— "Mamma?"
Late morning sunlight rested softly across the mansion corridors.
Xiao Zhan had already left for work.
And with his absence—
the entire atmosphere of the house loosened slightly.
Not freely.
Never freely.
But enough that servants could breathe without measuring each inhale.
Wang Yibo stood in the hallway alone.
Very alone.
The mansion was too big.
Too quiet.
Too… echo-y.
His footsteps made soft tap… tap… tap sounds against the marble floor, and each sound came back to him from the walls like someone repeating after him.
"…Tap," he whispered, testing it.
The echo answered faintly.
He blinked.
"…It copy me."
He turned slowly, looking around with curious eyes, as if expecting to see the sound hiding somewhere.
No one stopped him.
The servants had been told not to disturb him unless necessary.
So they watched from a distance.
Watching him was… strange.
He wasn't like guests.
Wasn't like family.
Wasn't like anyone they had seen in this house.
He wandered gently, touching nothing, just observing everything as if the world were a book he was reading for the first time.
Then—
He saw her.
Near the end of the corridor stood a maid arranging fresh flowers in a tall glass vase.
She looked ordinary.
Simple uniform. Hair tied neatly. Calm expression.
But when Yibo saw her—
He stopped walking.
Completely.
His eyes widened slowly.
His lips parted slightly.
His breathing softened.
Because in his eyes—
She wasn't a servant.
She looked like someone else.
Someone from long ago.
Someone warm.
Someone soft.
Someone who used to hum lullabies.
"…Mamma?" he whispered.
The maid didn't hear.
She continued adjusting the flowers.
Yibo took one small step forward.
"…Mamma…"
Another step.
Slower.
Careful.
Like he was afraid she might disappear if he moved too fast.
One servant nearby noticed and stiffened.
She recognized that look.
Recognition.
But not the normal kind.
The fragile kind.
The kind that comes from memory, not reality.
Yibo's voice trembled softly—
"…Mamma…"
This time louder.
The maid turned.
"…Yes, young—"
She didn't finish.
Because suddenly—
Soft arms wrapped around her.
Yibo had stepped forward and hugged her.
Not tightly.
Not desperately.
Just gently.
Like someone holding something precious and familiar.
His cheek pressed lightly against her shoulder.
"…Found you," he murmured, voice relieved. "…Mamma here."
The maid froze.
Her hands lifted slightly in the air, unsure where to put them.
Servants nearby stared in shock.
No one—
no one—
touched staff in this mansion.
Not guests.
Not visitors.
And certainly not someone who belonged to Master Xiao.
"…Young master…" she said nervously, glancing toward the corridor as if Zhan might appear from thin air. "…I'm not—"
Yibo shook his head softly against her shoulder.
"…Is mamma. Same smell."
His voice was warm.
Certain.
Comforted.
"…Flower soap," he added quietly. "…Mamma smell like flower soap too."
The maid's expression changed.
Not fear.
Something else.
Something gentler.
Her hands slowly lowered.
Hovering awkwardly for a moment—
Then very hesitantly…
She patted his back.
Lightly.
The way one pats a child who woke from a bad dream.
"…It's okay," she said softly.
Yibo smiled against her shoulder.
Not big.
Just peaceful.
"…Mamma warm."
Across the hall, two servants exchanged looks.
They didn't know whether to stop him.
Or let him stay.
Because—
He wasn't causing trouble.
He wasn't breaking anything.
He was just…
hugging.
Like he had found something he lost a long time ago.
"…Mamma not go," Yibo murmured.
The maid's chest tightened slightly.
She understood now.
He didn't see her.
He saw someone he missed.
Someone he couldn't reach anymore.
Her voice softened without thinking.
"…I won't go right now."
Yibo nodded faintly, satisfied.
"…Good."
He stayed like that.
Quiet.
Still.
Just holding her gently.
Not demanding.
Not clinging.
Just existing in the moment like it was something warm he wanted to sit inside.
Minutes passed.
No one spoke.
No one interrupted.
Because something about the scene felt…
sacred.
Fragile.
Like if anyone made noise, it would break.
Finally Yibo pulled back slightly.
He looked at her face carefully.
Studying.
Comparing.
Memorizing.
His fingers lifted—
and very softly touched the edge of her sleeve.
"…Mamma tired?" he asked gently.
The maid swallowed.
"…No."
Yibo nodded.
"…Okay."
He smiled.
That small soft smile again.
The kind that appeared quietly and stayed like sunlight on water.
Then—
Footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor.
Sharp.
Measured.
Authoritative.
Servants stiffened instantly.
They knew that sound.
Everyone knew that sound.
Xiao Zhan was back.
The air changed immediately.
Like warmth had been replaced by winter.
Yibo didn't notice.
He was still looking at the maid, satisfied she wasn't tired.
But the servants' faces lost color.
Because they all thought the same thing—
Master will not like this.
And slowly…
Xiao Zhan appeared at the end of the hall.
Tall.
Composed.
Unreadable.
His dark eyes moved once—
and landed on the scene before him.
On Yibo.
Standing close to a servant.
Having just hugged her.
The temperature dropped.
Yibo noticed him then.
His face brightened instantly.
"…Husband!"
He waved a little.
Completely unaware.
Completely innocent.
Completely unprepared—
for what that sight looked like
through the eyes
of a man
who hated disorder.
— "Don't Hit… Please"
The hallway had never felt this cold before.
Servants stood frozen where they were, heads lowered, shoulders stiff, breaths shallow. No one dared move. No one dared speak.
Because Xiao Zhan was looking at only one thing.
Wang Yibo.
And the distance between them—
felt like the space before lightning strikes.
Yibo didn't notice.
He smiled softly and waved again, small hand moving gently in the air.
"…Husband come back early."
His voice carried innocent happiness, like someone who found a familiar face in a crowd.
No caution.
No awareness.
No understanding.
Zhan's gaze shifted once.
From Yibo—
—to the maid beside him.
Her face had gone pale.
She stepped back immediately and bowed her head. "S-Sir, I—"
"Leave."
One word.
Flat.
Sharp.
Final.
She left instantly.
Almost fled.
The moment she was gone, silence rushed back in like water filling a space.
Yibo watched her go.
"…Mamma busy," he murmured softly to himself, as if explaining her departure.
Then he looked back at Zhan.
Still smiling faintly.
Waiting.
Zhan walked toward him.
Each step slow.
Measured.
Controlled.
The sound of his shoes against marble echoed down the corridor like a ticking clock.
Yibo stayed where he was.
Didn't step back.
Didn't step forward.
Just waited.
When Zhan stopped in front of him, the height difference felt even bigger.
Shadow fell over Yibo's face.
"…What were you doing?" Zhan asked.
His voice was quiet.
That kind of quiet was worse than shouting.
Yibo answered honestly.
"…Hug."
A pause.
"…She look like mamma."
Silence.
Zhan's eyes hardened slightly.
"I told you not to touch people."
Yibo blinked.
His brows pulled together slowly.
Thinking.
"…That rule… for things," he said carefully. "Not people."
The servants nearby almost stopped breathing.
Because that—
was technically logic.
Zhan's jaw tightened.
"I said don't create trouble."
"…I not trouble," Yibo said softly. "…I gentle."
He even demonstrated by lightly touching his own sleeve.
"…See?"
The next second—
Smack.
The sound cut through the hallway.
Not loud.
But sharp enough to make two servants flinch.
Yibo's face turned slightly with the force.
Silence dropped again.
Heavy.
Still.
For a moment—
he didn't move.
His lashes fluttered once.
Twice.
Then slowly…
his hand lifted to his cheek.
Touching it.
Very gently.
Like he was checking if it was still there.
"…Hurts," he whispered.
His voice was small.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just truth.
Zhan's expression didn't change.
"You disobeyed."
Yibo's fingers curled slightly against his cheek.
He nodded faintly.
"…Sorry."
A tear slipped out.
Then another.
Quiet.
Slow.
Unstoppable.
"…Please don't hit," he whispered.
The words trembled.
Not loudly.
Just softly shaking as they came out.
"…Please… no hit Bobo."
Another tear fell.
"…It hurts Bobo."
He swallowed.
His voice grew even smaller—
"…Bobo be good. I be good. I listen. I remember rules. I try hard. So… please don't hit."
No one in the corridor dared breathe.
Because begging usually sounded loud.
Desperate.
Messy.
But Yibo's begging—
was gentle.
Like someone asking rain not to fall.
His hand slid down slowly from his cheek.
Both hands came together in front of him.
Not dramatic.
Just instinctive.
A quiet pleading posture.
"…Okay?" he asked softly.
Zhan looked at him.
Long.
Silent.
Unmoving.
His eyes studied every detail—
the trembling lashes
the damp cheeks
the faint red mark
the hopeful expression
And something unfamiliar flickered deep in his gaze.
Not softness.
Not regret.
Something harder to name.
"…If you break rules again," Zhan said at last, voice low, "there will be consequences."
Yibo nodded quickly.
"…No break. No break."
A tear slid down.
"…Promise."
Silence stretched.
Seconds passed.
No second strike came.
No movement.
No order.
Nothing.
The servants slowly realized—
Zhan's hand had lowered.
And stayed lowered.
Yibo sniffed softly.
Not crying loudly.
Just small leftover breaths catching in his throat.
He looked up carefully.
Checking.
"…Husband not hit now?"
Zhan didn't answer.
He simply turned.
And walked away.
That was answer enough.
Behind him—
Yibo let out a tiny relieved breath.
"…Okay…"
He rubbed his cheek lightly again.
Still warm.
Still stinging.
But he smiled a little anyway.
Because—
he hadn't been hit again.
At the end of the hall, Xiao Zhan's steps remained steady.
Unhurried.
Controlled.
But his expression—
was no longer as calm as before.
And for the first time since he built this perfectly disciplined world—
something inside it
had begun
to feel
out of order.
— The Distance on the Bed
Night in Xiao Zhan's mansion was always silent.
Not peaceful silence.
Structured silence.
The kind that felt like even darkness followed rules.
The lights were dimmed exactly at ten. Curtains drawn evenly. Air temperature set precisely. The entire house rested the way soldiers stand—
Still. Alert. Obedient.
Inside the master bedroom, the bedside lamp cast a soft golden glow across the vast bed.
One side—
perfectly smooth.
The other—
wrinkled slightly where Wang Yibo sat.
He wasn't lying down.
He wasn't even leaning back.
He sat near the very edge of the mattress, hands resting on his knees, shoulders small, posture careful.
Like someone sitting in a place he wasn't sure he was allowed to stay.
Xiao Zhan entered the room.
His presence arrived before his voice ever did.
Yibo noticed instantly.
His fingers tightened slightly against his pajama fabric.
Not obvious.
Just enough.
Zhan removed his watch. Placed it on the table. Unbuttoned his cuffs. Every movement precise. Calm. Controlled.
Routine.
Predictable.
Safe.
Except—
Yibo's eyes followed each motion like he was watching weather change.
Carefully.
Quietly.
Zhan glanced at him once.
"…Why aren't you lying down?"
Yibo answered immediately.
"…I sit."
"I can see that."
Silence.
"…Why?"
Yibo lowered his gaze to his hands.
His thumbs rubbed lightly together.
Thinking.
Searching for the right words.
"…Bed big," he said softly.
Zhan didn't respond.
Yibo continued, voice small—
"…If roll… maybe touch husband."
A pause.
"…Touch break rule."
The air stilled slightly.
Zhan looked at him.
Really looked.
Yibo wasn't complaining.
Wasn't accusing.
Wasn't afraid in the loud way people usually were.
He was afraid quietly.
Carefully.
Like someone trying not to wake a sleeping animal.
"…Come here," Zhan said.
Yibo froze.
Not disobeying.
Just hesitating.
"…Here?" he asked softly.
"Yes."
Yibo didn't move.
His fingers tightened more.
"…I sleep here okay," he whispered. "…Edge good. Edge safe."
Zhan's gaze sharpened.
"Safe?"
Yibo nodded faintly.
"…Mm."
Silence stretched.
Zhan stepped closer to the bed.
"Look at me."
Yibo looked up immediately.
His eyes were clear—
but cautious.
The way someone looks at fire after being burned once.
"…You're scared," Zhan said.
Not a question.
A statement.
Yibo shook his head quickly.
"…No."
A pause.
Then honest correction—
"…Little."
The word sat quietly between them.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just real.
"…Why?" Zhan asked.
Yibo blinked slowly.
"…Because husband hit."
Simple.
Truthful.
No blame in his voice.
Just explanation.
Zhan's jaw tightened slightly.
"And?"
Yibo swallowed softly.
"…Hand strong," he whispered.
His hand lifted unconsciously to his cheek again, touching the spot that had already faded but hadn't been forgotten.
"…Bobo soft."
The room felt quieter.
He wasn't accusing.
He wasn't complaining.
He was comparing.
Strong hand.
Soft cheek.
Simple math.
Zhan stood still.
Watching him.
"…Come here," he repeated.
Yibo hesitated longer this time.
"…No hit?"
The question was barely sound.
More breath than voice.
Zhan's eyes darkened slightly.
"I don't hit without reason."
Yibo processed that carefully.
His brows pulled together.
"…I sleep move," he murmured. "…Night not listen rules."
Silence.
"…If roll… if touch… husband think reason."
That—
was logic.
Childlike logic.
But still logic.
Zhan exhaled slowly through his nose.
"You won't be hit for sleeping."
Yibo studied his face carefully.
Searching.
Checking.
Measuring truth the only way he knew how—
by looking.
"…Promise?" he whispered.
The word was fragile.
Like glass.
Zhan didn't answer immediately.
Seconds passed.
Then—
"…Yes."
Yibo stared a moment longer.
Then nodded once.
Slow.
Careful.
Trusting.
He shifted.
Very slowly.
Moving from the edge toward the center of the bed.
Not close to Zhan.
But closer than before.
Every movement cautious, like approaching something powerful that might react suddenly.
He lay down.
On his side.
Facing away from Zhan.
Body slightly curled.
Hands tucked near his chest.
Small.
Quiet.
Guarded.
Minutes passed.
The lamp switched off.
Darkness settled gently over the room.
Zhan lay on his side of the bed, eyes open.
Not sleeping.
Listening.
Behind him—
Soft fabric sounds.
Tiny movements.
Careful breaths.
Yibo wasn't asleep.
He was trying to be still.
Trying very hard.
So hard that even his breathing sounded controlled.
Measured.
Like he was afraid even air might break a rule.
Another minute passed.
Then—
A whisper.
So soft it almost disappeared.
"…Husband?"
Zhan didn't turn.
"What."
Pause.
"…You sleeping?"
"No."
"…Oh."
Silence again.
Then—
"…I try not roll," Yibo whispered. "…If roll… you say. Not hit. Just say."
Zhan's eyes shifted slightly in the dark.
"…Sleep."
"…Okay."
A few minutes later—
Zhan heard it.
The faintest sound.
A tiny sniff.
Not crying.
Just leftover fear his body hadn't forgotten yet.
Yibo shifted slightly.
Carefully.
Slowly.
Until there was a small distance between them.
Not far.
But not near.
A safe distance.
A measured distance.
A distance built from memory of a sting on his cheek.
Zhan stared into the darkness.
Expression unreadable.
Because for the first time in years—
someone beside him was afraid of him
not because of his power
not because of his name
not because of his reputation
but because—
his hand had hurt them.
That thought stayed in the room long after the whispering stopped.
Behind him—
Yibo finally fell asleep.
Still curled slightly.
Still careful.
Even in dreams.
And Xiao Zhan—
did not sleep for a long time.
— The Rule He Couldn't Understand
Morning returned softly.
Light slipped into the hallway.
Servants began their duties.
And Wang Yibo—
had already woken up.
He stood near the corridor again.
Waiting.
Not wandering.
Not touching.
Just standing quietly like he had practiced all night.
Because he remembered the rules.
He remembered very carefully.
Then—
He saw her.
The same maid.
The one who smelled like flowers.
The one who felt warm.
The one who looked like someone his heart remembered before his mind did.
His eyes lit up.
"…Mamma."
Soft.
Hopeful.
She turned, surprised to see him again.
"Young master—"
But before she could finish—
Yibo stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her gently.
"…Good morning," he whispered happily. "…Mamma wake early too."
The maid froze.
Not because she was scared of him.
Because she was scared of who might see.
Her eyes lifted—
And her face lost color.
At the end of the hallway—
Xiao Zhan stood watching.
The air changed instantly.
Heavy.
Sharp.
Still.
Yibo didn't notice.
He was smiling softly, cheek resting lightly against her shoulder.
"…Mamma smell same," he murmured. "…Still flower."
"Wang. Yibo."
His name.
Full name.
Low voice.
Dangerously calm.
Yibo turned.
Still holding the maid.
His face brightened.
"…Husband!"
The maid quickly stepped away and lowered her head, trembling. "S-Sir, I didn't—"
"Leave."
She fled.
Now only two remained in the corridor.
One calm.
One happy.
Zhan walked forward slowly.
Each step controlled.
"Did you forget the rules?"
Yibo blinked.
Thinking.
"…No."
"You touched someone."
"…I gentle."
"That wasn't the rule."
Yibo's fingers curled slightly.
"…She mamma."
"She is not."
Silence.
Yibo looked confused.
"…But heart say yes."
Zhan's gaze hardened.
"Your heart doesn't make rules here."
Yibo swallowed softly.
His voice became small.
"…Sorry."
He lowered his head.
"…I forget little."
Zhan stopped in front of him.
Close.
Tall.
Immovable.
"You promised."
"…I try," Yibo whispered. "…Brain slow."
The silence that followed felt heavier than anger.
It felt like disappointment.
And somehow—
that scared Yibo more.
His hands slowly came together in front of him.
"…Don't be mad," he murmured. "…I learn. I really learn."
Zhan stared at him.
Long.
Unreadable.
Then—
he spoke.
Low.
Cold.
"Go to your room."
Yibo blinked.
"…Room?"
"Yes."
"…Alone?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"…Punishment?"
"Yes."
Yibo nodded slowly.
Not resisting.
Not crying.
Just accepting.
"…Okay."
He turned.
Walked quietly down the hall.
Small steps.
Soft steps.
Obedient steps.
Halfway there—
he stopped.
Turned back slightly.
"…Husband?"
Zhan didn't answer.
"…I still good boy," Yibo said softly. "…Just mistake boy."
Silence.
Zhan didn't reply.
Yibo nodded to himself anyway.
"…Okay."
And continued walking.
Zhan remained where he was.
Watching until Yibo disappeared behind the door.
The hallway stayed silent.
Still.
Perfect.
Ordered.
But for some reason—
it didn't feel satisfying.
A sharp sound cracked through the hall.
Slap.
Zhan's hand had already struck Yibo's cheek before anyone realized he had moved.
Yibo's head tilted with the force. He blinked slowly, confused more than hurt.
"Don't touch strangers," Zhan said coldly.
Yibo nodded quickly, lips trembling. "S-sowwy…"
He tried to smile, thinking apology would fix everything.
Zhan turned to leave.
But Yibo, scared he had done wrong again, hurried after him, fingers clutching Zhan's sleeve.
"Bobo good… no bad… no hit…"
Zhan's jaw tightened.
"Let go."
Yibo didn't understand the tone. He thought Zhan was angry because he hadn't explained properly.
"Bobo good boy," he whispered urgently, eyes wide. "Bobo listen. Bobo quiet. See?"
He pressed his lips together to prove it.
The servants watched from afar, holding their breath.
Zhan pulled his sleeve free.
Yibo panicked.
Small fingers grabbed again.
"Please no hit again…"
Another slap.
This one harder.
Yibo stumbled, nearly losing balance. A small sound escaped him, half gasp, half whimper. His eyes filled instantly.
But still he didn't cry loudly.
He just held his cheek and whispered, voice shaking—
"Hurts…"
Zhan's gaze stayed emotionless.
"Then learn."
Yibo nodded quickly, tears spilling now. "Learn… learn… Bobo learn…"
He wiped his tears with his sleeve, trying to be brave.
But fear doesn't leave that easily.
He stepped back… then forward again… courage gathering like a trembling candle flame.
"Please…" he whispered.
Zhan didn't answer.
Yibo swallowed.
"Please no hit Bobo…"
Silence.
Zhan turned slightly, eyes dark.
Yibo's lips quivered. He squeezed his eyes shut and said the words that came from the deepest, most fragile corner of his heart—
" Husband don't hit Bobo… Uncle hit Bobo… Bobo hurt… Husband don't be like uncle… please…"
—
Time stopped.
The air itself seemed to freeze.
Zhan didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Something invisible had just struck him harder than any slap.
The servants lowered their eyes immediately, sensing something had shifted.
Yibo peeked through wet lashes, scared.
He thought he said something wrong again.
"Bobo bad?" he whispered weakly.
Zhan still didn't answer.
But for the first time since this marriage began…
his hand didn't rise.
The silence after Yibo's whisper did not feel normal.
It felt heavy. Tight. Like the air itself had turned into glass.
Xiao Zhan slowly turned back.
Not fully.
Just enough that his eyes could see the trembling boy behind him.
"What… did you say?"
His voice was low.
Not loud.
Not angry.
That was what made it frightening.
Yibo flinched anyway.
Small fingers clutched his shirt hem. His lashes were still wet, cheeks flushed where the slap had landed. He didn't know which part Zhan was asking about. He didn't understand questions the way others did. His thoughts were soft, scattered, like cotton floating in wind.
"S-said…?" he murmured.
Zhan's gaze sharpened.
"You said your uncle hit you."
Each word dropped slowly. Precisely. Like stones falling into deep water.
Yibo nodded immediately, eager to answer correctly.
"Mhm. Uncle hit Bobo when Bobo loud… when Bobo cry… when Bobo slow… when Bobo forget…"
His fingers began counting in the air, as if listing normal daily things.
"Hit when eat slow. Hit when spill water. Hit when… when…"
He paused, thinking hard.
"…when Bobo breathe noisy."
The servants stiffened.
Zhan didn't move.
Didn't speak.
Yibo smiled faintly, proud he remembered. "But Bobo good boy now. Bobo quiet. See?"
He pressed his lips together again and stood very still, trying to look perfect.
Trying to look worthy.
Trying not to be hit.
The innocence of it was… wrong.
Zhan's eyes darkened slightly. Not anger. Not yet.
Something colder.
"Who told you," he asked quietly, "that getting hit is normal?"
Yibo blinked.
Normal?
He tilted his head.
"Normal… is normal," he repeated softly, as if that explained everything.
A pause.
Then he added in a small voice—
"Uncle say hit mean love. Mean teaching. Mean fix Bobo."
The words were simple.
Childish.
Broken.
But they didn't sound like lies.
They sounded memorized.
For the first time, something unfamiliar brushed across Zhan's expression. So fast it could've been imagined.
He crouched slightly, just enough that his eyes were level with Yibo's.
"When he hit you," Zhan said slowly, "did you cry?"
Yibo nodded.
"Did he stop when you cried?"
Small pause.
Yibo shook his head.
"No. Cry make uncle angry. So Bobo quiet cry. Like this."
He demonstrated immediately—tears spilling silently down his cheeks while his mouth stayed shut, shoulders shaking without sound.
The servants looked away.
No one spoke.
Yibo wiped his face quickly and smiled again, hoping he did it right.
"Bobo good quiet cry," he said proudly.
The hallway felt colder.
Zhan straightened.
His expression returned to its usual hard stillness.
But his voice when he spoke again was different.
Lower.
Sharper.
Dangerously calm.
"And your aunt?"
Yibo's smile faded a little.
"Aunty say Bobo broken. Say send Bobo far so no shame. Say nobody want broken boy…"
His voice softened more and more until the last words barely existed.
"…but you take Bobo."
He looked up at Zhan with pure, shining trust.
"Husband kind."
The word landed like thunder.
No one breathed.
Not even Zhan.
Yibo beamed shyly, rocking slightly on his heels.
"Husband no send Bobo away, right?"
—
For the first time in years…
Wang Yibo wasn't afraid when he looked at someone.
Because he believed he was finally safe.
And that—
That was the most dangerous misunderstanding of all.
Zhan stared at him.
Yibo smiled wider, proud of himself.
"Bobo belong you. Uncle say after wedding Bobo go away forever. So Bobo yours now."
Not with you.
Not living with you.
Yours.
Like an object.
Like luggage.
Like something handed over.
The realization settled silently in Zhan's chest.
His voice dropped again, quieter this time.
"…Who told you that you belong to someone?"
Yibo pointed at himself.
"Bobo belong whoever no throw Bobo."
Simple logic.
Unshakable.
He reached out carefully and held the edge of Zhan's sleeve between two fingers, barely touching.
"Can belong you?" he asked softly.
No demand.
No expectation.
Just hope.
The hallway clock ticked.
One second.
Two.
Three.
Wang Yibo watched him like a child waiting for permission to stay.
Zhan didn't answer.
Didn't pull his sleeve away this time.
Didn't slap him.
Didn't speak.
Because for the first time in his life—
He didn't know what the correct response was.
— The Sentence That Broke Something
The air between them felt thin.
Fragile.
Like one wrong breath could shatter it.
Xiao Zhan looked down at the boy still lightly holding his sleeve. His expression was calm, but his eyes… his eyes were searching.
Studying.
Measuring.
As if he were trying to understand a language he had never learned.
Slowly, quietly, he spoke—
"I hit you."
No emotion.
No apology.
Just fact.
Yibo nodded obediently. "Mhm."
Zhan's gaze sharpened slightly.
"…Don't you hate me?"
The question was soft. Almost a whisper. Almost swallowed before it fully existed.
Yibo blinked.
Tilted his head.
Thought very seriously.
His brows scrunched, lips pursed, eyes drifting upward as if searching for the answer floating somewhere above them.
"Hate…?" he repeated softly, tasting the word.
He looked back at Zhan.
And shook his head.
"No."
The answer came easily. Naturally. Without hesitation.
Zhan's fingers tightened faintly at his side.
"No?" he repeated.
Yibo smiled gently, like he was reassuring someone silly for asking.
"No hate."
"Why?" Zhan asked.
One word.
But it carried weight.
Yibo leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret meant only for him.
"Because…"
He lifted his sleeve slightly and pointed to his own arm.
"You don't burn Bobo's skin like Aunty."
—
Silence.
Not ordinary silence.
The kind that presses on your chest.
Zhan didn't move.
Didn't blink.
"…Burn?" he said quietly.
Yibo nodded, still smiling faintly, completely unaware that the world had just tilted.
"Mhm. When Aunty angry she use hot spoon. Say fix Bobo bad skin. Say make Bobo remember."
He said it the way someone might describe rain.
Or homework.
Or brushing teeth.
Just something that happens.
Something normal.
Something expected.
He looked up again and added softly—
"You only slap. Not burn. So is okay."
That was it.
That—
was enough.
Something inside Zhan went very, very still.
Not anger.
Not shock.
Something colder than both.
For the first time, he saw it.
Not the childish speech.
Not the soft face.
Not the strange innocence.
He saw the truth.
This boy standing in front of him…
had never known what gentle meant.
Zhan's voice, when it came out, was quieter than before.
"…Does it hurt?"
Yibo blinked, confused by the question.
"Hurt…?"
He thought.
Then nodded.
"Mhm. But Bobo quiet. Quiet make faster finish."
He smiled proudly again.
Like that was an achievement.
Like that was something to be praised.
Like survival was a skill he had practiced many times.
Behind them, one of the servants silently covered her mouth.
Zhan didn't look away from Yibo.
Didn't speak.
Didn't breathe.
And slowly—
very slowly—
his hand lifted.
Yibo flinched instantly.
Eyes squeezing shut. Shoulders shrinking. Body preparing.
Waiting.
Waiting for impact.
But it never came.
Zhan's hand stopped mid-air.
Frozen.
Not because he changed his mind.
But because suddenly—
he couldn't move it.
Not after what he just heard.
Not after understanding that this boy wasn't afraid of him…
because he thought this was kindness.
— Proof He Thought Was Normal
Yibo hesitated when Zhan didn't answer his question.
Silence, to him, usually meant he had done something wrong.
So he tried to fix it the only way he knew how.
Carefully… slowly… he let go of the sleeve he'd been holding and began fumbling with the cuff of his own shirt.
"See…" he whispered softly.
Wang Yibo pushed the loose fabric up his arm.
At first, nothing seemed strange.
Just pale skin.
Thin wrist.
Fragile bones.
Then—
Marks.
Faded, uneven patches scattered along his forearm. Some light, some darker. Shapes that didn't belong on skin. Not bruises. Not scratches.
Old burns.
Not fresh.
Not bleeding.
But unmistakable.
He lifted his arm higher, proudly, like a child showing a drawing he made.
"Aunty do here," he explained gently. "When Bobo drop bowl."
Zhan's gaze lowered.
Didn't blink.
Didn't react.
Yibo took the silence as encouragement.
So he showed more.
He tugged at the collar of his shirt and pulled it slightly aside, exposing his shoulder.
More marks.
Small round ones. Faint but visible.
"This when Bobo forget lock door," he said helpfully.
His tone wasn't sad.
Wasn't scared.
Just explanatory.
Like he was helping Zhan understand rules of a game.
He turned a little, fingers clumsily lifting the edge of his shirt near his waist.
"Here too."
Another mark.
And another.
Not many.
But enough.
Enough to tell a story without words.
Behind him, the servants had gone completely still. No one dared move. No one dared speak. The entire hallway felt like it was holding its breath.
Yibo twisted slightly, trying to see if Zhan was watching properly.
"Leg also," he added softly, as if he didn't want Zhan to miss any important detail.
He lifted his pant leg just a little.
There.
Another faint scar.
Older.
Paler.
Proof of something that should never have existed.
He looked back up with hopeful eyes.
"See? Bobo strong. No cry loud."
He smiled.
Proud.
Proud of surviving.
—
Xiao Zhan still hadn't moved.
Not a single muscle.
But something had changed.
Not outside.
Inside.
His eyes stayed on the marks longer than necessary. Not curious. Not shocked.
Studying.
Calculating.
Memorizing.
Yibo shifted nervously under the silence.
"…Bad?" he asked quietly. "Marks ugly?"
His voice had gotten smaller.
Because maybe showing them was wrong.
Maybe he wasn't supposed to show.
Maybe this was another rule he didn't know.
Zhan finally spoke.
"…Who did each one."
Not a question.
An order.
Yibo blinked, then obediently pointed one by one.
"Aunty. Aunty. Uncle. Aunty. Uncle… oh—this dog bite."
He brightened slightly at the last one, proud it wasn't punishment.
Then he added quickly, worried Zhan might misunderstand—
"Dog sorry after."
A pause.
"…They didn't say sorry," he finished softly.
The hallway clock ticked.
Once.
Twice.
Zhan's hand moved.
Yibo flinched instantly again, shoulders shrinking, eyes squeezing shut on instinct.
Waiting.
But instead of a strike—
Fingers stopped just above his arm.
Hovering.
Not touching.
Not yet.
Zhan's voice came out low.
Quiet.
Controlled.
"…Put your sleeve down."
Yibo opened one eye.
"Okay."
He quickly rolled it back down, then the other, then fixed his collar, then his pant leg. He smoothed his clothes carefully, like he was repairing himself.
When he finished, he looked up again, waiting for approval.
Waiting for judgment.
Waiting to see if he had done it right.
Zhan didn't praise him.
Didn't scold him.
Didn't look away either.
Something cold had settled deep behind his eyes.
Not anger.
Not pity.
Something far more dangerous—
Decision.
Yibo smiled shyly.
"Bobo good show?"
Zhan's reply was almost soundless.
"…Yes."
One word.
Flat.
But final.
And for some reason—
the servants standing nearby suddenly felt afraid.
Not for Yibo.
For whoever had done that to him.
— The Day His Patience Broke
Evening settled heavily over the mansion.
The sky outside was dark steel, clouds pressing low, wind brushing the tall windows with a dull hush. Inside, the halls were quiet—too quiet, the kind of silence that comes before something cracks.
The front doors opened.
Xiao Zhan stepped in.
His footsteps were sharp. Precise. Each one carried the weight of a day that had gone wrong from the very beginning—failed negotiations, stubborn partners, numbers that refused to align, voices that irritated him, delays he didn't tolerate.
His jaw was tight.
His mood—
already ruined.
A servant approached carefully. "Sir, dinner is ready."
He didn't answer.
He handed over his coat without looking and walked toward the dining hall, expression carved from stone.
At the table sat Wang Yibo, legs swinging slightly under the chair, humming to himself, completely unaware of storms or tension or the fragile line he was about to step over.
In front of him sat a glass of water.
He was staring at it very seriously.
Because he was trying not to spill it.
When he saw Zhan, his face lit up instantly.
"You back!" he said softly, smiling bright like sunlight after rain. "Bobo wait."
Zhan didn't respond. He pulled out his chair and sat.
Servants began placing dishes quietly.
Yibo watched him with shining eyes, rocking a little with happiness.
"You eat with Bobo," he said proudly, as if that was a reward.
Zhan picked up his chopsticks.
Silence.
Yibo wanted to help.
Helping was good. Helping meant people didn't get angry.
So he carefully picked up the water glass with both hands.
"Drink," he offered gently.
But his fingers—
were small.
The glass—
was smooth.
And his hands—
were trembling slightly from excitement.
It slipped.
Not dramatically.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
The glass tipped.
Water spilled across the table.
A thin stream slid over the polished surface… and dripped onto Zhan's sleeve.
—
Silence.
Complete.
Immediate.
The servants froze.
Yibo froze.
Zhan looked down.
At the water.
At his sleeve.
At the spreading stain.
Slowly—
very slowly—
his eyes lifted.
Not loud.
Not explosive.
Just cold.
"What," he said quietly, "did you do."
Yibo's lips parted.
"I— Bobo give water…"
The explanation was soft. Careful. Hopeful.
Wrong answer.
Zhan's chair scraped back sharply.
The sound alone made Yibo flinch.
"You can't even hold a glass?" Zhan's voice cut through the room, sharp as glass. "Is that too difficult for you?"
Yibo shook his head quickly. "No! Bobo can! Bobo try again—"
"I don't want you to try again."
The tone dropped.
Dangerously.
"You ruin everything you touch."
Yibo went still.
His fingers curled slowly into his sleeves.
"I… fix," he whispered.
"You fix?" Zhan repeated, a humorless breath leaving him. "You don't fix anything. You create problems. You are a problem."
Each word landed heavier than the last.
Yibo's eyes began to shine.
But he didn't cry.
He remembered.
Quiet cry is better.
"I good," he said softly, voice trembling. "Bobo good boy…"
Zhan's patience snapped.
"Good?" His voice sharpened. "You call this good? You can't talk properly, can't act properly, can't even think properly!"
Yibo shrank in his chair.
"I learn…" he whispered.
"No," Zhan said flatly. "You don't learn. You never learn."
The words struck harder than any hand.
But the hand came anyway.
Slap.
Yibo's head turned with it, breath catching.
No sound came out.
He just blinked, stunned.
"I told you," Zhan continued coldly, "not to touch things unless told. Are you incapable of understanding instructions?"
Yibo shook his head quickly, tears spilling now.
"Understand… understand…"
"Then why do you keep making mistakes?"
"I— I not mean—"
Another slap.
Not louder.
But firmer.
Enough to silence him.
"You don't mean anything," Zhan said. "That's the problem. There's nothing in that head of yours."
The servants stood frozen, eyes lowered, hearts pounding.
Yibo's shoulders trembled.
Still no loud crying.
Only small shaking breaths.
"I be good…" he whispered desperately. "Please… I be good…"
Zhan exhaled sharply, turning away as if looking at him any longer would make his temper worse.
"Clean it," he ordered.
Yibo nodded immediately, wiping his face fast with his sleeve.
"Yes. Clean. Bobo clean."
He stood quickly, almost stumbling in his hurry to obey, grabbing a napkin and carefully dabbing the table, movements clumsy but determined.
Not once did he complain.
Not once did he protest.
Because in his world—
this was normal.
And that…
That was what made the room feel so unbearably heavy.
Zhan didn't look at him again.
But his fingers on the table were still tense.
Still tight.
Still not relaxed.
Because anger fades.
Words don't.
— The Words That Should Never Be Said
The table was clean now.
Every drop of water wiped.
Every dish straightened.
Every mistake erased as best as small trembling hands could manage.
Yibo stood beside the table clutching the damp napkin, chest rising and falling quickly from trying not to cry too loudly. His lashes were wet, cheeks flushed, lips pressed tight in effort.
He was waiting.
Waiting for approval.
Waiting for the sign that everything was okay again.
But the silence stretching across the dining hall didn't feel okay.
It felt sharp.
Heavy.
Like glass suspended in the air.
Slowly, Xiao Zhan leaned back in his chair, eyes cold, irritation from work still burning beneath his calm exterior. The day had been long. Exhausting. Frustrating.
And right now—
this small mistake felt like the last straw.
His gaze fell on the boy standing beside the table.
On the trembling fingers.
The tear-streaked face.
The hopeful eyes.
Something in him hardened instead of softening.
A quiet, dangerous breath left his lips.
"…Why did I marry you?"
The sentence dropped into the room.
Soft.
But lethal.
Yibo blinked.
Didn't understand.
"…Marry?" he repeated faintly.
Zhan's voice sharpened.
"Yes. Why did I agree to this marriage? Tell me."
Yibo's lips parted.
No answer came.
He didn't know this was a question people were supposed to answer.
Zhan's jaw tightened.
"You ruin everything you touch," he continued coldly. "You embarrass me. You can't behave properly. You can't speak properly. You can't even act like an adult."
Each word struck like invisible blows.
Yibo's fingers slowly loosened.
The napkin slipped from his hand.
He didn't notice.
"I should never have agreed," Zhan said flatly. "Marrying you was a mistake."
—
Something inside Wang Yibo went very still.
Not shocked.
Not loud.
Just…
still.
His eyes stayed on Zhan's face, wide and searching, as if trying to find where the warmth had gone. As if maybe he had imagined it before.
"…Mistake?" he whispered.
His voice was so soft it almost didn't exist.
Zhan didn't stop.
"You heard me. You ruin my life."
The words were spoken without shouting.
Without hesitation.
Without mercy.
And somehow—
that made them worse.
Yibo's breathing forgot how to work.
His chest rose.
Stopped.
Rose again.
His mind didn't understand all the meanings, didn't grasp adult cruelty, didn't analyze tone or intention.
But he understood one thing perfectly.
You ruin my life.
His lower lip trembled.
Not like before.
Not fear.
Not pain.
This tremble was different.
Slow.
Deep.
Like something fragile cracking from the center.
He didn't cry immediately.
Didn't move.
Didn't speak.
He just stood there, staring at Zhan as if waiting for him to say just kidding.
Waiting for the correction.
Waiting for the smile.
Waiting for the safe tone.
It didn't come.
The silence confirmed it.
And that—
that was the moment it broke him.
His shoulders slowly curled inward.
His head lowered.
His voice, when it came out, was smaller than a whisper.
"…Bobo… ruin?"
No one answered.
His fingers clutched the edge of his shirt.
"…Bobo bad?"
Still no answer.
His throat moved as he swallowed.
"…Should go away?"
The question was so quiet it barely reached the air.
But it echoed.
Because this time—
he wasn't asking out of habit.
He was asking because he believed it.
A tear slipped down.
Then another.
No sound.
Just silent drops falling one by one onto the polished floor.
Zhan finally looked at him again.
And something in his chest tightened unexpectedly.
Not enough to stop him.
But enough that he noticed it.
Yibo nodded faintly to himself, like he had figured it out.
"…Okay," he whispered obediently.
Not angry.
Not upset.
Just accepting.
Like someone who had always known this would happen eventually.
"I go quiet," he murmured. "No ruin."
He bent down slowly to pick up the fallen napkin, hands shaking slightly.
Not because he was scared of being hit.
But because something inside him hurt in a way he didn't have words for.
He wiped the floor where his tears had fallen.
Carefully.
Thoroughly.
Erasing even that.
Because if tears made things worse—
he would erase those too.
Across the table, Zhan watched.
And for the first time that evening—
his chest didn't feel lighter after speaking.
It felt heavier.