Chapter 60: Shot

Jian Yuche’s position was deliberate.

His body was angled to cover the gap where Lingyun’s shoulder met Zhenlan’s. His weight was balanced on the balls of his feet and his eyes tracked the survivors crowding the doorway—counting faces, watching hands, measuring distance.

Qiao Ren’s noise cut through it all. At least he wasn’t screaming anymore. That was a plus. But it had changed to a whimpering sound. Wet and ragged. His hand still clutched his shoulder, his blood slowing down as it soaked through his fingers.

The survivors pushed forward again causing their bodies to shift as their shoulders pressed together. The space between them and the barrier shrinking.

Lingyun didn’t move.

Zhenlan’s breathing was audible beside him. Controlled. Steady.

Chenghai’s jaw was tight, his posture rigid despite the bruising still visible on his ribs.

But Jian Yuche stayed where he was.

Watching.

Assessing...

Han Wei ’s eyes moved across the four men—Lingyun first, then Zhenlan, then Chenghai. They settled on Yuche last.

His voice was calm, flat as he sneered at the men. "Move."

It wasn’t a question.

Lingyun didn’t respond. His body stayed planted. His shoulders didn’t shift.

Zhenlan’s breathing continued. Steady. Unchanged.

Chenghai’s hands stayed loose at his sides.

Yuche held his position. His weight balanced. His eyes on Han Wei’s face.

Silence stretched between them. Not long. Just enough to feel the weight of it.

Han Wei’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t repeat himself. Didn’t raise his voice. Just stood there, waiting.

Then there was movement in the hallway.

Yuche’s eyes flicked toward it. A figure pushing through the crowd. Calm. Unhurried.

Lu Chen.

He stepped into view at the edge of the doorway. His body angled sideways to fit through the press of survivors. His face was neutral. No anger. No urgency.

His hand held one of the smaller guns that they had found in Chenghai’s room. It wasn’t raised, just there with the barrel pointed down toward the floor.

Yuche’s breathing stayed controlled.

Lu Chen moved forward. Two steps. Three. The survivors parted for him without being asked. His body slid into the space beside Han Wei, his presence filling the gap.

He didn’t look at Han Wei, didn’t acknowledge him, he just stood there, the gun still in his hand.

Qiao Ren’s whimpering continued. Wet. Desperate.

Lu Chen’s arm moved.

Smooth. Controlled. And not an ounce of hesitation.

The gun came up, the barrel rose in a clean arc, leveling out at chest height. His elbow locked. His wrist steady. The weapon pointed directly at the barrier.

At Yuche.

No warning. No words.

The gunshot was immediate.

The sound exploded in the confined space—a sharp, violent crack that filled the room, bounced off the walls, slammed into Yuche’s ears. The noise was physical. Overwhelming. It drowned out everything else—the voices, the whimpering, the breathing.

The impact hit a fraction of a second later.

His shoulder jerked backward. Hard. Sudden force driving into muscle and bone. The sensation was immediate—not pain yet, just pressure, like being punched by something impossibly fast and heavy.

His body reacted before his mind caught up. His weight shifted. His feet stumbled backward half a step. His arm dropped, the limb suddenly heavy, unresponsive.

Heat spread across his shoulder. Wet. Immediate.

The ringing in his ears was loud. Constant. A high-pitched whine that drowned out everything else. Voices became muffled. Movement became distant.

Yuche’s hand came up instinctively, reaching toward the wound. His fingers touched fabric. Wet fabric. The cloth was darkening, blood spreading outward from a point just below his collarbone. The stain grew quickly, soaking into the material, running down toward his chest.

His arm wouldn’t lift properly. The shoulder was compromised. Movement sent sharp signals through the muscle—not quite pain yet, but awareness. His body knew something was wrong.

He staggered but didn’t fall. His feet found balance. His weight redistributed. His good arm braced against his side.

The room went silent.

Everyone was staring.

Yuche’s eyes moved across the faces in the doorway. Wide eyes. Open mouths. Bodies frozen mid-motion.

Lingyun’s head had turned slightly. His eyes were on Yuche now, his expression tight, controlled.

Zhenlan’s breathing had changed. Faster. Sharper.

Chenghai’s jaw was clenched, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

Lu Chen stood at the front of the crowd. The gun was still raised. Still pointed at them. His arm hadn’t moved. His expression hadn’t changed.

Smoke drifted from the barrel. Thin. Barely visible.

Blood ran down Yuche’s chest now. He could feel it—warm, wet, soaking into his shirt, spreading across his skin. His shoulder throbbed. The pain was arriving now, delayed but insistent. Sharp. Deep.

His breathing was shallow. Controlled. His body wanted to react—to drop, to clutch the wound, to move—but he held still.

Lu Chen’s voice cut through the ringing.

"Kneel."

Not loud. Not shouting. Just calm. Controlled. Absolute.

The word hung in the air.

Yuche’s eyes moved to Lingyun. To Zhenlan. To Chenghai.

Their faces were tight. Assessing.

Unarmed.

Injured.

Outnumbered.

The gun was still raised. Still steady. Lu Chen’s finger rested on the trigger. His eyes moved across the four of them, waiting.

Lingyun’s jaw worked. His hands stayed at his sides. His breathing was controlled but his chest rose and fell faster now.

Zhenlan’s eyes flicked to the gun. To Lu Chen’s face. Back to the gun.

Chenghai’s fists uncurled slowly. His shoulders dropped slightly.

Yuche’s good hand pressed against his side. Blood soaked through his fingers. His shoulder burned. His arm hung useless.

Lingyun moved first.

His knees bent. Slowly. Controlled. He lowered himself to the floor, his hands bracing against his thighs, his head still up, his eyes still on Lu Chen.

Zhenlan followed. His movement was stiffer, more reluctant, but he went down. His knees hit the floor with a dull thud.

Chenghai’s breathing was audible as he lowered himself. His ribs protested—Yuche could see it in the way his face tightened—but he didn’t stop. He knelt.

Yuche’s legs bent.

Not dramatic. Not slow.

Just necessary.

His knees hit the floor. The impact sent a jolt through his shoulder. Pain flared—sharp, immediate. His good hand pressed harder against the wound. Blood kept coming.

He was on the ground now. His weight settled. His breathing shallow.

Lu Chen stood above them, the barrel trained on their heads. His arm was steady. His expression unchanged.

Qiao Ren’s whimpering continued from the floor near the bed. Wet. Desperate.

Blood spread across Yuche’s shirt. Dark. Visible. His shoulder throbbed with each heartbeat.

The four of them knelt in a line. Lingyun at the front. Zhenlan beside him. Chenghai next. Yuche at the end.

The gun stayed on them, Lu Chen’s finger rested on the trigger.

The room was silent except for the ringing in Yuche’s ears and the wet sound of Qiao Ren’s breathing.

Blood dripped from Yuche’s fingers onto the floor, the sound loud in his ears.