The spot where Shan Feibai kissed Ning Zhuo reddened visibly.
Stunned for a moment, Ning Zhuo grabbed Shan Feibai’s collar, yanking him close.
But then, he hesitated.
He couldn’t decipher what that kiss meant.
Shan Feibai, all innocence, chirped, “What’s up?”
Seeing Ning Zhuo’s darkening gaze, he switched tactics, flashing a smug grin and deflecting: “The folks next door in my hometown are all European descent. They love—”
Without warning, Ning Zhuo kissed his lips.
Ning Zhuo’s lips, like his skin, were icy cold.
Pressed against Shan Feibai’s apple-juice-warmed mouth, they made his arm muscles tense, a soft “mm” escaping as his youthful, handsome face flushed red.
He parted his lips slightly, his tongue, carrying the fresh, warm apple scent, sneaking a quick lick.
Ning Zhuo’s kiss lacked finesse or feeling, driven only by an instinct to not let this habitual rival take what he wanted.
Shan Feibai’s lips and tongue radiated uniform heat, and Ning Zhuo didn’t notice the subtle move.
Ending the fierce, unromantic kiss, Ning Zhuo pulled back, glaring provocatively: “Coming from the Lower City, so copying what we see—you Upper City folks don’t smell so great either.”
He didn’t know how he looked in Shan Feibai’s eyes.
Ning Zhuo’s face, rarely so flushed, gleamed with a wild, unyielding light, his lips unusually soft and moist—a trace Shan Feibai left behind.
They locked eyes.
In the past, such a gaze meant an imminent, premeditated clash.
They were always like this—two volatile, opposing flames, destined to invade and conquer each other upon meeting.
Why?
Simple: they stood on opposite sides.
Some paid to briefly buy their loyalty, strength, and ferocity, pitting them against each other.
They were useful weapons; to the wealthy, it didn’t matter who died.
Either Ning Zhuo or Shan Feibai could’ve dodged or refused the jobs.
Silver Hammer City spanned over 2,000 square kilometers—plenty of ways to avoid each other.
Yet they always took the dangerous, challenging gigs, as if by unspoken agreement.
In truth, before every clash, they calculated who’d win, who’d come out on top.
Their boundless aggression and conquest, like a prairie gale, drove them to burn scars into each other.
They couldn’t pinpoint the source of this hostility.
Who owed who? That ledger was long past balancing.
Lately, united in purpose, they seemed to have forgotten their old rivalries.
But this stare rekindled their dormant urge to dominate.
Without warning, they launched into close-quarters combat.
But Shan Feibai’s odd start shifted the fight’s flavor.
Ning Zhuo had no intent to kill, just to teach a lesson, so he suppressed his lethal techniques.
This leveled the playing field.
Shan Feibai’s fighting style stemmed from Ning Zhuo’s, so he knew him well.
Less ferocious but strong, with a size advantage, he traded blows evenly.
Ning Zhuo didn’t go easy, locking Shan Feibai in a chokehold, pushing him to near-suffocation.
But Shan Feibai played dirty—biting, kissing, and licking Ning Zhuo’s chest. When Ning Zhuo loosened his grip, he seized the moment, elbowing his ribs. Missing once, he pulled back, locking Ning Zhuo’s lean frame in a tight embrace, legs tangling his knees, one hand gripping his waist, rubbing rhythmically.
Their bones and muscles collided repeatedly, radiating heart-pounding heat.
After the skirmish, both bore marks.
But these “marks” were peculiarly ambiguous.
Ning Zhuo’s teeth broke Shan Feibai’s lip and neck, while Shan Feibai left two round bite marks on his chest, his hands searing Ning Zhuo’s sensitive waist until it burned.
The prison’s heater was still strong, and both, rolling on the floor, glistened with a fine sheen of sweat.
Shan Feibai propped himself up, looming over Ning Zhuo.
Disliking the position, Ning Zhuo flipped them with a side press.
Shan Feibai didn’t mind, wrapping his arms around Ning Zhuo’s neck and pecking his chin.
Ning Zhuo’s brow twitched, about to continue this peculiar “attack game,” when he felt an unusual heat.
Shan Feibai sensed it too, his smug expression collapsing.
No need to look down—he was unmistakably aroused.
Having been through this once, Ning Zhuo was unfazed, teasing: “Last time it was my back; now it’s my stomach. You just love pressing against me?”
Shan Feibai, mortified, stayed silent.
Ning Zhuo gripped his neck lightly, half-serious, half-mocking: “Little bastard. Should I neuter you?”
Young and flustered, Shan Feibai pushed his shoulders. “Let me up!”
But Ning Zhuo, in high spirits, refused.
He flicked him playfully. “Say you lost.”
Shan Feibai bit his torn lip, licking it lightly, then muttered through gritted teeth: “…Lost.”
Only then did Ning Zhuo let him up, watching him flee to the bathroom.
Leaning against the bathroom door, Shan Feibai touched the bloody mark on his lip, smiling silently, his eyes crinkling into crescent moons.
Outside, Ning Zhuo covered his eyes with his arm, chest heaving, feeling the tingling burn of the bites.
He cursed with a laugh: “Childish.”
He was scolding himself.
Spending too much time with a punk like Shan Feibai had rubbed off on him.
…
Luckily, their release date was near.
Their prison stint was a secret, so no one from “Haina” or “Panqiao” would pick them up.
As for Lin Qin, he’d been too busy to show up.
Ning Zhuo had no desire to see his old friend, preferring distance.
His absence was a relief.
Shan Feibai asked, “How’re we getting back?”
Ning Zhuo pulled out his communicator: “Call a car.”
“Calling a car” meant summoning a nearby driverless taxi. Passengers scanned their ID, then chose to drive or set a destination for autopilot.
Fifteen years ago, these vehicles had replaced taxi drivers entirely.
No matter how the jobless protested, their trade, like many replaceable ones, was erased from Silver Hammer City’s history.
Five minutes later, a dark gray sedan pulled up smoothly in front of them.
Empty-handed, with no luggage, they were as unburdened as when they arrived—ready to go anywhere.
Shan Feibai moved toward the driver’s seat, but Ning Zhuo kneed his waist from behind.
With a “move” glance, Ning Zhuo said, “I’m driving.”
He always preferred controlling the wheel.
Shan Feibai didn’t care, slipping into the passenger seat.
Settling in, he asked, “Where to?”
He raised a hand: “Somewhere with good food!”
Ning Zhuo shot him a look. “Manners.”
Shan Feibai, indignant: “We’re out of jail! Can’t we eat well?”
Ning Zhuo considered, pointing to the navigation. “Pick.”
Meaning, he’d let him choose a place with “good food.”
Shan Feibai cheered, leaning to tweak the navigation.
Ning Zhuo idled at the curb, but seeing him dawdle, he floored the gas.
The car lurched forward.
Caught off guard, Shan Feibai nearly bashed his head on the navigation.
He whined, “What the hell!”
But his playful grievance didn’t match his humorless eyes.
Like a seasoned prairie wolf, his ears twitched, and he glanced back silently.
Ning Zhuo mirrored him, saying coldly, “Teaching you a lesson.”
…Someone was in the trunk.
No breathing—likely a bioroid.
Ning Zhuo’s sudden acceleration had caused a faint thud of something hitting the trunk’s wall.
The sound was nearly imperceptible.
But for blood-licking mercenaries, the slightest stir was enough to put them on edge.
—Someone was tracking them, wanting to see where they’d go post-release.
With Motobu Takeshi still missing, they were chasing every lead.
The trunk of a driverless taxi wasn’t connected to the cabin. To check, they’d need to stop, circle back, and open it.
The other side was likely on high alert.
Any move, and it’d be ready to fight.
They had no weapons on hand.
If the other side had a firearm, it’d be trouble.
Shan Feibai’s eyes asked: Switch cars?
Ning Zhuo gripped the wheel, straightening, his gaze cool as he shook his head.
No.
He had a plan.
Shan Feibai guessed it, quickly buckling up, waving forward with a buoyant tone, like a spirited young sailor: “Picked! Let’s go!”
