Shu Yao pulled himself away from the heavy mahogany doors, his body moving not by will, but by a ghostly inertia.
He didn't take the elevator. He couldn't bear the thought of the metallic box closing around him, trapping him with the scent of his own humiliation. Instead, he chose the stairs.
One step. Two steps. The descent was a blur of gray concrete and steel railing.
His mind was a static void. He wiped his tears aggressively, the salt stinging his raw skin, but they were replaced instantly by fresh ones. He was a vessel overflowing with grief, yet his programming remained intact.
He reached the lower floor, his movements jerky and unnatural. He walked past the junior staff, straight into his own modest office. He sat down. The chair squeaked—a familiar sound in a world that had suddenly become alien.
Mechanically, he woke his computer.
Click. Type. Send.
He began responding to emails. His vision was blurred, the letters swimming on the screen, but his fingers danced across the keys. he didn't know how to be anything other than Bai Qi's shadow.
In the executive boardroom, the atmosphere was surgically cold.
Ming Su sat at the head of the polished table. She had arrived minutes ago, trailing her secret assistant, Naina, like a dark omen. Ming Su smoothed her skirt, her posture perfect, her expression serene.
She wore a smile that didn't belong to her. It was a smile borrowed from a grave—a terrifyingly accurate replica of the dead Qing Yue.
Armin stood by the window, checking his watch. He felt a shiver crawl down his spine every time he glanced at Ming Su. It was like looking at a ghost, but one that breathed and calculated.
"He is late," Ming Su said softly, her voice melodic.
"He will be here," Armin replied, though his tone lacked conviction.
An hour passed. Then two. The silence in the room grew heavy, suffocating the air.
Finally, Armin pulled out his phone.
His patience had evaporated.
Buzz.
Inside the wrecked sanctuary of the CEO's office, the phone vibrated on the desk.
Bai Qi sat slumped in his chair, staring into the abyss. He saw the notification light up the screen.
Armin: What are you doing, Bai Qi? Where are you? The meeting with Ming Su has already begun.
Bai Qi stiffened. The name sliced through his stupor. Ming Su.
The girl who wore his dead lover's face like a mask.
He let out a ragged sigh, the sound scraping against his throat. He felt filthy.
He felt contaminated. The revelation of the morning sat in his stomach like lead.
All this time, Shu Yao was looking at me like that…
The thought curdled in his mind. His best friend. The boy who helped him through everything, and never ask anything in return.
"How pathetic," Bai Qi hissed into the empty room. "He loves boys. How disgusting."
He wiped his mouth as if to scrub away the taste of the betrayal. It wasn't just the gender; it was the proximity. It was the deception. To think that all those years of loyalty were tainted by desire… it made Bai Qi's skin crawl.
He stood up, his legs heavy. He adjusted his suit jacket, buttoning it over his hollow chest. He had to face the ghost in the boardroom. He had to play the part of the Emperor.
He walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out into the hallway, leaving his heart behind in the wreckage.
Miles away, in a house that smelled of old incense and silence, Han Ruyan sat by the window.
She clutched a porcelain cup of tea, the warmth seeping into her cold fingers, but she didn't drink. She stared out at the gray sky, her face a mask of bitter resignation.
Beside her, an older woman—her mother—sat with a posture of quiet authority.
Han Ruyan's lips quivered. She didn't turn.
"How long?" the grandmother asked, reaching out to grip Ruyan's arm. "How long do you plan on torturing your son?"
Han Ruyan stiffened. The accusation hung in the air, heavy and undeniable. She didn't speak. She couldn't.
"You know," the grandmother continued, her tone softening into pity. "You have no one except him. He is all that is left."
Tears pricked Han Ruyan's latte-colored eyes. The grief was still there, a second skin she couldn't shed. It had been weeks, and the wound of losing Qing Yue was as fresh as the day it happened.
"He doesn't need me," Han Ruyan whispered, her voice trembling. "I don't need him either. He can live by himself. He is fine."
The grandmother sighed, a sound of deep frustration. "Have you forgotten, Ruyan? Have you forgotten how much you truly cared about him? Before the darkness took you?"
Han Ruyan finally looked at her mother. She searched the older woman's eyes, and suddenly, the years peeled back. The memory hit her like a physical blow.
The Flashback
It was a Tuesday. Shu Yao was barely eight years old.
Han Ruyan was in the kitchen, her hands deep in sticky dough, making dumplings. The phone rang, shrill and demanding.
She picked it up with her elbow, laughing. "Hello?"
"Ruyan." It was Shu Yuelin, her husband. His voice was tight, stripped of all humor. "I am taking Shu Yao to the hospital. I am outside the house. You take Qing Yue with you.
I can't waste more time."
The world stopped.
Han Ruyan dropped the phone. It clattered against the tiles, the cord swinging. She didn't even wipe her hands. She ran, stumbling out the door, the flour dusting her clothes like ash.
A car was idling in the driveway.
"Where is he?" she screamed, her voice tearing from her throat. "Where is my Shu Yao?"
The car door opened. Shu Yuelin stepped out, carrying a small bundle in one arm and leading a terrified Qing Yue with the other.
Qing Yue was crying, clutching a stuffed bunny—Pipi. The toy was soaking wet, dripping water onto the pavement.
Han Ruyan crouched down instantly, checking her daughter. "Qing'er? Are you hurt?"
"I'm okay, Mama," Qing Yue sobbed.
Han Ruyan stood up, her frantic eyes locking onto the bundle in her husband's arms. Shu Yao was wrapped in a thick blanket, his face pale, his lips blue. He was shivering violently.
"What happened to him?" Her voice cracked the moment it left her throat, sharper than she intended, trembling with fear she couldn't swallow.
Han Ruyan reached out with a shaking hand, her fingertips dusted in flour, still warm from kneading dough—ordinary warmth that felt obscene against her son's ice-cold cheek. The contrast broke something inside her.
Her breath hitched. "Yuelin… how did he fall? W-Why is he so cold?"
Shu Yuelin adjusted the limp child in his arms. His jaw was tight. "The boys from the school," he said quietly. "They pushed him. Again."
Ruyan froze.
A single heartbeat.
Then fury—hot, blinding, animal—ripped through her chest.
"Again?" Her voice shattered on the word, splintering into something between a sob and a scream. "They did this again?"
"Ruyan…" Yuelin murmured, exhausted. "They're children."
"Children?" She staggered toward them, her gaze locked on Shu Yao's pale face, his lashes clumped from fountain, his small fingers curled weakly against Yuelin's sleeve.
Tears spilled over her cheeks, fast, uncontrollable.
"If they're children—then what about my child?
Huh?"
Her voice broke. The dam burst.
"What about my Yao'er?" she choked out, her hands hovering helplessly near his soaked hair. "Why do they always hurt him? Why is it always him?"
Her knees wobbled, the flour on her hands turning to sticky paste as she pressed her palms over her mouth to stifle the sound that clawed its way up her throat—a mother's anguish, raw and wounded.
"He's so gentle," she whispered, tears streaming down her chin. "He never fights back. He never hurts anyone. Why must he be the one they throw into the cold? Who protects him,
Yuelin?
Who?"
Yuelin's expression softened, but he had no answer—only a tightening grip on their trembling child.
Shu Yao coughed faintly, water rattling in his lungs.
Ruyan's breath shattered again. She cupped his tiny face, her fingers trembling violently.
"My baby…" she whispered, her voice nothing but frayed threads. "You must have been so scared."
She pressed her forehead to his, her tears dripping onto his cold skin.
"You come home everytime hurt, You always lie about them hurting you, and never tell me the truth."
A sob tore free.
"Is it because you think I'll got angry? Is that why you stay silent while the world hurts you?"
Her voice lowered, breaking entirely at the edges.
"I can't bear it," she whispered. "I can't bear watching you come home like this. I can't bear watching you hurt because you're gentle."
Shu Yuelin placed a hand on her back, steadying her.
Shu Yuelin lowered his gaze. "I know, Ruyan. I know how you feel. But this isn't the time for arguments. Let me take him to the emergency room. You take care of Qing Yue."
He got back into the car, cradling the fragile boy against his chest. As the car sped away, Han Ruyan stood there, her heart breaking.
She looked down at Qing Yue. She scooped her daughter up, holding her tight against her beating heart.
"Will Gege be fine?" Qing Yue asked, her small voice trembling.
"Yes, dear," Han Ruyan choked out, pressing a kiss to her daughter's hair. "He will be alright.
Nothing can happen to him. Nothing."
"Gege got hurt because of me," Qing Yue confessed, burying her face in her mother's neck. "They took my Pipi... and Gege went to get Pipi for me... and he fell."
Han Ruyan closed her eyes, rocking her daughter. "Hush now. Don't worry, Qing'er. Nothing can happen to my prince."
But her expression said it all. She was terrified. Only a mother knew the specific, visceral horror of seeing her child broken.
She waited for hours.
By 5:00 PM, she had finally tucked an exhausted Qing Yue into bed. The girl had asked for Shu Yao until she fell asleep. Han Ruyan paced the living room, staring at the phone. She wanted to call.
Finally, the phone rang.
She snatched it up. "Yuelin?"
"Han Ruyan." It was her mother.
Han Ruyan's blood ran cold. She gripped the receiver.
As her, How is Shu Yao?"
"I... I don't know yet," Han Ruyan admitted, biting her nails until she tasted copper. "Yuelin hasn't called me yet."
Her voice cracked, splintering under the pressure.
"Don't worry, Han," her mother's voice came through, soothing and steady. "It's okay. I believe nothing can happen to Shu Yao."
Han Ruyan finally let the sob escape. "I try hard, Mother. I try so hard to tell him...
whenever anyone bullies him, to tell me! But he is so quiet. He is so shy. He will rather hurt himself than tell me anything. He keeps everything inside!"
"Don't worry, Ruyan," the grandmother said softly. "Some children don't like to speak of their life. They are too quiet. They carry the world on their shoulders without a word. But in time, he will learn."
"He is a good boy," the grandmother added. "He always thinks of others first, then himself. He will be fine."
"Thanks, Mother," Han Ruyan wept.
"Now, cut the phone, dear," her mother instructed gently. "Shu Yuelin, wouldn't be able to call you.
Han Ruyan nodded, though no one could see her, and placed the receiver back on the cradle.
Present Day
The memory faded, leaving Han Ruyan sitting in the cold light of the present.
She looked down at her hands. They were clean now. No dough. No flour.
But the stain of guilt was far harder to wash away.
She had loved him then. She had fought for him then.
What have I become? she thought, the bitterness of the tea matching the taste in her mouth. I punished the boy who jumped into the water to save a toy...
That toy was qing,er pipi