What Secret Are You Hiding

Ji Mian hadn't slept well for days. The fragments of his dreams were like glass shards dipped in poison, repeatedly stabbing into his sleep. The slippery corridor, Cheng Yan's scalding sweat and the smell of motor oil, and those eyes that saw through him and seemed to want to devour him.

Every time he woke from his terror, the skin on the back of his neck—where Cheng Yan's fingers had pressed—still seemed to retain the rough, scorching sensation, carrying a shame and panic at being marked.

He had thought about giving up. Just letting it go, staying far away from Cheng Yan, praying that Lin Shao was only bluffing, praying that nightmare would never come true. But he couldn't. The coldness of being abandoned in his dreams was more real than any pressure Cheng Yan could bring, and frightened him more. He couldn't lose everything he had now. Absolutely not.

So he had to go back. He had to shove that damned apartment key into Cheng Yan's hands, to place this potential bomb somewhere he could monitor and control. His last failure was only because he'd chosen the wrong time and method, he told himself. He couldn't appear again as a lofty benefactor; that would only provoke the wild dog.

This time, he would use a smarter, more... humble approach.

Friday afternoon, Ji Mian calculated when the construction site would let out and parked his car once again outside the chaotic worksite. He wasn't wearing his immaculate custom suit this time. Instead, he'd changed into a low-key dark gray hoodie and jeans, looking more like a naive college student.

He leaned against the car door, his gaze locked onto the site's exit. Workers trickled out in twos and threes, covered in exhaustion and dust, noisily discussing which restaurant to go to for dinner. Ji Mian subconsciously shrank back, feeling utterly out of place in this world.

Until that familiar figure appeared. Cheng Yan looked the same as ever—his faded work jacket draped over his shoulder, revealing the sweat-soaked black T-shirt underneath that outlined his solid shoulders and back. He walked at the very back of the crowd, his pace unhurried, his eyelids drooping as if he couldn't care less about anything around him.

Ji Mian took a deep breath, pushed open the car door, and walked over.

"Cheng Yan," he called out, his voice drier than he'd expected.

Cheng Yan stopped and turned his head. Those deep-set eyes looked especially sharp under the dim yellow streetlight. When he saw Ji Mian, there was no surprise on his face, only the faintest, almost mocking curl at the corner of his mouth.

"Young Master Ji, here to inspect the work again?"

His voice was as low and raspy as ever, each word as if ground against sandpaper.

Ji Mian clenched his fists, forcing himself to ignore the mockery. "I'm not here to cause trouble. I'm here to... talk to you."

"Talk?" Cheng Yan looked him up and down. "What do I have to talk about with you?"

"About last time." Ji Mian took the black key card from his pocket and held it out. This time, his posture was humble, his palm open as if offering a peace offering. "Take this. The apartment on Binjiang No.1, close to the city center, much better than where you're living now. Consider it... a formal apology for all the trouble I caused you before."

He dared not mention "compensation" this time, only using the word "apology."

Cheng Yan's gaze lingered on the delicate key card for a moment, but he didn't reach for it. Instead, he looked up, his eyes passing over Ji Mian's shoulder to a sneaky figure at the street corner not far away.

Ji Mian's heart jumped, and he instinctively turned to look.

It was Lin Shao.

That scoundrel was hiding behind a utility pole, craning his neck to peek in their direction, his face wearing a greedy yet uneasy expression. When he realized Ji Mian and Cheng Yan were both looking at him, he flinched, pulled his head in, and slipped into a dark alley.

Ji Mian's blood ran cold. Why was Lin Shao here? Had he come to see Cheng Yan? What had he told Cheng Yan?

A barrage of questions exploded in his mind, draining the color from his face in an instant.

"Seems I'm not the only one with my eye on Young Master Ji's 'apology,'" Cheng Yan's voice came slowly, carrying a chill of understanding.

"I—I don't know him!" Ji Mian denied it immediately, his voice rising slightly from guilt. "He might be some local thug..."

"A thug?" Cheng Yan let out a soft laugh, devoid of any warmth. "A few days ago, I saw him outside the hospital too. He stopped you, showed you something on his phone, and then Young Master Ji ran off in a panic. What, forgotten already?"

Ji Mian's mind went blank. Cheng Yan had seen that? When had he seen it?

"There are too many people here. It's not convenient to talk." Cheng Yan didn't look at him again. Instead, he turned and walked toward a half-old black pickup truck parked by the roadside. He pulled open the door and jerked his chin toward the passenger seat. "Get in. Let's find a place to have a proper 'talk.'"

His tone was flat, but carried an unassailable command.

Ji Mian stood rooted to the spot, his legs feeling like lead. He knew he shouldn't get in that car—it was like a mobile iron cage; once inside, he would be completely under the other man's control. But he also knew that refusing now would only make Cheng Yan's suspicions even more certain.

He watched Cheng Yan settle into the driver's seat, those eyes fixed on him through the open door without blinking. It wasn't an invitation—it was waiting for prey to walk into the trap.

After a few seconds of standoff, Ji Mian conceded defeat. Almost mechanically, he moved his legs and sat down in the passenger seat, which smelled of tobacco and dust.

The door slammed shut, cutting off the noise from outside and completely severing his escape route.

Cheng Yan didn't start the car immediately. Instead, he pulled a pack of cigarettes from the storage compartment, shook one out, and put it between his lips without lighting it. The cramped space inside the cabin was stifling; Ji Mian could clearly smell the intense masculine odor on Cheng Yan—a mix of sweat, tobacco, and some metallic rust—pressing down on him until he could barely breathe.

He clutched the key card he hadn't managed to give away, his palm slick with sweat.

"Talk," Cheng Yan finally said. He turned his head, the dim light casting deep shadows on his face, making his features look especially hard. "That Lin Shao—what did he want from you?"

"I told you, I don't know him." Ji Mian was still making his last struggle, but his voice was barely a whisper.