"Is this really all for the sake of revenge? Or will I have to start referring to Yao Ziyang as Madam Dong?"
A slight shiver went down his spine. Quickly, he gathers the profiles and paper then heads out of the office door.
...
The light changed slowly — outside the barred window, the sky shifted from pale steel to bruised lavender, then to that deepening, heavy blue that made the walls feel closer than ever.
Yao Ziyang lay still beneath the thick blanket, his body resting but not sleeping. The soft cotton clung faintly to his skin, still warm from earlier fever. The corner of the window glowed dimly with the last remnants of sun — a smudge of orange smeared across a gray sky, like someone had tried to hold onto color but couldn't quite keep it.
Evening was coming.
And it felt… lonely.
He turned his head on the pillow, the motion slow, his muscles sore in that dull, heavy way fever leaves behind. His eyes drifted across the cell — the neutral painted color wall, the wooden table, the untouched water pitcher and cup, the soft clink of something in the corridor far away. Even that sound felt muted. Hollow.
The silence was a strange kind of weight.
There had been warmth once, for a moment. Fingers brushing hair from his face. A hand around his waist, steady and firm. A deep voice calling his name — not scared, but warm and tender.
But now there was only Wei Jiang, a kind and silent guard, never lingering too long.
And not the man he still wanted to see.
Dong Yingming hadn't returned. Not even once.
Yao Ziyang bit the inside of his cheek, eyes blurring slightly. It was stupid, he told himself. He was just recovering. He needed rest. There were reasons. Excuses. Maybe even kindness in that distance.
But even so — as the sky outside deepened into blue-gray, and the lines of the cell turned colder, sharper, emptier — he felt a sting under his ribs that had nothing to do with illness.
A quiet ache.
Not pain. Not heartbreak, not exactly. Just that fragile sadness of realizing someone had once held him close — and now he wasn't sure if they still remembered how that felt.
He curled in on himself slightly, drawing the blanket higher, breathing through his nose. His throat felt tight. His eyes stayed open.
He didn't want to cry. Not again. Especially not in front of that ever stoic and watchful guard.
Instead, he listened to the silence.
The fading birdsong beyond the walls. The distant clang of something metallic. The soft, padded steps of guards changing shifts.
But no voice called his name.
Evening had arrived. Quiet and hollow.
And Yao Ziyang — though he was alive, though he was healing — had never felt quite so far away from anyone.
The overhead lights in his cell buzzed faintly, casting a yellow tint over everything — the blankets, the cup of room temperature water on his tray, the edges of the books left untouched on the table near his bed.
Yao Ziyang lay still beneath the sheets, though he no longer felt feverish. Just… empty.
Not physically — his body ached still, yes, but in a tolerable way. It was something else now. A weight in his chest. A hollow silence between each breath that made him press his hand flat over his heart as if to feel it moving, just to be sure.
Wei Jiang sat in the chair by the bed, quiet as ever, half-lit by the dim overhead bulb. He held a book opened but wasn't reading. Just watching. Always watching.
The eerie silence was driving Yao Ziyang mad. He couldn't, no, wouldn't stand for this! He wasn't sure how this whole transmigrating thing worked but he was firm in one thing! Screw the 'plot'! Screw waiting around! He had the chance to be with the hottest character and man he's ever known and he'll be damned to celibacy if he lets this chance slip by! He spent enough time feeling sorry for himself. Now was the time for a plan!
He needed to find Dong Yingming! Something in him craved the presence of that domineering Underworld boss. It was more than a feeling. Like a gnawing itch. An instinct telling him, if he could just be with the man, everything will be alright!
However, ever since he woke up, he's never had a moment alone. Only when he wanted to use the bathroom or change his clothes would he be given privacy. If only he could just send this annoying guard away, he would be able to seek out Dong Yingming himself!
'…Actually… I wonder…'
Yao Ziyang shifted slightly under the blanket.
"Can I read something before I sleep?"
He asked.
Wei Jiang straightened a little.
"You're still weak."
"I won't read long…"
Yao Ziyang said, voice soft.
"Just a little. I'm bored."
Wei Jiang nodded after a moment and rose. He walked over to the built-in shelf along the far wall — a modest selection, stocked mostly with history texts, strategy tomes, and a few well-worn novels chosen by someone who clearly didn't read for comfort.
As Wei Jiang reached toward a volume, Yao Ziyang's voice stopped him.
"Not those."
He said gently.
Wei Jiang turned his head, confused.
"Then what?"
Yao Ziyang looked up at him, lashes heavy over glassy eyes. A tiny smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
"Something lighter. A BL book…"
He said, with just enough hesitation to sound bashful.
"I want something with love in it. Something where… people want each other."
Wei Jiang blinked, startled not just by the request, but the way he said it. He glanced at the bookshelf, then back at Yao Ziyang.
"…That's not the kind of thing kept in the boss's shelves."
"I know…"
Yao Ziyang said.
"That's why I was hoping maybe… maybe you could ask around? Borrow one from another inmate or guard? Just for tonight."
He kept his voice light, teasing — like a boy asking for something harmless and small.
Wei Jiang hesitated.
He didn't like leaving Yao Ziyang alone, even for a minute, orders or not. But the boy's tone was unthreatening. His face was tired. And it was just a book. Something to soothe him, perhaps.
"I'll see if someone has one…"
Wei Jiang said after a pause.
"Or if the quartermaster can get one."
He stepped out, the door closing shut behind him.
Yao Ziyang waited three heartbeats. Then sat up.
Every movement hurt, but he pushed through it — barefoot, robe cinched tight. He moved slowly, listening for returning footsteps, counting the seconds.
He didn't know what he'd say when he found Dong Yingming.
He didn't know if the man would be angry, or cold, or unreachable.
But he couldn't wait anymore. Not after the silence. Not after dreaming of that man's hands on his cheeks, his voice in his ear.
He needed to see him.
To hold him. Ask him why.
Ask if he still mattered.
...
The prison at night was a different kind of silence.
Not the buzzing, static quiet of a sickbed—but something deeper. Hollow, watchful. A silence held by cement and metal, broken only by the occasional flickering light or the distant clatter of boots echoing through the corridors.
Yao Ziyang crept barefoot along the dim walkway, one hand brushing the cold wall to steady himself. The concrete bit into his feet, the draft pulled at the hem of his bathrobe, but none of it slowed him. His breath came quiet but quick—equal parts anticipation and fear.
The route was unfamiliar, but instinct guided him. He didn't know where exactly Dong Yingming was hiding from him—only that he wasn't where he used to be. And that he needed to be found.
He turned the corner of a narrow hall, heart lifting—
—and collided full-body into another man.
"Ah—!"
Yao Ziyang stumbled and fell back, dizzy from the impact.
Papers scattered across the ground like a burst of pale wings. Folders, printed photos, stamped reports—all dislodged by the force of the bump. A sharp curse escaped from the man he'd hit, who staggered back a step with a mutter.
"What the hell—"
It was Chang Xiao.
Sharp eyes, hair slightly in disarray, suit jacket unbuttoned. Beside him, standing tense with a flashlight in hand, was ChenBo— usually a bright and cheery younger guard now weary, with a deceptively sleepy look, blinked once at the surprise.
Yao Ziyang froze.
But his eyes—his eyes dropped to the ground.
And what he saw made his heart tremble.
The scattered papers bore photos. Black-and-white mugshots, prison profile images. Men. Young. Soft-faced, most of them. Some smiling faintly, some staring blankly at the camera. A few looked older, but still attractive—each different, yet similar enough to make his heart sink.
All of them beautiful. All of them not him.
7 profiles. 7 strangers.
Chang Xiao immediately crouched, reaching to gather the pages. But it was too late. Yao Ziyang had already seen them.
He leaned forward, trembling, reaching for one—the image of a man with almond-shaped eyes like his and a faint scar above their eyebrow. His name was printed in neat black hand writing at the top. Guo Min.
The realization twisted in Yao Ziyang's gut like a slow knife.
'He's replacing me.'
His throat tightened. His vision blurred—not from illness this time, but from a cold rush of dread and grief.
'I meant nothing. Just one in a long line.'
The file fell from his fingers.
"You're Chang Xiao, you work for Brother Dong, right? Why do you have these?"
His voice cracked.
"Who are they? Why do you have these men's photos? Are…are they for Brother Dong?"
Chang Xiao's brow furrowed. He rose slowly, dusting his hands.
"Yes. These files are for Boss Dong. As for what they are for...that's none of your concern."
"Why are you walking around at night with a whole lineup of—of men?"
Yao Ziyang's voice shook now. He turned toward Chen Bo, who looked startled but unsure of what was even happening. Regardless, he goes to help Yao Ziyang stand up by offering a hand. It's ignored as Yao Ziyang rises to his own feet with much difficulty.
Chang Xiao didn't answer immediately.
Yao Ziyang's lips parted. His breath hitched. He took one step back, and then another, the hall pressing in tighter with every heartbeat.
"I thought I was the only one."
He whispered.
"I thought…"
He didn't finish.
He turned and ran.
His robe billowed behind him as he disappeared around the corner, barefoot steps silent on the cold floor. Pain lanced up his side, but he didn't stop—not until the dim corridor swallowed him back into the dark.
Chen Bo looked down at the mess of files still scattered.
"Should we—"
"No..."
Chang Xiao muttered, staring down the hallway.
"Let him run."
Then, softer, more to himself than anyone:
"He doesn't know they're already dead."
Chen Bo shrugged and went to help pick up the rest of the papers and photos. He didn't care about what the boss's sick man thought. He was only told to look after him and that's what he plans to do. Everything else was secondary.
…
Wei Jiang had only just rounded the corner near the administrative wing when he saw something pale and shivering against the shadowed corridor.
A flash of soft fabric.
A boy's trembling frame.
He paused.
The bag in his hand carried three books—BL novels hastily gathered from two contraband stashes and one guard's poorly hidden locker. It was supposed to be a harmless gesture. A peace offering for a quiet night.
Instead, he saw Yao Ziyang stumbling toward him, barefoot and teary-eyed, robe barely clinging to his thin shoulders. His breath was ragged, and his cheeks glistened in the hallway's weak overhead lights.
"Yao Ziyang—?"
The boy stopped. Just stopped. As though hearing his name broke something inside him.
And then he collapsed into Wei Jiang's chest.
Wei Jiang barely caught him.
The bag of books hit the floor with a soft thud, forgotten. Wei Jiang's arms came up instinctively, one bracing Yao Ziyang's back, the other cradling behind his head as the boy trembled violently, sobbing against the firm planes of Wei Jiang's body.
"I-I thought I mattered…"
Yao Ziyang gasped, voice splintering.
"I thought he—he wanted me—"
Wei Jiang's mouth opened, but no words came out.
Only a tightening in his throat. A helpless ache in his chest.
He held him tighter.
The boy clung for only a moment longer before his limbs weakened. Whether it was the fever's echo or sheer emotional collapse, he began to slip into unconsciousness mid-whimper. Wei Jiang felt the shift — Yao Ziyang's breathing evened out, though his lips still moved faintly in sleep.
"...don't leave me alone… please just… want me…"
Wei Jiang closed his eyes.
Then, as gently as he could, takes the bag of books from the floor and lifts Yao Ziyang into his arms. The boy was feather-light. He curled naturally into the crook of Wei Jiang's shoulder, as though he belonged there.
The walk back to the cell was silent.
Wei Jiang laid him down with infinite care, tucking the blanket to his chest, brushing a damp lock of hair from his brow. The boy's face was flushed and damp, tear-streaked and furrowed even in sleep. His mouth still trembled now and then, his breath catching like he was dreaming of being abandoned all over again.
Wei Jiang sat on the edge of the bed and didn't move.
He could still hear the boy's words ringing in his ears.
'Please just want me.'
It wasn't meant for him.
But gods, how he wished it had been.
The door creaked open.
ChenBostepped in, yawning dramatically, uniform slightly wrinkled.
"Time for shift change—"
He stopped mid-sentence when he saw the look on Wei Jiang's face, then glanced at the unconscious boy in the bed.
"Oh. That was fast,"
He said casually.
"Didn't think bumping into him would make him cry that much."
Wei Jiang turned slowly toward him, expression unreadable.
"He saw something he wasn't supposed to..."
Chen Bo added, waving vaguely.
"Chang Xiao dropped some files. Guess the kid thought—well. Not my place."
Wei Jiang rose from the bed in a single smooth motion.
"If you don't let me take your night shift…"
Wei Jiang said coldly,
"I'll tell the boss that you injured him. No questions asked."
Chen Bo blinked.
"He's clearly not injured."
"He was crying…"
Wei Jiang said, stepping closer.
"and that's enough."
There was no anger in his voice. Just calm, controlled ice. Chen Bo studied him for a beat longer, then held up both hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright. You win. I'll go play mahjong with the night nurse instead. But seriously, Wei Jiang…"
He glanced at the sleeping boy. Then back at Wei Jiang, smirking faintly. His tone dipping, a stark contrast to his usual carefree and chipper voice.
"You might want to work on your poker face. You're not as subtle as you think."
With that, Chen Bo slipped out, the door clicking shut behind him. Wei Jiang didn't move for a long time.
Eventually, he returned to his chair beside the bed, sitting with his arms folded. He watched Yao Ziyang breathe. Watched the way his brows occasionally twitched in dream.
In another life, maybe he could've leaned forward. Whispered that someone already wanted him. That someone already stayed.
But here?
Here, silence was the only thing he could give.
So he gave it.
And stayed.