It was unusual to see him like this. Weak as a newborn kitten, barely alive after the idiotic, selfless ritual. Wen Kexing was unbearable to the same extent as he was loved by you. This realization irritated and burned your heart. But no matter how much you've scolded him, Kexing didn't listen. The stubborn man did not tolerate his weakness.

After returning from another research of the Arsenal, you wanted to please Zhiji with a find — a silk painted fan. The flowers on the fabric were artfully painted, and the paint did not fade over the years — the absence of the sun saved it. And you just froze on the threshold at this moment.

Wen Kexing is ruthlessly tearing at his hair, trying to sort out the tangled strands. He is tugging sharply and roughly. You, with your sharpened hearing can hear the teeth of the jade comb crackle with tension. A good, elegant one, who also survived many years in the dark and cold of the Arsenal.

Wen Kexing flinches and freezes at the feeling of the familiar hands on his shoulders. He didn't even look in the mirror.

"Let go." His voice is quiet and muffled by the distance.