The whole thing felt like a rare, velvety dream, a silk veil on the eyes; when Wenquan drifted up again, dusk was already bleeding along the horizon.

One nostril felt dammed like a clogged stream, and her head swam like fog over a cold lake.

How did she end up back in her own bed? Last night that man had tossed her in the living room like a broken doll.

The room around her was tidy as raked sand in a zen garden, not the usual after-work battlefield; a faint, familiar fragrance threaded the air like warm smoke she couldn’t name.

So strange...

She reached for her alarm out of habit, groping for a small sun that wasn’t there; instead she noticed her clothes had changed, a white short-sleeve loungewear soft as fresh snow.

Huh... a white home tee? Weird. She didn’t remember owning one, and she hadn’t worn this last night.

Did someone come while she was out cold, a shadow passing her threshold?

Kneeling on the bed, brow petal-tight, she chased last night’s events, but only shards surfaced—cruel hands, scattered like glass, stinging like winter rain.

“Tch... my head still hurts...” She pressed her temple—and froze. The ugly bruise on her forearm, that spreading inkblot, was gone. She blinked, moth-wings fluttering. Not an illusion.

Her forearm skin was snow-pale, mutton-fat smooth, nothing like the snarling welt from before.

Almost like Classmate Lu had treated her... Wait—Lu?

The thought hit late. She lurched to get up, heart a startled bird, but her body had only just mended; two steps in, her ankle faltered, and her gait scattered like loose pebbles.

Hey, what are you doing? You should be lying in bed, not wobbling around. The door slid open on a breath of steam, and Nana Toki stepped in with a clay pot, then hurried to steady her.

“Mmph...” In a princess carry back onto the bed, Wenquan went blank, thoughts snowing static.

How does she know my address? Questions bubbled like boiling water, but before she could speak, Nana Toki set down the pot of congee and said, Come on, sit up and be good. Have this meat porridge. You slept all day; you’ve got to be hungry.

The white porridge breathed little clouds, and the lean pork blushed through like petals in milk, a bowl that tugged at the stomach.

But Wenquan didn’t lift the spoon. Her hands stilled, and Nana Toki tilted her head, puzzled. What’s wrong? No appetite yet? We can wait till it cools. Or tell me what you want; I’ll make it.

Wenquan kept quiet. Her black eyes, deep as wet ink, studied Nana Toki from head to toe.

It was her first time seeing Nana Toki without the school uniform. Thick oven mitts on her hands, a gentle home outfit flowing like soft rain—hard to match with the breezy, careless girl from school.

She’d never seemed patient—at least, not on campus. That was the image Wenquan held like a pressed leaf.

What is it, Wen? Staring at me like that—did this decent porridge make you fall for me? Nana’s smile was the usual crescent, but today it nudged Wenquan’s heartbeat into a drumline.

That dream-familiar warmth rolled back in, a tide brushing shore.

Wenquan shifted her gaze, drew in the room’s faint scent like spring wind, then asked softly, Classmate Lu... why are you being so good to me? They’d barely met, by any normal measure.

Because I like you. Nana Toki slipped off the mitts and sat on the bed’s edge, voice calm as still water. Not everyone earns my favor. Only you are the exception.

Quiet pooled in the room like a moonlit pond—and then Wenquan’s belly broke the surface with a loud gurgle—

“Mmph...”

Face scarlet above the quilt, she hadn’t even mustered a denial before Nana Toki produced a small bowl as if from thin air, filled it, and set it before her. Eat a little, at least. Even without appetite, put a cushion in that belly so hunger doesn’t bite.

Her tone was gentle as a hand on the head, sincere with a stray wild edge, the way she always felt around Wenquan.

The meal took a long time, slow waves against a shore. Maybe she really was starving; she put away more than half the big pot of lean-pork congee.

Hey, slow down. No one’s stealing it. Why wolf it like a soul starved across lifetimes? Her mouth scolded, but her hands kept moving—every time Wenquan passed an empty bowl, Nana refilled it. Even if leftovers remained, no matter; she’d just finish them herself, unbothered.

They kept at it till the sky turned six, then seven. After Nana Toki washed the dishes till they squeaked, she came back, sat down by Wenquan, and let out a breath like setting down a pack.

Wenquan: ... So she’s not going home tonight?

Staring at Nana Toki sprawled on her bed with zero image to uphold, Wenquan glanced at the darkening window; anxiety crawled up her chest like ants.

Classmate Lu, it’s late. If you don’t head home, your mom might worry. She wanted to keep this warmth a little longer, but if that man came back, everything she’d hidden would be thrown into the light.

She didn’t want to drag Nana into her family’s storm. None of this was Nana’s burden.

It’s fine, Wen. My folks are working late. Even if I crash outside, they won’t know. Nana Toki understood what gnawed at Wenquan’s heart like mice. It wasn’t a problem. While Wenquan rested this afternoon, Nana had already dug through the files on Wenquan and Wen Xuntian, enough to sketch the shape in charcoal.

Details of that old incident were still smudged, but it didn’t stop her from naming the hand that struck outside school. The odds on Wen Xuntian were heavy. She didn’t rule out neighbor accomplices either. Wenquan had endured so long in silence; any fish slipping the net again would be a sin.

So she had to be sure before she moved—no wild swings, only clean strikes.

And truth be told, her focus had never been Wenquan’s past. She only wanted to drag out every last bully who hurt Wenquan, line them up, and erase them in one sweep. Then Wenquan could breathe like spring after thaw.

Back then, after the divorce, Wen Xuntian slid into a slump like wet soil but stayed within human shape. He disliked the daughter who looked half like his ex, but he trudged on—rough edges, yet passable days.

Then he heard the ex-wife remarried—a younger, pretty-faced man—and something curdled. He turned mercurial as summer storm, drank through nights like bottomless wells, and lost his one job to absence.

That’s how Wenquan, still in middle school, started taking shady odd jobs, pennies and risk, just to keep rice in the pot.

Nana Toki could only sigh at the System that made this plane. A middle or high schooler covering tuition and two mouths’ meals on part-time gigs? What a bug.

System: ...It’s for the host’s plot needs. Kindly don’t nitpick the small seams.

Bottom line, Wen Xuntian was still the biological father. And Wenquan, all these years, had swallowed the blows like stones, never spitting them back. Nana wondered if her girl still clung to a frayed dream—one day the tyrant softens, the father returns, a scrap of warmth.

If she faced that twisted ghost-father and Wenquan barred her hand—then what?

Do I cut him down and trigger a melodrama, or do I take a quieter road and make him vanish like mist?

Nana Toki was torn, a blade caught between two branches.

System: ...So you never planned to leave him a way out, did you.

Isn’t that obvious? He’s hurt Wenquan so many times. I kill him once—so what.