Weight of the Mask
[📘 Content Warning:
This story contains Boys’ Love (BL) themes. It explores deep emotional connections between two male characters and includes intense moments. This work is pure fiction. Reader discretion is advised.]
Zhan lay curled on the cold warehouse floor.
Wrists no longer bound.
His body too broken to move.
They hadn’t bothered to tie him to the chair anymore—there was no strength left in him to run.
A heavy chain clamped around his ankle, fixed to a rusted pipe.
The final insult to his already shattered body.
His breathing was shallow, every rise and fall of his chest a reminder of the bruises blooming across his ribs.
Dried blood stained his shirt, his lips cracked and parched.
One side of his face was bruised deep purple.
A dark trail running from the edge of his forehead to his jaw.
Pain pulsed in waves, sharp and relentless.
But it wasn’t the pain that haunted him most.
It was the silence.
The kind that lingered after trust was broken.
He kept his eyes closed, listening to the faint drip of water somewhere nearby.
The scuff of boots echoing in the corridor outside.
His mind drifted—not to escape the pain, but to remember what he was fighting for.
Yibo.
His Bobo.
A face that once felt like home.
A voice that used to be his calm in chaos.
Zhan’s throat tightened.
He wasn’t angry.
No, not with Yibo.
Not even now.
Because he knew—if Yibo had known the truth…
If he had known everything Zhan had done was for him—he would have never let this happen.
But the truth had come too late.
And now, Zhan wasn’t sure if it would ever reach him.
He thought of his aunt—her quiet strength, the way she always believed in him, no matter how bad things got.
Of Mr. Qiao’s calm advice, always guiding him without saying much.
He thought of Uncle Chen.
Of his own parents.
They were the reason he started all of this.
The reason he couldn’t give up now.
Twenty-seven years of purpose.
Twenty-seven years of silence.
All bleeding into this one moment.
Would it all end like this?
Would he become another ghost in the past—like his parents?
Zhan closed his eyes tighter.
A soft exhale left his cracked lips.
No.
Not yet.
He wasn’t done.
Even if his body was breaking, his will was not.
He had promised.
And he would hold on—until the very end.
——————————————————-
Yibo stood in the quiet of Meilin’s sitting room.
Fists clenched tightly at his sides.
The truth burned through him—raw and unforgiving.
Every word, every image, every memory of his childhood now rewired into something cruel.
That man… wasn’t his father.
And Zhan… Zhan had endured all this for him.
Mr. Qiao placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
“Bobo, listen. I know you want to do something. I know you want justice. But right now—don’t act on impulse. Not while Zhan is still in his custody.”
Yibo’s jaw tensed.
His eyes shimmered with restrained fury.
Meilin stepped forward, her voice gentle but firm.
“He’s right, Bobo. You have every reason to be angry. But Zhan’s life depends on every step we take now.”
Yibo nodded slowly, breath sharp through his nose.
“Then tell me… what can be done? How do we get him back?”
He turned to Mr. Qiao.
Eyes burning with a desperation that hadn’t faded since the moment he learned the truth.
“We need a plan.”
Yibo said.
“Now.”
Mr. Qiao exchanged a glance with Meilin.
Then he spoke, quiet and deliberate.
“We have one option. But it’s dangerous.”
“I don’t care.”
“If it gets Zhan out, I’ll do anything.”
Yibo said.
“You’ll have to go back.”
Mr. Qiao said
“To Wang Estate. To him.”
Yibo blinked.
“You want me to pretend like nothing happened?”
Meilin nodded.
“He trusts you. Or at least, he thinks you trust him again. That’s your only leverage now.”
A long silence stretched.
Yibo’s throat tightened.
His entire body recoiled at the thought of seeing Wang Zheng again.
Of calling him father.
Of pretending that the blood on Zhan’s face didn’t haunt him every waking second.
But he also knew—it was the only way.
Yibo closed his eyes for a long breath.
When he opened them, something inside him had shifted.
“Fine.”
He said.
“I’ll go back. I’ll be the perfect son.”
He had already made an excuse to Wang Zheng earlier—that he needed time to clear his head, get some space.
The perfect lie to buy himself time.
By night, Yibo stood once again at the gates of the Wang Estate.
His car rolled into the driveway with the same calculated elegance it always had.
His posture was straight.
His expression—neutral.
But his hands were clenched hard on the steering wheel before stepping out.
His mind replaying every truth he now knew.
The lies.
The blood.
The betrayal.
And now he had to smile through it.
Wang Zheng welcomed him with a wary smile.
His eyes scanning his son’s face.
“I am hoping you’d come to your senses now.”
He said, motioning Yibo inside.
Yibo forced a smile.
One he didn’t feel.
One that made his skin crawl.
“I needed time to think.”
Yibo said.
“You were right Dad. Emotions cloud judgment.”
Wang Zheng’s hand clapped down on his shoulder with forced warmth.
“Good boy.”
Yibo didn’t flinch.
He smiled.
Just like he was taught.
Behind the closed door of his room, he sat on the edge of his bed.
The house was silent, but the room… the room started to feel like a prison.
“The same bed he used to lie in—naïve, blind, comfortable.
Now it felt like a trap.
But he wasn’t afraid anymore.
Because this time, he wasn’t the weapon.
He was the one aiming it.
———————————————-
The next day at the office, Yibo and Mr. Qiao began coordinating in silence.
Hidden beneath layers of professionalism.
Every nod, every glance carried more weight than words.
Back in his cabin, Yibo lost in deep thoughts:
Now that he knows the truth about himself, everything feels strange—unfamiliar.
The company, the office he once believed was his legacy… it all feels hollow.
Like he never truly belonged here.
Nothing was his.
Not the name, not the bloodline, not the empire he once thought he’d inherit.
It made him feel suffocated—as if the walls of his world were closing in.
And in the middle of that storm, all he could think about was Zhan.
Every second that passed felt like a punishment.
Every breath wasted was one less chance to save him.
Yibo was desperate now—burning with only one purpose:
To get to Zhan, no matter what it cost.
And then it hit him—like a wave that knocked the air out of his lungs.
The only thing that was ever real… was Zhan’s love.
Unshaken. Unconditional. True.
Everything else that had surrounded him all these years—power, legacy, family—was a beautifully crafted lie.
And realizing that made it hurt even more.
Because he could’ve listened.
Just once.
Could’ve trusted Zhan instead of letting insecurity and anger speak first.
The guilt settled deep in his chest, heavier than grief.
If something happened to Zhan…
He’d never forgive himself.
————————————————
Wang Zheng summoned Mr. Qiao into his office.
“He’s been captured.”
Wang Zheng said calmly, sipping his tea.
“Xiao Zhan—Li Han and Qian Meiyu’s son. We have him.”
Mr. Qiao kept his expression blank, carefully masking the storm inside him.
“You’re sure it’s him?”
Wang Zheng nodded.
“The pieces finally fell into place. He knows where the evidence is hidden. It’s only a matter of time before he talks.”
Mr. Qiao feigned surprise.
“So… what’s the next step?”
“Yibo isn’t a threat. Not anymore.”
Wang Zheng said, his voice dismissive.
“He believes in me again. That’s enough. But Zhan—he’s being moved. The warehouse is compromised. Once I get what I need… he dies.”
Mr. Qiao’s fists clenched silently behind his back.
Wang Zheng continued,
“And once Yibo’s no longer useful… I’ll eliminate him too. Just like the others.”
“If that’s what needs to be done.”
Mr. Qiao said smoothly.
“I think, we could involve Yibo in this. After all, he’s practical. You’ve raised him to value strategy over sentiments. He might even help us extract the truth from Zhan.”
Wang Zheng narrowed his eyes.
“Are you sure we should include Yibo?”
Qiao leaned forward slightly, voice smooth but deliberate.
“Think about it. After what Yibo found out about Zhan—about the lies he’s been keeping—I doubt he trusts him anymore.”
“And that tension? We can use it. He didn’t even question you when he handed Zhan over. That kind of obedience says something, doesn’t it?”
“Our Bobo isn’t weak. Never was. He’s sharp. Unemotional when it counts. Just like you trained him to be.”
“If we involve him now, while he’s still uncertain… it might just be the key to getting Zhan to break. Strategically speaking, having Yibo on our side would be invaluable.”
Qiao paused, letting his words settle—his tone respectful, his posture humble.
He was weighing every word, planting each one with precision.
Wang Zheng’s smile returned, pleased by the suggestion.
“Smart thinking, Qiao. Let’s see how the boy proves himself.”
But Mr. Qiao was laying the groundwork.
Including Yibo meant keeping him informed.
And keeping him informed meant saving Zhan.
Later that day, as Wang Zheng got pulled into a board meeting.
Mr. Qiao seized the opportunity.
He slipped out quietly and messaged Yibo to meet him in the underground parking lot.
Yibo arrived within minutes.
Tension humming in his frame.
“What happened, Uncle?”
Mr. Qiao didn’t waste time.
“Bobo, they’re planning to move Zhan. Soon. And then kill him.”
Yibo’s heart dropped.
“What…?!”
“How do you know?”
“Wang Zheng told me everything. I pretended to support him. Suggested involving you so we can stay close to their plan. You’ll know every step they’re taking. That’ll give us a chance to get to Zhan.”
Yibo ran a hand through his hair, trying to steady his breath.
“But…”
Mr. Qiao warned.
“You’ll have to play your part. Cold. Ruthless. He can’t suspect you. You may even have to say things that’ll hurt Zhan—break him a little. Are you ready for that?”
Yibo didn’t answer at first.
Mr. Qiao looked at him gently.
His voice thick with meaning.
“Bobo… your father lived with one deep regret—that he couldn’t save his brother-like friend.”
“If Liang Chen and Meilin wanted, they could’ve taken you and Zhan far away. Started over. Lived quietly and happily somewhere no one could find them.”
He paused.
“But they didn’t.”
“They stayed. Because your father believed Zhan’s parents deserved justice. And your mother… even after losing everything, she silently continued what Liang Chen began.”
“She raised Zhan to be strong. To finish what his Uncle Chen couldn’t.”
Mr. Qiao stepped closer.
“And now… it’s your turn.”
“You carry his blood. His fire. If you have to be ruthless to do the right thing—don’t hesitate.”
“Zhan is already fighting—for his parents. And for the man who picked him up from the ashes… carried him into a new life after everything he knew was burned to the ground.”
“You must fight too—for the truth. For what your father never got the chance to finish.”
Yibo’s jaw tightened.
He slowly nodded.
“I will.”
He said softly, eyes steady.
“I won’t let him down.”
“If that’s what it takes to save Zhan… I’ll do it.”
He looked at Mr. Qiao.
“Are you going to tell this to Mom?”
Mr. Qiao nodded gently.
“I have to. But your mother is strong. She’ll manage.”
As he walked back to his cabin, Yibo’s fists curled tightly at his sides.
Every memory with Zhan surged inside him—the smiles, the warmth, the softness of that voice.
He whispered under his breath, voice trembling:
“Zhan-ge… hold on. I’m coming for you. I swear—I’ll bring you home. Whatever it costs.”
And for the first time in days, his eyes burned.
Not with helplessness, but with resolve.
But the clock was ticking.
And the stakes had never been higher.
———————————————————–
The sky outside had long turned indigo.
The last traces of daylight vanished beyond the horizon.
Soft, recessed lights glowed in the Wang Estate study.
Casting golden pools of warmth across the marble floor, masking the coldness in the room.
Wang Zheng took his seat at the front of the room.
A glass of whiskey in hand, while Yibo stood opposite him, arms crossed.
Hiding the war inside him with practiced ease.
Mr. Qiao lingered nearby, expression unreadable, as always.
“We have to move the boy.”
Wang Zheng says, swirling his drink.
His voice is unnervingly casual, like he’s discussing a logistics problem—not a life.
Yibo’s jaw clenched.
The words sliced through him.
Move the boy!
As if Zhan is cargo.
Replaceable.
Disposable.
Just hearing it made his stomach turn.
But he kept his expression flat, his voice smooth.
“That makes sense.”
Yibo said, stepping closer.
“The warehouse isn’t exactly inconspicuous. If we want to get the truth out of him, we need somewhere more… private. Secure.”
Wang Zheng gave a slow nod, pleased by the agreement.
Mr. Qiao chimed in, his tone supportive.
“It would also minimize the risk of exposure. Too many people know about that location already.”
Yibo nodded, hiding the churn in his chest.
Every second of this felt wrong.
But he forced himself to stay in character—the dutiful son, loyal and composed.
He wasn’t sure how long he could wear the mask before it cracked.
“We’ll go there tomorrow.”
Wang Zheng continued.
“I want to see him myself. See how far he’s willing to go before he breaks.”
Something twisted in Yibo’s gut.
He dipped his head, carefully neutral.
“I’ll come with you Dad.”
Wang Zheng smiled faintly.
“Good. We’ll finish what we started.”
Yibo’s fingers curled at his side.
In that moment—his father relaxed in his chair.
Mr. Qiao standing in alliance, the room cloaked in the false calm of twilight—Yibo made a silent vow.
The next move has to be perfect.
For Zhan.
For the truth.
For everything that had been stolen.
Because one wrong move—and Zhan might never see another sunrise.
He has to play perfect.
He has to act ruthless.
He has to win.
——————————————-
The next day arrives too fast.
Inside the sleek black Audi, silence reigns.
Wang Zheng and Yibo sit in the back seat—Wang Zheng cool and composed.
Yibo rigid, unreadable, his jaw tight.
Mr. Qiao rides up front beside the driver, hands folded in his lap, gaze sharp beneath calm features.
The morning haze presses close to the windows as the car glides toward the outskirts of town.
The city slowly recedes, swallowed by vast stretches of muted gray and silence.
Tension coils inside the car like a second presence.
Yibo’s fists clench against his knees, knuckles white.
The unknown waits behind those walls—and so does Zhan.
The closer they get to the warehouse, the tighter his grip becomes on the edge of the seat.
He can’t stop imagining what he’ll find inside.
What fresh horrors might greet him.
And what he might do—if he loses control.
The car pulled up.
The warehouse loomed ahead—cold, brutal, quiet.
He stepped out.
Every muscle was tense.
Inside, Zhan lay on the ground, barely conscious.
His wrists were unbound, but his leg was chained.
His body was limp.
Skin discolored and bruised.
But the moment he heard footsteps—three sets—he forced his swollen eyes open.
Wang Zheng.
Mr. Qiao.
And then—
Yibo!
And Yibo’s heart skipped a beat the second their eyes met.
His face drained of all color.
The bruises.
The blood.
The sheer wreck of the man he loves!
His knees threatened to buckle, and for a second,
He almost forgot how to breathe.
He quickly turned his face away, forcing himself to look at the floor—anywhere but at Zhan.
Because if he caught sight of him like that again, he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop the storm raging inside him.
Zhan’s heart lurched.
His throat burned.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
His voice cracked, barely a whisper.
“Bo…bo…”
And the sound sliced through Yibo like a blade.
He wanted to scream.
To run to him.
To break every bone in the monster standing beside him.
Instead, he clenched his fists.
Silent request ran wild through his mind—
‘Please, Zhan-ge. Don’t say my name again. I’m begging you. I need to hold this mask together… or I’ll lose you.’
Wang Zheng smirked, taking a few steps toward Zhan.
His hands clasped behind his back.
“Well, well…!”
He said, voice thick with mockery.
“Hope the hospitality had been adequate. You seem… comfortable.”
Zhan didn’t answer.
His gaze didn’t shift from Yibo.
Not once.
Wang Zheng continued, grinning.
“And look who I brought today. My son. Thought you’d appreciate the family reunion.”
Still, Zhan said nothing.
Just kept looking at Yibo.
And Yibo, for the life of him, couldn’t look back more than a second.
Wang Zheng lifted his chin and gestured.
A guard stepped forward.
With a gun.
He handed it to Wang Zheng, who then turned and offered it to Yibo.
“Yibo, shoot him.”
Wang Zheng said, voice calm.
Yibo froze.
His eyes widened, every muscle in his body locking.
For a second, he wondered if he had heard it wrong.
But no—his father stood there, composed, expectant.
The words echoed in his ears, deafening.
A cold sweat broke across his back.
He turned his head slightly.
Stunned, masking the horror rising in him.
And in that breathless silence, with the gun heavy in his hand, Yibo realized—
This isn’t a test of loyalty.
It is a line…
And he is being asked to cross it!
[To be continued…]
The Red Ribbon 