The sound came first.
Not the screech of tires, not at first. Just… this quiet hum. Like the world was holding its breath.
Then it hit.
Screaming rubber, a loud crack, metal crunching like bones snapping under pressure.
Lin Yuhan didn't even scream.
His body jerked forward, slammed back. His skull smacked against the headrest so hard he saw white. And then red—glass, light, maybe blood—he couldn't tell. Everything blurred.
His chest was burning.
No—squeezing. Like someone sat on him. Like something inside had torn.
He coughed. Wet. Sticky. A sharp taste filled his mouth—metallic, bitter. Blood.
He could hear it dripping onto his shirt.
He wanted to lift his hand. Touch something. Maybe fight. But his fingers weren't working. His legs weren't working. Nothing was.
Then he saw them.
Just a blur at first. Two silhouettes outside the wreck, far enough to be safe, close enough to watch.
Shen Mochen.
And Meile.
Yuhan's chest constricted harder than the crash ever could.
He didn't understand at first.
Not until Mochen turned his back on the wreck.
Not until Meile said something—smiled—and the two of them walked away together.
Yuhan couldn't move. Couldn't scream. But his mind was screaming. Loud. Angry.
You planned this.
They had taken his company. Ruined his reputation. Turned investors against him. He'd thought the betrayal was over.
But this…
This was the end.
Except—it wasn't.
Because just as the darkness started to eat at the corners of his eyes, something inside him sparked. Not panic. Not even survival.
Rage.
If this was death, fine. But they were coming with him.
---
He gasped.
Not because of pain. But because of air—actual air—flooding into his lungs.
He blinked.
No blood. No glass. No wreckage.
Just sunlight. Warm and soft, filtered through tinted windows.
The leather seats were cream-colored, spotless. The air smelled like—like that cologne. That ridiculously expensive one Mochen used to wear.
Wait.
Yuhan jerked upright. His heart was hammering so hard it almost drowned out the rest of the world. This car. He knew this car.
He whipped his head around. The polished dashboard. The subtle wood finish. The damn designer sound system.
And driving the car—
"Shen Mochen?"
His voice came out quiet. Too quiet.
The man didn't turn, just looked up through the rearview mirror, cool and casual.
"You okay?" Mochen asked, brows raised. "You spaced out."
Yuhan blinked.
No.
This wasn't right.
This couldn't be—
His fingers scrambled inside the designer clutch on his lap. He found his phone. His old phone. Thick, outdated, heavy in a way that made his stomach twist.
The lock screen lit up.
June 28, 2018.
Yuhan froze.
His grip tightened around the phone until his knuckles turned white.
This was the day. The day everything began.
---
"Yuhan?" Mochen asked again, glancing over his shoulder.
"...I'm fine," he said, voice calmer than he expected. "Just… thinking."
But his eyes stayed locked on the window. The reflection staring back was younger. Rounder cheeks. No exhaustion under his eyes. No scars. His hair—longer, healthier.
He didn't recognize himself.
That version of him—that Yuhan—was already gone.
The one sitting here now?
He wasn't a helpless fiancé anymore.
And as the car pulled through the gates of his family's estate—the one they would later sell off behind his back—Yuhan let a slow, calculated smile creep across his lips.
Not soft.
Not loving.
Cold. Controlled. Dangerous.
Shen Mochen, of course, didn't notice. He never really looked close enough.
"We're almost there," Mochen said lightly.
"Good," Yuhan replied. Then, quieter, under his breath, "Let's begin."
Because this time, he wasn't the victim.
This time, he was the one driving the wreck.