Jiang Cheng's gaze lingered on the boy standing a few paces away. Thirteen, no, fourteen at most. The resemblance to An Ran was unmistakable: the same delicate outline of the face, the same pale, fine features softened by youth. But where An Ran's gentleness dulled the sharpness of her bones, this boy's entire presence seemed to rebel against softness. His skin was slightly tanned, kissed by the sun in ways that suggested endless afternoons spent running with friends, climbing walls, and daring trouble. His eyes, too sharp for his age, held a defiance that bordered on wild, the kind of look that dared anyone to challenge him and already promised he would not lose.
For a moment, Jiang Cheng simply studied him, his posture casual but his eyes cool, like he was cataloguing An Zhihao the way he might a new business partner across a table.
An Ran's reaction was starkly different. Her lips parted, her entire body stiff as if she had been struck. Her brother had grown. Taller, leaner, carrying himself with an independence that stabbed her with something between guilt and wonder. She remembered him at nine years old, round-cheeked, clinging to her sleeve the day she and her mother had left. The little boy who had cried and chased after the car. The boy she had never truly said goodbye to.
Now he stood before her, smirking, guarded. The boy was gone.
"What are you doing here?" His tone cut sharp, no warmth in it, only sarcasm. "Did you run away from Mother?" His eyes didn't flicker, but his voice carried a weight far older than fourteen.
An Ran froze. Her throat worked, but no words came. All the years between them pressed into her chest like lead. She wanted to rush forward, to embrace him, but his expression kept her rooted.
Her voice trembled when she finally asked, "Where's Dad?"
Something in his face snapped. The smirk deepened, but the air hardened.
"Somewhere that doesn't concern you," he said, his words like knives.
The silence stretched until his sharp gaze slid sideways to Jiang Cheng. His mocking smirk returned, lips curling in deliberate insolence. "And this?" His eyes flicked over Jiang Cheng, dismissive at first, until his gaze snagged on the Rolex gleaming faintly on Jiang Cheng's wrist. His attention shifted, quick and calculating, noting the subtle but undeniable signs of wealth: the polish of his shoes, the cut of his jacket, the effortless aura of someone accustomed to power.
The smirk faltered. A pause. Then a sudden forced brightness broke through.
"Oh, so this is… brother-in-law?" His tone shifted entirely, words rolling off his tongue with exaggerated politeness.
Jiang Cheng's expression didn't change. He didn't confirm, didn't deny, just lifted his eyes coolly, like the title didn't concern him.
Within minutes, An Zhihao was transformed. The door swung open with exaggerated courtesy, his voice dripping with rehearsed warmth. Inside, he disappeared briefly only to return freshly washed, his hair combed, his body dressed in a bright red shirt and jeans that looked saved for special occasions.
"Brother-in-law," he said with a grin too wide to be genuine, "please sit. I'll make sure you're comfortable."
Jiang Cheng leaned back on the chair, his eyes betraying a flicker of amusement.
An Ran's face flushed with mortification when An Zhihao grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the kitchen. "You can't just... " she whispered harshly, but he only tightened his grip, his grin sharp enough to slice.
"You think I'll let my precious sister embarrass us in front of royalty? Chop chop, we're cooking something good for him," he teased, though the undercurrent was commanding.
In the kitchen, the bright mask slipped from An Zhihao's face. His grin dissolved into something rawer, his sharp eyes dimming as he lowered his voice.
"How's Mom?" he asked again, quieter this time, like the words had been sitting in his chest for years.
An Ran's throat tightened. "She's… the same." The words fell flat, heavy.
Silence pressed between them, broken only by the ticking of the wall clock. He looked away, jaw clenched, then sucked in a breath that sounded more like defeat than anything else.
"You should know," he began, his tone edged with bitterness he couldn't hide. "Dad's sick. And not just the usual sick... he's been coughing up blood. Doctor said it's late-stage lung cancer."
The words detonated inside the cramped kitchen.
An Ran's eyes widened, her entire body stiffening as if the floor had tilted under her feet. Her father's face, stern, distant, but undeniably hers, flashed in her mind. The thought of him frail, broken, slipping away, her heart clawed against her chest in panic.
An Zhihao laughed then, sharp and bitter, his sarcasm returning as if it was the only shield he had. "Funny, isn't it? The man you left behind to play happy family with Mother… well, he doesn't have much time left." His tone dripped with accusation, his smirk twisted but his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.
An Ran could barely breathe. Guilt, shock, fear, all tangled in her chest. She wanted to shout back, to defend herself, but the words wouldn't come.
•••
The wooden door creaked open, letting in the faint scent of tobacco and the heavy shuffle of footsteps.
An Ran stiffened where she stood, her pulse slamming in her throat.
He looked… smaller than she remembered. The broad-shouldered man in her childhood memories was now thin, his back bowed, a faded wooden cap pressed over thinning hair. His skin carried a grayish pallor, and when he smiled, his lips trembled.
But his eyes, those kind, familiar eyes, lit up the moment they landed on her.
"Ranran…" His voice cracked, hoarse with illness, but brimming with warmth. "You've grown."
Her throat closed. The tears burned before she could stop them. Five years of absence, of silence, of distance, and still, he said nothing but those two simple words.
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Guilt pressed down like lead.
Then his gaze shifted, landing on the tall boy seated at their rickety kitchen table.
"And this is…?" he asked gently, curiosity in his tone.
"Jiang Cheng," An Ran whispered, her voice barely steady.
Mr. An nodded, forcing himself upright with dignity. "So this is the young man who brought you here." He offered Jiang Cheng a frail but steady smile. "Thank you. Truly."
Jiang Cheng stood slightly, his posture respectful, his tone calm as ever. "It's no trouble, sir."
Mr. An lowered himself carefully onto the chair opposite them, his breathing shallow. He tapped the table with thin fingers. "Zhihao, don't just stand there gawking. Serve our guest. Even if we don't have much, he must be treated well."
From the counter, An Zhihao's voice piped up quickly, half eager, half smug: "I already did, Dad. He's eaten."
Mr. An chuckled, though the sound was faint and wheezy. "This boy… already one step ahead of me." He looked at Jiang Cheng again, pride brightening his lined face. "I trained him well, didn't I? To be a respectful, composed young man."
Jiang Cheng's lips curved politely, but behind the calm mask, he remembered the same boy's sharp tongue and mocking tone earlier. Respectful, composed, ...hardly. But he didn't correct the illusion. Instead, he inclined his head slightly, playing along.
An Ran stood frozen, watching her father beam at Jiang Cheng. The warmth in his expression was like a knife. Because she knew the truth: Zhihao's sarcasm, his bitterness, his hidden tears. She knew the truth of her own guilt, the years she'd spent away while her father grew frail and sick without her.
Her chest clenched so tightly it hurt.
She bit her lip hard, fighting the tremor in her voice. But even as she lowered her gaze, she felt Jiang Cheng's quiet attention on her, steady, unreadable, as if he were silently piecing together every fragment of her broken past.