The Secret Under the Black Shirt

Three years. Song Zhinian thought she had buried that relationship deep within the cubicles of office buildings. But when Shen Yelang descended as the new department director, those familiar cold, chiseled features and the black shirt always buttoned to his throat instantly shattered every pretense she had. He had changed—more obsessive, more invasive than before. That night in the alley, his grip on her wrist felt like it could shatter bone, his voice scraped like sandpaper: "You think you can get away?" Under the streetlight, the tattoo revealed when he rolled up his sleeve sent a chill down her spine—it was the abbreviation of her name, coiled menacingly at the center of a dark, jagged totem.