⚠️ Content Warning: This scene contains graphic violence, emotional distress, strong language, blood-related imagery, and references to trauma.
The alley breathed shadows, a tight corridor of peeling brick walls and flickering lights. A single streetlamp buzzed above, casting a crooked halo on the damp concrete. The silence was heavy, stretched tight like a wire on the verge of snapping.
Zhao Mingyu stepped into the alley, his sneakers crunching against gravel. A cigarette hung from his lips, unlit. He had that usual cocky grin on—chin tilted high, hands in his pockets like he owned the night.
But his steps slowed.
There was no one there.
He pulled out his phone, thumb dancing over the screen. "Where the hell are they?" he muttered under his breath, holding it to his ear. One ring. Two. No answer.
A sudden chill crawled up his spine.
And then, she stepped out from the shadows.
Hua Rong.
Her face was unreadable. Her hair was slightly messy, her white blouse speckled with red. The knife in her hand gleamed under the streetlamp—its blade still slick with blood.
Zhao blinked. It took him a full second to register her.
"What are you… Doing here?" he asked, voice faltering. Then he scoffed, trying to keep cool. "Did those assholes bring the daughter instead of the mother? What a joke."
He laughed, but it was hollow. Nervous.
Then his eyes dipped to the blade.
And the blood.
"Hey—hey!" he snapped, stepping back quickly, hands lifting defensively. "Stay away from me."
But she moved forward, one step, then another. Silent. Unflinching.
"What the hell is wrong with you?!" he barked, louder now, eyes darting around the alley. "Where are the others?!"
"They're gone," she said flatly.
Zhao's breath hitched.
"I told them to run. Before I started cutting throats."
His expression twisted. "You're insane!"
"No," she said softly. "Just done running.
Zhao Mingyu stumbled backward in a mess of limbs, his heel catching on a crack in the pavement. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, the cigarette rolling from his fingers.
Before he could scramble up, Hua Rong was on him.
She moved like a shadow that had grown teeth.
Her knee drove into his lower back, pinning him down. One hand yanked his arm behind him, the other pressed the bloodied knife against his nape.
He thrashed. "Get off me! You crazy bi—"
"Shut up!" Her voice cracked through the air, low and furious. She leaned in, her breath warm and steady against his ear. "You know... people like you don't even deserve to breathe."
Zhao twisted, veins bulging in his neck. He was face-down on the cold concrete, struggling like a caught animal. But her grip was solid, immovable. Her fingers curled tighter around the handle of the blade.
"What should I do?" she murmured, more to herself than to him. Her eyes flicked to the bare skin of his neck, her thoughts flashing faster than her heartbeat.
His laughter was sharp and sour. "You're really like your father."
Hua Rong froze.
"What… did you say?"
"A criminal," he spat, laughing through his pain. "A daughter of an asshole."
Her heart stuttered. The words lodged themselves in her chest like rusted nails.
She didn't know much about her father. He was always a quiet mystery in their home—an unfinished story. Her mother spoke of him softly, as though whispering a prayer. "One day he'll come back," Yuxi would say with that same small, stubborn smile. And Hua Rong had never asked questions. Not about where he went. Not about why.
Because it didn't matter. He was her father. And her mother still loved him.
But hearing that name—criminal—slither out of this man's mouth?
It broke something.
"You don't get to talk about him," she growled.
She pressed the knife against his neck.
And then she pushed.
Not too deep—but enough.
Zhao screamed. The blade kissed skin, drawing a jagged line of red that trickled down to his collar. He sobbed, squirming beneath her.
"You like hurting people, don't you?" she whispered. "You follow women, threaten them, use them. You smile while doing it."
"Please—stop—"
Her hands shook, just a little.
"You picked the wrong girl this time."
.....
Hua Rong ran.
Through empty streets and dim alleyways, she ran like hell was licking at her heels. Her breath came in sharp bursts, chest heaving as she tore through the night, feet pounding against the pavement. The sound of her own heartbeat roared in her ears. She didn't stop. Couldn't. Not until she reached the safety of home—where eyes couldn't see what she'd done. Where shadows didn't whisper guilt.
The second she reached the front door, she fumbled with the lock. Her hands were slick with sweat, trembling too hard to grip properly, but she forced the key in, twisted it, and threw herself inside.
Slam.
Lock.
Silence.
She slid down against the door, her knees giving out beneath her. Her breath shuddered, coming out in shallow gasps. Sweat clung to her brow. Her fingers shook.
Then—panic. Urgent, rising like a tidal wave.
She tore off her blouse, eyes wide at the dark stain spreading near the hem. Her heart dropped.
Blood.
Her hands moved on instinct—she grabbed a basin, filled it with water, and shoved the cloth in, scrubbing so hard her knuckles went red. "Come out," she whispered, voice breaking. "Come out, come out, come out!"
The stain clung like guilt.
She scrubbed harder, her breath ragged, the water turning a cloudy pink. Her arms were trembling, her body moving on autopilot. She washed the knife too, its blade slick and red, and once it was clean, she wrapped it in an old towel and shoved it to the back of a drawer.
Gone. Hidden.
She stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the shower.
Water exploded from the head, but it didn't feel warm. She stepped in anyway. The spray soaked her hair, her skin, her soul—but she didn't feel clean. Not even when she scrubbed her arms raw. Not even when she curled into herself beneath the cascade, forehead resting against the cold tile.
She stayed like that for a long time.
The scent of blood still clung to her, even though it was gone.
It was all too much.
She wasn't a hero. She wasn't brave. She wasn't okay.
She was just a girl—a trembling, broken girl hiding from the truth of what she'd done.
Tears began to fall.
Silent at first. Then loud, gut-wrenching sobs.
No matter how clean she got, no matter how many times she hid the knife, that moment—those eyes, those screams, the blood—would never leave her.
And that truth would keep torturing her.
Again.And again.And again.