Archive of Our Own

“Trouble in paradise, huh?”

She Li stirs sugar into his coffee. The clink of the spoon is loud between them, more so in the quiet afternoon cafe. Guan Shan finds himself entranced by the little brown whirlpool the motion creates, finding it easier to look at than the self-satisfied turn of She Li’s lips. 

“You know, I raised this exact proposition to you last year,” She Li continues, mundane, “and you were openly opposed to it, to say the least.”

“Shit has changed,” Guan Shan mutters.

“You mean your fail to success ratio has changed,” She Li amends, setting aside the spoon. “You’re desperate.”

He says it with finality; a blinding and self-assured confidence, enough to make Guan Shan's teeth grind. 

“And you aren’t?” Guan Shan asks, sharp. “How’s the office work been?”

She Li huffs with dry amusement. “Nothing like the field, if that’s what you’re asking. They keep me busy. I’ve made close friends with Jian Yi and Zheng Xi, though.”

A click of the tongue. “Yeah, sure. They’ve had nothin’ but good things to say.”

She Li brings his mug to his mouth; takes a long drink. Guan Shan hates how tuned he is with She Li's every move, wired tension keeping him on edge. He watches the muscles in his throat work; listens to the sweet drink go down. Then She Li swallows — and glances up at Guan Shan, pointed.

“You should know that you’re doing a poor job of recruiting your new Guide,” he warns with a gentle smirk.

“I’m not fuckin’ recruitin’ you,” Guan Shan growls, his black coffee growing cold in his hands. “And you better not twist the goddamn story. I’m just playin’ with the idea and thought it’d be common courtesy to let you know.”

“Playing with the idea,” She Li echoes in a half-chuckle. His long fingers drum absentmindedly on the tabletop, and Guan Shan hears every beat. “Seems to me that you’ve already made up your mind, Red. We wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“Trust me, my choices are pretty fuckin’ limited right now. I’m not here because I want to be.”

“Does He Tian know?”

Guan Shan scowls. “Wipe that shit grin off your face. He knows I’ve been considerin’ it.”

“Sure, sure.” She Li raises a brow, fingers stilling. “But he doesn’t know you’re here right now, with me, does he?”

Guan Shan leans back in his chair with a glare, exhaling. It’s as good as an answer, if any. She Li smiles. 

“It’s a hard decision, I know,” She Li sighs, feigning sympathy, placing down his mug. “But you can rest assured that I’d be pleased to work with you.”

“Don't lie to yourself,” Guan Shan mutters. He checks his watch; grabs his jacket, shrugging it on. “You’d be pleased to get behind the trigger of a gun again. Has nothin’ to do with me.”

She Li shrugs — neither a denial or an affirmation. “Desperation is a tricky business for us both.”

“I’m leavin’,” Guan Shan says, standing. He feels a headache coming on. “I got a job tonight.”

“Well, best of luck to you.”

Guan Shan walks away. There’s a bitter taste to his tongue. He can smell the cigarette She Li lights as the cafe door jingles closed behind him. 

“I don’t understand what you don’t fuckin’ understand. The numbers speak for themselves, He Tian, they can’t just make this shit up.”

“And yet we keep getting jobs, don’t we? Keep getting paid and relocated, so don’t snap at me if I don’t see the fucking issue you’ve constructed in your own head.”

“That’s because there’s only five fuckin’ teams in the agency and the social climate has been shit between organizations since the contract in America. And don’t stand there and try to fuckin’ tell me I’m delusional because you and I both know that with our recent streak, they’re startin’ to realize we need them more than they need us. For once, I just want you to use your head instead of blindly relyin’ on daddy to save your ass!”

“Fine, Guan Shan, let’s say that for some miraculous reason, you’re right. The agency is gonna cut us. So of course, this is your solution, huh? You’d rather end it all than put in the effort and prove them fucking wrong.” A scoff. “Typical.”

“There’s no provin’ wrong when we’ve already—!”

“You know what — I don’t care. I don’t give a shit. Do what you want, Mo Guan Shan. In fact, just apply for the switch tomorrow and kiss She Li’s ass while you’re at it. I’m done.”

He Tian lets the window blinds drop with an unceremonious clatter. The sound, loud and sharp, stings Guan Shan’s ears, melding with the blood rushing hot and tempered through his head. The apartment is shrouded in darkness as Barcelona’s evening is shut out, two ghosts remaining as its only occupants.  

“Yeah, sure,” Guan Shan snaps after him, He Tian already headed for the bedroom. Guan Shan can hear He Tian’s strangled, heavy breaths, can see the telltale twitch of his fingers as he storms away, and he knows the anger is real this time. He can feel it mirrored within himself. “Throw a fuckin’ tantrum like a child for an hour and claim you ‘don’t care’ afterwards. Keep tellin’ yourself that, He Tian, and tell me where it fuckin’ gets you when you’ve gotten your fill of self-pity.”

He Tian stops; turns to look back at him. His smile is all teeth, sharp and poisoned. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, low. “I know where it’s gotten me.” He looks over Guan Shan, storm clouds brewing darkly in his gaze. “And I honestly can’t say the effort was worth the results.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, okay, Guan Shan.” He throws up his hands. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. I’m the one to blame. All better now?”

There’s no response. A moment later, the slam of the bedroom door rattles its hinges and trembles the floorboards, the aftershocks of an earthquake, the collateral thorough and bloody. Guan Shan can feel the vibrations in the shake of his hands as he threads his fingers through his hair, throat tight and heavy. 

The walk to the kitchenette is numb and harrowing. Guan Shan runs the tap louder than the shuffling and slamming he can hear coming from the bedroom, and he grips his fingers around the neck of the faucet to drown out the heavy footsteps that tremor through his bare heels. 

He closes his eyes. Focuses on breathing; on simmering the blood boiling in his veins. There’s other things he could do, he knows. He could turn up the AC, listen to its slow, mechanical hum. Or he could walk the hall of their temporary apartment, fingertips pressed to the walls and feeling the shuffles and reverberations of the tenants on the other side that are cooking or cleaning or reading a book, settling with the evening.

Or he could go into the city, a walk around the block, the scent of early dinners and the rumble and honks of passing taxis a lullaby to his senses. He remembers himself as a riled teen, wandering into parts of inner-city Beijing that would’ve made his mother worry, seeking the dry, ashy smell of strangers’ cigarettes mixed with stale cologne after a nine-to-five week in an attempt to stop his hands from trembling. He remembers wondering if anyone else felt the twitchy, gritted, manic feeling he got after spending a day next to a classmate that wouldn’t stop tapping their pencil on the edge of their desk no matter how many times he shot them a glare or threatened them.

“You failed the course because you don’t bother listening to the lectures,” his teachers used to tell him, cornering him in their offices during lunch breaks. “You stare out the window and hardly ever bring your textbooks. If you can’t fulfill the most basic expectations, Mo Guan Shan, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

“I couldn’t hear you!” Guan Shan would snap back at them, impulsive. He was a constantly leaking gas pipe, waiting for a flame. He wanted to burn. “Xiu Wei was humming the same stupid song the entire period, and I just couldn’t concentrate—”

The teacher would give him a weary, disappointed look. “Xiu Wei sits on the other side of the classroom, far from you. Now, if you plan to lie to me again, you ought to come up with a more convincing excuse, young man.”

The repercussions to his bad attitude and flunking grades never ended. The piercing migraine he got from a girl’s cheap perfume three rows behind him didn’t qualify for a leave of absence. The whispering of two boys in the far corner of the classroom wasn’t an excuse for his failed exam. The blinding glint of the teacher’s wedding ring in the sunlight shouldn’t have caused him to fuck up the poor answer he gave when he was called on.

Therapy never worked. Medication made him nauseous. It wasn’t ADHD, wasn’t autism — they couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, and his mom didn't have the money to keep searching. The school gave up on him faster than he could give up on himself. 

Then, one day, he got a call. 

“Is this Mo Guan Shan, resident in Beijing?”

The voice was gravelly; deep and serious through the receiver. Nothing warm or welcoming in its tone. It sounded like trouble.

“Yes,” Guan Shan said after a pause. “Who is this?”

“Before I provide that answer, I have a question of my own. Are you aware of the term Sentinel?”

Two weeks later, he dropped out of school. Spent the next three years in training, and the next four traveling the world. A prodigy, the amalgamated He-She family agency writes in his client description. An exceptional, experienced agent with atypical abilities when paired with his Guide.

But now, his breathing evening out as he grips the neck of the running faucet, Guan Shan can only believe that he’s still pulling the same shit he did in senior high. That an expensive certification and a commission-based income only serves in making him look capable on paper. Because here, now, in a foreign country in a temporary apartment, he’s never felt more incapable. Uncertain.

He feels the buzz in his back pocket. With bitter reluctance, Guan Shan shuts off the tap and pulls out his phone. He doesn’t have to look at the caller ID to know who it is. 

“What the fuck is the issue?” Qiu snaps as soon as the call connects. His voice is distant and muffled by a rumbling noise, and Guan Shan suspects he’s in a car. “I’ve been texting you and He Tian for the last hour with no response, and Zhan Zheng Xi and Jian Yi have no fucking clue where you are. Do you know what time it is? Where the hell are you?”

Guan Shan glances at the oven time. 5:34pm. He wets his lips. 

“We’re at the apartment,” he says, moving to the living room. His suit is draped across the couch, and he begins to take it out of the garment bag. “We’re on our way.”

Qiu scoffs, and Guan Shan hears the engine rev. “‘On our way,’ he says. Jesus fucking Christ. You realize you two were supposed to meet with intel an hour ago to be briefed, right?”

Fuck. After Guan Shan returned from his meeting with She Li, his fight with He Tian had gotten the better of them. The meeting had apparently slipped both their minds. 

“We read the file this mornin' before the flight,” Guan Shan says, placing the phone on the couch. He doesn’t need to put it on speaker. “We can call them on the drive over. It’s not that fuckin’ difficult of a job, we’ll figure it out.”

There’s a sigh, stiff and agitated. 

“You two are in no position to be fucking up like this anymore,” Qiu tells him. “You’re out of chances, and the board’s patience is running thin. You’ve both been a hot topic among the teams.”

Guan Shan grits his teeth, shrugging on the undershirt as he unbuttons his jeans. “Trust me, I already fuckin’ know. Listen, just tell them we’re gonna finish the job, so they can get off our asses and fuck off.”

“Sure,” Qiu tells him dryly. “I’ll pass your message right along.” A tsk, annoyed. “Get your asses in the car, now. I’ll tell intel to expect a call in five minutes.”

The call disconnects, final. Guan Shan scowls. He quickly finishes dressing, still buttoning the top of his collar when he raps his knuckles sharply on the door of the bedroom. He doesn’t wait for a response, twisting the knob and pushing into the room. He Tian is already at the body-length mirror near the bed, slipping a tie around his neck. He doesn’t look at Guan Shan as he passes, his reflection frigid and reserved.

“We’ve gotta call Jian Yi and Zheng Xi in five minutes for the brief,” Guan Shan tells him, walking to the bathroom. He wets his hands in the sink, runs them through his hair, and threads a dollop of gel through the short strands to pull them back. “You drive. I’ll navigate and talk.”

The only response Guan Shan gets is the snatch of car keys off the dresser. Then they’re both out the door. 

“And that’s all. You should be in and out within two hours, max. Sounds good?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool. Let me just log the time and… okay, perfect. Smooth sailing from here, my friends.” Jian Yi claps his hands, loud through the receiver. “Anyway, quick question while you drive, why is it that every mission we have with you guys is always the biggest pain in the ass? I think that’s the quickest brief I’ve ever delivered in my life.”

“Not in the mood, Jian Yi,” Guan Shan snaps. One hand holds the phone on speaker above the armrest between him and He Tian, and the other grips the overhead handle as He Tian maneuvers them through the city at an alarming but familiar speed. They’re five minutes out from the residence according to the GPS. They’ll be fifteen minutes later than they were supposed to arrive.

“I’m just saying,” Jian Yi mumbles through the phone, meek. There’s the sound of a clicking keyboard. “Do you need any more details? Want Xixi to send over the profiles just in case?”

“Yes,” He Tian answers from the driver’s seat. It’s the first word he’s said since they’ve gotten in the car, tone bleak. “Put them all on the same document so I don’t have to swipe back and forth.”

“Yes, your highness,” is Zheng Xi’s muffled response in the background. After a moment, Jian Yi sighs, long.

“Seriously, are you guys alright?” he asks. “It’s been a while since you’ve run late on an assignment like this, and both of you sound really—”

“We’re fine,” the two men respond in unison, sharp. Guan Shan sets his jaw. He Tian’s eyes never leave the road, hands gripping the wheel.

“Oookay,” Jian Yi drawls, uncertain. “Sure. Uhm, I’m assuming you brought the I.D.s we put in the file for you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good. GPS says you’re almost there. There’ll be... two security checks before you can enter, as far as I can tell. And don’t forget the flashdrive and the comms, in the glove compartment. I’ll turn them on now, gimme a sec.”

The call ends. Outside, the streets have turned wider, lit orange by the streetlamps as the sun sinks behind the horizon. Neatly trimmed hedges and shrubs line the sidewalks, and ornate waist-high fencing enclose small shops that look like they sell expensive wristwatches at four times a reasonable price. Couples in Burberry scarfs and long, knitted dresses wander in and out of traditional red brick buildings turned into quaint restaurants and coffee shops. They’re close to the location. 

Guan Shan pops open the glove compartment, opening the small black leather box tucked inside. He puts away the small black flashdrive in his pocket. The earpiece is small and inconspicuous when he fits it into the inner part of his ear, and he drops the second earpiece wordlessly into He Tian’s open palm. By the time it’s settled into He Tian’s ear, Jian Yi’s voice crackles to life like a second voice in Guan Shan’s brain. 

“Testing, testing. Can you hear me?”

Guan Shan can’t help the wince as the words spark like a firecracker in his ear. “Yes,” he forces out. No matter how many times they’ve done this, it always takes a moment for his hearing to adjust to such close-quarter sound.

Breathe. In and out. 

“And me?” Zheng Xi asks. 

“Yes.”

“Good,” Zheng Xi says. “Remember, the office you’re looking for has a padlock that seems to be on a set schedule. I’m assuming it’s because Diaz only wants it to be accessed at certain times in his day, otherwise it’s locked with no entry option for hours on end when he expects to be out of the house. It’s highly secure; I can’t access it, much less break it, without drawing attention. You’ll have to get the code, presumably from a guard, and unlock it before it permanently locks at 8 p.m. sharp. Otherwise you’ll have to pull out of there and the assignment will be failed.”

“But, you know,” Jian Yi chirps, “no pressure or anything.”

He Tian slows the car as they approach a long, winding driveway, lit by solar-powered glass lanterns. Further up the hill, Guan Shan can see a tall copper gate surrounding the expansive land of a large, traditional manor, littered with limos and Ferraris in its porte cochère. He hardly needs to squint to spot the first security checkpoint, standing guard at the gateway. 

“We’re here,” He Tian says.

“Okay,” Jian Yi answers, uncertainly cheerful. “Best of luck, Mr. Wen and Mr. Seto. Remember to smile!”

The event is loud and chattering. The brightly lit foyer stings Guan Shan’s eyes when they’re permitted inside, and he looks up to see a grand chandelier hung from the tall ceiling, glittering gold within perfect, frozen droplets. It’s complemented nicely by the ivory baseboards and the bronze flooring, polished and reflective. As Jian Yi warned, the manor is impossibly large — three stories high at the very least. The house smells of sweet perfumes and alcohol, champagne to be sure, and the oriental rugs atop the tile floors are indented with the point of high heels and the heavy press of dress shoes as the guests prattle and chuckle. 

Assistants scurry between groups of socialites bearing finger foods and beverages, up and down the winding staircases on either side of the manor’s foyer and slipping through the crowd with practiced ease. Above, instrumental music plays through a house speaker system and echoes against the walls and floors, drowned out by the multitude of guests. If not for the open double doors leading to the backyard at the far end of the house, letting in the cool evening air, it would be hard to breathe.

“We won’t be able to leave through the entrance,” He Tian says as they wander forward. The words are barely a whisper, lips hardly moving, but Guan Shan hears him clearly at his side. “It’s too concentrated. We should take time to consider other exits before looking for the office.”

“There are a fuckton of people on this floor,” Guan Shan responds. He can feel the heavy footsteps through the tile floors like the conduction of electricity, quavering and never ending against the soles of his shoes. There has to be at least eighty — no, a hundred — people on this floor alone. “If somethin’ goes wrong, it won’t be easy navigatin’ through this mess.”

He Tian gives him a sidelong look. “What, so we—”

The conversation halts as He Tian catches the eye of a woman near a decorative statue, giving a small smile and a nod to her wandering eyes until she blushes and turns back to her group, arm looped through the arm of a stern-looking man. Her husband, Guan Shan assumes, catching sight of the gold, intricately designed wedding band around her thin finger. How faithful. 

“So we jump out the third story window instead?” He Tian resumes when he can. “Doesn’t seem practical.”

“Seems less practical to catch the bullets of every guard around the estate if they happen to find us suspicious for leavin’ so early,” Guan Shan gripes. “Be my guest if you have a better idea.”

He Tian frowns; only slightly, a crack in his composure. 

“I mean, both options sound pretty shitty to me,” Jian Yi chimes in, a bit hesitant. “But if you do this right, you won’t have to worry about it. Xixi and I can look into the exits if you two start looking for the additional subjects.”

“But because of the late start, you only have an hour and a half to search the party and find the office,” Zheng Xi adds. “Otherwise… well, you know.”

“We should be done with everything sooner than that,” He Tian mutters. In his voice, Guan Shan can hear He Cheng: Keep a low profile. No person should be able to pick you out from a lineup because you stuck around a location for too damn long. 

“I’ll take the east side,” Guan Shan tells He Tian. “You go west. Stick to the first floor for ease of movement.”

“Ten minutes,” He Tian responds, curt. 

They split. 

Guan Shan heads towards the drinks. It’s the one area he can always depend on to be safe for loitering and scanning during an assignment like this. Along the way, he passes by endless groups of somebodies and rich fuckers who either don’t spare him a glance or give him a fleeting, disapproving look before turning away. Despite himself, Guan Shan scowls.

He’s always hated jobs like this, pretending to be something — someone — he’s not. Shoved into a suit he never uses again, and sticking out like a sore thumb despite his best efforts. It’s as though the one percent can smell the counterfeit persona on his clothes, and it takes everything in him to not spit on their shiny shoes and prove them right. 

He’d rather stay at home than deal with this. No — he’d rather be in the warehouses of Shanghai, overseeing the exchange of cold cash or business dealings, something quick and dirty and hidden in the shadows. A majority of their jobs were like that when they first started out, younger and inexperienced. Guan Shan wishes he’d appreciated it more back then. 

The drinks are laid out neatly atop a long, white table, surrounded by women who laugh a little too loud and men who clasp a friendly hand on the shoulders of potential business partners. Guan Shan politely shoulders through them to pluck a glass of some expensive-looking French red wine, then retreats to the far corner of the room, trying his best to appear weary, lackluster, and socially-drained. It doesn’t take much.

Sipping from the glass and trying not to wince, he scans the wide room. They have three subjects — Vazques, Reyes, and Rodriguez — two of which are highly suspected to be involved with the bombing and subsequent murders in Nanjing. The third man, Mateo Rodriguez, is still up in the air, though his presence at this party would be a strong indicator towards familiarity and thus association.  

But the main attraction of the job is elsewhere. Not a person, but rather information. Details to partnerships and future endeavors. Files to employee credentials and current establishment locations. 

Revenge. 

They’ll be plotting in the coming months after they retrieve the information tonight. Assassinations, arsons, ransacks, interference of communications. The Diaz family will be forced to either submit or dissolve under the pressure. The He and She families won’t accept anything less. 

But for now, Guan Shan hones in on the crowd. He looks for key features; certain heights and hair textures and eye colors. He’ll have to move slowly between each room to avoid garnering attention, but luckily his senses move quickly and thoroughly, ensuring accuracy. He’ll make quick work of this.

Once he filters through the clink of glassware and the tap of shoes, it’s easy to pick up on the guests’ conversations. Guan Shan hops from group to group, long-distance eavesdropping. He picks up slurs of English and Spanish, a few other languages he doesn’t know mixed in-between. He searches for mentions of surnames and organizations, an effort that proves to be next to pointless. Instead, he’s met with shrill gossip and throaty bragging, flipping back and forth between conversations just for the slim chance of hearing, of seeing—

“Hey Red, let’s have a heart-to-heart.”

“Fuck, Jian Yi!” Guan Shan hisses, nearly dropping his glass. His ear, so intensely focused on the conversations, rings in obscene pain as Jian Yi’s voice cuts through the comm. “What the fuck are you doin’?”

“I just want to know what’s going on!” Jian Yi whines. “Why is everyone in such a touchy mood today?”

“I’m fuckin’ workin’ right now, you asshole. And you are too, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay! You’re just surveying right now and I’m waiting on Xixi. Keep doing what you’re doing; we’re the only ones on the line right now, too,” Jian Yi happily assures him. 

Guan Shan grits his teeth, forcing himself to maintain a composed expression when a nearby man gives him a concerned look. He waits until he turns away, back to the conversation he was having. 

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” Guan Shan mutters beneath his breath, going back to scanning the crowd. 

“I mean, I kinda feel like it is. You guys have been one of our main teams for years, and word on the street is that you’re gonna get split up.”

“None of your goddamn business, Jian Yi.”

“Hey, I can vouch for you! They’ll probably come to Xixi and me for our opinion before they make any final decisions, you know. That’s how it usually goes. We’re definitely the ones who know you guys best.” A pause. “I mean, unless splitting up is what you guys want, because in that case—”

“It’s not—” Guan Shan stops, throat working. “It’s not that fuckin’ simple. The decision has been a long time comin’ given our recent record, and we both have different opinions on the matter. That’s it.”

He doesn’t want to have this conversation now. It’s exhausting and worn, on constant replay in the back of his head. When he’s not on a job, he’s thinking about it; when he’s not thinking about it, he’s on a job. There’s little room for anything else. 

But it’s painful and convoluted. He knows He Tian is hurt, even when he doesn’t say it. It hurts Guan Shan to know that he’s the cause of it, a double-edged sword digging deeper and deeper into them both. And it’s impossible to try to get his points across when they argue because Guan Shan knows He Tian is justified in his rebuttals, his anger, his confusion. But Guan Shan knows he’s justified, too. 

A target lost because they began to argue over whether or not to make a move. An assignment incomplete because Guan Shan wanted to get closer to hear the targets’ conversation, but He Tian had held him back, uneased by his vulnerability in the crowd. A hit job unfulfilled because He Tian hadn’t told Guan Shan the target would be pregnant, and he refused to pull the trigger. A mission abruptly dropped because Guan Shan fell ill with the flu after traveling and He Tian refused to let him work despite his assurances that he was fucking fine.  

They have a growing list of indecencies in the eyes of the agency, and Guan Shan can feel the tension festering. He can feel their watchful eye every time they get the phone call of a new client, a new assignment. If not for He Cheng, they would’ve been chewed up and spat out a long time ago. Left behind on a three-strike basis.

And Guan Shan tries to tell He Tian that it’s because of that, and not because he no longer trusts He Tian. Not because he’d — god fucking forbid, the thought alone makes him sick — because he’d rather be with She Li. Not because the down moments between them, when they’re between assignments and only have each other, suitcases still packed in the corner of their shared hotel room and empty instant ramen bowls on the dresser, makes him uneasy or upset.

His desire for He Tian lies in vicious war with his necessity to keep his job. If they’re separated, split as a team, it’d only take a month for them to end up on opposite sides of the world. He Tian would be put on odd jobs until a new Sentinel is found and recruited, and Guan Shan would undoubtedly be teamed with She Li. Life would go on — severed but glued back together to different pieces like a child’s craft project.

But if they stay together and keep fucking up, Cheng’s good word could only get them so far. Successive failures would be seen as an intentional betrayal to the agency — to the He and She families. They’d be dropped without warning, without protection, and Guan Shan’s mother would have to kill herself if she wanted to escape the debts his father left behind. That is, if a vengeful family doesn’t send hitmen after them first. At that point, Guan Shan would intentionally leave his blinds open and the lights on just to make the attempts easier. 

But who is he to take the easy way out? Selfishness is the only way to describe the fact that he’s still teamed with He Tian — on this job with him now, to boot. He’ll get what’s coming for him in due time. But could it really be selfishness if he’s bound to lose in either option he chooses?

There’s a long silence. Across the comm, Guan Shan can practically hear the gears turning in Jian Yi’s head. 

“But… I mean, I could be wrong, but—” Jian Yi pauses. “If you’re not with He Tian, wouldn’t your new Guide be She Li? As far as I know, there’s no one else trained for Guiding right now.”

Guan Shan has to resist the urge to close his eyes. “That, or I leave the agency. And I can’t afford the latter.”

He hears a swallow, faint. “Red, you’re not actually, like, considering it, right? Considering She Li? He’s gone through two Sentinels already, and each one died in… weird ways. He talks about it, sometimes, and it makes me sick to my stomach. I— I don’t know how he’s still in the agency, if I’m being completely fucking honest. He’s shady as hell.”

Nepotism, Guan Shan thinks. Out loud, he says, “It’s my decision, Jian Yi. Stay out of it.”

“But He Tian—”

Guan Shan turns his head, hiding his face from sight. “We don’t work,” he spits, irate. “I don’t know how much more fuckin’ obvious it could be. Splittin’ up could be the best damn thing we could do for each other’s careers. Now stop the fuckin’ cubicle gossip and work, because that fucker Antonio just walked into the room.”

There’s a beat, and then Jian Yi seems to snap back to himself. Guan Shan hears shuffling, typing, clicking.

“Antonio Vasquez?” the blond asks, tone even and professional. “Who’s he with? Anyone?”

Guan Shan looks up, raising the wine to his lips for cover. The suspect is across the room, having been stopped by an apparent friend for a chat. “A woman. Tall, brunette, hazel eyes. She’s speakin' Spanish and has a tattoo on her wrist.” He looks closer. “It’s a small black bird holdin' a blue banner with somethin' written in French.”

An amused huff as Jian Yi records the information. “Jeez. I forget how scary you are sometimes. That should be enough info, though; his presence is all that really matters. I’ll report it now. Leave the room to be safe.”

Guan Shan throws back the last of the overtly sweet wine, tongue going dry from tannins. He leaves the empty glass on the designated table, then starts back toward the main area of the house. Antonio Vasquez doesn’t spare him a glance as he passes. 

“I caught sight of Rodriguez in the dining hall. Zheng Xi spotted Reyes on the second floor on the cameras, with a group of his men, and you saw Vasquez near the drinks. That means all three men are here.”

They’re out in the backyard now, tucked in the corner of the expansive porch. Fairy lights give just enough illumination in the cool night, twisted around the wooden railing. They lean against it, He Tian smoking a cigarette and Guan Shan holding one just for show, hoping to appear as if they’re just shooting the shit. Distant, fluttery sounds of laughter and music come from the green, trimmed lawn and garden. 

“This is gonna be a shit show,” Guan Shan responds, low. “If all of them are here, then they’re goin’ to be investigated. And more and more gangs that were involved might be found out in the process. Who fuckin’ knows what’ll happen to each of them by the end of it all.”

“They killed thirty of our men in cold blood,” He Tian reminds him, blowing smoke tendrils. “Going into it, I think they knew that this was the price to be paid if they were discovered.”

Guan Shan scoffs and shakes his head. “They killed thirty of ours, so we’ll kill two hundred of theirs in retaliation. Sounds reasonable.”

“It’s about setting an example. Making a statement.”

“You sound like your brother.”

“And you sound like you’re questioning things a lot more than you used to.”

Guan Shan frowns, tapping the end of his burning cigarette on the edge of the railing, ash breaking free. “I was nineteen and broke as fuck when I was hired. I was blinded by the commission money to see all the questionable shit we do. So excuse me if I’m havin’ a change of heart, but that’s not really what this is about, is it?”

There’s a clink of glass from inside the manor; the click of heels on the porch boards. He Tian isn’t looking at him, but Guan Shan sure as hell knows he’s conscious of him, gazing out over the lawn’s partygoers with a blank expression. 

He takes a chance. Guan Shan starts, low: “He Tian—”

“We’re on the job,” He Tian interrupts, stern and dismissive. His mouth presses. “What is it you always tell me? Separate personal life from work?”

Silence. Guan Shan watches his profile for a long moment, searching. If he didn’t know He Tian like he does, he would mistake the tone to He Tian’s voice for anger. Instead, He Tian’s throat works with a swallow, and Guan Shan looks down at the glowing orange tip of his cigarette. 

“You’re right,” he says. “Sorry.”

He Tian doesn't respond.

“Yeah, uhm,” Zheng Xi’s voice cuts in, awkward. “Finally looks like the staircase is pretty empty right now. They started dessert. You can probably head up to the upper floors soon. There’s roughly thirty minutes until the padlock disables, so don’t, uh, waste any time in finding the office.”

He Tian leans over to put his cigarette out on an ashtray in the center of a metal garden table. He fixes his collar as Guan Shan follows suit, then the two men turn to head back inside — and stop. 

“Good evening,” the man says warmly in English, approaching with one other man — security — flanking closely. His voice is deep set and inviting, a hand tucked casually into his trousers as he smiles. The action pulls at the wrinkles of his face, extending up to the greying tips of his black hair. He smells of cigars and cake — red velvet and lemon.

“Good evening,” He Tian replies, equally polite and warm. He reaches out a hand, of which the man happily shakes before extending the same gesture to Guan Shan. His wide palm is dry and calloused, and Guan Shan gives a curt nod.

“I saw you two out here and hoped to extend a little more hospitality,” the man explains kindly. “Raul Castro. A pleasure. Mr. Torres behind me is a bodyguard, as you may understand.”

“Kang Seto,” He Tian offers. He gestures to Guan Shan. “Mr. Wen is my security as well. The pleasure is all mine.”

“Ah,” Castro says, snapping his fingers. “Seto, is it? Pardon my ignorance, but are you perhaps Seto of the Xue family?”

He Tian smiles, easy and fluid. “Exactly. I’m happy to represent the organization tonight in place of my employers.”

“Yes, yes,” Castro hums. “A reliable — and reputable — capo you are. The Xue’s have been quite absent in the scene lately. I’m sure there’s good reason for it, of course.”

Yeah, Guan Shan thinks, dull, we shot him and his men in the back of their heads last week when they didn’t follow through on a contract deal. 

“My employers have been busy abroad, but they wished that I send their good regards to anyone I came across.” He Tian smiles. “Might I catch your family’s name so I can mention it to Mr. Xue?”

“The Martinez’s,” Castro replies. “Co-hosts of this event, of course. We’ve been happy to make so many new connections tonight in support of Mr. Diaz. He’s been pleased to have such a great turnout.”

“As he should be. I doubt anyone would’ve intentionally missed an opportunity like this. I intended to personally thank him for his efforts if I came across him tonight.”

“I’m sure he would appreciate that. At an event this large, though, he can be a bit tough to get a hold of.” Castro laughs, genial. “I wish you the best of luck in finding him.”

“I hope I won’t be needing it,” He Tian chuckles. “For now, I think I’ll be heading back inside. It’s gotten a bit cold.” He extends out a hand. “It’s been a pleasure. I hope we are in contact again soon.”

“As do I,” Castro nods, taking his hand once more. “Please enjoy yourself. Send my well wishes to Mr. Xue when he returns.”

Guan Shan follows faithfully behind He Tian as they leave. It’s only when they’re nearing the foyer, beneath the chandelier and separated by a wide berth of guests, does Guan Shan come to his side. They stop.

“Somethin’ was off,” he mutters. 

“I know,” He Tian says, checking his watch. “Quick conversation with little questioning.”

Frowning, Guan Shan asks, “Zheng Xi, did you look into him?”

“He was lying,” Zheng Xi replies immediately. “Sorry, I was trying to verify before I said anything. But I’m reading here that he’s in no way connected to the Martinez family. Castro is his name, but he’s closely related to the target, Lorenzo Diaz. They’re newly acquainted partners, confirmed two months ago sealing a contract in Madrid. Looks like Castro and his men are working under Diaz for some undetermined time.”

“Why would he tell white lies like that?” He Tian mutters. 

“I’m assuming he was told to watch for anyone suspicious,” Jian Yi says. “And with you two all mopey on the back porch in the middle of a party, I can’t say I’m surprised with the outcome.”

“They have professional bodyguards to look for that kind of shit,” Guan Shan says as he and He Tian begin to climb the curling staircase, slow and steady. “Why would they have people filterin’ through the crowd in disguise?”

“I don’t think that’s so unusual,” Jian Yi says, thoughtful. “Diaz is a big name. They need to be careful.”

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” He Tian says, “but I think they’re doing it because they know we’re here. They expect us at the very least, and that was more of a warning than affability. He said Diaz would be hard to find, and then he let us leave too easily afterward.”

“Well, we’re not here for Diaz,” Guan Shan says, looking at him. “We’re here for his family’s information.”

We’ll inflict a slower death than an assassination, from the inside out. 

“The office’s padlock is going to deactivate in seven minutes,” Zheng Xi says. “And if your hunch is right, He Tian, you guys don’t want to be sticking around any longer than you have to if you can help it. Head directly to the third floor; just look like you know what you’re doing and I’ll guide you.”

“Blind trust,” Guan Shan mutters, climbing the last of the stairs. “Never been a fan of it.”

“Well, you better start hoppin’ on the bandwagon!” Jian Yi singsongs. “Your salary depends on it!”

Guan Shan smirks at that as he and He Tian turn the corner. The second floor is remarkably less crowded than that of the first, dimmed lights and quiet music making for a more calming and intimate atmosphere. Mostly women have congregated up here, talking in small circles with a glass of wine in their manicured hands. From here, the first floor’s activity sounds more like a dignified rave. 

“Walk to the right,” Zheng Xi tells them. “When you pass three doors, there should be another hallway. Take a left turn.”

They dutifully obey. Along the way, Guan Shan doesn’t miss the quick glances the women shoot them; He Tian for his height and broad shoulders, Guan Shan for his red hair and lingering scowl. Guan Shan can hear the whispers as they pass and wishes he couldn’t. The one percent truly are nothing but rich, judgmental fuckers. Honestly, he’s never felt more ready for a job to be done. 

When they reach the end of the hallway, there are considerably less people around. They turn left as instructed, shoes clicking with every step. Traditional oil paintings line the walls between closed doors, portraits and still lifes of Barcelona’s streets. It smells of dust and cleaning products, no doubt the house having been deep cleaned by maids before the party. But looking closely, Guan Shan can see aged stains and scratches on the wood, the wallpaper. He wonders what exactly the walls of this house have seen in their lifetimes. 

“The house doesn’t have security back here?” He Tian asks, frowning. His voice echoes slightly in the empty hall. 

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Zheng Xi answers. “I’ve kept an eye on it the entire time. No one’s been back here for hours. Not that they would have a reason to be, I guess.”

He Tian glances at a small black security camera, tucked in the corner of the ceiling. “Odd.”

After a few more strides, Zheng Xi says, “At the end of the hall, take another left. There should be another staircase leading upstairs — take it. But go carefully, because as soon as you turn that corner, the office is going to be right ahead of you, a few meters away. I don’t doubt Diaz has guards posted in front of it that you can question. Be quick about it.”

“And remember, you’re looking for a laptop!” Jian Yi adds, spritely. “Gray, potentially in a large black handbag. Just plug in the flashdrive and we’ll take it from there.”

“Okay,” Guan Shan says as they turn the corner. As Zheng Xi said, a staircase leads above, nearly hidden behind a pillar. Quieter, Guan Shan says, “Now shut up, all of you. I need to focus.”

Silence greets him. Guan Shan goes ahead of He Tian, hand trailing lightly against the wall as he begins to ascend the stairs, footsteps inaudible. He closes his eyes; he has no use for them. Instead he puts his concentration on his hearing, his touch, his smell. 

If anyone is in the hallway just above them, they don’t move. The only vibrations he can feel come from the lower levels of the house, pounding with life. But there’s the slightest smell of sweat; faint and tainted by the stale scent of cigars. It’s not much to go off of until there’s the muted, sharp sniff of a nose, to the right, and the shift of weight that reverberates through the wall to the left. He waits a few more moments, but there’s nothing more. 

Two, Guan Shan mouths to He Tian. The latter nods. 

They climb the stairs together. 

“Oh, this must be it,” He Tian announces when they come within sight of the office. The large wooden doors are shut, flanked on either side by two men who immediately turn to face them as He Tian and Guan Shan approach. “This must be the office, right, Mr. Wen?”

“Seems like it,” Guan Shan says — then, as an afterthought, “sir.”

He Tian glances at him before looking forward again. 

“Pardon us,” he says coolly, stepping toward the two men. “We were told by Mr. Diaz to meet him at his office for a business inquiry. Would this be the right place?”

“Three minutes,” Zheng Xi whispers in their ears. 

“We were instructed not to let anyone past this point for any reason,” one of the men says, gruff. “We are going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Are we mistaken? Is there another office, then?”

“No, sir. But unfortunately no guests are allowed in the office at this time.”

He Tian frowns, feigning disappointment. “Well, that’s a shame. Sorry to ask this, but do you mind contacting him for me? Just to be sure, of course. We came all this way and it was hard to find him in the crowd; I’d hate to go through the process again.”

“We apologize, sir, but—”

“Just a phone call. A single one would be enough, in the off chance he picks up. You can tell him it was by the request of Kang Seto. No harm done.”

The guards exchange a look. They share a few murmured words in Catalan. Then, after a long moment, the one on the left reaches into his back pocket, emerging with a phone. He looks down. 

He hasn’t even unlocked it before He Tian lands a square hit on his nose.

Guan Shan hears the crunch of bone like a cartoon sound effect. The resulting shout is muffled as Guan Shan takes advantage of the second guard’s stun, rushing forward with a knee to the groin and yanking him down by the throat to keep him in a tight headlock. He supports himself against the wall as the man thrashes, hooking a leg around his knee to immobilize him, and when he looks up He Tian has brandished the small pocket knife he keeps in his coat pocket, cold blade pressed against the other guard’s throat as he pulls his bleeding, broken face back by the hair. 

“Who the fuck are you!” He Tian’s guard demands, blood spurting from his nose and staining his teeth. He Tian leans in close.

“What’s the passcode?” he asks, eerily calm. Like crimson doesn’t stain his knuckles, the front of his suit. The guard splutters something in Catalan, furious. 

“Fuck you both,” Guan Shan’s guard spits in support. Guan Shan tightens the headlock in response, and the man chokes. 

“One minute,” Zheng Xi says, urgent. 

He Tian tries again. “The passcode, piece of shit.”

“Fuck. You.”

He Tian’s eyes meet Guan Shan’s. The message is clear and well-received. 

Guan Shan readjusts his hands on the guard. For a moment, he can feel the warm, prickling sweat on the man’s neck; can feel the wild rush of blood beneath his skin, the way the muscle tenses in fear. But only for a moment. 

Guan Shan grips the skin, twists his arms — and snaps the man’s neck in a single jerk. He lets go, and the body falls limply to the floor. 

“Merda!” the remaining guard cries, eyes wide and manic. “Merda, merda, merda!”

“The passcode,” He Tian repeats, low and dark. “Now.”

“3124! 3124, fill de puta , 3124!”

Guan Shan ignores the shake to his legs as he walks forward. Shoulder-level on the doors is the padlock, simple in design. He punches in the numbers. 3124. 

There’s a click, and a light on the padlock turns green. 

Guan Shan turns to nod. Entry confirmed, He Tian takes the man’s head and slams it into the wall. The man is knocked unconscious, drool mixing with blood as He Tian releases him. 

Jian Yi and Zheng Xi say nothing. The manor’s instrumental music plays softly in the background. He Tian wipes the blood on the sides of his trousers and tucks away the knife. Then he walks forward, closing the space between him and Guan Shan, cautious.

Bile is rising in Guan Shan’s throat, burning slowly. His fingers rub together as if they could remove the film of death coating them, sticky and stark like an oil spill. He’s an exceptional marksman due to his abilities; that, he knows. It’d be a shock if he ever missed his target on the first shot. But there’s a difference between pulling a mechanical trigger and pulling the life directly from the victim with his own hands, and Guan Shan takes in a shuddered breath as he looks at the corpse. 

In front of him, He Tian doesn’t touch him, though he looks like he wants to.

“You okay, Mo?” he asks, murmured. 

Guan Shan nods, swallows. He fishes in his pocket for the flashdrive, if only to hide the shake of his hands. “It had to be done. Let’s just fuckin’ finish and leave.”

He Tian looks over him. Nods.

He steps forward and pulls open the doors.

Immediately, Guan Shan is overwhelmed with the smell of books, of ink. The warm, fluorescent lights within the large office fall upon a sitting area, a study area, an oversized bookcase. There’s a fireplace in the corner, its brick old and antique, and a Persian carpet fans across the floor beneath the wooden desk. The draping curtains are drawn shut; a messy stack of folders and notebooks line the far wall. The office is huge and cluttered and worn. It blends well with the rest of the house’s decor. 

But Guan Shan doesn’t really see any of it. Doesn’t have much time to process it. Because there, sitting on the tight velvet cushions of the loveseat in the center of the room, backed by two large bodyguards, sits Lorenzo Diaz.

Diaz gestures to the matching loveseat in front of him, raising the condensation-slicked glass in his hand.

“Come. Sit. You’ve come all this way; you ought to be comfortable during your stay.”

He Tian is stiff next to Guan Shan. He can hear the way He Tian’s breathing pauses, then releases in a staccato exhale. There’s a moment in which neither of them move, stunned stupid — and then Guan Shan grits his teeth and walks forward, rounding the small coffee table between the loveseats before settling down on the opposite cushion, stiff. He Tian follows suit. 

“Mr. Seto and Mr. Wen, was it?” Diaz smiles. “Mr. Castro said it was a pleasure to meet you.”

“Those were his men, weren’t they?” Guan Shan asks, throat tight. “Outside the door just now.”

Diaz hums, thoughtful. “Yes, they were. Inexperienced, really. I thought it was a clever… mm, what’s the English word? Ruse? Yes, a clever ruse.”

“That’s an interesting partnership you have with Castro,” He Tian says darkly. “They didn’t even know you were inside the office. And you gave them the passcode knowing they’d tell us.”

Diaz smirks. “It’s not much of a partnership; more like a long overdue debt they’ve yet to pay back. But let’s be realistic — I know my relationship with Castro isn’t the internal affair you’re interested in.”

Diaz leans back, relaxed and indifferent. He nods to the pitcher and cups on the coffee table between them.

“Help yourself,” he offers, tilting his own cup. “I’d rather this be a civil and respectful conversation, if you’re willing to meet me halfway. Isn’t it polite in Chinese culture to accept a drink when offered?”

“It’s poisoned,” Guan Shan growls. He can smell it. The sharp, bitter, earthy scent of something unnatural underlying the innocuously clear nature of the liquid. It looks refreshing, but would probably kill them. Not that they would have drunk it to begin with.

Slow, a grin begins to seep across Diaz’s wrinkled face. 

“Drugged, actually,” he amends, a smug element to his tone. He eyes Guan Shan with interest. “Nothing strong; only debilitating for a while. Very close guess, though. I applaud your abilities, Sentinel.” A dragging pause. “I do wonder, however, how you didn’t get a sixth sense about my office before you came in. That, or you two are very good actors.”

“That’s not how it works.” Speaking feels like pulling teeth out of Guan Shan’s mouth. The man, in a twisted way, is right. He’s pissed at himself. Had he not wasted time mourning the life of a man he didn’t fucking know, he probably would’ve picked up hints of movement within the office and prevented this situation. 

“Ah, really?” Diaz shrugs. “I’ve always been intrigued by the concept of your abilities. Though the He-She families seem to hold a monopoly over people like you. I’ve always wondered why that is.”

Guan Shan’s jaw tightens. “Guess you’ll never find out.”

“But perhaps I can. Tell me, Mr. Wen, how much do you get paid for every mission, every job completed? I imagine you’re much more useful for investigations and assassinations, not this,” he waves his hand, dismissive, “petty, family-feud business. Still, do they reward you fairly for your work?”

He Tian’s bark of a laugh cuts through the conversation. He says nothing but leans back on the couch, arms folding into one another. The look on his face is darkly amused. You’re wasting your breath, son of a bitch.

“I’m not for fuckin’ sale,” Guan Shan bites. “Let’s steer this conversation back on track, huh?”

“Right, right,” Diaz sighs, almost bored. “Your assigned vendetta. You two came much later than I expected, you know. I’ve wasted a considerable amount of money planning and holding events for our main guests who never showed.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” He Tian says flatly.

“What was your assignment?” Diaz asks, head tilted. “To kill me?”

Neither men respond. The instrumental music plays in the speakers; across the room, a clock ticks quietly. After a long while, Diaz chortles, tickled. 

“Faithful agents you are. I need to get more men like you under my wing.”

“But you don’t have that,” He Tian says, low. “Instead, your men disobeyed orders last year and caused a considerable loss of cargo. Our response to rescind protections and funds was justified — and temporary, mind you, had you not crossed the line. The murder of our men and women was bullshit, and we will not be negotiating on this matter.”

Diaz takes a long, throaty drink of his water. Finishing, he leans forward, putting the glass to the table with a sharp clink. 

“The bombing of your family’s building was a result of a mounting pressure,” he says, clasping his hands. “Your sudden and drastic response caused a domino effect within the community, with all negative consequences pointed toward my organization. We wouldn’t take it lying down, of course. We had no choice but to make an example out of you and strengthen our reputation. After all, is that not why you’re here as well?”

Guan Shan sees the way He Tian’s fingers dig into the sleeves of his arms. It’s about setting an example. Making a statement. 

“A vicious cycle, all of this,” Diaz sighs, drumming his fingers against the back of his hands. “You made an aggressive move against an honest mistake, we retaliated, and now we must play tug-of-war until one of us falls. It’s dramatic, really. Exhausting.”

“If you know this, then you should put an end to it,” Guan Shan says, low. “Cut both parties the losses and the time.”

“And how, Mr. Wen, would I go about that?” Diaz asks. “Of course, the only way your proposition can be interpreted is if my family submits. Let your family assimilate us, or kill us off. I’m afraid that’s not possible. You should understand.”

“No, we don’t,” He Tian responds sharply. “You’re placing your pride over the lives and prospects in your organization. You refuse to lay low because you have an ego that precedes you.”

“Now, that’s a bit harsh,” Diaz chuckles. “You think very little of me, don’t you?”

Guan Shan scowls. “You’ve given us no other reason to believe—”

“Then let me extend an opportunity that you’d be foolish to reject,” Diaz says, voice suddenly firm. He leans forward, the loveseat creaking with the weight. His eyes hold a different glint to them; the cutthroat drive of an entrepreneur. 

“As I said, Sentinels have remained an interest for me for a long time now. The business my family is involved with is a bit different than that of your family’s, and I believe the work would be efficient and effective for Sentinels. They’d be paid well for their effort, given the nature of the work. Likely, better than you’re paid now, Mr. Wen.

“My proposition is fair and final. In exchange for a set amount of fund transfers every month, of which is negotiable, as well as the enlistment of at least half my men or a quarter of my supplies whenever and wherever your family desires, I wish to receive the complete ownership of a third of the Sentinels in your agency.”

Diaz smiles. 

“And I wish to begin with you, Mr. Wen.”

The following silence is heavy and suffocating. Guan Shan resists the urge to shudder under Diaz’s gaze. The look the man gives him — it’s predatory. 

(“Fuck,” Jian Yi whispers.)

“I can see it in your eyes, young man,” Diaz tells him. “You’re bright and capable. They sent you after me, after all. And you don’t seem to mind getting your hands dirty, if it’s for the sake of the job.” He glances to the office doors. Guan Shan feels sick. “You would thrive in my family, socially and economically. Not to mention, your agreement would put a stop to the vicious cycle we all seem to agree is pointless. Think about it, Mr. Wen. Innocent lives would be saved.”

How innocent could we be? Guan Shan wonders, shakily. We’re all involved in this underground shit show. 

But he knows that’s not the issue. Despite his disgust for the man, Guan Shan can’t help but agree on the bleak nature of their situation. What has happened thus far is only the tip of the iceberg. This feud could go on for years — decades, even — and whether or not the He-She families were justified in their initial punishment of the Diaz family’s mistake, the truth of the matter is that the consequences are long-drawn and tortuous for both sides. Lives will be lost. Properties and supplies destroyed.

Fuck, in a month he could get an assignment to wipe out a building full of unsuspecting Diaz’s. And what would he think, sitting at the open window of some shitty motel room, fitting the silencer over the mouth of his rifle? What would he remember?

He would remember this, he knows. If he says no, he would remember looking Diaz in the eye and practically telling him that every other life involved in this mess is worthless when compared to his own life. He would remember he chose to stay with the agency that quite literally saved him from a certain demise — at the explicit demise of a hundred others, within the exact same agency.

He would remember looking at the fucked up Guide at his side, looking at He Tian and knowing their issues — their commitment — runs too deep to be solved in the way that they need to be solved in order for them to be an acceptable Sentinel team. He would remember thinking that he even considered choosing He Tian and Jian Yi and Zheng Xi over the countless men and women who had families and lovers and children who were just as scared of them being involved in this business as Guan Shan is for himself. 

As he is for He Tian. As he is for Jian Yi. As he is for Zheng Xi. 

If he says no, he would remember this moment. 

Guan Shan swallows. The silence has stretched impossibly long; the house’s music suddenly seems loud. The question hangs in the air like the chandelier in the foyer, pretty and fragile. He’s very aware of the fact that He Tian is looking at him, wordless, expression tilted in a way that makes his heart twist. He can see the question in those gray-slated eyes when he dares to look at him. 

Guan Shan thinks it’s the most vulnerable he’s ever seen He Tian. 

Turning away, Guan Shan meets Diaz’s eyes.

“I’m afraid your offer is not possible,” he says, tongue thick. “You should understand.”

The expression on Diaz’s face doesn’t react at first. For a moment, he looks like that of a wax statue, encapsulated within himself as his gaze never leaves Guan Shan’s. The fear within Guan Shan churns in his chest as he glares back — but then it's quickly replaced by empowerment. Pride. 

This is my choice, he tells himself. This is what I will live with. I choose him.

The fuck-ups, the pain, the uncertainty. They come as one, lingering and potent. Will it be worth it? Guan Shan doesn’t know. He’s made it this far. This long. He should stick around to the end if he’s already made the investment.

But then Diaz begins to smile. A slow, musing thing. It doesn’t reach his eyes. 

He sits back, languid. 

“No, Mr. Wen,” he says, careful. “I don’t think I do.”

Silence. Guan Shan’s breathing comes in hot pulses. 

Diaz tilts his head. 

“I figure I have to apologize, Mr. Wen, Mr. Seto. I really try to avoid situations like this when I can. But I have to admit: I lied. I’m not completely clueless about Sentinels.”

He Tian is stiffening. Guan Shan lips feel dry, but he can’t muster the strength to wet them. 

Diaz raises a hand, and one of the guards behind him begins to reach in his pocket. Guan Shan and He Tian stand, legs knocking against the loveseat, but it’s too late. Diaz tilts his head.

“I know Sentinels can be damaged.”

Excruciating pain. It’s all Guan Shan can feel. He’s writhing, he knows. He’s screaming, he knows.

But he can’t feel any of it. Can’t hear himself. Can hardly hear the sound of gunfire — bang bang bang — doesn’t feel himself fall on the floor, gripping at his head, tearing at his skin. 

The sound is high-pitched and dissonant, and he slams his head against something — anything, God please, please — to make it stop. He’d rather be dead. He’d rather be dead. He’d rather be dead.

He thinks he says it out loud, once. Screams to make it fucking stop, but there are other voices among his. Other people: shouting, cursing, groaning. Shattering glass. Smashing wood. 

And then there aren’t. Then, hands are pulling at his hands, wrenching them away from where they claw at his bloodied ears, holding him still so he can no longer attempt to split his skull on the floor.

When the stronger hands succeed, Guan Shan hears more tortuous sound. 

“The fuck … happening… is it?!” a voice is yelling, frantic. 

“Whistle,” another voice responds, sudden and louder and painful and fuck, fuck it hurts, it fuckin’ hurts, please stop please. “Speaker… ouse… frequenc... on’t kno… worki... Xixi… uck, fuck!...”

The louder voice stops as fingers dig into his ear, pulling something out. Guan Shan sobs — tries to reach for his ears again, to tear the sound out of them — but they’re swatted away. A moment later, it isn’t his hands that cover them but rather someone else’s. 

“...pen,” a voice is telling him, harsh and whispered though it sounds like a bloodcurdling scream. “Eyes… op… Shan.”

Guan Shan opens his eyes. His vision is swimming, overrun with wetness, blurry for other reasons, too. He can hardly make out He Tian’s face in front of him — on top of him — expression twisted awful.

The hand shielding his right ear is lifted, fingers guiding Guan Shan’s trembling hand to He Tian chest, over his heart. He Tian holds it there for him, looping their fingers almost painfully, mouthing something Guan Shan can’t hear. He Tian seems to sense this, because then his mouth is at Guan Shan’s exposed ear, breath hot and uneven, so desperately controlled.

“...ere,” He Tian whispers, voice so low and gravelly compared to the awful, incessant screeching. Guan Shan realizes with a distant realization that he’s still yelling, pleading to make it stop, senselessly spluttering He Tian’s name, spittle foaming on his lips. “...re, I’m... here.”

He Tian releases Guan Shan’s hand, instead cupping the back of Guan Shan’s head and pulling him close, pushing him impossibly closer, pressed against his chest. Guan Shan knows he should smell sweat, deodorant, cigarettes. Everything he’s come to know of He Tian within the past five years. He can smell nothing. 

“B...ea...the. Mo… breat… rtbeat… my… heartbea… eathe…”

Guan Shan’s white-knuckled fist curls into the fabric of He Tian’s undershirt. Distantly, like peering through morning fog, he can feel something moving, something frantic but rhythmic beneath his fingers. Rushing, pulsing, warm, damp, soft, constant—

Thud, thud, thud, thud…

He Tian is yelling at someone. Guan Shan can’t make out the words, but he can tell by the heaving of his chest. His vision is darkening at the edges, creeping inwards.

And then He Tian is back to whispering, back at his ear.

“...eart… swee… here… I’m here, sweethea… Breathe, you’re okay, focus on me, Ah-Shan, I’m right here, you’re okay, just breathe sweetheart, there you are, you’re okay…”

The ringing, abruptly, stops. But everything is still numb, still uncertain and horrifying. Beneath his palm, He Tian’s heartbeat drums wildly and Guan Shan takes in the faint scent of him at the slope of his neck in a choppy, wrecked breath. He Tian pulls away from Guan Shan, neck straining to get as far as possible. 

“Did you stop it?” he snaps, the change in tone jarring. A pause, then He Tian growls, “I don’t give a shit. Give the son of a bitch a free fucking plane ticket to America for all I care.” A pause, longer. “No, he took the fucking laptop with him, thanks for your concern.” Pause. “Do what you want, Jian Yi, but I trust Zheng Xi’s judgment. And call Cheng, or Qiu, or whoever the fuck gives a shit about this. We’re leaving, now.”

He Tian pulls the comm from his ear, shoving it in his pocket. 

“Sorry,” he whispers when he turns back and sees the pain on Guan Shan’s face. He places a hand on his neck, grounding. It feels sticky and warm and it smells like copper. “It won’t be as loud now. We’re going back, going to get you a doctor. Can you walk, can you— stand?”

Guan Shan’s breath is still ragged, so he doesn’t try for words. He nods, slightly, and feels something wet drip on the corner of his jaw. His head is pounding, splitting at the seams and pulling tears to his eyes. Slowly, though, his vision is returning, the focus in his senses fanning out like water spilled on a table. 

“Don’t be prideful now, sweetheart. I need to know if you’re able to walk out of here or not.”

Guan Shan squeezes his eyes shut. Everything hurts. He nods, again. 

He Tian exhales, soft. His pulse is still hammering, and Guan Shan doesn’t think he wants to let go. 

“Let’s try,” He Tian whispers. “Use my shoulder. There’s no rush, don’t push yourself.”

You’re lying, Guan Shan thinks weakly, wrapping his arm around He Tian’s neck. His whole body trembles as He Tian eases them both onto their feet, and he thinks he might throw up at a certain point because of the way the room spins. They stand in a lopsided way, most of the weight on He Tian — and when gravity clears the tears from Guan Shan’s eyes, the pool of blood at He Tian’s feet makes him startle. He Tian was shot. 

“No,” is all Guan Shan can manage, throat torn and voice croaked. He Tian follows his gaze before sucking in a breath, using a hand to quickly divert Guan Shan’s eyes. The last thing they need right now is a visual overstimulation — a hyperfixation on the blood’s reflection; the slow, crawling spread of the fluid on the carpet, a perfect premise for a captive trance. 

“We’re fine,” He Tian assures him. “It’s just my calf. I’m fine. We’re fine, okay?”

Despite himself, Guan Shan swallows and nods. One step at a time, they make their way out of the office. Near the coffee table, one of the guards lies dead.

By the time they make it to the first floor, the house is empty. 

By the time they make it outside, there’s a car waiting for them.

By the time they get in the backseat, Guan Shan has lost consciousness and Jian Yi is crying.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs, over and over. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t know how to turn it off and I don’t— I’m sorry, sorry...”

“It’s not your fault, Jian Yi,” He Tian says. Guan Shan’s head is in his lap and He Tian is bleeding out on the car mats. 

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Zheng Xi mutters, putting the car in drive and pulling them away. “Nobody’s fucking fault.”

ten days later.

“Three months for ruptured eardrums. Nothing less.”

There’s a pause of contemplation. He Tian holds the phone on speaker between them, seated at the edge of the bed. His hair is still damp from his shower, bared torso growing goosebumps from the air conditioning. Guan Shan is sitting against the headboard, straining to hear. His fingers pick at the bedsheets.

“And you?” Cheng asks.

“A few weeks, maybe less,” He Tian answers. He glances at his leg, freshly bandaged. “Just until the stitches heal.”

A sigh. “Okay. Keep me updated. Let me know if you need anything.”

He Tian frowns. “That’s it?”

“What were you expecting?”

He Tian doesn’t respond. After a long moment, Cheng sighs again. 

“You two weren’t at fault for this. Not this time, at least. You were ill-prepared going into the job, intel-wise. Maybe we should’ve sent in more people, too. But the bottom line is that you did what you were told, and what you were told wasn’t good enough. We should’ve made it a hit job instead of… It doesn’t matter now. We’ll deal with the consequences as they come. And the three other suspects you identified are still at large. You two need to heal so you can return and finish what’s been started.” A pause. “If that’s what you plan.”

He Tian looks at Guan Shan. Guan Shan looks back. 

“We’ll have our answer after the three months,” He Tian says. 

“Okay.”

Guan Shan motions for the phone. 

“Cheng,” he says when He Tian hands it over. “I’ve been checked twice now. Both times they said my hearin’ should be fine after the recovery period, but even now, I know it won’t be the same. I can tell. I wanted to say somethin’ now before it comes as a surprise later.”

A pause. “You can’t make these determinations directly after the injury, Mo Guan Shan. Give it time. More than a week, at least.”

“I know my body. I know its limits.”

“And I know my own family’s agency. You will have a spot to return to, Guan Shan, hearing or not. There’s other ways you can be useful.”

“Okay,” Guan Shan breathes. “I just— wanted to put it out there.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.” Then: “He Tian.”

“Yes?” He Tian replies, leaning closer.

“Don’t do anything fucking stupid during this time. Otherwise I have plenty of things I could have you do in the offices, right next to She Li. Keep a low profile, both of you.”

“Sure deal, dear brother.”

Another sigh. “Okay. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

He Tian hangs up. 

Guan Shan lets his head roll back on the headboard. He Tian plugs in his phone at the nightstand before joining him on the bed, head next to Guan Shan’s waist. The mattress is harder than Guan Shan remembers it, barely shifting with movement. But the dresser, the bathroom, the kitchen, the patio overlooking Hong Kong’s nightlife — all of it is just as they left it a year ago, more, when their assignments began to keep them on a commercial plane more often than solid ground.

It’s not exactly home, but it’s the closest thing they have. The safest thing they have, surrounded by He-She territory, considering Diaz won’t soon forget their faces. It’ll have to do for now. 

“Since when was it ‘we’?” Guan Shan asks He Tian, mumbled. We’ll have our answer after the three months. Guan Shan isn’t really surprised, but he can’t say he was expecting it, either. 

“Since the moment you told me you were considering stopping,” He Tian tells him, voice muffled by the duvet. “Or rather, when She Li somehow came into the picture.”

Guan Shan exhales, deep. “That’s incredibly fuckin’ stupid of you.”

He Tian shifts, lying flat on his back. 

“Maybe,” he admits. “Didn’t have a plan B, that’s for damn sure.”

Guan Shan frowns. “I know this is gonna sound fuckin’ hypocritical, but you’ve gotta think further ahead than that. It’s your family’s business. And even if I did end up switchin’ or quittin’, you would still need to think beyond… us.”

He Tian seems to consider that. He looks up at the ceiling, something unseen being seen. 

After a moment, he says, “You know, I still think about what would’ve happened if it was She Li there instead of me. How fucking useless he’d be. I think he would’ve caused you to get seriously fucked, intentional or not.”

Guan Shan frowns, looking down. You did well, the doctor had told He Tian, cleaning the crusted blood from Guan Shan’s ears. You redirected the senses’ focus just in time. He should be deaf. 

“We couldn’t know,” Guan Shan says truthfully. “Even though he’s shady as fuck, he’s still trained as a Guide. He went through everything we went through. He knows how to deescalate the situation and minimize the damages.” He pauses. “To an extent.”

Silence. 

“Are you still thinking about it?” He Tian asks. “Changing Guides?”

It’s moments like these that Guan Shan wishes his hearing would heal faster. It’s only been a little over a week since the mission, but Guan Shan knows he’s missed the many nuances in He Tian’s voice since they’ve returned. He can see it in He Tian’s eyes when he has to say Guan Shan’s name twice, sometimes, before he hears him from the other room. He can feel it in the squeeze of He Tian’s hand when they watch a movie together and Guan Shan asks him to turn it up.

“Honestly?” Guan Shan sighs. “It’s more a question of whether or not I’m gonna continue workin’ for them.”

He Tian sits up. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking as Guan Shan watches the width of his back. He knows better than to try to guess. Instead, Guan Shan reaches forward, lazily pressing the flat of his fingertips to his lower back, pressing lightly in-between the knobs of his vertebrae. 

And then, suddenly, he tries something new. 

“He Tian,” Guan Shan murmurs, pressing warm fingerprints into his skin. “Talk. Please.”

They’re both tired of the guessing games, the fighting, the hurt. It’s gone on too long now, with little reward to be reaped. He Tian’s shoulders rise and fall with a drawn breath. His head hangs low, like the sun setting behind the mountains. After a beat, he speaks.

“When Diaz was…” A pause. For a moment Guan Shan thinks he’s had second thoughts. Then, He Tian rolls out his neck. “Were you considering it, Guan Shan? Joining Diaz.”

“No,” Guan Shan answers, resolute. He straightens, pressing his full palm flat against He Tian’s spine. “I mean— fuck, he made good points, He Tian. I’d be a liar if I said I didn’t play with the idea. But I couldn’t do it. It was that stereotypical mafia ride-or-die mentality, for fuck’s sake. The agency stopped me from swallowin’ my entire bottle of medication in senior high. I guess I felt like I owed them more than that.”

But by the curve of He Tian’s spine, pretty like the crescent moon, Guan Shan knows that wasn’t the answer he was looking for. He leans forward, hand sliding against warm skin. The texture of it is familiar and smooth, thrumming with life. He presses a kiss to the slope of He Tian’s shoulder. 

“It was never because of you, He Tian,” he mumbles against him. “I know some part of you already knows that, and I never wanted you to doubt that. It takes two to make a relationship fuckin’ functional.” And in our line of work, it might as well be next to goddamn impossible. Guan Shan exhales, long. “I knew that — know that, still — and I wanted to make it easier for us, even if it wasn’t the most desirable option. I was never gonna… It wasn’t because I didn’t…”

The words hang between them. He Tian turns to look at him. His eyes are unreadable, but softer than before. Guan Shan searches his face and is disappointed to come up empty-handed.

“Trust me,” Guan Shan tells him, because he thinks that’s what He Tian needs to hear. A reassurance for them both, sealed with a spoken truth. “I know I’ve been sayin’ some shit for the past few months, but I’ve been stressed and panicked. I thought any longer and the agency would drop both of us. I didn’t want that for you — and for me, if I’m being fuckin’ honest. You know why I can’t afford it. I’m doin’ the best I can.

“But the matter of the fact is that both of us would’ve been fucked over. Or dead, if the stars chose not to align. But there’s a reason why I never followed through with my plans, He Tian. I would choose to keep fuckin’ things up with you over and over again, She Li be damned, if I wasn’t so fuckin’ paranoid.”

He Tian exhales, and it almost sounds defeated. 

“I want to say that your worries are stupid and unfounded, but it’s my family we’re talking about,” he says, exasperated. He rubs the back of his neck. “I know what he said, but there’s no guarantee my brother can convince the board to let us stay after this. We ended up losing more than we gained.”

“I guess we’re gonna have to wait and see,” Guan Shan mutters. “Not like we can do much else otherwise. And we can think about our own decision in the time bein’.”

“Three months,” He Tian exhales, wispy. “I don’t even remember the last time we had this much free time.” A huff. “What do we do?”

“Relax, for one,” Guan Shan replies, remembering Cheng’s threat. One step out of line and Guan Shan wouldn’t doubt that they’d be put under house arrest.  “Properly heal. Take a vacation somewhere — the fuckin’ Bahamas, maybe. I can cook, you can pick up guitar again. Or we can try out new things.”

The look He Tian gives him is amused and smirking. 

“Yeah?” He Tian goads, twisting to face him. His eyes glitter darkly. “What kinds of new things, sweetheart?”

Guan Shan scoffs in disgust, rolling his eyes. ”You’re a pervert,” he replies, gruff. And then, much less of an afterthought this time, and just because he can: “Sir.”

He Tian’s laugh is one of the most honest things Guan Shan has heard in a while. It curls him at the waist, brings color to his cheeks. Guan Shan can’t help the smile that breaks his own lips, warmed to the core. 

“That was so fucking uncalled for,” He Tian chuckles when he recovers, threading his fingers through the hand in Guan Shan’s lap. The touch makes him flutter. “And unnecessary, too.”

“Excuse me for not knowin’ you were capable of poppin’ a boner in the middle of a job.”

“You did it on purpose. Don’t lie.”

“Yeah, right. I’d never fuckin’ admit it even if I did.”

He Tian hums in amusement, eyes a bit shuttered. Guan Shan has little defense against the way He Tian shifts against him then, throwing a leg over Guan Shan’s so he’s straddling him, on his knees and careful of his stitching, pressing a hand against Guan Shan’s chest until he’s laid out beneath him. Guan Shan can feel his warmth, his weight, smell the mint of toothpaste and the unscented lotion. He Tian leans down, devilish.

“I bet I could make you,” he whispers against Guan Shan’s throat, kisses littered on sensitive skin. Guan Shan shudders as wet warmth presses against his pulse, and when he closes his eyes, the sensation is magnified.

“You think you can do a lot of things,” he mutters as He Tian leaves a trail up his neck, along his jaw. 

“Yeah?” The reverb of his voice trembles through him, every vibration absorbed. “Like what?”

Guan Shan smirks, waist shifting on the sheets as He Tian pulls back to look at him, eyes hooded. 

“You tell me, sir,” Guan Shan murmurs. He Tian smiles, challenging. 

And when Guan Shan closes the space between them, fingers threading through black hair, he thinks He Tian is the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted.