After two seconds.
He turned and rummaged through the wardrobe beside him, casually tossing over two things.
A blanket that looked relatively clean.
And a piece of clothing—Jiang Nuan unfolded it.
An oversized cotton nightgown, pale pink with a pattern of little daisies printed all over it.
It was probably left behind by the original female occupant of this room. The size was at least two sizes too big for her; the sleeves would likely hang down past her elbows.
But it was dry.
Ye Que had already turned his back.
Jiang Nuan hugged the dry nightgown for a second, then said, "Don't turn around until I say you can."
"Mm."
She quickly peeled off her soaking wet black combat suit.
The fabric was drenched through, sticking to her skin. When it passed over the wound on her calf, she sucked in a sharp breath, biting her lower lip as she forced the pant leg off.
The blanket scraped against her skin, the rough fibers wiping away the rainwater while raising goosebumps.
The moment she slipped the cotton nightgown over her head, her whole body softened.
The dry, soft cotton clung to her skin, absorbing the lingering moisture.
She looked down at herself.
A floral daisy-print nightgown, ridiculously oversized.
The neckline slid down past her collarbone, and the sleeves indeed hung to her elbows.
It wasn't pretty, but it was comfortable.
"I'm done."
Ye Que turned around.
His gaze lingered on her collarbone for one extra beat.
Then, right in front of her, he reached up and pulled down the zipper of his outer combat jacket.
The soaked black jacket slid off his shoulders, and he casually draped it over the back of a chair by the window to dry. Water dripped from the hem, pooling into a small puddle on the floor.
He was left in just a tight black tank top.
That undershirt was half-drenched from the rain, clinging to his body, outlining every single line.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist. The contours of his chest and abs were so clear through the thin black fabric they looked painted on. They weren't the exaggeratedly sculpted muscles of someone who works out just for show, but the lean, honed physique of someone tempered by real combat.
Every muscle sat perfectly on his frame, like a leopard that had just sheathed its claws.
He grabbed the blanket and rubbed his hair dry, water droplets flicking from his short strands. When he wiped his neck, he tilted his head back slightly.
Jiang Nuan looked away.
She looked away fast—so fast she felt guilty about it.
She fixed her gaze on a dusty little decorative figurine on the windowsill, studying it with intense focus.
It looked like a rabbit, or maybe a hamster; she devoted herself entirely to figuring out what it was.
Ye Que finished drying himself and tossed the blanket aside.
He pulled something from his waist.
"Click."
The sound of metal striking.
Jiang Nuan looked down.
A pair of handcuffs.
Her expression shifted.
Ye Que had already walked over to the bed and sat down. The mattress dipped further under his weight.
He took Jiang Nuan's left wrist. His movements weren't rough, but they were undeniable.
The cold metal circle clicked shut around her wrist.
The other end locked around his own right wrist.
The chain was short—about thirty centimeters.
"..." Jiang Nuan stared at the silver chain linking them in silence for a few seconds.
"Is this really necessary?"
"Yes." Ye Que leaned back against the headboard, adjusting his position. "Behave tonight. Don't wander off. The place is crawling with people from the Apocalypse Society."
"Then there's no need for this!" Jiang Nuan shook her wrist, the chain clinking sharply.
Ye Que's dark eyes fixed on her.
"You're too good at running."
From the ventilation ducts of the base medical room to the scheming in the clinic—she was like a slippery eel, always looking for any chance to slip away.
Ye Que disliked this feeling of being out of control.
He preferred keeping his prey firmly within his line of sight.
Or better yet, directly chained to him.
Jiang Nuan gritted her teeth and stopped struggling.
She lay down.
The chain of the handcuffs made a faint clinking sound as she moved.
Ye Que also lay down, leaving about twenty centimeters between them, but because of the chain's length, their wrists were almost pressed together.
She turned over, facing the wall.
The metal chain tugged slightly, and its cold touch reminded her: you can't escape.
She closed her eyes.
Can't sleep.
The handcuff on her left wrist wasn't too tight, but the metal edges dug into her bones, aching.
Every time she moved slightly, the chain would make a faint rustling sound, reminding her of the man lying beside her.
Ye Que lay to her left.
His breathing was steady, as if he were asleep.
But Jiang Nuan wasn't sure, because the only difference between him being asleep and awake was whether his eyes were closed.
The wound on her calf began to throb again.
More than the pain in her leg, what kept her awake was the turmoil in her mind.
Those words from the man in the black trench coat and his familiarity with the original host—
His familiarity with her wasn't faked.
The casual tone in his voice wasn't how you'd talk to a stranger.
He knew the original host.
And it wasn't just knowing her.
"The Leader."
"Must be brought back under orders."
This meant the original host wasn't just an ordinary refugee.
At the very least, she once held some kind of position within the Apocalypse Society, or had some sort of relationship with the Leader.
Jiang Nuan stared at the invisible ceiling above her.
So what was the original host? A subordinate of the Apocalypse Society? How high up?
According to the man in the black trench coat, he had seen the original host shoot, and she was far more skilled than Jiang Nuan was now.
This information completely contradicted her image in the refugee district—"reclusive, never goes out, keeps to herself."
Or rather, it fit perfectly.
Someone who once belonged to a high-risk organization or had ties to a certain person, possessing certain abilities, would, after breaking away, choose to hide in the lowest level of C District of Blue Cang City, locking themselves away in a corner of an abandoned warehouse on the second floor, refusing to see anyone.
That was hiding.
She was hiding from the Apocalypse Society.
Then the original host died.
A gun aimed at the temple.
Suicide.
When Jiang Nuan crossed over, the bullet hole at her temple hadn't fully healed yet, the edges of the wound showing burn marks—characteristic of a close-range shot.
Suicide.
The vague memories in her mind seemed to point in that direction, and she had always believed it.
But now, a more deadly question surfaced.
Where was the gun?
Jiang Nuan's fingertips began to grow cold.
The gun the original host used to kill herself—where had it gone?
In that abandoned warehouse, after Jiang Nuan crossed over, she searched every corner.
An iron box, some tattered clothes, a few energy bars, a thin, moldy blanket.
That was it.
No gun.
If the original host had committed suicide, the gun should have been near her: in her hand, or on the ground.
A person who shoots themselves in the head wouldn't hide the gun before dying, and couldn't have the strength to put it somewhere else after blowing a hole through their temple.
So.
Either someone entered that warehouse after she died and took the gun.
Or it wasn't suicide at all.
Jiang Nuan's back suddenly stiffened.
The night wind poured in through the window that wasn't fully shut, carrying the damp, rainy smell and creeping down the oversized collar of her floral nightgown.
She shrank her neck, goosebumps rising on her back.
It couldn't be the Apocalypse Society.
The Leader of the Apocalypse Society's order was "bring her back," and today's captors had only wounded her calf.
Then who was it?
The Apocalypse Society, Zero Squad, a third party, the missing gun, the altered memories, that note.
Every clue pointed to a greater darkness, but every single one was cut short, as if someone had deliberately snipped the thread.
She curled herself up.
Then, very suddenly, an uncontrollable surge of emotion flooded over her.
It was something colder and more absolute than fear.
She was too lonely.
From the moment she had crossed over, every step she took was forced by others. Lu Shiyan needed her purification ability, the Apocalypse Society wanted to capture her, and Sister Zhou traded her to save her son's life.
No one here was on her side.
There was no one to trust.
The words on the note inside the iron box surfaced in her mind again.
Don't trust anyone.
The original host had been right all along.
Jiang Nuan suddenly felt exhausted.
Not just physically tired, but a numbness seeping from the deepest part of her soul, like being soaked for too long in ice water.
She closed her eyes.
Her thoughts drifted uncontrollably away.
Back to before the crossing.
The university cafeteria.
A plastic tray held a serving of braised chicken with rice and a free bowl of seaweed and egg drop soup.
Across from her sat her roommate, smug about snagging the last braised egg.
After dinner, they went for a walk on the track.
An autumn evening, the sky not yet fully dark, the streetlights just flickering on, casting orange light across the rubberized track.
Her roommate hooked an arm around her shoulder, chattering about elective course gossip, asking if she wanted to see a movie that weekend.
That kind of life.
So mundane she once found it boring.
Her eyes grew hot.
A deep, sour ache rose in her nose, clogging her throat, impossible to swallow.
She didn't cry out loud, just closed her eyes as tears silently spilled from the corners, streaming past her temples and soaking into the pillow.
She wiped at them with her unshackled hand, but couldn't clean them away—new ones kept coming.
The chain of the handcuff clinked faintly with her movement.
Clink.
The sound of metal striking metal was tiny, but in this quiet room, it was clear and impossible to hide.
Jiang Nuan desperately tried to suppress all motion, but her body refused to obey—her shoulders still trembled.
She was very close to Ye Que.
Because of the handcuff's restriction, they were only half a meter apart.
When a person is utterly vulnerable, they instinctively seek a source of warmth.
Like someone struggling for too long in dark water, instinctively grasping at the only piece of driftwood nearby.
Even if that driftwood was the one who dragged her into the water in the first place.
Her forehead touched Ye Que's shoulder.
Through the thin layer of his base shirt, his body heat seeped through. A dry, steady warmth, beneath which lingered the faint residue of gunpowder, washed clean by the rain.
Jiang Nuan's body stiffened.
She should have pulled back.
But she didn't move.
Tears silently soaked a small patch of dark fabric on his shoulder.
Just a moment.
Let her hide in this false comfort, just for a moment.
Ye Que said nothing.
The silence lasted a long time, long enough for Jiang Nuan to think he had already fallen asleep.
Then he moved.
He turned toward her.
A hand covered in thin calluses slowly rose, crossing the restraint of the handcuff chain, and settled on the back of her head.
His palm was large, nearly cradling the entire curve of her skull.
The pressure was gentle—just a hand resting there.
A silent gesture, carrying no explanation at all.
Jiang Nuan’s tears flowed even more fiercely.
Ye Que had never actually fallen asleep.
As a top-tier sniper, his five senses were razor-sharp. The moment Jiang Nuan’s breathing pattern changed, he knew she was awake.
He heard her deliberately muffled sobs, felt the slight tug of the iron chain against his wrist.
And then, a soft, damp weight leaned against his shoulder.
Ye Que’s body tensed instantly.
His muscles reflexively shifted into a defensive stance.
Then, they relaxed.
In the darkness, he slowly opened his eyes, tilted his head, and looked down at the woman leaning against his shoulder.
She wept quietly. That face, usually so shrewd and guarded, was now covered in tear tracks. Her lashes were soaked, clumped together by moisture.
His mind flashed to the moment he had caught her in the tunnel, to the way she stood gripping the gun in the clearing—shaking, but never lowering the barrel.
And that night… when she had been pushed to her absolute limit.
Ye Que swallowed, his Adam’s apple rolling slowly.
He lifted his hand and placed it over the back of her head.
Her hair had been drenched by rain, now half-damp and half-dry. A few strands clung to the nape of her neck. The strands beneath his palm were softer than he had expected.
Beneath the weight of his hand, Jiang Nuan’s body gradually relaxed.
The sound of rain gradually faded.
In this room, hunter and prey were bound together by a cold iron chain. In the dead of night, in this apocalypse, they exchanged the only warmth either of them had.
Tomorrow might bring another brutal fight.
But at least tonight—she had nowhere to run.
And he did not want to let go.
