The morning sun filtered through the high-rise windows, casting fractured light across the floor of Lin Yuhan's temporary apartment. He was already dressed—dark slacks, black turtleneck, sleeves pushed to his forearms as he scanned a screen filled with data.
Auction timer: 02:13
Bid placed: anonymous
Item: NFT + original manuscript from a defunct indie artist he remembered would go viral next spring.
He wasn't gambling. He was investing—strategically, silently—while the world still saw him as the quiet, broken heir who "stepped down for health reasons."
His fingers hovered above the keyboard, steady and sharp.
> "This isn't about proving I've recovered," he muttered to himself, "It's about showing them I never left."
A soft chime—auction confirmed. First move, locked.
---
That afternoon, at the Li family luncheon, he arrived late. On purpose.
Shen Mochen was already seated, sipping coffee like it was a boardroom. Their parents were chatting idly, and Meilei—poised, polished, petty—was performing again.
"So glad you made it, Yuhan," she said sweetly, sliding the seat next to her out, but Shen Mochen had already stood and shifted his chair.
"Sit here," Mochen said smoothly, a hand resting lightly on the back of Yuhan's chair. "You'll want the better light."
Their gazes met—brief, electric. Meilei faltered.
"Yuhan," she said louder now, smiling to the others, "I've been meaning to ask. I heard you've been attending... rather questionable investment clubs. Very underground. Very risky. Are you sure you're ready to play with the big boys again?"
The table quieted.
Yuhan stirred his tea with calm precision. Then, without looking at her:
"Oh? That's interesting, coming from someone who lost 4 million won in crypto 'donations' last year. Or was it 6? It's hard to keep track of when the spreadsheets are in someone else's name."
Meilei's jaw tensed. Shen Mochen's eyes flicked up. Sharp. Alert.
"You're mistaken," Meilei said, voice brittle. "That wasn't my doing. That was a clerical—"
"You asked me to help clean the file," Yuhan said quietly, still not looking at her. "Funny what sticks in my memory."
He finally turned his gaze on her. Calm. Unbothered. Brutal.
Meilei went silent. Their mother frowned, confused. Shen Mochen watched Yuhan closely now—not out of judgment, but fascination. Something had shifted again.
---
Later that evening, Yuhan returned to his flat, stripped off the formal shirt, and sat with his laptop. The next investment: green energy firms. He knew which ones would fail, which would double. Memory was a gift—so was the rage that kept him moving.
His doorbell rang.
He opened it to find Shen Mochen, a rare orchid in hand.
"White suits you," Mochen said, stepping in without waiting.
Yuhan took the flower but didn't offer thanks. "You're not the type to bring flowers."
"I'm not," Mochen replied. "I just didn't want to come empty-handed to a chess match."
Yuhan raised an eyebrow. "And who said I invited you to play?"
Mochen chuckled, low and rough. "You didn't. But I noticed today—at lunch. You were different. That precision. That silence." He stepped closer. "You weren't reacting. You were striking."
Yuhan leaned back against the wall, arms folded, the orchid limp in one hand. "Observation suits you. But don't confuse curiosity with care, Shen Mochen."
"I wouldn't dare," Mochen murmured. "But I am curious. What are you building?"
Yuhan tilted his head, his tone almost bored. "A life. One that doesn't orbit you. Or your family. Or their praise."
Mochen stepped even closer. "So where does that leave… us?"
There it was again. That unspoken tether between them—fragile, dangerous, undeniable.
Yuhan's voice dropped. "That depends. Are you here because you want answers… or because you finally realize what you threw away?"
Mochen didn't speak right away. His gaze dropped to Yuhan's mouth, then back to his eyes.
"I'm here," he said, voice low, "because I don't know who you are anymore. And I want to."
Yuhan gave a half-smile, one that didn't reach his eyes. "Then start earning that privilege. I don't explain myself to tourists."
And with that, he turned away.
Mochen stood still, watching him walk to the window, the city lights casting him in a soft blue glow.
This wasn't the boy he left behind. This was the storm coming.