Against the Algorithm

Chapter 45: Quiet Claims and Soft Surrenders

His.

All of it.

Because somehow, without ever trying to be, she had become the center of everything. And if people like Kaya were her protectors? Well. They could get in line. Because he wasn't going anywhere.

It didn't take him long to find her. It never did. Not when it came to her. The base was quiet—too quiet for midafternoon, which told him Rui had either sent the team on errands or Kwon had dragged them into the meeting room to review footage, and either way, it meant he had time. Time he didn't plan on wasting.

Sicheng's steps were soundless down the hall, phone still in his back pocket, thoughts still lingering somewhere between the earlier call and the quiet thrum of possessiveness in his chest. A storm of quiet rage had already passed through his blood hours ago—cold, calculated, and handled with precision. Kaya's words still rang in his head, final and absolute. And yet it was only now, now, that the last of the tension in his shoulders began to loosen. Because he felt her nearby. That pull—silent, magnetic, undeniable. He reached the door to the gym, pushed it open with barely a breath of sound, and then—

There she was.

On the mat near the back wall, her hair swept into a loose high ponytail, wisps of platinum strands clinging to her neck and cheek, eyes closed in quiet concentration. Her arms were raised overhead, her back arching in a controlled stretch, and as she shifted fluidly into her next pose, one leg curled behind her in a graceful bend, foot held tightly by her opposite hand. Her breath was slow, rhythmic. Grounded.

She hadn't seen him yet.

And it took everything in him not to say anything. Not yet.

She looked... unreal.

The tight black leggings clung to her every movement like they were painted on, and that blood-red tank top—thin, almost gauzy—was barely keeping pace with the curve of her body. The sweat along her collarbone gleamed faintly under the recessed lights above, and as she inhaled, her chest rose with soft focus, her entire being folded into the pose, unaware, unguarded.

He could've looked away.

He didn't.

Sicheng took a step forward, slow and quiet, not out of hesitation but out of respect—because as much as her presence always lit something low and hot in his gut, it was her peace that made him still. She moved like she belonged to the air itself, delicate and balanced, and yet stronger than anyone gave her credit for.

His Xiǎo tùzǐ.

Stillness wrapped around her.

And all he could think was that the world had no damn clue what it had almost destroyed. And what it had failed to touch. He leaned against the doorframe, one arm crossing his chest, watching her with unreadable eyes, not saying a word. Not yet. Because there was something sacred about watching her like this. Unaware. Untouched. Completely and utterly herself. His breath caught, low and sharp in his throat. The moment her body arched back, hands steady on the mat and feet grounded, her torso lifting upward with quiet, impossible grace, Lu Sicheng went utterly still.

Her head tilted back slowly, the line of her throat fully exposed, the curve of her neck bared with absolute trust, with her eyes still closed and breath smooth—deep and even, completely unaware of the way she was unraveling him one slow, devastating second at a time. Her skin was flushed faintly from exertion, a soft sheen of sweat catching the light across her stomach as it stretched with the motion, ribs expanding beneath that clingy, crimson top that had no business being that thin or that tight.