CHAPTER ONE — BE GOOD AND DON'T BE AFRAID
(Safe British‑English retelling)
Heat. A suffocating, blistering heat that seemed to pulse beneath her skin. It pressed against Tang Kexin's skull as though trying to split it clean in two. Every nerve felt raw, every thought slipping away into a thick, dizzying haze that threatened to swallow her whole.
She forced herself to breathe slowly, deliberately. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. Anything to keep her mind from drifting into the fog that clung to her like smoke.
Something was wrong. Terribly, unmistakably wrong.
She remembered being on a mission — sharp, precise, controlled, the sort of operation she could carry out even half‑asleep. And then… nothing. A blank stretch of memory where the rest of the night should have been. A void thick enough to choke on.
Drugged. She must have been drugged.
The thought was almost absurd. She was a military doctor of high rank, a respected psychologist, and someone who could identify a sedative from across a crowded room. Very few people in the world had the skill — or the nerve — to slip something past her defences.
Yet here she was.
Footsteps scraped outside the door. A man's voice followed — low, unpleasant, and attempting to whisper but failing miserably. Even through the fog clouding her mind, the tone was enough to chill her blood.
She didn't know the full situation, but she understood the danger well enough.
She needed to move. To escape. To do something — anything.
But her limbs felt impossibly heavy, as though her bones had turned to lead. Her muscles refused to obey her. Whatever she'd been given was potent — far stronger than anything she'd encountered before.
She pushed herself up, or tried to, and her hand brushed against something on the mattress. Before she could register what it was, the bed gave way beneath her with a sudden, sharp jolt.
The world dropped out from under her.
She fell — straight down — and landed not on cold floorboards, but on something uneven. Something warm. Something that shifted beneath her.
Someone.
A man.
Even through the haze, she sensed him clearly: a cool, steady presence, his aura sharp enough to slice through the fog in her mind. It wrapped around her like a cold wind — startling, bracing, and strangely grounding.
Her breath caught. Her thoughts scattered. The heat in her veins surged wildly, as though her body were desperately reaching for something solid to anchor itself to.
The man beneath her tensed. She couldn't see his face in the darkness, but she felt the sudden, icy stillness radiating from him. A stillness that carried danger — real, lethal danger.
If he'd been capable of moving, she had no doubt he would have thrown her off. Or worse.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
When he finally spoke, his voice was faint and rough, as though dragged from somewhere deep within him.
"Be good… and don't be afraid."
The words drifted through her fogged mind, half‑dream, half‑warning. She couldn't tell whether he meant to reassure her or threaten her.
Her awareness flickered. She felt a hand at her waist — not guiding, not comforting, but gripping with a strength that suggested he was fighting his own battle to remain conscious.
Her mind wavered. Her body trembled. The heat clawing through her slowly began to ebb, replaced by a cold, creeping clarity that seeped in bit by bit.
By the time she regained full awareness, the room had fallen silent again.
She pushed herself upright, fumbling in the darkness for her clothes. Something felt off — the fabric unfamiliar — but she didn't have the luxury to dwell on it. She needed to leave. Immediately.
She had just taken a step when a voice cut through the darkness behind her.
"You're going to walk away?"
It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be.
The quiet menace in it froze her mid‑stride.
She didn't turn. She didn't have to. She could feel his gaze on her back — cold, sharp, and filled with a killing intent that prickled along her spine.
This man wanted her dead.
Not metaphorically. Not figuratively.
Literally.
Her pulse kicked, but she kept her expression composed. She had faced death before — many times — but something about him made her instincts scream.
Slowly, cautiously, she turned.
He sat on the edge of the bed, unmoving, his posture rigid with barely contained fury. Even weakened, even unable to stand, his presence filled the room like a storm waiting to break.
His eyes locked onto hers — dark, fathomless, and dangerous enough to make even someone as seasoned as her feel a flicker of unease.
But he didn't move.
He couldn't.
And that, at least, was something.
A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. "Well," she murmured, "that's one way to greet someone."
His glare sharpened, the air around him tightening like a drawn bowstring.
She lifted her chin, meeting his murderous stare with a calm she didn't entirely feel. "You know," she added lightly, "for someone who clearly wants me dead, you're not exactly in a position to chase me."
His killing intent flared — but still, he didn't move.
She exhaled slowly, her composure settling back into place. "I'm not ungrateful," she said, her tone dry. "You helped me more than you realise. So consider this my thanks."
His expression darkened further, but she continued before he could speak.
"Although your… situation wasn't ideal, you did put in the effort. So I suppose I owe you something in return."
Her smile widened — equal parts cheek and challenge.
The man's eyes narrowed, a flicker of something — surprise, irritation, disbelief — crossing his face.
And Tang Kexin, despite the danger, despite the tension, couldn't help the quiet laugh that escaped her.
This was going to be interesting.