CHAPTER 137: DON’T GO BACK

The incident at the Institute—an event that had skirted the very edge of genocide—was buried with ruthless efficiency.

Not a whisper of truth seeped through the reinforced walls of that research fortress. Official reports painted the day in vague strokes: a minor technical failure, an exercise gone slightly awry, a security drill that stretched longer than anticipated.

Yet for those who had been there, who had smelled the sharp tang of blood, who had felt the tremor in their bones as alarms wailed and lives teetered on the brink, the silence imposed afterward was almost crueler than the chaos itself.

The higher authorities ensured it remained so. They wielded generosity with one hand and terror with the other. Fat envelopes of cash, promises of promotions, medals whispered of in smoky offices—these were pressed into the palms of trembling employees. Yet alongside the rewards came words that bit like steel, words so blunt and chilling they left no room for misinterpretation: Speak, and you and your families will not live to regret it.

The duality of carrot and stick worked perfectly.

Faces smiled outwardly, but every smile quivered, forced, weighed down by the invisible noose around their necks. Secrets were safer when bound by both greed and fear.

Lan Qisheng had neither the time nor the freedom to consider contacting his grandfather. The moment the Institute’s turmoil ended, he had been swept into another current—one he could neither fight nor pause. A helicopter waited, blades slicing the air with mechanical impatience. By the time he blinked, he was already inside, seated behind Siān.

It wasn’t rational. His mind throbbed with unanswered questions, with grievances over the secrets his lover had walled away. But his heart was louder. Siān’s safety mattered above all else. There was no conceivable universe in which he would allow Siān to face whatever came next alone.

And Siān, for all his distance and mystery, hadn’t objected to Lan’s presence. That was answer enough.

The hours in the helicopter blurred together. The steady drone of the rotors became a backdrop to their silence. Xiao Zhu sat curled into himself, small hands gripping his knees, glancing now and then at Siān with the desperate look of a child clinging to the only pillar of stability in a world gone strange. The boy’s wide eyes reflected both relief and fear—relief that he was with Siān, fear of where they were heading.

Lan’s gaze often strayed to Siān, studying the man as if trying to carve truth from the lines of his profile. Siān remained unreadable, his expression a mask of calm detachment. Amber’s eyes sometimes flickered with thought, but those thoughts were locked away where Lan could not follow.

At last, the helicopter began its descent. The sound shifted, rotors cutting through denser air, engines straining with the adjustment. The world outside shifted from endless sky to a canopy of green.

They landed in the heart of an immense forest, its trees towering like ancient guardians. The air that greeted them was sharp with pine and damp soil, a far cry from the sterile, metallic tang of the Institute. Stretching before them, half-veiled by mist, stood a mansion—grand, opulent, and incongruous in the wilderness. Its high walls gleamed white against the shadow of the woods, its windows like dark eyes watching the newcomers.

Siān’s face tightened as he stepped out, boots pressing into gravel. His amber eyes flicked over the structure, his lips curling faintly between disdain and puzzlement. He could not understand why the powerful men who already ruled through wealth and fear chose to retreat into remote fortresses, hiding from the noise of the living world.

Noise was life. He knew this in his bones. Silence was death. He had survived the end of the world once, and silence had always been its herald. When the chatter of humanity died, it was because death had already claimed the ground. Corpses were silent. The living always made noise, chaos, laughter, quarrels—any sound to assert their stubborn existence.

This place was too still. Too polished. The kind of silence that made his instincts coil in warning.

But he forced the thoughts aside when their escort stepped forward. The man’s smile was as flawless as porcelain, practiced to the point of being lifeless. "Follow me," he said, voice smooth, as though carved by rehearsals.

They obeyed, their footsteps muted against polished floors. The corridors stretched long and immaculate, lined with art so pristine it seemed no dust had dared to touch it. Yet behind the luxury, Siān’s sharp eyes picked out what others might miss: cameras nestled discreetly in corners, sensors hidden behind ornate carvings, and guards—too many guards. Their uniforms immaculate, their gazes sharp, their hands never far from their weapons.

Were they here to protect the people inside, or to keep them imprisoned? The thought lodged in Siān’s mind like a thorn.

Xiao Zhu edged closer, his small frame nearly brushing against Siān’s leg. He longed to cling, to hide in the shadow of the only person he trusted, but fear held him back. Siān’s disapproval was a thing he dreaded almost as much as the unknown men around them. So the boy walked stiffly, torn between terror and reverence.

At last, they halted before a broad door. The escort pushed it open with quiet ceremony and gestured inward. His voice was calm, deferential, yet carried the weight of command.

"Please wait here while I inform the Master of the House and Miss Kira."

Siān arched a brow at the title Master of the House. The words reeked of arrogance, of hidden hierarchies. But he voiced none of his thoughts. Instead, he strode toward a nearby sofa and collapsed into it with the careless abandon of a man who refused to play by their rules.

The escort, ever unflappable, offered no rebuke. He simply bowed slightly, retreated, and closed the door with gentle finality.

The room settled into silence. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, casting a pale glow over marble floors and rich furniture. The air was perfumed faintly, almost cloyingly, with lavender—too deliberate, as though meant to mask some other scent.

Lan stood over Siān, restless. His eyes lingered on the man sprawled across the cushions, lids lowered, amber eyes hidden. To any other observer, Siān might appear asleep. But Lan knew better. He knew every nuance of his beloved’s habits, the way his breathing shifted in true slumber, the subtle heaviness in his body. This was not sleep. This was avoidance.

"Why don’t you ask," Siān murmured suddenly, voice lazy, "if you want to ask?"

Lan started, caught by the sudden gleam of amber as Siān’s eyes opened. In the sunlight, they were molten gold, warm yet untouchable, impossible to look away from.

Lan’s lips parted. The question burned too hot to remain unsaid.

"Would you even give me a real answer if I asked?"

The words cracked the stillness, raw and unrestrained.

Siān tilted his head, silent. His gaze was steady, unreadable, yet something faint flickered beneath it.

Lan’s chest tightened. How could he not feel the wrongness in this man who shared his bed? How could he ignore the strangeness, the uncanny knowledge, the glimpses of power that did not belong to this world? No excuse of Phantom Squad could explain it. Not fully. Not truly.

He had suspected the truth long ago, but suspicion was a cold thing compared to confession. And Siān had never trusted him enough to bare everything. Never opened his heart fully.

The thought pierced him like a blade, right in the softest place. It didn’t kill him—but the pain was sharp, sharper than death.

Siān looked back at him. Those blue eyes, once steadfast and fierce, were now rimmed with red, brimming with hurt. The sight made his brows furrow.

To claim he was unaffected by Lan’s devotion would be a lie. He was human. He could admit—if only to himself—that he loved this man who followed him so faithfully, who gave without asking, who remained despite secrets and shadows.

Lan’s thoughts were plain on his face, written in every line, every tightened muscle. Siān could read him easily.

Perhaps it was time to throw him a bone, to ease the torment.

Siān shifted upright, amber gaze fixing on him. He raised a hand and beckoned silently.

Lan obeyed, sitting close, tension coiled in every line of his posture.

Cool, jade-like fingers brushed his jaw. Lan didn’t flinch. Instead, he tilted into the touch, rubbing his cheek against it with a loyalty so fierce it nearly broke Siān’s composure.

Siān’s eyes darkened. His voice fell into a register that was neither human nor wholly kind.

"What would you do," he asked, "if I were a monster? A creature not of this world?"

The words hung between them, heavy, suffocating.

Lan’s brows drew together. His lashes lowered, shielding his gaze for a long heartbeat. Then he lifted them again, blue eyes meeting amber with unwavering clarity.

"Don’t go back" he said.

Each word steady, carved from bone.

"You’re my lover. You must stay with me. We’ll marry, and we’ll live our lives together. Don’t return to your world."

Siān froze. For once, control slipped. Surprise etched itself across his face, unguarded.

He had expected fear. He had expected doubt, anger, perhaps even revulsion. But this? This unwavering devotion in the face of monstrosity?

Colonel Lan was truly unlike any other.

Without warning, Siān’s composure cracked. He surged forward, amber eyes blazing, leaping straight into Lan’s arms.

In the corner, Xiao Zhu squeaked and slapped his small hands over his eyes, cheeks blazing with embarrassment.

The two men clung to each other, mouths meeting with a fervor that ignited the air. The kiss was fire, hunger, the desperate collision of two souls who had circled each other too long.

Heat spread through the room. The tension between them snapped, transformed into something fierce, something unspoken yet undeniable: each sought to consume the other, to devour, to never let go.

Siān, strong as he was, remained slight, lean. Against Lan’s solid frame, his seeming fragility stood out. Even straddling the colonel, it was clear who held control. Lan’s broad arms wrapped around him, one at his waist, one at his neck, anchoring him firmly. There was no mistaking it—Siān had leapt, but Lan was the one who held.

And just as the air thickened, as the moment swelled into something uncontainable—

The door clicked.

It opened not with force, but with quiet inevitability.

A figure stood framed in the light beyond, their silhouette sharp against the glow of the hall.

Siān stilled, lips inches from Lan’s, amber eyes narrowing dangerously. Lan’s hand tightened reflexively at his waist.

Xiao Zhu peeked between his fingers, eyes going wide at the figure in the doorway.

The Master of the House had arrived.