Chapter 1: Sparring

At seven in the evening, the city news channel began its nightly broadcast. For the past few days, the top story had been the unfinished housing project at Yifeng Gardens, a development under Huanyan Real Estate. Ren Yu watched for a while, glancing down now and then to check the time.

At 7:05, he muted the TV and parted the curtains just a crack. The high-powered Nikon binoculars positioned in front of the window had been fine-tuned and recalibrated, its lens once again trained on the apartment directly across—same floor, same layout, in the building opposite.

The dark interior lit up as the man returned home. Through the binoculars’ circular eyepiece, Ren Yu watched him set down a briefcase and a dog carrier in the entryway, change into slippers, and walk into the living room. A hand with well-defined knuckles went to his collar, index finger hooking the tie and yanking it loose with a rough downward pull.

Ren Yu had seen that hand countless times through the lens. It really was beautiful. The nails were trimmed to just the right length. As those long fingers lifted, a vein rose along the back of the hand, faint blue line running all the way to the inner wrist. The knuckles stood out sharp, releasing the full power of the hand’s lines.

Ren Yu had a private fascination with people’s hands. Years of reporting had put him in contact with all sorts, and this hand was top-tier, more compelling than even the man’s chiseled, striking face.

The man seemed more comfortable once the tie was off. He crouched by the dog carrier and played with the animal for a moment, then stood and began unbuttoning his shirt. Before pulling it off completely, he cast a glance toward the window. Through the lens, Ren Yu found himself caught unprepared in that hawk-sharp gaze. He straightened immediately, hiding behind the wall and narrowing the gap in the curtains further.

When Ren Yu’s breathing steadied and he looked again, the man had already removed the shirt and was standing before the wardrobe, unhurriedly selecting something to wear. He clearly knew the curtains were open, yet he let himself wander half-naked in full view of the window. Finally he chose a loose athletic T-shirt, picked up the black gym bag and the dog carrier, and headed out again.

Ren Yu checked his watch. This was his usual time to leave for the fight club.

Once he heard the man’s car pull away, Ren Yu opened his own wardrobe.

To blend into different scenes and get close to different people, he kept a range of styles on hand—the sultry bar kitten, the sharp-suited corporate elite, the keyboard-playing punk musician, the dedicated gym enthusiast. None of them were a stretch for him.

Tonight, though, he settled on a plain white tee and jeans. Looking a little clean-cut early on, coming across as sincere, was always the safe play. Especially with the kind of people who’d seen it all. They fell for it every time.

He changed quickly and headed out, hailing a cab.

“Fight club, please.”

“Working on that figure, huh?” The driver glanced in the rearview mirror, meeting Ren Yu’s smiling eyes.

“Just sometimes,” Ren Yu said. His enunciation was pleasant, giving the impression he was sociable and easygoing.

Truthfully, he wasn’t in the mood for small talk tonight. But the driver was chatty, and Ren Yu’s fair complexion, good looks, and those willow-leaf eyes that crinkled when he smiled invited conversation. The man talked about everything from astronomy to geography.

Then the conversation drifted to the recent news—Huanyan Real Estate’s bankruptcy, the undelivered apartments, the homeowners gathering to demand answers, the violent clash the day before. The name Huanyan, incidentally, came from Du Fu’s line about sheltering all the world’s poor in comfort. Now it felt like a cruel joke.

“I almost bought into Yifeng Gardens. Thank god my wife wouldn’t let me buy off-plan, so I dodged a bullet there. Can you imagine? Your hard-earned money, and then the building just stops. What a scam.”

Ren Yu made an “mm” sound, listening distractedly. His phone buzzed. He picked it up to check, and saw that it was a message in the neighborhood group chat. The property management was warning residents about recent dog abuse incidents in the area, advising everyone to keep an eye on their pets and report any suspicious persons. Attached were several graphic photos, blurred but still visibly bloodied.

He set the phone down and, catching himself, added with a smile, “No kidding.”

No kidding. And then? Exactly.

With those three phrases and his signature smile, Ren Yu was confident he could carry a conversation all day without using his brain.

But the ride was only ten minutes. The driver let him out with some reluctance, and they parted with the warmth of old friends who’d just met.

“Take care now.”

“See you around,” Ren Yu said with a wave.

He walked into the club with his gym bag and quickly found the man he’d gone to such lengths to encounter.

Two men were sparring in the ring, the kind of fighting where every punch landed. A swing sent sweat flying, shattering against the floor. Ren Yu changed and sat by the ring, wrapping his hands in Muay Thai bandages, one end held between his teeth. His gaze fixed on one of the men, the very person he’d been watching through the binoculars: Fang Yingli.

The man was shirtless, close to 188 centimeters, every movement radiating pressure. His shoulders and back formed an inverted triangle, wheat-colored skin sheened with a fine mist of sweat. His abdominal muscles were taut, and below his ribs sat an old scar of unknown origin. It didn’t mar his appearance; if anything, it added to the sense of latent ferocity about him.

His punches were lightning-fast, his defense well-paced. When he gathered strength, a sharp light flashed in his eyes, reminding Ren Yu of that accidental glance through the binoculars.

Dangerous, yes. But also undeniably sexy.

For a truly skilled hunter, only a sufficiently dangerous animal could stir the competitive instinct.

The round ended. Fang Yingli stopped, unwrapping his hands as he walked to the edge of the ring and picked up his water bottle. Tipping his head back to drink, his prominent Adam’s apple bobbed, and the faint blue-green stubble along his jawline testified to the man’s abundant testosterone.

Ren Yu climbed into the ring in two steps, threw a couple of feints, and grinned. “Mr. Fang, care to spar?”

The smile was a proven winner with men and women alike, drawing attention to a small mole beside his nose that seemed to soften his whole expression. By past experience, Ren Yu didn’t think he’d be refused.

But Fang Yingli just narrowed his eyes, and between heaving breaths cast over a lazy glance.

“How do you know my name?”

“We’re in the same complex. You live across from me.” Ren Yu said. “I see you when I take the trash down. Auntie Tang from the neighborhood committee said your surname was Fang.”

Not just across, actually—across and in the binoculars’s lens.

The answer seemed enough to dispel any suspicion. Fang Yingli set down his water bottle and didn’t press further. Just then, Ren Yu realized something: he’d seen Fang Yingli leave with the gym bag, but the dog carrier was gone, maybe still in the car. Then another thought hit him. In the week he’d been watching, this was the third time Fang Yingli had brought home a stray dog. And every time he left with the carrier, the dog was never seen again.

A chill crept up Ren Yu’s scalp. This man—with that unexplained scar, the brutal style in the ring—none of it matched the profile of a law-abiding corporate professional. Was he a good citizen, or a hidden antisocial personality who abused dogs?

His brief distraction was broken when he saw Fang Yingli move to the center of the ring, rewrapping the loose bandages around his fingers and fixing Ren Yu with a look cold enough to wring out cold sweat.

“Come on.”

Before Ren Yu could react, Fang Yingli threw a straight punch that split the air. Ren Yu dodged right on instinct, the punch grazing his nose. Sweat broke out all over his body, his heart rate spiking.

Honestly, Ren Yu knew a little about Muay Thai. He knew enough to talk about it, but not to use it. Against someone like Fang Yingli, he had no chance. But his goal was to get close to the man, and he couldn’t think of a better approach than appealing to his interests.

“Distracted?” Fang Yingli, unhappy with the lack of focus, snorted and followed with a knee strike.

Ren Yu blocked, but the force sent him staggering backward. He threw a kick; Fang Yingli checked it, seized his elbow, pulled him in close, and drove a knee into his ribs.

White light exploded in Ren Yu’s vision. A dull, sharp pain bloomed in his chest. A muffled groan escaped his throat as he stumbled back into the ropes, hanging from them with his arm, unable to speak.

Fang Yingli stayed where he was, fists up in a proper guard, waiting for him to recover.

Ren Yu waved a hand. “I’m done.” He swallowed hard and conceded, “No more.”

Fang Yingli approached then and extended a hand to help him up.

That hand—with its sharp knuckles, long fingers, and evident strength.

Ren Yu looked up, winced as he clutched his ribs, and shook his head, indicating he couldn’t stand. “Might be fractured,” he said.

Fang Yingli frowned. The way this guy dodged had been almost sluggish, like a sloth? Hmm, a bit prettier than a sloth. A woodcock, maybe—the slowest-flying bird in the world.

He sometimes drifted off mid-conversation, pulling references from his vast mental library to keep his subconscious from finding the exchange too tedious.

“Did you not warm up?” he asked.

Didn’t have time, Ren Yu thought. Not that warming up would’ve helped. That wasn’t the point.

Fang Yingli bent down and pressed his hand under Ren Yu’s pectoral, feeling for damage.

But fresh from intense exertion, that hand was too hot.

Ren Yu shivered. Watching that veined, sharp-knuckled hand, the one he’d studied countless times through the lens, move across his own body, he couldn’t help tensing up. He clenched his jaw, determined not to make a sound, but when Fang Yingli pressed down, his resolve shattered.

Through gritted teeth, he let out a low gasp that embarrassed even him. Fang Yingli’s brow lifted, his expression turning faintly amused. Ren Yu quickly looked away, lowering his eyes in pain.

“It’s fine. Not broken.” Fang Yingli withdrew his hand and slung a towel over his shoulder. “Try standing.”

Ren Yu didn’t want to embarrass himself further, so he forced himself upright. The pain in his ribs had eased somewhat, but his lower back was clearly wrenched. He awkwardly followed Fang Yingli toward the locker room. Fang Yingli clearly hadn’t expected company; opening his locker, he glanced over.

The look was a bit odd, so Ren Yu confessed, “Twisted my back.”

Fang Yingli replayed the exchange in his mind and let out a short laugh. “I barely touched you.”

Somehow, the phrasing struck Ren Yu as strange. But either way, his masculine pride was completely gone now. He sat on the bench, leaning against the lockers to catch his breath, and glanced down at where Fang Yingli’s blow had landed. The pale skin over his ribs was flushing deep red. 

Fang Yingli shut his locker and tossed something over. Ren Yu caught it reflexively—a bottle of herbal oil.

“Thanks.” Ren Yu rubbed the liniment into his ribs, the heat searing. When he tried to reach his back, he realized he couldn’t manage it as any stretch of the arm pulled at the strained muscle.

Seeing his clumsy attempts, Fang Yingli walked over. “Lie down.”

“?”

Fang Yingli took the bottle from him. “Let me do it.”

They were both men, fresh off the ring; helping each other with liniment was perfectly normal. Being coy about it would only make things weird. With that thought, Ren Yu lay face-down on the bench. His gym shorts were short, riding up when he knelt, unable to fully cover his thighs.

Even without looking back, Ren Yu could feel Fang Yingli’s gaze like a lit fuse burning its way up his body, about to set him off. Fang Yingli’s eyes came to rest on the shoulder blade half-hidden by Ren Yu’s athletic tank top. Two strips of lettering tattooed along its edge, the script difficult to decipher. He studied the strokes and guessed it was Sanskrit.

He pushed the tank top halfway up and laid his palm flat. At first, Ren Yu could feel the calloused roughness of the palm, but as the liniment was slowly worked in, the friction turned slick. Fang Yingli’s thumb pressed into the shallow dimple of Ren Yu’s lower back, as if gauging its depth.

It tickled. And it was too much in another way too.

Pain and itch burst through his body simultaneously, Ren Yu thought miserably. It almost felt good, but never quite crossed the line into actual pleasure. A sound was fighting its way up his throat. He couldn’t help it—he squirmed.

“Stay still.”

The next moment, his waistband was tugged down three inches, exposing the gray edge of his underwear.