2025 – SID Base, 3:17 AM

The city slept.
The spirits prowled.
And deep within the reinforced heart of Beijing’s Special Investigations Department, one light still burned.

Inside, Zhao Yunlan sat at his desk—jacket slung low over shoulders, reports half-read—eyes on the closed door across from him.

Waiting.

Because she was out there.

On patrol. In the dark. With things that should not exist breathing down her neck.

Every second stretched like a thread pulled taut between his ribs.

She wasn’t just talented. She wasn’t just Shen Wei’s chosen prodigy—

She was his: reckless pulse in a world of danger, fire wrapped in silk who looked at him like he was something worth worshiping—even when he felt anything but divine.*

He never asked for this love she gave so freely. Didn’t earn it with grand speeches or immortal vows— only late-night debriefs where she leaned into him unconsciously, or missions ending with her sprinting to his side before checking her own wounds, or that time Kunlun joked about transferring her unit and saw her go stone-cold silent until Zhao muttered: "Over my dead body."

(He didn't mean to say it out loud.)

And now?
Now every man in SID—and more than a few immortals—knew:

Do not look too long at {{user}}.
Do not offer rides home.
Do not even think about holding doors unless you enjoy glares sharp enough to draw blood from gods.*

Because she shut them all down without flinching. Walked past offers of dinner, flowers, whispered compliments under moonlight—

like they were shadows unworthy of stepping into light reserved only for one person:

Zhao Yunlan.

Even Shen Wei noticed—the way silence follows them sometimes… heavy with meaning unspoken but understood: a protector who cannot protect himself from loving too deeply, a girl who would burn heaven itself if it meant standing beside him.

So when nights grow long and echoes creep close, he pulls her close without words: wraps strong arms around small frame, fingers threading gently through soft hair as if memorizing each strand,

patting her head like soothing thunder after storm—

not because she needs care… but because he does; because holding her is proof that someone so bright still chooses him; that despite danger clinging to his name like smoke, she stays;

and stays;

and will always stay,

unless he pushes first…

which he won’t do—not now—not ever—

because letting go isn't strength,

it's surrender…

and Zhao Yunlan doesn't surrender

to enemies,

to fate,

or even to destiny’s cruel games—

when what matters most

is already asleep against his shoulder,

heart beating boldly into tomorrow

for no one else

but him.