⚠️ Content Warning: The following scene contains depictions of violence, threatening behavior, and disturbing language. Reader discretion is advised.
Outside the cafeteria, dusk draped the alleyways in quiet shadow, broken only by the occasional hiss of traffic in the distance. Hua Rong stood beneath the flickering signboard, a white cake box resting gently in her arms—inside, a soft pink-frosted cake and a single candle nestled beside a sharp, real kitchen knife her mother had handed her earlier.
They told her to wait. The workers were still cleaning, and her mother had promised: Once we're done, we'll all celebrate your birthday together.
She'd been waiting. But her grip on the box had shifted—now the knife was in her hand, not out of threat but fidgeting restlessness. She twirled it absently, letting it glint in the dim light.
Then—voices.
Low, male murmurs drifting from the alley to her left.
"…Yeah, her shift ends at eleven."
"Let's wait till then. You know how it is…"
A third voice snickered. "Seriously, those bitches drive some men wild."
The words didn't fully register at first. They hit her brain like static. But then—something cracked. Her mind… blanked. Not with confusion, but with a frightening, complete silence. A silence she'd only felt once before, a long time ago.
Her knuckles whitened around the knife handle. Every breath felt thin. She stepped forward, one quiet, slow footstep at a time.
There were three of them. Men in their twenties maybe, leaning lazily against the wall like predators just out of the spotlight. One was smoking, the end of his cigarette glowing like a firefly in the dark.
The first one saw her and blinked. "What's this? Beta's out of her pen?" he scoffed, glancing sideways at the others.
"Hey, kid, get lost," the second one barked with a casual wave of his hand.
"Who sent you here?" Hua Rong's voice was low. Too calm. Too quiet.
They frowned.
"Sent us?" one of them laughed. "What the hell's she babbling about?"
"Go back to whatever little school you came from, brat," the other sneered. "Before someone teaches you how to behave."
"I said…" She stepped closer. The knife gleamed in her grip, her fingers curled tightly around it. "Tell me who sent you… and I'll let you go."
That's when they noticed the weapon wasn't some toy.
"…Wait. Is that a real knife?" The man with the cigarette straightened, suddenly alert.
"Kid, don't play with shit like that," another said. But his voice had lost its edge—there was caution in it now.
"She thinks we'll get scared of her?" the third one laughed, but uneasily. "Little brat—"
But he didn't finish.
Because Hua Rong moved.
In a flash, the blade cut the air with a sickening whistle—and slashed across the cheekbone of the first man, just beneath his eye. He screamed, staggering back, blood pouring through his fingers as he clutched his face.
The second lunged to grab her wrist—but she twisted, viciously, and drove the knife straight into the center of his palm. He howled, stumbling back as she yanked it free, his blood staining her arm.
The third man backed up, both hands raised now. "H-Hey! Don't come closer!"
But Hua Rong was already there, the tip of the blade pressed cold against his neck, just above the collarbone.
"Talk," she hissed. Her eyes, dark and storm-wild, locked on his. "Tell me who sent you. Now. Or I swear—I'll make you wish I hadn't let your friends go first."
"I—I don't know!" he stammered, voice shaking. "We—we were just told to wait, that's it! Some guy paid us off to scare someone! I swear!"
"Name," she demanded.
"I don't—I never met him in person! Just a name—Zhao Mingyu! That's all I got, I swear!"
That name.
That name again.
Her breath caught like metal grinding against stone.
Her hand trembled, but she didn't pull the knife away.
"Take me to him."
"What—?"
"Take. Me. To him."
.....
They were in the alley near a building. The alley had grown still, too still. The scent of iron was thick in the air, mingled with something far more primal—fear.
Hua Rong had one of the men on his knees now, his arms yanked behind his back, trembling as her hand gripped the back of his hair to keep him still. The knife was pressed against his throat from behind, so sharp that a single twitch might draw blood.
She didn't flinch. Not even when the other two stood there with their hands half-raised, glancing between their injured friend and the blade in her grip like they couldn't believe this was really happening.
"Call him," she ordered coldly, eyes locked on the man holding the phone. Her voice didn't rise—it didn't need to. The chill in her tone was enough to make them move.
"W-What?" the man stammered.
"Call him and tell him to come outside. You're not taking me in. He's coming out."
The man with the bleeding cheek glared but didn't argue. With shaking hands, he fumbled for his phone and dialed. Sweat slipped down his temple as the call connected.
"Hey man," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "come outside—we brought her."
There was a pause on the line.
"Isn't it too early?" The voice that answered was calm. Male. Cold.
"Yeah, her shift ended early," the man lied quickly. "So we, uh, brought her here."
Another silence. Then: "Fine. Bring her inside."
"No, man—we ain't dragging her in," he said, glancing at Hua Rong with dread. "You haven't paid us enough for that kinda work."
A pause. "Fine." The line went dead.
The man pocketed the phone and stared at her. "Now… let him go."
Hua Rong's eyes narrowed. She didn't say anything. Instead, she shoved the hostage forward—hard. He stumbled into the arms of the others, gasping, nearly falling over as the knife pressure vanished from his neck.
They clutched him quickly, steadying him. Blood still dripped from his friend's cheek, the cut beneath his eye deep and raw.
"Take him," Hua Rong said, stepping back but not lowering the knife. Her voice dropped into something even darker. "Take him, and run. Now."
They hesitated. One of them stared at her like she was something inhuman. "What are you going to do with him?"
She tilted her head slightly, and for a second, the streetlamp caught the reflection in her eyes. Cold. Unblinking.
"I'm going to kill him," she said simply. "And if you don't want to die too, you'd better run while I still feel merciful."
None of them moved for a beat.
Then—they did.
One grabbed the injured man, slinging his arm over his shoulder. The other backed away slowly, his eyes locked on Hua Rong like she might come at him again.
When they turned and fled, she didn't chase them.
She just stood there in the alley, the blood-warmed knife still in her hand, and waited for him to come.
Zhao Mingyu.
The name pulsed like a curse in her mind.