CHAPTER 125: THE FRAGILE MASK OF PEACE

A full week had crawled by since the terrifying incident on the island—an event so vicious it carved its mark into the very marrow of those who had lived through it. For many, it was no longer a memory but a scar etched into their souls. And yet, for the world at large, the nightmare had begun to blur. Newsfeeds no longer carried the frantic headlines. Television stations that once replayed shaky footage of flames, screams, and shadows of monsters now broadcast cooking shows, political debates, or hollow promises of peace. It was as if the island had been a collective hallucination, a fever dream that people forced themselves to abandon.

But the truth was never erased so easily. People had not lost their memories. The governments made sure of that. After all, they were not ornamental figureheads but masters of narrative. In the days following the incident, agencies worldwide worked tirelessly, twisting the story, reshaping public perception. Fear was a weapon, one that could empower the wrong hands. And to prevent chaos, to prevent terrorist organizations from feeding on that fear, they purged everything—photos, videos, firsthand accounts—from every corner of social media. Posts vanished overnight. Accounts were suspended. And slowly, silence spread like a controlled fire.

Those who had truly faced the horror could never forget. Survivors who had watched friends ripped from their grasp, families mourning loved ones who would never return—no decree could soothe their grief. Yet for the masses, those who had only seen through screens, it became easier to doubt. Did it really happen? Was it exaggerated? And when the broadcasts stopped and no fresh updates came, they returned to their lives. Fear had no purpose in their daily routines. Worry brought no bread to the table. So, the world moved on, convincing itself that peace was real—if only for now.

Peace. A fragile word.

And speaking of peace, Sian was sprawled lazily on the couch of Lan Qisheng’s home, limbs thrown carelessly across the cushions as though he owned the place. A bowl of snacks sat balanced on his stomach. His eyes were glued to the glowing screen before him, watching his favorite anime with the concentration of a monk in prayer. Crunch. Crunch. Each bite echoed in the stillness of the living room.

To outsiders, it would be baffling—how a man like Sian, who had walked through storms of blood and fire, found such joy in the animated chaos of a love triangle between Inuyasha, Kikyo, and Kagoumi. But here he was, smirking faintly whenever the half-demon sulked, frowning whenever Kagome cried. The contrast between his dangerous reality and this fragile entertainment was almost absurd.

Only days ago, He Jinyun had nearly stormed into the military facility where Sian had been stationed. The thought still made his jaw tighten. If Sian hadn’t called at the very last second, just before the idiot’s boots crossed the threshold, there would have been blood. A clash of powers. Perhaps even war. He could almost picture it—the alarms blaring, soldiers raising their guns, Jinyun standing there with that damned confidence, unshaken by the rifles pointed at his chest.

Why? Why did that bear of a child think it was fine for a wanted criminal, the head of a terrorist-branded organization, to stroll up to the gates of the army like he was visiting an old friend? Sian could not understand. And yet, Jinyun had come without hesitation, as though danger bowed to him.

At least Sian had managed to talk him down for now. He had wrestled a promise out of him: they would meet again later, away from places brimming with soldiers and suspicion.

"Gege, do you want more snacks?" The deep voice was calm, threaded with warmth, and carried the faintest playful note.

Sian turned his head slowly. His gaze landed on the man beside him, He Jinyun, who was watching him with that infuriating mix of care and mischief. Their eyes locked. Silence stretched between them, only broken by the faint buzz of the anime’s soundtrack.

Finally, Sian exhaled a long sigh. "He Jinyun, do you think Lan Qisheng’s house is a five-star hotel or something?"

Ever since leaving the military facility, Jinyun had latched onto him like a shadow. Not that Lan Qisheng had protested. Quite the opposite—the homeowner had welcomed him with unnerving calm.

But two entire days of Jinyun knocking, cajoling, and pressing at the door had tested Sian’s patience.

When the stubborn idiot finally broke through, dragging with him his usual storm, it had ended in chaos. Three grown men brawling like toddlers in a kindergarten yard.

And when Sian’s temper snapped, he had ended the nonsense in his own way—with a swift kick to each of their stomachs. One blow apiece.

Silence followed.

And his command had been absolute: reconcile, shut up, and let me sleep.

If you were wondering why the number was three... no, it wasn’t a mistake.

"I don’t think it’s wise to eat that many snacks," came a dry, amused voice. Across from him, lounging with infuriating composure, Jiao Liangchen flipped through a newspaper as though the world were not falling apart outside these walls. "Besides, isn’t Sian supposed to be an idol? Shouldn’t he care about his weight and public image? Unlike someone else I know." His smirk made it clear exactly who that "someone" was.

(God. What the hell is wrong with these bastards?)

Sian pinched the bridge of his nose. Once upon a time, he had known peace—quiet evenings with Lan Qisheng, the comfort of a home shared between two people. But now? Now it was as if his sanctuary had been transformed into a circus. These two invaders had been squatting here for three days, and there wasn’t the faintest sign of them leaving. Not even a hint of guilt.

"Darling," Sian muttered under his breath, his eyes sliding toward Lan Qisheng, "why do I feel like our home has turned into a zoo?"

(And you’re the first puppy I ever adopted into this menagerie,) He thought bitterly. But outwardly, he forced a crooked smile at the man leaning closer, whose mere presence claimed every inch of his personal space. It was infuriating... and dangerously comforting.

The other two were unbothered. They’d grown used to the couple’s closeness. When Lan Qisheng pressed a kiss to Sian’s cheek and turned toward them with a smug, victorious smirk, neither flinched. Not even a blink. As if this display of affection were as ordinary as breathing.

Sian cleared his throat, pulling himself together. "In any case," he began firmly, "He Jinyun says he’s found another lead on the organization. He also has information suggesting the Prime Minister’s daughter may be entangled with them. Right now, he’s investigating the hostage’s whereabouts. That’s good news." His voice hardened. "But until something urgent happens, I see no reason for the three of you to crowd here like flies on honey."

His eyes sharpened, cutting across the room to the two who still pretended deafness. Enough. His next words carried no warmth, no patience:

"Each of you, leave. Go to your own places. We’ll meet again when there’s actually something worth discussing."

The silence that followed was suffocating. He Jinyun’s lips parted, his jaw tight with protest. He wanted to argue. He wanted to stay. But he saw the glint in Sian’s eyes—the unyielding steel that meant the decision was final. He swallowed, his voice dropping to a subdued murmur. "...Fine."

The other man—Jiao Liangchen—folded his newspaper with deliberate slowness, as though to irritate him one last time. Then, standing, he offered a few quiet words to Sian, a farewell edged with something unreadable, before slipping out. Not long after, the silver-masked one followed in silence, vanishing like a shadow into the night.

And so, at last, after what felt like a battle drawn across years instead of days, the house was empty again. Silent again. And Lan Qisheng could finally claim the solitude with his beloved that he had been starving for.

His eyes gleamed with mischief and hunger. He had made up his mind long ago: tonight, he would devour Sian—body and soul. He would trace every scar, every inch, leave nothing untouched. But first, patience. First, he would feed him. A grand meal, lavish and filling. He would watch him savor it, fill him with warmth, and then take what remained.

But life, as always, cared nothing for plans.

Evening fell. The table was nearly ready, dishes gleaming, scents drifting through the air. The lights in the kitchen glowed like golden fire. Everything was set for a night of indulgence.

And then—

A knock. Sharp. Urgent. Uninvited.

The air thickened instantly. Both men froze.

Lan Qisheng’s hand tightened around the edge of the table. His jaw clenched. He did not need words; the curse burned in his mind.

Lan Qisheng: "..."

(Damn my married life. Damn it to hell.)

The knock came again. Louder this time. Insistent. Demanding entry.

And in that instant, Sian felt it—the fragile peace of their stolen moments shattering like glass. Whatever waited beyond that door... it wasn’t going to let them rest.

To be continued...