The men of S

**Chapter 8: Shattered Prisms (2015)**

The diamond blade of the glass cutter screamed as Yuxuan sawed through her penthouse window. Below, Taipei’s neon grid swam in her Xanax-blurred vision. “You promised,” she slurred to the empty champagne bottle clutched to her chest, its label smeared with lipstick kisses from Xu Mingda’s last “business trip.”

The security camera blinked red. She’d disabled the others weeks ago after discovering Mingda’s feeds on the dark web—*“Taipei Tycoon’s Wife: 24/7 Live!”* subscribers at 50,000 and climbing.

“You’re trending again!” her assistant had chirped that morning, oblivious to the footage playing on Yuxuan’s laptop: Mingda and a legislator’s wife reenacting *Fifty Shades* with her Hermès belts.

A gust of wind ripped the cutter from her hand. Nine hundred feet below, it pierced the awning of Lu Yaqin’s newest hotpot branch, where Yutong’s face smirked from a “Grand Opening” banner.

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The bridal boutique reeked of gardenias and decay. Yutong zipped Yuxuan into a Vera Wang gown crusted with Swarovski thorns, its bodice straining over her sister’s ribcage. “Smile wider,” she ordered, twisting Yuxuan’s wrist until the diamond bracelet from Mingda’s “apology” drew blood.

“Why are you doing this?” Yuxuan’s pupils swam in a sea of Ativan.

“Because Lu Yaqin’s lawyers are circling.” Yutong adjusted the veil, its tulle clouding Yuxuan’s gaunt face. “A televised vow renewal washes away embezzlement rumors. Even whores get second acts.”

Cameras flashed. Outside, protestors hurled rotten cabbages at Mingda’s Rolls-Royce, their signs blaring **“#JUSTICEFORJADESHOPWORKERS.”**

Yuxuan’s giggle curdled into a sob. “He’s wearing the same cologne from the livestreams.”

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The collapse happened during the champagne toast. Yuxuan’s skeletal frame crumpled mid-sip, Cristal geysering over Lu Yaqin’s rebuilt “phoenix” ice sculpture. The live feed captured every detail: the track marks on her thighs, Mingda pocketing a USB drive from her garter, the way her whispered “*I sold your adoption papers*” to Yutong synced perfectly with Lu Yaqin’s viral smirk.

Paramedics found the suicide note tucked in Yuxuan’s Balenciaga clutch—a child’s crayon drawing of their flooded Taipei apartment, captioned *“Jade doesn’t drown.”*

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Han Zaixun smelled the ambush before he saw it. The subway tunnel reeked of Lu Yaqin’s signature mala broth, a scent he now knew meant severed brake lines and paid-off drivers. His brother’s ghost laughed in the rattling tracks as he sprinted toward the emergency exit, the USB drive Yuxuan died for burning in his palm.

Red lights strobed. A train horn screamed.

“Wrong line,” Lu Yaqin’s voice echoed through rusted speakers, her face flashing on every defunct security monitor. “Your brother begged too, when the platform gave way.”

The USB contained no financial ledgers, only Yuxuan’s final gift: footage of 19-year-old Yutong sobbing over a Seoul abortion clinic form, Zaixun’s name circled in red.