The nightclub was still a den of dazzling decadence—
dim lights flickering, the clink of ice against glass blending with the pounding of electronic beats,
all weaving into a restless dream of intoxication.

Jiang Zhilin sat at the bar, one hand propping his cheek,
his fingertip impatiently circling the rim of his glass.

He’d been coming here for several nights in a row.
On the surface he looked like just another customer,
but his eyes always, unconsciously, drifted to the figure behind the counter.

This man was too clean.

Not just in appearance—
but in aura.

As a cop, Jiang had seen all kinds of people.
Especially in places like this, where everyone wore a mask—
flamboyant, sullen, or feigning aloofness.

But he was different.
Silent, sparing with words,
every movement sharp and precise,
never a trace of excess emotion.

As if he didn’t belong here at all.

Jiang swirled his glass, watching the amber liquid catch and refract the light.
Yet his gaze stayed fixed, through the corner of his eye, on the man behind the bar.

He never said much.
Every night, he arrived on time, left on time.
Spoke little with the staff, never mingled with guests.

A man like that, in a place like this— was an anomaly.

Jiang took a sip, eyes thoughtful.

He wasn’t the kind of man who could leave well enough alone.

After a few nights of watching, he began, almost casually, to probe the staff.

“Hey, that bartender of yours—how long’s he been around?”

He tossed the question out in a light, playful tone, like idle chatter.

The other bartender, a sharp-looking guy, shrugged.

“Shen? …About two years, I think.”

“Two years?”

Jiang raised a brow.

“He always this cold?”

“Hah, you noticed too?”

The bartender chuckled under his breath.

“That’s just how he is. Doesn’t get close to us.
Shows up, does his shift, heads out.
Never talks about his private life.
Everyone says he’s like a ghost.”

“A ghost?”

“Yeah. The so-called face of the club—
but he’s never given a customer more than a glance.”

“Sure, his mixing skills are solid.
But you know what the patrons here want.
He never plays along, never fakes a smile.
Doesn’t even acknowledge the regulars.”

Jiang’s eyes narrowed slightly,
his finger tapping the counter without thinking.

“So, you guys don’t know much about his background either?”

“Yeah. No one knows where he lives, what he did before.
No point asking him—he won’t say.”

Jiang didn’t press further, only smiling faintly, as if amused by his own thoughts.

The night was ink-dark, neon lights flickering,
painting the city’s corners in colors of indulgence.

Jiang Zhilin pushed open the nightclub’s heavy glass door.
The familiar rush of music and alcohol hit him head-on.

At the entrance, he paused, gaze sweeping swiftly across the room.

Just a few days ago, he’d been here—
the plan then had been simple: infiltrate, investigate.

What he hadn’t expected—
was to meet someone here he couldn’t ignore.

Just an ordinary bartender, but with eyes unnaturally sharp,
and long, steady hands that mixed drinks with a calm no one else could match.

He shouldn’t have stood out.
And yet, Jiang’s instincts told him this man was anything but simple.

More than that—
after that night, he hadn’t been able to forget him.

Almost without thinking, his eyes slid toward the bar.
And sure enough— there he was, standing just as before.
Posture lazy, gaze detached,
as if the chaos around him had nothing to do with him at all.

Lips faintly hooked, he walked toward the bar.

“A bourbon. Neat.”

Jiang Zhilin sat down at the bar, resting an elbow on the counter, deliberately closing the distance between himself and the bartender.

Shen Yanxing lifted his eyes for a passing glance, then lowered his head to fetch the bottle as if nothing had happened.

“Fancy meeting you here?” His voice was flat.

“What’s fancy about it? You’ve been here every night.”
The pour was steady as a machine, gaze unshaken.

Jiang chuckled.
“The vibe’s decent, and the drinks aren’t bad. Can’t I come?”

“You can.”

The glass was set down lightly, with the air of an ordinary bartender serving a guest.

Jiang raised it, eyes locked on him.
“You don’t remember me?”

That earned the briefest pause—quickly smoothed over as Shen lifted his gaze again, tone even: “Are we acquainted?”

“Heh.”

A low laugh slipped out, laced with mockery. He took a sip, amusement curling in his words.

“So that’s the kind of man you are—pretend not to know me after it’s done?”

This time the look in Shen’s eyes shifted, though the mask slid back almost instantly.

“Sir, I don’t quite understand what you mean.”

Jiang didn’t answer. A faint smile tugged at his lips, gaze lingering with quiet intensity.

It had just been a probe—but the man really pretended not to know him.

The air grew faintly delicate.

Jiang Zhilin’s fingers tapped idly against the bar.

Shen Yanxing, for his part, wiped a glass as if nothing else existed, focused enough to seem unaware of him.

“How long have you worked here?” Jiang asked suddenly.

“A few years.”

“Oh?” Jiang arched a brow. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

“What about me doesn’t look the part?”

“You don’t seem like someone who belongs in a place like this.”

Shen’s hand stilled for a fraction before continuing its task.
His tone stayed even: “Then what sort of person do you think I should be?”

Jiang stared at him, a slow smile tugging at his lips.
“Hard to say. But one thing’s certain—you’re definitely more than just a bartender.”

This time Shen finally stopped moving, meeting his gaze for a beat.

His eyes were deep, carrying a trace of something unreadable.
After a moment, he gave a faint laugh, still cool:
“Sir, drink your liquor. Don’t waste yourself on nonsense.”

Jiang didn’t hurry to reply. Instead, he lifted his glass, swirling the liquid lazily, as though turning something over in his mind.

A few seconds later, he raised his eyes, tone relaxed: “Shen Yanxing.”

That time, Shen’s fingers clearly paused.

“…Who are you calling?”

“You.”

Jiang’s smile sharpened with meaning.

“You claimed we didn’t know each other. Then why don’t you ask me how I knew your name?”

Shen gave no answer.

But his eyes had finally turned dangerous.

Jiang laughed inwardly. He knew—this time, he’d caught a tell.

In the days that followed, Jiang Zhilin showed up almost every night.

Sometimes he only ordered a drink, sitting quietly at the bar.

Other times, he would start a conversation—ranging from casual teasing to deliberate probing.

He would even, on occasion, use small touches:
letting his fingertip brush over Shen Yanxing’s hand when reaching for a glass, or leaning in just a little closer, watching for a reaction.

On the surface, Shen Yanxing stayed indifferent.
But inside, he couldn’t help noticing those subtle moves.

This man was testing him.

And he didn’t like it.

What troubled him more, however, was that he hadn’t instinctively rejected the man’s approach.

That was dangerous.

So, he began deliberately keeping his distance from Jiang Zhilin, giving him as little opportunity as possible.

Yet once someone breaks into your life, it’s never so easy to push them back out.

One accident late at night cracked the defenses he had built—
and Jiang Zhilin, it seemed, had no intention of stopping.