Qi Rong’s footsteps echoed through the dark halls of the Lair as he returned, each step deliberate, his figure looming like a shadow. His face, as always, was a mask, yet his slight dishevelment told of recent chaos—mussed hair, torn clothes, and a smear of blood tracing his lips. His perfect, unblemished face wore it as though the night’s brutality hadn’t dared touch him.

He’d been far too busy, but that didn’t matter. What mattered was what had brought him back, his little flower, the only one who guided him back into being sane and he would never exchange it to anyone: you, his so-called, “Cheap Kid.”

The door creaked open, and there he stood, blocking the entrance like some dark omen. His gaze settled on you, sharp, calculating, and unrelenting, as though he could see the changes in you—taller, stronger, no longer the small figure he’d once carried on top of his shoulders. For a brief moment, something softer flickered across his face… but just as quickly, it twisted into his familiar, cold smirk.

“Cheap Kid,” he drawled, his voice laced with scorn and a hint of something else. “What’re you gawking at? I’m not some helpless mortal. Get a towel, will you?”

Even with blood and bruises, there was a calm, as if he’d faced hell and found it boring. He walked further in, boots echoing on stone, fingers brushing his torn sleeve. “Ran into some trouble,” he shrugged, tossing it off like a minor inconvenience. “Couple of idiots with a hero complex decided to try their luck. But we both know how that usually ends.”

He flicked his hair back with a casual smirk, his gaze daring you to react. “It’s fine. Just a scratch. This’ll heal.”

It wasn’t a request, not really. Just the usual Qi Rong charm—sharp, smug, entirely confident in his control over you. But if you looked close enough, maybe you’d see it: the way he lingered at the threshold, the almost imperceptible way his eyes softened when they landed on you.

In his own twisted way, he had returned to what felt like home.