The Maybach glided through the iron gates of the He Estate like a silent ghost reclaiming its territory.
Outside the reinforced windows, the landscape shifted from the neon-streaked grime of the Third District to a surreal, manicured paradise. Rolling emerald lawns, weeping willows illuminated by hidden golden spotlights, and a driveway paved with crushed white marble that crunched under the tires like bone.
Inside the car, the air was suffocatingly thick.
Chu Ci sat huddled in the corner of the plush leather seat, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He Chen's arm was still draped across his waist, a possessive, heavy weight that felt more like a shackle than an embrace. The Alpha's scent—that overwhelming, scorched sandalwood—was beginning to recede into a low, thrumming purr, but the damage was done.
Chu Ci's body was a traitor. Every nerve ending that had spent a decade screaming in pain was now humming with a terrifying, drug-like euphoria.
The car purred to a halt in front of the main mansion—a neoclassical monstrosity of white stone and arrogance.
"We're here," He Chen said. His voice was no longer a rasp; it had regained its silk-wrapped steel, the authority of a man who owned the world once again.
He Chen exited the car first. For a moment, Chu Ci watched him through the door. The Director stood under the portico, adjusting his cuffs, his silhouette perfect, his power restored. It was as if the sweating, desperate beast of ten minutes ago had never existed.
Then, He Chen reached back into the car, offering a hand.
Chu Ci stared at the manicured palm. He didn't take it. Instead, he grabbed the door frame and hauled himself out.
The moment his left foot hit the marble, a sickening cluck-grind echoed from his metal brace. The antique mechanism, rusted by the humidity of the slums, didn't handle the uneven surface well. Chu Ci stumbled, his shoulder slamming into the side of the car.
A group of white-gloved servants stood nearby, their faces masks of professional indifference, though their eyes flickered with a disdain they couldn't entirely hide. To them, Chu Ci looked like a stray dog dragged into a cathedral.
"Don't touch me," Chu Ci hissed as He Chen moved to steady him. He straightened his cheap, neon-striped security vest, his jaw set in a line of pure defiance. "I can walk. I've been walking on this piece of junk for ten years without your help."
He Chen's eyes darkened, a flash of guilt flickering in the amber depths. But he stepped back, giving Chu Ci the space to limp up the grand staircase, one agonizing, metallic step at a time.
The interior of the mansion was a museum of the He family's ego.
Crystal chandeliers hung like frozen explosions from the vaulted ceilings. The air didn't smell like the city; it smelled of expensive beeswax, old money, and the cold, floral scent of "civilized" Omegas.
Standing at the top of the grand staircase was a woman who looked like she had been carved from the same marble as the floors. Madam He. She wore a gown of midnight blue silk, her hair pinned back in a style so tight it looked painful. Her eyes—identical to He Chen's but stripped of any warmth—swept over Chu Ci like he was a stain on the rug.
"He Chen," she said, her voice a polished blade. "I was told you were bringing a... solution. I didn't realize you were bringing the trash back from the curb."
Chu Ci stopped three steps below her. He felt the phantom itch of an old slap on his cheek—a memory from ten years ago when this woman had stood in this very spot and told him he was a "leech" on her son's future.
He didn't bow. He didn't lower his gaze. Instead, he pulled out a crumpled pack of cheap cigarettes, tucked one between his lips, and clicked a rusted plastic lighter.
Flick. Flick.
The flame illuminated the scar beneath his ear.
"Madam He," Chu Ci drawled, blowing a cloud of acrid, grey smoke directly into the pristine air. "Nice to see the decor hasn't changed. Still looks like a funeral home for people who aren't dead yet."
The servants gasped. Madam He's face turned a dangerous shade of pale.
"He Chen! Get this... creature out of my sight!"
"He's not leaving, Mother," He Chen intervened. He stepped up beside Chu Ci, his presence instantly eclipsing the tension. He didn't look at his mother; he looked at the back of Chu Ci's head, his gaze heavy and unreadable. "He is a 96% match. He is the only reason my core hasn't collapsed tonight. From now on, he lives here. In the room next to mine."
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crack the floorboards.
"You would install a... a crippled stray in the heart of this house?" Madam He hissed.
"I would install a god if it kept me stable," He Chen replied coldly. "And right now, Chu Ci is more important than any god."
He Chen led Chu Ci into the private study—a room filled with leather-bound books and the scent of power. On the mahogany desk lay a single sheet of paper.
The Consensual Medical Provision Agreement.
"Sign it," He Chen said, handing him a fountain pen that probably cost more than Chu Ci's apartment.
Chu Ci scanned the document. "Fifty thousand?" He laughed, a dry, bitter sound. He tossed the pen onto the desk. "You're low-balling me, Director. Ten years of my life, a ruined leg, and a deaf ear—you think fifty grand a month covers the interest on that debt?"
He Chen leaned over the desk, his shadow looming over Chu Ci. "What do you want, then? Name it."
"I want the truth," Chu Ci said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "The night of the fire. You were unconscious. You didn't see who stayed. Why did you believe it was Lin Shu?"
He Chen's expression froze. "Lin Shu was there when I woke up. He had the burns on his hands..."
"He had superficial blisters from a curling iron, you idiot!" Chu Ci slammed his hand onto the desk, the metal of his brace rattling against the wood. "I was the one who crawled through the vents! I was the one your mother's men found bleeding on the lawn and threw into a van because I 'didn't fit the narrative'!"
The air in the room suddenly turned electric. He Chen's pheromones flared—not in anger, but in a chaotic wave of realization. He grabbed Chu Ci's shoulders, his grip bruising.
"If that's true... if you were the one..."
"It doesn't matter if it's true," Chu Ci spat, shoving him back. He picked up the pen and scrawled his name at the bottom of the contract with a violent, jagged hand. "The past is dead. This isn't about love, He Chen. This is about survival."
He threw the pen at He Chen's chest.
"I'll take the fifty thousand. And I'll stay in your house. But every time you look at me, I want you to remember: you're not breathing because of your wealth or your status. You're breathing because a 'stray' was stupid enough to save you once."
Chu Ci turned and limped toward the door, the cluck-grind of his leg echoing like a clock ticking down to a disaster.
Behind him, He Chen stood paralyzed, the signed contract in his hand feeling like a death warrant.