The city bled neon into the rain-soaked streets. Slick asphalt reflected a thousand fractured colors—red from a convenience store sign, blue from the late-night pharmacy, gold from a flickering hotel marquee.
Evelyn Liang tightened her secondhand coat and ducked under the pathetic shelter of a closed café's awning. The drizzle wasn't letting up. Her shoes were soaked through, cold biting at her toes.
"Great. Just what I needed tonight," she muttered, glaring at her useless umbrella—now a mangled skeleton of snapped ribs and torn plastic.
Her phone lit up: 12:47 a.m. She sighed. The last train had long gone. A cab was out of the question; even the cheapest fare would eat up what little she had left in her account.
Evelyn huddled against the wall, mentally tallying her finances. Rent overdue by two weeks. Utility bills sitting unopened in her inbox. And her little brother texting her earlier that he needed extra for school books.
Her chest ached. She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to think. One freelance jewelry design project. That's all she needed. If she could get it done tomorrow and send it off to the client… maybe she'd manage to scrape through another month.
She pulled her bag closer and was about to start walking when the sound of tires screeching against wet pavement cut through the night.
Evelyn's head snapped up.
A black Maserati sat half-parked across the street, its hazard lights blinking weakly. From the driver's side, a man stumbled out.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His expensive suit clung to him, utterly ruined by the rain.
She watched as he staggered forward unsteadily, one hand pressed to his head.
Even from here, she could see how his dark hair plastered messily to his forehead, droplets streaking down the sharp lines of his face.
Drunk. Definitely drunk.
Evelyn hesitated. She wasn't the kind of girl who ran to help random men on the street—especially rich ones spilling trouble all over the sidewalk at midnight. But as she watched, the man's knees buckled. He collapsed against a lamppost, shoulders heaving.
And stayed there.
No movement. No sound.
Something twisted in her stomach. Damn it. She didn't want to get involved. But what if he had hit his head? What if he wasn't just drunk?
Evelyn darted across the road, her sneakers splashing through shallow puddles.
"Hey! Are you okay?" she called over the rain.
No response.
Closer now, she saw his hand tremble against the cold metal of the lamppost.
"I'm calling an ambulance if you don't answer," she said louder.
At that, his head jerked slightly. Dark eyes—cold, sharp even in their haze—lifted to meet hers.
"No… ambulance," he rasped, his voice low but firm.
Relief warred with irritation. At least he could speak.
"You're soaking wet and barely standing. Look, I don't care how much your suit costs, but you—"
Suddenly his knees gave out completely. Evelyn lunged forward instinctively, catching his arm.
"Whoa! Okay, easy there—"
His weight nearly dragged her down. Up close, she caught the scent of expensive cologne mingled with rain and something metallic. Blood? She froze, eyes scanning.
A shallow cut along his temple was oozing slowly, probably from hitting the car door.
"You're bleeding!"
"I'm fine," he muttered.
"Sure. And I'm a billionaire heiress," Evelyn shot back. "You're going to a hospital."
His grip tightened on her sleeve. "No… hospital."
His voice carried a raw edge, like this wasn't a request but a command born of habit.
Evelyn stared at him. Who the hell was this guy?
"Fine. No hospital. But you're not staying here and dying of hypothermia either."
"Where…?"
"My place isn't far. Can you walk?"
He grunted something unintelligible.
"Right. Thought so," she muttered. "You're heavier than you look, Mr. Fancy Suit."
Somehow, she managed to wedge herself under his arm and half-drag, half-guide him down the block.
They reached her tiny apartment after what felt like an hour. Evelyn fumbled with her keys, water dripping from her hair onto the floorboards.
The man collapsed heavily onto her secondhand sofa, head tilted back, eyes closed.
"Don't bleed on my couch," Evelyn muttered, tossing her wet coat aside.
She grabbed a clean towel and the little first aid kit she kept for her brother's scrapes.
Kneeling before him, she pressed the towel gently to his temple.
He flinched slightly but didn't open his eyes.
"Name?" she asked.
Silence.
"Fine. I'll call you Mr. Corpse if you pass out here."
A faint smirk tugged at his lips. "Damian… Lu."
The name hit like a dropped glass. Evelyn blinked. She wasn't big on business news, but even she had heard that name. Damian Lu. CEO of Lu Corporation. Billionaire. Ruthless. Untouchable.
And now soaking her couch.
By the time she had bandaged his cut, he was out cold, breathing steady. Evelyn sighed, tugging a blanket over him.
"Great. I just dragged home the most powerful man in the city. What could possibly go wrong?"
She collapsed onto the floor, back against the couch, staring at the ceiling.
Tomorrow, she'd figure out what to do. Tomorrow, maybe he'd be gone, and she could pretend this never happened.
But for some reason… she doubted it.
Cliffhanger:
Evelyn didn't see the faint crack in Damian's mask as he slept—the furrow of his brows, the knuckles clenched tight even in unconsciousness.
As if even in dreams… he was fighting something too heavy to name.