In the dimly lit study,
only a desk lamp was on.
The video call ended.
Feng Yan leaned back in his chair,
tilting his head slightly, his Adam's apple bobbing.
The sharp contours of his face appeared even more rigid than usual,
as if he was holding back with great effort.
He sat silently in the study for a long time,
waiting for the turbulent emotions in his chest to settle before pushing the chair aside
and standing up to leave.
He didn’t return to the bedroom.
Instead, he headed straight to the home gym.
In the quiet of the night,
within the vast expanse of the luxury penthouse,
the sound of fists hitting the punching bag echoed—
thud, thud, thud—
lingering in the air for what felt like an eternity.
By the time he finally stopped, his workout T-shirt was soaked through and dried again.
Breathing heavily, he used his teeth to undo the straps of his boxing gloves.
His hair was drenched in sweat,
drops falling one by one onto the gym floor,
splattering upon impact.
His cold, stern expression remained unyielding,
now tinged with an added layer of agitation.
His brows furrowed deeply,
his shoulders sinking as if he’d let out a short, suppressed sigh.
He tossed the gloves onto the floor carelessly
and turned toward the bathroom.
Once the body is stirred, it slips beyond control.
Even someone with his level of discipline hadn’t anticipated such a moment of vulnerability.
He couldn’t rein in his thoughts.
Couldn’t command his own body.
The showerhead sprayed water downward,
steam rising in thick, swirling tendrils.
Beads of water clung to the man’s striking features, his gaze deep and burning.
The stream traced the defined ridges of his abs before disappearing along the lines of his hips.
He raised an arm, veins running along his forearm, and mechanically pressed the shower gel dispenser.
The sound of rushing water drowned out everything else.
He stayed under the spray for a long time.
When he finally stepped out, his black hair was still dripping, his body radiating heat.
Water trickled from his hairline, darkening the fabric of his T-shirt where it touched his shoulders.
The storm brewing between his brows had finally dissipated as he strode out of the gym,
closing the door behind him with a casual flick of his wrist.
The motion stirred the air,
carrying away the faint scent of citrus—
fresh,
yet also carrying a trace of her fragrance.
…
Qi Lan.
Sang Lu had just returned to her room when Yu Xiaoke and Little Duan knocked on her door,
insisting on dragging her out for a late-night snack.
After eating, they lingered, chatting with the group for a while longer.
By the time she got back to her room, she showered again despite having already bathed earlier.
When everything was done and she finally slipped under the covers, the clock struck eleven.
Tomorrow was the first day of filming for the wrap-up banquet.
There was no room for mistakes.
She closed her eyes, arranging her body into the "fast sleep posture" she’d learned online.
Within minutes, drowsiness crept in.
Her eyelids grew heavy, and she drifted off.
The next morning,
before her alarm could sound,
Sang Lu’s eyelids fluttered, her forehead glistening with a fine sheen of sweat.
She had dreamed—a long, long dream.
The sky was a dull, oppressive gray.
Dark clouds hung so low it felt like they might crash down at any moment.
She stood in what seemed like an open field,
surrounded by people rushing past in every direction.
The wail of sirens pierced the air repeatedly.
Several rescue vehicles arrived, only to speed off toward a distant plume of thick, black smoke.
Uniformed personnel directed the scene, darting past her to string up caution tape.
"Ma’am, step aside."
The voice was so clear it hardly felt like a dream.
Jostled by the crowd, she stumbled backward several steps,
her shoulder bumping into something—
or rather, someone.
She turned and found herself face-to-face with a news reporter mid-broadcast.
The reporter glanced at her before continuing, expression grave:
"Viewers, we are currently at the site of a plane crash. As you can see—"
Sang Lu’s heart clenched.
An inexplicable wave of dread surged through her.
In the dream, she grabbed the arm of a passerby:
"What’s happening?"
The person shoved her away.
"Don’t interfere with our work."
"What’s happening?" she repeated, voice trembling.
The words spilled from her lips helplessly, over and over.
The clouds shifted, and rain began to pour—
torrential, as if the sky itself were breaking apart.
Trees thrashed violently in the gale.
The distant smoke was beaten down by the downpour.
More people hurried past her, braving the storm.
Teams of rescue workers, clad in heavy gear, charged into the rain toward the densest smoke.
She stood frozen in the crowd, her legs leaden.
Her mind was a haze, and only then did she realize tears were streaming down her face.
The salt on her lips—
it felt too real to be a dream.
She lost track of how long she stood there, motionless,
until rescue personnel began carrying something out.
Finally, she could move again.
Every step demanded tremendous effort.
As she drew closer, she saw what was being transported—
charred wreckage, most of it blackened beyond recognition.
Her vision blurred, whether from rain or tears, she couldn’t tell.
She strained to see, but the fragments were smeared with soot, the markings illegible.
From her angle, the letters and numbers were reversed, impossible to decipher.
The rain grew heavier.
The wind howled like a mournful cry.
A reporter in a raincoat spoke into the camera:
"This is Jing City News with a live update. The current time is July—"
CRACK!
A bolt of lightning split the sky,
followed by an earsplitting thunderclap.
The sound drowned out the reporter’s voice.
In the dream, the shock sent her heart lurching.
And then—
She jolted awake.
Sitting bolt upright in bed, she gasped for air, her face pale with terror.
It took her a long moment to steady herself, her eyes darting around the room as she realized it had only been a dream.
But the scenes had felt so real.
The panic, the despair—they clung to her, vivid and unshakable.
She threw off the covers,
her legs unsteady as she stumbled to the bathroom.
Turning on the faucet, she splashed cold water on her face again and again,
until her breathing evened out.
Staring at her reflection in the mirror,
she fell into deep thought.
Just a nightmare?
Or… a premonition?
The last time she’d had a prophetic dream, she’d awakened to her own self-awareness—
realizing she was a side character being manipulated within the confines of a novel.
This time… what was it trying to tell her?
Her first premonition had been fragmented, disjointed.
But this was a complete, uninterrupted sequence.
Was she overthinking it?
Her thoughts grew more tangled.
Water still clung to her face, trailing down her cheeks to drip onto the sink.
The room was so quiet, the plink of each drop was deafening.
She squeezed her eyes shut,
desperately replaying every detail of the dream.
The crash…
July…
The storm…
The blurred letters and numbers on the wreckage…
Piecing it all together,
her eyes flew open.
Staring at her reflection, she whispered:
"Who was on that plane?"
