The Canary in the Abyss

Chapter12 ( She Has Never Been “Out Working”）

Shu Wan had assumed that Lin Zechen and Ji Sihan were old acquaintances—so familiar that introductions would be unnecessary. Yet it turned out they had not known each other long at all; Ji Liangchuan had been the one to bridge the gap and bring them together. That realization landed quietly, but it shifted everything in her mind.

It seemed Lin Zechen had arranged this gathering for more than the simple reason of “letting her meet a few friends.” He had an ulterior purpose: he wanted to wrest a project from Ji Sihan’s hands, or at least to pry open the door to negotiations. In a way, that was good. If business was on the table, then conversation would inevitably stretch out, and time—time was precisely what Shu Wan needed. Time to think. Time to breathe. Time to find a way to slip out of this room without being dragged back by the wrist or pinned in place by a single cold glance.

As that thought formed, the tension that had been coiled in her shoulders and spine loosened, only slightly—like a violin string eased by half a turn. She was still tight, still wary, but at least she was no longer rigid with panic.

But she had barely managed to exhale when Lin Zechen, seated beside her, lifted his chin toward the glass in front of her, the gesture sharp and commanding, as though he were flicking an order to a servant.

“Drink it,” he said.

There was no room left for feigned ignorance, no gap in which she could pretend she hadn’t heard. Shu Wan steadied her hands, raised the cup, and drank in one swift motion.

She rarely drank. It wasn’t some noble principle or cultivated restraint; it was simply that Ji Sihan disliked the smell of alcohol. He had never expressly forbidden her, never delivered some moral lecture, yet his preferences were like invisible rules in the house: unspoken, unquestioned, and strictly observed. Over time she had trained herself to be “clean”—clean breath, clean skin, clean habits—so that she would never bring to him the faintest trace of what he did not like. She had made herself into a quiet, obedient object designed to please.

Now, swallowing a full cup of strong liquor in one go felt like swallowing fire. The burn tore down her throat, seared through her chest, and rose back up as choking heat. Her eyes watered instantly; tears flooded so quickly that she could not stop them. She coughed, breath caught, lashes trembling as her vision blurred.

Lin Zechen immediately slid an arm around her and patted her back, his palm moving in brisk, practiced strokes as though he had soothed many women this way before—women who had drunk too fast, laughed too hard, or been pushed past their limits in rooms like this.

Across from them, Ji Sihan’s gaze—cool, remote, edged like winter—fell upon that arm. His eyes rested on Lin Zechen’s hand where it held her, not casually, but with the possessive familiarity of someone putting a mark on what he considered his.

Through the veil of tears, Shu Wan thought she saw something in Ji Sihan’s eyes: a flash of murderous intent, a shadow of violence so swift that it almost resembled a trick of the light. For an instant, her heart leapt, and a foolish hope—small, bright, irrational—rose like a spark in the dark.

But when her vision steadied and the room came into focus again, she found nothing there except the same indifference, the same aloof detachment. His expression was as calm as a frozen lake. Not a ripple.

Shu Wan let out a soundless, bitter laugh at herself. What had she expected? Ji Sihan had only ever treated her as a substitute, a shadow shaped like another woman. He had never truly placed her in his heart. If she insisted on searching his eyes for warmth, she would only be scorched by her own longing.

When her coughing eased and her breathing smoothed, Lin Zechen kept his arm around her and spoke to Ji Liangchuan with the tone of a man delivering a casual report.

“This girl hasn’t been out working,” he said, tilting his head toward Shu Wan as if describing a product. “She can’t drink. Don’t mind her.”

Ji Liangchuan merely smiled and said nothing, his expression mild, the kind of neutrality that could be mistaken for kindness. Yet beside him, the woman clinging to his arm suddenly flared with anger, as though she had been struck.

“Lin Shao—what do you mean by that?” she snapped.

Lin Zechen raised one brow, his gaze lazy, his voice unhurried and faintly amused. “Sister, I wasn’t talking about you. Why are you getting so worked up?”

The woman’s face tightened at the word “sister.” It was as if he had slapped her with it. “I’m so much younger than you,” she burst out. “How can you call me your sister with a straight face?”

Lin Zechen’s smile sharpened. “You might be younger than me, but you look older than I do. If I don’t call you ‘sister,’ should I call you ‘little sister’ instead?”

“You—!” Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She had been parried so neatly, so mercilessly, that she couldn’t find a retort. She stamped her foot in frustration, then turned away and tugged at Ji Liangchuan’s sleeve, her anger instantly transforming into a pouty coquetry.

“Brother Liangchuan, look at him,” she whined, leaning into Ji Liangchuan as though seeking refuge. “He talks about me like that—how hateful! Let’s not play with them anymore. Let’s go.”

Ji Liangchuan responded with patient indulgence, patting her hand as if calming a spoiled child. “An Yan,” he said gently, “you know what Lin Zechen is like. He doesn’t mean it. Don’t take it to heart.”

An Yan—so that was her name. In Nightshade, she was the top courtesan, the prized beauty, the one men paid to see and fought to possess for a night. Yet now, having attached herself to Ji Liangchuan, she wanted to be seen as something cleaner, something elevated—no longer a commodity, no longer a woman who could be dismissed with crude phrases like “out working.”

She couldn’t win against Lin Zechen directly, not in words, not in status, not in the effortless arrogance of his charm. But she could turn her claws toward Shu Wan, whose silence and stiffness made her an easy target. A woman like Shu Wan—quiet, uncertain, visibly out of place—was precisely the kind of person An Yan could step on to prove her own position.

“All right,” An Yan said, forcing a smile so bright it looked almost sweet. “I won’t argue with you. We’re all out here to have fun, after all.”

She paused, eyes moving across the room, assessing the men’s interest, the women’s reactions, the atmosphere that could be shaped and steered. Then she tilted her head, voice rising with playful suggestion.

“But just sitting here is boring. How about we play a game?”

At the word “game,” the room stirred. Men straightened in their seats. Eyes sharpened. The lazy air suddenly carried a faint current of anticipation.

“What game?” someone asked.

An Yan produced several decks of cards and placed them on the table with a flourish that made the simple objects look like invitations to mischief.

“We’ll split into teams and play cards,” she said lightly. “Whoever loses has to take off one piece of clothing.”

A ripple of laughter passed through the room, thick with implication. The proposal was blatantly obscene, designed for spectacle and humiliation, for stripping away dignity as much as fabric. Yet the men’s expressions only brightened; for them, it was entertainment, a sanctioned excuse to watch women undress and to pretend it was merely “a game.”

“Interesting,” Lin Zechen said, without hesitation. A man like him would never refuse such a fragrant, provocative scene. And the others—older, leering, already flushed with drink—were even less likely to reject it.

Ji Liangchuan, perhaps mindful that Ji Sihan was not accustomed to these environments, turned his head slightly and glanced toward him. His tone softened.

“Second Brother,” he began, “they always play a little wild. If you don’t want to—”

Before Ji Liangchuan could finish, Ji Sihan reached out and accepted the deck An Yan handed him. His fingers were long and pale, his movements unhurried, as if the vulgarity of the proposal could not touch him.

“How do we play?” he asked.

Ji Liangchuan froze, disbelief flickering across his face. Everyone in their circle knew Ji Sihan’s temperament. He detested places like this—noisy, perfumed with alcohol, full of cheap laughter and calculated intimacy. Usually he wouldn’t even step through the door, much less sit and indulge their antics.

And yet today, all Lin Zechen had done was mention, almost offhandedly, that there was a woman here who resembled Miss Ning—someone who looked like the woman Ji Sihan had never been able to forget. Ji Sihan had agreed to come, had followed them without complaint, and now was even willing to stay and play this ridiculous stripping game. It was abnormal. So abnormal it bordered on ominous.

An Yan, too, looked startled for a beat. The rumors about Ji Sihan painted him as a man aloof from women, cold to flirtation, immune to seduction. Yet here he was, accepting the cards with calm ease, apparently willing to participate. Her surprise quickly transformed into delight; she smiled broadly, eyes shining as if she had discovered a new source of power.

“It’s very simple,” she said, leaning slightly closer. “I’ll teach you.”

She explained the rules in a quick, practiced manner, then called everyone to draw lots and form teams.

Meanwhile, Shu Wan sat rigidly on the sofa, her hands clasped tight in her lap. The game had not yet begun, but she already felt as though she were being dragged toward something ugly. She knew what this room was, what these men were, and what kind of “fun” they wanted to extract from women. She was not naïve.

Her mind raced for a way to refuse without provoking anger. She considered excuses: feeling unwell, needing the restroom, answering a call. Yet none of them felt safe. In a room full of people like this, a woman’s refusal was rarely treated as an answer—it was treated as an invitation to push harder.

Just as she hesitated, searching for a path, An Yan turned her gaze toward her, lips curving into a smile that looked generous on the surface but carried a thin blade underneath.

“Everyone who comes has to participate,” An Yan said. “Miss Shu won’t refuse to give us this little bit of face, will she?”

The words landed like a net. “Give us face”—a polite phrase, a social trap. If Shu Wan refused now, it would not be seen as personal discomfort. It would be seen as disrespect. It would make her the spoilsport, the woman who ruined the mood, the one who dared to look down on the others.

Immediately, all eyes moved toward her. The attention was heavy, pressing, almost physical. Shu Wan felt her skin prickle. Under those stares, she wasn’t a person—she was an object being assessed, weighed, and silently stripped already.

She hated the sensation. She hated how small she felt. Yet she also understood something very clearly: everyone in this room outranked her. Their wealth, their power, their connections—any one of them could crush her with a careless gesture. She could not afford to offend them. Not here, not now, not when she was already trapped in a situation with Ji Sihan watching from across the room like an indifferent judge.

So she swallowed her resistance, forced her expression into something neutral, and nodded faintly.

Only then did An Yan’s smile soften, satisfied. Seeing Shu Wan comply, she finally withdrew the pressure, as though granting mercy.

“All right,” An Yan said brightly, as if nothing unpleasant had occurred. “Let’s start.”

And Shu Wan, seated amid perfume and smoke and laughter, felt the invisible walls closing in again—walls built not of stone, but of gaze and expectation, of power and cruelty dressed up as play. She had come here hoping to buy herself time, to slip away unnoticed. Yet now, with a deck of cards on the table and a rule that promised humiliation with every loss, she realized time itself might become a weapon turned against her.