you apart?!"
"Even if you kill us—" Another voice, broken and rasping. A man with a scar dragging from his brow to his jaw. "Even if you kill us—someone will come for you! Someone will tear you apart—!"
It wasn't conviction.
It was madness.
A feverish, hopeless rage clawing at their chests—because if they couldn't escape, then the only thing left was to drag him down with them.
"You'll die!" The woman—the ashen-gray-haired woman—spat, her voice shaking, her body trembling with the force of her own terror.
"You'll die like the filth you are! Your soul will never rest! Your bones will be cursed—!"
And then—
"Your mother—!"
The words slipped out like venom.
The air changed.
It was small—**so small—**but in the midst of hysteria, it was felt like a noose tightening around their throats.
A pause.
A crack in the storm of voices.
Yet, still—
"She must regret birthing you—!"
The woman—**the chosen one, the doomed one—**spat the words out like bile.
The others took it—ran with it.
"You were a mistake!"
"You should have never been born!"
"The world would have been better without you!"
They roared—not because they believed it, not because they truly thought they could wound him—
But because they had nothing left.
They screamed like animals caught in a trap—rabid, desperate, drowning in the horror of knowing their lives would end in the hands of a man who did not see them as people.
And yet—
Yanwei did not move.
He did not flinch.
He did not react.
His abyss-like eyes remained lidded, his lips still curled in the faintest shadow of amusement.
Then—
Yanwei sighed.
A quiet, slow exhale.
Tired. Almost disappointed.
Then—
He turned.
And without a word—without even sparing them another glance—
He lifted a single hand—
And pulled.
A low, sickening creak tore through the room.
Metal scraped against stone.
Wood groaned under unseen weight.
From nothing—**from nowhere—**they appeared.
Two chairs.
One table.
Yanwei sat. Calm. Relaxed.
A small clink—porcelain meeting wood.
He poured tea.
Steam curled from the cup, rising soft and slow.
Then—
He lifted his gaze.
Abyss-like. Bottomless. Empty.
He smiled.
At Yun.
"Come, my beautiful Yun." His voice—so gentle. Soft. Warm. A whisper of silk against bare skin.
"Let's talk."
The moment his voice fell, the room—still trembling, still thick with the weight of suffocating terror—erupted.
Screams, raw and wordless. Mouths twisted, spitting out curses with an almost manic desperation.
They weren't just lashing out anymore.
They were breaking.
Like wounded animals backed into a corner, howling, thrashing—throwing everything, anything, because they knew they were going to die.
A feverish storm of voices, clawing at the air—
Then—
Silence.
Not gradual. Not fractured.
Absolute.
A nothingness so complete, so crushing, it felt as though the world had simply been cut away.
Their mouths still moved. Their chests still heaved. Their lips still twisted, shaping curses, threats—
But there was no sound.
A hand at their throats. A vice closing around their voices.
They grasped, clawed, gasped—but the silence did not break.
Yanwei did not look at them.
Did not spare them a second glance.
As if they no longer existed.
He only—poured tea.
Steam curled from the porcelain cup. A slow, lazy spiral, rising into the thick silence.
Yanwei did not look at her.
Not at first.
Instead, he lifted the cup to his lips, taking a quiet sip.
Then—he set it down.
A soft click. Porcelain against wood.
The weight of silence pressed down.
And finally—he spoke.
"They're afraid."
A simple statement. Quiet. Light. Almost… understanding.
Yun's fingers twitched.
"They didn't mean it," he mused, voice slow, unhurried. "They were just desperate."
A breath. A heartbeat.
"They're not bad people, are they?"
Yun did not answer.
But she thought about it.
They were terrified. They were dying. Of course they screamed.
Of course they cursed him.
It wasn't their fault.
Yanwei exhaled, slow. Thoughtful.
"Then again…" He traced the rim of his cup, almost absentmindedly. "If they weren't in danger… do you think they would have cared?"
A small thing. A passing thought.
Yet, it unraveled.
Because before this—before all of this—they never did.
Yanwei lifted a hand.
Not a grand gesture. Not a dramatic wave.
Just a simple, effortless motion—pointing.
At them.
The three who had killed the ghost.
Yun's breath caught.
Not in fear. Not in rage.
But something quieter. Something she hadn't even noticed lurking beneath her own skin.
Hope.
Not the bold kind. Not the reckless, desperate kind.
A small, quiet, almost childish kind.
She hadn't even realized she was holding onto it—until it was pulled from her grasp.
Yanwei's voice—soft. Amused.
"You thought they were saviors, didn't you?"
Yun flinched.
His words—so gentle, so light—felt like razors against bare flesh.
"No." Her voice came out too sharp. Too defensive.
Yanwei didn't argue. Didn't push.
Just smiled.
"That's alright," he murmured, almost indulgent. "You don't have to admit it."
The air pressed against her.
His voice didn't rise. Didn't sharpen.
And yet—
It was suffocating.
"You thought they'd help you."
A breath. A pause.
"They killed the ghost."
Another pause.
"But not for you."
The room felt colder.
Yanwei tilted his head, studying her.
His words—slow. Patient.
"If I weren't here, if I weren't the monster—"
His voice lowered, smooth as silk.
"—who would've fought for you?"
Silence.
Yun's throat felt tight.
Her heart pounded, her pulse quickening—not in anger.
Not in defiance.
But in something far worse.
Recognition.
Yanwei leaned forward slightly, his gaze lidded, unreadable.
"You think they would have helped you?"
The words slithered into her bones.
"If I hadn't set the stage—"
A faint chuckle, soft, knowing.
"—would they have ever raised their weapons for you?"
Yun's fingers twitched.
A part of her wanted to lash out. To argue. To push back.
But what would she say?
That they would have?
That they cared?
She had never been naïve.
Not truly.
And yet—
Yanwei had still found something to peel away.
Something to unravel.
And the worst part was—
He didn't even have to lie.
Yanwei tilted his head, studying her. His fingers tapped idly against the porcelain rim of his cup.
Then, softly—almost thoughtfully—he spoke.
"You hate me, don't you?"
Yun stiffened.
"You think I'm a monster," he continued, unhurried. "Cruel. Evil." His voice carried no accusation, no mockery—just smooth, steady certainty.
Yun's jaw tightened.
Yanwei's lips curled, slow. "But tell me, Yun." A beat. "What would you do?"
The air stretched, thick with something suffocating.
"If you had power," he murmured, "if you had control—would you have just let yourself suffer?"
Yun's breath hitched.
Her mind screamed yes. Yes, she wasn't like him. Yes, she would have been different. Yes, she would have endured.
But her body—her silence—betrayed her.
Because she had wanted power before. Had ached for it. Had wished for something—anything—to stop the suffering.
And Yanwei saw it.
He leaned in slightly, voice a whisper of silk.
"If you could have crushed those who hurt you," he mused, "would you have held back?"
The answer clawed at her throat.
If she said yes, she admitted she was weak.
If she said no—
She was no better than him.
Yanwei studied her, gaze lidded. Then—
"It's alright, Yun."
Gentle. Soft. Warm.
"You don't have to answer."
The breath in her chest stilled.
"Just listen."
A pause.
"Just think."
He made it feel like it was her choice. Like these thoughts were not something he planted, but something she was realizing.
And without knowing it—
She had already begun to fall.
Yanwei exhaled, slow. He leaned back, his fingers tracing the rim of his cup. He did not press. Did not push.
He simply waited.
Yun's thoughts twisted, unraveled. Something cold curled deep in her chest, a slow, creeping rot.
And then—
Yanwei's voice. Low. Steady.
"It's alright, Yun."
A breath.
"You don't have to answer."
A pause.
"Just listen."
His tone was warm, almost kind. Not demanding, not forcing—just guiding.
"You've suffered, haven't you?" he murmured. "You've endured."
Her fingers curled against her lap.
"You've waited," he continued, slow, measured. "For someone to help. For justice. For fairness."
A heartbeat.
"But no one ever came, did they?"
Yun's stomach twisted.
A voice in her screamed No. That's not true. But the silence that followed—the weight of every moment she had been powerless—choked the words before they could form.
Yanwei lifted his cup. Took a slow sip.
Then, softly—almost lazily—
"But I came."
Yun's breath caught.
The words slithered into her mind, planting roots before she could tear them out.
He came.
Not justice. Not fairness. Not kindness.
Him.
Yanwei set his cup down with a quiet clink. His abyss-like eyes held hers.
"That is the only truth, Yun."
A single, beautiful rope.
And in the sea of unraveling thoughts—
It was the only thing left to cling to.
A single tear slipped down Yun's cheek.
She didn't notice it at first. Didn't feel the wet trail it left against her skin.
But Yanwei did.
His expression did not change. He did not reach for her, did not press.
He simply—extended an arm.
An open invitation.
A warmth she had never known.
Yun's breath shuddered. A part of her screamed to pull away, to resist—but her body, trembling, broken, tired, did not move.
Yanwei's voice, low, steady—almost tender.
"Accept me completely."
A whisper. A demand. A promise.
His hand remained, waiting.
The only thing left to hold on to.