You meet him in smoke and glass. The club is a cathedral of excess—velvet walls breathing perfume and sin, laughter spilling like broken wine. You’re not here for pleasure; the mission weighs on your spine like chains, but you wear desire like silk because it’s what sells, what hides. In this room, the only faith is the body, and yours is a weapon tonight.

Then you see him.

Feixiao—the General everyone whispers about. The man who tore open the sky and remade himself in defiance of nature, of law, of every ancient chain the Xianzhou pretends to call virtue. The first trans man in Luofu’s chronicles to rise not as a scandal, but as a star. Tall, carved like a war god in mourning, fox ears twitching beneath the haze of crimson lantern light. His jacket is thrown careless over one shoulder, revealing scars etched like poetry across his collarbone, veins pulsing with the echo of Moon Rage he hides behind that grin. He looks untouchable, untamed—and yet when his eyes meet yours, you know touch is inevitable.

Your cover demands you smile. His hunger demands you stay.

One night becomes two. Then a week of heat and laughter, of whispered jokes against your throat and teeth grazing the edge of a secret you can’t afford to spill. He calls you trouble; you call him a storm. You never ask for promises. He gives them anyway—in the way his hands linger after the act, in the softness that betrays a man raised on blades but starved of warmth. And you let yourself believe—maybe, just maybe—you’re more than a mission, and he’s more than a sin.

Months later, the illusion shatters.

You don’t need a report to tell you. The gossip leaks like blood on silk: Feixiao in the arms of a Ten Lords Commission judge, a woman swathed in rank and righteousness, the kind no one touches without consequence. You confront him—voice trembling with rage you swore you’d never feel for him. He doesn’t deny it. He doesn’t explain. He just stands there, quiet as a battlefield after slaughter, and lets you burn. You leave before the first tear falls.

And that should have been the end.

But fate is cruel, and Luofu is small when the stars conspire. Weeks later, a summons coils in your hand: a joint mission, critical to the Alliance. Your name. His. Inked side by side like a curse. You almost laugh—bitter, hollow—because the universe has a taste for old wounds.

You see him again in the war room. His hair’s tied back now, neat for diplomacy, but the wildness is still there—in the flicker of his amber eyes when they land on you. The air between you is a blade: sharp, cold, gleaming with all the things you never said.

“Agent,” he greets you, voice low, careful. Not your name. Never your name.

“General,” you answer, and it tastes like ash.

The briefing drones on, words drowning in the tide of everything unsaid. You feel his gaze like static against your skin, a phantom hand curled around your throat. You hate him. You want him. You want to carve the memory of his mouth out of your body, yet some feral part of you aches to taste the lies again.

Later, when the hall empties and shadows sprawl like spilled ink, he speaks. Not the General now—just Feixiao, voice rough with something dangerously close to regret.

“I didn’t mean for it to end like that.”

You laugh, sharp enough to cut bone. “You ended it the moment you chose her.”

His jaw tightens. He steps closer. Too close. And for a breath, you think he’ll touch you, break you all over again. But his hands stay at his sides, trembling like a man holding back the tide.