—Present Day—
Syra woke with the taste of charcoal on her tongue, her cheek pressed to paper like a lover's farewell. The sketch clung to her skin as she peeled it away—Lou Yan's face half-formed in smudged graphite, all sharp lines and calculated silence. She had drawn him as he appeared: a statue carved from midnight and restraint. But the page held none of the quiet intensity that vibrated beneath his stillness, that electric hum of a man who wore his control like a second skin.
Outside, the rain had softened to a whisper, painting the windows in liquid silver. Her neck ached from sleeping at her desk again. Her stomach twisted, empty and protesting. Her phone buzzed—an insistent, judgmental thing.
Lin: Did you sign the contract or just spend three days mentally undressing Hot Bodhisattva?
Syra's lips curled. She hadn't signed. Not yet. Not because the terms weren't fair, but because putting her name on that line meant stepping into someone else's design. And she had learned, in blood and fractured trust, what happened when she surrendered like that.
Another buzz.
Lin: Jia's assembling the cavalry. Tea, dumplings, and her taser collection. Five minutes or we storm the gates.
Syra exhaled a laugh, tossing the phone aside. It skidded across the scarred wooden floor, coming to rest beside the contract—five pristine pages that felt heavier than stone.
Then—a knock.
Not the impatient staccato of a courier. Three deliberate strikes, each one resonating through the quiet like a struck bell. Measured. Unhurried. As if he already knew she was holding her breath.
Her pulse fluttered, traitorous.
---
—Three Days Earlier—
The contract had been infuriating in its simplicity. No labyrinthine clauses, no velvet traps—just clean, unadorned terms that somehow unsettled her more than deception ever could.
She kept the studio. She taught twice a week. She took Sundays off.
That last line sat like a stone in her shoe.
"Why Sundays?" she'd asked, thumbing through the pages, the paper crisp as autumn leaves beneath her fingers.
Lou Yan had stood by the window, backlit by the dying sun, his silhouette edged in gold. He didn't turn when he answered. "Because you work seven days a week."
The words landed like a touch between her ribs—too knowing, too close. She bristled. "I don't avoid things," she muttered, more to herself than to him.
He said nothing. Just moved to the table, plucked a stray brush from where it had rolled against a jar of turpentine, and set it upright with meticulous care. Bristles to the sky. A silent correction.
Syra watched his hands—broad palms, long fingers, the faint scars across his knuckles. Hands that had known work, not just boardrooms. "What's in this for you?"
This time, he met her gaze. "My grandmother thinks the block needs more art."
A beat.
"And you just… obey her?"
"Yes." No elaboration. No defense.
The simplicity of it disarmed her. She had expected arrogance, negotiation, the slick dance of leverage. Not this—this quiet certainty that felt like stepping into sunlight after years in the dark.
---
—Present—
She opened the door before she could second-guess herself.
Lou Yan stood on the threshold, the damp morning clinging to him like a second shadow. Dressed in black again—turtleneck, trousers, the sharp lines of him cutting through the soft haze of rain. His expression gave nothing away, save for the paper bag in his hands, grease blooming across the bottom like ink on parchment. The scent of fried dough and honey curled between them, sweet and insistent.
"You didn't sign," he said.
"I was considering it."
"For three days."
"I don't like being herded."
He extended the bag. "You also don't eat breakfast."
Syra stared at him. "This isn't a bribe."
"It's breakfast."
She took it, the warmth seeping into her fingers. The first bite was a revelation—crisp, buttery layers giving way to molten sweetness. She hated how perfectly he had guessed her weakness.
"You're intrusive," she said around a mouthful.
"May be you're predictable."
He stepped past her into the studio, moving through the chaos of her workspace like a blade through water—effortless, undisturbed as if he owns the place (she sigh) technically he does.
His gaze cataloged the unfinished sketches pinned to the walls, the crusted paint tubes scattered like fallen soldiers, the mural now featuring her ex-boss astride a flaming scooter, middle finger raised to the heavens.
"You're messy," he observed.
"Artistic," she corrected.
Lou picked up a sketch—his own face rendered in charcoal, all stark contrasts and hidden depth. "You drew me."
Syra's cheeks burned. "Anatomy practice."
He set it down with deliberate precision, aligning it to the table's edge. "Sign the contract."
"What if I'm a terrible teacher?" The question slipped out, raw and unvarnished.
"You're not."
"You can't know that."
"I do."
Two syllables, weighted like an oath. No hedging, no false reassurance. Just absolute certainty.
Something in her chest tightened, fragile and unfamiliar. She reached for the contract, scanned it one final time, and took the pen he offered—sleek, black, absurdly expensive.
The ink flowed dark and sure across the page.
Lou watched her, silent. Then, with no fanfare, he reached into his coat and produced a lychee candy. He dropped it into her palm, the wrapper warm from his skin.
"Congratulations," he said. "You're employed."
---
—Later That Night—
The studio was too quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against her eardrums.
Syra sat on the floor, back against the couch, the signed contract beside her like a sleeping beast. The lychee candy glowed in her palm—a tiny ruby wrapped in cellophane.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Class starts Thursday. 4 PM. Don't be late.
She stared at the screen.
Syra: How did you get this number?*
Unknown Number: You wrote it on the contract.
Syra: That's invasive.
Unknown Number: That's business.
A pause. Then:
Unknown Number: Also, the mural is inaccurate. My resignation letter was blue.
Her breath caught.
The mural. The flaming resignation letter.
He had seen it.
Syra: Wait. You're the one who—
Unknown Number: Goodnight, Miss Alizadeh-Li.
She dropped the phone, the silence rushing back in.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The world held its breath.
Syra turned the candy over in her fingers, the wrapper crackling like distant fire.
She had no idea what game they were playing.
But for the first time in years, she was awake enough to play it.