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"You drink first. I need to use the bathroom."

Under Xia Chen’s curious gaze, Yan Zhou closed the bathroom door behind him. From his pocket, he pulled out a small card—the handwriting on it still so arrogantly familiar.

> [It's getting colder. Don’t keep dressing so lightly, or your brother will worry.

Here's a little secret: you have the cutest little movements when you sleep.]

A pair of mischievous eyes was drawn at the end, a mocking smile hidden within the sketch, as if Yan Zhou was a plaything easily grasped in someone's palm.

His body trembled—not from fear, but from seething rage.

"Fucking pervert!" he hissed through gritted teeth and punched the bathroom mirror with all his strength.

The glass shattered instantly, fragments crashing to the floor with a sharp, brutal noise.

Startled by the sound, Xia Chen rushed over. At the door, he froze for a moment, then stammered,

"Boss… Boss, what happened?"

He hurried to Yan Zhou’s side, carefully picking shards of glass from his bleeding knuckles. After searching the living room in a panic, Xia Chen finally found a roll of bandages and began clumsily wrapping Yan Zhou’s hand while muttering complaints.

"Boss, seriously, what’s going on? Did Huzi mess with you again?"

Only after the wound was tended did Yan Zhou’s anger subside a little. He pulled his hand back and quietly tucked the card into his pocket.

"Nothing. Let’s drink. Tonight, we’re getting smashed."

"Are you sure you're okay?" Xia Chen asked, wide-eyed as he downed his beer.

Yan Zhou didn’t answer. He simply drank, bottle after bottle.

The thing that gnawed at him wasn’t just the invasion of his privacy—it was the suffocating realisation that the man knew everything, even how he moved in his sleep.

He had already searched the apartment top to bottom. No cameras. No bugs.

And yet, the stranger knew.

The thought was terrifying. And infuriating.

As bottle after bottle emptied, the two grew drunk, collapsing half over the coffee table in a drunken haze.

The air turned thick, oppressive. The only sounds were Xia Chen’s occasional slurred mumbling. Even the lights seemed to flicker and pale under the weight of the night.

Then—

The door creaked open.

A pair of polished leather shoes stepped inside, slow and soft, yet each click echoed directly into the heart.

The intruder walked straight towards Xia Chen, grasped his ankle in one silent movement, and dragged him across the floor like a discarded puppet, dumping him outside the door before locking it again.

Yan Zhou, unconscious from the alcohol, was gently lifted into the man’s arms and carried to the bedroom.

He was peaceful in sleep, his usual bruises fading from his face, his cheeks flushed pink, disturbingly inviting.

Despite his rough lifestyle, Yan Zhou’s body was slender and toned, his skin pale and surprisingly unmarked under his clothes. His sharp features, even in unconsciousness, still held the stubborn pride and defiance that seemed carved into his very bones—an irresistible challenge.

"So disobedient," the man murmured, his voice low and warm as he traced Yan Zhou’s cheek with a gloved finger.

"You bring another man home... Naughty little Zhou."

Slowly, almost reverently, he lifted Yan Zhou’s loose T-shirt, exposing the lean, taut muscles underneath.

His fingers danced lightly over the boy’s skin as if playing an instrument, his gaze heavy with a dark, feverish hunger.

"Sleeping with your clothes on... so uncomfortable. Let me help you out of them," he whispered.

One by one, the barriers fell away, until Yan Zhou lay completely exposed under the stranger’s hungry eyes.

In the darkness, the man’s gaze burned with a suffocating intensity, his voice rough with suppressed desire.

"I want to claim you... press you down... feel every inch of you against me."

He slid into the bed beside Yan Zhou, pulling the blanket over both of them.

"But not yet," he breathed against Yan Zhou’s hair. "Not yet. If I push too hard, my little Zhou will only run further away."

That night, he did nothing more.

He lay beside Yan Zhou, simply holding him through the dark hours.

When morning came, Yan Zhou woke with a pounding headache—and completely naked.

"What the fuck?!" he muttered, sitting bolt upright and grabbing for his clothes, which had been neatly folded on the bedside table.

Half-dressed and half-panicked, he tried to piece together the night before. All he could remember was collapsing drunk onto the floor.

"Did Xia Chen undress me?"

The thought alone gave him goosebumps.

Wandering around the apartment, he found no trace of Xia Chen—until a knock at the door made him jump.

Opening it cautiously, he found Xia Chen standing there, dishevelled and shivering miserably.

"Boss... why did I wake up outside?"

Dragging Xia Chen inside, Yan Zhou’s gut twisted uneasily.

"Wait. You’re saying you spent the night outside?"

"Yeah," Xia Chen groaned, collapsing onto the sofa. "I just remember passing out here, and next thing I know, I'm freezing my ass off in the hallway.

And my head... it hurts so bad."

Clenching his fists, Yan Zhou’s expression turned grim.

Someone else had been in the apartment.

He didn’t go out that day. When he went to wash up, he noticed the shattered mirror had been pieced back together, the jagged cracks like angry scars slashing across the glass.

But that wasn’t the worst part.

Scrawled in red across the fractured surface, in what looked disturbingly like blood, was a message:

> Don't be afraid.

Your brother won't hurt you,

as long as you behave.

Yan Zhou gagged, fighting down the nausea. He scrubbed the blood away with cold water, finished washing up as fast as he could, and avoided the bathroom for the rest of the day.

The mess from their drunken binge was gone—bottles and snack wrappers all cleaned away.

It was as if the intruder had tidied up before leaving.

The lock had been changed.

And he still got in.

Fine.

You like coming in, don't you?

Yan Zhou threw himself onto the sofa, eyes burning with fury.

Fine. I’ll be waiting.

By noon, Xia Chen had recovered enough to shuffle home, sensing that Yan Zhou wasn’t in the mood for company.

And once again, the apartment was silent—eerily, oppressively silent.

Yan Zhou sat alone, waiting.

Waiting for the monster who had already made himself at home.

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