The dressing room air felt thin, stale with the ghost of cheap perfume. Levis stripped the sequined jacket, the fabric a coarse irritant against his skin. Miyan’s words echoed, a low thrum against his eardrums. *“Some scars are meant to be felt, not just seen.”* He remembered Miyan’s casual gesture, a flick of his wrist as if dismissing a fly, but the movement had been etched into Levis’s mind. A flicker of silver, a thin line beneath the cuff of an expensive shirt. Just like the one. It couldn’t be. It absolutely could not be. His hands trembled, fumbling with the tiny buttons of his shirt. He yanked it off, letting it fall in a heap on the chipped linoleum floor. A wave of nausea rolled through him. He leaned against the cold mirror, his reflection a pale, unfamiliar face. Those honey-olive eyes, usually so sharp, now swam with a desperate uncertainty. He closed them, trying to banish the image, but it persisted: the exact length, the almost imperceptible curve. A small, insignificant thing to anyone else, but to Levis, a brand burned into memory. He had spent years cultivating this hatred, this singular purpose. Every step, every grueling practice session, every forced smile in this glittering cage, had been fueled by the certainty of Miyan’s guilt. He had built his entire world around it, a fortress of righteous fury. If that scar belonged to Miyan, if it was indeed *the* scar, then everything shifted. The foundation of his revenge, the very ground beneath his feet, threatened to crack. He opened his eyes, staring hard at his own face. There was no room for doubt. Not now. Not when he was so close. He had to be wrong. It had to be a cruel trick of the light, a figment of his overactive, traumatized imagination. He ran a hand through his dirty-blond hair, pulling at the roots, a frantic attempt to ground himself. This was Miyan. The man whose eyes held no recognition for the melody of his pain. The man who had taken him with a brutal, indifferent force. The man who had nearly beaten another to death in an alley. This was the monster. He had to be. The alternative was unthinkable. --- Back in his cramped, rented room, Levis hunched over a flickering laptop screen. The glow cast his face in an unhealthy pallor. He typed ‘Zhang Miyan’ into the search bar, his fingers flying across the keyboard with a furious energy. Each click, each new page loaded, was met with the same hollow disappointment. Public records. Business profiles. Philanthropic donations to obscure charities. All of it carefully curated, polished, and utterly devoid of anything useful. Club Nocturne’s owner, a young, rising star in the entertainment industry. That was the official narrative. There were photos: Miyan at galas, Miyan cutting ribbons, Miyan with a practiced, neutral smile that revealed nothing. No hint of a past, no mention of family, no scandals that weren’t easily dismissed as tabloid fodder. It was a blank slate, expertly scrubbed clean. Levis scrolled through page after page, his jaw tight, the muscles in his neck aching with tension. He expanded his search, trying variations, adding keywords, desperate for a crack in the facade. He tried 'Zhang Miyan' and 'Shanghai,' then 'Zhang Miyan' and 'incident,' 'Zhang Miyan' and 'family.' Nothing. Not a single thread of information that connected the composed, brutal man he knew to the past that haunted him. It was as if Miyan had sprung into existence fully formed, a perfect, unblemished figure on the public stage, with no history before his rise to power. The internet, usually a bottomless pit of information, offered only a carefully constructed illusion. His frustration grew, a hot, bitter taste in his mouth. He slammed the laptop shut, the sound echoing in the small room. This wasn't working. He needed something else. Something personal. Something only those close to Miyan might know. --- Levis leaned against the grimy wall backstage, watching the other dancers stretch. The air hummed with the bass from the main floor, a constant, dull pulse. A girl named Mei, with bright pink hair and a perpetually exhausted look, sat on a bench, rubbing her ankles. She worked the late shift, her eyes often heavy-lidded. “Rough night?” Levis asked, his voice deliberately soft, casual. He offered her a bottle of water from his bag. He’d learned a long time ago that kindness, however feigned, was a powerful tool. Mei took it, her fingers brushing his. “Always. This club runs on fumes and desperation.” She took a long drink. “At least the pay is good, thanks to the boss.” “He seems… private,” Levis ventured, making it sound like an observation, not an interrogation. “Doesn’t talk much about himself.” Mei snorted, a dry, humorless sound. “Private? Try invisible. He floats in and out like a ghost. Barely speaks to anyone who isn’t Kai. Nobody really *knows* him, you know? Just his reputation.” She shrugged, then leaned forward, her voice dropping. “He’s young, but he’s already got an empire. Some say it wasn’t always Nocturne. Old money, maybe, or… old business.” She glanced around, as if worried someone might overhear. “There are whispers. Things from before. Things he doesn’t like talked about.” Levis kept his expression neutral, his heart a frantic drum against his ribs. “Things?” he prompted, keeping his voice light, inviting her to elaborate without pushing too hard. Mei hesitated, then shook her head. “Just whispers. Old ghosts, they say. Stuff from when he was even younger, before all this glamor. No one talks specifics, not if they want to keep their jobs. Or their teeth.” She gave a nervous laugh. “He’s a good boss, though. Pays well. Just… don’t ask about the past.” She pushed herself up, wincing. “Anyway, gotta go. Another set.” She limped away, leaving Levis with a tantalizing, infuriating sense of more unknowns. Old business. Old ghosts. It wasn't much, but it confirmed Miyan had a past he fiercely protected. A past that might hold the answers he desperately needed. --- The hospital smelled of antiseptic and lingering despair. He'd waited until the late hours, slipping in like a shadow, past the stern-faced nurses. The numbers on the latest bill were staggering. His brother lay pale and still, hooked to a maze of tubes, the steady beep of the monitor a constant reminder of the life he fought to hold onto. Levis pressed his forehead against the cold glass of the window in the empty corridor, the financial weight a crushing burden. His anger, his carefully nurtured hatred, felt like a distant luxury compared to the immediate, visceral need for money. He had nowhere else to turn. The club was his only option. Miyan was his only option. He walked back through the deserted streets, the neon glow of Nocturne a beacon, pulling him in despite his warring emotions. He headed straight for the administrative office, a place he’d only seen Miyan enter. The door was ajar. Levis pushed it open, his stomach twisting. Miyan sat behind a large, dark wood desk, the soft light of a single lamp illuminating a stack of documents. He looked up, his expression unreadable, a flicker of something unidentifiable in his dark eyes. “Levis,” Miyan said, his voice calm, even. He gestured to the chair opposite him. “What brings you here? Lost your way to your quarters?” Levis swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He ignored the chair, remaining standing. “I… I need a favor.” The words felt like ash in his mouth. He hated the taste of them, hated the vulnerability they implied. He hated himself for being here. Miyan’s eyes narrowed slightly, a subtle shift. He leaned back in his chair, his gaze lingering on Levis’s face, searching. “A favor? From me?” There was a hint of amusement, sharp and cold, in his tone. He rolled his left sleeve up slightly, adjusting his watch, revealing a sliver of pale skin on his inner wrist. And there it was. The thin, white line, perfectly mirroring the scar Levis carried. It was unmistakable, a cold, hard truth laid bare. A wave of icy dread washed over Levis, so profound it almost made him sway. His breath hitched. This wasn't coincidence. This was him. The man. The reality hit him with the force of a physical blow, even as he stood there, trying to process it. The man he sought to destroy was truly sitting before him. The man he was about to beg from. He forced himself to meet Miyan’s gaze, pushing down the surge of revulsion and the sudden, burning confusion. He had to compartmentalize, to survive this. “I… I need money,” Levis said, his voice barely a whisper, thick with unsaid desperation. He hated the tremor he couldn’t quite control. “For a… personal matter. I’ll earn it.” He didn’t specify how, but the implication hung heavy in the air between them. Miyan’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile, devoid of warmth. He stood, slowly rounding the desk, his movements fluid and predatory. He stopped directly in front of Levis, too close. Miyan reached out, his long fingers tracing the line of Levis’s jaw, then trailing down his neck, sending shivers through Levis that were not of pleasure. His thumb brushed against Levis’s pulsing throat. “A personal matter,” Miyan repeated, his voice a low rumble. His eyes dropped to Levis’s mouth, then lower, to the subtle bulge beneath Levis’s trousers. “And how do you propose to ‘earn’ this money, little dancer?” Miyan’s hand moved, sliding down Levis’s stomach, past the waistband of his pants. He found Levis’s dick, closing his fingers around it, a firm, possessive grip. He began to rub, a slow, deliberate rhythm that sent a jolt through Levis’s already frayed nerves. Levis’s breath caught, a soft gasp escaping him. He tried to fight the involuntary reaction, the sudden hardening beneath Miyan’s touch, but his body betrayed him. Miyan watched his face, a cruel amusement in his eyes as Levis’s hips instinctively twitched. The rubbing intensified, faster now, until Levis’s head swam, a soft moan escaping him, a pathetic, strangled sound. *“Ahhh…”* Then Miyan’s hand left him, abruptly. Miyan’s other hand shot out, grasping Levis’s chin, tilting his head back. He leaned in, his lips brushing Levis’s ear. “I have a proposition for you, Levis. One that will cover your ‘personal matter’ and then some.” Miyan pulled back, his eyes dark, assessing. He led Levis by the hand, not to the couch, but to the center of the office, pushing him gently onto his knees on the thick rug. Miyan’s gaze was unwavering, a challenge. “Spread your legs.”

Chapter 3: The Familiar Scar