Chapter 43

4:07 AM, Old Port Apartment.

The TV automatically popped up with breaking news—

[Las Vegas Breaking News]

Former Tsar Casino president Viktor Drakovic has been confirmed dead!

In the footage, the ruins of the fire were cordoned off with yellow and black caution tape, and a forensic doctor carried out a black body bag. The camera flashed by in a fleeting moment, but it was enough to silence the entire living room instantly.

Ke Zhang held the remote control, while Lu Ye hugged a cushion; both of them simultaneously looked towards the sofa—

Yu Chen nestled in the blanket, her knuckles clenching silently. The cold light from the screen reflected on her face, as if drawing a final line to the four-year manhunt.

"Cause of death: gunshot wound to the head, evidence destroyed by burning, identity confirmed by DNA comparison."

Time of the incident: 3:17 AM last night

"No suspects, no witnesses, the case is transferred to the Federal Cold Case Unit."

Lines of text scrolled at the bottom of the screen, like a victorious footnote written for a life of failure.

Yu Chen stared at the "DNA comparison confirmation"—it was a fake she had prepared herself, but now it had become an officially certified "death sentence."

After the news broadcast, the program automatically jumps back to a late-night talk show, where the host tells harmless jokes.

In the living room, none of the three spoke.

Ke Zhang put down the remote control, Lu Ye hugged the pillow tighter, and Yu Chen pulled the blanket up to her chin, as if covering herself with the last blanket after four years of pursuit.

Yu Chen spoke first, her voice so soft it was barely a whisper:

"He died, I lived."

Ke Zhang pushed up his black-rimmed glasses, his voice low but clear:

"So, can I get my hair cut now?"

Lu Ye rested his chin on her shoulder, his voice carried on the chilly morning air:

"After we finish cutting, let's go see the lighthouse."

Yu Chen picked up the remote and switched the TV to the late-night music channel.

In the music video, the female lead cuts her black hair below her ears and dyes it back to bright red, as if rekindling the darkness of the night.

She lowered her head, pressed her knuckles to the screen, and spoke so softly it was almost a whisper:

"I'll cut it tomorrow."

The cold light from the screen reflected on her face, as if drawing a final line to a four-year manhunt:

—Victoire is completely dead.

Yu Chen has been completely resurrected.

—Bright red, about to reignite.

At 4:10 a.m., the news was rebroadcast.

In the ruins of the fire, a forensic doctor carries out a black body bag; the camera flashes by.

Unbeknownst to anyone, the body bag was a fake.

Unbeknownst to anyone, the true form has been resurrected;

Unbeknownst to anyone, the crimson flames were about to reignite.

Only in the Old Port Apartments, a small light was on.

Like putting a final end to a four-year manhunt:

—Victoire is completely dead.

Yu Chen has been completely resurrected.

—Bright red, about to reignite.

Seven days after the news headlines, at the Tsar Group's law firm.

A black folder was pushed in front of Alin.

“All of Viktor Drakovic’s shares, real estate and overseas accounts will be inherited by his only son, Lynn Viktor.”

In the signature section, the boy holds a pen, his brown pupils reflecting the white shadow of the paper, as if he's watching a snowfall that has nothing to do with him.

He signed his name, but gently pushed the pen cap back—

"Additional request, is that alright?"

The lawyer nodded: "Go ahead."

Alin's voice was low and soft, yet carried an undeniable firmness:

"Don't cut his hair—I want Cheng Yan's long hair to stay."

At the same moment, at the Old Port Apartments.

Yu Chen sat on the balcony, an aluminum suitcase resting on his lap.

The box was opened, and inside lay an unopened pair of hair clippers.

And a hair dye, shade: PANTONE 185C, bright red.

She tapped her fingertips lightly on the blade of the scissors, as if finding a rhythm for a countdown.

Ke Zhang brought in his laptop; the screen was displaying an encrypted message—

[Tsar Inheritance Additional Clause: At the request of the heir, Cheng Yan may retain her long hair.]

Lu Ye followed behind, placing the hot cocoa beside her, his voice low and magnetic:

"Shall we cut it?"

Yu Chen paused for half a second, his brown pupils reflecting the distant horizon, as if he were watching a snowfall that had nothing to do with him.

Her voice was soft yet clear: "The heir requests that we not cut it?"

That evening, a video call took place.

On the screen, Alin sat on the top floor of Tsar, with the ruins of a fire outside the floor-to-ceiling windows in the background. The cold white light shone on his profile, as if coating the boy with a layer of snow.

He looked at the camera, then at Yu Chen, his voice low and soft, as if afraid of disturbing Xue:

"Cheng Yan, when her hair was long, looked like the sun falling into a snow house."

"If you cut it, the snow will melt."

He paused, his fingertips tapping lightly on the screen, as if finding coordinates for the sun:

"Is it okay to keep your hair long?"

The igloo has collapsed; may the sun not leave.

Yu Chen's fingertips tightened silently on the ends of her hair—

For four years, black hair was an invisibility cloak, an infiltration pass, and the ink of revenge;

Yan Hong is her true fire, her true name.

She looked up at the boy on the screen, her voice soft yet bright:

"I can keep my long hair, but I need to get my hair color back."

Alin's brown pupils brightened for a moment, like snow being reddened by the setting sun:

"I'll give you back your color; I'll keep your long hair."

He reached out and lightly touched the ends of her hair on the screen, as if to give the sun a place to rest:

“Yan Hong, come back. Long hair, don’t go.”

The call ended, and the balcony light went out.

Yu Chen put the hair clippers back into the aluminum alloy suitcase, but left the hair dye on the table.

Like leaving a red light on in the darkness.

Her voice was so soft it was barely a whisper:

“Weiqi is dead, Yan Hong should come back.”

"The long hair is for Ah Lin; the color is for me."

"From then on, the sun no longer hid behind the snow."

One week later, at the old port.

Yu Chen stood on the submarine deck, the sea breeze tousling her long black hair, but unable to blow away the bright red dye on the ends—

Like a fire that has been rekindled, but no longer scorching.

She lowered her head, pressed the tiny sapphire brooch against her fingertip, her voice so soft it was barely a whisper:

“Vicky, the door you closed—”

I opened it with fire, locked it with a gun, and left my long hair for Alin.

"Now, the door belongs to him, the color belongs to me, and the rest of my life belongs to the sun."

The sea continued to be photographed, like a preemptively tolling bell—

This time, no one will seek revenge.

No one is hiding anymore.

Only long, bright red hair

On the high seas, they quietly returned to their boxes.