While Motobu Takeshi anxiously plotted his escape, Shan Feibai woke up.
His eyes darted around, spotting a tall figure in the shadowy corner of the hospital room, speaking into a communicator.
Shan Feibai, lying in bed, let out a shameless series of whimpers.
As expected, the conversation paused, and the speaker’s pace quickened.
After wrapping up, Ning Zhuo ended the call and approached the bed, looking down at Shan Feibai. “Awake?”
The bravery Shan Feibai had shown when he took the knife was gone, replaced by a sudden, delicate fragility.
His handsome face was pale, his eyes watery. “Ning-ge, it hurts.”
Ning Zhuo’s brows furrowed, his tone icy. “Serves you right. Who told you to block it?”
Shan Feibai had his reasoning. “If it didn’t hit me, it would’ve hit you, Ning-ge.”
Ning Zhuo: “That thing was after Motobu Takeshi.”
Shan Feibai grinned. “No way, Ning-ge, don’t trick me. I’ve never seen an assassination-specialized bioroid with such bad aim. That first throw should’ve nailed Benbu’s head.”
Ning Zhuo didn’t respond.
His gaze shifted, noticing a single eyelash on the pillow—long, slightly curled, likely Shan Feibai’s.
Shan Feibai shifted his hips. “Hug me.”
Ning Zhuo knew he was worried about eavesdroppers and wanted to whisper something close.
He’d already checked the room—it was clean.
Still, Ning Zhuo leaned in, propping one arm by the pillow, pretending to adjust the blanket.
Shan Feibai mustered his strength, lowering his voice. “I’m worried about you. Your employer doesn’t want to kill Motobu Takeshi directly in prison, but they could use this chance to silence you.”
Ning Zhuo leaned closer, silent.
“Now the plan’s almost set. If you die or get seriously injured, Motobu Takeshi might choose to leave prison early.”
Shan Feibai’s hand lightly pressed against Ning Zhuo’s neck. “So, to them, you’re no longer useful. A dead man keeps secrets forever.”
Ning Zhuo’s eyes lowered.
He’d thought of this but didn’t care much.
Killing him wouldn’t be so easy.
He was tough to kill.
He said, “I don’t die that easily.”
“I know. But I’m not happy about it.” Shan Feibai said, “The only scars on you should be from me. If someone else leaves one, I’d have to figure out how to cut it open and make it mine. That’s such a hassle.”
Ning Zhuo thought this was utterly barbaric talk and tried to straighten up, but Shan Feibai not only didn’t let go—he tightened his grip around Ning Zhuo’s neck.
If Ning Zhuo moved again, it would tug at Shan Feibai’s freshly healed wound.
Even though Ning Zhuo stopped immediately, Shan Feibai’s reckless effort made him gasp, cold sweat beading on his forehead.
Ning Zhuo’s expression shifted. “What are you doing? Let go!”
Shan Feibai instantly switched to a pitiful look. “Don’t go. I’m scared of the dark.”
Ning Zhuo: “…Have you no shame?”
Shan Feibai, all pitiful: “I’ll hire you for the night, okay? Stay with me; don’t go anywhere. I can’t move—what if someone tries to silence me?”
Ning Zhuo knew he was faking it.
He asked, “How much to hire me?”
Shan Feibai calculated seriously. “Twenty thousand.”
Weak but with a hint of pride, he gestured, “I’m worth more than Motobu Takeshi.”
Ning Zhuo snorted, bending back down. “Comparing yourself to him? How low can you go?”
Shan Feibai didn’t reply, just clutched his chest, panting softly, playing the delicate young master.
Ning Zhuo thought, He’s paying, so I’ll give him face.
He sat back down smoothly and asked his temporary employer, “When’s the payment coming?”
Shan Feibai, still gasping, sat up to grab his communicator for the transfer, grumbling, “Money-grubber.”
Ning Zhuo: “Not as bad as you, little master.”
Shan Feibai: “Not a puppy tonight?”
Ning Zhuo sat by the bed, arms crossed. “Not tonight. You paid.”
Shan Feibai laughed carelessly. “That’s great, then.”
Ning Zhuo poured him a glass of water and grabbed some fruit from the bedside, washing and peeling it carefully.
Shan Feibai was surprised to see Ning Zhuo was quite adept at caregiving.
He peeled apples into perfect rabbit shapes, quick, skilled, and natural, arranging them neatly on a plate, looking tidy and cute.
Then, Ning Zhuo checked the thickness of Shan Feibai’s blanket, noticing he was sweating slightly. He rang for a nurse, requesting a thinner, softer one.
The male nurse, knowing Ning Zhuo was Motobu Takeshi’s current favorite, scurried to fetch a lightweight goose-down quilt.
Ning Zhuo tucked it around him meticulously.
Throughout, his face remained expressionless.
Back when Ning Zhuo was still in Haina, he’d taken on the responsibility of caring for his sick mother.
Shan Feibai had lived with him briefly as a child.
He’d always thought Ning Zhuo was a dull, lifestyle-ignorant idiot, which was why he wanted to bring all the world’s excitement to him.
But now he realized Ning Zhuo knew how to live well.
Yet he chose to live like this.
Simple meals, cold beds, not even picking a soft, comfortable blanket—as if enduring a long penance or self-punishment.
Shan Feibai stared at him intently.
Ning Zhuo’s scalp prickled under the gaze. He looked up. “What are you staring at?”
Shan Feibai: “Watching Ning-ge be good to me.”
Ning Zhuo: “…You paid.”
Shan Feibai, curious: “What do you do with all that money?”
Ning Zhuo: “None of your business.”
Shan Feibai: “Just chatting.”
Ning Zhuo didn’t want to discuss it, casually saying, “Raising a dog.”
Shan Feibai froze, his cheeks flushing, his expression oddly delighted.
Ning Zhuo: “…”
He suspected this guy had grown fond of being called a dog.
Before he could speak, his long-silent communicator buzzed again.
Ning Zhuo glanced down.
Caller: Jin Xueshen.
He’d been quiet for a while, but calling now meant he’d reached his limit.
Ning Zhuo stuffed a rabbit-shaped apple into Shan Feibai’s mouth to shut him up and walked back to the corner.
As soon as he answered, Jin Xueshen’s roar came through from a hundred kilometers away.
“Ning Zhuo! I can handle you sleeping with that Yu guy! But you better tell me right now—what the hell are you doing?”
“One-point-two million, six hundred sixty thousand, just got twenty thousand, then two million!”
“What kind of work are you doing?!”
They’d taken high-paying jobs before.
But high pay always came with high risk, proportional to the reward.
Ning Zhuo had been out of touch for two months!
Jin Xueshen fumed, “Tell me now! Or tell me where you are—I’ll come find you!”
“I’m just working three jobs at once,” Ning Zhuo said. “If you’re smart, you’ll keep the money safe for me.”
Jin Xueshen pressed, “Working for who?”
Ning Zhuo: “That’s my business.”
Jin Xueshen: “Your business is ‘Haina’s’ business! Let’s be clear—if you get yourself killed out there, I’m leaving. I’m not cleaning up your mess!”
Ning Zhuo thought, He didn’t mention ‘Panqiao.’
That meant they were behaving themselves.
Maybe even getting along.
Leaning against the wall, Ning Zhuo called his name. “Jin Xueshen.”
His tone was sharp. “What?!”
Ning Zhuo glanced at Shan Feibai on the bed, a sudden inspiration striking. Mimicking Shan Feibai’s tone, he asked, “Are you worried about me?”
Silence.
The silence on the other end stretched on.
After a dozen seconds, Jin Xueshen, red-faced with fury, exploded. “Pah! Ning Zhuo, have you no shame?! Who taught you to talk like that? You—you—straighten your tongue and speak properly! Care about you? I’d rather care about that Yu guy! I’m telling you, get your ass back here now. I’m done with this job! You come back, and I’m gone!”
After venting without pause, the deeply rattled Jin Xueshen abruptly ended the call, terrified of what else might come out of Ning Zhuo’s “dog mouth.”
Ning Zhuo looked at the disconnected communicator, muttering to himself, “Thirty-seventh time he’s said he’s leaving.”
He tucked the communicator away and walked lightly back to Shan Feibai’s bedside.
As Shan Feibai slowly, gleefully chewed his apple, Ning Zhuo’s eyes caught the eyelash on the pillow again.
Unconsciously, Ning Zhuo picked it up, studying Shan Feibai’s discolored eye while listening to his cheerful nonsense, gently rolling the long, curled eyelash between his fingertips.
He thought, Yes, it’s his.
…
On the other side.
Motobu Takeshi’s anxiety didn’t last long.
Bao Zhao was far more efficient than Jin Hu.
Two hours after leaving, with Motobu Takeshi’s eyes bloodshot from staying up, Bao Zhao called.
On the phone, he spoke low and fast. “It’s arranged. We can leave anytime. What do you think…”
Motobu Takeshi: “Where are you?”
Bao Zhao answered crisply, “Just outside the prison. Two black hovercars, no plates. I’m with you in the first one; the others are in the second.”
Motobu Takeshi had previously found the prison conditions lacking, often leaving the area for business or pleasure, always covering his tracks.
But after gradually turning the prison into a comfortable haven, he’d stopped wandering as much.
Inside or out, it was the same carefree life.
Setting down the communicator, Motobu Takeshi felt the shadow of death lift from his mind.
He stood, excitedly stomping his feet, pacing the room before noticing something off. “Where’s Ning Zhuo?”
One of Bao Zhao’s men quickly replied, “He’s visiting Shan Feibai.”
Motobu Takeshi responded indifferently, “Oh.”
Whether Shan Feibai lived or died had nothing to do with him.
He’d paid for their services—of course, it was worth someone’s life.
But a flicker of doubt crossed his mind: Weren’t Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai supposed to be bitter enemies who’d rather see each other dead?
On second thought, he figured it out.
Motobu Takeshi had heard from Jin Hu about the bad blood between Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai.
Ning Zhuo’s concern for Shan Feibai’s survival was likely tied to the merger between “Haina” and “Panqiao.”
If both went out but only Ning Zhuo returned alive, “Panqiao” wouldn’t stand for it.
Eager to leave, and having had his fill of ogling beauties, Motobu Takeshi felt the money was well spent.
At the critical moment, his life took priority.
In their contract, Ning Zhuo had explicitly stated he wouldn’t accompany him out of prison.
That meant their agreement was now void.
Motobu Takeshi had planned to see Ning Zhuo one last time, maybe chat a bit, but the thought of also greeting the gravely injured Shan Feibai filled him with disgust. He scrapped the idea and began dressing.
Under the cover of night, Motobu Takeshi, suited up and spritzed with cologne, strode out the side door with his men’s protection.
At that moment, in the First Prison of Yatebo District, all the spotlights that tirelessly monitored inmates, illuminating every corner in stark white, went out one by one for Motobu Takeshi.
The world sank into an inky, deathly silence.
No stars, no moon—only a ghostly white lamp swaying, guiding a group of figures hurrying forward.
Stepping out the door and looking around, Motobu Takeshi saw the two luxury hovercars parked as described.
Bao Zhao leaned halfway out of the back seat, waving to him.
Motobu Takeshi smiled, walking toward him.
His prison days were about to end early.
What he saw wasn’t Bao Zhao’s hand but the beckoning of a beautiful, free life.
Motobu Takeshi had a habit of never looking at the faces of “lowly” people he deemed beneath him.
So, he never closely examined the “Barbie Doll,” missing her fake eye.
He never scrutinized the kindly fat chef, missing his bioroid nature.
Likewise, he didn’t notice the barely concealed panic and fear in Bao Zhao’s expression.
…
Tonight was destined to be sleepless for many.
It was Pu Yuanzhen’s shift again.
Startled awake by an emergency summons, he was already stark naked.
Having anxiously seen Motobu Takeshi off, he felt he’d accomplished a major task, downing several drinks to help him sleep.
Just as he drifted off, the piercing ring of his bedside alarm jolted him upright, a wave of fury surging through him.
What could be so damn important?!
He answered gruffly, “Who?!”
The next second, he softened like a lamb. “…Warden? Yes, it’s me. I’m here, I didn’t… didn’t leave my post… What’s happened?”
The warden’s voice was heavy, ordering him to the meeting room immediately, giving him three minutes.
Captain Pu Yuanzhen scrambled to the room, his pants still loosely hanging on his hips.
Under the harsh lights, his sleepy eyes met the peculiar-looking Lin Qin again.
Like a fish out of water, Pu opened his mouth but said nothing.
“We’re here to interrogate Motobu Takeshi,” Lin Qin stated bluntly. “He needs to cooperate with the 930 task force investigation.”
At this, Pu’s entire body shook, his hair standing on end.
He immediately looked to the warden, his expression pleading.
Fifteen minutes ago, the warden had personally allowed Motobu Takeshi to leave.
The warden didn’t move, casting a mild glance at him. “Captain Pu, where is he?”
The alcohol Pu had just consumed turned into a flood of sweat, rolling down his back and cheeks. His legs itched and went numb, barely able to hold him up.
He knew full well Motobu Takeshi’s cell was empty.
Trying to stay calm, he attempted the same excuse as before. “You’ve come at a bad time. Mr. Motobu Takeshi is gravely ill, so if you—”
Lin Qin swiftly produced an investigation order stamped with the “White Shield” seal. “We have a witness stating Motobu Takeshi is linked to the 930 incident. We’ve secured an investigation order. Bring him to us now.”
“‘930’?”
Pu’s head roared with rushing blood, choking his throat.
He forced his tongue to move, murmuring, “Mr. Motobu Takeshi was in prison then. He couldn’t possibly—”
The words slipped out, and Pu’s blood ran cold.
Done for.
Lin Qin, sensing his odd demeanor, stared at him through his bandages. “Then let Mr. Motobu Takeshi speak for himself. Where is he now?”
In the suffocating silence, Lin Qin nodded. “You just said he’s ‘gravely ill.’ So, he’s in the infirmary, right?”
Behind Lin Qin stood the entire 930 task force.
He raised a hand, calmly ordering, “Go in. Search.”
Meanwhile, Motobu Takeshi, wrapped in the night’s chill, plopped into the pre-arranged hovercar, slamming the door shut and enclosing himself in its warmth.
The car was fully equipped, spacious enough for him to throw a small party with company on both sides.
He sighed comfortably, shifting his hips on the soft leather seat and sitting upright. “It’s freezing out there. Drive.”
No one responded to his command.
For Motobu Takeshi, this was highly unusual.
He opened the eyes he’d been about to close.
Besides the driver, three others sat in the back with him, all rugged and strong.
But except for Bao Zhao, they were unfamiliar faces.
Motobu Takeshi turned his head, meeting Bao Zhao’s face, a mix of despair and unease.
Looking down, he saw a thick steel chain shackled to Bao Zhao’s right ankle.
A chill ran through Motobu Takeshi. As he reached for the door to escape, the man beside him grabbed his neck, plunging a needle into his jugular!
Motobu Takeshi’s ugly face flushed red, his throat gurgling as his body went limp, slumping like a snake with its joints unstrung.
A woman slowly turned from the front seat.
Until she did, Motobu Takeshi hadn’t even realized someone was there.
She was like a gaunt night owl, lurking in the shadows, her predatory eyes waiting for her prey to walk into her trap.
Her once sleek, impeccable black hair had become disheveled and gray in just two months, her face etched with puppet-like lines, looking eerily terrifying under the car’s dim light.
Madame Charlemagne clasped her hands before her, her face like iron. “Mr. Motobu Takeshi, thank you for taking such good care of my son.”
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