Shen Yan's bathwater steamed like a lie.
Hot enough to make his skin pink. Clean enough to convince anyone watching that the Third Young Master lived an easy life: brothel nights, late mornings, long soaks, soft hands never blistered by real work.
He sat in the tub with his eyes half-lidded, letting water lap against his ribs, and listened to the courtyard beyond the screen. Somewhere, a servant argued with a broom. Somewhere else, a bird insisted on singing even though it was darkening.
Xu Qingluan's shadow moved on the other side of the screen. She didn't chatter the way other maids did. She worked like she was disarming traps.
"Your robe," she said, tone flat.
Shen Yan glanced to the folded clothes waiting on the stool. The fabric was plain silk, good cut, good color—enough to look like a young master without looking like a fool. His belt was coiled beside it. His fan lay on top, lacquered ribs and a painted ink wash of a single reed bending in wind.
"Do I look like someone who needs a robe?" he asked lazily. "I'm a man of natural charm."
Qingluan sniffed. "Natural charm doesn't stop cold. Or blades."
"Neither does a robe."
"It stops gossip," she countered. Then, after a beat: "Stand up."
Shen Yan obeyed, because the sooner he did, the sooner she would stop staring at the tub like it personally offended her.
She handed him a towel. He dried, dressed, and let her tie the belt. Qingluan's fingers were neat, quick—too practiced at knots.
When she straightened his collar, she paused just long enough for him to notice.
"Your shoulder," she said.
He rolled it. A faint ache answered. Training left gifts.
"It's fine."
Qingluan's eyes narrowed. "Everything is fine until it isn't."
"Are you quoting my mother?" Shen Yan asked, amused.
"I don't need to quote her," Qingluan said. "I live in her house."
He slid his fan into his sleeve. The lacquer was cool against his wrist. He didn't open it yet. Opening the fan was a signal. A mask.
Qingluan watched him do it anyway.
"You're going," she said. Not a question. A verdict.
Shen Yan stretched his neck, listening to it crack. "Guo Dalu and the men invited me. Refusing them on payday is unkind."
"Being kind to men who can drink you under the table is a strange hobby," she muttered.
"I'm not drinking," Shen Yan lied.
Qingluan gave him a look that could have curdled milk. "Rest," she said. "For once. Your body—"
"My body will survive," he cut in lightly, stepping around her as if it was all a joke. "My reputation depends on appearing useless. I must work hard to maintain it."
"Your reputation doesn't bleed," Qingluan said, and now her voice was sharper. "You do."
He turned back, fan still tucked in his sleeve. For a moment, the lanternlight caught her face and made her look older than twenty-two. Not by years—by worry.
Shen Yan softened his smile, just a little. "I'll be fine," he said. "I'll bring you a souvenir tomorrow."
Qingluan blinked. "Souvenir?"
"Something sweet," he said. "Or something sharp. Depends on what the Pavilion has."
"I don't want sharp things," she said immediately.
"That's a lie," he replied. "You like sharp things. You are a sharp thing."
Qingluan's ears went red. "Third Young Master."
He stepped closer, just close enough to be intimate without crossing any line. "Wait for me tomorrow," he said, voice gentle. "I'll be back."
Qingluan's lips pressed together. She wanted to argue. He could see it building behind her eyes like a storm cloud.
Then she exhaled through her nose and stepped back. "Go then," she said, voice clipped. "Since your legs will carry you there even if I chained you to the bed."
Shen Yan grinned. "Chains? Too bold, Qingluan."
She shoved the door open for him. "Get out."
He laughed, and as he stepped into the courtyard, he heard her mutter behind him—half complaint, half prayer.
"Even though I'm here… he still goes to the brothel."
Shen Yan didn't turn back.
If he did, he might say something stupidly honest. And honesty, in this house, was a luxury.
---
Guo Dalu waited at the manor gate with a handful of escort men, all dressed for a night off and still carrying themselves like they could be called to fight at any moment. Payday loosened their tongues, not their awareness.
Dalu leaned on the gatepost like it belonged to him. He had a toothpick between his teeth and a grin that dared the world to try.
"You're late," Dalu called when Shen Yan stepped out.
Shen Yan lifted his chin. "I'm punctual. You're just impatient."
"Impatient?" Rui Shanjin scoffed from behind Dalu.
Shanjin was leaner, sharper—eyes that flicked from shadow to shadow as if counting threats out of habit. He chewed sunflower seeds like he was cracking skulls.
"We've been waiting long enough for the lanterns to start judging us," Shanjin said. "Even the dogs are looking pitying."
Shen Yan waved dismissively. "The dogs envy your freedom."
One of the escorts—broad shoulders, soft heart—groaned. "Third Young Master, you know the girls won't go anywhere if you're late. They'll just—"
"They'll just what?" Shen Yan asked, smiling.
The man scratched his ear, embarrassed. "They'll just… wait."
Dalu barked a laugh. "That's the problem! Your face is handsome enough that women gather around you like moths. Us? We need to bleed for attention."
"Not bleed," Shanjin corrected, deadpan. "Pay. Beg. Perform. Occasionally bleed."
The crew laughed. Shen Yan opened his fan with a snap, the reed painting appearing like a calm lie. He tilted it just enough to cover the lower half of his face.
"Tragic," he said. "Tonight, this young master is with you. I will lend my face to the cause."
They groaned and laughed again.
"Lend it? Don't act like you're doing charity," Dalu said. "You enjoy it."
Shen Yan's eyes smiled over the fan. "I enjoy many things. Watching you lot pretend you're refined is one of them."
"Then watch closely," Shanjin said. "I'll recite poetry and make the courtesans cry."
"They'll cry because you're reciting poetry," Dalu shot back.
They started walking.
Xiapi at night was a different animal. Daytime Xiapi bargained. Nighttime Xiapi hunted.
Lanterns lit the streets in gold-red pools. The night market spilled smells into the air—roasted chestnuts, fried dough, fish broth, pepper oil. Merchants shouted. Children darted between legs. A man with a tray of candied hawthorns cursed because someone stole two sticks and left him with a smile.
Shen Yan walked in the middle of his men like he belonged there.
They passed a stall where an old woman sold hot wine. Dalu bought a cup, blew on it, and drank like he was trying to warm his bones.
"You heard?" a vendor hissed to another. "Bandits on the east road again."
"Bandits?" the other spat. "Those aren't bandits. Those are farmers with knives."
"Same difference if the knife's in your belly," the first replied.
Shen Yan listened without appearing to.
He watched the street. Watched hands. Watched eyes.
A fat young master—silk robe, jade ring, hair oiled into arrogance—pushed through the crowd with two attendants behind him. He laughed too loudly at a joke no one else heard.
A boy bumped his sleeve.
The young master didn't even notice at first. The boy's fingers were quick, sliding into the sash pouch like a fish in water.
Shen Yan saw it.
So did Rui Shanjin.
Shanjin's hand moved, not to stop the theft, but to catch the boy's wrist as he tried to slip away.
The boy froze, eyes wide. He couldn't have been more than fourteen. His ribs showed through his thin shirt when he breathed.
Shanjin didn't squeeze hard. He didn't need to. His grip was iron and calm.
"Give it back," Shanjin said quietly.
The boy's gaze flicked toward Shen Yan, then toward Dalu, then toward the fat young master. He weighed his options like a starving animal.
Then he opened his hand and let the pouch drop.
Shanjin caught it and flicked the boy's forehead with two fingers. Not cruel. Not gentle either.
"Run," Shanjin said.
The boy ran. Vanished into the crowd like a shadow.
Dalu snorted. "Soft."
Shanjin shrugged. "Hard doesn't feed him."
They tossed the pouch back to the fat young master's attendant. The attendant startled, then bowed awkwardly, unsure whether to thank them or act offended that someone had been caught stealing from his lord.
The fat young master finally realized his pouch was missing and began shouting at his attendants like they'd personally betrayed him. He never noticed the pouch returning. He never noticed the boy escaping.
He just enjoyed being angry.
Shen Yan watched him and felt the old, familiar disgust.
People like that didn't understand why cities rotted. They thought rot was something that happened to other people.
They kept walking.
The talk turned as it always did when escorts had money in their belts and knives on their hips—roads.
"West route's worse," one of the men said, voice lowered. "Caravan got hit last week. Not the usual wolves. Organized."
"Bandits?" Dalu asked.
"Bandits," the man confirmed. "But new. They had bows. And they knew where the guards would be."
Shen Yan's fan paused mid-sway. "Someone fed them timing."
Shanjin spat a sunflower seed husk. "Or the guards fed them timing."
The men went quiet for a breath. That was the ugly truth of starving times: sometimes the man paid to protect you was the man selling you.
"Also refugees," another escort added. "More of them. Whole families. Carrying pots like they're treasure."
"Taxes," Dalu muttered. "Taxes and grain."
"And officials," Shanjin said. "Officials always eat first."
Shen Yan hummed, as if thinking about wine instead of politics.
He was thinking about both.
One escort—round-faced, newly brave from payday—cleared his throat. "I want to marry."
The words landed like a stone in a pond.
Dalu turned slowly. "You want to what?"
"I want to marry," the man repeated, cheeks pink. "I'm… tired."
The crew exploded.
"Tired? You're twenty-four!"
"Marry who? A sword?"
"Did your mother finally threaten you with blind dates?"
The man waved his hands, flustered. "No! There's a girl—near the cloth shop—she's a clerk. I— I asked. She rejected me."
Laughter sharpened into teasing.
"Rejected? You? A Jade Scale escort? Shame!"
Shanjin leaned close, eyes bright with cruelty. "Tell us the name. We'll go intimidate her into loving you."
"No!" the man yelped. "Don't— She'll hate me!"
Dalu slapped the man's shoulder hard enough to jolt him. "What does she look like?"
The man's ears went red. "She has… a small mole, here." He pointed to his cheek.
Shen Yan's fan stilled.
"The girl with the mole?" Shen Yan asked, tone casual.
The man blinked. "You know her?"
"I know of her," Shen Yan said. "A sister at Plum Rain Pavilion mentioned her. Said she's kept by a rich merchant. Sometimes… shared with the merchant's friends. She goes to the cloth shop to pretend she's ordinary."
The street noise swallowed the silence that followed, but the silence was still there, heavy.
The escort's face went pale. "That's— that's not possible."
Dalu's eyes narrowed. "Which sister?"
Shen Yan flicked his fan. "Does it matter? You want proof? Watch who picks her up after closing. Look for the carriage with the silver tassel."
The man stared at the ground like it had opened beneath him.
Dalu clapped his shoulder again, gentler this time. "Lucky you got rejected," he said. "Imagine marrying trouble that expensive."
Shanjin snorted. "Or imagine thinking a clerk's hands are clean in a city like this."
The man swallowed hard, then forced a laugh that sounded like it hurt. "Guess I'll… drink instead."
"Now you're thinking correctly," Dalu said.
Shen Yan's smile behind the fan was lazy.
He hadn't lied.
He hadn't told the whole truth either.
In Xiapi, truth was currency. You spent it carefully.
---
Plum Rain Pavilion rose out of the street like a promise made of silk.
Lanterns hung thick as fruit. Music drifted from inside—zither and laughter, a melody that made men forget their debts. The doormen were polite, dressed clean, hands steady.
When Shen Yan stepped through the entrance, the temperature changed. Warmth wrapped him like a familiar robe. Perfume kissed his throat. The air itself seemed to recognize him.
"Third Young Master!"
The call came from three directions at once.
Courtesans turned as if pulled by a string. Not all of them—Plum Rain Pavilion didn't throw itself at every customer. It prided itself on refinement.
But Shen Yan wasn't just any customer.
A girl in peach silk came first, smiling wide. "You're late," she accused, but her eyes were delighted.
Another slipped in behind her, fingers touching his sleeve like she was checking he was real. "You promised you'd come again."
"I come where I'm welcomed," Shen Yan said smoothly. He flicked his fan open and bowed slightly, just enough to be charming, not enough to be sincere.
Hands reached. Laughter bubbled. Someone pressed close, cheek brushing his arm.
Behind them, Dalu and the escorts stood like a wall, suddenly very aware that their captain's "bait" strategy worked too well.
"Look at this," Shanjin muttered. "He walks in and women multiply."
"Jealous?" Dalu asked.
"Annoyed," Shanjin corrected. "If I were that pretty, I'd never work."
Shen Yan caught the words and smiled without looking back. "If you were that pretty, you'd still be you," he said. "So you'd still have to work."
The girls laughed. One pinched his sleeve. "Third Young Master, you're cruel."
"I'm honest," he said.
One of the courtesans—eyes bright, skin too smooth—leaned close and whispered, "Ever since last time… my waist fits my old dress again."
Another murmured, "My skin looks better. Even Madam noticed."
Their voices were soft, conspiratorial, like they were sharing makeup tricks. Shen Yan listened, nodded, made amused sounds.
Inside, something low in his abdomen stirred—a faint heat, a pressure that never went away, always waiting.
He kept it behind his smile.
Across the hall, three men watched with sour faces.
Tao Kang lounged at a table near the stage, silk fan in hand, his smile the kind that belonged to a predator pretending to be a gentleman. Two bodyguards stood behind him, eyes scanning.
Beside him, Xu Biao sat stiff-backed, a noble's arrogance wrapped around cheap anger. He looked like someone who wanted to duel just to feel important.
And slightly apart, with a scholar's composed disdain, Kong Shijing sipped tea as if tea could wash away his own hypocrisy.
Their gazes slid over Shen Yan like mud.
Tao Kang snorted loudly. "Ah. The waste arrives."
Xu Biao's mouth curled. "Of course the Pavilion's girls flock to him. He's only useful in bed."
Kong Shijing smiled faintly, eyes cold. "A man without cultivation clings to pleasure. It's expected."
The courtesans' laughter faltered for half a heartbeat.
Dalu's hand drifted toward his belt. Not a sword—just habit.
Shanjin's eyes sharpened.
Shen Yan closed his fan with a soft snap.
He turned to face them with the polite calm of a man greeting elders at a funeral.
"Gentlemen," he said, voice warm. "Such concern. I didn't know my hobbies were so inspiring."
Tao Kang's smile sharpened. "Your hobbies are filthy. Your family should be ashamed."
Shen Yan lifted his brows. "My family is ashamed of many things. Luckily, I'm not one of them."
A few patrons chuckled. Quietly. Carefully.
Xu Biao scoffed. "Pretty face. No backbone."
Shen Yan's smile didn't change. "If you want my backbone," he said pleasantly, "you'll have to pay like everyone else."
Laughter cracked through the hall. Not loud—Plum Rain Pavilion didn't allow loud trouble. But it was enough to make Xu Biao's face darken.
Kong Shijing set down his cup with delicate precision. "Vulgar."
"True," Shen Yan agreed. "But vulgarity sells. Isn't that what your essays do? Sell virtue to men who want to feel clean without actually being clean?"
Kong Shijing's eyes narrowed. He didn't respond. A scholar knew when words were becoming a blade turned toward him.
Before any of them could push further, a new presence slid into the hall.
Madam Mei descended the stairs.
She didn't rush. She didn't need guards at her side to command silence. The room quieted because everyone knew she remembered faces, names, and debts.
Her eyes swept the scene—courtesans clustered around Shen Yan, escort men stiff with protective humor, three young masters souring the air.
Then she smiled.
"Gentlemen," Madam Mei said, voice warm enough to soothe and sharp enough to cut. "Plum Rain Pavilion is delighted by your patronage. But we are even more delighted when our guests remember our rules."
Tao Kang's smile twitched. "Madam Mei. We are only speaking."
"Speaking can be more dangerous than blades," Madam Mei replied lightly. "Ask any official."
A few patrons hid grins behind cups.
Madam Mei turned to the courtesans. "Girls," she said softly. "Behave. Third Young Master has made arrangements tonight."
The girls immediately smoothed their sleeves, stepped back just enough to make it look graceful.
Madam Mei's gaze fell on Shen Yan. "Young Master Shen," she said, and the title carried a quiet respect that irritated men like Tao Kang more than any insult.
Shen Yan bowed. "Madam."
"Your room is prepared," Madam Mei said. "Second floor. Private. Food and drink already set. Your men may join you."
Dalu grinned. "Madam Mei, you spoil us."
Madam Mei's smile didn't reach her eyes. "I spoil people who pay on time and don't break my furniture."
Shen Yan snapped his fan open again, the reed painting hiding the lower half of his face. "What a coincidence," he said. "Those are my favorite virtues."
Madam Mei gestured toward the stairs. "This way."
As they followed her up, Shen Yan caught a glimpse down a side corridor—an elegant silhouette in pale green watching from behind a screen, eyes steady, expression unreadable.
Hao Lianhua.
Jade Lark didn't wave. She didn't smile.
She simply looked at him as if measuring how much trouble he could survive.
Then the screen shifted, and she was gone.
Shen Yan's fan paused mid-sway.
Interesting.
Upstairs, the VIP room doors slid open.
Warm light. Low table. Dishes already laid out—braised pork, steamed fish, pickled vegetables, a pot of fragrant soup. A jar of wine waiting like an old friend.
Dalu's stomach growled loudly enough to be rude.
Shanjin inhaled and sighed. "Now this," he said, "is refinement."
They sat.
Shen Yan took the seat that put his back to the wall without making it obvious. Old habit. New life.
Madam Mei poured the first cup, not for Shen Yan, but for the room—an act of hospitality that doubled as control.
"I hope you enjoy your service tonight," she said.
Her voice was smooth, her smile perfect.
Then she stepped out, and the doors slid shut with a soft click that sounded, in the sudden quiet, like the lock of a gate.