THEIR WORTH...

I really can't do double update now😒 I try today but I ended up with eyes aching, I don't know if I can write something tomorrow.

Two weeks later…

Sweat continued to soak Zhan's face and neck. His lips were dry and cracked, his throat parched. Dark, haunting images played in the shadows of his closed eyes, flashing through his mind in a relentless loop.

He saw himself standing alone in an empty field. Then suddenly, the field was filled with people—strangers, all walking away from him, leaving him behind. Among them, he spotted Peng, standing in the center, his clothes stained with blood. Peng's lifeless eyes stared straight at him while the others passed by without a glance.

Then, Peng began to move—slowly at first. He wasn't walking, yet his body seemed to glide closer. His image grew larger with every second, his unwavering gaze locked onto Zhan. A cold wave of fear crawled up Zhan's spine as he instinctively tried to step back, but his feet wouldn't move. It was as if they had been glued to the ground.

Panic surged through him. He struggled to break free, to move even an inch, but it was useless. Peng was getting closer. Zhan wanted to scream, but his voice was trapped in his chest. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, and tears welled up in his eyes, spilling down his cheeks. Just as Peng reached him, Zhan jolted awake, gasping for air.

His eyes were wet with tears. Tossing off the duvet, he stumbled out of bed, racing toward the bathroom. He barely made it to the sink before he collapsed to his knees, retching violently. The contents of his stomach poured into the basin, the harsh sound echoing in the quiet room.

Tears continued streaming down his face as he finally caught his breath. Shaking, he pushed himself up and rinsed his mouth, splashing cold water onto his face. Once he was done, he flushed away the evidence of his distress, then sank to the floor, his back against the toilet seat.

A broken sob escaped his lips. He curled into himself, tucking his head between his knees, and let the tears fall freely.

It was around three in the morning—another restless night, just like the many before it. The nightmares had become a routine, always waking him in a cold sweat. But he didn't want anyone to hear him. Not that many people were around to begin with—only Yibo. And if Yibo had ever heard him, it wouldn't have been tonight. He would've noticed long ago, during those first few nights when Zhan had to cover his mouth just to stifle the sound of his own cries.

The days that followed weren't any better. There was no comfort in the house, no warmth. Silence became his only companion. He spent his days alone, his nights even lonelier. And in that silence, all he could do was think—endlessly, obsessively. His mind replayed every memory, calculated every detail, dissected every possibility.

He knew it was eating away at him, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. The isolation, the overwhelming thoughts—none of it was familiar to him. He wasn't built for this kind of solitude. He never had been.

In his family's home, if chaos didn't wake you up at dawn, then the noise from Ma Jing and her children's would. Every day, people came and went, filling the house with constant movement. And if no physical fights broke out that required an audience to break them up, then it was considered an unusually quiet day.

But now, his life had changed—changed in a way that would make anyone stop and take notice. Even if someone had warned him about this fate, he wouldn't have believed it until he saw it for himself. Still, Zhan knew that, compared to what he could have been facing elsewhere, this place was a mercy. And yet, the restless thoughts, the relentless nightmares pulling him from his sanity—those, he could not escape. He knew it was the isolation feeding them, the crushing silence making them worse.

His interactions with Yibo were minimal. Every day, Yibo left in the morning and didn't return until late at night. And even when he did return, if Zhan wasn't in the living room, he would stop by his bedroom door, check in on him, and ask if he had eaten or needed anything. If Zhan said no, Yibo would simply bid him goodnight and leave, and it would be another long day before Zhan saw him again.

There had been only a few instances where Yibo actually sat down and explained the progress of the investigation. On the last occasion, he had assured Zhan that he had gained the cooperation of an officer from the police station handling Peng's murder case, which meant that things would soon start to move forward.

Other than that, their interactions remained distant. Sometimes, if Yibo checked in and saw that Zhan had already gone to bed, he wouldn't disturb him—just quietly close the door and leave. During the day, if Zhan was lucky enough to hear any conversation, it was only from the security guards chatting among themselves in pidgin English, which he could only half understand.

Ever since those women had come into the picture, Yibo had given the security team strict orders. Now, Zhan was sure not even a stray dog could wander past the gate, let alone an uninvited guest.

Food arrived in excess daily—so much so that he often had to put leftovers in the fridge just to avoid wasting it. But beyond that, the kitchen was a foreign place to him. He never touched the stove, never picked up so much as a spoon. The only thing he ever did there was wash his hands.

Within just three days of staying in the house, the security team had already delivered nearly ten sets of new clothes for him. It only happened after he had finally mentioned to Yibo that he needed them, because it seemed like Yibo hadn't even noticed that Zhan wore the same outfit every day. Meanwhile, Yibo himself never wore the same thing twice.

Often, when Yibo stood by his bedroom door, Zhan found himself staring. There was something about him—an undeniable presence, a quiet authority that he probably wasn't even aware of. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and every piece of clothing he wore fit him perfectly, making him look effortlessly refined. His fair skin practically glowed, especially when he wore a hat, accentuating the sharp lines of his face.

And on the days when Yibo wore short-sleeved shirts with his sleeves rolled up, Zhan couldn't help but notice the veins lining his arms, running in neat, symmetrical rows.

Other than his own reflection and the security guards, Yibo was the only person Zhan ever saw. So whether he liked it or not, Yibo's face had already been imprinted in his mind—along with countless unanswered questions about him.

By the time his tears had dried, Zhan was still sitting in that bathroom, lost in his thoughts until the first light of dawn broke through.

As sleepiness started to creep in, he finally stood up, washed his face, and returned to his room. He settled onto the rug carpet, resting his head against the side of the bed, but sleep never fully claimed him.

Then, like a dream, he heard a knock at the door.

His eyes snapped open instantly. He adjusted his shirt, already knowing who it was—Yibo. Zhan had come to recognize his pattern. Yibo would knock, wait about a minute, and then enter.

The door opened, and since Zhan was already looking in that direction, their eyes met as Yibo stepped inside. He was wearing a fitted sky-blue shirt that hugged every line of his body, as if it had been tailored specifically for him, paired with sleek black trousers that complemented the look. His face was calm, strikingly clear in the soft morning light, and his cologne filled the room even before he fully entered.

Zhan straightened his posture on the rug, swallowing a lump in his throat that he hadn't realized was there. Then, in response to Yibo's deep "Excuse me," which carried effortlessly through the air, he murmured:

"Come in."

His voice came out soft, tinged with exhaustion and something else Yibo couldn't quite place. But the change in his tone was obvious, and it only confirmed what Yibo had suspected.

Earlier, around 3 a.m., Yibo had stepped out for his usual security check—something he did religiously since those women had entered the house. He still wasn't convinced by their story, and not even the security team's reports that they hadn't been seen in the area again could ease his doubts.

That unease had become a permanent weight in his chest. Even when he was away, his mind was tethered to this place. He couldn't count how many times he called throughout the day just to check if everything was alright, despite his demanding workload.

At the moment, his main focus was the investigation. His mentor, Shan Tunan, had given him an office space, and with the help of a skilled software specialist, Surui, they spent their days combing through data, trying to track down Ping's location.

Shan Tunan was the one feeding them every clue he could uncover from past records of Ping's activities. Yibo and Surui would then analyze the information, running it through their systems to extract anything meaningful. It was work he had once done alongside Gideon—a memory that came to him almost daily now, always accompanied by the bitter reminder of how Gideon had died.

They were past the 70% mark in narrowing down Ping's whereabouts, which meant Yibo's hours away from the house had doubled. He now spent entire days and nights at the office with Shan Tunan, not just working but also discussing countless details about the case. Over time, the two had developed an unspoken understanding, a bond that made Yibo view Shan Tunan as more than just a mentor—almost like an older brother.

It was a connection he had never quite found in all his years living under Xu Liang's roof.

They had a lot in common, including their perspectives on things, which made their work easier in many ways. Because of this, Shan Tunan had even invited Yibo to his home and introduced him to his family—his wife, their four children, and his wife's younger sister, who lived with them, along with their household staff.

And just like Shan Tunan himself, who was quick to form bonds, his family had also grown attached to Yibo in no time. Within just three visits, the children had already started calling him "Uncle," the same way they addressed their mother's younger siblings and close family friends.

Now, Yibo had only one focus—to complete the mission ahead of him without any errors or missed details. That's why he remained cautious in everything he did, including his late-night security rounds. He was certain that the people tracking him wouldn't give up so easily, and it wouldn't take much for them to figure out his whereabouts if they were truly determined.

He had already swept through the living room three times, checking for any hidden recorders or cameras that those women might have planted, but even after finding nothing, he still couldn't shake off his unease.

Last night, during one of his rounds, he had passed by the bathroom window and heard something—what sounded like muffled sobs. He had considered checking on it then, but since he couldn't be sure, he convinced himself that it was just the late hour playing tricks on his ears.

But now, hearing Zhan's voice—soft, brittle, and broken—confirmed that he hadn't been mistaken.

Without hesitation, Yibo reached for the light switch, illuminating the room. At that moment, he saw Zhan instinctively squeeze his eyes shut for a brief second before slowly opening them again.

As always, whenever he looked at Zhan, something heavy settled in Yibo's chest. He saw not just him—but his younger sister, Liu.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

The question came out steady, direct, as Yibo continued to watch him.

Zhan shook his head slowly. "It's nothing."

His voice carried the same weary undertone that only reinforced Yibo's suspicions. Saying nothing further, Yibo stepped forward, slipping off his shoes before making his way across the rug, his bare feet sinking into its plush surface.

"Good morning," Zhan greeted quietly, keeping his gaze lowered as Yibo settled near the edge of the bed.

"Morning. Did you sleep well?"

Zhan didn't respond. He only nodded, knowing that Yibo was watching him closely. His heart pounded louder in his chest, unsettled by Yibo's presence at this hour.

"Zhan."

Yibo's voice came after a brief pause, low and steady in the quiet morning air. The sound of it sent a shiver through Zhan, yet he still didn't lift his head.

"You were crying."

It wasn't quite a question, yet not fully a statement either.

Zhan's fingers twitched as he fidgeted with them, unsure of how to respond. He knew that the way he reacted now would determine whether Yibo pressed further or let it go.

Then, unexpectedly—

"Come here."

Zhan's head snapped up at the sudden command, his eyes meeting Yibo's for the second time since he walked in.

"Come here."

Yibo repeated, his voice carrying a weight of seriousness that Zhan couldn't ignore. A second passed. Then another. Finally, Zhan gathered the courage to move, stepping forward—though not far enough to make much of a difference from where he had been sitting before.

If he thought Yibo would stay in place and wait for him, he was wrong. Before he could fully process the situation, Yibo had climbed down from the bed and closed the remaining distance between them. Without hesitation, he dropped to his knees, positioning himself so close that their legs nearly touched.

Zhan's eyes widened, lifting to meet Yibo's gaze in shock. The long lashes framing his eyes only accentuated their depth, but his surprise hadn't peaked yet. Before he could react, Yibo reached up, both hands slipping beneath the hood of the oversized sweater Zhan had thrown on earlier when he'd felt a chill. His warm palms settled against Zhan's neck.

"I'll only believe you're fine if I can feel it for myself," Yibo said, voice steady. "Because every time I ask, you keep telling me you're okay, yet here you are, crying."

His hands, large and warm, pressed gently against Zhan's warm skin.

Zhan's heart pounded so hard he thought Yibo might feel it beneath his fingertips. His breath hitched, his entire body suddenly engulfed in warmth—so much so that even if he had been perfectly fine before, at this moment, every nerve in his body would betray that lie.

Something deep and overwhelming swept through him, pressing down on every corner of his being. He couldn't take it. In a rush, he pushed himself to his feet, stumbling back. As he moved, Yibo's hands slid away from his skin, leaving behind a lingering heat that burned like embers on his neck.

Zhan shook his head quickly, willing his voice to work.

"I'm fine," he blurted, the words tumbling out faster than he intended. "It's just… the silence in this house. It gets to me sometimes. It makes me overthink… and I keep having these strange dreams."

His explanation came in a rush as he struggled to steady himself.

Yibo watched him closely, assessing his words.

"Are you sure?"

Zhan nodded rapidly. "Yes, I'm sure. It's just the loneliness of this place."

"Then we need to find a solution for that," Yibo replied.

At that moment, his own hands felt unreasonably cold, as if all the warmth had left them the second he'd let go of Zhan neck. Shoving them into his pockets, he straightened to his full height, never taking his eyes off him.

"I'll have a TV brought in for you. Will that help?"

For a moment, Zhan didn't even process what a TV had to do with his current state, but as the words sank in, he quickly nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

More than anything, he just needed Yibo to leave—needed space to catch his breath, to make sense of the unsettling sensation crawling up his spine like an itch he couldn't scratch.

Yibo's gaze lingered on him for a beat longer, his expression unreadable. A part of him kept replaying the feeling of Zhan's skin beneath his fingers—the warmth of his neck, the vulnerability in his silence. Until now, he had only ever seen his face and hands. He had never truly paid attention to anything else.

For a second, it seemed like Yibo wanted to say something more, but then he stopped himself.

"I'll have the TV set up later," he said simply, his voice cool and direct.

He had no idea that this small action—bringing a TV into the house—would set off a chain of events he couldn't predict.

Among the men installing the TV would be Shada, a boy working under Ping, who had been searching for an opportunity to re-enter the house. And this time, he wouldn't be coming with a human.

In his possession was a sleek, deadly weapon—a silencer-equipped gun, loaded with precisely ten bullets.

Author

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