Autumn Begins, 2046.
Shanghai hot enough to melt bones; the Huangpu shimmered with oil slicks.
Fu Zhijiang walked out of juvenile detention on his sixteenth birthday.
Five-year sentence, two reductions, 1.93 m of pure muscle.
Grey T-shirt stretched tight, fresh ink on his left forearm:
"Owes Lin Zhi a lifetime."
I waited at the gate in a black qipao, waist cinched viciously tight, squeezing five years of blood out.
Tang Shi on my left, scar under his eye gone white, smoking harder than ever.
Fu Juanzhou wasn't there.
He died last winter, sudden cardiac arrest in the prison infirmary.
His last words to me:
"Wife, bring our son out.
The rest of the debts—he collects them himself."
Zhijiang walked up, dropped to one knee, forehead against the back of my hand, voice like it came from underground:
"Mom, I'm out.
The remaining sixteen—I'm not letting a single one walk."
I touched his hair and found it half white.
Sixteen years old, half grey.
My eyes burned, but I swallowed the tears.
"Silly boy,
your father's gone.
He said the rest of the debts
are yours to collect."
He looked up; the cruelty in his eyes had burned to ash.
"I know.
He told me in a dream.
He said the last cut
is for you, Mom."
I laughed until my chest hurt.
I pulled out the old Type 54, the name "林知" worn smooth on the grip.
I pressed it into his hand.
"The one I never got to fire.
Today it's yours.
But remember—
the final cut
isn't outward.
It's inward."
His hand shook.
Tang Shi suddenly spoke, voice breaking:
"Sis, Zhijiang's out.
Can't you finally let yourself go?"
I shook my head, smile uglier than crying:
"Let go?
Shanghai doesn't have those two words."
That night I took him to the abandoned Bund 18 rooftop.
Wind howling, thin ice on the river.
I set him down, made him stand straight, then pulled out a single sheet:
"I, Lin Zhi, hereby irrevocably transfer all remaining lifespan, soul, and memories to Fu Zhijiang.
Upon my death,
all assets, all vendettas, all blades
pass to him in full."
I signed, handed it over.
"Zhijiang,
today Mommy cuts off every escape.
From now on
you are the most expensive man in Shanghai.
Touch you
and they pay with their lives."
He stared at the paper, hand trembling like a leaf.
I touched his cheek, voice soft as a lullaby:
"The last cut,
drive it home.
Mommy's tired."
He threw his arms around me, sobbing like the child he hadn't been in years:
"Mom… I don't want…"
I held him, fingers in his hair, voice gentle:
"Silly boy,
the thing Mommy does best
is writing 'exit' into other people's contracts.
Tonight
it's my turn."
The wind died.
Every neon light in Shanghai went dark at once.
In the blackness
a single gunshot.
Bang.
Then Zhijiang's scream,
raw, ripping,
exactly like the night he was born.
The Huangpu's water
finally reached my eyes.