The Shadows (Underworld 4) JH

22: Back to Square One

Junhui had been trying to rebuild his life, piecing together the fragments of his shattered resolve. Italy was supposed to be his refuge, a place to forget, to heal. His days were filled with modeling shoots, late-night meetings, and the hustle of business—a carefully constructed routine designed to keep his mind occupied, to drown out the echoes of a past he was desperate to escape.

But fate had other plans.

It was a crisp autumn afternoon in Milan, the kind that painted the city in shades of gold and amber. Junhui was on his way to yet another appointment, his thoughts far away from anything to do with Minghao. He had almost convinced himself that the obsession was behind him, that he could move on. Almost.

As he turned a corner, his breath caught in his throat. There, walking leisurely down the street, was Minghao. The world seemed to stop in that moment, the bustling city around him fading into a blur. All Junhui could see was Minghao, his graceful movements, the way the light played on his hair, the subtle elegance that drew Junhui in like a moth to a flame.

It was as if time itself had reversed. The months of painful separation, the desperate attempts to forget—they all crumbled away, leaving only the raw, unfiltered desire that had once consumed him. His heart pounded in his chest, the rush of emotions almost too much to bear. It wasn't just attraction. It was something far more dangerous, more insidious. It was obsession, and it had returned with a vengeance.

Junhui's mind raced. How could this be happening? He was in Italy to start fresh, to leave all the chaos behind. And yet, here was the very source of his torment, strolling casually through the same city. Was it a coincidence, or was fate playing some cruel trick on him?

He couldn't take his eyes off Minghao. Every step the artist took, every turn of his head, was a magnet drawing Junhui closer, pulling him back into the abyss he had fought so hard to escape. His hands trembled, his breath quickened, and before he knew it, he was following Minghao. He kept his distance, his movements calculated, his eyes never leaving his target.

Minghao seemed oblivious to the storm brewing behind him, lost in his own thoughts as he browsed through a nearby art gallery. But for Junhui, it was as if he had been struck by lightning. The old feelings, the ones he had buried deep within himself, surged to the surface. The compulsion to be near Minghao, to possess him, was overwhelming.

In his mind, a thousand scenarios played out. He could approach Minghao, act casual, pretend that this was a chance encounter. But he knew it wouldn't stop there. The moment he spoke to Minghao, the dam would break. All the pent-up emotions, the longing, the anger, the jealousy—they would all come flooding back. He wasn't sure he could control it.

But the thought of letting Minghao walk away, of losing sight of him again, was unbearable. Junhui's breath grew ragged as he fought to keep his emotions in check. He knew he was teetering on the edge of a precipice, one wrong move and he'd fall back into the darkness that had nearly destroyed him before.

And yet, he couldn't look away.

The streets of Milan had never felt so small, so suffocating. Each step Minghao took seemed to echo in Junhui's ears, a siren's call pulling him closer. The rational part of his mind screamed at him to turn back, to walk away before it was too late. But the stronger, darker part of him— the part that had never really let go—pushed him forward.

He could feel his pulse racing, his hands clenching into fists as he struggled to maintain his composure. This was more than just attraction; it was a fever, a madness that had taken hold of him once more. And deep down, he knew that no matter how far he ran, no matter how much he tried to escape, he could never truly be free of Minghao.