When Yan Qingyao was carried out to the ambulance, Rong Qian saw that her body was covered in blood.

According to Fu Bozhong, Shen Chi had flown into a rage and smashed a chair to pieces. Wanting to teach her a lesson, he had picked up a wooden stick and swung it at Yan Qingyao’s face.

What no one had anticipated was that there was a long nail embedded in the stick. The sharp nail raked a deep, long gash across Yan Qingyao’s face — beginning at the corner of her eye socket and tearing all the way down to the corner of her mouth.

The blood immediately soaked through the pure white gown Yan Qingyao wore.

When Yan Qingyao returned from the hospital, her face was wrapped in thick layers of bandages. Because the wound cut so deeply down to the corner of her mouth, she could not speak. Even opening her mouth was an effort. She could only take liquid food.

Word was that the first thing Yan Qingyao did upon returning was smash every mirror in the room. After that, she locked herself away and refused to see anyone.

As for the person responsible — Shen Chi — he carried on as though nothing had happened, coming and going as always, indifferent to whether Yan Qingyao lived or died.

After her disfigurement, Yan Qingyao never wore her beloved white dresses again. She dressed in black every day, her hair loose and unkempt, drifting through the house like a walking corpse.

Every night, in the small hours, Yan Qingyao would come out and wander the halls. She ended up frightening one of the maids who had gotten up to use the bathroom.

After that, no one dared to come out at night.

Rong Qian, worried she would do something drastic, began following her in secret every evening.

As it turned out, Rong Qian’s concern was not unfounded. One night, she watched as Yan Qingyao drifted in a daze onto the rooftop. Rong Qian moved fast — she threw her arms around Yan Qingyao’s waist and pulled her back from the edge.

Yan Qingyao’s eyes were vacant, as though her soul had left her body. There was no light in them at all. The scar on her face was stark and striking — almost frightening to look at. Enough to unnerve anyone.

But when Rong Qian looked at her, all she felt was grief.

She moved to touch her face. Yan Qingyao snapped back to herself then — and recoiled in terror. She shrank into the corner, wrapped her arms around her knees, and trembled uncontrollably, refusing to let anyone come near.

Rong Qian could see she was terrified, and didn’t dare make another move. She sat down at a short distance and kept watch over her, waiting for her emotions to settle before trying to speak.

After a long silence, Rong Qian heard her faint voice: “I envy you so much…”

Rong Qian looked up at her. The long hair curtained half of Yan Qingyao’s face. Her skin was pale, and with that black, straight hair hanging loose, paired with the wide, staring look in her eyes — she was genuinely a little unnerving to look at.

Rong Qian rested her chin in her palm, her posture easy and relaxed, as if she were sitting with an old friend. She gave no special treatment due to Yan Qingyao’s injuries — she simply treated her as she would anyone else.

“What is there to envy about me?” she said, voice lazy and unhurried.

“You live with such freedom.” Yan Qingyao said it, then looked down at her own hands and murmured softly: “Once, I was that free too…”

Rong Qian turned that over for a moment. She understood — the freedom Yan Qingyao meant was more than physical. It was something in the heart.

“Are you an Angel?” Yan Qingyao suddenly said, looking at her.

Rong Qian blinked. An angel? She almost laughed. No one had ever called her that before.

“But I know,” Yan Qingyao continued, “that the person you guard is not me.” With those words, she rose and walked away.

Rong Qian watched her go, then quietly followed after her.

What Rong Qian didn’t know in that moment was that this would be the last time she and Yan Qingyao would ever meet.

She should have guessed. From the moment Yan Qingyao voluntarily sought out Shen Yi, she should have known something was wrong. But she had naively believed Yan Qingyao had come around.

She watched Shen Yi’s figure walking farther and farther away, until he disappeared around the corner.

Not long after Shen Yi entered Yan Qingyao’s room, Rong Qian heard a tremendous crash — as though something had fallen from a great height and landed on a vehicle.

A strange feeling came over her at once, but she still couldn’t bring herself to believe it. She walked to the window and looked down…

“Ah!”

Horrified screams erupted from below. Someone cried out: “The mistress has jumped from the building!”

Yan Qingyao had jumped — right in front of Shen Yi — and fallen from the window onto Shen Chi’s expensive sports car below. Yan Qingyao, who had always seemed like a porcelain doll, had finally shattered.

She had dressed in her most beloved white gown that day. Her black hair fanned out around her. And on her face was a smile — the first time Rong Qian had ever seen her smile, and the last.

Word was that when Shen Chi came running out and saw what had happened to his prized car, all he said was two words: “Unlucky wretch!”

When Fu Bozhong rushed to the room, he found Shen Yi already up on the window ledge, weeping in despair, crying again and again for her not to go. Fu Bozhong was terrified and pulled him down immediately.

Shen Yi was coughing severely, and in the end he coughed up blood and lost consciousness.

The night of Yan Qingyao’s death, Shen Chi was drinking in her room — drinking until he was thoroughly drunk. His gaze drifted idly to the side and caught on an easel covered with a white cloth.

He knew Yan Qingyao had studied fine arts, though she had rarely painted since marrying him.

Shen Chi staggered over, pulled the cloth away, and squinted at the painting up close. He discovered it depicted a woman in a white dress — an angel.

He had assumed she painted herself. But looking more closely, he realized it was the face of someone he didn’t recognize.

The woman in the painting smiled like a flower in bloom. Her eyes were clear and bright, utterly untainted. Her smile seemed to carry a healing power. Shen Chi suddenly thought: this might be the version of herself that Yan Qingyao had imagined. Confident. Radiant. Full of warmth and light.

Even as that thought occurred to him, Shen Chi turned his head and found a woman standing before him. “Qingyao?”

Shen Chi had drunk far too much; his vision was no longer clear. He took a moment to focus — and realized that the woman before him bore the same face as the angel in the painting.

Rong Qian had also noticed the painting on the easel. Yan Qingyao had truly seen her as an angel.

But Rong Qian desperately wanted to tell her — she was wrong. Rong Qian was no kind and gentle angel. She had always been someone who returned every grievance in kind. In many people’s eyes, she was nothing short of a demon.

“Who are you?” Shen Chi lunged toward her and demanded to know.

Rong Qian didn’t step aside. In the instant he came at her, she lashed out with a kick. In his utterly drunken state, Shen Chi couldn’t withstand it, and collapsed to his knees before her.

Rong Qian grabbed him by the collar, hauled him up, and without a word, delivered several sharp slaps across his face. Her voice was tight with fury: “These slaps are for every time you hit Shen Yi. I’m returning them to you now!”

Then she smashed a beer bottle and pressed the jagged edge of glass to his face. “And this cut — this is for Yan Qingyao. Every time you look in a mirror, you will remember her.”

As her words ended, Rong Qian dragged the glass across his face, leaving a cut that was neither shallow nor deep.

Shen Chi was barely conscious — dazed and disoriented, at her mercy. Rong Qian still couldn’t swallow her rage, and she beat him thoroughly, fists and feet both.

Finally, she seized him, slammed him hard against the wall, and wrapped her hand around his throat. Her voice was vicious and low: “If killing people weren’t against the law, I would truly put a bullet in you.”

Fu Bozhong had been waiting outside the door for quite a while. When Rong Qian still hadn’t come out, he began pacing anxiously, suddenly regretting his decision to agree to let her go in and confront Shen Chi.

But the door was locked from the inside, and there was nothing he could do no matter how anxious he was. Just as he was about to knock, Rong Qian walked out.

“Miss Rong, are you alright?” Fu Bozhong asked immediately.

Rong Qian looked at her hand. “My hand hurts a little.”

“He — he hit your hand?” Fu Bozhong, momentarily overwhelmed, forgot all decorum and charged inside to defend her honor.

What he saw when he entered stopped him cold.

She — she did this?

Rong Qian paid no attention to whether Shen Chi was dead or alive. Shen Yi was still lying in bed, unconscious. She needed to go and keep watch over him.

And Shen Yi slept on — a full day and night passed without him waking.

“Miss Rong, please go and rest. I can look after him.” Fu Bozhong urged her.

Rong Qian shook her head. “It’s fine. I’ll rest when he wakes up.”

She wanted him to see her the moment he opened his eyes. And she hoped — she could offer him some comfort.

During the time Shen Yi lay unconscious, the room had no more piano music in it. Rong Qian found she missed it quite a bit. She walked over to the piano, lifted the cover, and pressed a few keys at random. The notes rang out as clear and beautiful as ever.

Rong Qian sighed. Her gaze drifted, as it always did, back to Shen Yi, and the worry and sorrow in her eyes were impossible to conceal.

When this child woke up and found out his mother was gone — how devastated would he be?

Just then, Rong Qian heard the click of a camera shutter. The flash briefly blinded her, and she instinctively shut her eyes.

When she opened them, she found herself sitting on a small stool, holding a warm, steaming serving of oden in her hands.

Her mind hadn’t caught up yet. Her whole head felt blank.

Then Rong Qian turned — and saw a little girl licking a popsicle and grinning at her.