The scent of roasted coffee beans and warm milk was a balm, a comforting curtain Haobin had tried to pull around his life. Two years. Two years since the forced mark, since the ceramic vase shattered, since Lin Ruishie was sent away. Haobin worked at a small cafe now, tucked away on a quiet side street, far from the bustling university district. He folded paper cranes during his breaks, sometimes teaching a curious regular, finding a fragile peace in the intricate lines. He’d even started streaming again, cautiously, anonymously, focusing on the folds, letting the paper speak for him instead of his face. The bell above the door chimed, a familiar jingle that usually meant another order. Haobin glanced up from wiping down the espresso machine. His breath hitched. The man who stepped inside wasn’t Ruishie, but the resemblance was a cruel echo. Black hair, sharp features, an aura of quiet authority. Lin Ruishie’s father. The same man who had intervened, whose stern gaze had dismissed his son to another continent. Haobin’s hand, holding the damp cloth, trembled. The mark on his neck, usually a dull throb, flared with a cold, insistent ache. It had been months since he’d felt it like this, a phantom limb reacting to a proximity that was not quite there. He straightened, forcing a neutral expression onto his face. The cafe was empty except for them. Lin Senior moved with a slow, deliberate pace, his tailored suit hanging a little looser than Haobin remembered. His eyes, dark and heavy, swept over the empty tables before landing on Haobin. There was no aggression in them, only a deep, weary sadness that Haobin found almost more unsettling than anger. A customer, he reminded himself. Just a customer. “Good afternoon,” Haobin managed, his voice a little thinner than he intended. The words felt hollow, a performance for an audience of one who knew too much. He gripped the edge of the counter, the cool laminate grounding him. Lin Senior approached, stopping directly in front of the counter. His gaze was steady, unwavering, and Haobin felt his carefully constructed wall of calm begin to crack. The coffee machine hummed, a low, constant drone, amplifying the silence between them. Haobin waited, his heart thrumming against his ribs like a trapped bird. “A black coffee,” Lin Senior said, his voice raspy, a sharp contrast to the controlled tone Haobin remembered. “Please.” The simple request, delivered with such a fragile weariness, disarmed Haobin more than any accusation could have. He turned to the machine, his movements precise, almost robotic. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, thick and potent. He poured the steaming liquid into a plain white mug, his hands still shaking slightly. He set it down on the counter, avoiding eye contact. Lin Senior picked up the mug, his fingers brushing the ceramic. They seemed frail. He took a slow sip, his eyes still fixed on Haobin, a silent pressure building in the small space. Haobin felt a flush creep up his neck. He wanted to escape, to run to the back room, but his feet were rooted to the spot. “I’m not well, Haobin,” Lin Senior said, his voice barely above a whisper. He looked down into his coffee, stirring it with a small spoon. “The doctors… they don’t give me much time.” The words hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Haobin’s breath hitched again. He stared at the older alpha, a wave of confusion and a strange, unwelcome pity washing over him. This wasn’t the stoic, powerful man who had commanded his son’s exile. This was a man facing his end. “I… I’m sorry to hear that,” Haobin replied, the platitude feeling utterly inadequate. His throat tightened. The mark on his neck pulsed with a dull, persistent ache, a ghost pain of the alpha who was far away, yet never truly gone. Lin Senior raised his gaze, meeting Haobin’s directly. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, but his expression remained resolute. “Ruishie… he doesn’t know. I didn’t want to worry him, not while he was… settling.” A pause. “But I don’t want to leave this world without him knowing I tried to reach out.” He pushed a small, engraved business card across the counter. “He checks this email. He ignores my calls.” Haobin looked at the card, then back at Lin Senior. The request was clear, unspoken yet absolute. Tell my son. His stomach twisted. The thought of Ruishie returning, even for a funeral, sent a cold shiver down his spine. The past two years, the fragile peace he had built, felt suddenly precarious. Ruishie’s father, a dying man, was asking him to reopen a wound that had barely begun to scar over. He wanted Haobin to be the bridge, the messenger who would inevitably bring the storm back to his doorstep. Haobin’s jaw tightened. He picked up the card, the edges sharp against his fingertips. --- The engraved card lay on Haobin’s bedside table for weeks, a silent accusation. He saw it every morning, every night. A constant reminder of the promise he hadn’t made, and the one he refused to break: to protect himself. He thought of his mother, the fear in her eyes when she’d seen Ruishie in their apartment. He thought of Jie’s protective rage, the countless hours spent trying to reassure Haobin that he was safe, that Ruishie was gone. Bringing Ruishie back would undo it all. It would shatter the fragile peace he’d painstakingly rebuilt. He had tried to rationalize it. Lin Senior had been kind, yes, in his way. But he was also the man who had enabled Ruishie’s past behavior, whose wealth and influence had covered up the previous incidents. His compassion, Haobin knew, came with a heavy price. The thought of Ruishie’s hands on him, the searing pain of the forced mark, the sheer terror of that night, still haunted his dreams. He couldn’t be the reason Ruishie returned. He just couldn’t. “He asked me to tell Ruishie,” Haobin confessed to Jie one evening, staring blankly at the steaming bowl of noodles in front of him. They were at their usual small eatery, the familiar clatter of chopsticks and murmur of voices a comforting background. Jie’s eyes widened, a flicker of outrage in their depths. “What?” Jie asked, his voice low and tight. “After everything? He wants *you* to be his messenger?” Jie slammed his chopsticks down on the table, the sharp sound drawing a momentary glance from a nearby couple. “That’s rich. He sends his son away, then expects you to call him back when he’s on his deathbed?” Haobin shook his head, his own anger bubbling to the surface, mixed with a suffocating guilt. “He looked… really sick, Jie. Frail. He said he didn’t have much time.” “And you believe that means you owe him anything?” Jie’s voice was softer now, filled with concern. He reached across the table, covering Haobin’s hand with his own. “He’s using you, Haobin. It’s emotional blackmail. If Ruishie comes back, even for a funeral, he’ll find you. He’ll pick up right where he left off. You know he will.” Jie’s words solidified the fear Haobin had been trying to suppress. He knew. He knew Ruishie. The casual cruelty, the relentless obsession. He couldn’t risk it. Not for anyone. He pictured Ruishie’s smug face, the way his eyes would darken with possessive glee. He imagined the agonizing burn of his mark, far worse than the dull ache it usually was now, a constant reminder of Ruishie’s lingering presence in his life. He couldn’t go back to that. Two years passed. Haobin never sent that email. He deleted the card. He folded more paper cranes, served more coffee, streamed more quietly. He learned to live with the quiet guilt, the knowledge that a dying man’s last wish had gone unfulfilled because of him. He heard, through hushed whispers in the city’s upper echelons, that Lin Senior’s health had declined rapidly. Eventually, the news came, a small article buried in the financial section: Lin Enterprises Mourns Patriarch. Haobin read it, a strange blend of relief and sorrow washing over him. The decision had been made, cemented by time and fate. He was safe. The silence from across the ocean was absolute, and he clung to it, a lifeline in a turbulent world. Ruishie was still gone. --- The grand ballroom of the Lin family estate was draped in black and white silk, a somber elegance befitting the deceased patriarch. Haobin stood near a tall potted palm, trying to blend into the shadows, his plain black suit feeling heavy and formal. His mother had insisted he attend, a gesture of respect, she’d said. He’d resisted, but a part of him felt a morbid obligation, a need to see the finality of it, to close that chapter for good. He’d told himself Ruishie wouldn’t be there, not yet. He told himself Ruishie wouldn’t even know. The air was thick with the scent of lilies and expensive cologne. People moved in hushed conversations, their faces solemn. Haobin scanned the room, a knot forming in his stomach. He hadn’t seen any sign of *him*. Maybe he truly hadn't come back. Maybe he was still in the US, unaware, oblivious. A sliver of hope, sharp and fragile, pierced through the gloom. Suddenly, a shadow fell over him. The scent of an alpha, potent and familiar, hit him like a physical blow. It wasn't the refined, aging scent of Lin Senior. This was sharper, younger, undeniably dangerous. Haobin froze, his blood turning to ice. The mark on his neck ignited, a searing, white-hot brand that stole his breath. “Haobin,” a voice murmured, low and venomous, right beside his ear. “My, my. Look how much you’ve grown.” He flinched, spinning around. Lin Ruishie stood there, impossibly close. Two years hadn’t softened him. If anything, they had sharpened the edges of his cruelty. His black hair was longer, slicked back from a face that was leaner, his eyes darker, glittering with an intensity that sent shivers down Haobin’s spine. Ruishie was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit, a pristine white lily pinned to his lapel. He looked like death, and power, and everything Haobin had feared. “Ruishie,” Haobin whispered, his voice failing him. The burning in his mark was excruciating, a direct link to the alpha’s presence, his rage. He stumbled back, bumping into the wall, desperate for distance that didn’t exist. Ruishie’s lips curved into a slow, chilling smile, utterly devoid of warmth. “Did you really think I wouldn’t come back for my father’s funeral? Did you think you could hide from me forever?” His gaze raked over Haobin, possessive and predatory. “Funny, isn’t it? I come back, and the first thing I hear is that my father died two weeks ago. And not a single word from anyone that he’d been sick for *two years*.” Haobin’s heart hammered against his ribs. He couldn’t breathe. Ruishie’s eyes narrowed, the smile twisting into something ugly. “He had a diary. He wanted me to have it. Full of his regrets. Full of his last wishes. And a casual mention of how he asked *you* to tell me.” Ruishie’s voice dropped, a dangerous rumble that vibrated through Haobin’s bones. “My father died thinking his own son didn’t care enough to visit him in his final months. He died alone. Because *you* decided I didn’t deserve to know.” He took a step closer, crowding Haobin against the wall. “You kept me from him, Haobin. For two years, you kept me from my father. And now, he’s gone.” Ruishie’s hand shot out, gripping Haobin’s chin, forcing his head up. His thumb pressed directly against the permanent mark on Haobin’s neck. The pain flared, blinding, sickening. “I didn’t even know he was sick, Haobin. Not one single word. And it’s all your fault.” Haobin gripped the steaming milk pitcher, the frother’s hum a dull buzz against his palm. The morning rush at “The Daily Grind” was easing, leaving behind the comforting aroma of espresso and warm pastries. He wiped down the counter with practiced movements, his mind replaying the funeral, Ruishie’s cruel grip, the scorching pain of the mark. Two weeks had passed since that night, a blur of sleepless nights and jumpy days. He tried to focus on the rhythm of his job, the familiar faces of regulars, the predictable flow of orders. It was a fragile peace, easily shattered. He pushed a fresh batch of muffins into the display case, arranging them by type: blueberry, chocolate chip, cranberry-orange. Mrs. Chen always liked the cranberry-orange. He liked to keep things just so, a small pocket of order in the chaos of his life. The chime of the entrance bell cut through the gentle clatter. He looked up, a polite smile already forming on his lips. It faltered, then died. A black-haired alpha stood silhouetted in the doorway, momentarily blocking the soft morning light. The man wasn't wearing a suit today, but a dark, expensive-looking cashmere sweater that hugged his shoulders. His hair, still long, was pulled back in a loose, casual style that only accentuated the sharp planes of his face. Haobin’s breath hitched. His stomach lurched. The mark on his neck, which had settled into a dull throb since the funeral, flared with an immediate, sickening intensity. It couldn't be. Not here. Not now. He told himself it was just a customer. Just *an* alpha. This cafe was popular. Many alphas frequented it, drawn by the strong coffee and quick service. He had served hundreds of them. Thousands. He forced his gaze away, down to the gleaming countertop, polishing a spot that was already pristine. He could feel the alpha's eyes on him, a weight pressing down on his chest, making it hard to draw a full breath. His hands trembled, just slightly, as he wiped the stainless steel. He pressed his lips together, trying to calm the frantic beat of his heart. The scent, though, seeped into the air, a familiar, unsettling blend of something sharp and something musky, something utterly *his*. Ruishie’s scent. He wanted to run, to duck into the back room, to disappear. But he was at work. He was the only one on the counter. He had to stay. He had to pretend. He heard the alpha move, a slow, deliberate stride across the tiled floor. The sound of his expensive shoes echoed in the suddenly quiet space. No one else seemed to notice, engrossed in their own coffees or phone screens. Only Haobin felt the shift, the tightening of the air. He tried to project an image of calm, a professional barista ready to take an order. It was a flimsy shield. He finally looked up, his eyes meeting the alpha’s. Ruishie. It was him. No doubt. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, held a glint of something predatory, something knowing. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk played on his lips. Haobin’s throat felt tight, a knot of pure dread forming there. He clutched the polishing cloth, his knuckles white. This wasn't just a customer. This was the hunter, and Haobin was caught. He swallowed hard, forcing a semblance of a voice. "Can I help you?" he managed, the words thin and reedy. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. The prickle on his neck intensified, a cruel reminder of the bond that tied him to this man, a bond he had never wanted, a bond he could never escape. Ruishie leaned against the counter, not quite facing the menu board, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Haobin. The faint smirk never left his lips. He was enjoying this, Haobin realized, the prolonged discomfort, the raw fear radiating off him. Every nerve ending in Haobin’s body screamed for him to escape, but he was trapped, pinned by that unwavering stare. The scent of coffee, usually a comfort, now felt cloying, suffocating, mixing with Ruishie’s alpha pheromones, a potent cocktail of dread. "What would you recommend, Haobin?" Ruishie's voice was a low murmur, barely above the ambient hum of the cafe. It was calm, almost pleasant, but beneath the surface, Haobin heard the sharp edge of a blade. The question itself was a taunt, a deliberate reminder of their past, of the intimacy Ruishie had forced upon him. It wasn't about the coffee. It was about control. Haobin’s tongue felt thick. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some composure. "We... we have a new seasonal blend," he stammered, gesturing vaguely towards the board with a trembling hand. "A hazelnut latte, or a caramel macchiato." He hated the weakness in his voice, the way it betrayed his terror. He tried to avoid Ruishie’s gaze, focusing instead on a point just past his shoulder, but it was impossible. Those eyes drew him in, held him captive. "Hazelnut," Ruishie said, a slow, deliberate drawl, as if savoring each syllable. "Make it a large. Extra shot. And... a double chocolate muffin. Heated." His gaze never wavered. He watched Haobin’s every micro-expression, every flicker of fear in his eyes. The mark on Haobin's neck pulsed, a constant, searing reminder of the alpha's physical proximity and his power. It felt like a branding iron, hot and relentless. Haobin forced himself to turn, to access the espresso machine. His hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the portafilter. He could feel Ruishie’s eyes on his back, burning through the fabric of his apron. Every movement felt clumsy, exposed. He could practically hear Ruishie’s thoughts, the smug satisfaction, the quiet triumph. He tried to concentrate on the mechanics of making the drink, on the simple, repetitive actions that usually brought him a measure of peace. Today, they offered no solace. He poured the milk, steam rising in a delicate cloud. The aroma of rich coffee filled the air, briefly overpowering Ruishie's scent. It was a fleeting reprieve. He slid the muffin into the small oven, the whir of the fan a small comfort. He wished the cafe was busier, wished for a distraction, a barrier. But the morning lull meant there were only a few scattered patrons, none of whom seemed to notice the silent, charged confrontation unfolding at the counter. When he turned back, coffee and muffin ready, Ruishie was still there, leaning, watching. He hadn’t moved an inch. Haobin placed the cup and plate on the counter, careful not to touch Ruishie’s outstretched hand as he took his card. Their fingers brushed anyway, and a jolt, unpleasant and sickening, shot through Haobin’s arm. The mark flared again, a sharp, white-hot agony. "Thank you, Haobin," Ruishie murmured, his voice laced with an almost imperceptible threat. His fingers lingered on the card reader, his eyes still locked on Haobin’s. "It’s good to see you again. I was starting to think you were avoiding me." A slow smile spread across his face, not one of amusement, but of chilling possession. "But we both know that's impossible, don't we?" He took his coffee, his knuckles brushing Haobin’s again, a deliberate, lingering touch. The warmth of the cup did nothing to counteract the cold dread that settled deep in Haobin's bones. He watched Ruishie turn, walk to a small table by the window, and sit, his gaze still fixed on Haobin over the rim of his steaming cup. This wasn't over. This was just the beginning.

Chapter 7: Confrontation in Crimson