The private dining room atop the Solaris Tower was a glass sanctuary suspended above the clouds, designed for the world's most powerful to dine in absolute isolation. The temperature was set to a precise, sweltering tropical heat—Zhentian's personal preference to keep his burning blood from boiling over—but for Wanwan, it felt like a warm bath after a lifetime in the Arctic. She sat across from him, the "Midnight Sovereign" gown draped over her chair, her face a mask of porcelain perfection. Despite the successful raid and the humiliation of the Han family, her hands remained tucked beneath the table, her fingers interlaced so tightly they were white.
Zhentian watched her, his golden eyes narrowing. He hadn't touched his wine. "You've been silent since we left the facility, Wanwan. Most people would be celebrating the destruction of a rival's production line. You look like you're calculating the distance to the nearest exit." He leaned forward, the heat radiating from him causing the air between them to shimmer. "Or is it that your body is finally demanding the tax for staying awake forty-eight hours?"
Wanwan tried to speak, but her throat felt as though it were being lined with glass. The "Cold-Blood" syndrome was no longer just a chill; it was a systemic shutdown. The adrenaline of the battle had masked the onset, but now, in the quiet of the luxury suite, the frost was moving toward her heart. Her obsidian eyes suddenly lost their focus, the pupils dilating until her gaze became a hollow void.
"Wanwan?" Zhentian's voice lost its playful, shameless edge.
She didn't answer. A single, crystalline drop of sweat—cold as ice—rolled down her temple. Then, her body betrayed her. She didn't fall; she stiffened, her muscles locking in a violent, silent seizure. Her head snapped back, her breath catching in a wheezing, frozen gasp. The wine glass on the table shattered as her hand spasmed, the red liquid blooming across the white cloth like a fresh wound.
"Wanwan!" Zhentian was around the table in a heartbeat. He caught her just as she began to slide from the chair. The moment he touched her, he let out a sharp intake of breath. She wasn't just cold; she was a block of dry ice. The thermal contact was so extreme that he felt his own skin begin to blister, but he didn't pull away. He gathered her into his lap, sitting on the floor of the private room and pulling her into a crushing embrace.
"Breathe, damn it! Wanwan, look at me!" Zhentian roared, his voice thick with a terror he had never felt on a battlefield. He tore open his shirt, pressing her frozen chest directly against his burning heart. He channeled every ounce of his "High-Metabolism" heat into her, his body acting as a human defibrillator. "Don't you dare go out now. I haven't even married you yet!"
For a terrifying minute, there was only the sound of Zhentian's ragged breathing and the crackle of the ice-thaw within Wanwan's veins. Slowly, her body began to soften. The rigid lock of her muscles loosened, and she let out a long, shuddering breath that came out as a visible mist. Her eyes flickered open, landing on Zhentian's face. He was drenched in sweat, his chest red from the thermal shock of her touch, his expression a raw, bleeding wound of devotion.
"You... you're burning yourself," Wanwan whispered, her voice a mere ghost of its former silk. She tried to push him away, but her strength was gone.
"Let it burn," Zhentian growled, his arms tightening around her. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his pulse drumming a frantic rhythm against her skin. "I'd turn into ash before I let you freeze. What is this, Wanwan? This isn't just a medical condition. This is a curse."
Wanwan stayed still, the heat of him slowly reviving the dormant life in her limbs. She looked out at the city lights, her gaze distant, drifting back to the fourteen-year gap that no intelligence agency could fill. "It's the price of survival," she said quietly. "In the Kunlun Shadow Base, they didn't just train us to be doctors and assassins. They conditioned us. They kept us in cryo-chambers to dull our nerves, to make us immune to pain and emotion. They wanted 'Cold Moons'—tools that didn't feel, didn't bleed, and didn't warm up."
She felt Zhentian's body go rigid with a cold, murderous fury. "They did this to a child?"
"I was the only one who survived the final immersion," Wanwan continued, her voice devoid of self-pity, which made it even more haunting. "My blood never recovered. If I'm not careful, my own internal temperature will drop until my heart simply stops. I escaped when I was twenty, but the mountain stayed inside me."
Zhentian pulled back just enough to look her in the eyes. His gaze was no longer just lovesick; it was a vow. He reached out and cupped her face, his thumbs wiping away the remnants of the cold sweat. "The mountain ends here, Wanwan. I don't care about the Shadow Syndicate or the Kunlun Base. From now on, your heart has a permanent sun. I will be your heater, your shield, and your life-force. If you freeze, I'll burn the world to keep you warm."
Wanwan looked at him—really looked at him—beyond the shameless flirting and the arrogant CEO persona. She saw a man who was willing to let his own blood boil to save hers. For the first time in fourteen years, the "Lethal God" felt a crack in her icy armor.
"You're an idiot, Lu Zhentian," she whispered, her hand rising to rest over his heart. "You're going to get yourself killed playing with fire."
"Then I'll be the most satisfied ghost in the underworld," Zhentian grinned, though his eyes remained fiercely protective. He stood up, carrying her easily toward the private lounge. "Now, no more business raids. No more purges. You're going to sit here, you're going to eat, and you're going to let me be shameless until your temperature hits thirty-seven degrees."