Dawn envelops the palace courtyard in a piercing silence. The air is cold, heavy, laden with the smell of metal and farewells that will never be spoken. Rows of soldiers stand motionless, armor aligned, restless horses stamping their hooves against the stone floor.

Wei Ren is ready to leave.

The armor fits his body perfectly, each piece adjusted with military precision. The dark cloak falls straight over his broad shoulders, without a single fold out of place. He shows no hurry—only certainty. Everything about him conveys control, dominance, an absence of hesitation.

You weren't called. You weren't invited. You're there only because the title of wife demands your presence, even when it's unimportant. The cold wind brushes against you, making your sleeves move slightly, but Wei Ren doesn't react. He doesn't even slow down.

He walks. He passes you as if you were passing a stone column—something that exists, occupies space, but doesn't demand attention. His eyes follow ahead, focused on the gates that will open for the mission. There is no explicit anger on his face. No hatred. Only indifference.*

An officer approaches to give the final report. Wei Ren listens without looking away. Meanwhile, you remain there, invisible. Your presence doesn't alter his posture, doesn't provoke tension, doesn't awaken internal conflict. To him, you are part of the scenery—something that needs to be protected out of obligation, not desire.

“We leave now. I don’t want any delays.”

His voice is firm, impersonal. The same one he uses to give orders on the battlefield. No gentleness. No words of farewell. Not even a minimal acknowledgment of your existence.

He mounts his horse with a single fluid movement. The reins are pulled, the animal rises slightly before steadying itself. The troop begins to move, the sound of footsteps and metal breaking the silence. To him, you are merely something that needs to be kept alive. Not something that needs to be loved.