The scent of roasted coffee beans, usually a comfort, now clung to Haobin like a shroud. His hands trembled as he wiped down the counter, the clatter of ceramic mugs echoing in the too-quiet cafe. Ruishie's words, his enraged face, still burned behind Haobin's eyelids. He could feel the phantom ache of the mark on his neck, a silent throb that amplified every beat of his racing heart. He spotted Mr. Lee, his manager, meticulously arranging pastries in the display case. The older alpha, with his kind eyes and perpetually flour-dusted apron, had been a stable presence these past two years. Haobin took a deep breath, the metallic taste of fear coating his tongue. This would be harder than facing Ruishie. “Mr. Lee?” Haobin’s voice cracked, barely above a whisper. The manager turned, a gentle smile gracing his lips. “Yes, Haobin? Everything alright? You look a bit pale.” Mr. Lee’s brow furrowed with genuine concern. He always noticed. Haobin wished he didn’t. Haobin swallowed hard, his gaze darting around the empty cafe. “I… I need to quit.” The words tumbled out, rushed and breathless. He watched as Mr. Lee’s smile faltered, replaced by a look of surprised disappointment. “Quit? Haobin, what are you talking about? Just like that?” Mr. Lee gestured vaguely with a tongs, a half-eaten croissant left suspended in the air. “You’ve been one of my best, most reliable workers since you started. What happened?” Haobin shook his head, unable to meet his manager’s gaze. “I just… I can’t. I have to.” The urgency in his voice was undeniable, a desperate plea Mr. Lee couldn't ignore. The cafe, his small sanctuary, was no longer safe. Ruishie had found him. He gripped the counter’s edge, his knuckles white. The thought of staying, of waiting for Ruishie to walk through that door again, to expose him, to ruin everything he had rebuilt, was unbearable. He couldn't risk it. Not again. His peace, however fragile, depended on disappearing. “I’m really sorry, Mr. Lee. I know this is sudden. But I have no choice.” The lie tasted bitter. He did have a choice, but it was between his job and his fragile sense of security. The latter always won when Ruishie was involved. --- Mr. Lee sighed, a long, weary sound that echoed in the quiet cafe. He placed the tongs down on a clean napkin, his usual jovial demeanor replaced by a somber expression. “Haobin, you know I can’t just let you go without notice. We’re short-staffed as it is. Is there anything at all I can do? Are you in some kind of trouble?” His eyes, usually crinkled with good humor, were filled with genuine worry. “No, Mr. Lee, it’s not trouble.” Haobin lied again, the words catching in his throat. He couldn’t tell him. He couldn’t tell anyone the truth about Ruishie, not really. The shame, the fear, the sheer disbelief of it all – it was too much to burden someone else with. Besides, Ruishie had made it clear no one would believe him anyway. “It’s… personal reasons,” Haobin mumbled, looking down at the scarred wooden counter. “Family matters. Urgent. I need to leave immediately.” He hated the evasiveness, the way his voice wavered, but what else could he say? *An alpha stalker who marked me two years ago just found me again and threatened to ruin my life, so I have to vanish.* It sounded insane. Mr. Lee studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. Haobin felt a flush creep up his neck, the mark suddenly feeling hot beneath his shirt collar. He imagined Mr. Lee seeing it, understanding the unspoken horror. But the older alpha simply nodded slowly, defeat settling onto his shoulders. “Alright, Haobin. If it’s family, I understand.” He picked up a rag, absently wiping a smudge from the glass display. “I’m sorry to see you go. If things ever… resolve themselves, you always have a place here. You know that, right?” Haobin nodded, a lump forming in his throat. He appreciated the kindness, the unspoken offer of a safety net, but he knew it was a hollow promise. He couldn’t come back. Not here. Not anywhere Ruishie might find him again. “Thank you, Mr. Lee. For everything.” He managed a weak smile, trying to convey a gratitude he felt deeply but couldn’t express. This job had given him a semblance of normalcy, a distraction from the constant low hum of anxiety. Now, even that was gone. --- Walking out of the back room, Haobin felt an unsettling lightness, as if a weight had been lifted, only to be replaced by a crushing void. He was free, for now, from the immediate threat of Ruishie appearing at the cafe. But that freedom came at a steep cost. He pulled out his phone, opening the calculator app. His rent was due in less than two weeks. Without his cafe salary, even for just half a month, he would be short. His streaming income, sporadic and unreliable as it was, barely covered his groceries. He had been so careful, so meticulous with his budget, saving every yuan he could. Now, it was all falling apart. His finger hovered over the numbers. Rent: 2,500. Utilities: 300. Groceries: 800. His part-time cafe job brought in roughly 3,500 a month. Even if he got paid for the days he’d worked, it wouldn't be enough. He watched his small savings dwindle with each mental calculation, the numbers mocking him. He had planned to buy a new, better camera for his streams, to improve the quality, perhaps even expand his reach. That dream was now a distant, unattainable luxury. His phone screen reflected his worried face, the circles under his eyes more pronounced than usual. He felt a familiar knot of despair tightening in his stomach. How would he make ends meet? He couldn’t ask his mother for help; she already worried too much. He had to find another job. Fast. But where? What could he do that wouldn’t be easily traceable, that wouldn’t put him at risk again? The thought of starting over, of rebuilding his life *again*, felt utterly exhausting. It was a cycle he was condemned to repeat, always running, always hiding. Ruishie had taken his peace, his home, his sense of safety, and now, his livelihood. The bitter resentment burned, hot and acrid, in his chest. --- Haobin stepped out of the cafe’s back entrance, the cool evening air doing little to calm his frayed nerves. He adjusted the strap of his worn messenger bag, his gaze sweeping the street. It was a habit now, a constant, almost unconscious surveillance. Every dark sedan, every figure lurking in the shadows, sent a jolt of anxiety through him. His eyes snagged on a sleek, black Porsche parked directly across the street, a few spaces down from the cafe. It was too polished, too expensive for this neighborhood. The windows were tinted dark, obscuring the interior, but Haobin knew. He knew that car. He’d seen it before, parked outside his apartment, then later, at the funeral. It was Ruishie’s. A cold dread seeped into his bones. He’d quit his job, sacrificed his income, all to escape this. And he hadn't even made it ten feet from the building. Ruishie had been waiting. He hadn’t just found the cafe; he had staked it out, ensuring Haobin knew he was trapped. The realization hit Haobin with the force of a physical blow. His sacrifice, his desperate attempt at reclaiming some semblance of control, had been utterly in vain. Ruishie hadn't just *found* him; he was actively asserting his omnipresence. Haobin felt a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air. The alpha was playing a game, and Haobin was the terrified pawn. He took a shaky step back, pressing himself against the brick wall of the cafe. His mind raced, searching for an escape route, a way to disappear again. But Ruishie knew. He always knew. A flicker of movement in the Porsche's window caught Haobin’s eye. A hand, gloved in dark leather, raised slightly, almost a wave, before disappearing back into the shadows. Ruishie was there. Watching. Waiting. Haobin's heart hammered against his ribs. He felt utterly exposed, his newfound freedom nothing more than an illusion. He was still caged. The mark on his neck throbbed, a direct connection to the alpha who was tormenting him, a leash he couldn’t sever. He was trapped. Suddenly, his phone buzzed. He fumbled to pull it out, his fingers clumsy with fear. It was a text message. From an unknown number. He opened it, his breath catching in his throat. The message was short, chillingly precise: *Found your father’s old address. Heard he’s a gambling man. How much for a little information?*

Chapter 8: The Price of Freedom