Rain fell like silver knives, cutting across the sky and hammering against the walls of the orphanage. Li Xinyue came into the world under that storm, her first breath a scream that merged with the roar of thunder. The small orphanage smelled of disinfectant and something older -despair, abandonment, the lingering echoes of children who had vanished without notice.
Her mother, unknown. Her father, unknown. No one waited for her, no one welcomed her. The nurses moved briskly from crib to crib, never lingering, their eyes glancing just long enough to note that the baby was alive. Xinyue learned immediately that survival meant observation. Every glance, every tone, every fleeting shift in attention mattered.
Even as an infant, she felt hunger in its rawest form: the gnawing emptiness that made her tiny body shiver while older babies ate first, were held first, were loved first. The world showed her its cruelty from her very first breath. But some fire flickered inside her even then - a quiet, stubborn defiance she could not name.
By the time she was three, Xinyue understood that she could not trust anyone. Caretakers whispered promises they didn't keep, children who smiled today could betray tomorrow. Kindness was fragile and rare. And yet, that quiet spark of survival grew, shaping the contours of her mind.
At age thirteen, Xinyue was adopted by the Qiao family. A middle-class household with polished floors, polite smiles, and a daughter named Meilin. Sixteen, beautiful, charming… and cruel beyond belief.
From the first day, Xinyue realized the smiling faces of her new parents were a façade. Meilin took pleasure in subtle torment;lunches hidden, homework ruined, whispered lies to teachers and classmates. And the parents? Cold, indifferent.
"You should be grateful someone even notices you," her mother said, her words slicing deeper than any slap.
"Charity isn't pampering," her father added, eyes averted.
Xinyue learned quickly. Survival demanded silence, patience, and observation. She smiled when needed, nodded when scolded, and stored every cruelty in a ledger of memory.
By fourteen, the cruelties escalated. Not just subtle pranks or whispers, but deliberate attempts to humiliate and endanger her. She woke in the middle of the night to find doors locked, strangers near her room, their intentions vile and terrifying. There were nights she was nearly sold -whispered about in the corridors as a "commodity" for sinister strangers. Once, a man with a black overcoat and sharp eyes tried to take her from the house. She froze, heart hammering. By some improbable stroke —-a delayed call, a clattering servant, the man distracted - she escaped into the shadows, trembling, but alive.
The trauma was seared into her bones. Fear became instinct. Silence became a weapon. And yet, the small spark of defiance never died.
By fifteen, the torment became physical. Meilin's hands pushed her down stairs, slammed doors on her fingers, pinched, scratched, humiliated. The parents occasionally watched but only to scold her if she cried. Each slap, each shove, each word of contempt was etched into her mind. Pain became her teacher. Strategy became her armor.
She began to fight quietly, subtly. She learned patterns: Meilin's moods, her parents' distractions, the blind spots of servants. Each action became a move on a chessboard she didn't yet have permission to own.
By sixteen, Xinyue began to plan small rebellions. She stole small amounts of money from allowances. She hid knives in drawers, not to fight, but to feel control. She sabotaged Meilin's petty games with intelligence and cunning, never being caught. Each night, she whispered promises to the darkness: I will survive. I will leave. I will never be controlled again.
Her schooling offered no relief. Lies and rumors made her a pariah. Friends were nonexistent. Classrooms became battlegrounds of observation and patience. Hunger, cold, fear - they were constant, but sharpened her.
By seventeen, Xinyue had a plan. Hidden money, packed belongings, routes memorized. Every misstep in the house had taught her the timing of silence and flight.
The night of her escape, a storm fell again. Rain hammered the mansion, masking the sound of her footsteps. Meilin was away at a party. Parents lost in argument. She slipped through the garden gate, backpack clutched, her pulse steady. The city swallowed her into its dark, wet streets.
For the first time, Xinyue felt freedom. And yet, even as the cold rain soaked her hair and clothes, she knew the world outside demanded cunning, skill, and vigilance. She was alone. She was hunted by memories. And she was ready.