Episode 4

I ran my fingers over the cool metal of the knife, its weight unfamiliar in my hands. My heart pounded as I stared at it, realizing that, in this moment, I had made my choice.

I should have been scared. I was scared. But not of Qing Zhao. Not of what he was. I was scared of how easy it was to fall deeper into his world.

Qing Zhao leaned back against the booth, watching me carefully. “You sure about this?” His voice was calm, but there was something beneath it—something almost protective.

I swallowed hard and met his gaze. “You just said I’m a target now. If I walk away, that won’t change, will it?”

His lips pressed into a thin line. “…No.”

“Then teach me,” I said, gripping the knife tighter.

Something flickered in his expression—something close to approval, but softer. “Alright.”

The tension between us was thick, the air humming with something unspoken.

I had only just met Qing Zhao, but being around him felt… different. It wasn’t just danger that pulled me in. It was him. The way his dark eyes flickered with emotion even when he tried to hide it. The way his voice could be both cold and gentle at the same time. The way he looked at me now, like he wasn’t sure if he should push me away or keep me close.

And then, to my surprise, he reached forward. His fingers brushed against mine, carefully adjusting my grip on the knife.

“Hold it like this,” he murmured.

I sucked in a breath. His touch was warm, careful despite the sharp edge of his world. I should have pulled away. I should have focused on what he was teaching me. But all I could think about was how close he was, how his fingers lingered just a second longer than necessary.

I looked up at him. He was already watching me.

The space between us suddenly felt too small.

“Qing Zhao…” I said quietly, unsure of what I was asking.

He didn’t move away. If anything, his grip on my hand tightened slightly. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes…

They weren’t cold anymore.

For a moment, I wondered if I had imagined it—the way his gaze softened, the way his fingers traced over mine absentmindedly, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Then, just as quickly, he pulled away.

“You should get some rest,” he said, his voice a little rougher than before. “I’ll take you home.”

I let out a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. “Right. Yeah.”

But as we left the restaurant, walking side by side under the dim glow of streetlights, I couldn’t stop thinking about the way he had looked at me.

Or the way I wanted him to look at me again.

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The next few days were a blur of training, bruises, and late nights spent with Qing Zhao. He taught me how to defend myself, how to hold my stance, how to strike when necessary. I wasn’t strong, not like him, but I was learning.

And with every passing day, I felt myself falling deeper.

It was in the way he always corrected my form with the lightest touch, his hands lingering just a second too long. The way he watched me when he thought I wasn’t looking. The way his usually cold demeanor melted, just a little, when we were alone.

One night, after another exhausting training session, I found myself leaning against the wall of his apartment, catching my breath. “I think you’re just enjoying beating me up at this point,” I muttered.

Qing Zhao smirked, sitting beside me. “You’re the one who wanted to learn.”

I rolled my eyes, but I was smiling. “Yeah, yeah.”

For a moment, we just sat there in silence. The city lights flickered through the window, casting soft shadows across his face. He looked… different like this. Relaxed. Almost at peace.

I turned to say something—maybe a joke, maybe a thank you—but before I could, Qing Zhao reached out, his fingers brushing against my cheek.

I froze.

His touch was hesitant, almost like he wasn’t sure if he should. But he didn’t pull away.

“You’re bruised,” he murmured, his thumb lightly tracing over a faint mark from training. His voice was quieter now, softer.

I swallowed hard. “It’s nothing.”

He didn’t look convinced. His fingers lingered, his touch almost tender.

I should have pulled away. I should have laughed it off. But I didn’t.

Instead, I leaned into his touch, just slightly.

Qing Zhao’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered to mine, and for the first time since I met him, he looked unsure.

I didn’t think. I didn’t hesitate.

I closed the space between us.

It was slow, uncertain—just a gentle press of lips at first, barely there. But then Qing Zhao exhaled, like he had been holding back for too long, and kissed me back.

His hand slid to the back of my neck, pulling me closer, deepening the kiss with a quiet intensity that sent shivers down my spine.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was a promise.

A promise that no matter how dangerous his world was, no matter how many warnings he had given me to stay away, he wasn’t going to let me go.

And I wasn’t going to let him go either.

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