The hallway was dark as Qiao Ren moved through it slowly, his footsteps deliberate and controlled.
His weight shifted from heel to toe with each step, minimizing sound as he made sure that the floorboards didn’t creak.
The house had settled into its night rhythm. Most of the doors were closed. A few voices murmured behind them—low, indistinct. Soone coughed in one of the upstairs rooms. The sound faded.
He passed the bathroom. The kitchen. The living room entrance.
His breathing was steady as he climbed the flight of stairs up to the second floor. He made sure to keep each inhale and exhale even as his hands hung loose at his sides.
Walking down the long hall, he stopped at the last door on the left.
Rouxi’s room.
The door was closed, no light showed beneath it. The gap at the bottom was dark, uninterrupted.
He stood there for a mont, listening.
But there wasn’t a single sound.
His pulse was calm but present—a low, steady rhythm in his chest. She’d been too bold. Too defiant. The knife stabbed into the table at breakfast like she owned the place. Like she was untouchable. The way she’d looked at him—dismissive, unimpressed, like he was nothing.
Beautiful, though.
He’d noticed that imdiately. The soft lines of her face. The way she moved—controlled, confident, dangerous in a way that made his skin prickle with anticipation.
She needed to learn.
His hand moved to the handle. His fingers wrapped around it slowly, his grip firm but not tight. He turned it.
Locked.
The handle resisted, stopping halfway through its rotation. He released it carefully, letting it return to its original position without sound.
His right hand moved to his pocket. His fingers slipped inside and withdrew sothing small—tal, thin. He held it between his thumb and forefinger, angling it toward the lock.
He inserted it into the keyhole. The tal scraped slightly against the interior chanism. He adjusted the angle, his wrist rotating fractionally. His other hand steadied against the doorfra.
The pick moved deeper. He applied pressure, testing resistance. The lock’s internal pins shifted. He felt the give, the small click of tal against tal.
His breathing stayed controlled.
He withdrew the pick slightly, repositioned it, inserted it again at a different angle. His fingers moved with precision—small adjustnts, careful pressure. Another click. Softer this ti.
The lock turned.
He pocketed the pick and gripped the handle again. This ti it rotated fully. The latch disengaged with a quiet snick.
He pushed the door open.
Slowly.
The hinges didn’t creak. The door swung inward, revealing darkness. He slipped inside, his body moving through the narrow opening. His shoulder brushed the doorfra. He turned, gripping the edge of the door, and pulled it closed behind him.
The latch clicked into place.
The room was dark. Completely dark. No light from the window—the curtains were drawn. No ambient glow from electronics or charging devices. Just blackness.
He stood still, letting his eyes adjust.
Shapes began to erge. The outline of furniture. A dresser against the far wall. A chair near the window. The bed.
Rouxi was on it.
Her shape was visible now—a darker mass against the lighter fabric of the sheets. She was lying on her side, facing away from the door. Her breathing was inaudible from where he stood.
Not moving.
He waited for a mont to make sure that she was asleep, but there was still nothing.
His heartbeat picked up slightly—not fear, anticipation.
She had been asking for this. The way she sat there eating cereal like she had every right. The way she’d rolled her eyes when he’d brought down the weapons. Like she wasn’t afraid. Like she didn’t understand what he could do.
She would, though.
His right hand moved to his waistband. His fingers found the handle of the knife tucked there. He drew it slowly, the blade sliding free without sound. The weight settled into his palm—familiar, balanced.
He moved forward.
One step, his foot touching down softly, his weight distributed evenly across the ball of his foot before settling into his heel. The floor didn’t shift beneath him.
Another step brought him closer. His breathing stayed controlled—in through his nose, out through his mouth, quiet and asured.
The bed was three feet away now.
Two feet.
He could see her more clearly now. The curve of her shoulder beneath the blanket. The line of her spine. Her hair spread across the pillow in dark waves that caught what little ambient light filtered through the curtains.
Still not moving.
One more step brought him to the edge of the bed.
He stood there, the knife held low at his side. His eyes moved across her form, tracking the rise and fall of her breathing. It was shallow. Steady.
Asleep.
His pulse thrumd in his ears now—low, insistent. He thought about her waking up. About the mont she’d realize what was happening. About the fear that would replace that arrogant confidence. About how he’d make her understand exactly where she stood.
She’d learn to keep her mouth shut.
She’d learn her place.
He shifted his weight forward. His knee touched the mattress, and the bed dipped slightly beneath the pressure. He leaned in, his other hand moving to brace against the mattress beside her hip.
The knife rose.
His grip tightened around the handle. His arm tensed, preparing. His breath caught in his chest—anticipation coiling tight in his stomach.
Now.
She moved.
Fast.
No warning.
Her body rolled toward him in one fluid motion, her arm sweeping up in a tight, vicious arc. tal flashed in the darkness—her own blade, already in motion, already committed.
It drove into his shoulder.
Deep.
The impact was imdiate and absolute. The blade punched through fabric, through skin, through muscle with brutal efficiency. It sank in to the hilt, the force of her strike driving it between bone and tendon, splitting tissue and severing vessels.
He scread.
The sound tore out of him—raw, uncontrolled, loud in the confined space of the room.
Her hand was still on the knife, her grip firm and unwavering as she yanked it back.
Hard.
The blade ripped free and blood sprayed everywhere.
It erupted from the wound in a hot, pulsing arc. The first spray hit her face—across her cheek, her jaw, her lips. Warm and wet and imdiate. The second hit her neck, running down in thick rivulets that soaked into the collar of her shirt. The third splattered across her chest, dark droplets spreading across the fabric in an expanding pattern.
Dark droplets scattered across the white sheets, across the pillow, across the wall behind the bed. The arterial spray pulsed with his heartbeat—once, twice, three tis in rapid succession, each burst weaker than the last but still forceful enough to paint the room.
He scread again, louder this ti.
His hand went to his shoulder, his fingers pressing against the wound in a desperate attempt to stem the flow. Blood poured between them, hot and slick and unstoppable. It ran down his arm, soaking his sleeve, dripping from his elbow onto the bed.
His knife fell from his other hand, hitting the floor with a tallic clatter that echoed in the small room.
The spray continued and his scream didn’t stop.
It filled the room, echoing off the walls, spilling out into the hallway beyond the closed door.
And the blood kept coming.
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