Installing cameras in Ning Zhuo’s cell was a whim of Motobu Takeshi’s before he got injured.
No sooner had he given the order than he faced retribution.
After his injury, Jin Hu and the others were thrown into chaos, and the cameras naturally weren’t installed in time.
Thus, their cell remained relatively “clean” for now.
Taking advantage of this fleeting window of safety, Ning Zhuo made four consecutive calls, giving instructions for each.
The first was to a virtual number left by Charlemagne, informing him that things were going smoothly, he had successfully infiltrated Motobu Takeshi’s circle, and he would act independently from now on, making further contact inconvenient.
The second was to Jin Xueshen, warning that if he kept bothering him during work, Ning Zhuo would have Boss Fu arrange for Jin Xueshen to share a dorm with Yu Shifei.
The third was to Boss Fu, telling him to reassign Jin Xueshen’s dorm if he kept causing trouble.
The other side agreed with a laugh.
The fourth call was to an entirely unfamiliar number.
This conversation lasted longer than any of the others.
The other party spoke at length, while Ning Zhuo mostly responded with “Mm,” “Alright,” “As you wish,” or “I’ll arrange it properly.”
Afterward, he turned off the communicator, gripping it tightly, and lay back on the bed.
A faint burnt smell wafted near his nose.
His father’s phantom appeared by the bedside again.
With a bloodied face, he gazed at Ning Zhuo with sorrow, pain, and reproach.
It had been a while.
Ning Zhuo muttered to himself, as was his habit: “It’s not over yet. Dad, just wait a little longer…”
Suddenly, warmth and weight pressed against him—someone had pounced on him.
The person didn’t try to persuade or shake him, only leaned down and bit hard on the side of his neck.
The bite was real, no hesitation.
Ning Zhuo’s hallucination was still shallow, just beginning.
Snapped awake by the bite, he opened his eyes, realizing they’d never been closed.
Expressionless, he twisted his waist, pinning the reckless biter beneath him.
Far from dodging or fearing, Shan Feibai reached out and patted Ning Zhuo’s cheek: “Hey, awake?”
Ning Zhuo touched his neck, feeling warm blood.
He pulled his hand back, smearing the blood bit by bit onto Shan Feibai’s face, thinking he really needed a lesson.
Shan Feibai took it in stride, grinning: “You’re really awake.”
Seeing Ning Zhuo itching to make a move, Shan Feibai mimicked the tactics of an explosive android, wrapping around him like an octopus, holding tight.
His slightly elevated body heat burned against Ning Zhuo’s skin, making him uncomfortable.
Ning Zhuo ducked, standing straight up from the bed’s edge, aiming to let Shan Feibai’s head meet the iron bedframe.
But Shan Feibai, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, ducked low, dodging, his legs firmly wrapped around Ning Zhuo’s waist, hands resting on his neck, smirking down at him.
Ning Zhuo looked up at him for a moment, then grabbed his legs and flung him upward.
Shan Feibai, smug for only a second, paid the price for his height, his head smacking the ceiling with a thud.
A bump swelled instantly, and he doubled over in pain but didn’t let go, hands crossed lightly at Ning Zhuo’s nape: “Who were you talking to?”
The overly intimate gesture made Ning Zhuo uneasy.
He knew Shan Feibai’s eyes were bad, but his ears were sharp—he must have heard something.
So he brushed it off: “Talking to a ghost.”
“Is Uncle still here?” Shan Feibai looked around. “Introduce me.”
Ning Zhuo froze.
For years, he’d been haunted by his parents’ accusing phantoms in his hallucinations, occasionally seeing a charred old baby stroller, its piercing cries laced with intense anger and resentment.
The people in “Haina” were used to his odd behavior, knowing he likely had a mental wound, so they ignored it, avoiding his pain.
Yet Shan Feibai, shameless as ever, inserted himself into the conversation, wanting to join Ning Zhuo’s grim, filthy hallucinatory family.
When Ning Zhuo didn’t introduce him, Shan Feibai raised his voice, speaking to the air: “Hello, Uncle. I’m Shan Feibai. I’m…”
He paused, searching for the right word to describe his relationship with Ning Zhuo.
Soon, he found it: “Ning-ge’s good friend!”
With the bite mark on his neck still stinging, Ning Zhuo thought Shan Feibai was utterly shameless.
But after a moment’s thought, he didn’t comment.
As the old saying goes, dogs are man’s best friend.
Seeing no rebuttal, Shan Feibai secretly grinned, gently touching the bite mark he’d left on Ning Zhuo’s neck with the base of his palm, deeply satisfied.
…
Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai had little luggage, so they packed lightly and moved to the new room Motobu Takeshi had arranged.
If their old cell still resembled a “cell,” this was practically a five-star hotel room.
But better living conditions came at a cost.
—Since Motobu Takeshi personally arranged the room, it was hardly “clean.”
After the glass shard incident, Motobu Takeshi temporarily shelved his ambition to have this pair of beautiful rivals perform for him, opting for stability, content to keep the beauty close for eye candy.
With only a month and a half left in his sentence, Motobu Takeshi figured he’d indulge freely after leaving this quagmire to avoid trouble.
After hiring Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai, Motobu Takeshi finally slept soundly.
But his days were no longer carefree.
Every meal was meticulously inspected, every person approaching him subtly cleared out, as if death’s aura had seeped into his surroundings, every breath laced with germs.
Ning Zhuo was like a glamorous ghost. Usually, Motobu Takeshi could barely spot him, but whenever he relaxed, pulling a favored “duckling” close for some fun, Ning Zhuo would silently drift out from a shadowy corner, detain the person, search them thoroughly inside and out, and, confirming no hidden weapons, glide away.
Motobu Takeshi would stare, dazed, and find his appetite for the duckling reduced by eighty percent, as if they were crawling with bacteria, possibly hiding poison in unspeakable places.
Ning Zhuo was practically driving Motobu Takeshi to impotence.
Yet whenever Motobu Takeshi raised objections, Ning Zhuo would calmly and politely counter: “Someone’s trying to kill you. Did you know?”
If Jin Hu had done such annoying things, Motobu Takeshi would’ve kicked him out long ago.
But Ning Zhuo’s face was exceptional. Even with Motobu Takeshi’s vast experience with beauty, he had to admit Ning Zhuo was top-tier.
Since the 660,000 security fee was already paid, and Ning Zhuo was a fine view himself, Motobu Takeshi became unusually tolerant.
Meanwhile, Shan Feibai’s days were, like Motobu Takeshi’s, far from pleasant.
With their improved living conditions, Ning Zhuo immediately added carrot juice to Shan Feibai’s menu.
Shan Feibai resisted: “Not drinking it.”
Ning Zhuo’s response was blunt: “Try me.”
After failed negotiations, they inevitably came to blows.
Jin Hu had more than once witnessed Ning Zhuo pinning Shan Feibai down to force-feed him carrot juice, a scene nothing short of brutal.
Jin Hu couldn’t fathom why Ning Zhuo kept Shan Feibai around.
To torment an enemy? With carrot juice?
A few days ago, he’d clearly seen a vivid bite mark on Ning Zhuo’s neck, not yet scabbed, from a strong set of teeth.
Ning Zhuo’s mouth wasn’t that long—it couldn’t have been self-inflicted.
Recalling the choke marks on Shan Feibai’s neck, Jin Hu concluded Ning Zhuo had made a blunder, planting a landmine for himself.
He couldn’t understand: if they hated each other so much, why not end it quickly?
Wasn’t trouble inevitable?
What infuriated Jin Hu more was that, as fellow subordinates of Motobu, Takeshi Ning Zhuo refused to act subservient, never doing a shred of menial work, claiming his 660,000 fee covered only bodyguard duties, not nanny ones—making Jin Hu want to punch him.
Motobu Takeshi, however, was indifferent to the mercenaries’ resentment.
He’d gained a new daily pastime: watching Ning Zhuo through the surveillance feed.
Ning Zhuo’s life seemed painfully monotonous, devoid of entertainment.
He often sat in blazing sunlight, lost in thought, indistinguishable from the snow-white light, as if he might combust in the glow.
The scene lived up to his name—blazing.
Ning Zhuo had somehow acquired a punching bag to train his legs, each kick fierce and ruthless, making Motobu Takeshi instinctively close his eyes, as if those long legs might swing at his face next.
Ning Zhuo often worked himself into a sweat, then cleaned up thoroughly.
But one thing: he never fully undressed for showers or sleep, leaving Motobu Takeshi frustrated, itching to strip him bare himself.
Occasionally, when Ning Zhuo’s hypoglycemia flared, he’d pop a candy in his mouth, sit somewhere, cheeks slightly puffed, hands in pockets, looking youthful and oddly endearing.
As he watched, Motobu Takeshi marveled—how could someone with such a wild background look like this?
While admiring, Motobu Takeshi didn’t neglect his business.
He pressed Jin Hu to hurry up and find out why Lin Qin visited the prison that day.
Jin Hu went to Captain Pu Yuanzhen, directly relaying Mr. Motobu Takeshi’s request.
This left Captain Pu red-faced with embarrassment.
At the time, he’d noticed Lin Qin’s low rank and Motobu Takeshi’s lack of interest, so he put on a sour face, using every trick to shoo him away, answering only two questions and nothing more.
Now, that was a problem.
Facing Jin Hu, Captain Pu mumbled vaguely, saying it probably wasn’t a big deal and he’d look into it further.
That’s what he said, at least.
He hoped Motobu Takeshi, lost in his pleasures, would forget about it.
Four or five days later, Jin Hu returned, bringing another message from Mr. Motobu, asking what he’d found.
Now, Captain Pu knew Motobu Takeshi was serious about getting answers.
He scrambled to make amends, tapping his limited network and quickly digging up Lin Qin’s identity.
Lin Qin was the leader of the 930 Task Force, a deputy captain temporarily promoted from Chang’an District, a college graduate, a small fry with no real backing.
His “leader” title was more like a scapegoat role, with little prospect for advancement.
As for the 930 case, everyone knew what it was.
But with Pu’s rank, there was no way he could uncover any link between Ruskin’s death and Motobu Takeshi.
Seeing that Lin Qin hadn’t returned to interrogate Motobu Takeshi again, Pu comforted himself that the visit probably wasn’t important.
He briefly reported Lin Qin’s identity to Motobu Takeshi, omitting that he’d answered two of Lin Qin’s questions—it seemed trivial, and mentioning it would make him look incompetent.
Motobu Takeshi found it baffling.
What did the 930 case have to do with him?
He didn’t know Ruskin. The only connection he could think of was that Ruskin was poisoned, and Motobu Takeshi, in his spare time, dabbled in making toxins, a bit of a hobby.
At this, Motobu Takeshi laughed, dismissing Lin Qin with contempt.
Blind fool, poking around, daring to investigate me?
With this disdain, he relaxed.
After observing Ning Zhuo for half a month, Motobu Takeshi couldn’t hold back. He specifically requested a young man resembling Ning Zhuo—not too picky, just someone with that “vibe.”
This time, he was cautious. To avoid losing his appetite, he had Ning Zhuo check the person outside before sending them in.
Ning Zhuo met the “duckling” and understood but remained unfazed.
He inspected thoroughly, even checking the person’s teeth and tongue, ensuring they carried nothing dangerous before letting them pass.
Soon, beastly sounds of biting came from the room.
Ning Zhuo sat on the sofa in the outer room, suddenly raising his hand to touch the bite mark on his neck.
It had scabbed, slightly indented, close to the artery. Pressing it with his thumb, he could feel the faint pulse beneath.
He knew that little bastard Shan Feibai had sharp teeth.
But this bite, unlike the one on his finger, wouldn’t scar. By the time they got out, it’d likely be healed.
Lost in thought, Ning Zhuo glanced at Shan Feibai, sitting a foot away.
He wouldn’t look up.
At dinner, Ning Zhuo had forced another glass of carrot juice on him, and he was sulking.
Over the years, Ning Zhuo often touched the neat, round bite mark on his finger.
He was tempted to pry open that wolf cub’s mouth to see if his teeth matched his imagination.
As he mused, a sweet, strange fragrance began to fill the air, something between gardenia and orange blossom.
Shan Feibai sniffed, looked up, and locked eyes with Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo noticed his cheeks faintly flushed, making his red lips and white teeth stand out—perfect for a pretty boy role.
Ning Zhuo lifted his elbow from the sofa, feeling a lazy heat as a wild force surged through him.
…Something’s wrong!
Motobu Takeshi, lost in his passionate indulgence, was unaware he’d unwittingly set a trap.
A few breaths later, things got worse.
Blood rushed in waves, making Ning Zhuo’s heart pound like it was trembling.
Looking at Shan Feibai, he saw he wasn’t faring much better—three electronic streaks in his eyes flickered chaotically.
Shan Feibai stood abruptly but wobbled, barely steadying himself before striding toward Ning Zhuo.
He grabbed Ning Zhuo’s hand, pressing it down.
Ning Zhuo’s hand twitched instinctively.
His fists were lethal, capable of knocking out teeth, but they weren’t huge like casseroles. His hands were thin, fingers slender, showing no hint of their destructive power.
Now, his usually ice-cold hands were unusually warm.
But, like a natural cold-blooded creature, he instinctively recoiled from excessive heat.
Shan Feibai pressed harder, whispering, “…crush.”
Ning Zhuo froze, lips tightening as he let out a low curse.
This stuff was meant for bedroom use, originally “rush,” an effective inhalant drug.
After refinement, its effects were even stronger.
Once rush was banned, the improved version rebranded with a romantic, seductive name: crush.
Shan Feibai’s mind raced.
Motobu Takeshi was in a suite, lost in passion with his partner, while Jin Hu and his three lackeys guarded the door.
They were in the suite’s living room, caught in a dilemma.
Even if they acted unaffected and left, dodging Jin Hu’s crew, they wouldn’t escape cleanly.
Shan Feibai knew Motobu Takeshi’s assigned room for them was bugged.
That’s why he avoided changing in there.
But Ning Zhuo, thinking his scarred body worthless and unsightly, had no sense of privacy.
When he got hot from training, he’d wander shirtless, driving Shan Feibai crazy, wanting to throw a shirt over him—only to get scolded.
Motobu Takeshi loved spying on them but wouldn’t bother watching himself.
This room was, ironically, the safest place.
Shan Feibai, still rational, knelt halfway, asking, “Ning-ge, what do we do?”
Since his curse, Ning Zhuo hadn’t spoken, only breathing heavily.
Shan Feibai looked closer and saw trouble.
Ning Zhuo slumped on the sofa, eyes closed, chest heaving, back soaked with cold sweat in moments. His waist, no longer hidden by loose clothes, looked painfully thin, curving softly, visually striking.
He shifted his hips and legs slightly, as if restless.
Motobu Takeshi, protective of his imported plush carpet, required slippers indoors.
Ning Zhuo, overheated and weak, couldn’t bend down. He used his left slipper to tug at his right, half-pulling off his sock.
The sock left faint marks on his ankle.
His rounded ankle bone gleamed white.
Without shedding a single piece of clothing, just baring half a foot made Shan Feibai’s heart race.
Grasping the situation, Shan Feibai gritted his teeth.
—Ning Zhuo’s constitution was weak, his resistance to crush too low!
