Struggling against his own exhaustion, he manages to reach his arm over to the nightstand beside him. Hazily, he reaches for the remote in desperation, finally remembering Dong Yingming's instructions before he had left. He succeeds and begins to rapidly push a button, not realizing it wasn't the correct remote.
The fever had dulled the world into shadows and pulses.
Yao Ziyang lay in bed, half-conscious, body curled weakly beneath the tangled red blanket. The air was thick and heavy with bitter herbal residue. The only sound resonated throughout was the small clicks of the remotes button.
Then—
Knock. Knock.
The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed too loud in the stillness. His heart jumped.
Not footsteps of concern. Not quiet, purposeful movement like his. This was different—off. Heavy boots thudded against the floor, impatient. Irritated. The door groaned open.
A low grunt followed. "Tch. Okay, okay, I'm here. Quit spamming that annoying call button!"
Yao Ziyang didn't open his eyes fully. Just a slit. Enough to glimpse the silhouette filling the doorway—broad-shouldered, slouched, carrying the lazy air of someone who didn't want to be here. A cigarette hung from the corner of his mouth, its ember briefly casting an orange glow over a scarred jawline and a tired scowl.
A guard.
Not the one who smirked with too much curiosity. This one was rougher, plainer. Older, maybe—but not by much. Still young enough to resent orders. Still low-ranked enough to have something to prove. His uniform was wrinkled. His hands were bare.
He stepped in without ceremony, letting the cell door clang shut behind him.
"Should've let the fever do its job."
He muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
"Babysitting some pampered little boy toy…"
His voice trailed off as he crossed the room with slow, heavy steps. Each one rang louder than it should've. Yao Ziyang's skin prickled, his breath shallow. His fingers tensed beneath the blanket, his thumb continuously pushing on the remote.
The guard hovered at the edge of the bed now, looking down with a sneer tugging at his lips. He didn't touch him—but the air shifted like he might.
"Alright, I'm here already, speak."
He said bitterly.
"What do you want?"
"C-cold…"
A delicate and hoarse whisper answered from under the shivering blankets. Then, as if remembering who he served, the guard clicked his tongue and turned away, muttering.
"Tch. Seriously, you used the wrong remote! The one for the temperature is here."
He impatiently rips the remote from Yao Ziyang's hand and takes the other remote from the nightstand. After adjusting the cells temperature, the guard couldn't help admiring Yao Ziyang's flushed face.
"Damn, no wonder Boss Dong cares for you. That pretty face isn't just for show, right?"
Suddenly, his throat goes dry as an unappealing smirk creeps onto his face. An inexplicable dirty thought crosses his mind as he goes to reach for Yao Ziyang's sweat slick cheek.
The door slammed open again at the moment before contact.
…
Dong Yingming had just arrived at the warden's office door. Chang Xiao followed slightly behind, afriad of incuring a more thorough beating from his boss. Lifting his right hand, Dong Yingming nonchalantly knocks on the glass window.
Soon after its hinges smoothly opened allowing entry to the two men. Inside, behind a large mahogany desk sit the warden.
Liu Liang was written in golden lettering on his name tag.
Warden Liu was the kind of man who exuded quiet authority.
Tall, lean, and impeccably groomed, he wore his uniform like it was custom-made. His white shirt was always crisp, his black tie perfectly knotted, not a wrinkle out of place. Silver-framed glasses sat straight on the bridge of his nose, catching the light just enough to give him a thoughtful, almost scholarly air. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back, and not even a bead of sweat ever graced his brow—even in the sweltering heat of the cell blocks.
To the outside world, he was the model of discipline: punctual, principled, and proud of his spotless record. He made speeches about reform and rehabilitation. He shook hands with government officials, smiled for the cameras during inspections, and quoted law with the precision of a man who had memorized every line.
But behind his glass office door and beneath that polished surface was rot.
Deep rot.
Warden Liu didn't serve justice. He served power.
He was on Dong Yingming's payroll—handsomely paid for silence, favors, and blind eyes. He kept the guard schedules flexible, "accidentally" reassigned certain inmates to isolated wings, and rerouted supply chains when needed. For the right price, he could make evidence disappear, visitors pass through unnoticed, or a prisoner suddenly be "transferred" to a black site no one ever talked about.
He justified it all, of course.
"I maintain balance."
He once said in a private meeting, sipping aged whiskey from a crystal glass.
"Some people play chess. I keep the board from breaking."
His office was sterile—no personal photos, no clutter—but behind a locked cabinet lay a hidden ledger. Transactions. Codes. Names. Proof that he was no servant of justice, but a polished, well-dressed puppet of the man who truly ran the prison from the shadows.
To the public, he was incorruptible.
To Dong Yingming, he was useful.
And in this world, useful was the only thing keeping his head above water.
The office reeked of false respectability.
Dark wood panels lined the walls, polished to a dull sheen, and heavy burgundy curtains muffled the outside world. On the desk sat a jade paperweight, a clock that ticked too loudly, and a meticulously arranged set of calligraphy brushes—never touched. Everything was in place. Too in place. Like a stage dressed for a performance.
Warden Liu sat behind the desk, back straight, hands folded neatly over a file he hadn't read. His face wore the stern, time-worn look of a man who'd long ago mastered the art of appearing virtuous. His uniform was crisp, not a thread out of place. But his eyes—narrow and calculating—betrayed everything beneath the surface.
"I see you've taken to a fellow inmate."
Warden Liu didn't beat around the bush and went straight to the topic he wished to discuss. Dong Yingming paid no mind to it and replied casually.
"Yes. He's sick at the moment and is recovering, however it may take longer then originally planned."
Dong Yingming gave a brief recount of what the situation with Yao Ziyang was as he took a seat. No greetings. No pretense. Just a black coat draped over broad shoulders. He moved like a man with nothing to prove—slow, deliberate, dangerous in the stillness.
He sat cross legged, ankle on knee, and hands interlocking each other. His posture made it seem he was merely entertaining an old friend. A complete opposite of Warden Liu who leaned foward, hands clasped together like he was here for serious business.
"I'm warning you, Dong Yingming. Don't overstep."
This sentence brought a chuckle to Dong Yingming's lips. However, unlike with Yao Ziyang, this laughter was sinister and devoid of emotion. He sneered at the attitude he was receiving from this old man. To dare challenge him meant this old sly fox wanted something.
At the snap of his fingers, Chang Xiao, who stood behind the chair, reached into the inside of his uniform. From his hand, he presented a black envelope and placed it on the desk.
Thick. Heavy. Silent.
Warden Liu glanced at it only briefly, then returned his gaze to the man before him.
"Ahem. Your… guest. He's drawing attention. Some of the guards are asking questions."
Dong Yingming said nothing. Chang Xiao could only give a slight glare.
Warden Liu's lips pressed into a flat line in dissatisfaction.
"If a disciplinary review were to happen, there are things even I wouldn't be able to bury."
Dong Yingming snapped his fingers again. Chang Xiao once again reached into his coat and set down a second envelope—smaller, but shinier. Gold-trimmed.
Liu's fingers twitched.
A long silence passed between them.
Immediately, Warden Liu's eyes lit up like a little boy on Christmas. His stern and scholarly face twisted into a satisfying smug look full of greed. Finally, Warden Liu let out a dry chuckle, almost too quiet to be real.
"Of course. You've always understood the cost of… discretion."
Dong Yingming tilted his head slightly.
"And you've always known how to count."
The warden lunged forward, and slipped both envelopes into the drawer of his desk as if someone would take them if he didn't act fast enough. He closed it with a quiet click.
"Consider it handled!"
He cheerfully said.
"Your guest will remain… undisturbed."
Dong Yingming nodded once. No thanks. No unnecessary words.
Getting up, as he turned to leave, Warden Liu spoke again—voice lower, with a glint of fear beneath the oily calm.
"He must be important to you. Risky, even for you."
Dong Yingming paused at the door, casting a cold glance over his shoulder.
"I can afford to take risks."
He viciously informed. Though unneeded, he still felt an urge to completely own Yao Ziyang in front of others.
"Because I protect what's mine. No matter the cost."
Then he disappeared down the corridor, leaving behind the scent of clove cigarettes and something colder—unspoken threat, sealed with cash and control.