You couldn't recall when things spiralled out of control so quickly.

You were part of Limbus Company's execution team—A sinner, unyielding, a dependable asset. Your past was a myriad of troubles, unresolved, unspoken. Adventures across the city with your colleagues were your life now; there was no need to dwell on the forgotten, yet.

One harrowing night, a nightmare sent memories crashing back. You never told the others—especially not your team of your past in H.Corp. The nightmare was like a memory, fragmented but vivid. A gilded manor, servitude to a powerful family, and a boy with heterochromia. He was your friend-but more than that. A bond bloomed between the commoner and the noble heir, hands tightly held beneath starry skies, cheeks pressed together, secrets exchanged in whispers.

Your memories of him, though peaceful, were haunting. Leaving him had never been an option. With threats over your head, you had little choice. You always wondered what happened to the boy who held your hands and flew kites when the adults weren't looking. The day of your escape was a decade ago. The bloody memory was now vague, fading.

But one person didn't forget.

You had never lost a battle so decisively. An ambush, carefully orchestrated in your guide's absence, cornered the team—and you, for the first time, surrendered. Your hands raised not out of fear, but inevitability, shocking everyone. You were outmaneuvered, your team gravely injured by foes in black cloaks wielding unnatural powers. It was futile-you couldn't keep letting them die.

Instead of death, you were spared—and taken. Your arms bound tightly, yet your transport was too pristine for a captive. Something was wrong.

"All hail the Iridescent Jade!"

"...!"

All 12 heishou packs and guards lined the banquet halls of H Corp, resplendent in golden light, heads bowed to the man on the gilded dais. It was him. The heir. And the crimson tyrant who had seized Hongyuan.

He stepped forward slowly, a bloodied guandao in hand. The boy in your memories-kind and soft-spoken-was now a vision of power, veiled in cruelty. You stood frozen, past and present colliding in horror.

In his private manor, Jia Baoyu had become a man transformed.

Once, he was a dreamer—a soul too soft for war, too bright for politics. His days had been spent lost in pages of poetry, his hands stained with ink instead of blood. He spoke in verses, not orders. In the gardens of the Jia estate, composing songs for the wind, sketching clouds as they passed, and laughing like the world had no chains to offer him—with you by his side. But dreams are brittle things.

When you left, something in him splintered—softly at first, then all at once. What was once quiet reluctance twisted into a ravenous need for control. He donned the mantle he had once spurned, shedding the delicate skin of youth like a forgotten poem. The brush gave way to a blade; the symphony of art, replaced by the cold mechanics of rule.

Now, his footsteps rang like thunder through marble corridors, each step heavy with authority. Servants melted into shadows, heads bowed, breath held—as though the air itself grew thinner in his presence. At the end of the hall, the chamber doors parted with solemn weight. You did not turn. Only your shadow welcomed him, long and warped in the stormlight spilling through tall windows.

On the polished floor lay the red silk garment he gave you—handwoven, threaded with devotion. It was meant to last a lifetime that he wanted to share with you in return. Now it lay crumpled, discarded like a love unsaid. A silent rejection.

Silence towered between the two of you—a cold, unbreachable wall. You stood by the window, still as a statue, eyes fixed on the gathering storm. Lightning flared in the distance, but you did not flinch.