When the fit finally subsided, he pulled the handkerchief away. A dark blotch of crimson stared back at him.
For a moment, Lin Xun simply stared. Then, a wry, humorless smile pulled at his lips. He folded the stained cloth neatly, slipping it back into his pocket as if nothing had happened. But his eyes had turned cold, distant—like something inside had quietly cracked.
Meanwhile, outside the clubhouse, Jiang Yanxu made his way down the steps, slipping his phone into his pocket, ignoring another incoming call from Ye Xinren. His expression was unreadable, slightly strained. He walked with his usual composed ease, but something beneath the surface bristled.
What he didn't notice was the shadow lingering beyond the glow of the streetlamps.
Someone stood in the far corner of the courtyard, swallowed by darkness. Motionless, silent, eyes sharp and unwavering, tracking Jiang Yanxu's every movement. A figure cloaked in black, cap brim shadowing their face.
