Chapter Text
Mobei Jun adjusts his cap to sit lower over his eyes.
Beyond his looming stature, they’re the thing most likely to give him away - zenith blue is a genetic trait. He might as well be flashing his passport at the security detail outside the apartment building.
It had taken longer than he’d like to track his uncle here, but the man had always been slippery. What Linguang Jun lacked in character, he made up for by being a dogged thorn in Mobei Jun’s side.
“State your business,” the security guard drawls. He looks seven hours into a nine hour shift, but the holster tucked neatly beneath his jacket tells Mobei Jun he’s in the right place.
“House sitting,” Movie-jun replies curtly.
He thinks about shuffling his feet to sell the part more, but it’s not a natural motion for him, and a fumbled attempt would give him away. Instead, he digs his hands in his pockets and chews the inside of his cheek. It’s no effort to look impatient, because he is; what does security have to do except wave people through after this whole performance?
True to script, the security guard waves him past, though his eyes linger a little on the side of Mobei Jun’s face. If he really is with Linguang Jun, there’s no doubt he knows what Mobei Jun looks like. At least the medical mask over his face will hide the familial similarities.
The elevator is a breeze; Mobei Jun had simply asked, and Luo Binghe had produced a master key fob within the hour. It’s still satisfying to punch the button for the penthouse and feel the gun tucked into his belt shift over his spine.
Were it up to him, Mobei Jun wouldn’t have brought a gun at all; shooting is messy work, and he’s already harried at work since the head of the accounting department decided not to show up for a whole week, no explanation. But Linguang Jun will have a gun, and Mobei Jun knows better than to enter a room with him short-handed.
His body alights with the flash of the penthouse button, the elevator’s swishing open with a cheerful ding, and Mobei Jun tugs the cap and mask off his face . The gun is in his hands with a swift tug, safety clicking off as he steps out into the penthouse. It’s flush with money, widescreen TV and silk couch cushions and-
It’s utterly empty.
Linguang Jun isn’t anywhere in sight, even though the radio is still playing softly from the open plan kitchen. Warily, Mobei Jun prowls through the space, tucking himself against the wall when he has to round any corners. A soft thump from the bedroom has him tensing, senses prickling as he strains to hear any further movement. The gun feels cold in his hand.
When a second thump ripples through the floor, Mobei Jun stalks along the length of the wall, breathing deep before kicking the bedroom door open. It bursts wide with a bang that rings out through the apartment; there’s no one in the room.
Not until Mobei Jun hears the thump again, closer and louder, padded with a quiet rustling; it’s coming from the closet. He marches over without a thought and flings the door open, expecting to see some low level lackey held captive for one transgression or another.
He’s half right.
There is a man lying on the floor; legs bound with rope at the ankle and knee, wrists cuffed together. Several ugly strips of duct tape seal his mouth shut, layered over each other at angles so the entire lower half of his face is covered.
He’s also stark naked.
At the shudder of the closet door being ripped open, the man shrinks away, his cuffed hands flying up instinctively to protect his face with a whimper. Mobei Jun glares down at him like a stain; at least he’s not dead. Far be it for Linguang Jun to leave a body in his own penthouse and merrily send the police to find it the second Mobei Jun goes up with a gun. Fortunately, his uncle doesn’t seem to have thought that far ahead.
“Who are you?” Mobei Jun demands. “What are you doing here?”
The reply is a flat look from the man, whose mouth is still taped shut, and a vaguely disdainful huff through his nose. Mobei Jun searches around the closet for any hidden weapons before he crouches down and gracelessly tugs the layers of tape free.
The man yelps at the sting and then coughs, wrestling himself to sit up. His body is pale -- no doubt he’s cold in this apartment -- but perched on one hip, the curve of his waist sinks deep and waspy. Mobei Jun’s eyes trace the sharp bend of it; he could probably wrap both hands around it and have his fingers meet in the middle.
“S-sir-” the man gasps, eyeing Mobei Jun from behind his choppy bangs. His eyes are warm brown, like dark honey, and distantly familiar. “Could you- ah, um… My legs?”
It’s tempting to scoff, since Mobei Jun isn’t stupid enough to give his opponent an advantage, but one glance at the man’s legs tells him the the request is genuine; the rope is cutting into his skin so hard that they’re turning purple. He can already see bruises forming beneath the fraying cord.
Mobei Jun cuts them with his pocket knife in two careful slices; whoever this man is, if he’s pissed off Linguang Jun enough to get stuffed into a closet then the least Mobei Jun can do is avoid hurting him further. Neither of them wants to be here, after all.
“Ah, thank you sir! This one is much obliged by your kindness and g-”
“Do I know you?” Mobei Jun interrupts what is clearly ramping up to be a long diatribe of simpering that they both don’t have time for. “You seem… Familiar.”
The man just stares at him for a moment, eyes widening. “You- what?” he sputters out when Mobei Jun glares at him harder. “No, I… I guess you wouldn’t know me. Not at all.”
“Hm.” Perhaps there’s something there to examine, but Mobei Jun has a penthouse devoid of his slimy uncle and a trail that’s rapidly going cold to worry about. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait! WAIT!”
Mobei Jun is less than halfway to his feet when the man bodily tackles him. It’s more of a flounder than anything, considering his legs are probably numb and Mobei Jun hsa a hundred pounds on him easily, but it does end up with both of them in a heap on the floor. Instinctively, Mobei Jun seizes the man’s wrists in case of attack, his other hand flying out to catch the man’s waist. He needn’t have bothered; the man’s hands are still cuffed together, limiting his range of movement. However, Mobei Jun now has the gratifying knowledge that yes, his fingers do span more than half the man’s waist.
“Wait-” the man pants breathlessly, and Mobei Jun abruptly remembers that he’s naked. Shivering and panting, plastered against Mobei Jun’s body in one long line. “You can’t go yet, you have to-”
“You cannot stop me,” Mobei Jun interrupts. His momentary stun at the situation is rapidly wearing off, along with his patience.
But the man’s honey brown eyes flick up to something in the corner of the room and then back, blink and you miss it fast. Mobei Jun goes still. He’s familiar with his uncle’s tactics enough to guess at a camera. Probably several. Linguang Jun has a way of inserting himself into cracks, like water. Or mould, more accurately.
Barely moving his mouth, Mobei Jun mouths camera? The man’s eyelashes flutter, and imperceptibly, he nods in confirmation.
“You can’t go yet,” he murmurs again. “He’s somewhere close by. If you leave he’ll- You can’t! Not yet! I’m supposed to…”
The man trails off, and then his eyes follow, raking down Mobei Jun’s features until they reach where the man’s fingers are pressed, just under his collarbones. It’s exactly where Mobei Jun leaves his shirt unbuttoned to - a choice that seems critical now that they’re exposed to the fraught petting he’s receiving.
The man is trembling with nerves, which is why Mobei Jun is blindsided when he leans in to latch his mouth onto the sharp dip of clavicle he’s been playing with. Mobei Jun sucks in a breath, reflexively digging his fingers into the angle of waist he’s holding. It draws a whimper from the man but he doesn’t detach; instead, his teeth dig in deep enough to bruise before he suddenly releases, tongue soothing over the dent flesh in a slow, wet swipe.
“You-” Mobei Jun pushes the man back to stare at his face. Those warm, amber eyes blink back at him, owlish and still achingly familiar - it’s enough of a distraction that Mobei Jun doesn’t immediately notice the man fumbling his belt open. At the sight of it, his knees fall a little wider to make room. And then Mobei Jun sharply realises what he’s doing and grips the man’s waist again.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he growls, half out of shock and half because he wants an actual explanation. There’s a camera in this room, where his uncle is not. And then those two things click into place, making something cold flip in Mobei Jun’s stomach.
“Did he plan this?” he asks warily, shocked as the man’s fevered pawing recontextualizes in front of him. “Is he watching?”
The man’s movements slow, but he doesn’t stop, which means Mobei Jun feels every inch of skin that’s touched as the man pulls his length out of his pants.
“Someone is,” he mumbles in response. “Just stay a little longer. If you don’t...”
Despite the shake in his voice, the man is remarkably steady as he drags his hand up the length of Mobei Jun’s cock. It’s rough and dry, but his hands are curiously warm, sending a spark of sensation zipping through Mobei Jun’s hips. He’s mildly horrified to find himself growing hard; neither of them wants to be here, Mobei Jun reminds himself firmly, but that voice gets weaker as the man strokes him again, brushing his thumb against the sensitive bundle of nerves just below the head.
“I know you,” Mobei Jun growls, familiarity flickering faintly in his mind. The man’s fingers falter but he otherwise ignores the admission.
“If- if you don’t like men, you can just close your eyes!” he says, voice too breathy to really tremble but his body is making up the slack. “Pretend I’m a girl or something, ah? I’ll make it good for you, sir, I promise!”
He glances up at Mobei Jun through his lashes, almost shyly, clarity bursts through the fog of bizarre arousal Mobei Jun is experiencing not a second before the man lowers his head.
“Shang Qinghua!” Mobei Jun gasps the name with recognition at the exact moment Shang Qinghua sinks down on his cock.
The moan that earns him is filthy, and it shoots a heady vibration through the wet heat around Mobei Jun’s length as he sucks in a breath. That explains where the head of accounting has been all week, then.
It can’t be a comfortable position, crouching on his knees, neck bent at an unforgiving angle, but Shang Qinghua bobs his head relentlessly, little breathy noises punching out of him whenever he pulls Mobei Jun too deep. He fumbles a hand to stroke the girth he can’t swallow, and Mobei Jun isn’t sure what to think when he sees it’s stopped shaking.
That problem evaporates when Shang Qinghua gives a crafty twist of his wrist that has Mobei Jun’s hips jumping. It makes his loosened belt scrape against the woodgrain, and the grating sound of it provides a burst of clarity. Mobei Jun snatches a handful of Shang Qinghua’s hair to stop him.
He doesn’t anticipate the ragged moan that pulls from Shang Qinghua’s mouth; Mobei Jun can feel his tongue ripple with it.
“Shang Qinghua,” he grumbles, tightening his fist. “Stop this.”
Shang Qinghua does not stop, but he does slow down. Somehow that’s worse, the frantic stimulation stretching into something that forces Mobei Jun to recognise every drag of tongue, the exact pressure of the suction. When Shang Qinghua dips a finger to skate down the back of his balls, Mobei Jun’s arms give out and he drops back onto his elbows with a thud.
Surprisingly, that’s what finally gets Shang Qinghua to pull off him with a wet pop. A thin string of saliva connects the head of Mobei Juns cock with his mouth, his lips spit shiny and swollen red. It’s such a starkly erotic image that Mobei Jun’s cock twitches. With a hand still loosely around him, there’s no way Shang Qinghua didn’t feel it.
He jolts back to life at the feeling, though, tugging himself up on his knees to straddle Mobei Jun’s thick waist. Watching him move is fascinating; Shang Qinghua is far from graceful, but he moves with a fearsome sense of purpose. The same brand of tenacity that takes him so far in the accounting department, Mobei Jun surmises distantly -- Every problem the company has thrown their way miraculously gets fixed, which makes him wonder how Shang Qinghua hasn’t been able to solve his own kidnapping. Different skill set, probably.
It takes Shang Qinghua lifting his hips for Mobei Jun to understand what he intends to do, and he shoots out a hand to stop him.
“Don’t,” Mobei Jun growls. It’s only because he’s watching so closely that he sees Shang Qinghua’s eyes dart up to the corner again. Quieter, because his teeth are gritted, he asks, “Are you being made to do this? Is he forcing you?”
“Ssshh,” Shang Qinghua replies, completely nonsensical. And then looks mildly terrified at his own actions, since Mobei Jun glares furiously at him. His hands quiver again. “Just- Uh, just lie down, okay?”
“Shang Qinghua.”
There is no answer, but it’s still gratifying to see Shang Qinghua’s eyes grow wide with the impatient note in Mobei Jun’s voice. That earns him a few seconds of stillness, and he wastes all of them taking the smaller man in; his bangs are sticking to his forehead with a thin sheen of sweat, his mouth is slack with shock, but Mobei Jun’s eyes snag on the dip of his throat, a perfect hollow nestled between the sharp lines of his collarbones. It looks like it would fit the exact shape of Mobei Jun’s mouth.
“No one’s forcing me,” Shang Qinghua says quietly. He’s not meeting Mobei Jun’s eyes, gaze set on his still bound hands where they brace against Mobei Jun’s abdomen. “You- I… I want to, alright? Just- so just lie back. Let me- um- just let me do it, ah? I’ll be good, I want-”
Mobei Jun should have been paying attention. He’s been so wrapped up in watching Shang Qinghua’s face that he somehow, impossibly, missed the moment he lined them up. A positively feral noise tears itself from Mobei Jun’s mouth when Shang Qinghua presses down on him, the blunt head of his cock slipping past the rim in a tight burst of hot friction, and he squeezes the man’s hips hard enough to bruise. Probably, he’ll feel bad about it later, even though the thought of Shang Qinghua’s body bearing the mark of his touch twists a primal little dial up to eleven somewhere in his gut.
Mobei Jun should stop this. He should absolutely stop this right now; Shang Qinghua is light, Mobei Jun could toss him off his lap like dusting lint off his jacket. Except that steely, tenacious look is back in Shang Qinghua’s eyes and he’s sinking down on Mobei Jun’s length at a pace that is frankly impressive, if not alarming.
This is terribly wrong. The thought picks at Mobei Jun, but it’s distant in the same way the wood floor on his back feels distant. The camera in the corner feels distant. Everything else feels far away compared to the immediate and very present tight heat of Shang Qinghua’s body. There’s no way any of this is Shang Qinghua’s choice, but Mobei Jun struggles to contend this is coercion with the glassy look painting Shang Qinghua’s flushed face.
Mobei Jun has had lovers before; not like this, in a shoddy room whilst they wear handcuffs his uncle put on them. But his body knows what to do, so Mobei Jun is running on instinct when he reaches out and grasps Shang Qinghua’s cock. The smaller man’s rhythm falters. He sits down heavily on Mobei Jun’s cock, legs shaking.
“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers, like it’s a secret. Like this is all for Mobei Jun, somehow. “Sorry, it’s just-- My legs- ah! ”
Shang Qinghua doubles over when Mobei Jun swipes the slit with his thumb. A pearl of precome beads at the top, and so he does it a second time, watching Shang Qinghua bite his lip until it turns white. Then suddenly, he’s pushing off Mobei Jun, turning on wobbly legs and facing away. He drops to his knees, folding until his chest touches the floor, cuffed hands extending between his legs. Like this, Mobei Jun has a full view of him. How his entrance is red and puffy from lack of prep.
Shang Qinghua takes a shaky breath, eyes barely open enough to look at Mobei Jun over his shoulder. “You can just… Put it in. Please.”
His voice cracks on the last word, and it’s enough to have Mobei Jun crawling towards him. He grasps one plump ass cheek, marvelling at how his fingers sink into the flesh. Curiously, he dips a thumb into his hole to test the give. Shang Qinghua makes a weak noise, eyes fluttering closed.
“It will hurt,” he comments.
Shang Qinghua shakes his head, keeping his eyes shut. “It’s fine, hm? I’m not so fragile.”
Mobei Jun hums. It’s true that Shang Qinghua had barely made a sound when he’d taken Mobei Jun’s full length. Still, he leans forward and swipes his tongue flat across Shang Qinghua hole. The smaller cries out, eyes snapping wide. He tries to push himself up, but with his position and the way his hands are bound, all Mobei Jun has to do is flatten a hand against his back.
“S-sir! You shouldn’t-- AH! A-ah-- You don’t have to--”
Mobei Jun slides his hand up further to grip the back on Shang Qinghua’s neck, and he falls silent. It earns him another long swipe of Mobei Jun’s tongue before he starts pushing in, feeling the muscle twitch around the intrusion. Shang Qinghua’s mouth opens around a moan, high and breathy as he screws his eyes shut. His fingers keep bunching into fists like he wants to hold onto something.
Mobei Jun rumbles as he shoves his tongue deeper, feeling the way it makes Shang Qinghua tremble and heat pools in his belly. He bullies him a little more, knowing that for now it won’t hurt. Just soft, slippery penetration. It’s easy to get two fingers into the man, so much so that Mobei Jun bites his inner thigh in some nonsensical penalisation. It makes Shang Qinghua yelp, but he cuts it off, turning his face to the floor to hide his whispered chant of please please please.
Shang Qinghua shudders when a third finger joins them, glancing over his shoulder and meeting Mobei Jun’s gaze when he traces his tongue around the stretched rim. Something about it feels intense. Intimate. The strangeness of the situation making everything weightless and liminal. Mobei Jun finds one of Shang Qinghua’s hands, and feels strangely grateful when the other man threads their fingers and squeezes. When he finally pulls away, his face is sticky and wet, and he feels confident that he’s eased the way as much as he can.
Mobei Jun should say something, probably. Something reassuring, definitely. But words fail him entirely; Shang Qinghua is stretched out beneath him like a centrefold, flushed to the roots of his hair, mouth hanging open and drooling on the floor. He gasps when Mobei Jun lines himself up and then pushes inside with one long thrust. The slick glide of it makes them both groan, and Mobei Jun takes a second just to breathe through it; Shang Qinghua’s hole flutters around the intrusion making him hiss.
“Move,” Shang Qinghua whispers. His voice is strained that it comes out as more of a wheeze, and he arches his back in an effort to pull Mobei Jun deeper. “Please move.”
It takes no more encouragement for Mobei Jun to grab his hips, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back into him. The noise Shang Qinghua lets out is sharp and desperate, and he slaps a hand over his mouth, eyes squeezing shut. Mobei Jun would worry about him being in pain if it weren’t for the muffled moans slipping between his fingers. If anything, Shang Qinghua relaxes, going limp as the responsibility of setting the pace is wrestled from him.
Mobei Jun grabs a handful of each asscheek and stretches them wide so he can watch the way he sinks into Shang Qinghua’s body. The way his hole stretches so perfectly around him, puffy and shiny, and Shang Qinghua makes an interesting sound when Mobei Jun traces one finger around where they’re joined.
He hiccups out choked little sobs at every thrust, looking sweat-shiny and rosy as Mobei Jun pounds into him at a relentless clip. When Mobei Jun angles his hips up and nails his prostate, Shang Qinghua’s knees buckle with a cracked moan. That responsibility is taken from him as well, when Mobei Jun turns him on his side, straddling one of Shang Qinghua’s legs and hooking the other one over his shoulder.
“Y-yeah… Yeah- mnah!” the smaller man gasps, voice hitching with how hard Mobei Jun thrusts.
Without the floor to press against, the metal of his cuffs clink rhythmically. The new angle means Mobei Jun can hit his prostate on every grind, and he sets about making Shang Qinghua slowly lose his mind. The other man is babbling a stream of pleas that get less and less coherent with every breath, until he’s scrabbling at the floor, at Mobei Jun’s leg, at anything he can get his hands on.
Mobei Jun bends over him, forcing Shang Qinghua’s leg almost flush against his leg. He growls, “Look at me.”
It takes obvious effort for Shang Qinghua to blink his eyes open. They look glassy and unfocused, rolling a little before sticking on Mobei Jun. It sends a bolt of heat straight down Mobei Jun’s spine, so he’s not expecting it when Shang Qinghua limply lifts his arms and loops them around Mobei Jun’s shoulders. He looks gorgeous like this, Mobei Jun surprises himself by thinking. Pink down to his chest, panting, mouth wet and red and open.
Mobei Jun should kiss him. He can practically feel it already, how Shang Qinghua’s tongue would slip against his own, smooth and intoxicating. Mobei Jun wants to kiss him. It looks like Shang Qinghua is expecting him to.
Instead, Mobei Jun bites him.
Shang Qinghua squeaks when teeth sink into the sensitive flesh below his ear, his hole tightening with surprise. It only makes Mobei Jun bite harder. He has to focus on not coming immediately.
“What should I do,” Mobei Jun asks, murmuring directly into Shang Qinghua’s ear.
When he doesn’t get a response, Mobei Jun sucks the earlobe into his mouth and nips it. Shang Qinghua jerks in his arms, but it seems to make him more alert.
He turns his head, lips grazing Mobei Jun’s temple. “Co-- Come inside.”
“Mn,” Mobei Jun agrees.
He rotates his hips, grinding slowly against Shang Qinghua’s prostate where he’s buried to the hilt. Shang Qinghua shakes in his hold, arms drawing tight around Mobei Jun’s shoulders to press them together. Mobei Jun’s can feel the scrape of his nails even through his jacket.
“F-faster,” Shang Qinghua manages to cough out.
Mobei Jun nibbles his ear. “No. Like this.”
“I c- Hah! Hng-- I can’t .” He’s sobbing, tossing his head back and forth as he tries and fails to grind down on Mobei Jun’s cock. Bent in half as he is, Shang Qinghua has no leverage, simply having to take what Mobei Jun gives him.
The way he trembles, tightening in feathery bursts like his body can’t decide if it wants less or more, it all goes to Mobei Jun’s cock, and he can feel his balls drawn up in anticipation.
“Come like this,” Mobei Jun snarls, low and threatening.
“I ca- nmph!” Shang Qinghua’s plea is cut off by Mobei Jun’s hand clamping down over his mouth. His eyes blow wide in surprise and impossibly he gets even redder, eyes glazed and breath coming hot over Mobei Jun’s knuckles. “Mmhm! Mmmnh nghh!”
“You can,” Mobei Jun tells him, circling his hips harder to push deeper. Shang Qinghua’s eyes roll back as his prostate is abused. “And you will. Now.”
It’s a good thing Mobei Jun is using his whole weight to pin him down. Shang Qinghua’s body jolts like he’s been electrocuted, his eyes squeezing shut as he moans against Mobei Jun’s hand.
“MMMNNPH!!”
His body clamps down on Mobei Jun like a vice just as one hand snakes up and seizes a handful of Mobei Jun’s hair. The combination has Mobei Jun shouting in pain and pleasure, and he sinks his teeth viciously into Shang Qinghua’s neck as he comes. The sharpness seems to spark a second wave, Shang Qinghua’s back arching as he squeezes impossibly tighter, milking Mobei Jun’s length.
For a long, drawn moment, they’re stuck in a feedback loop of pleasure; Mobei Jun pressing both his teeth and cock deeper, Shang Qinghua tightening around him at the harsh treatment. Slowly, second by aching second, they come down from the shared euphoria. Mobei Jun unlatches himself from Shang Qinghua’s jugular, only faintly relieved that he didn’t break the skin.
Shang Qinghua’s fingers are loosening from his hair, though it seems to be from lack of strength rather than by choice. He’s still twitching, body jerking lethargically, face going slack. As the high drains away, clarity returns to Mobei Jun in a chilling tide. He pulls himself, sitting up on his knees. They both groan when his cock slips free. A dribble of cum follows it, sliding from Shang Qinghua’s soft, pink opening and onto the floor.
Shang Qinghua tries to close his legs, but one is still hooked over Mobei Jun’s shoulder, and he sort of ends up kicking the guy in the face until Mobei Jun releases it. He takes a shuddering breath and glances at the clock. Mobei Jun glances too, not really seeing anything beyond the time: 3:15pm. For whatever reason, that makes Shang Qinghua slump with relief.
“What’s going on?” Mobei Jun demands.
It’s the wrong tone of voice. Shang Qinghua cringes, trying to curl into himself and wincing. Cursing, Mobei Jun gets up and stalks to the bathroom. It’s barren, not even a bath mat. The only thing he can find is a tiny washcloth no bigger than his palm, which he douses in warm water before returning to the room.
The first swipe of the damp cloth makes Shang Qinghua flinch, and he makes an uncoordinated grasp at it. Mobei Jun pins him with a glare.
“Stay still.”
As gently as he can, Mobei Jun wipes the mess around Shang Qinghua’s opening. The other man trembles on every brush of the sensitive rim, but he’s worryingly quiet, eyes lidded and far away.
“Why are you here?” Mobei Jun asks him when he’s cleaned as best he can. “What does my uncle want with you?” When the other man doesn’t respond, Mobei Jun calls, “Shang Qinghua.”
The use of his name brings a little clarity back to Shang Qinghua’s expression. He blinks at Mobei Jun before his eyes warily travel back to the camera in the corner. It’s as much of an answer as Mobei Jun is going to get, clearly. Impatiently, he tugs Shang Qinghua’s arm to drag him up to a sitting position.
“I’m taking you with me,” Mobei Jun snaps at him.
Shang Qinghua only gives him a wan smile, like Mobei Jun has said something terribly naïve. It’s worse than if he’d openly scoffed at him. “There aren’t any clothes in the wardrobe.”
Maybe it’s petty, but Mobei Jun checks anyway, just in case Shang Qinghua is trying to bluff him into abandoning a hostage. He briefly considers wrapping Shang Qinghua in his jacket, but it’s a letterman with a fake company name plastered on the back to get him through the entryway. Even if it wasn’t, there’s no way he can get a naked and handcuffed man past security without attracting attention and they both know it. Linguang Jun obviously knows it too, which is why he’d left Shang Qinghua like this.
“Just go,” Shang Qinghua calls from where he’s still sat prone on the floor. “It’s alright now, ah?
“And leave you here?”
“I’ll be fine!” Even Shang Qinghua must hear how ridiculous it sounds because he pointedly looks away from Mobei Jun’s glare. “Really. Sir, ah… He needs me for something, so I’ll be fine, right? I’m not hurt.”
It’s plain that he’s lying by the way he tries not to wince when he turns his back on Mobei Jun. The silence stretches between them, feeling both hopeless and dismissive because Shang Qinghua is right; there’s no way to get him out of the hotel without attracting attention. Mobei Jun briefly considers shoving him down the trash chute and picking him up in the alley, but the chances of that working are far lower than TV shows would have you believe; Shang Qinghua would probably break both his legs upon landing.
Mobei Jun buttons his shirt aggressively before tugging the cap back down over his brow. He spares a glance back at Shang Qinghua; he hasn’t moved an inch. Cross-legged and facing the wardrobe he was stuffed into.
“I will find you,” Mobei Jun promises him.
Shang Qinghua’s head turns, the only indication that he’s heard. Quietly, he replies, “Thank you, sir.”
It feels cuttingly wrong to leave him. But Mobei Jun does, for lack of any other choice.
When he returns to the hotel the following day, the security guard has changed and the room is empty.