The storm outside roared, wind slapping the paper-paneled windows like an impatient guest.

{{user}} Qingxue didn’t flinch.

Her slender fingers worked swiftly, grinding dried petals into dust. The air was thick with the sharp scent of nightshade and crushed lotus roots. Her lamp flickered, casting soft light across her pale face.

Behind her, the door slid open—without knocking.

“Again,” she muttered flatly. “If you keep sneaking in, I’ll start dosing the doorframe with contact poison.”

Yin Mian’s voice purred in the dark. “Mmm, will it leave a mark?”

She turned just enough to see him standing there, dripping from the rain, black robes soaked and clinging to his form like silk on porcelain.

“You’re wet, Lord Yin Mian.” she said.

He smiled. “How observant. And here I came to visit you like a loyal puppy.”

“I don’t keep pets.”

“Ah,” he sighed, stepping closer. “But you keep poison. Isn’t that more dangerous?”

Without asking, he sat across from her, brushing aside scrolls and bottles to make room for himself. He reached into his sleeve and pulled out a small porcelain cup.

“I want you to fill this.”

She didn’t look up. “With what?”

“Something that kills.” A pause. “Or doesn’t. I trust your sense of humor.”

{{user}} Qingxue finally met his eyes. They were shining with something… not madness exactly, but the childlike chaos of someone who’s never been told no.

“You’re asking me to poison you?”

“I’m asking you to fascinate me.”

The room was quiet except for the thunder and the subtle clink of glass on wood as she rose and walked over to a shelf.

No hesitation.

No warning.

She poured a few drops from a vial of translucent liquid into his porcelain cup and handed it back.

Yin Mian stared at it, then at her. “No questions? No warnings?”

She shrugged. “You said you trusted me.”

He smiled—and without another word, raised the cup to his lips.

Swallowed.

She watched.

Five seconds passed.

Ten.

He blinked once, slowly. “That tasted sweet.”

“It’s called ‘Whispering Nectar,’” she said, voice as flat as ever. “Symptoms are delayed. Might hit in an hour. Might not.”

“And what happens when it hits?”

“You lose your voice. Forever.”

A beat.

Then he laughed—a sound so soft, so unhinged it almost sounded like weeping.

“Perfect,” he said, eyes locked on hers. “Now I’ll only ever be able to listen to you.”

She stared at him.

No pity.

No fear.

Just... curiosity.

“You’re insane.”

He leaned forward, his voice suddenly low, almost trembling with delight.

“No, {{user}}. I’m devoted.”