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Chapter Text

In the grand halls of the Xie estate, silence echoed louder than footsteps.

The marble floors gleamed like still water, untouched and cold. Expensive oil paintings watched from their gold frames, impassive sentinels to the life that grew—quiet and strange—in the spaces between duty and pretense.

Xie Lian was born on a rain-drenched October night. His mother had wept, not just from the pain of labor, but because the child she cradled in her arms had been born a girl.

A beautiful girl.

But the softness in her features was quickly swallowed by the steel in her husband's eyes.

After months of trying to conceive another child, in the hopes of having a boy, it was revealed that it would be too risky and difficult for Xie Lian’s mother to carry another child.

"She will be raised a boy. I will have a son," Xie Haoran had said. Not asked. Decided.

The Xie family empire—an old-money dynasty of logistics, real estate, and quiet influence—had no room for deviation, no space for daughters who couldn't inherit.

And so, the next morning, she became Xie Lian—firstborn son of the prestigious Xie conglomerate.

His mother, Madame Mei, had stitched the new name into baby clothes with trembling fingers. She did not fight. She never did. Her love for her child was soft, but her spine was water. She obeyed her husband in everything, even this. Even when her heart ached for the truth they had to bury beneath fine suits and carefully tailored manners.

But she loved Xie Lian. Fiercely.

When he was four, she dismissed the kitchen staff for the afternoon and tried to make dumplings herself. The dough was under-kneaded and gummy, the filling salty and uneven. But when she handed the clumsy plate to him, her eyes shone.

"I made this for you, Baobei," she whispered, proud. "All by myself."

Xie Lian ate every bite.

At six, he learned to speak with perfect enunciation, never too soft, never too shrill. At seven, he learned to sit in silence through board meetings, knees straight, back straighter. At eight, he could recite stock market trends, analyze power plays between rival companies, and tell whether a guest was useful or deadweight by the first handshake.

But he was still soft-hearted.

He gave his toys away to the maids' children. He memorized the names of every staff member in the estate and greeted them with a bow. He let the koi fish nibble his fingers in the garden pond and cried when one died in winter.

His father hated it.

"You are too delicate," Xie Haoran snapped one morning, slapping a porcelain teacup down so hard it cracked. "No heir of mine can afford to be gentle."

That was when Jun Wu entered the picture.

Jun Wu was a former soldier, now a private security consultant with a reputation for turning spoiled brats into cold machines. He arrived in black with a storm behind his eyes, a silent man who saluted no one. Even Xie Haoran treated him with cautious respect.

From the first session, Jun Wu taught Xie Lian more than how to fight. He taught him how to fall and stand up without flinching. How to choke someone into silence. How to make fear useful. He never raised his voice—but his silence was heavier than steel.

At first, Xie Lian was fascinated by him.

Jun Wu treated him like someone who could be dangerous. That was new. His father had always treated him like a tool. His mother treated him like fragile porcelain. But Jun Wu? He looked at Xie Lian like he was an unfinished masterpiece.

"You want to be kind," Jun Wu said during one of their first spars. "But kindness has no place in a world like this. Learn to hide it."

Still, Xie Lian smiled at him. Trusted him.

Because no one else had ever called him strong.

At ten, his only friends were two boys who saw beyond the suits and pedigree.

Feng Xin, his appointed bodyguard's son, was loud and blunt and fiercely loyal. He had a crooked grin, quick fists, and the patience of a rock when it came to Xie Lian's strange little whims. He would sneak him sweets when the chef said no, lift him onto his shoulders during the rare outings, and stand guard outside his room even when they weren't supposed to be playing.

Mu Qing, the son of one of the estate's maids, was harder to read. Sharper. His eyes were always calculating, and he hated being indebted to anyone. But he never mocked Xie Lian for being different. He'd sit with him by the koi pond, legs swinging off the edge, reading borrowed poetry while Xie Lian daydreamed about worlds far from marble and duty.

They made him feel normal, in the rare moments he was allowed to be.

But normal was a fleeting luxury.

The older he got, the more the world squeezed around him like a velvet noose. Expectations tightened. His voice deepened with testosterone and his body changed, and with it, the armor he had to wear every day. Being the heir of the Xie family wasn't just a title—it was a performance. And there was no room for mistakes. No room for softness.

Sometimes, after combat training or late-night meetings with powerful men who smiled too sharply, he would crawl into his mother's private sitting room and rest his head on her lap.

She would brush his hair back gently and hum a lullaby she wasn't supposed to remember. Her hands still smelled like sesame oil and overcooked rice.

"I'm sorry," she whispered once, when he was half-asleep. "I wish you didn't have to pretend."

But pretending was survival.

And Xie Lian? Xie Lian was good at surviving.

Even when it broke his heart.

——————

"Focus."

Jun Wu's voice cut across the echoing hall like a blade. It always did.

Xie Lian's feet shifted on the polished wooden floor, breath even, hands lifted in a practiced guard.

He struck.

Jun Wu blocked, twisted, and drove him back with a shoulder check that made his knees tremble. Xie Lian barely avoided hitting the ground, spinning into a crouch, weight shifting.

"Better," Jun Wu said. "But you dropped your left shoulder again."

Xie Lian huffed. "I know."

"Then stop doing it."

A second later, Jun Wu lunged again.

Their movements became a blur of muscle memory and momentum — precise, vicious, beautiful in its efficiency. But for all the speed, Xie Lian never once aimed to hurt. His strikes were measured, his holds gentle even in their control. He didn't slam Jun Wu when he pinned him to the mat; he steadied him.

Jun Wu noticed. He always did.

"You still hold back," he said, wiping his brow after the third round. "Even when you win."

"I don't need to cause harm to prove I'm capable," Xie Lian said, reaching for his water bottle. "You taught me that winning is about leverage. I choose not to bruise people."

Jun Wu said nothing for a long moment.

Then: "Kindness like yours doesn't survive in our world."

Xie Lian smiled — small, tired. "Then I'll change the world."

Across the room, Mei Nianqing stood silently, dressed in slate gray. His stance was relaxed, arms loosely crossed, but his gaze was razor-sharp, following every exchange.

"He's stronger than you think," Nianqing said, to no one in particular.

"I know," Jun Wu replied, wiping his hands. "But strength means nothing if he won't use it."

"He will," Nianqing said. "He just hasn't had to yet."

Xie Lian pretended not to hear them. He was used to being spoken about as if he weren't in the room.

It used to sting. Now, it only tired him.

"Enough for today," he said, tugging off his gloves. "My father wants me in a meeting at ten."

"You're still favoring your right knee," Nianqing noted as he stepped closer. "Pain?"

"Not pain," Xie Lian said softly. "Just... stiffness."

He didn't mention the restless sleep, or the way his body had ached lately. His hormone shots had been adjusted last month. Dr. Wei said that sometimes it took a while to stabilize, especially with his schedule. But Xie Lian didn't mind. The deeper voice, the faint shadow of a mustache, the growing strength in his limbs — he actually felt at home in it all.

"Have you been taking the injection with food?" Nianqing asked, more like a doctor than a bodyguard.

Xie Lian nodded. "Usually. Sometimes I forget. But my mother reminds me."

"Let her cook for you again and you'll start losing weight," Jun Wu muttered under his breath.

"She tries her best," Xie Lian said, lips twitching. "That burnt rice last week had spirit."

"Burnt rice can't have spirit," Nianqing said flatly.

"It did," Xie Lian insisted, already walking toward the exit. "It had the spirit of perseverance."

—

The estate's breakfast salon was already set when Xie Lian arrived, now showered and dressed in a crisp, high-collared white shirt that framed his jaw and the small, even scar on his chest — the one from his first binder.

He sat alone at the long, lacquered table, silver utensils neatly arranged. His plate was a careful balance of protein, rice, and pickled vegetables. He barely touched it though.

His mother appeared ten minutes later, a gentle rustle of lavender silk.

"Good morning, my love," she said, kissing his forehead. "You look pale."

"I've been training," he said softly.

"Too hard, I bet," she sighed, sitting across from him. "They never let you breathe, do they?"

"I'm breathing now."

She poured him tea with shaking hands — not from age, just from anxiety. Lady Mei had always been nervous, even when she smiled. Her eyes searched his face constantly, as if trying to memorize him.

"Your father wants to take you to the Shanghai summit next month," she said after a long pause. "It's a public event. Press will be there."

Xie Lian looked up. "Is he worried I'll pass or not pass?"

She flinched. "Lian, I didn't mean—"

"It's alright," he interrupted gently. "He's always worried about something."

She reached for his hand across the table, her own still too cold.

"I wish he saw you the way I do," she whispered.

"I know."

"I wish I were stronger."

"I know that, too."

There was silence. Xie Lian looked at her with something soft and sad behind his eyes.

"I'm okay, Mother," he said. "Even if he doesn't love me the way I want him to... I still want to be good. That's enough."

"You've always been good."

—

After breakfast, he made his way down one of the mansion's endless hallways. Mu Qing and Feng Xin were already waiting by the door like statues—Mu Qing, with his usual tight-lipped disdain for anything rich and unnecessary, and Feng Xin, tall and always alert, arms crossed like a fortress.

"You're late," Mu Qing said without looking at him.

"You're early," Xie Lian countered, smiling as he slipped on his coat.

"You eat?" Feng Xin asked.

"A little."

"You should eat more."

"You should mind your own business," Mu Qing said.

Feng Xin scowled. "It is my business."

"I'm fine," Xie Lian said, gently cutting in. "Thank you."

"You're always saying that," Mu Qing muttered.

"And it's always true."

Just then, a clatter of steps echoed down the stairs.

"Cousin!" Qi Rong skidded into the hall, all messy hair and a hoodie that cost more than most cars. "Wait for me!"

"I thought you had tutoring today?" Xie Lian asked.

"I ditched it." Qi Rong beamed, a little breathless. "Boring. Besides, I wanted to see you."

Xie Lian blinked. "You... missed me?"

"You're cooler than anyone in this house," Qi Rong said proudly. "Even when you're scary."

"I'm not scary," Xie Lian said, laughing softly.

"You kind of are," Mu Qing muttered.

"You kind of should be," Feng Xin added.

Qi Rong grinned. "I saw that security tape from last month, by the way. That guy who tried to corner you at the gala? You made him cry."

"I didn't want to make him cry," Xie Lian said, a little guiltily. "I just wanted him to let go of my arm."

"And he did," Qi Rong said proudly. "Because you're amazing."

Xie Lian looked at his cousin — the boy who had once pulled his ponytail as a child and called him weird, who now looked at him like he was some untouchable myth — and felt something warm and protective rise in his chest.

"I'm still just your Qi Rong," he said quietly. "You don't have to make me anything more."

Qi Rong blinked, then shrugged. "Maybe. But you're still the best."

—

That night, after meetings and combat drills and a carefully arranged video call with foreign investors, Xie Lian sat alone in his room.

The fire crackled softly. The koi in the pond outside glowed like gold coins in the moonlight.

His hands ached. His body was tired. But his heart was still his.

And that, he reminded himself, over and over, was something no one could take.

Chapter Text

The faucet in the kitchen hadn't worked for a week. When Hong'er turned it again that morning, it squeaked, spat rust, then died like everything else in this place. He wiped his hands on his threadbare shirt, the collar stretched and stained, and stepped back into the cramped living room that doubled as a kitchen, dining space, and—if his father passed out early enough—a place to sleep.

"You're still here?" his stepmother spat, hunched over a cracked mirror, dabbing cheap lipstick over cracked lips. "Go make yourself useful before your father finds a reason to break your ribs again."

Hong'er didn't answer. He'd learned that the quieter he was, the more likely they forgot he existed. Sometimes it worked.

His stomach growled, loud enough to make the stepmother glance over with a sneer. She pointed to a half-eaten box of cold, greasy takeout on the counter.

"You want food? Lick the scraps."

He stared at her. His fists balled at his sides. It was the kind of morning where his throat burned for something to scream, something to destroy, but he said nothing. He never did. Because there was nothing he could do.

Instead, he snatched the box and retreated to his room, where the one-legged chair and broken blinds waited like old friends. The food was cold, but he ate it anyway, chewing like a dog guarding a stolen bone.

The apartment buzzed with roaches and the occasional slam of a cabinet door. His stepmother laughed at something on the TV. From the other room came the sharp, steady creak of his father's belt being unbuckled. It was never a good sound.

"Fucking brat!" The shout came a moment later. "Rich folks coming into town today! Some dumbass charity thing. Don't do anything to embarrass me."

He didn't respond. The last time he'd embarrassed his father, he couldn't lift his left arm for a week. Still couldn't swing it all the way over his head.

The charity thing. That's right. His teacher had mentioned it too—how some golden heir to some giant empire was funding food programs in underprivileged districts. "You should go," she'd said kindly, "They're handing out food in a couple days. Maybe you'll get a chance to meet someone who really cares."

Hong'er had scoffed in her face. As if someone rich would care. As if anyone would.

By afternoon, the building was tense. Hong'er had gone down to the alley to scavenge a few wrappers someone had left behind and returned to find the front door cracked open.

Inside: his father, shirtless and drunk already, face red and sweating.

"Where the hell were you?" he slurred.

"I was—"

The backhand came first. It always did.

Hong'er hit the floor. His jaw buzzed with pain. When he looked up, he saw his father's boot, then nothing but the dull thunder of impact.

By the time the beating stopped, his nose was bleeding and he was too dizzy to cry. He dragged himself to his room, stomach curling with rage and shame.

They always said kids got used to it. That was a lie.

His body buzzed with too much energy, the kind that needed to go somewhere. So he stood in front of his cracked mirror, face bruised, blood in his mouth, and whispered: "What's the point?"

There was no answer. Just the silence of moldy walls.

He kicked the mirror. It didn't break. Neither did he.

But something inside him cracked.

⸻

He climbed onto the window ledge as the sun dipped low, casting the alley below in deep gold. His room on the fifth floor overlooked trashy streets and cracked sidewalks, everything looked as though the world was only colored sepia and gray. He stood there, wobbling slightly, hands clenched, red eye burning beneath the bandage he always wore. His birth mother had told him to cover it, once. "It's beautiful," she'd whispered, singing lullabies against his hair. "But this world doesn't understand beauty."

She was gone. And he didn't want to stay either.

One step forward. One drop. One second to nothing.

He closed his eyes.

And then—he heard laughter.

Startled, Hong'er snapped his eyes open and froze mid-shift. Below, walking down the cracked sidewalk, was a small group of people, all dressed far too well for this part of town.

A tall man in a black suit led them, severe-faced. Two others flanked him—one of them was obviously a bodyguard like the leader. But it wasn't them that stopped Hong'er's heart.

It was him.

A boy, maybe a few years older than him. Dressed all in white, his soft hair caught the sunset, and his face—delicate, like porcelain, but not cold. Gentle. Warm. Smiling, even as the guards whispered warnings in his ear.

Hong'er forgot to breathe.

The boy paused, looking around with a kind of curious wonder. He said something to the man beside him, then turned—just as Hong'er, slowly leaning forward to get a better look at the beautiful boy, lost his balance.

The old metal creaked.

The world spun.

And then—

"H-Hey!"

Arms caught him.

Strong, trembling arms.

They hit the ground hard, the stranger breaking most of the fall. Hong'er gasped, wind knocked from his lungs, head ringing.

"Oh my goodness," the voice above him said, breathless and frantic. "Are you—are you okay?"

Hong'er blinked up, dazed, into the softest, kindest eyes he had ever seen. He saw silk gloves now scuffed from the fall, and a heavenly face flushed with concern.

He scrambled away on instinct, swiping at his bloody nose. "Get off me," he muttered.

"Wait, wait, you're bleeding. You fell from the window—what happened?"

"None of your business," Hong'er snapped, voice sharper than he meant it. His head throbbed. His ribs did, too. But he still managed to glare. "What are you doing here, dressed like that?"

The boy smiled sheepishly. "Charity visit. I'm Xie Lian."

Hong'er stared. Xie Lian. The name. The Xie family. Richer than anyone had a right to be.

"I don't want your charity," Hong'er muttered, turning his face away.

"That's fine," Xie Lian said gently. "But I would really like to help you."

Hong'er bit the inside of his cheek. "I didn't ask."

"You didn't have to." Xie Lian knelt beside him. One of the bodyguards stepped forward.

"Your Highness, please step back—"

"It's fine, Feng Xin."

"Still, this area isn't—"

"Feng Xin," Xie Lian said again, firmer now, with a quiet authority that startled even Hong'er.

Silence.

Hong'er sat on the ground, scuffed and humiliated, while Xie Lian pulled something from his pocket. A folded flyer, printed on thick cream paper with elegant gold trim.

"We're giving away free food tomorrow. Fresh stuff, not expired. If you show them this, they'll let you in even if there's a line."

Hong'er took it slowly, fingers brushing Xie Lian's glove. For a second, neither of them moved.

"Why do you care?" he asked.

Xie Lian tilted his head, as if surprised by the question. "Because you’re hurt," he said softly. "And because... no one should have to go hungry."

Hong'er stared at him. There was no mocking in his voice. No pity. Just simple, quiet concern.

He looked down at the paper in his hands.

"...Thanks," he said gruffly, not looking up.

Xie Lian stood, brushing dust from his pants. "If you come, I'll be there."

"Why?"

"Because it matters."

He smiled again—like a beam of sunlight, warm and almost too bright to look at.

Then he turned and walked away, guards flanking him once more. His white coat fluttered behind him like wings.

Hong'er sat there a long time, fingers clenched around the paper.

Something inside him, something old and angry and ready to die, quieted.

He would go.

————-

The charity building was a blocky thing, all beige siding and chipped blue paint, perched between a liquor store and a pawn shop like it had given up long ago. Inside, the smell of rice, oil, and cheap cleaning solution still clung to the air like sweat, even though the crowd had long thinned out. Paper plates and soda cans sat in overfilled trash bins. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead.

Hong'er didn't step inside.

He'd been there since sunrise, standing in the shadow of a graffitied wall across the street, his hoodie pulled low over his brow. Watching.

He didn't know what made him stay. It wasn't the food—he could've snatched a meal from one of the other kids earlier, or raided the back of the bakery if he was desperate. He was always desperate.

But the boy—Xie Lian—he was there. Like yesterday, looking out of place in this town that smelled like decay and death. Hair tied neatly back, his hands in disposable gloves as he served rice with a quiet smile. That smile, stupid as it was, was what had kept Hong'er frozen to the sidewalk like he’d been nailed there.

Hong'er waited until the doors shut for good, until the last mother dragged her sticky-faced child home, until even the sound of laughter from inside dimmed to silence.

Then he crossed the street.

Xie Lian was just coming out with a clipboard under his arm, looking like he belonged on a stage instead of in this nasty town.

"You waited?" Xie Lian stopped short. His voice was soft—surprised, not pitying.

Hong'er didn't speak.

"I saved you a plate. I hoped you'd come." He opened the paper box carefully, showing warm rice, a couple soy eggs, and a neatly wrapped steamed bun. "It's a little cold now, I'm sorry."

Hong'er's stomach twisted painfully at the smell. He hadn't eaten in two days. His pride hated how quickly his fingers twitched toward the food.

"...Why?" he asked, voice rough.

"Why what?" Xie Lian looked genuinely puzzled.

"Why're you being nice to me?" His voice cracked. "What the hell do you even want?"

Xie Lian blinked. Then slowly, he sat down on the steps, motioning Hong'er to join him. "Nothing. I don't want anything."

"Liar." The word came out fast and sharp. "You rich types—everyone wants something. A good picture for the press? A pat on the back?"

"No press came today."

Hong'er's lips parted, but he had no answer. He looked away, fists tightening at his sides.

"No one else gives a damn about me," he muttered. "Not even enough to spit on me. Why the hell do you?"

Xie Lian was quiet for a while. Not because he didn't have an answer, but because he wanted to give the right one. The boy beside him was trembling, not just from hunger but from something deeper—like he'd been born raw.

"I guess..." Xie Lian said slowly, "because I just want to help people."

Hong'er laughed. Bitter, breathy. "So I'm your charity case?"

"No." Xie Lian met his gaze. "You're not a case. You're a person."

Something in Hong'er twisted. He wanted to scream. Or run. Or cry. He did none of those things.

Instead they just sat in silence for a bit before hong’er said, “I wanted to leave this world.” Just flat. Just like that. "I was gonna do it. Out the window. Would've been easy. But then you showed up."

Xie Lian's face didn't twist with horror. Didn't go pale or pitying. He just listened.

"I don't know why I didn't do it anyway. Maybe I should've. Would've been quieter."

A long silence fell.

Then Xie Lian leaned forward, eyes sincere, voice steady.

"If you can't find a point for living," he said softly, "then live for me."

Hong'er froze.

"What?"

"Live for me. Until you find something else. Or forever, if you want." Xie Lian smiled, not joking in the least. "I'm not going anywhere."

Something broke in Hong'er's chest. And something was built anew.

"I don't get it," he said hoarsely.

"You don't have to. Just take the food. Come to the next event. You'll always have a place there."

Hong'er didn't move.

So Xie Lian reached into his coat and pulled out a small flyer. It was crinkled at the edges but clean. "Here. Another giveaway. Tomorrow. We're giving out more supplies too—blankets, hygiene kits. I'll be there again."

Hong'er took it like it was made of glass.

Xie Lian stood slowly and offered one last smile. "See you tomorrow?"

He didn't wait for an answer. Just turned and walked off with the grace of someone who'd never been touched by the filth of this world.

Hong'er sat there long after he was gone. The food in his lap. The flyer clutched in his fist.

He didn't know it yet, but something irreversible had shifted in him.

That night, for the first time in months, he didn't dream of falling. He dreamt of white gloves and a warm voice and someone smiling at him like he mattered.

He went to the food event the next day.

And the one after that.

—————

By thirteen, he'd saved enough to buy a secondhand phone. Every alert about Xie Lian's charity work, every photo, every scrap of news—he devoured them.

He started to draw.

At first, it was just the faint outline of a boy in white, standing in sunlight.

But the drawings became sharper. More real. More devoted. More like worship.

He didn't know what he was becoming.

Only that he'd give his life to Xie Lian.

And it still wouldn't be enough.

Chapter Text

Seventeen, and Xie Lian was already living in the future his father had carved out for him. Days measured not by sunlight, but by the number of crises navigated. Meals skipped with the same precision that he memorized legal loopholes. A spine so straight it might snap if he ever let himself rest.

In the grand mirror of his father's office, his reflection stared back: pressed suit, crisp tie, flat chest, short brown hair combed into perfect obedience.

The hair was the first thing he lost. He hadn't wanted to cut it.

He remembered standing in front of the mirror two years ago, hands trembling as the barber's scissors glinted, his father behind him, saying in that soft but immovable voice, "You want them to respect you as a man, don't you?"

The words had felt like a verdict.

Xie Lian didn't protest. He'd only nodded and watched the strands fall, felt something in his chest loosen—and tighten—at the same time.

Now, his features were sharper, his voice trained lower, his body disciplined. Testosterone had taken hold, sculpting his edges. Still, there were days he looked in the mirror and saw the old face peeking through beneath the corporate armor. The one people sometimes still glimpsed if they looked too long.

He learned not to let them look too long.

⸻

The marble hallway stretched endlessly ahead, its silence broken only by the rhythmic tap of Xie Lian's polished shoes. Still a prince in name, but no longer a child. His suit was a tailored armor, his name carried weight, and his presence could silence a room. But his bones ached.

He'd been up since four. Again.

The boardroom's frosted glass glinted as he approached. Beyond it, shadows waited: men and women decades his senior, eyes sharp with calculation, always watching, always waiting for the moment he stumbled.

He did not stumble.

Not while Jun Wu watched.

"Straighten your back," came the low voice beside him—measured, velvety, and demanding. Jun Wu never raised his voice. He didn't have to. "They will try to devour you today. Smile with your teeth."

Xie Lian's lips curled slightly. “Of course."

Jun Wu's hand ghosted over his shoulder for a fraction of a second—always instructive. "Don't let them smell fear."

And he didn't.

Inside the boardroom, Xie Lian dissected a crisis involving a high-profile political assassination where the family's ties to both the deceased and the accused made things messier than blood. He outlined containment procedures, restructured their legal distancing, and suggested three replacement narratives. He didn't falter, even as one older executive clicked his tongue and muttered, "Too young."

He wasn't.

————

The day began like most others: a 4:00 AM workout, two hours of foreign briefings, a security update with Jun Wu, and then a silence meeting—no talking, only strategic memorization of shifting global alliances while sipping black coffee so bitter it numbed his teeth.

And then his father called.

The summons was simple. A text:
Come to the private conference hall. Now.

When Xie Lian arrived, the air was already thick with tension. His mother, elegant but visibly agitated, was pacing by the far wall. Several elders were there too—one with his head in his hands, another staring at the carpet as though it held the answer to their ruin.

His father sat at the head of the long obsidian table. Usually an impenetrable figure, he looked—strained. Not undone, never that. But worn.

"Sit," he said.

Xie Lian did.

A hologram flickered to life. Reports. Screenshots. A flood of documents and accusations. The headlines alone were enough to make his stomach twist.

"Xie Solutions Exposed: Northern Negotiation Turns into Laundering Scandal."
"Government Officials Compromised?"
"Illicit Transfers Connected to Xie Holdings Subsidiary."
"Xie Lian, Heir to a Criminal Dynasty?"

"What is this?" Xie Lian asked, voice low.

His father's eyes were bloodshot. "Fabricated. Or at least distorted. But it's out. Someone planted it. Possibly with real financial irregularities mixed in. A setup."

"There's no chance this was an internal error?"

"No." His father's jaw clenched. "I would never make that mistake."

His mother stopped pacing. "They'll come for us. Press, shareholders, even the government."

"And the Northern clients are threatening to pull everything unless we issue a statement within 24 hours," one uncle added. "It's hundreds of millions in trade and diplomatic alliances. Years of work."

Xie Lian processed the information in silence.

Then his father said, "You'll address the media."

He blinked. "Me?"

"You're the face of our future. If we want to keep investors confidence, they need to believe in you. That you're competent. That you're strong. That this family isn't breaking."

Xie Lian's chest tightened, a slow pressure building.

He'd been tired before. Always was. But now there was something deeper underneath it, a hollow ache behind his ribs. The room felt too warm, like the tie around his neck had turned into a noose.

"I'm not fully briefed yet," he said carefully.

"You will be," his father snapped. "You've trained for this. You're more prepared than I ever was at your age."

His mother added more softly, "You've worked so hard. They already respect you. You just need to speak."

Xie Lian nodded once.

He didn't argue.

He couldn't—not when he'd spent years proving he was worthy of standing exactly here. Not when every doubt anyone had ever whispered about the heir born in the wrong body still lingered in back rooms and boardrooms alike. Not when he remembered his father's voice: "If you want this life, you must walk it perfectly."

⸻

By the time evening came, the atrium beneath the headquarters had been converted into a temporary press hall. Bright lights flooded every inch, catching the gleam of the gold-trimmed Xie insignia overhead.

Xie Lian stood before the mirror backstage, adjusting his collar, checking his binder beneath his shirt—not because it was visible, but because the pressure grounded him. His chest hurt from stress and lack of sleep, but he kept his expression still.

Mei Nianqing entered after knocking. He didn't say anything, just handed him a bottle of tonic and looked him over with cool detachment.

"You look pale," he said finally.

"I haven't slept much."

"You never do."

Xie Lian didn't respond. He took the tonic in both hands, sipped, and closed his eyes for a second.

He exhaled slowly, smoothed his hair, and turned toward the door.

⸻

The cameras flashed like gunfire.

Every major outlet was present. Government liaisons, corporate investors, public watchdogs. There were whispers as he took the podium—he was too young, they said. Too clean. Too pretty, some muttered under their breath, noticing the delicacy in his features despite the masculine styling.

But Xie Lian stood tall.

"I know what you've read," he began, his voice steady. "And I know what it must look like."

Silence fell.

"But let me be absolutely clear: the allegations against Xie Solutions are being taken seriously, investigated with complete transparency, and will be addressed in full. Our company does not and has never condoned unlawful activity. We pride ourselves on acting with integrity—publicly and privately."

He didn't blink as reporters shouted over each other, voices loud and ugly.

"How do we know you're not covering for your family?"

"Why is a child being sent out to clean up corporate corruption?"

"Some say you're only here as a puppet heir—what are you really hiding?"

And one voice—cutting, cruel:
"Do you even know who you are yet, Mr. Xie?"

Xie Lian let it all wash over him.

"I know who I am," he said, calmly. "And I know what this company stands for."

His gaze swept over them, measured and unwavering.

"I'll personally ensure we find the truth. We'll cooperate with all legal channels. We won't be silenced, and we won't collapse—not over lies."

He stepped down without waiting for applause. There was none.

But behind the tinted glass overlooking the gallery, Jun Wu stood motionless.

Watching.

Always watching.

⸻

The next three days were war.

Not the kind fought with bullets and blades—but the slow, merciless bleeding of credibility, of trust. Of carefully cultivated power slipping, inch by inch, through trembling hands.

The Xie solutions largest room was alight with projections, calls, data sheets. The room buzzed with voices like wasps: overlapping, tense, all speaking in defense or accusation.

Xie Lian stood at the center of it all.

He hadn't gone home since the press conference. Home felt irrelevant now—he had no space for personal comfort, not when their family name was being dissected in real-time by every analyst and government watchdog in the country.

He ran on caffeine, anxiety, and willpower alone.

Jun Wu was never far.

He moved like a shadow, silent and sovereign, only ever at Xie Lian's side. Offering suggestions in his smooth, composed voice.

"Your father is leaning too hard on the northern investors," he said at one point, as they stood in the elevator descending into the sublevel. "He's trying to recover everything at once. That will only provoke more suspicion."

"I know," Xie Lian muttered. "I told him."

"Then make him listen."

The way he said it was never quite insubordinate. But not obedient, either.

And Jun Wu was right.

Everything was unraveling.

⸻

By the fourth day, Xie Lian had read over 300 pages of financial records and internal memos.

He learned that their Northern branch—once the crown jewel of their negotiation division—had been infiltrated by a dummy corporation six months ago. One that slowly rerouted discreet funds under their name, using real personnel signatures and AI-forged approvals.

That's how the falsified documents looked so real.

Someone had done this with insider access. Someone who knew exactly how the Xie family worked—what kind of firestorm to unleash, and when to unleash it.

"We need to find the source," Xie Lian said, pacing the length of the war room. "Not just prove we're innocent—we need a face, someone with motive. A thread to pull."

"But what if there isn't one?" one of his uncles murmured, gray creeping into his temples. "What if it was just... our fault?"

Xie Lian turned to him, voice flat. "It wasn't."

Silence.

His father spoke next. "Begin isolating the transfers. Freeze the compromised accounts. Quietly, for now."

"We'll need a public target eventually," Mei Nianqing warned from the screen, calling in from the labs. "And fast."

Jun Wu stepped forward. "Then we give them one."

Everyone looked to him.

He smiled. "It doesn't need to be someone guilty. Just someone... disposable enough to take the fall."

"No," Xie Lian said, almost too quickly. "We're not feeding an innocent to the wolves."

Jun Wu tilted his head, unfazed. "And if it's between a scapegoat and your entire family falling with the house?"

Xie Lian said nothing.

⸻

By the fifth day, shareholders began calling for emergency meetings.

Two regional partners postponed joint contracts "until the situation is clarified."

A long-time legal firm quietly suspended their retainer.

And at dusk, the final knife:

The Li Consortium formally withdrew their alliance.

Their statement was polite. Diplomatic. But final.

"The Xie Group has long been a pillar of excellence. However, given the unresolved allegations and the need to protect our own integrity, the Li Consortium will be suspending all direct and indirect partnerships with the Xie family until further notice."

Until further notice was just a cleaner way of saying you're on your own.

When the news came in, no one spoke.

Xie Lian was the first to move.

He stood slowly, his back aching from hours in the same seat. "We'll reach out to the remaining allies. One by one. Send personalized communications, reinforce transparency. Offer them something bigger in return if they stay."

His mother frowned. "You mean bribe them?"

"I mean give them reasons not to walk away," he said.

His father gave a sharp nod.

Everyone else moved to execute the plan.

Everyone except Jun Wu, who stood at the window behind Xie Lian, arms crossed, watching the city lights below.

"You're handling this well," he said quietly once they were alone.

"Not well enough," Xie Lian murmured, eyes fixed on the map of red flags spreading across their holdings.

Jun Wu stepped closer, voice soft. "You know what I admire most about you?"

Xie Lian didn't answer.

"You don't run," Jun Wu said. "Even when it hurts. Even when you're tired."

A pause.

"I only wish," Jun Wu added, "you'd stop letting guilt keep you human."

Xie Lian finally turned toward him. "Being human is the only thing I have."

For a long moment, Jun Wu said nothing.

Then, he smiled like it didn't mean anything.

"I'll make sure no one sees the cracks," he said, brushing invisible dust from Xie Lian's shoulder. "For now."

⸻

That night, Xie Lian sat in his private archive, surrounded by silent tomes and old financial ledgers.

He hadn't cried.

He didn't cry anymore.

But then a hidden picture caught his eye, he pulled it out. A printed photo, from years ago. In their private garden. His mother, whose smile could rival the sun in brightness, held an at least 7 year old Xie Lian in her arms, who tried to wriggle free with a smile.

Xie Lian stared at the image until the blur of tears threatened to come—and didn't.

Because tomorrow, more allies would fall.

Tomorrow, more wolves would circle.

And he would still be standing.

No matter what it cost him.

——————

No one knew where the money went.

That was the heart of it.

Three hundred million yuan—gone. Not gradually, not over time, but pulled like a rug from beneath their feet in a matter of hours. An entire offshore treasury account—emptied. Their security systems hadn't even detected the breach until it was too late. The encryption was flawless. Every signature, every transfer, every clearance check looked legitimate.

But none of it was.

Someone had done this deliberately.

And someone inside had helped them.

⸻

When Xie Lian stepped into the office that morning, the atmosphere felt like a funeral. Everyone spoke in low voices, the lights dimmed as though the world had grown too bright for the shame that filled the space. His father wasn't shouting today.

He wasn't speaking at all.

He just stared at the digital projection on the wall: a map of their global holdings, dozens of red marks blinking where operations had been frozen, contracts voided, assets frozen. Their global credibility—shattered.

One of his uncles spoke in a trembling voice. "It's not just reputation anymore. It's theft. They took nearly half of our reserve. Half."

"And the backup accounts?" Xie Lian asked.

"Empty. Or inaccessible."

Feng Xin swore loudly from across the room. "How does someone even do this?! Doesn't the system flag suspicious transfers?"

"It did," Mu Qing muttered darkly, flipping through a tablet. "After the money was already gone. Whoever did this, they planned it months in advance. Waited for our weakest moment."

Jun Wu stood in the corner, arms folded, silent.

It wasn't until later that Xie Lian began to understand the full weight of what they'd lost.

It wasn't just the money—it was the network. The silent trust from powerful allies. The sense that the Xie name meant something.

Now, they were just another crumbling dynasty.

And his father was beginning to fracture.

⸻

Xie Lian didn't mean to overhear.

He had gone to the east wing, the quietest part of the estate, intending to check on his mother. She hadn't attended a family meeting in days. He figured she was resting.

But as he neared the study, he heard the sound of porcelain clinking softly.

His mother's voice, gentle and steady. "Haoran, please... have some tea. You haven't eaten all day."

Then his father's voice—low, sharp, bitter. "I said I'm fine."

"It's just tea," she said softly. "You need to rest. You haven't slept, and this stress—"

The crash came fast.

A heavy slam of ceramic hitting tile, glass shattering. Xie Lian froze in the hallway.

"I don't need tea!" his father snapped. "I need people who know what they're doing! I need a family that isn't falling apart! Not more soft words from a woman who hides the moment things get difficult!"

There was a sharp gasp.

Silence.

And then the rustle of an expensive dress, quiet footsteps—his mother stumbling out, head bowed, trying not to cry.

She didn't see him until she nearly walked into his chest.

She startled, brushing her sleeve across her face quickly, trying to gather herself.

"Baobei," she said, voice thin, "I'm fine. I didn't mean to—"

He reached out immediately, gently catching her arms. "Mother."

She shook her head. "He's just tired. This isn't who he is."

But it was, wasn't it?

Or at least—it was who he'd become.

Xie Lian swallowed hard, guided her gently to the bench in the garden just outside the east wing. He didn't say anything at first. Just sat beside her as she cried quietly, the tears spilling down cheeks too delicate for this world.

Later that evening, Mei Nianqing came to find him.

The doctor's white coat was open, revealing the purple turtleneck underneath. His usual detached tone was absent tonight, replaced with something harder to define—measured, but intimate.

"She shouldn't be walking around," Mei Nianqing said, not bothering with a greeting.

Xie Lian looked up, tired. "She's not sick."

"Yes, she is," Mei Nianqing said bluntly. "She hasn't been working because she's too weak to. Her condition's worsening. Her lungs. I've told your father repeatedly—he ignores me."

Xie Lian blinked. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"You've had enough on your plate," Mei Nianqing muttered, then softened a fraction. "And you're not a machine either. No matter how hard you pretend."

The words dug in, raw and unexpected.

Xie Lian looked away. "If I stop, everything falls apart."

"It's falling apart anyway."

They were quiet for a long moment.

Then Mei Nianqing spoke, carefully. "You trust Jun Wu too much."

Xie Lian's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

"I'm not saying he did anything. But there's more to him than he lets on."

"He's never left my side."

"Exactly."

Xie Lian glanced over, heart tightening. "Are you saying he's using me?"

Mei Nianqing's mouth twitched—almost like he was suppressing a sigh or something deeper. "I'm saying... I know him. Better than most. He's patient. He plays the long game. Just remember that, if you ever start to wonder why everything's crumbling while he's still standing tall."

Xie Lian didn't reply.

Because he had wondered.

⸻

That night, Feng Xin came to his room with food.

Mu Qing followed a few minutes later, throwing himself onto the couch like he lived there.

"We're staying with you tonight," Feng Xin said bluntly.

"You're acting like I'm going to break."

"You already are," Mu Qing muttered, not unkindly. "You just haven't noticed."

"I don't need—"

Feng Xin pushed the tray into his hands. "Eat. Then sleep. No negotiation."

Xie Lian gave up.

They stayed with him until he dozed off, lulled by the presence of the only people who hadn't turned on him, blamed him, or left.

⸻

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep.

Only that something jolted him awake.

A shrill, mechanical beep-beep-beep cut through the darkness. Not an alarm clock. Not a message ping.

A fire alarm.

Xie Lian blinked blearily, sitting up—then froze.

Smoke.

He could smell it. Plastic, rubber, and something else—faint, but growing stronger by the second.

Then came a shout from the hall.

"FIRE! Wake up! WAKE HIM UP!"

Feng Xin.

And then—

BOOM.

The distant roar of an explosion from one of the lower wings. The floor shook beneath his feet. A vase on the far shelf toppled.

The lights went out.

Red emergency lights flickered on.

Mu Qing bolted up, already pulling Xie Lian up by the arm. "It's not a drill."

He heard Feng Xin shouting again. "XIE LIAN—MOVE!"

The smoke was crawling under the door now.

And something deep inside Xie Lian snapped from shock and exhaustion and fear.

And he ran.