(Yichen's POV)
The bar smelled of stale alcohol and unspoken regrets.
The kind of place where suits from the office came to shake off responsibilities, and lonely souls drowned their exhaustion in amber liquid.
I'd come here for a meeting—just a simple talk with the son of one of our shareholders.
Business, nothing more.
But even business could not keep my mind off my mother.
Her life, her sacrifices, the way my father had stripped her of recognition, of dignity… it made my blood boil.
The way the world could be so unjust.
I leaned back, letting the polished veneer of control settle over me. Cold, untouchable. Untouchable was safe. Safe meant nothing could hurt me. That's how I survived. But then I noticed her.
She was loud, obnoxiously so, but not in a way that demanded attention. In a way that needed it. She was arguing with the barman, asking for another drink, her voice carrying across the low hum of conversation.
I didn't know why my attention locked on her. Something about the way she refused to be ignored, even in her own mess.
I approached quietly, using my presence to shift the scene. The barman knew me—friendship of convenience, more than enough to smooth things over.
"She's with me," I said, the weight in my tone enough to resolve the argument before it escalated.
Her eyes found me then, sharp and amused and raw. "You look as sad as me," she said. "Drink with me."
I paused. No one had ever spoken to me like that. Bold. Audacious. Intrusive. And yet… she was drunk. That explained it. Her confidence, her daring—it wasn't arrogance. It was abandonment.
I noticed the badge first. Liang corporate. My interest piqued. The world had a way of introducing the right people at the wrong time.
"What happened to you?" I asked, curious despite myself.
Her laugh was bitter, raw. "I've been dating him for more than ten years… and no ring."
She raised her hand, brushing against my nose as if the touch could erase the sting of her words. The faint scent of hand cream, soft manicure, a delicate sweetness that contrasted sharply with the harshness of her statement.
"That's it?" I said.
Her eyes widened. "That's it??"
"Yes," I said, my voice low, steady, even. "If you want something in life, you fight for it."
Her gaze fell, sober for a heartbeat. "Women aren't as lucky as men when it comes to life…"
That hit me harder than I expected. Maybe she was right. Maybe that's how my mother had felt all those years, bending under the weight of my father's betrayals.
... Maybe this was why she ended her life. The unfairness. The helplessness. The knowing that fighting wasn't enough.
"If you give up, you might hurt someone who truly loves you," I said. My voice quiet, almost confessional. Almost as if I was talking to my mother, not a stranger.
"Someone who loves me?" Her drunk eyes blinked up at me, confused, curious, vulnerable.
"Yes. Exactly."
She grabbed my hand then, warm, soft, and unexpected. "Thank you for loving me," she said. "This country needs more men like you!"
She started soft, then screamed the last part, making some heads turn. At first, I froze.
But then… I laughed.
A real laugh. Deep, unrestrained, unpracticed.
She looked up at me, a smile breaking across her face—innocent, shy, entirely unaware of the effect she had. My chest tightened.
I freed my hands gently, brushing her hair back from her face, careful not to disturb her. The air between us held a strange electricity. My restraint, my cold exterior, felt suddenly insufficient.
Eventually, I called a taxi for her. She screamed her address, her name, even her blood type. Clearly, she didn't trust the world to handle her delicacy. Too wasted to know better.
That wouldn't do. I couldn't let her be alone.
By the time I reached my car, the taxi had started moving.
I followed, the engine silent, my mind calculating every turn. Observing. Protecting. Restraining the urge to intervene directly, to step into her chaos and claim her as my responsibility.
My pulse fought with my composure.
When she arrived, she struggled to get out. I had to step out, subtly, to make sure she didn't stumble.
She did finally step out, bowing extravagantly to the taxi driver, thanking him profusely. Then she turned to the building behind her—a poor, rusted structure that seemed a world apart from the polished floors and bright lights I usually walked on.
A car pulled up, stopping abruptly in front of her, blocking the entrance. I tensed. Ready to intervene. Protect. Strike. But then I saw him. My brother. Yiran.
"What the—"
I stayed back, hidden, quiet. Observing. Connecting dots. Patterns. Predicting movements.
Yiran's voice was soft, concerned. "Why aren't you answering my calls? I was so worried."
She slurred slightly, disoriented. "You look like someone I know…"
"Wow. How many drinks have you had?" he asked.
She fumbled for her phone, pulled it out, and it slipped. Dead battery. Yiran bent down, grabbing it. "No wonder you weren't answering."
Her reaction was sudden, absurdly cheerful. "Ahh, Yirannnn!" She hugged him. He hugged back. Petting her hair with care, apologizing for the fights, murmuring about stress at work.
She, in her intoxicated yet brief clarity, laughed it off. "I forgive you everything! I forget! Hahaha!"
They walked toward his car, and I remained behind the shadows, piecing everything together. She was beautiful, yes. Audacious, yes. And… vulnerable. And yet my pulse, my control, my mind all screamed: he's playing with her. He's using her. But… why?
My chest tightened as I realized the cruel truth. I wanted to reach her. Protect her. But stepping in now could destroy the delicate balance. She would not know me. Not fully. Not yet. Not until the timing was mine.
I stayed in the shadows, watching, calculating, restraining. My hands curled into fists at my sides. My heart—my damned, irrational heart—could not ignore her.
For now, I must remained hidden. Silent. Cold. Watching.
My eyes never left her as she disappears into the night, my mind storming with emotion, logic, and a pulse that refuses to calm.