Ye Xinren must have sensed it.
Because on the other end of the line, a small, knowing sigh slipped through.
There was no yelling. No accusations.
Just a cold silence.
And somehow, that was worse.
Jiang Yanxu could picture it; the faint smirk that never reached Ye Xinren's eyes, the quiet disappointment settling on his face.
He had waited. Worried. Overthought.
And in return, he got nothing.
Not an explanation. Not an apology.
Just nothing.
Until the line went dead.
Jiang Yanxu stared at the phone in his hand, unmoving. His expression was meaningless—neither guilt nor regret showed on his face.
He should call back.
He should explain himself.
He should ... at the very least ... feel something about this.
But his fingers refused to move.
His heart refused to stir.
The past had killed something in him. His body had died once, and with it, so had his emotions.
