The morning came slowly for Shen Qingqian, the smell of frying oil wafting up from the breakfast stalls below, mingling with the rhythmic clanging of a tricycle bell from the alley. This was the pulse of the old district—rough, noisy, and utterly real.
She opened her eyes, her gaze lingering on the ceiling, where damp patches had spread like forgotten stains. The yellowed marks seemed to mirror the dullness of her thoughts—calm, empty, without a ripple.
The events of last night felt like an absurd play, meticulously staged and utterly ridiculous. But the reminder in her pocket—the old, battered phone with a new contact name: "Fool"—coldly affirmed one thing: the game had begun.
She moved through her morning routine as if nothing had changed. Washing up, then sitting at the creaky little wooden table with nothing but a glass of water and half a steamed bun left over from yesterday. The bun was dry, cold, and hard—uninviting.
But Shen Qingqian ate it slowly, methodically, as if gathering strength or perhaps completing a silent ritual.
She was waiting.
Waiting for that man to show his hand.
By 10 a.m., the silence of the alley was broken by the telltale hum of something out of place. A black delivery van, emblazoned with the cursive letters "L'amour Fleuri," eased cautiously into the narrow, dilapidated street. It came to a halt in front of her building. The van gleamed under the morning light, its pristine surface an affront to the peeling walls and drying laundry surrounding it.
The door opened, and a sharply dressed young man stepped out, holding a bouquet so large it seemed absurd—99 Ecuadorian roses, long-stemmed and vibrant, their petals plush and saturated with color, unmistakably expensive.
The sight sparked an instant frenzy in the alley.
Aunt Wang's head popped out from the neighboring window. The men by the card tables fell silent. Even the children playing in the dirt stopped and stared, their eyes wide with wonder at the "kind of flowers they only saw on TV."
"Who's it for?" someone whispered.
"Must be some rich girl—maybe a big shot's mistress," another murmured.
"Shh... don't say too much, but looks like it's for someone special…"
Shen Qingqian stood behind the thin curtains, coldly observing this absurd spectacle.
How vulgar.
How utterly tacky.
This was the only tactic Gu Jingming had, wasn't it? Throwing money around like a fool, as if he had nothing else in his shallow mind.
The delivery man, clearly uncomfortable with the setting, hesitated before double-checking the address. Then, with a nervous step, he entered the run-down building.
Knock, knock, knock.
The sound of the door knocking echoed through the apartment. Shen Qingqian drew a deep breath and instantly transformed. Her face softened, adopting a look of surprise and just the right touch of fear. She opened the door with a delicate pull.
"Is this Miss Shen Qingqian?" The young man's polite voice carried a hint of discomfort as his eyes roamed over her worn-out sleepwear—white, faded from countless washes—completely mismatched with the extravagant bouquet he held.
"Y-Yes, that's me." Her voice was soft, trembling just enough to be convincing.
"This is a gift from Mr. Gu," he said, extending the bouquet. Shen Qingqian fumbled to catch it, nearly buried by the overwhelming red flowers.
"There's also this." He handed her a deep red velvet box—Cartier's classic design.
Her heartbeat didn't flutter. Not even once.
With a voice thick with the right amount of quivering gratitude, she signed for the package and quickly shut the door behind him.
The moment the door clicked shut, her facade evaporated. She stood still, cold and unfeeling, as if the warmth had been sucked out of the room.
She tossed the bouquet onto the floor, its petals scattering and mixing with the dust on the cement—discarded like a forgotten offering.
At the table, she opened the velvet box.
Inside lay a LOVE series diamond necklace, the cold brilliance of the stones reflecting in the dim room. The invoice was attached, and the seven-figure price leaped out at her—enough to buy the entire building.
So this is the bribe.
First, a million as a "hush fee," and now a necklace. Gu Jingming must be terrified that the evidence will be too flimsy in court.
Without hesitation, she pulled out her old phone.
Click. Click.
The necklace. The box. The roses. The delivery slip. She captured them all, framing each shot perfectly, adjusting the light just so.
Then, she opened a secure cloud drive, creating a new folder with a blunt name: Gu Jingming's Death Sentence.
Once the photos were uploaded, she returned the necklace to its box, the flowers too, and shoved them into an old cardboard box under the bed, along with forgotten books.
Out of sight, out of mind.
But these thorny "gifts" weren't for sale. They were nails. Nails that would eventually crucify him on the pillar of shame.
The moment she finished, her phone buzzed.
The screen lit up: Fool.
Shen Qingqian took a slow breath, answering with a voice that had already softened, just the right amount of hesitation and panic.
"Hello… Mr. Gu?"
"Did you receive the gift?" Gu Jingming's voice came through, lazy but dripping with the smug satisfaction of someone who thought they controlled the situation.
"I… I did… But Mr. Gu, this is too much. I really can't accept it…"
"You can and you will." His voice cut through, commanding and impatient. "It's just a small token. Do you like it?"
A small token? Shen Qingqian almost laughed. This was the kind of taste you'd expect from a nouveau riche—a textbook example of tacky excess.
"I… I like it," she hesitated, her voice dropping as if she were unsure, unsure of whether to voice the next part.
"There's no 'but.'" He cut her off, his tone darkening with annoyance. "Learn to accept it. Follow me, and you'll get more. Be ready at 8 p.m. Tonight. I'll send the driver to pick you up—dress up."
The line went dead before she could reply.
Beep… beep… beep…
The dial tone echoed in her ears.
Shen Qingqian's fragile demeanor melted away as a cold smile curved her lips.
Dress up?
She moved to the cracked mirror, gazing at the sharpness of her own face.
"Don't worry, Gu Jingming," she whispered under her breath. "I'll dress up for you, alright. I'll shine bright enough for you to see—just how you're digging your own grave in the flames of hell."