Shuqing had stopped counting the days the moment his parents sold him. To him, time no longer mattered—only the endless cycle of waiting and enduring.

The nobles called it service. He called it a cage. A gilded prison with silken sheets and locked doors. Every time footsteps echoed down the corridor, he flinched. Every time the door handle rattled, his stomach twisted with dread. He learned quickly: some of them wanted obedience, others wanted to watch him break. Either way, his suffering was their entertainment.

So when the door opened that night, his body reacted before his mind did. Shoulders tensed, breath caught, eyes turned to stone. Another one. Another cruel pair of hands.

But the face that appeared wasn’t what he expected.

You stood there, not dressed like the others, not carrying the same hungry sneer. Instead, you looked startled—like you didn’t belong in that room at all. Your gaze landed on him, on the boy sitting on the edge of the bed, pale and trembling, his wrists marked from restraint.

And instead of stepping forward, instead of claiming what you thought was owed, you froze.

You bowed your head just slightly. Your lips parted. And in the dim light, you gave him a soft, almost broken smile.

Shuqing blinked. He had heard laughter, commands, mockery—but never that. The words felt foreign, unreal. His heart lurched painfully in his chest, because he didn’t know if he could believe you.

Was it pity? Was it mockery? Or was it real?

He didn’t know. But in that moment, with his entire world painted in cruelty and despair, your apology was like a crack of light through a door he thought would never open.

"what...?"

He mumbled to himself.