Against the Algorithm

Chapter 25: Spotlight

To him.

And now that the world had seen her—he wasn't going to let her face it alone. Not when she belonged to them. Not when she had already, fully, absolutely, belonged to him.

Yao sat at the far end of the couch in the common room, her long legs folded beneath her, the soft sleeves of her team-issued sweater pulled down almost past her fingertips as she scrolled slowly through her phone, biting her bottom lip in that unconscious, distracted way she always did when she was focused on something a little too intently.

Around her, the others were still talking, still complaining about the photo release, still venting their frustrations in different volumes and tones—but she was quieter than usual, her silence edged not with discomfort, but with a growing flush that had already crept across her cheeks, staining her skin the soft pink of startled embarrassment. Her thumb hovered over a paused screen, her eyes wide as she blinked in disbelief at the comment nestled between countless others. And then, almost too softly to catch, she squeaked. It was the kind of sound that turned heads immediately. Not because it was loud but because it came from her .

Sicheng, who had been seated across the room, leaning back in the chair with his arms crossed, his jaw tight and his brows furrowed as he flipped through his own phone's notifications, immediately looked up.

His gaze locked on her. And she was frozen. Eyes wide. Cheeks burning. Fingers gripping her phone a little too tightly. He was up and crossing the room before she could even react, his voice low and firm.

"Yao."

She looked up, startled, her lips parting as if she wasn't sure whether to hide the phone or throw it across the room.

He didn't wait. His hand reached down, deft and precise, plucking the phone from her grasp with a smoothness that didn't ask for permission—because he didn't need it, not when she looked that shaken. His eyes flicked to the screen.

Paused.

Read.

And froze.

The comment was short. The image attached to it wasn't explicit, but it was enough. A suggestive edit of Yao's face placed over a delicate, overly stylized Lolita cosplay frame, complete with ruffled skirts, stockings, and a caption that read: "Tell me she wouldn't be perfect in this."

Sicheng's entire expression turned cold. His thumb hovered over the screen, his jaw clenched, and that sharp, slicing heat that burned beneath the surface of his otherwise unreadable demeanor began to rise in full, unrelenting force. Because this wasn't admiration. This was objectification.

And she—his girl—had no idea what it even meant.

Still flustered, still clutching at the sleeves of her sweater like they might hide her, Yao looked up at him, her voice barely audible. "Why... why would they want to see me dressed in that?"

It wasn't judgment.

It wasn't disdain.

It was genuine confusion.

Innocent.

Honest.

Unaware.

And that's when Sicheng felt it, a wave of cold, hard fury colliding with the memory that had haunted him ever since their team medical check-up weeks ago.

The doctor's words echoed like steel behind his eyes:

"You need to be mindful, protective, and watchful over her. Because she might not pick up on some social cues the way you do. If someone cracks a dirty joke, or makes a very suggestive pass at her, she may or may not get it."