The ancestral home was quiet in a way that made sound feel unnecessary.
No traffic. No voices. Just the soft creak of old wood settling and the occasional rustle of leaves in the courtyard. The place had been cleaned thoroughly—almost too thoroughly. Factor IV had done their work well. No broken tiles. No disturbed furniture. If you didn't know better, you'd think nothing bad had ever happened here.
Violet sat on a woven chair under the open sky.
Eyes closed. Back straight. She wasn't chanting or breathing in patterns. She was just… still. Like someone pressing pause on themselves. One foot rested flat on the ground, the other tucked in. Hands loose. No tension.
Yè Yī walked in with a tray halfway raised before he stopped.
Something was off.
At first, he thought it was moonlight reflecting strangely. Then he realized the glow wasn't moving.
A faint silver light traced along her side where her cardigan had slipped just enough. Not bright. Not flashy. Just there. Coming from her skin.
He stepped closer.
Over her left ribs, partially visible, was a birthmark. A spiral, branching outward like a starburst. Dark silver, almost metallic. It looked… deliberate. Like it had been stamped, not born.
His first instinct was suspicion.
His second was recognition.
Not familiarity. Just that strange feeling you get when something fits into a space you didn't know existed.
He hesitated.
Asking felt like crossing a line he couldn't uncross.
Behind closed eyes, Violet saw flashes—not images, not visions. More like pressure building in her head. A sense of alignment. Things moving into place whether people liked it or not.
She didn't react.
She opened her eyes.
Turned her head slightly.
"Did you come to bring food?"
Her tone was calm. Cool. Confident. No softness. No drama.
Yè Yī exhaled through his nose. "You could've said hi."
"I don't do greetings when I'm thinking," Violet replied. "Chicken's done?"
"Almost. Beef needs a few more minutes."
"Good."
He shifted his weight, still staring a bit too long.
She noticed.
"You wanna ask," she said.
He didn't deny it. "I don't know if I should."
"That's your answer then."
A pause.
He turned to leave, a thought slipping through his mind, dry and unguarded:
Talking about food hurts feelings. Especially if you're the one paying.
Violet spoke without turning. "You're the one who offered."
"I offered to cook," he muttered. "Not to fund a small army."
She leaned back in the chair, eyes on the sky. "You're feeding history. That's worse."
He stopped. "You always talk like things are already decided."
"Because they are."
That made him turn.
She looked at him now, fully. Steady. Serious.
"This house is tied to you," Violet said. "It reacts to you. I don't mess with things that aren't mine."
"And you're here because?"
"Because some bonds don't care about blood," she answered. "They care about choice."
He frowned. "You're not very reassuring."
"I'm not here to be."
She stood, brushing past him toward the kitchen.
"We'll talk later," Violet added. "After you eat."
"About what?"
She paused at the doorway, just long enough to look back.
"About whether you want to be alone forever," she said flatly, "or swear into something that won't let you disappear."
Then she walked inside.
Yè Yī stayed where he was, heart steady, mind not.
The glow on her skin was gone.
But the feeling wasn't.