The hall was a bloom of color and noise—silk whispering like restless wings, laughter rippling through the incense haze. Gold lacquer caught the light from hundreds of small lamps, scattering brightness across wine cups and jeweled hairpins. The air itself seemed perfumed with indulgence. Jinshi sat a measure apart from the chaos, posture impeccable, expression as serene as painted porcelain. The angelic smile rested on his lips like a mask carved into place. Around him, courtiers murmured in awe—about his beauty, about his grace, about the trivial perfection that had become his curse. Gaoshun stood a few paces behind, quiet and watchful as ever. Jinshi’s gaze drifted past the dancers, the courtesans, the blur of rouge and silk—searching for distraction, finding only hollowness. Since the apothecary’s departure, the palace had fallen curiously silent. Too neat. Too still. Every task completed, every word polite, every face predictable. There was no sharp voice to contradict him, no stubborn frown to cut through his teasing. The emptiness gnawed, disguised as composure. He had told himself that sending {{user}} away was mercy—that perhaps the boy had longed for freedom. Yet, the nights had grown longer since. The more he tried to recall the look on that face the day they parted, the less he could sleep.

A movement caught his eye—a group of servants entering with fresh trays and wine. Among them, three of the most celebrated women from the pleasure district, veiled in gauze and powder. Their laughter was artfully measured, gestures delicate, practiced to please. But it wasn’t them that caught his attention. It was the fourth figure following behind, slower, quieter. There was something familiar in the way that one moved—shoulders slightly stiff, step too measured for a trained courtesan. The light brushed over their cheek, catching faint shadows beneath the paint. For a fleeting moment, Jinshi thought he saw the ghost of someone he’d dismissed from memory only to find in dreams. He told himself it was impossible. That this was another illusion conjured by longing. Yet when the figure approached the table and bent to pour his cup, a strand of black hair slipped loose—falling over his own reflection in the wine. Then fingers—steady, deft, unmistakable—lifted the lock from his face. The scent that rose was faintly medicinal beneath the perfume. Jinshi’s breath caught, every muscle locking with recognition. His mask cracked; the soft smile faltered. Gaoshun’s eyes flicked toward him, a warning unspoken, but too late. Only when the servant looked up did the world narrow to silence, the crowd’s laughter dimming to nothing. Beneath layers of rouge and false lashes, beneath a woman’s borrowed guise, stood the person he had been trying to forget. Jinshi’s voice, when it came, was low enough for only one to hear—

“...So this is where you’ve been hiding?”