The silence of the house was a heavy, suffocating thing, woven from two months of longing and the stale scent of abandoned domesticity.
Han Ruyan sat by the window, her fingers tracing the rim of a cold porcelain cup. Every creak of the floorboards sounded like a footstep; every gust of wind felt like a homecoming. When the knock finally came—soft, rhythmic, and deceptively gentle—her heart didn't just beat; it performed a frantic, wing-clipped flutter against her ribs.
She didn't walk to the door; she drifted, propelled by a mother's desperate hope. Two months was a lifetime for a woman whose world was centered on a son she felt she had failed. She threw the door open, her breath hitched in her throat, ready to sob his name.
But the silhouette in the hallway was too tall, too broad, and far too polished to be her fragile Shu Yao.
Shen Haoxuan stood bathed in the amber glow of the corridor lights. He looked like a creature of pure light—an aristocrat carved from marble and dressed in charcoal silk. Behind him, Lu Zeyan stood like a silent, brooding gargoyle, his eyes scanning the interior with a cold, mercenary precision.
Han Ruyan blinked, her vision blurring with confusion. "Are you... friends of Shu Yao?"
Shen's smile was a masterpiece of architectural precision. It was warm, inviting, and utterly hollow. He stepped forward with a fluid grace, catching Han Ruyan's hand in his own. Before she could protest, he pressed a courtly, venerable kiss to her knuckles.
"Indeed, Ma'am," Shen murmured, his voice a rich, soothing baritone. "How are you? I hope our sudden intrusion hasn't startled you."
Han Ruyan's gaze darted past him, searching the shadows for the one face that mattered. "Where is he? Where is Shu Yao? Is he with you?"
"He will be here by the time we return," Shen replied, his lie as smooth as polished glass. "Our fashion industry is a demanding beast, Ma'am. We have a mountain of work to move, but he insisted we stop by to check on the woman he talks about so incessantly."
Han Ruyan felt a flush of warmth—a dangerous, intoxicating relief. "I see... oh, my heavens. I'm so sorry. Why are you standing in the draft? Please, come in. Come in! I am just so glad Shu Yao has made such... distinguished friends."
Shen made a show of hesitation, a fake excuse dying on his lips as he glanced at his expensive watch. "No, no, we couldn't possibly. We are just the messengers—"
"I won't hear it!" Ruyan insisted, her maternal instincts overriding her exhaustion. "You've taken care of my boy. The least I can do is offer you my hospitality. Come, sit."
"If you are insisting so much, Ma'am," Shen said, his voice dripping with a mock-humility that made his skin crawl with private amusement, "then we simply cannot resist such a gracious invitation."
They entered the house like a digital infection entering a clean system. While Ruyan bustled toward the kitchen, her voice light with a newfound energy, Shen sat on the modest sofa, his eyes taking in the humble surroundings with a sneer he barely bothered to hide.
He gave a sharp, imperceptible nod to Lu Zeyan. Zeyan understood. The "Viper" had distracted the guardian; the "Scavenger" was free to hunt.
Zeyan slipped away, his footsteps silent on the carpet as he ascended the stairs.
Upstairs, the air in Shu Yao's bedroom was different. It was cool, smelling of lavender and the hauntingly clean scent of a boy who tried to scrub the world's filth from his skin.
On the bed sat Juju. The cat's fur stood on end the moment Lu Zeyan crossed the threshold. A low, guttural hiss vibrated in the small feline's throat, its eyes glowing like twin emeralds in the dim light.
"I don't like animals," Zeyan muttered, his lip curling in disgust. "Especially cats. They see too much."
He ignored the creature and began his search. The room was a mausoleum of order. Everything was in its place—books aligned by height, pens arranged in a perfect row. There were no loose papers, no hidden cigarettes, nothing that suggested a life of secrets. It was too clean. It was the room of a boy who was terrified of being found out.
Zeyan's eyes fell on the monolithic wardrobe in the corner. He opened the heavy wooden doors, the hinges groaning like a warning. He began to dig, his hands moving through soft sweaters and crisp shirts.
Then, his fingers hit something hidden beneath a pile of winter scarves.
He pulled it out. The fabric was silk, but it felt like lead in his hands. It was the shirt from that night.
The buttons were gone, ripped away by violent hands. The collar was jagged, the sleeves stained with the invisible residue of terror. It was the Relic of the Wreckage.
Zeyan's jaw clenched. He remembered the slap Shu Yao had delivered to his "Ge"—the way the Saint had defied the predators.
"He dare to slap my Ge?" Zeyan whispered, his voice a jagged edge of resentment. "So bold. So pure. Now let's see what your high-and-mighty Boss thinks when he sees the 'Saint's' true skin."
He reached for the briefcase they had brought—a sleek, leather bag meant for "files." He shoved the shirt inside, the silk crumpling under his rough touch. He zipped it shut with a violent, final sound. The secret was no longer Shu Yao's; it was a weapon now.
Downstairs, the atmosphere was thick with a deceptive warmth. Han Ruyan returned, carrying a tray that rattled with her nerves. Tea steamed in floral cups, and a plate of sweets was offered like a peace treaty.
She paused, looking at the empty space beside Shen. "Wasn't there... another young man with you?"
Shen looked up from a photo album he had been "admiring." His smile was blinding. "Oh, you are referring to my partner? Of course. He just went upstairs to retrieve a file he left behind the last time we were here. Our work is quite... portable."
Han Ruyan's brow furrowed. "Upstairs? what file?—"
"Oh, it was nothing serious, Ma'am," Shen interrupted, his voice shifting into a manipulative, melodic hum.
He leaned forward, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her feel seen and judged all at once.
"We used to visit Shu Yao often when he lived alone. He was so... solitary. He never spoke of his loneliness, but we guessed it. We couldn't let him fade away in the dark."
The word lonely hit Han Ruyan like a physical blow.
She looked down at her lap, her fingers twisting the edge of her apron. "It was all my fault," she murmured, her voice breaking. "I left him alone. I shouldn't have... I didn't realize I was leaving him all alone by himself."
She lifted her gaze, tears shimmering in her eyes. "Thank you. Thank you for taking care of my son when I wasn't present."
Shen reached out, patting her hand with a cold, dry palm. "No, Ma'am. It's quite alright. We consider Shu Yao family. And family looks after its own."
Han Ruyan sniffled, a small, sad smile touching her lips. "Don't call me Ma'am, dear. 'Auntie' is just."
"Auntie," Shen repeated, the word sounding like a profanity in his mouth.
Lu Zeyan appeared at the top of the stairs, the briefcase gripped tightly in his hand. He descended with a robotic stiffness. "I have gathered the file, Sir."
Shen stood up, his posture regal and imposing. He looked at Zeyan with a mock-scolding expression. "You should have asked Auntie for permission first, Zeyan. It's rude to wander through a person's sanctuary."
Zeyan lowered his head, playing his part in the theater of lies. "My apologies, Ma'am. I was in a rush."
"No need, dear," Han Ruyan said, standing to see them out. "It's fine. Since you are his friends, this house is yours."
Shen took a final sip of his tea, the porcelain clinking against his teeth. He looked at the woman—so innocent, so grateful—and felt a visceral thrill of triumph. He had the shirt. He had the mother's trust. He had everything he needed to incinerate the bridge between the Monarch and his Saint.
"We must go, Auntie," Shen said, bowing slightly. "Duty calls. But rest assured... Shu Yao will be coming home soon.
He walked out into the cool night air, Lu Zeyan following in his wake. As the door clicked shut, the mask finally fell. Shen's face transformed into a jagged, predatory smirk.
He looked at the briefcase. "Let's go, Zeyan. We have a little business to settle. I want to see his face when he realizes his 'Saint' is nothing more than a piece of torn fabric."
The car roared to life, a low, mechanical growl that echoed through the quiet street—the sound of a trap finally snapping shut.
The trap was set, and the prey was finally moving.
In the back of a black sedan, Shen Haoxuan felt his phone vibrate—a low, buzzing herald of success. He pressed it to his ear, his eyes fixed on the city lights that blurred past like streaks of cold neon.
"He's left," the guard's voice crackled, thin and jittery. "He slipped out of the hospital while the staff was changing shifts. George is still at the Villa.
A slow, predatory smirk carved itself onto Shen's face. It wasn't a smile of joy; it was the expression of a man watching a chess piece slide into the perfect killing square.
"Perfect," Shen whispered, his voice a silken thread of malice. "Maybe tomorrow he'll show up at work and, It'll makes the final collapse so much more... Like poetic."
Across the city, the hum of a taxi's engine was the only sound in Shu Yao's world.
He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Outside, the night was a gallery of his own failures. High above the smog-choked streets, a massive digital billboard flickered to life. It was an advertisement for Rothenberg Haute Couture.
There was Bai Qi.
He looked monolithic—a god carved from obsidian and success. He was smiling, a rare, breathtaking expression that radiated power and a terrifying, cold beauty.
Shu Yao's heart performed a slow, agonizing twist in his chest. I did that, he thought, a fresh tear escaping his exhausted eyes. I took that smile away. I turned Bai qi into a man of glass and bourbon.
He looked down at his phone. The screen was dark. Week's had passed, and the silence from Bai qi was a physical weight, crushing his lungs. He had left the hospital without a word to Mr, George, without a message to anyone. He didn't want to be a burden anymore; he wanted to vanish into the shadows where he felt he belonged.
The taxi slowed as it turned onto the narrow, familiar cobblestones of Sheng Street. It stopped in front of the small, wrought-iron gate of his home. Shu Yao stepped out, his body feeling brittle, as if a sudden gust of wind might scatter him into dust.
He stood before the door, his hand hovering over the bell. Through the frosted glass, he could see the warm, yellow glow of the living room lights. His mother was there.
He took a jagged, trembling breath. He wasn't the same son who had left two months ago. That boy was dead, replaced by this hollowed-out vessel of shame and secrets.
He pressed the bell.
The sound echoed through the house, sharp and demanding. Inside, a chair scraped. Footsteps hurried toward the door.
The lock clicked. The door swung open.
Han Ruyan stood there, her hand frozen on the frame. Her eyes, clouded with two months of grief and sleepless vigils, widened until they were twin moons of shock.
"Shu Yao?" she gasped, her voice barely a breath.
Shu Yao couldn't look at her. He lowered his head, his shoulders curling inward as he braced himself for the lecture, the anger, the rejection he was certain he deserved.
But it never came.
Han Ruyan reached out, her fingers trembling as she grabbed his sleeve. She didn't speak another word; she simply hauled him inside, her strength fueled by a visceral maternal desperation. She dragged him toward the sofa, pushing him down into the cushions as if she were afraid he might evaporate if she let go.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice cracking. "Shu Yao, lift your head."
He was hesitant, his pupils dilated with a primal fear. When he finally looked up, he saw not the judgmental woman who had sent him away, but a mother whose heart had been pulverized by regret.
Suddenly, she lunged forward, gathering his head into her chest. She held him with a crushing intensity, her fingers tangling in his hair, her tears wetting his hair.
Shu Yao's world tilted. His eyes went wide, his breath hitching in a series of small, frantic gasps. Then, the dam broke.
He clung to her like a child lost in a storm, his fingers digging into her sweater as a guttural, soul-deep sob tore from his throat. It was the sound of two months of silence finally breaking. It was the sound of the alleyway, the shredded shirt, and the drunken fury of the Monarch all bleeding out at once.
"I am sorry," Han Ruyan wept, her voice a broken prayer against his ear. "I am so sorry, Shu Yao. I left you alone. I misjudged you... I let you face loneliness all by yourself because of my own grief."
Shu Yao shook his head frantically, his face buried in her lap. "Mother, Don't... don't say it..."
"I have to!" she cried, hugging him tighter, her own tears flowing without restraint. "I saw you as a disappointment when I should have seen you as my heart. Forgive me, my child. Please, forgive your foolish mother."
Shu Yao couldn't respond. He simply melted into her. The cold, sterile walls of the hospital were gone.
For the first time since the "wreckage," Shu Yao felt he could breathe. He cried until his lungs burned, until his eyes were swollen and until his voice was gone.