Tang Shi barged in during the worst of my morning sickness.
I was at the studio revising due-diligence reports, halfway through puking, when he pushed the door open holding an ice-cold Coke.
The 95-born kid had smog-blue hair and earrings that flashed under the light.
He shoved the Coke into my hand, lazy drawl:
"Sis, drink. Settles the stomach."
I chugged two mouthfuls; the cold stabbed my gut but actually helped.
I looked up and caught the way he was staring at me—
not like a little brother looking at big sis,
like a wolf that's been starving for years.
I smiled, smile cold enough to frost glass:
"Tang Shi, you trying to short me too?"
He didn't deny it, just dropped to his knees, forehead against my leg, voice muffled:
"Sis, I've followed you three years.
You were most beautiful when you went full dark.
Now you're softening for the kid—
it fucking hurts me."
The Coke shook in my hand and spilled all over his hair.
He didn't flinch, just looked up, eyes red:
"I don't need you to love me.
I just need you to never turn into fish on someone else's chopping board.
If you really want to be a good wife and mother,
I'll kill the baby's father first—
save you the regret later."
In that moment I understood:
the scariest thing isn't enemies.
It's the lunatics waving the flag of "it's for your own good."
I reached out, touched his wet hair, voice soft as a sigh:
"Little Shi, last lesson from your sister—
the sharpest blade is always hidden in the softest place."