The tension from Xu Haoran and Jiang Cheng's exchange lingered like smoke in the classroom. Xu Haoran sat stiff, jaw locked, while Jiang Cheng leaned back in his chair with that insolent half-smile, as if the entire thing had been beneath him. A few students whispered, but An Ran kept her head down, pen steady.
When the bell rang, she slipped out quietly. Huang Ling's narrowed glare followed her until the door closed.
---
Outside, a black sedan idled by the gates. The driver opened the door with practiced precision. An Ran slid in, her shoulders sinking against the leather seat. Her mother wanted her home early today, which always meant one thing: appearances.
The house smelled faintly of jasmine polish when she arrived. Lunch waited on the table, porcelain plates arranged neatly. She ate quickly, without appetite, before heading upstairs.
Her wardrobe offered no choice, silk dresses in muted tones, all curated for her. She selected one, simple yet expensive, and tied her hair into a high ponytail. The glossy strands were looped and twisted in the elegant style her mother demanded: sharp, restrained, unmistakably refined.
Downstairs, Mrs. An was already waiting. She wore a fitted black cheongsam embroidered with silver cranes, her posture straight, her expression colder than glass. Her eyes skimmed her daughter once.
"Stand tall," she said, slipping on her earrings. "And remember to smile. Tonight is not for you."
---
The ballroom blazed with chandeliers, the air thick with perfume and ambition. Guests glided across the marble floors in tailored suits and gowns heavy with embroidery, their laughter ringing like crystal. Waiters moved in silence, trays of champagne and caviar balancing like ornaments.
Every corner whispered wealth. Men leaned in with murmured promises of partnerships, women pressed hands to jeweled throats as they laughed, their eyes darting to Mrs. An as though a single word from her might open doors. An Ran trailed behind her mother, smiling on cue as names and cards exchanged hands.
The evening belonged to Mr. Qin, who stood in the center of the gathering, smiling broadly as he accepted congratulations for the launch of his new product. His words carried the rehearsed warmth of a man used to attention.
Then he raised a hand. "Tonight is not only about my success, but also about family. Allow me to introduce my nephew, Qin Mo Ran."
The room shifted.
The boy who stepped forward looked carved from shadow. A black suit clung to his thin frame, elegant yet stark, his shoulder-length ash-brown hair framing a face too fine, too delicate for the weight it carried. But his thin eyes hollowed everything out — heavy-lidded, lifeless, as if no spark remained inside him.
He did not smile. He did not bow. He didn't even acknowledge the polite applause that rippled around the hall.
Some guests looked at him with pity, their whispers buzzing behind jeweled fans. Others — investors, eager mothers, ambitious daughters — tried to catch his attention, to greet him with charm or flattery. But Qin Mo Ran stood like a machine, his gaze sliding past them, ignoring every word as though their voices never reached him.
For a moment, An Ran almost believed he was beautiful, like the delicate idols plastered across glossy posters. But the longer she looked, the more she saw the truth: he was hollow. The beauty was a mask stretched over absence.
She remembered his story. The city had woken one morning to headlines: both his parents gone, taken in the space of a single day. No explanations, no details, just sudden absence wrapped in silence. Rumors spread like wildfire — betrayal, power struggles, accidents disguised as tragedies. But no truth ever came.
Now, at sixteen, he was the heir to the Qin Group, but his uncle carried the weight of its empire until the boy "came of age." To the outside world, it was duty. To those who whispered, it was power waiting to be swallowed.
An Ran trailed after her mother, who moved gracefully from handshake to handshake, her voice sharp and polished. But when An Ran glanced across the room, her eyes caught on Qin Mo Ran.
He was standing alone, shadow pooled around him despite the glittering chandeliers. His black suit defined his slim figure, elegant but almost fragile. And though people still tried to speak to him, his gaze was elsewhere — nowhere.
Then, as though sensing her, he looked back.
Their eyes met.
For a breath, the ballroom and its chatter blurred away. His stare was not curiosity, not even recognition. It was a void. Cold, depthless, dead. A gaze that saw her but didn't see her at all.
Her chest tightened. She dropped her eyes, and when she looked again, he had already turned away.
---
By the time the guests began to leave, laughter softened to murmurs and the scent of perfume clung heavy in the air. Mr. Qin moved to where Mrs. An stood, his voice carrying that same polished warmth.
"Sister An," he said smoothly, "Mo Ran will need to return to school soon. I've been considering transferring him to your daughter's academy. It would be… suitable, don't you think?"
Mrs. An tilted her head, lips curving into the faintest smile. "It may be arranged. The right connections must be made, of course."
Beside them, Qin Mo Ran stood silent, his face unreadable, his eyes fixed on nothing. He gave no sign of protest, no flicker of feeling. He was simply there, as though his body attended the world, but his soul had already left it behind.