The car rolled to a stop in front of Shu Yao's house, its headlights cutting through the thin mist that followed the evening rain. The street glistened like black glass, the air heavy with petrichor and silence.
George leaned slightly forward, one hand on the door handle, his gaze catching the faint tremor in Shu Yao's fingers as he reached for the latch.
"Wait," George said softly, turning toward his driver. "Open the door for him."
"Mr. George—" Shu Yao began, his voice faint, "I can do it myself—"
But the driver had already stepped out, rushing to open the door. Shu Yao hesitated for a breath, then murmured a quiet thank-you before stepping into the cold air. His shoes touched the damp pavement, and he clutched the paper bag of medicine close to his chest, bowing slightly toward George.
"Thank you, Mr. George," he said.
"Stop saying 'Mr. George,'" came the reply — firm, but not unkind. George's gaze flicked away, as if the words embarrassed him. "Just… George is fine."
Shu Yao blinked, his gaze slightly unfocused beneath the streetlight. The dull ache in his head made everything blur at the edges.
"No, Mr. George," he said quietly. "You're the company director's younger brother. It wouldn't be appropriate for me to address you so informally."
George gave a short sigh, his brows knitting. "It has nothing to do with Niklas. He and I aren't even alike."
Shu Yao swayed slightly, pressing a hand to his temple. "I'm sorry, Mr. George. I can't address you that way."
George's voice gentled. "Alright, alright," he murmured. "It's too cold. Don't stand here any longer — go and rest."
Shu Yao bowed his head again, murmuring his thanks. George watched him for a moment, lips parting as if he wanted to say something else, then closed them again with a quiet breath. Come on, Shu Yao, he thought. It's alright. Just go inside.
But Shu Yao suddenly turned back. "Mr, George—wait."
He looked up, startled. "Yes shu Yao?"
"You can't leave yet. I still have… two sets. Of your coats I wanted to return them to you."
George blinked, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "It's fine. Keep them."
"But they're too expensive—"
"I have thousands of them more," George interrupted gently. "Please, keep them, Shu Yao."
His voice softened, something unguarded slipping through. "Think of them as… a small token from me."
Shu Yao's eyes widened, confusion flickering across his pale face. "But—"
"They're not as valuable as you, Shu Yao."
The words slipped out before George could stop them. The instant silence that followed felt heavy and fragile. His heart jumped, heat crawling up his neck as his mind reeled.
Damn it.
He looked away quickly, clearing his throat. "Anyway… it's freezing. Don't stand out here too long. You haven't fully recovered yet."
Shu Yao hesitated, then nodded, blinking as if trying to process what he'd just heard. "Goodnight, Mr. George," he murmured softly.
"Mm." George only nodded, then added quickly, almost abrupt in his tone, "Good night, Shu Yao."
The car engine came to life again, humming low against the wet street. As it began to roll away, Shu Yao stood watching until the red taillights vanished into the fog. The wind bit at his skin; his breath clouded faintly in the air. He clutched the medicine bag tighter.
The rain had stopped, but the world still smelled of endings.
Shu Yao turned toward the gate, pushing it open with slow, deliberate motions. The metal creaked softly. When he reached the front door, his steps faltered. the door was locked.
His brows drew together. He reached into his pocket, pulling out his phone with trembling fingers, and dialed his mother's number.
It rang only once.
"Mother?" he asked quietly. "Why is the door locked?"
There was a pause — then a voice, hollow and tired, answered on the other end. "I didn't feel like staying at home."
Shu Yao froze. "But? Why?"
Her voice broke on the other end — trembling, unsteady, heavy with grief.
"Have you already forgotten what's happened these past few days?" she said, her words catching in her throat. "My sweet daughter was taken from me—just like that."
A long, shaky sigh followed, the sound of a woman who had been crying too long.
"I don't want to talk about it, Shu Yao. I can't. How could I stay in that house after what happened?"
He shut his eyes. The accusation stung, though he said nothing.
"I left the key under the mat," she continued. "Juju is still inside. I fed him before I left. I won't be coming back… not until after Christmas."
"Mother—"
But the call ended before he could finish.
The silence afterward felt suffocating. He lowered the phone, pressing it against his chest for a moment before slipping it into his pocket. Then, kneeling down, he lifted the doormat. The key was there, just as she said.
He unlocked the door and stepped inside.
The house greeted him with stillness. No lights, no warmth, only the faint sound of wind brushing against the windows. Shu Yao shut the door behind him, exhaling softly as if the weight of the night was pressing against his ribs.
The hallway stretched before him, dim and hollow. His footsteps sounded too loud in the emptiness, each one swallowed by the still air.
When he finally began to climb the stairs, he moved slowly, almost reverently, his hand gliding along the banister as though touching a memory.
Each step echoed faintly upward, vanishing into the quiet like a sigh.
When he reached his room, the first thing he saw was Juju — little juju — perched on the windowsill. The moment Juju saw him, he leapt down with a soft meow, padding quickly toward him.
Shu Yao's lips curved into a fragile smile. "Were you lonely?"
The cat tilted its head, green eyes bright and trusting. Shu Yao crouched and lifted him gently into his arms, pressing his cheek against the soft fur. The warmth was small, but real.
He set Juju on the bed, then placed the medicine bag on the table beside it. Pouring a glass of water, he took his pills quietly, the faint clink of glass echoing in the still room.
He didn't bother changing his clothes or turning on the heater. The exhaustion felt bone-deep, heavier than sleep itself. He simply pulled the sheets over himself, the scent of rain still clinging to him.
"Come here," he whispered, tapping the space beside him.
Juju climbed up and curled against his side, purring softly.
Shu Yao let his eyes close. His breath steadied. The pain dulled. The room, for all its emptiness, felt a little less cruel with that small heartbeat beside him.
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying with it the distant hum of city lights — and the faint echo of a car that was already too far away.
Shu Yao turned slightly under the sheets, clutching Juju closer.
The car rolled to a stop before the grand villa, its headlights slicing briefly through the dark. The night was heavy, the air sharp with the scent of pine and rain. The driver stepped out first, his shoes crunching softly on the gravel before he opened the back door.
George emerged, tall and composed, the faint sheen of the journey clinging to his immaculate suit. The wind tugged at his coat as he adjusted his cufflinks with a quiet precision. Above him, the villa loomed like a sleeping beast—silent, regal, and watchful.
Bai Qi had already arrived.
The iron gates swung open at George's approach. The sound echoed faintly across the marble courtyard, swallowed by the night. He walked slowly, each step deliberate, his expression unreadable beneath the pale glow of the lanterns.
Inside, Bai Qi waited near the entrance hall, a glass of whiskey dangling from his fingers. His hair was slightly disheveled, his eyes bright but cold—too bright for a man who smiled so easily.
George stopped a few feet away, his gaze steady.
"Bai Qi," he said quietly. "It's late. Why are you still awake?"
Bai Qi tilted his head, a lazy smile curving his lips. "Waiting," he said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "You were later than usual."
George exhaled softly, turning his gaze aside. "I had important things to attend."
"Important?" Bai Qi's voice cut through the stillness, sharp beneath the smooth tone. "Is Shu Yao that important?"
George's eyes flicked back to him—sharp, alert. "What do you mean by that?"
Bai Qi took a slow sip, letting the whiskey burn its way down before answering. "I saw everything," he said quietly. "You were carrying him into your car."
"He was sick," George replied, his tone firm, his gaze steady once more. "I took him to the hospital."
For a moment, silence fell between them. The ticking clock seemed to grow louder. Bai Qi's smile lingered, but it no longer reached his eyes.
"Sick," he murmured, almost to himself. His fingers tightened around the glass. As if I really care about that, the thought slid bitterly through his mind, and yet the words refused to leave his lips.
Finally, he looked up, his voice regaining its practiced calm. "It's late, Uncle," he said, forcing the politeness that barely masked the venom beneath. "You should rest."
George studied him for a long moment. Then, without another word, he nodded slightly and turned toward the stairs. His footsteps faded slowly up the corridor until only silence remained.
Bai Qi stood still in the quiet, the false smile breaking apart the moment George disappeared from sight. His grip loosened; the glass clicked faintly against his ring.
"So," he whispered into the emptiness, "you really do have my uncle's charm, Shu Yao."
The words tasted like poison with envy.
He set the glass down, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. A shadow crossed his face, the air around him turning heavier, colder. His eyes narrowed toward the window, where the faint moonlight spilled across the marble floor.
"But by tomorrow," he murmured, his tone dropping into something dark and certain, "you'll regret it."
He turned away, his reflection catching briefly in the glass—half-lit, half-lost in shadow. Then he disappeared down the corridor, the echo of his steps trailing behind like the last breath of a dying flame.
Outside, the wind began to rise again, brushing against the tall iron gates that had once opened so gracefully—now creaking as if they, too, were whispering a warning to the night.
George reached the upper hall, the faint flicker of candlelight tracing gold along the corridor's walls. His mind was heavy, his body weary. He only wanted silence—something the house rarely gave.
But silence was not waiting for him.
Leaning against the doorway of his chamber stood Armin. The young man's posture was casual, yet his eyes betrayed something colder—curiosity laced with judgment.
George halted, his voice low. "Now You too?"
Armin pushed himself from the wall, folding his arms. "So tell me, Uncle," he said evenly, "do you really have that kind of relationship with Bai qi's assistant?"
George's brows drew together, but his tone remained composed. "What kind of relationship are you referring to?"
"The boy," Armin replied, stepping closer. "Shu Yao."
George inhaled, slow and measured. "What do you want to know?"
Armin's eyes glinted. "I heard your conversation. The one in the hallway."
For the briefest moment, George's expression faltered—just enough to betray surprise. Then it vanished. He cleared his throat quietly. "I'm not sure which conversation you're referring to."
"The moment he fainted," Armin said, his voice sharp now. "You spoke to him like he was more than just an assistant."
George turned slightly away, his hand brushing the doorknob. "I don't know how to explain it," he said at last, "but that boy is someone important to me."
The honesty hung there, simple and disarming.
Armin's jaw tightened. His thoughts churned beneath his calm exterior. So you too… after him.
He let out a slow sigh and stepped back. "Whatever," he muttered, his tone deliberately indifferent.
George gave a faint smile—subtle, restrained, almost private. He wasn't afraid to admit it, Without another word, he turned the handle and slipped into his room, closing the door behind him. The latch clicked softly.
Armin remained there for a moment, staring at the closed door, his reflection faint in the polished brass. His pulse was uneven, his mind a blur. He wanted to hate Shu Yao— too it would be easier if he could. But he couldn't.
Not when the boy reminded him of someone else.
He began walking back down the corridor, his footsteps echoing softly against the marble. The house felt colder now, emptier, as though every shadow had begun whispering secrets he didn't want to hear.
Bai Qi despise him, he thought bitterly. Uncle defends him.
He scoffed under his breath. "What's going on with them?"
Yet the question wasn't born of mockery—it was unease. The image of Shu Yao lingered in his mind: quiet, pale, eyes full of that soft, inexplicable sorrow. Not the same face as his beloved once was—but something in his silence, the gentleness in his restraint—it mirrored him far too closely.
Armin reached his own room, his hand lingering on the door. For a moment, he simply stood there, watching the faint glow of the candlelight fade against the hall. Then, with a quiet exhale, he shut the door.
The sound was soft—but the silence that followed was heavier than before.