While I was hiding in the wardrobe, lost in wild thoughts, voices drifted in from outside.

"Yan, you’re home, right? Why’d it take so long to open the door? And what was that sound just now?"

The gentle voice carried a hint of displeasure.

"Th-that… I was… um… studying, so I didn’t hear. Then I rushed to open it and bumped the table corner. That sound was from the bump! Yeah, really."

"You silly child, be more careful. Where’d you hit? Does it hurt?"

"Ah… it’s fine, totally fine."

Xinyan’s voice grew flustered. She quickly changed the subject: "Oh, Mom—you and Dad were on a business trip. Why’d you come back suddenly?"

"We landed at the airport when they told us it was settled. Had to return."

"How could that be…"

"Huh? Isn’t it good we’re back?"

"No! Not at all!"

"Speaking of which… Yan, why keep sneaking glances at the wardrobe? Hiding something from me? Stray cats or dogs again?"

"Wait, wait, wait!! Nothing’s in there, Mom—don’t open it!"

Oh crap, traitor! Just say there’s a guy hiding in your wardrobe!

I barely hid the pink bra behind my back when a grating *creak* split the air. Light flooded in.

A tall, mature woman gripped the wardrobe doors, looking down at me with a smile edged in anger. "Oh~ This stray dog seems… different."

I sat amid a pile of underwear, still covering my nose. That posture let me see her clearly.

Though Xinyan was in high school, her mom showed no age. She resembled Xinyan, but where Xinyan had youthful softness, her mother radiated mature grace.

She stood head and shoulders taller than Xinyan behind her—slim, model-material in designer wear. But now, she wore a plain gray sweater and blue jeans, her short, ear-length hair giving her a sharp, androgynous vibe.

Her gaze, though… not friendly at all.

Her eyes were piercingly sharp. So Xinyan inherited that? If she were a cop, that stare alone might crack criminals.

W-well, fair enough—a boy draped in her daughter’s underwear hiding in a wardrobe wouldn’t earn warm looks. If it were me, I’d beat that punk into a coma before cops arrived.

She glanced at Xinyan, then back at me. "Planning to stay in there? Or come out?"

My face flushed crimson. I wished for a crack in the floor as I scrambled out, still covering my nose.

But standing up, Xinyan’s mom spotted the pink bra behind my back. She reached in, plucked it out, and dangled it by one finger.

The bra hung exposed before us all, its inner cotton stained with fresh, crimson blood.

Awkward silence…

Ah, my nosebleed started again.

Xinyan’s mom stayed expressionless. She wiped the blood, rubbed thumb and forefinger together, then sniffed it.

"M-mom, Mommy…"

Xinyan’s face burned sickly red, neck included. She repeated like a broken recorder.

She snatched the bra away, shouting in shame and fury: "Mom! What’re you doing? This is mortifying!"

She shot me a death glare. I’d be dead if her mom weren’t here.

"Ah, sorry. Occupational habit."

Xinyan’s mom glanced at me, face stern. "But Yan… can’t a girl be more reserved?"

"No, it’s not what you think!"

"Your dad’s a twenty-year veteran cop. He’d smell a boy in your room. And hiding him in a wardrobe?"

Oh crap—she really *smelled* it? And he’s a vet cop…

Xinyan bit her lip, glaring. "Just a classmate."

"Would you bring any ordinary boy home?"

Her mom shrugged. "Your dad’s waiting in the living room. Go talk to him."

…

Living room.

I sat on a stool. Across on the sofa was Xinyan’s dad—mid-forties, square-jawed, muscles bulging like a Spartan statue. He loomed like an Arctic polar bear, king of nothing, yet still towering over me from the lower sofa.

Years as a cop radiated off him. Silent, just staring, I sweated bullets, heart hammering nonstop.

I was only helping the literature club president write a novel… Why did this feel like getting caught red-handed in an early romance?

The *in-bed* kind.

The polar bear spoke… No, Xinyan’s dad cleared his throat. "I’m Gong Changhong. Call me Officer Gong or Uncle Gong."

"U-uncle Gong, hi."

"Hmm."

He nodded slowly, pausing as if choosing words. "Your name?"

"I-I-I’m Zong Jun."

I stammered badly.

Only Uncle Gong and I were in the room. Xinyan was in the kitchen with her mom.

Uncle Gong pulled out a cigarette pack, tapped one loose, and offered it. "Smoke?"

I waved frantically. "I don’t smoke."

"Hmm."

He didn’t push it, tossing the pack onto the sofa.

He studied me. "Classmates with Yan?"

"W-well, sort of. I’m a year younger."

"A year younger… How’d you meet?"

"Huh?"

"How’d you meet?"

"Senior Gong’s literature club president. Teacher asked me to help… so we met."

"Huh? Not martial arts club president?" Uncle Gong stroked his chin, surprised. "Literature club… Yan said she was president, but I thought martial arts."

She really trained in martial arts?! I thought her skills were natural.

Makes sense—veteran cop dad probably taught her military boxing since childhood. No wonder she’s fierce!

But our school doesn’t even *have* a martial arts club!