Yan Qing drove with no destination in mind. Morning traffic pressed in from all sides, taxis cutting close, pedestrians spilling off curbs with practiced indifference. The city was awake—loud, relentless, uncaring. He let it carry him.

  His hands tightened on the steering wheel, knuckles whitening as a sudden spike of anxiety shot through him. His pulse thudded in his throat, breath catching, a phantom pressure blooming in his chest. He swallowed hard, jaw clenching, and flexed his fingers on the wheel, trying to shake off the tension.

  The radio murmured softly, words sliding past without meaning. He barely noticed the music, his mind drifting.

  At a red light near Canal Street, Yan Qing stared straight ahead, refusing to meet his own eyes in the windshield’s reflection. His shoulders hunched, muscles rigid. When the light changed, he jolted forward a second too late, a sharp honk behind him making him flinch and grip the wheel even tighter.

  At the next intersection, he caught sight of people crossing—laughing, talking, carrying coffee and shopping bags. He looked away quickly, heat prickling at the back of his neck, a flush of embarrassment rising as if they could see right through him. His chest felt tight, breath shallow, and he shifted in his seat, restless.

  He missed his turn and didn’t bother correcting it. The thought of stopping made his stomach twist; it felt heavier than just keeping the car moving.

  Traffic slowed near Times Square. Neon screens burned even in daylight, reflections flashing across his side window in violent color. He waited, foot pressed hard on the brake, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. His mind drifted in jagged fragments—heat, breath, the remembered weight of another body, the echo of his name spoken in a voice that lingered.

  His jaw locked. The memory hit him: Chen’s sleeping face that morning, the sight landing like a blow to the chest. Yan Qing’s breath stuttered, and he blinked rapidly, trying to clear the sting from his eyes.

  He’d fled the apartment, the air still thick with the chaos of the night before, unable to face Chen or himself.

  Only after that did Yan Qing realize he’d already driven a full loop around Chinatown.

  And yet, he had no intention of going back.

  Because if he did, the person he would have to face would be Chen.

  I love you. This is my will.

  Golden eyes that held both a sharpness capable of piercing the soul and a gentleness that could melt the heart.

  Yan Qing couldn’t understand how such seemingly contradictory things could exist together in one gaze.

  But once again, the scientist reminded himself: the one looking at him was not human.

  Beep—!!

  Screeeech—!!!!

  He slammed on the brakes, stopping just in time—just before his bumper would have crashed into the side door of another car.

  Still shaken, Yan Qing drew in a sharp breath. If he’d hit it, the repair bill would’ve been astronomical—because the other car was a brand-new blue Lamborghini.

  “What are you doing?!”

  The Lamborghini’s owner flung open the door and shouted.

  “I’m sorry, I—Chris?!” Yan Qing started to apologize, then finally saw the other man’s face. It was his colleague?!

  Seeing who it was, Chris—who had been ready to explode—froze, then pulled an exaggerated stunned expression.

  “Yan Qing? What are you doing here?”

  Yan Qing’s apartment

  The blond man sat elegantly on the sofa in the living room, his narrow eyes occasionally flicking toward the old-fashioned wall clock on the wall.

  That person had been gone for six hours.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  Yet the tracker showed that Yan Qing was merely wandering around the city.

  Even if it was only a one-sided hope…

  “I don’t regret it…”

  A faint smile surfaced on the exquisite face as he slowly drew in a breath.

  Because this was his will.

  『Your Majesty.』

  A synthetic voice suddenly echoed through the air.

  “Go on, Xiao,” Chen said calmly, his posture unchanged, as if speaking to himself.

  『High Chancellor Mien requests a call with you.』

  The digitalized voice echoed through the apartment, bouncing off the bare walls and mingling with the faint hum of the air conditioner.

  “Put it through.”

  Blinking once, the blond Teleopean waited.

  Moments later, a blue holographic screen flickered into existence before him. After a burst of static, the image of the person on the other end appeared.

  A man with sharply carved features.

  Unlike the usual golden coloring of Teleopeans, this man’s hair and eyes were pure silver, gleaming with a metallic sheen and an equally metallic coldness.

  『Chen. It’s been a while.』

  “It has,” Chen replied with a smile that never reached his eyes.

  “Since Teleopea was destroyed, everyone except me and a handful of others has been in cryosleep for nearly fifty star-ring years, hasn’t it?”

  『Fifty star-ring years. And yet you haven’t changed—still throwing yourself away for the same thing, without any sense of proportion. 』

  Even through a projection, Mien’s cold presence was unmistakable.

  『Shi told me that those human somehow made a hybrid clone of Lian. What’s your next step?』

  “He escaped with some luck,” Chen said lightly, his smile edged with frost and darkness.

  “But he will come and find me as he always does.”

  『Good, hopefully you can get rid of him for good this time. However, there was something else I wanted to propose.』

  Mien’s expression remained severe and unreadable.

  『Firstly, It is time for you to select a suitor, you are no longer a minor.』

  “I thought I made myself very clear last. I won’t.”

  Chen lifted his gaze, fingers interlaced on his knee.

  “The royal bloodline ends with me.”

  『What are you saying?』

  For the first time, Mien’s expression shifted.

  Chen offered no answer—only a gentle, knowing smile.

  『Chen. What are you planning?』

  “If that’s all you wanted to say, then this call can end.”

  The blond man moved to disconnect.

  Mien narrowed his silver eyes, weighing Chen’s words. After a moment, he seemed to abandon the attempt.

  『The rebels require your personal intervention.』

  “Can’t it be the Council this time?” Chen took a deep breath, jaw tight with tension.

  『No.』

  Downtown Manhattan — a bar

  Under the dim, amber lights, Yan Qing sat hunched at the bar, the sticky varnish cool beneath his fingertips. The air was thick with the scent of old beer and fried food, and the low thrum of jazz from a battered speaker barely covered the clink of glasses and the bartender’s muttered curses. He took another sip of brandy, the burn sharp and comforting, and watched the condensation bead on the glass as he tried to gather his thoughts.

  “Chris… how long have I known you?”

  He raised his dark eyes, his words slightly slurred.

  He had been drinking — a lot.

  Chris paused, then smiled helplessly at the clearly intoxicated scientist.

  “If we’re counting from university—nine years. Why ask all of a sudden?”

  “Nine years…” Yan Qing murmured, staring into his glass.

  Chris stayed quiet, watching him. He rarely saw Yan Qing like this—normally so controlled, now utterly lost.

  “Chris… what kind of person do you think I am?” Yan Qing asked quietly.

  Chris thought for a moment, then answered honestly.

  “You’re exceptional. Smart, responsible, stubborn in the best way. You just don’t see it.”

  “Exceptional?” Yan Qing gave a soft, humorless laugh.

  “I know exactly what I am. I know how terrible I can be.”

  “Yan Qing, what’s going on?” Chris’s surprise turned to concern.

  “I’m fine.” Yan Qing downed another glass of brandy.

  “Never been better.”

  “Don’t brush me off. What’s really going on?” Chris pressed, his seriousness carrying weight.

  “….”

  Yan Qing shook his head, silent.

  Then, slowly, he looked up.

  “Chris… have you ever met someone who’s outstanding in every way… and they told you they liked you?”

  Chris’s hand tightened around his glass. He forced his voice to stay even.

  “If it came out of nowhere, I’d probably think they had some other motive.”

  “That’s what I thought too,” Yan Qing said softly.

  “Compared to him, I’m nothing. But he never forced me to do anything.”

  After a pause, he added uncertainly,

  “In the end, I decided it was probably just a passing impulse.”

  Chris’s eyes widened slightly.

  “He? A man?”

  Yan Qing nodded.

  “…You’re joking.”

  Chris let out an awkward laugh, then stopped when he saw Yan Qing’s expression.

  “You’re serious?”

  If only he were just a man.

  Yan Qing mocked himself inwardly.

  Maybe—

  If Chen were an ordinary human, he wouldn’t be hesitating like this.

  “All my life, I’ve been the one left out,” Yan Qing said quietly.

  “School after school. No one cared. Then one day, someone everyone admired told me he liked me.”

  He traced the rim of his glass with his finger.

  “I knew it was impossible, so I rejected him. But I still let him stay close… close enough to see him anytime.”

  Their meeting had been too unreal.

  Chen’s attentiveness, his patience, the way he listened—it filled the loneliness Yan Qing had carried for years. Afraid to wake from that dream too soon, Yan Qing rejected the confession but still let him stay. A selfish, cowardly compromise.

  Chris’s eyes dimmed, but he quickly covered it with a casual smile.

  “Feelings are messy. If you don’t see a future, it’s better to let go early—for both of you.”

  He wasn’t wrong.

  Yan Qing knew that.

  But people aren’t always rational.

  Last night proved that.

  With a sigh, Yan Qing checked the time, left cash on the counter, and stood.

  “It’s late. I should head home. I’m back at work tomorrow. See you then.”

  “Hey—are you driving?” Chris grabbed his arm.

  “You’ve been drinking.”

  “It’s fine.”

  “Fine? You nearly hit my car earlier—and that was before you drank.”

  “…See you at the lab.”

  Yan Qing pulled on his coat and walked out.

  Chris didn’t follow.

  His deep blue eyes lingered on the doorway long after Yan Qing was gone.

  Under the bar’s dim lights, his brown-gold hair gleamed darkly.

  Without a smile to hide behind, his sharp features settled into something unreadable.

  Chris sat back down, drawing a slow breath. He signaled the bartender, who promptly set a drink before him.

  He downed the amber liquid in one swallow.

  “For now, I need to wait.” Christ murmured, blue eyes looked into the empty glass in front of him.

  The sound of a key echoed through the quiet apartment.

  The dark door opened, and the slightly drunk homeowner dragged himself safely inside.

  The apartment was dark, save for the blue stripes of streetlight that crept through the blinds and painted the floor. The air was stale, tinged with the ghost of old coffee and cleaning spray. Yan Qing dropped his keys onto the table, the clatter echoing in the hush.

  Then his gaze fell on the coffee table.

  A single sheet of white paper lay quietly atop the glass.

  He walked over and picked it up.

  The blue handwriting was messy, stark against the white page.

  Sorry, I have to leave.

  His pupils contracted.

  The problem was solved.

  Because the source of the problem had left.

  And yet—

  His fingers tightened, crushing the paper into a ball.

  He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the surge rising in his chest.

  He didn’t know what it was.

  Only that it felt wrong.

  He said nothing more.

  The homeowner walked alone into the bedroom and lay down on the bed.

  “Hah…”

  He drew in a breath, then let it out slowly, covering his eyes with his arm.

  Suddenly, he felt exhausted.