This is probably the most disheveled moment of Shi Linchuan’s two lifetimes.

There is no “one of.”

His vision is blurred, and his ears are ringing sharply, yet he can still hear himself cursing the person beneath him without any regard for his image—viciously and cruelly. His mind is filled with chaotic thoughts, like a raging fire surging from deep within his body, wanting to incinerate him, and wanting to blast the entire world into oblivion.

But in that moment—

A hand lets go of the clothes at his waist and slowly moves upward, sliding along his neck—swollen with anger—to his cheek. Then, a palm presses against him, and a thumb wipes under his eyelids again and again, quickly becoming dampened.

And then.

Two hands wrap around him, hooking the back of his neck like a soul-snatching snare, pulling him down firmly until Shi Linchuan’s face is buried in someone’s hair.

Shi Linchuan catches a familiar scent.

Before he knows it, those two hands have moved to his back, patting him very, very lightly twice. Shi Linchuan is still gripping Xie Jinghe’s neck, feeling the other man’s Adam’s apple bobbing as he seems to be struggling to swallow his own sobs.

Unexpectedly, Shi Linchuan suddenly loses all his strength. With no support left, his body collapses heavily onto Xie Jinghe, though his hands, still gripping the other man’s throat, do not let go.

I want to strangle him.

Every morning that he woke up in the same bed as this person, opening his eyes to see that defenseless sleeping face up close, Shi Linchuan would always think:

I want to, I really want to strangle him.

But every time he was about to move, Xie Jinghe would lift those thin eyelids, revealing eyes like obsidian beneath. The muscles of his face would move naturally into a faint smile, his voice filled with the grogginess and laziness of just waking up, the tail end of his sentence curling upward.

“Morning, good morning.”

The sentence hidden within a tiny yawn.

There was nothing he could do.

Shi Linchuan would have to pull back his restless hands.

This repeated for three years, until today, when the action was formally put into motion.

After an unknown amount of time, he hears Xie Jinghe say in a trembling voice:

“Linchuan, I think I understand you a little better now.”

Following this, Xie Jinghe seems to mimic the way he had once embraced him—patting his back, smoothing his hair—and then says solemnly,

“Really.”

Xie Jinghe will never be able to forget the scene that just unfolded.

The man’s face was buried in shadow, his expression twisted and paranoid, his eyes glaring at him with extreme resentment, as if looking at a natural-born enemy. But why were so many transparent droplets falling?

It was as if the sky were raining knives.

Xie Jinghe felt sorrow and hatred.

But none of these belonged to him; they were Shi Linchuan’s.

Densely packed and countless, they made one feel suffocated.

The man’s hands were still clamped around his throat, but Xie Jinghe didn’t feel pain. Instead, it was the one doing the gripping who seemed unable to breathe. So, he hugged the man on top of him tightly, feeling his weight pressing the air out of his own lungs, making his breathing increasingly difficult.

He choked out, “I still want you to give me more. Can I?”

Shi Linchuan: “…”

He couldn’t help but bury his face in Xie Jinghe’s soft hair, his lips brushing the tip of the other’s ear. His throat had become hoarse from the unbridled cursing earlier, and though his voice was heavy with nasal resonance, his tone was light and airy.

“Don’t regret it.”

Having said that, he didn’t give Xie Jinghe a gap to respond. His tongue plunged straight into the other’s moist, hot mouth, swallowing every syllable whole.

The hands that were gripping the neck let go, only to tug at the low-collar sweater he had lifted up, stretching it even more out of shape.

Within a minute.

Shi Linchuan had stripped him bare.

Yet the man himself was still dressed in a formal three-piece suit, his long trench coat not even out of place. Once he stood up, he looked once again like a cold, composed, and well-dressed man.

It was just that, without the cover of his glasses, his long, narrow, red-rimmed eyes looked somewhat incongruous, and there were strange marks on his face.

Beep, beep.

The room’s air conditioning began to rise in temperature.

Shi Linchuan casually tossed the remote onto the nightstand, his eagle-like eyes never moving from the person curled up on the bed.

Perhaps it was cold.

Xie Jinghe sat naked on the snow-white sheets, legs folded in front of him, feet resting on the edge of the bed, arms propped on his knees.

He looked up, staring at the man before him. His expression was that of a newborn lamb, unaware that the one approaching was a butcher sharpening his knife. His dark, bright eyes were full of light.

Shi Linchuan loosened his tie with one hand, while the other hand roughly gripped Xie Jinghe’s left ankle, pulling it upward.

The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance; his hands instinctively reached back to brace himself. The area that had been shrouded in shadow was now exposed to the light, revealing a line of small, tattooed text located at the root of his left thigh.

Shi Linchuan truly had the manner of a butcher, directly grabbing the leg to inspect the quarantine label.

It had been nearly a month and a half since the day of the tattoo, and Xie Jinghe had recovered well, but Shi Linchuan still reached out to touch it to confirm there was no scar tissue. The skin under his fingers was flat and smooth; he pressed down slightly, leaving indented marks in the flesh.

The tattoo was dark red, perched on Xie Jinghe’s thigh.

The tie Shi Linchuan was wearing today was also dark red—a diamond-patterned weave, low-key and gentlemanly—yet it had been used by him as a rope to bind someone.

Xie Jinghe did not put up a shred of resistance. He just stared at him in silence, letting him bind his hands behind his back.

He even tied a dead knot.

At this moment, no one cared about the program schedule for tomorrow, nor did anyone care about the meal on the table nearby that had only been half-eaten.

Soon, a hazy and ambiguous sound began to fill the room, followed by the crisp sound of a zipper being pulled down, replaced by a dull, rhythmic thudding.

Fast and clean, with a touch of stormy, raw violence.

Shi Linchuan stood by the bed, his upper body straight, even leaning back slightly. With one hand, he pulled the knotted tie, drawing Xie Jinghe—who was kneeling at the edge of the bed—upward. The fingertips of his other hand were moist, and between his fingers, he held a lit cigarette.

He exhaled a smoke ring, his waist taut, each movement heavier than the last.

Xie Jinghe faced the direction of the hotel room door, unable to even kneel steadily. His curly chestnut hair swayed back and forth, and his skin was flushed with a faint pink, making the bruises on his neck less noticeable.

He kept his mouth tightly shut, not daring to cry out.

Because before they began, Shi Linchuan had gripped his chin and warned him, his tone vicious:

“Don’t cry out. The soundproofing here isn’t very good. If you make a sound, the entire production crew will know that Shi Linchuan and Xie Jinghe just signed their divorce papers this morning, but couldn’t even wait until dinner to get busy…”

“Having a ‘divorce romp’.”