Big Bai felt a little off.

That was Shaohan’s first thought this afternoon, rain sewing silver threads in the air, when she first caught sight of Ye Weibai.

He’d called himself an idiot, then—out of nowhere—smacked his own... butt, like a boy stung by a nettle.

He came running in slippers, umbrella tilting like a paper moon, grabbed her luggage, and dragged it, breath fogging like a small engine.

Warmth hid in that clumsy rush, like a coal under ash, and the lonelier you live, the sharper you feel it.

Was gentleness bad? No—of course not; yet behind his soft smile, a sheet of cloud hung like a veil behind a lantern.

Sweetness brimmed in her chest like syrup on the boil, and yet a hollow echoed, like a shell wave-washed and empty.

The two feelings clashed, needle-fine pain pricking, and the little girl couldn’t name it, like a swarm of gnats behind glass.

It was like sipping hot milk sugared thick; sweet for now, but the see-through bottom would show, like winter sun on a shallow cup.

Greed nibbles sweetness that has an expiry date, like a worm in a ripe peach.

Shaohan still remembered what Big Bai said the last time they parted: “Let everything return to the origin.”

But why… was he acting as if he’d never said it, like a river flowing backward under ice?

Had he regretted it and meant to break their “agreement,” like a boat cutting its own moorings?

Her heart lurched like a bird against a cage, and a bad omen rose like cold mist.

Click.

The car door opened, and Ye Weibai bent inside like a shadow folding.

In the passenger seat, the little girl shifted, a leaf turning, and glanced left at Ye Weibai adjusting the seat height.

“Da—” She tangled for a breath, pride stiff as a reed, then softened and whispered, “Little Uncle.”

“Mm?” Ye Weibai finished his side, then leaned across, a tide rolling in, to fasten her seat belt.

“I—” She froze mid-syllable, heart snagging like silk on a thorn.

His right hand pulled the belt from her right, and his left braced near her left, caging her gently like a wall of warm wood.

His profile hovered a finger’s width from her, hair and cloth brushing like grassheads in wind, and the tobacco on him smelled like sun-warmed quilts.

That warmth wrapped her in a blink, like noon light falling through cotton, and her breath slowed like a pond settling.

Letting him fuss, she stared dazed at his face, and only then saw silver at his temples, like frost edging a black bough.

Warmth flooded, yet, out of nowhere, her eyes stung, tears glassing the rim like dew about to slip.

She dropped her lashes and faked a rub, like a kitten pawing away dust.

“What’s wrong?” Ye Weibai sat back, engine-calm, and looked over, curious as a clear bell.

“It’s too choking…” She hid her face, holding back the wobble, “Little Uncle, the smoke on you is too choking.”

“Hahaha, can’t be helped,” Ye Weibai grinned, mischief like a spark, “If it chokes you, then feel more of it.”

“Huh?” She didn’t even lift her head; her mind went blank like paper.

A warm force wrapped her; this time not just scent, but true skin-warmth, like a coat thrown over in rain.

It lasted only a heartbeat; Ye Weibai chuckled, gave her a light hug like a passing wave, then let go and started the car.

This time, the girl didn’t explode; her hands rested on her knees like folded wings, head down, teeth on lip like a pin.

Silence held and stretched, until Ye Weibai waved to the guard and the silver sedan slipped past the gate like a fish into current.

“Little Uncle.”

“Mm.”

“You…”

…won’t leave, right?

She didn’t know why the question swelled, but in that brief embrace, chest to chest—her small chest like a warm bun—and his broad sternum met.

For a blink, bloodlines felt braided, souls touched like threads crossing, and she seemed to hear his heart.

Thump!

That heavy beat cracked like a gunshot in a valley, and it made her uneasy like thunder over a field.

Without any reason, the question climbed her throat like a vine.

She wasn’t even sure what “leave” meant; maybe… leave this city, like a bird changing trees.

If he left this city, then she… it wouldn’t change much, like a boat following its lighthouse.

If she could, she’d go with him, wind at her back; she didn’t want to stay, though she’d miss Grandpa like a hearth’s ember.

She could visit Grandpa sometimes, like circling swallows; and with his lazy streak, he wouldn’t move far, like a cat sunning a new spot.

But—she didn’t get to ask.

“Shaohan,” Ye Weibai said softly, voice like rain on bamboo, “I’m taking you to meet someone. It’s his birthday.”

“Who?” The word left, and she knew anyway, like a fish feeling the net; her face paled, lips pressed, and her voice went cold.

“I don’t want to go.”

Through the rearview, Ye Weibai saw her full-on; it was like a portrait in a dark frame.

Pressed lips, lowered lashes, fixed eyes; fists tight, spine stiff, focus nailed to the air an inch ahead.

It was unequivocal—coldness, refusal, disgust, and… loathing—like flints stacked without a spark.

The warmth between them shattered in an instant, like glass under frost.

It felt like returning to [yesterday], a bruise touched again.

But Ye Weibai knew it was a mask, no—wrong word—she might truly feel cold, rejecting, disgusted.

Yet those emotions weren’t aimed at anyone else, not Ye Weibai, not Bai Rong, not his new wife, not their new child.

They were aimed at herself, like a blade turned inward.

For years, the girl wore the tag “extra,” stuck on her like a burr, and she didn’t even notice how it clung.

She called her disgust “hatred for Bai Rong,” like smoke named as fire, but deep down she despised herself more.

She despised the “extra,” the “useless,” the “fragile” self, like a cracked cup hidden on the shelf.

Back home, day after day, the original Bai Ye had seen it, like a hunter reading tracks in snow.

So he built an agreement between them, a bond like a red thread, to pull her out of that “I stand alone” feeling.

He meant to show her she wasn’t a disposable spare part; she wasn’t living “by herself” on a bare rock.

Bai Ye, truly formidable… Ye Weibai admitted, like a swordsman saluting another’s blade; even he might not have done better then.

Slow water cooks the frog; if the story had drifted on, their bond would have tightened like a woven net, and Shaohan might’ve been saved.

But an “accident” split the current, and the plot cracked to rubble—not just the story, the character herself collapsed like a cliff.

That was beyond rescue, a ruin under the sea.

That was Misfortune.

So Ye Weibai descended, like a star falling into a dark pond, and unlike Bai Ye, his time was a candle stub.

Because of that, his methods had to be harsher, like steel struck while red-hot.

“We’re here.”

They arrived.

Night was deep, yet the city’s heart only burned brighter; noise swelled like surf, lights flared like constellations, and people streamed like tides.

On the first floor of Four Seasons Plaza’s Tianhe Hotel, the Four Seasons Restaurant was a byword, like a bell known across valleys.

Guests came from in and out of town, and every evening it was packed, lines snaking so long that number two-hundred counted as luck.

Luck held; in the open-air lot before the hotel plaza, a space opened like a blink, and his car slid in with a sigh.

Click.

He opened the door and looked at the girl sitting still as stone, a small statue in a glass box.

The nearby streetlamp poured cool light through the window, laying frost on Shaohan’s face to match her chill.

He spoke gently, like a hand smoothing fur: “Shaohan. You might be misunderstanding something.”

She shifted her gaze, water-dark, and stared at him, face a calm pond.

Ye Weibai smiled, a thin crescent. “I’m not here to play ‘kiss and make up’ with Bai Rong. I’m not that free.”

Her expression loosened a shade, like ice thinning at noon.

“I’m here to show you—who the real ‘weak one’ is.”