It was the little details that made Yixing pause at the door of his apartment, the scruff of a faded dirty foot print, the candy wrapper in the corner and of course, the cigarette ashes. For one thing, Yixing did not wear shoes in that size, and for another, he abhorred eating candies and lighting up a stick. The only explanation for these little clues was someone else had been here, waiting. Years of pledging and living the life of an underground VIP member had made Yixing quite aware about his surroundings. Giving the door lock a quick glance—no sign of forced entry—Yixing pushed the door open. Very slowly.

There was a familiar click and the muzzle of a gun was in his face. Yixing, however, did not flinch when he saw the familiar gaze of the weapon hovering steadily between his eyes. He only smiled and glanced to the owner of the gun—a deceptively innocent face greeted him—and then dropped his gaze somewhere below the stranger’s shoulder, his head tilting to his right as a sign.

The other man frowned at him and glanced where Yixing was gesturing with his head. Click. There was no flinch. No jerking back. As if he had expected Yixing to pull out his own weapon the moment he had cocked the safety of the gun.

Yixing’s lips curled up in a smirk and he pressed his own gun into the other man’s chest, nudging him into the apartment.

“Zhang Yixing,” The other man said as he took a careful step back and retracted his gun—still holding it with