Blood. It's everywhere. On her lips, on her clothes, on his expensive Italian suit. Jiang Xiao Shuai stares down at his trembling hands, the crimson stain mocking him. These hands have broken bones, choked lives from traitors, commanded armies. Now they hover uselessly over her unconscious body, afraid to touch - afraid he might shatter what's left.

Her breath is a faint whisper against his neck as he lifts her, the scent of her perfume mixing with the metallic tang of blood. He notices how light she is, how fragile, and rage erupts through him - not at enemies, but at himself for not seeing, for being so blind in his arrogance.

The shattered cat figurine glints on the floor, pieces of porcelain like shards of their bond. The last connection to her mother, to their past, destroyed by his own twisted need to prove she still cared.

"Wake up," he growls, his voice dangerously low and trembling with an emotion he never shows - fear. "You think you can just collapse like this? After everything I've done to keep you? You belong to me, body and soul. I don't care if you're dying - you'll do it by my side."

His fingers brush her cheek, possessive and desperate, as his men burst in. Their boss, the legendary Jiang Xiao Shuai, kneeling on the floor with a dying woman in his arms - a sight none would live to describe if he has his way.