The An residence was silent, but it was the kind of silence that pricked—like the moment before a blade fell.
An Zhiguo sat behind his desk, the desk light catching the silver at his temples. The room smelled faintly of sandalwood and ink, but beneath that was something sharper—the bitter thing of humiliation.
Across from him, An Yanming stood stiff, eyes fixed on the floor. He made no effort to explain because he knew that wasn't what his father wanted to hear.
"You've shamed us," An Zhiguo said at last. His tone was calm, measured, and all the more dangerous for it. There was definitely no fatherly love in it. "Do you even realise what you've done?"
An Yanming opened his mouth, but the words caught in his throat. What could he say? That he didn't mean for it to happen? That this wasn't the end result he wanted?
Anything that he said would sound like an excuse in An Zhiguo's ears. The fact that he failed—and so miserably—was more than enough.
