Chapter 228: Milk and Masks

Morning light seeped in slowly like a highly penetrative liquid through the entire smart glass wall on the east side of Star Dome Hall.

The light, filtered by a special coating, lost its sharpness and warmth, spreading across the polished stone floor and dividing the empty hall into silent strips of light and shadow.

Yang Yi sat in a high-backed chair, her back perfectly straight.

She had changed into a clean, plain-colored shirt, her sleeves rolled up to reveal pale wrists where faint blue veins were clearly visible, as if last night’s horrific transformation had drained away some of her flesh, leaving only a thinner, more fragile outline.

A cup of water sat on the small round table before her; she stared at the water’s surface, her gaze empty, like the smoldering embers of a dying fire.

A faint trace of blood still seemed to linger in the air, but she knew the high-temperature cleaner had completely washed away all traces of last night—even a single cell remained.

Footsteps echoed from the long corridor connecting to the inner chamber, and Yang Yi’s fingers twitched slightly.

Chris walked in, carrying a tray with a cup of milk steaming faintly and a small plate of perfectly toasted toast.

He wore linen home clothes, his hair disheveled, dark shadows beneath his eyes.

He placed the tray on the table before her, then pulled up a chair and sat down in front of her, silently watching her, as if observing a dream that might shatter at any moment.

Yang Yi did not move, not even a flicker of her eyelashes.

But Chris could feel that the cold shadow enveloping her had, at his arrival, trembled imperceptibly.

He finally spoke, his voice dry from long silence, forcing it to sound ordinary: “Even though you said you no longer need food, warm food might at least lift your spirits.” He gently pushed the tray toward her. “The milk should be just right, and the toast—I made it myself, with a bit of honey.”

Yang Yi did not want to tell him that human food was nothing but foul, rotting filth to her.

Her gaze shifted from the water cup to the milk; a paper-thin film had formed on its milky surface.

Her eyes fell on Chris’s hand resting on the table—his fingers curled unconsciously, his knuckles wrapped in thick medical gauze, beneath which lay the wounds she had inflicted in her agony last night.

She stared at that hand for a long time, so long that Chris almost believed she would not react at all.

Slowly, she extended her hand and lightly touched the gauze on his knuckles with her fingertip.

The motion was as light as a feather brushing by, yet it was like a stone dropped into still water—Chris immediately clasped her hand in his.

He pressed her hand against his face and kissed it gently.

Yang Yi instantly pulled her hand away.

“Thank you for last night,” Yang Yi said politely, her voice soft, flat, more like a neutral statement. Yet in this morning, in this space shared only by the two of them, it carried a weary surrender.

The two fell silent again, but this silence was no longer a barren ice plain—it was a lake shrouded in morning mist, beneath which something had begun to stir once more.

Yang Yi lifted the milk, did not drink, but held it between both palms, feeling the warmth seeping into her hands.

Heat passed through the porcelain cup, inch by inch, creeping into her icy fingers, then climbing up her arms, trying to melt the deeper frost frozen within.

Chris picked up the cup of water before her and took a sip; the sound of his swallowing throat was clear in the silence.

“You…” Chris paused, as if searching for words, then abandoned complex phrasing and simply asked, “Does it still hurt?”

Yang Yi lifted her gaze from the ripples in the milk and looked at him.

Her eyes were complex: scrutiny, a fleeting stab of pain, an enduring distance—but at the deepest core, perhaps even she refused to admit it, there was a faint, helpless confusion at this blunt concern.

She did not answer whether it hurt or not—it was meaningless, just as she had once told him: humans could never truly feel another’s pain.

Instead, she turned her gaze back to the window: the plants in the glass greenhouse thrived, their leaves lush and green, starkly contrasting the winter’s barren courtyard.

“Today,” she suddenly spoke, her voice still soft, as if muttering to herself, “I have no schedule.”

Chris blinked, then understood.

It was a rare, deliberate “blank”—she… had canceled all her appointments.

“Really?” Chris exclaimed, delighted. “Then we can watch a movie at home? Play games? Or take a walk around your big estate? Damn, this place is huge—I’ve been here days and still haven’t finished running every path…”

Yang Yi finally took a sip of milk; the warm liquid slid down her throat, bringing a foul, comforting warmth.

She set the cup down and looked at Chris’s face—his straight nose cast a faint shadow along his profile, his blue pupils, in the sunlight, the pale blue of chrysanthemums, like a summer sea under sunlight.

It was this man who had embraced the deformed monster last night.

The distance remained, like a thick, icy glass wall standing between them.

Trust had long been shattered, beyond repair.

But here, in this pale morning light, in this silence after survival, she decided to let out one breath.

"Let's take a walk," she said casually. "I've never seen it before."

Chris enthusiastically described the sights of Lingshu Estate; Yang Yi held the now-cooling milk, watching the world beyond the window—still distant, yet gradually brightening.

Winter was still cold, Star Dome Hall still terrifyingly empty—but somehow, the light had indeed come in.

The milk still smelled foul, but it was warm, and for this moment, neither of them wore any mask.

That was enough.