Chapter 55: Frenzy.

Autumn in Toulouse is beautiful, like an oil painting forgotten by time.

In the blink of an eye, Wen Yicong has been in this city for a full month.

In the early morning, birdsong outside the window wakes the person in bed. Sunlight filters through the slats of the shutters, casting golden bands across the floor. She stretches, pads barefoot across the cool wooden floor, walks to the window, and pushes it open.

The air is crisp and damp, carrying the moisture of the distant Garonne River and the wheat scent drifting from the bakery on the corner. In the distance, St. Serin Cathedral emerges in hazy outline against the morning light, its bells ringing clear and slow, each peal an echo from some ancient age.

She takes a deep breath.

Everything is a fresh start.

Sophie is a reliable, thoughtful friend. In Wen Yicong's very first week in Toulouse, Sophie had already helped her connect with a special education school for part-time work.

She has now been working at the local special education school for three weeks.

Compared to the high-intensity daily grind of a rehabilitation therapist, an assistant's position is genuinely a leisurely one. She only needs to help the lead teacher complete training sessions for a few children; the rest of the time is her own. The pay isn't high, but it's enough to cover rent and daily expenses.

For her current state of life, Wen Yicong is quite content.

After washing up and changing, she heads out for work.

The special education school where Wen Yicong works sits in Toulouse Old Town—a three-story cream-yellow building with a great plane tree in the courtyard, its canopy nearly shading half the small playground.

As usual, at seven-thirty in the morning, Wen Yicong appears punctually at the school gate, greeting the guard in her newly-learned French: 'Bonjour.'

The guard smiles back: 'Bonjour!'

Arriving at the classroom, the lead teacher is already preparing various teaching materials. Seeing Wen Yicong, she curves her lips and greets her.

Wen Yicong smiles back, then goes over to help.

The lead teacher she's paired with is named Mary, a French woman in her early forties, short-haired, round-faced, whose eyes crinkle into slits when she smiles. She's very kind to Wen Yicong.

Knowing her French isn't fluent, Mary deliberately slows her speech and uses simple vocabulary when talking with her.

Although they haven't been partners long, their personalities click, and they get along wonderfully.

The first class of the morning is sensory integration training.

The classroom is lined with colorful soft mats, the walls hung with various cognitive cards, and the corners piled with balls and blocks of all sizes.

Wen Yicong crouches before a little boy named Leon, patiently guiding him, trying to get the child to place a red block into the basket.

Leon is about four years old, with the same quiet, beautiful blue eyes as Airi. He rarely speaks on his own initiative, but whenever Wen Yicong interacts with him, he extends one thin, small finger to lightly touch her wrist—a friendly signal.

Every time she's with Leon, Wen Yicong thinks of Airi.

She thinks of their first meeting, of Airi playing with Nana, of Airi's innocent, well-behaved sleeping face.

She left Mo Manor a month ago.

During this time, has Airi built trust with Teacher Jiang?

Teacher Jiang is highly professional, patient, and responsible—there shouldn't be any problem... But what about the children's social skills classes? Has Teacher Jiang taken Airi to find Nana to play?

Lost in thought, Wen Yicong drifts for a moment.

'Wen?' Mary's voice pulls her back. 'Are you all right?'

Wen Yicong startles, realizes she's been staring blankly at the block in Leon's hand, and quickly smiles. 'Nothing, just zoned out.'

Mary doesn't press, pats her shoulder, and turns to guide another child.

Wen Yicong takes a deep breath, pushes down the thousand tangled thoughts rising in her mind, and continues working.

After the afternoon classes end, the children are picked up one by one by their parents.

Wen Yicong tidies the teaching materials, says goodbye to Mary, and walks out the school gate.

The sunset dyes the entire tree-lined avenue gold and red. The plane tree's leaves have yellowed more than half; when the wind blows, they rustle down, carpeting the ground. She walks slowly along the sidewalk, about to turn toward her apartment, when a familiar male voice calls from behind:

'Wen!'

'...'

Wen Yicong turns her head.

A tall figure rises from a bench by the road and walks quickly toward her.

The boy's name is Luca, twenty-five this year, on the same baseball team as Sophie's boyfriend. Today the French boy wears a pale blue shirt with a black jacket over it; his golden-brown short hair is gilded by the sunset, and he looks tall, handsome, clean, and refreshing.

In his hand he carries a small bunch of daisies, white petals, yellow centers, simply wrapped in kraft paper.

'Luca?' Wen Yicong is surprised. 'What are you doing here?'

'Picking you up from work.' Luca's tone is matter-of-fact. He hands her the daisies. 'These are for you.'

Wen Yicong takes the flowers, and the next moment, the corner of her mouth curves into a helpless little smile. 'You don't have to come every day. I know the way.'

'But I want to see you.' Luca says it openly, his light brown eyes full of sincerity. 'You won't let me wait at the school gate, so I can only wait at the intersection. You won't let me walk you home, so I can only walk you to the building. Wen, you're the hardest girl to pursue I've ever met.'

The words are direct and innocent; Wen Yicong laughs. 'Is that a complaint?'

'It's a compliment.' Luca says seriously. 'A hard-to-pursue girl is as precious as a gem.'

Wen Yicong can't help teasing him. 'All right, stop composing poetry. You French men really are all romantic poets.'

'Ha, really? I don't think so.' Luca scratches his head, a little embarrassed.

They chat as they walk side by side down the tree-lined avenue.

Luca is very tall, half a head taller than Wen Yicong, and naturally walks much faster. But he's especially considerate—every time he walks with her, he deliberately slows his pace to match hers.

Plane tree leaves rustle under their feet; in the distance the Cathedral bells drift over. Everything is quiet and beautiful.

'Was work tiring today?' Luca asks suddenly.

'Not bad.' Wen Yicong says. 'Today a little boy said 'ball' for the first time on his own—you can't imagine how happy Teacher Mary was. She almost cried.'

'And you?' Luca's gaze settles on her delicate face. 'Are you happy?'

Wen Yicong nods without hesitation. 'Of course. Even though I haven't been with the children long, watching them progress bit by bit, recover bit by bit—I really am very happy.'

Watching the curve of the Chinese girl's lips, Luca pauses, his gaze softening further. 'Wen, you look really beautiful when you smile.'

Wen Yicong doesn't know what to say; the curve of her lips flattens, and she casually turns her face the other way, pretending to look at a shop window.

Silence flows between them for a few seconds.

After a moment, Luca's steps falter slightly. He continues, 'Wen, I know there's someone in your heart.'

Wen Yicong freezes at his words and stops walking.

'I don't know what happened between you, and I don't know why you came to Toulouse alone.' Luca's voice is soft, carrying a careful, almost humble tenderness. 'But I want you to know I'm not in a hurry. I can wait. Wait for you to slowly forget that person, wait for you to be willing to turn around and look at me.'

'...' Wen Yicong stands rooted to the spot.

Looking at the handsome, sunny young man before her, she presses her lips together, an inexplicable sourness rising in her chest.

Just as Sophie said, Luca really is a good match.

Sincere, gentle, passionate, open.

If she had never met that man, perhaps... she really would have fallen for Luca.

But there are no ifs.

It's not that Wen Yicong hasn't tried, hasn't made an effort.

In the early days after Sophie introduced them, she had accepted Luca's invitations—had coffee with him once, watched a movie, walked along the Garonne River.

Luca told her about Toulouse's history and culture; she didn't understand much, could only smile and nod awkwardly throughout. He taught her French tongue twisters; she wasn't fluent, and every time her tongue would tie itself in knots, making Luca laugh uproariously.

Luca really is good. He loves to laugh; when he smiles, his eyes light up, the depths clean, without any shadow.

But every time he approaches, she instinctively retreats.

Wen Yicong knows she doesn't dislike Luca, doesn't reject him.

It's that her body still remembers.

Remembers the warmth of another pair of hands, the invasion of another scent, the kisses that came like a flood, nearly burning her to ashes.

Her body and heart, like cities fallen one by one, have already planted that man's flag, and find it hard to accept anyone else.

'Luca...' Wen Yicong opens her mouth, hesitates.

'Shh.' Luca's eyes are bright; he raises a finger, holding it just before her lips. 'Don't say 'thank you for your kindness' or 'I'm sorry' or anything like that, and don't refuse me. Wen, no one can say what the future holds. Don't make any conclusions too easily.'

Wen Yicong is silent.

Then Luca steps back, his smile blooming again like July sunshine. 'Let's go, I'll walk you home. It'll be dark soon.'

Wen Yicong can only smile and nod.

Near her apartment building, a phone rings—ding-ling-ling.

Wen Yicong pulls out her phone, glances at the caller ID: Mom.

Her eyes brighten; she quickly answers, her voice taking on a coquettish note. 'Hello, Mom.'

'Nonong, have you eaten?' Shen Yulan's voice comes from the other end, affectionately concerned. 'It should be evening over there in France now, right?'

'Almost dark.' Wen Yicong says with a smile. 'I just got off work, about to go home and cook.'

Shen Yulan urges her: 'Being alone out there, you can't make do. Eat well, drink well, don't think about saving. If you run out of money, tell the family.'

'I know, Mom.' Wen Yicong smiles. 'How are you and Dad? How are Grandpa and Grandma?'

'All good, all good. Your grandpa can now go downstairs for walks on his own, full of energy.' Shen Yulan pauses, then lowers her voice. 'Oh, Nonong, Mom wants to ask—are you really used to it over there? If there's anything you're not used to about, talk to your supervisor, ask her to transfer you back.'

Wen Yicong: 'I'm used to it. I quite like Toulouse.'

Hearing this answer, Shen Yulan seems a bit disappointed, her tone dropping. 'All right. As long as you're used to it. When the secondment is over, you must come back right away, or your mom will die missing you.'

Wen Yicong hasn't told her family about Mo Shaoshang. This time going to France, she only said Star Bridge sent her for an exchange. After hearing her mother's words, her eyes grow warm. She replies: 'Definitely.'

The mother and daughter chat a while longer, then suddenly Wen Yicong thinks of something and lowers her voice. 'Oh, Mom, recently... everything at home really is normal, right? No one's come looking for you, no suspicious people hanging around our house?'

'No, what suspicious people would there be?' Shen Yulan sounds a bit confused, puzzled. 'That's strange. This past month you've asked this every few days. What exactly happened?'

'Nothing.' Wen Yicong says quickly. 'I was just asking casually.'

Shen Yulan: 'Is Sophie doing well lately?'

'She's great. She even brought me canelés she made yesterday—so sweet my teeth hurt.'

Shen Yulan laughs: 'Then you should thank her properly. She's helped you so much, bringing you this and that, taking such good care of you.'

'I know.' Wen Yicong smiles back. 'You don't need to worry, old lady.'

After a few more words of small talk, Shen Yulan reluctantly hangs up.

The last wisp of sunset light falls gently. Wen Yicong's hand holding the phone drops, her five fingers tightening slightly, lost in thought.

During this period, what she's most worried about is her parents and family encountering some accident.

Given that man's cold-bloodedness and ruthlessness, could he really have let her family off so easily?

No, impossible.

Perhaps Pei Xizhou's secret help dissolved the potential crisis...

Just as she's pondering, Luca's voice sounds beside her. His tone is concerned: 'Was that your mother calling?'

Wen Yicong comes back, smiles, her tone half-helpless: 'Mm. I've been in Toulouse a month, and my mom still worries, afraid I'm not used to it here, always asking a few questions.'

Luca laughs twice, his voice as bright as Southern French sunshine: 'Same as my mom. When I went to Paris for baseball team training, she'd call every day to ask what I ate, how I slept. So naggy.'

Wen Yicong's eyes curve: 'Looks like moms are the same all over the world.'

'Yeah.' Luca agrees casually, then extends his hand, pointing at the apartment building behind her, his expression mischievous. 'You're home. Go rest. Otherwise I'll be more and more reluctant to part.'

'Okay.' Wen Yicong says gratefully. 'Thank you for walking me back.'

'You're welcome. See you tomorrow?'

'...See you tomorrow.'

Wen Yicong turns and walks into the apartment building.

*

Across the street, a black Bentley sits quietly in front of a café.

In the twilight, the man inside the car can't be seen clearly—only a hand wearing a Patek Philippe, with distinct, slender, sharp knuckles, resting on the window frame, long fingers holding a burning cigarette, the ember flickering in the dark.

He leans back in his seat, watching the slender figure disappear into the apartment building entrance, watching the French man stand there, watching the girl, before finally turning to leave after a long while.

After a moment, the man puts out the cigarette and rolls up the window.

The black glass reflects a pair of blue-black eyes, deep, suppressed, churning with unfathomable undercurrents.

Like the deep sea before a storm.

*

Wen Yicong's apartment is close to the school, only a fifteen-minute walk.

A space of about forty square meters, which she's made especially cozy: a single bed against the wall, covered with a warm orange hand-woven blanket; by the window, a small round table with a floral tablecloth, a glass vase on top filled with various small flowers from the market; in the corner, an old bookcase from a flea market, stuffed with French picture books and novels.

The kitchen is small but fully equipped.

In her month in Toulouse, Wen Yicong has learned to bake simple baguettes herself, paired with cheese and ham from the supermarket—a proper dinner.

Back home, Wen Yicong washes her hands, sets the baguette, cheese, and ham on the table, then opens her phone's short videos, scrolling as she eats.

This is her day in Toulouse.

This past month, her life has been simple and regular. Wake at seven, walk fifteen minutes to the special education school, assist the lead teacher in the morning, have lunch in the school cafeteria, continue classes in the afternoon. In the evening, come home, fix herself something to eat, sit by the window and read for a while, then sleep early.

Sophie once teased Wen Yicong, saying her current lifestyle is too austere, out of step with young people today. Like a little nun.

Wen Yicong just smiled, unconcerned.

Those extravagant days at Mo Manor, looking back now, are like a distant, unreachable dream.

This ordinary, simple life isn't bad. At least it doesn't make her constantly recall that Manor House, that dangerously fatal man.

No one knocks on her door in the deep of night anymore.

No one whispers in Italian by her ear.

No one watches her with those blue-black eyes anymore...

Wen Yicong thinks time is the best medicine; one day, she'll slowly forget, move on, accept new people, things, and feelings.

The night deepens; the evening breeze blows; a nightingale's song drifts from afar.

Wen Yicong reads for a while, gets sleepy, turns off the light and sleeps.

Only darkness remains in the window.

Downstairs, on the street corner.

Lin Ke, in a suit, sits in the driver's seat, withdraws his gaze, his voice low, tentatively asking: 'Sir, should I look into that Frenchman's information?'

'No need.'

Two casual words, as if ground out from beneath ice.

Lin Ke dares not ask more.

The back seat falls into dead silence.

After a while, the man in the back speaks again, his voice calm: 'Let's go.'

'Yes.'

The Bentley silently disappears into the night.

*

Two days later, evening.

To celebrate her boyfriend's team winning a match, Sophie organized a small gathering.

The location chosen was a small, unassuming restaurant by the Garonne River, run by a middle-aged couple, said to serve authentic Southern French cuisine.

The restaurant isn't large, but the decor has style: thick stone walls, dark wooden beams, candles on each table flickering warm halos—very Southern French.

The fragrance of olive oil mingles with Provençal herbs, floating in the air.

A few young people sit by the window.

Sophie and her boyfriend sit side by side, intimate and affectionate, occasionally leaning together to whisper, laughing uproariously.

Luca sits across from Wen Yicong, pouring her drinks, serving her food, telling embarrassing stories from baseball practice.

Wen Yicong smiles along, trying to blend into the relaxed atmosphere, but feels inexplicably empty inside.

At this point, Sophie notices Luca's attentiveness toward Wen Yicong, raises an eyebrow, and teases in French: 'Hey Luca, you're not doing so well. This long and you still haven't won the beauty's heart?'

Luca sighs dramatically: 'Still need to keep trying.'

Sophie pats Luca's shoulder, encouraging: 'Keep it up, I believe in you.'

After dinner, the sky is completely dark. Toulouse's night sky tonight has no moon, only a few sparse stars, faintly visible behind the clouds. The river is dark and heavy, reflecting the lights on both banks, rippling.

Luca insists on walking Wen Yicong home.

'It's dark, you're not safe alone.' He says. 'Let me walk you, it's on my way anyway.'

Seeing that refusing won't work, Wen Yicong lets him.

The two walk slowly along the riverbank. The night wind rises, carrying the dampness of the water and the chill of early winter.

Luca, worried the delicate, beautiful Eastern girl beside him might be cold, takes off his jacket and casually tries to drape it over her shoulders. But the next moment, the girl instinctively dodges.

The air suddenly turns awkward.

Wen Yicong comes to, also a bit embarrassed, says softly: 'Sorry, I... I'm not cold.'

'Ha, what's there to be sorry about.' Luca withdraws the jacket, laughs casually. 'As long as you're not cold.'

Wen Yicong says nothing more.

Silence spreads between them, the atmosphere increasingly subtle.

After a moment, Luca suddenly speaks again, in a completely casual tone: 'I remember in middle school I had a good friend, he was on our school's golf team, handsome, tall, lively and enthusiastic.'

Wen Yicong, listening to him talk about high school, has her attention diverted. She turns to look at him, listening attentively.

'That guy was the school's heartthrob. With his outstanding looks and good personality, he attracted a lot of girls' attention. I remember back then, I'd collect love letters for him every day, all kinds of little confession notes...'

'That guy rejected all the pretty girls pursuing him. Gradually, a rumor started at school—everyone said he was too proud, didn't put anyone in his eyes.'

'But guess what happened later?' Luca suddenly asks.

Wen Yicong plays along: 'What happened?'

'That guy finally met a girl who made his heart race, tried everything, but in the end loved without being loved...' At this point, a hint of melancholy and self-deprecation crosses Luca's eyes. 'Just as your Chinese saying goes, the wheel of fortune turns.'

After the words fall, Wen Yicong is silent for a while, then can't help but say softly: 'Luca.'

'Hm?'

'Is that friend you mentioned... yourself?'

'...' Luca chokes, immediately waves his hand solemnly. 'Ha, how could it be, not me. Hahaha.'

Wen Yicong is amused, can't help but smile.

At her apartment building, Luca stops.

He looks at her, his eyes seeming to hold a thousand unspoken words, but finally only says: 'Good night.'

'Good night.' Wen Yicong says, then walks into the apartment building.

Luca stands in place silently for a long while, smiles bitterly, shakes his head, and turns to leave.

*

Back in the apartment, Wen Yicong tosses her bag on the sofa, takes off her earrings and necklace, picks up her nightgown, and goes to the bathroom to shower.

In late autumn France, the night temperature has dropped to eight degrees. The Garonne River's wind seeps through the window cracks, damp and cold. Fortunately, the apartment has heating—a pale blue flame burns quietly in the wall-mounted boiler, warming the entire place like spring.

Steam fills the bathroom; hot water washes over Wen Yicong's body, carrying away fatigue.

She closes her eyes, letting the water run over her cheeks, neck, shoulders.

A few minutes later, Wen Yicong turns off the faucet, grabs a towel to dry herself, and puts on her nightgown.

This nightgown is silk, pale pink, a gift from Sophie when she first arrived in Toulouse. Sophie told her French girls all like wearing this kind of sleepwear—true or not, who knows.

After putting it on, Wen Yicong looks in the mirror.

The hem isn't long; thin straps hang from her shoulders, revealing large expanses of fair skin and delicate collarbones, the silk perfectly outlining a graceful, alluring feminine curve.

Wen Yicong blow-dries her hair, then opens the bathroom door.

Warm steam rushes out, meeting the warm air of the living room.

She rolls her neck, walks toward the bathroom.

Just then—'knock knock.'

A knock sounds.

Wen Yicong freezes, instinctively glances at the clock on the wall. Ten-thirty at night.

Who could it be at this hour?

She puts down the towel, walks to the door.

'Is it Luca?' Wen Yicong asks tentatively, her voice echoing clearly in the silent hallway.

No answer from outside.

Wen Yicong frowns slightly.

This apartment is fine in every way, except the peephole on the door is broken—she hasn't had time to fix it. Now, she can only see the faint light coming through from outside, but can't see the situation outside at all.

A sense of unease rises from her heart.

She hesitates for a moment, turns to take out the pepper spray from her bag, gripping it in her hand.

The metal bottle, cold to the touch, steadies her slightly.

Then Wen Yicong takes a deep breath, grips the door handle, and slowly pulls the door open a crack.

The hallway light outside is either broken or something—no light.

The entire hallway is pitch black.

Her eyes haven't yet adapted to this sudden darkness; she can only see vague outlines.

She squints.

Then, without warning, her gaze meets a pair of eyes.

Those eyes emerge from the darkness, like a beast lurking in the deep sea finally waiting for its prey to surface—deep, gloomy, bone-chillingly cold, instantly pinning her entire being in place.

Blue-black... eyes.

All the blood in Wen Yicong's body freezes in an instant; her mind goes blank, but her body reacts faster than her consciousness. Purely reflexive, she reaches out to slam the door shut.

But it's too late.

A long, powerful hand reaches out from the darkness, grabs her wrist, and yanks her hard.

'Clatter—'

The pepper spray bottle slips from her hand, bounces twice on the ground, and rolls into the corner.

Her whole body crashes into a chest.

This chest is cold and hard as iron, yet burning as fire. Suit fabric brushes her cheek; the crisp scent of cedar rushes in overwhelmingly, wrapping her entire being.

She smells that familiar scent again—the one that makes her heart pound and restless...

Wen Yicong's eyes flash with shock.

The man says nothing, pushes in, and pins her against the door.

'Bang'—a muffled sound as the door slams shut under the impact.

'Mo...' Wen Yicong opens her mouth to speak.

But the next second, the man's lips come down, kissing her with near-violent, frantic intensity.

His lips grind against hers, with a nearly brutal force, domineering and wild, scorching and out of control, as if to swallow her whole.

Wen Yicong is kissed breathless; in her panic, she instinctively reaches out to push him.

But her strength is laughably small against him; he doesn't budge, instead kissing her deeper, harder.

'Mmph... let go...' She furrows her brow, protesting indistinctly between his lips, hands pressed against his chest, pushing desperately.

The man neither responds nor stops.

The next second, apparently finding her hands too restless, the man pulls off his suit tie.

Then, the girl's two slender wrists are pulled up above her head; cool silk wraps around her wrist bones—one loop, two loops—then tightens, knotted.

Not loose, not tight, just enough that she can't break free.

'...' With her hands bound, Wen Yicong panics more, struggles hard, can't break free.

At the same time, the man applies slight force and bites her soft pink lips.

'Mmph!'

Pain and tingling assail her simultaneously; the girl can't help but let out a soft moan. Broken whimpers spill from between her lips, like a fine feather, lightly scratching the tip of one's heart.

'Mo Shaoshang, what are you doing, let go... mmph...'

After that, all of Wen Yicong's questions, protests, are eaten by the man.

He gives her no chance to speak; his tongue pries open her teeth, plunges straight in, wantonly stirring, conquering in her mouth—a violent storm that nearly strips her of even the right to breathe.

He kisses so fiercely.

Too fiercely.

A month later, kissed by him like this again, Wen Yicong's entire body trembles.

She thinks she should be afraid, should resist, should even be angry. But yet her body won't listen.

Those memories she's desperately suppressed, those sensations she thought she'd forgotten, all awaken at this moment.

She is familiar with the temperature of these thin lips, familiar with the force of his tongue teasing her, familiar with his whispers by her ear, familiar with everything he brings her...

The human body is far more honest than the mind.

In the scorching kiss, Wen Yicong's thoughts have already descended into chaos.

No...

Can't be like this...

She screams stop in her heart, but her body is as if cursed, completely out of control.

He knows her body too well.

In this matter, he has always been the most masterful performer; her body is like his most familiar instrument—every note, every beat, he knows by heart.

Wen Yicong's eyes grow wet.

The difficulty of controlling her arousal, and the shame toward this disobedient body... all kinds of emotions intertwine, making her mind increasingly chaotic.

In a daze, she nearly melts into the man's arms.

Suddenly, her back meets softness.

Mo Shaoshang lifts her entire body and places her on the bed.

This single bed, covered with the warm orange woven blanket, has borne every one of her lonely nights.

Now, her thick, curly long hair spreads across the pillow; the pale pink nightgown crumples into a heap; her two slender arms are bound by the tie, raised above her head.

Like a ripe, full, dewy peach, ready to be plucked.

After what seems like an eternity, the kiss finally subsides slightly.

Mo Shaoshang's lips leave hers.

Wen Yicong opens her misty eyes, a bit clearer.

She wants to struggle, wants to escape, but her hands are bound, she can't move at all. Her two slender wrists strain, can't break free; she can only take a few deep breaths, forcing herself to appear calm.

'Let me go.' She deliberately lowers her voice. But her voice is hoarse, utterly lacking force.

Mo Shaoshang stares at her intently, slowly straightens up.

His black suit is casually tossed to the floor, then his shirt, his gold-rimmed glasses.

The male body is revealed before Wen Yicong.

Tall, robust, powerful.

Muscles taut, wild, brimming with intense masculine hormones to the extreme.

'...' Her body nearly loses all strength; her breathing unsteady, her wet lashes trembling slightly, her heartbeat nearly exceeding limits.

Mo Shaoshang looks down, gazing at the girl on the bed from above.

'I had planned to meet you and talk properly first.' He says calmly, his fingers lightly stroking her flushed cheek. 'But Baby, you really make me very angry.'

Wen Yicong's heart trembles.

The next instant, Mo Shaoshang slightly lowers his head, one hand bracing beside her ear, the other gripping her chin, forcing her to look at him. 'Leave for a month, and you've already forgotten your man?'

Wen Yicong's heart is both afraid and chaotic; she moves her lips, wanting to say something.

'But it doesn't matter.'

The man leans down, close to her, and whispers softly by her ear: 'Very soon, you'll remember everything.'

---

Author's note: Random 100 red packet giveaway

---

The column has a new pitch 'Kiss Me by Wildfire,' part of the 'Mountains and Rivers' series, opening this year—interested readers can bookmark in advance~

Pitch:

On the eve of graduating from police academy, 22-year-old Shu Jiayu travels thousands of miles from Beicheng to Heyuan City.

Heyuan, on the border.

Various forces entrenched, all walks of life mixed together. The boundary between day and darkness is here as blurred as monsoon fog.

Late at night, she infiltrates the Abandoned Factory.

In the backlight, a tall man leans against the wall, eyes lowered, his long fingers casually toying with an unlit cigarette.

Dim light falls from the side, carving distinct light and shadow on his face—prominent brow bone, straight nose, jawline cold and hard as if carved.

Even in his most relaxed posture, he can't conceal that ultimate oppressive aura, languid yet sharp.

Like a blade that's been sharpened and seen blood.

The moment their eyes meet, Shu Jiayu is locked by the man's gaze; even her breath tightens.

The other's gaze falls on her, cold and calm, from top to bottom, seemingly without any emotion, as if confirming a number that must be absolutely correct.

After a moment, the man speaks: 'Shu Jiayu?'

Almost reflexively, she straightens her spine: '...Yes.'

'Hello, I'm Chen Wenzhou.' The man steps forward, says lightly, 'Pleased to meet you.'

Shu Jiayu's heart pounds wildly.

She's heard the name 'Chen Wenzhou.'

Captain of the National Security Special Police Unit, the stabilizing force of the entire system, the supreme commander of this operation, her direct superior.

And also...

The husband assigned to her by the organization, her fake marriage partner during the border infiltration period.

*

When he first meets Shu Jiayu, Chen Wenzhou has a bit of a headache.

The mission is arduous, nine deaths one life, the danger coefficient extremely high—how could the higher-ups send him such a quiet, pretty young girl?

When she first meets Chen Wenzhou, Shu Jiayu is especially nervous.

To spend every day with such a man, playing the role of the most intimate husband and wife—just thinking about it makes her so nervous her legs go weak.

Later, after months of cohabitation.

Shu Jiayu often has flushed cheeks, moist eyes, and her legs inexplicably weaker.

And Chen Wenzhou finally understands what it means to love someone to the bone, life and death, unable to stop.