Chapter Twenty-Three: Shadows and the Dance of the Communist Party
The warning from West Asia, like an invisible barrier, completely separated the intersection of Zhong Si and Qian Xu Wu Yun under the light.
However, pressure often breeds more hidden vitality. Those corners overlooked by the organization in its daily routine—the long, slanting shadows cast by the warehouse at dusk, the narrow passageway connecting the main building and the old archives, piled with discarded furniture and rarely trodden, and even the quiet area at the highest point of the training ground stands bathed in moonlight late at night—became secret kingdoms belonging only to the two of them.
Here, rules are temporarily forgotten, and identities are quietly shed. He is not Zhong Si, the "little butterfly" who is overprotected by the "whale shark," cruelly tempered by the "raven," and constantly needs to prove his worth.
She wasn't the "little bee" Qianxu Wuyun who needed to constantly play the role of a sunny and cheerful person, carefully navigating all sorts of people. They were simply Zhong Si and Qianxu Wuyun, two lonely souls who met by chance in a cold world and warmed each other with their body heat.
Their conversation moved beyond the weather and food. It veered into deeper, more dangerous, yet more real territory.
“Sometimes,” once, by the window of an abandoned passageway, in the dim light of a distant streetlamp, Qianxu Wuyun sat with her knees drawn up, chin resting on them, gazing at the dark night sky outside the window, her voice as soft as a dream, “I imagine, if one day, I no longer have to worry about where I will be tomorrow, no longer have to think about the meaning behind every word, I can just… simply live. I can be woken up by the sunlight in the morning, instead of being startled by tasks or fear. I can go to the market to buy freshly baked bread, chat with the old lady selling flowers for a bit, and then… and then I don’t know what to do all day, but I just feel very at peace.”
Zhong Si leaned against the old bookshelf opposite him, listening quietly. Mu Ye's afternoon training had almost drained him of all his energy, and his temples were still throbbing.
But listening to Qianxu Wuyun's words, his tense nerves strangely relaxed.
This description was so far removed from his experience, as distant as a myth from another world. Yet, in her voice, he detected something he himself yearned for deeply—something called "peace."
“I… I don’t quite remember that feeling,” he said softly, his purple eyes appearing somewhat unfocused in the dim light. “It seems… I’ve never had it before. As far back as I can remember, it was… hiding, cold, and… fear.” He paused, as if struggling to find the right words. “After coming here, things got much better. West Asia… he gave me a place. But… there are rules here too. Every step I take, every word I say, feels like there’s a pair of eyes watching. Sometimes, I feel… like I can’t breathe.”
This was the first time he had so openly expressed the sense of oppression he felt under the organization's protection. As soon as the words left his mouth, he pursed his lips nervously and glanced at Qianxu Wuyun subconsciously, as if worried that she would think he was ungrateful.
Qianxu Wuyun turned her head, her bright yellow eyes unusually clear in the dim light, devoid of judgment, only showing deep understanding.
“I understand,” she said simply, yet with immense empathy. “It’s like…always wearing an ill-fitting, heavy garment. Even if it’s warm, you still crave the freedom to stretch.”
The metaphor struck Zhong Si so precisely. He stared at her, a strong urge to confide in her welling up inside him.
“I… had a dream,” he said, his voice lower and uncertain. “In the dream, there were no high walls, no orders… only a large meadow, the grass was very tall, and the wind blew like green waves… I was lying in it, I couldn’t see anything, and… I didn’t have to think about anything.”
After he finished speaking, he lowered his eyelids somewhat embarrassed. The dream was so childish, so incongruous with the inhuman training he was undergoing.
Qianxu Wuyun smiled slightly, a smile devoid of mockery, only filled with warm resonance. "That meadow, it sounds so beautiful," she said softly. "Perhaps... perhaps one day, we really will see a meadow like that."
"us".
The word reappears, like a sturdy bridge, tightly connecting two wandering hearts.
Sharing these deepest, most unrealistic fantasies became their most secret ritual and their most powerful weapon against the cold reality outside. In this small, isolated shadow, they constructed a mirage of "freedom" and "normality" that belonged only to each other.
Zhong Si realized that he had changed.
In front of Qianxu Wuyun, he was no longer the "trainee" who needed to be constantly vigilant and try to figure out his superiors' intentions. He would childishly complain about how bizarre the encryption method Muye had used that day, and he would imitate Gongyang's anxious look when checking security, with his brows furrowed and as if he wanted to knock down every single brick. He would make Qianxu Wuyun laugh so hard that she would cover her mouth and cover her mouth. He would even stammer out some vulgar jokes he had heard from the old member Lin Zhi, just to see her laugh so hard that she was doubled over and tears welled up in her eyes.
He called her "Wu Yun," omitting her surname, as naturally as breathing. He no longer used honorifics like "Mr." or "Miss," his tone carrying an intimacy and relaxation that even he himself didn't realize. This change was the most direct evidence of their growing closeness.
But Qianxu Wuyun, that impeccable "little bee" shell, was quietly peeling away with each heart-to-heart talk. Real worries would flash across her eyes—anxiety about the delayed new instructions from the Dream Serpent, and fear that this brief tranquility might end.
Once, looking at an unknown white wildflower swaying in the evening breeze in the cracks of the brick wall, she murmured, "Sometimes I feel that we are like it. We look like we are growing here, but we don't know where our roots are. If a strong wind comes, we may be scattered."
Zhong Si was squatting on the ground at the time, unconsciously tracing the dust with his fingers.
Hearing this, he looked up at her earnestly and said, "Then let's be like a flower that takes root deep. Or... when the wind comes, let's hold on to each other and not let it blow us away."
His words were clumsy, yet carried an undeniable firmness, as if he were making a solemn promise.
Qianxu Wuyun was stunned. Looking at the boy's unusually clear and earnest purple eyes under the moonlight, the icy plain in her heart that belonged to the "man-eating bees" seemed to have been hit by a red-hot iron, making a sizzling sound and rising a white mist filled with intense pain.
She quickly lowered her head, concealing the surge of bitterness that threatened to overwhelm her. When she looked up again, her expression was one of reproach: "You, always talking nonsense."
But the shock of that moment truly pierced through her defenses.
However, beneath this growing affection lurked a cold undercurrent. Zhong Si was not oblivious to it.
He had received Mu Ye's most rigorous training, which included recognizing disguises and analyzing motives. Qian Xu Wu Yun's appearance was too coincidental; her enthusiasm was sometimes so perfect as to seem deliberate; the way she looked at him, beneath its warm undertones, would occasionally flash a fleeting, extremely deep, complex emotion that he couldn't decipher, like... sadness, or struggle.
On one occasion, she accidentally let slip a temporary code name for a transportation route switch that was known only to a few people within the organization, although she quickly covered it up by saying that she had overheard some casual conversation among drinkers.
On another occasion, he inadvertently saw a small, seemingly girlish metal hair clip that she always carried. The intricate details of its internal structure far surpassed those of ordinary items, making it resemble more of a tool.
Suspicion, like tiny ice spikes, occasionally pierces his heart, which is immersed in warmth.
But he chose to ignore it.
He found reasons for himself: the code name might have been leaked by old John during a casual conversation; the hair clip might just be her unique personal preference.
He even felt a little ashamed of his own suspicion—Wu Yun had been so good to him, temporarily rescuing him from the cold training and heavy expectations, how could he use Mu Ye's cold logic to speculate about her?
The deeper reason is that he desperately needed this "light".
The world of the organization is efficient, but also cold and oppressive. Xiya's protection carries a heavy past and expectations, and Mu Ye's training aims to mold him into a perfect weapon. Only with Qianxu Wuyun can he feel needed and accepted simply as "Zhong Si."
This "normal" care, this unconditional warmth, was the first sweetness he had tasted in his barren life. Even if this sweetness might contain deadly poison, its delicious flavor made him unable to let go.
Willing to be deceived. This is a conscious surrender, the moth's most resolute embrace of the flame.
He knew that beneath his feet might lie a bottomless abyss, but turning back meant an endless, weary ice field. He preferred to believe in this fleeting, warm illusion, even if it meant paying for unimaginable suffering in the future.
So, when another secret date ended, and Qianxu Wuyun was restless and her eyes were darting around because of Mengshe's secret urging, Zhong Si simply reached out and gently held her slightly cool fingers.
“Wu Yun,” he looked at her, his purple eyes filled with a gentle, almost compassionate clarity, “Don’t worry. No matter what happens, I’ll be on your side.”
These words, like a double-edged sword, instantly pierced through all of Qianxu Wuyun's pretense.
She looked up abruptly, her bright yellow eyes filled with immense shock, unspeakable pain, and… a guilt that almost tore her apart. He knew? How much did he know? Or… was he simply trying to comfort her?
She opened her mouth, as if to say something, but in the end she only gripped his hand tightly in return, her knuckles turning white with the force. She buried her face in his shoulder, her shoulders trembling slightly, and after a long while, she finally uttered a muffled "Mmm" choked with sobs.
Emotions dance dangerously on a tightrope between lies and truth; the sweeter they are, the more tragic they appear.
They were both greedily absorbing the warmth from each other, and both vaguely sensed that this stolen time would eventually come to an end.
One walks knowingly into the trap, while the other painfully weaves more lies on the edge of it. This love, blooming in the shadows, radiates a heartbreaking glow because of its incompatible nature and destined tragedy.
Poisoned wine is sweet, but only the drinker knows the truth.
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