Kui's POV
At the break of dawn, the roosters launched into their usual chaos, croaking like they had a score to settle with the morning. I had just stepped out of the bathroom after brushing my teeth. My daily ritual wasn't complete without preparing medicinal herbs for Grandma Miao—her health had been spiralling lately, needing more attention than usual.
The cold tiles bit at my heels as I stepped into my slippers. That's when I heard it—a car. Odd, considering no one in our little Fujian compound drove anything fancier than a bicycle or a rusted scooter. I moved towards the noise, confusion brewing in my chest. A black Bentley, sleek and smug, sat parked just inside the gate like it owned the place. Definitely not normal. Not here.
People were already gathering. Passersby, neighbours, even the nosy fruit seller from across the street—all craning their necks, trying to get a glimpse through the tinted glass. My grip on my slippers tightened. I stepped out properly, heart thudding, more annoyed about the scene than curious. Grandma Miao was still asleep; the last thing she needed was this kind of ruckus waking her.
"What is going on?" I muttered as I walked past the gawking faces. But before I could reach the car, I spotted her—Grandma Miao—already outside, speaking to a tall stranger in a dark suit. Her shoulders drooped. Her face looked hollow, her eyes sunken with sadness.
I picked up pace and pushed the crowd back. "Go home," I snapped, waving them off. "Nothing to see here!" They scattered like flies.
I turned to Grandma. "What's the matter?"
Before she could answer, she suddenly bent her knees to kneel before the man. My breath caught in my throat. "Please don't take her from me!" she cried, her voice cracking like a whip.
"No, Grandma—don't do that," I whispered, rushing to her side. I tried lifting her up, but she waved me away, determined. Her frail body trembled. Her knees touched the cold ground with a sound that made my heart wince. Even her shadow looked broken, yet this man didn't blink. He stood there, proud and impassive, eyes fixed somewhere above us, like we were nothing but dust on his boots.
"Stand up," I said, more sternly this time. "Stop this, Grandma." I helped her up despite her resistance.
And still, the man didn't speak.
Then, in a voice so dry and cruel it could slice through bone, he finally spoke. "Pack your things. We're going to the city."
I turned to him, eyes blazing. He didn't flinch. Just lit a cigarette, took a long drag, and began tapping his foot impatiently. Arrogance dripped off him like cheap cologne.
"Fu Sihan!" Grandma gasped, tears returning. She tried again to reach him, but he didn't even look her way. I could only stare at her, dumbfounded, watching this sad scene unfold like a twisted drama.
And then—"I'm your father."
His words hit like thunder. I froze. No, not because it was shocking—I'd long given up hope of knowing anything about him—but because of the contempt laced in his voice. As if he didn't want to claim me, yet did so out of some twisted obligation.
He kept talking. Promises. Lies. Something about giving me a better life. Teaching me how to behave like a woman. Family reunion, he said. Security. Future.
I didn't buy a single word.
Grandma and I both knew better. I'd read enough faces in the herbal shop. Trained by Master Zhou, I could read a man like an open scroll. His eyes were hollow, his smile too clean. That was no fatherly expression. It was calculation masked in charm.
"Let's go inside, Grandma," I said, noticing the way her hands trembled from the cold. She hadn't even worn her slippers. My chest ached at the sight. She was too caught up in the moment to feel the bite of winter.
I helped her into the small parlour. Fu Sihan didn't follow. He just stood by his overpriced car, puffing away like a chimney.
"You have to go, dear," Grandma finally whispered once we were seated.
I didn't reply. Instead, I wrapped myself in a thick coat and threw one over her shoulders too. I lit the fire, pouring out the herbal brew I'd prepared earlier. Thank heavens I'd stored it in the warmer—it was still hot.
"You heard me, Muchen," she repeated, using that soft nickname she always saved for moments like this.
"I'm not going," I replied, handing her the herbal tea. I didn't look at her. Couldn't.
"But why, Muchen?" she asked, her eyes searching mine.
I stared at her, hard. She had been everything. Father, mother, guardian, teacher, friend. My only peace in this chaotic world. The thought of leaving her was unbearable.
"You're all I need," I said quietly, my throat tightening. "I don't want another family. I already have one."
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "You can't stay here forever. One day, you'll have a life of your own."
"I don't want it," I said, barely holding back tears. "Not without you."
"I'll be okay," she murmured, but I saw the truth in her eyes. She was scared, not for herself, but for me.
She had raised me with the little she had, working jobs others turned their noses up at. I'd never seen her as anything less than perfect. But I knew she carried guilt—guilt for the way Fu Sihan turned out. She told me once that she had been a courtesan in her youth, that she hadn't wanted to raise a child then. But she'd taken me in when he dumped me at her door, and loved me like her own.
She owed me nothing. And yet, she gave me everything.
"What about your health?" I asked, watching her cradle the tea with shaky fingers.
"I'll be fine," she said, though tears glistened at the corners of her eyes.
"Please… go," she whispered, and just like that, the dam broke. We cried, clinging to each other as though we could stop time with our grip.
That night, Fu Sihan stayed in a hotel. Said our home lacked class. He found a motel miles away, making a performance out of his own ego. I didn't care. I stayed by Grandma's side, holding her hand until sleep claimed her.
The next morning, he returned, sunglasses on, coat too sharp for a village like ours. This time, he wasn't waiting. He had come to collect what he believed belonged to him.
I packed in silence.
We said our goodbyes. I didn't cry anymore. My tears had dried with the dawn.
The car pulled out of the compound, kicking dust into the morning air. Grandma waved from the doorstep, wrapped in her thick shawl, trying to hide her shivers.
The road to Beijing was calm on the outside, but inside the car, it was suffocating. The windows were wound up. Smoke filled the space. Loud music pounded in my ears. I pressed my forehead against the glass, staring out as Fujian disappeared behind us.
That place had been my haven. My labyrinth. My home.
And now, I was driving away from everything I had ever loved—towards a future I did not trust, with a man I could never call father.