Those two—could they be the same person!?
“Senior, what’s wrong?” Mu Ling’s voice dropped like a pebble into Ye Weibai’s drifting thoughts.
“No, nothing.” Ye Weibai shook his head and turned the key.
Click.
The door yielded with a clean sound.
Ye Weibai stepped in first, Mu Ling close as a shadow.
Bai Rong’s home sat in the mid‑upper tier, its rooms dressed in refined, lavish taste.
A ceramic mural shimmered on the entry wall; small, expensive pieces lined the shoe cabinet, all glowing in warm honey light, quietly announcing status.
They slipped on the waiting slippers and crossed the wooden floor into the living room. Its luxury matched the foyer: sofa, coffee table, TV—ordinary fixtures, lifted several tiers by the badge on each.
Ye Weibai didn’t care for brand names. He remembered Bai Ye visiting once, and Bai Rong bragging with a smooth face about foreign labels—so amazing, so low‑key, barely known at home, yet priced like pride; abroad, only old noble families would use them.
Back then, Bai Ye’s smile was all gloss, no warmth.
“Wow! This sofa’s by Mullis, right?!” Mu Ling’s eyes flared like twin lamps.
Ye Weibai sank into it, the soft brown leather swallowing him in quiet comfort. “Got some taste, Little Bell.”
“Of course.” Mu Ling crinkled her nose, pleased. “Senior, didn’t think your brother’s place was this rich. Same family—how come you’re so broke?”
Ye Weibai almost choked on his water. He lifted his head, narrowed his eyes, and smiled gently. “Little Bell, you really want to know?”
“Uh—” That look pricked her forehead; she stuck out her tongue and bolted for another topic. “So what are we here to do? Investigation, right?”
“No rush. Let me finish this cup.” Ye Weibai tipped his teacup. “Aren’t you thirsty?”
“Senior’s aiming for an indirect kiss?”
“Ha‑ha‑ha.”
He couldn’t be bothered to roll his eyes. He set down the cup and rose, lazy as smoke. “Let’s go.”
“Oh, oh!”
…
…
Ten minutes later.
Ye Weibai returned to the living room and dropped back onto the sofa.
Outside, fine rain clung like silk; beyond the floor‑to‑ceiling glass, the world blurred to ink, and the sky kept its sullen weight.
His face matched the weather—cold enough to cut.
Mu Ling stood aside, watching his mood like a cat at a threshold. In those ten minutes, Ye Weibai hadn’t used any special tools or taken notes; he had simply walked the whole place—two bedrooms, a guest room, the bath, kitchen, storage.
Like the foyer and living room, each space was crafted and understated, pretty yet warm. In the layout and small choices, warmth pooled—this couple, truly in love.
A living space shows a soul; a family shows it louder. In cold homes, colors frost over and furniture hardens; in gentle homes, even the mess feels warm to the touch.
Bai Rong’s home was the latter.
By the end, a soft smile had found Mu Ling without asking.
But Ye Weibai felt the opposite.
With each measured step, his expression darkened, drop by drop. It was like peeling bright, glossy wrappers off a rotten candy—each layer stripped back let more stench bloom. He could almost see foul water pressing to seep through the gaudy skin.
Back in the living room, he lifted his gaze and saw the photo wall hung on the right.
They stepped closer and looked together.
A father, a mother, a child; father with child; mother with child; and, most of all, the three together, smiling like sunlight.
It began with shy shots of the couple’s first days; as the photos grew, so did their closeness, poses warming, hands locking. The arc peaked at a wedding shoot on a sun‑washed Gold Coast, the two embracing and kissing—man and woman, married at last.
After that, life flowed like water—plain, steady—until, one day, a third face arrived in the frame: their child. A wrinkled little face, bare head, tiny fist; nestled against the mother in gentle sleep; the mother asleep too; the father grinning like a happy fool.
New life flooded the wall. First steps, first meal, first “mom” and “dad,” first time gripping chopsticks… In every photo, the child cried or laughed, and the man and woman shone with happiness.
Each photo held a slice of time, a weight of sweetness. Together, they formed a bright mosaic that let any viewer sketch their joyful life in their mind.
So it was for Mu Ling; as she watched, a gentle smile rose, light as a feather.
Yet inside that light, a thin thread of loneliness and grief tugged—and a small knot of tangled shadow.
Ye Weibai, though, went rigid.
Cold climbed his skin. His eyes swept the wall, and it felt like swallowing something rancid and viscous—hard and dry, bitter and fishy—stuck at the throat, neither down nor out, a thorn pressing the weak esophagus. It was torture.
Mu Ling saw his pallor. She had never seen him look this bad. Her breath caught.
“Hoo…” At last, Ye Weibai pulled his gaze back and let out a long breath, like draining despair and nausea from his chest.
Only then did his body loosen; he rubbed his temples, caught the sofa back, and sat, tired to the bone.
“Se…nior… you okay?” Mu Ling asked, careful as stepping on ice.
“Little Bell.” Ye Weibai opened his eyes; black and white irises fixed on her. “After seeing all this, what do you think?”
“Uh, I…”
“No need to tiptoe. Say it straight.” He sipped his tea and eased a breath. “You feel this home is warm as can be, right?”
“It really… is.” She met his gaze and nodded. “Even without meeting them, you can feel the warmth and happiness of the three. It’s like a cup full of honey—just looking makes you taste sweetness.”
As she spoke, the gentle smile returned.
“A family of three… huh…” He rolled the words on his tongue, a smile curving cold and thin, laced with mockery. “But what if I told you this home isn’t a family of three?”
“Not a family of three? But the photos show three, and—”
A chill climbed her spine; a warped, terrible guess flashed. She clamped her mouth shut, face blanching, shoulders tight, a tremor sneaking in.
Staring at the photos, her pupils shook. Her voice quivered. “Senior, you mean…”
“Mm. Yeah.” Ye Weibai’s lips lifted slowly, like the sky outside sinking deeper into gloom.
“This home is missing someone—and it has someone extra.”
…
…
