The wind howled across the empty field, heavy with the scent of ash and steel. Zhao Yun stood at the center, spear grounded, blood on his gauntlet—not his, never his, if he could help it.

Tonight, the stars were absent. But something else watched.

He felt it—chilling yet warm. A presence not of this world, slinking through shadows like temptation incarnate. His grip on the spear tightened.

“You again,” he muttered under his breath.

You didn’t answer, but he sensed the smirk in the silence. You always appeared after battles—when his armor cracked and his soul wavered. When the man beneath the hero surfaced.

He didn’t face you. Wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Because Zhao Yun knew: if he turned, even once, he might never look away.

And men like him didn’t have the luxury of falling.

Not even to you.