"Come in," he calls, his voice a thin veneer over a well of irritation.

The door creaks open, and Qian Yun appears, cradling a bowl of medicinal broth. Her eyes sweep the room, pausing at the two bowls of food. Their contents barely disturbed. A subtle frown flickers across her face, deepening the lines of worry etched on her brow.

Behind her, Zhao steps in with his usual serious demeanor. His tall frame casts a shadow across the room, looking rather comical with a mountainous bundle of fresh bandages in his arms.

Quinming suppresses a laugh.

‘If they use all those I'll look like one of those ancient preserved bodies they dig up in tombs. All I need are some burial clothes and a fancy coffin!’

"Good morning, Quinming.” Qian Yun greets, touching her forehead and then her heart. "How are you feeling?”

Her light brown hair flows in long, wavy tresses, and intricate henna patterns adorn her hands. A delicate nose ring highlights her mixed foreign features, but it is the warmth in her eyes that captivates those around her. She glances at Quinming, taking in his pallor but lax expression.

“Like I’ve been mistaken for a bone by a pack of hungry wolves,” he mutters, a wry smile tugging at his lips. "But thank you for asking. Your concern is the salve to my wounded heart.”

Zhao stifles a snort, clearly unimpressed by his theatrics. Quinming cannot help but admire his restraint.

He shifts slightly on the bed, trying to find a more comfortable position. "More bandages?" He nods toward Zhao’s comical burden.

"Figured you'd need them," Zhao replies gruffly, setting them down with a thud.

Quinming sighs, waving his hand dismissively. "Of course. Can't have me bleeding all over your nice clean floors, now can we?”

The room falls silent. Their eyes stare at him, filled with unwavering concern. Quinming feels his chest tighten in ways he would rather not acknowledge.

He bites back a bitter laugh, thinking, ‘They see a boy in pain, a broken child needing care. If only they knew.’ The thought of being an old soul trapped in a young body gnaws at him. ‘Eighty-nine years of wisdom crammed into a fourteen-year-old frame. Quite the nasty joke.’

"Well," he drawls, breaking the silence, "let’s get this over with. I’m sure you both have better things to do than babysit a cantankerous patient." His tone is light, almost flippant as he moves to sit up.

“Easy now,” she chides. “We need to change your bandages and apply fresh salve. Zhao, help him sit up properly.”

Zhao steps forward, his lanky frame moving with a quiet strength. His hands, though strong, handle Quinming with utmost care, lifting him into an upright position. “You’ve got to stop worrying us like this, little brother,” he says, his tone light but his gaze intense.

“Sure, I’ll stay out of trouble. Just as soon as trouble agrees to stay away from me.”

As Qian Yun moves closer with the broth, Quinming catches the faintest scent of herbs and spices. "Drink this," she says softly, holding the bowl to his lips. Quinming complies, if only to see the relief in her eyes. The broth is bitter, the taste lingering unpleasantly on his tongue.

It is meant to be healing, soothing. Yet, all he can think about is how much it resembles the concoctions they give to the dying. A morbid thought, perhaps, but one that seems fitting given the circumstances.

"Lovely," he grimaces. "The perfect complement to my day."

Zhao chuckles despite himself, shaking his head. "You never change, Quinming."

"And why would I?" he retorts, a glint of mischief in my eyes. "Consistency is a virtue, after all.”

Quinming finishes the bowl while Qian Yun begins to unwrap his bandages, Quinming lets his mind wander. He recalls Qian Yun's words about Mingxui, their echo lingering in his thoughts.

‘Gathering intel on her is necessary,’ he thinks, his gaze shifting to Qian Yun's face. Her features, a blend of concern and determination, seem softer in the morning light. ‘Regardless of my true identity, grasping this boy's history is crucial. What if something from his mother's life poses a risk to me?’ He watches her carefully, searching for a tactful way to bring it up without causing alarm.

Ever so slight, her brow furrows as she examines the wounds. “Your fever broke. Last night,” she says, her voice calm yet tinged with worry. “But these wounds... they weep, bad. We need to take better care..”

Quinming grits his teeth as she peels away the rest of the old bandages, the sharp sting causing him to wince. “I know,” he replies, his voice tight. “I’ve been... careless.”

‘Careless? Try suicidal, old man,’ he chides himself internally. ‘But let’s not scare the nice woman and kid.’

He glances at Zhao, who stands ready with a fresh roll of bandages. ‘He means well, but I doubt he’d understand that this was all a calculated risk on my end.’

He forces a chuckle, a hollow sound that fails to mask his unease. “Getting into scrapes is what I do best.”

“You know, I’ve had worse,” he begins, trying to lighten the mood. “There was this one time I got into a fight with a—” He stops himself, realizing the absurdity of recounting an adventure from a previous life. “—a particularly nasty cat. Left me with scars that made me look like I’d been mauled by a tiger.”

He winches. ‘What was that? Damn this mouth.’ Peeking behind him, he sighs in relief. The joke had fallen on deaf ears. They are not even aware of his words, their eyes on his back.

Qian Yun examines his back with gentle probs. Her face pale. Quinming can imagine the sight. Him, thin and needing more than broth to fatten him up. And the grotesque mass of scars and raw, festering flesh. Her eyes wide and full of an emotion Quinming cannot quite place—pity, horror, maybe a mix of both. Seeing him seems to break something inside her, a crack in her usual calm facade.

He feels the need to say something, anything to ease that expression. “Don’t worry, it looks worse than it is. I’m-”

“How many times?” she interrupts him, her voice breaking. Her eyes bore into his, searching for an answer. “For you to look like this? Just how many times did she do this?”

‘How should I answer this?’ He looks at Qian Yun, seeing her pain, and feels a pang of guilt. His actions have added to the scars, but this body was always damaged. Underfed and scarred. It was amazing the boy kept it hidden as long as he did.

Shifting uncomfortably, Quinming runs a hand through his disheveled hair and avoids eye contact. "Lost count. It’s not a big deal," he mutters, fingers tap rhythmically on the bed to stop his nervous flexing of his other hand.

“Not a big deal?” Qian Yun echoes. “You never said anything. We could have helped you.”

Qian Yun’s worry is almost palpable. ‘Sweet of her, really. But her concern feels like a warm blanket over a corpse.’ He studies her delicate features, noting the genuine warmth in her eyes. ‘Maybe, in another life, I’d have appreciated that more.’ The thought is both comforting and isolating. ‘Better they think me a troublesome youth than a relic of a bygone era.’

Quinming keeps his head turned, uncomfortable under her the weight of her intense gaze that bears down on him. “Didn’t think it was worth mentioning.”

Zhao, who has been silently observing, speaks, his voice heavy with regret. “I should have known. I should have done something. We grew up together, and I didn’t even see it.”

Quinming shrugs nonchalantly. “Hey, don’t beat yourself up over it,” he says, trying to lighten the mood. ‘I’m pretty good at hiding things when I want to.”

“But we should have seen the signs...”

“It’s not on you, alright? I didn’t exactly make it easy for anyone to notice.” Quinming chuckles. “Thought I could handle it alone.”

As Qian Yun applies a fresh salve to his wounds. Her fingers, usually so steady, tremble. “You’ve been moving,” she chides gently. “Rest more, Quinming. These wounds won’t heal if you keep pushing yourself.”

He hears her breathing, uneven and shallow. The occasional sniffle from behind him feels like a dagger, slicing through his resolve. Her touch is tender. Almost reverent.

He swallows hard.

‘My survival hinges on deceiving them, but damn, it feels rotten.’ His jaw tightens.

“I know,” he finally says, his voice strained. “I’ll try to be more careful.” The lie tastes bitter on his tongue, like ash.

Silence grows heavy. The stillness punctuated only by the faint sound of water trickling from the garden fountain outside, a soothing melody that contrasts sharply with the turmoil building within. As always, the walls of the Fragrant Twilight, with their rich tapestries and ornate carvings, seem to absorb the emotions of those within, holding them in a suffocating embrace.

“Qian Yun,” Quinming begins, his voice still unsteady. “Yesterday, you mentioned my mother... What exactly happened between her and Madam Li?”

Her movements become slower, more deliberate, as if she is carefully weighing each word. “It is... complicated,” she says quietly. “She was a remarkable woman. Strong, kind, and full of light. She had big plans for this place.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, and she bites her lips.

“But after her arguments with Madam Li... everything changed.” Her hands falter again, and she looks down. “Your mother... she was everything to me. Like a sister. Losing her was... unbearable.”

Qian Yun's voice drops to a whisper, her shoulders trembling. “I don’t want you to go after those responsible, Quinming. It’s too dangerous. But... I don’t want to hide anything from you.” She finally meets his eyes, her own filled with a mixture of fear and determination. “You deserve to know the truth, but I can’t bear the thought of losing you too.”

Quinming pushes, his tone sharper than intended, “What happened after their arguments?”

“Please,” he adds, trying to temper his impatience with a hint of compassion. “I need to know everything.”

She takes a shaky breath, her voice trembling. “They… they would argue late into the night. Your mother was so strong-willed, so determined to protect us.”

Quinming clenches his fists, struggling to keep his frustration in check. He needs more than this. “And after the arguments? What did she do?”

“She… she would leave the brothel, sometimes for days while we watched you. I think she was meeting with someone, but she never told me who. She didn’t want to involve me.”

She hesitates. “There was a man, a few times,” she says, nodding slowly. “Tall, with a scar on his left cheek. He never lingered, but I saw him watching the brothel. I think he was a martial artist from a prominent Sect, though he always dressed casually.”

Quinming leans forward, his gaze piercing. “Go on.”

She wrings her hands, the memories clearly painful. “But then...” A deep sigh escapes her. “Mingxui was assassinated,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper.

Quinming’s heart skips a beat. “Assassinated? By whom?”

“We don’t know for sure,” Qian Yun replies, her voice trembling even more. “Madam Li was devastated, and she even tracked down a man from the imperial court, a bitter ex-lover of your mother, to find the truth. But we never got any answers.” Her hands clench around the bandages, the knuckles white with tension.

Quinming’s mind races with this new information. ‘An assassination? A bitter ex-lover? What the hell have I walked into?’

“Did my mother ever mention anything specific about her plans? Anything that might have made her a target?” His voice is sharper now, almost demanding.

‘There has to be something.’

Qian Yun shakes her head, her eyes filled with a sorrow that seems to seep into her very soul. “No.”

‘Someone powerful and ruthless enough to silence her...’

The air is thick with unresolved tension when Zhao places a comforting hand on Quinming’s shoulder, his touch firm yet gentle. “We've been secretly searching for the truth. We think it was actually—”

“Zhao!” Qian Yun’s voice is frantic, cutting through the heavy atmosphere. Her face is a mask of fear and desperation.

At his mother's frantic cry, Zhao angrily looks away, the words unsaid, leaving an oppressive silence in their wake.

‘Oh?’ Quinming absorbs it all. ‘Seems it's someone within the brothel. Wonder who that could be,’ he thinks sarcastically.

Quinming fights to keep his composure, though his mind races with the implications of this revelation. He stares at Qian Yun, feeling the weight of her anguish and his own growing determination to uncover the truth.

He takes a deep breath, forcing a calm he doesn’t feel. “Look, I understand your fear, but this isn’t just about revenge. I need to know what happened to my mother. If I don’t, I might get involved and hurt without knowing why.”

Recognizing the resolve in Quinming’s eyes, she finally says, “She was meeting with someone, someone important. She always spoke of them with respect, even a hint of fear. But she never revealed who it was to me.”

“Did she leave any clues? Letters, notes, anything?”

Qian Yun hesitates, then her eyes light up with a sudden memory. “There was a small box she kept hidden in her room. She never let anyone near it. I don’t know what was inside, but it seemed important to her.”

Quinming’s heart races at this new lead. “Do you know where the box is now?”

She shakes her head, her expression regretful. “After she... after she was killed, the box disappeared. Madam Li... searched for it, but it was gone.”

Quinming takes a deep breath, trying to process this new information. “Do you think Madam Li took it?”

Qian Yun’s eyes widen with uncertainty. “I don’t know. She was devastated by your mother’s death, but she might have taken it to protect... whatever was inside.” Even she hesitates, showing the doubt in these words.

As Qian Yun finishes rewrapping his bandages, her hands linger for a moment. She looks at him with a mixture of concern and determination. “You’re like a son to me, Quinming,” she says softly, her voice breaking. “I’ve known you since you were a baby. It hurts me to see you like this.”

He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can say anything, tears start streaming down Qian Yun’s face. She collapses beside him, her sobs wracking her body. “I’m sorry,” she cries, gently hugging him. “I should have seen this. I should have helped you sooner.”

Quinming freezes, his body going rigid. His eyes dart around the room as if searching for an escape. “Uh, it’s... it’s okay,” he stammers, his usual bravado nowhere to be found.

‘How the hell do I handle this?’

Qian Yun’s sobs intensify, her grip tightening around him, but still infinitely gentle so as not to hurt him. “You’re family, Quinming,” she sobs. “We’ll get through this together.”

He awkwardly pats her back, his movements stiff and uncertain. “Yeah... sure.”

Qian Zhao stands nearby, his expression a mixture of concern and helplessness. “Mother,” he says, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Give him some space. He’s just been through a lot.”

Qian Yun pulls back slightly, her eyes red and swollen. “You don’t have to handle everything on your own,” she says, her voice steadier now, though the pain is still evident. “We’re here for you, whether you like it or not.”

‘How do people handle this kind of thing? Why is this so much harder than fighting?’

She blinks rapidly, trying to force back the tears. “I… I’m sorry, Quinming. It’s just… seeing you like this…” Her voice trails off, choked with emotion.

He sighs, feeling the weight of her concern. ‘Real touching, really, but also a burden I can’t afford right now.’ “I appreciate it, but you don’t need to worry about me. I’m tougher than I look. Besides,”Quinming adds with a dark chuckle, “a few more scars won’t kill me. Might even add to my charm.”

She gives a weak smile, and he can see the tension easing a bit. “You always know how to make light of things,” she says, trying to regain her composure. Qian Yun gives him a watery smile, her tears slowing. “Just promise me you’ll let us help. No more hiding.”

Qian Zhao steps forward, a small smile on his face. “You’re like a brother to me, Quinming. We’ve always been there for each other, and that’s not going to change.”

Quinming lets out a strained chuckle. “Yeah, okay... Let’s not turn this into a group hug,” he mutters, attempting to deflect with a touch of dark humor. “I’m not exactly a hugger.”

Qian Yun pulls back slightly, her eyes red and swollen. “You don’t have to handle everything on your own,” she says, her voice steadier now, though the pain is still evident. “We’re here for you, whether you like it or not.”

Quinming’s smirk falters slightly as he looks at Qian Zhao. “Yeah, I know,” he says, his voice softer but still edged with his typical bluntness. “Doesn’t mean I’m any good at this touchy-feely stuff.”

Qian Yun gives him a watery smile, her tears slowing. “Just promise me you’ll let us help,” she says, her grip on his arm gentle but firm. “No more hiding.”

“Y-Yeah... okay,” he agrees. He manages a weak smile, hoping to reassure her. “No more hiding.”

Qian Zhao gently guides his mother to her feet. “Come on, Mother. Let’s give him some time to rest,” he says, his voice soothing.

As they start to leave, Quinming calls after them, “Hey, thanks... for everything.” His tone is awkward but sincere, the weight of their support slowly sinking in.

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The door clicks shut behind them. Quinming releases a long, shaky breath. He slumps back against the pillows. Drained. Utterly drained. The soft rustling of silk curtains and the muted echoes of distant footsteps remind him of where he is, a place of luxury, yes, but also a prison. The brothel’s tower outside his window seems to loom even closer now, its presence a constant reminder that no matter how gilded the cage, it is still a cage.

"Well, that was fun," he mutters a sarcastic quip, running a hand through his hair. "Nothing like a good old-fashioned guilt trip to start the day."

He stares at the ceiling. Mind racing through the nuances of their concern. "They care for the boy, not me," he whispers to himself, a bitter smile playing on his lips. "I’m just a ghost wearing his skin."

He chuckles. "Imagine that—a ghost getting a guilt trip. I must be setting new standards in the afterlife.”

He closes his eyes, letting the silence envelop him. "People never learn, do they?" he says, a wry smile forming. "Always clinging to the past, never seeing what's right in front of them. Am I any different, Brother Zhi?”

All things considered, he has actually found out quite a bit. ‘The issue is, even if I have ideas towards freeing myself, I don’t have the strength to act upon them. And plans without power to fulfill them are just fantasies.’

He ponders, the wheels in his mind turning with quiet intensity. His posture appears relaxed, almost nonchalant, but there is a sharpness in his gaze that betrays the depth of his thoughts. “Hmm, Hao Sect, Hao Sect. They can't be unaware of Madam Li’s schemes.” They are an information-gathering group, after all.

“Fishing in troubled waters is always my specialty,” he thinks with a faint smile. “I need to stir the pot, create enough chaos that it becomes my ally.”

But how? How can he leverage this chaos without the strength to enforce his plans? The key is in alliances, in knowing just where to prod to create the biggest ripple.

“They say knowledge is power,” Quinming murmurs, “but right now, knowledge without action feels like torture. Still, the Hao Sect... they could be the key.”

He taps his fingers lightly against the pillows, a subtle rhythm that hints at his restless energy. “Maybe I can’t storm the gates myself, but I can certainly whisper in the right ears, nudge the right pieces into place.”

With a dark chuckle, he envisions the unfolding chaos, the ripples spreading outwards. “Who knows? Maybe this ghost still has a few tricks left. Time to haunt a few dreams, stir a few nightmares.”

~~~

The last rays of sunlight fade, casting long shadows across the room. Exhaustion seeps into Quinming's bones, an unwelcome guest that lingers like a persistent shadow. 'Just a bit of peace and quiet, that's all I want.' But, of course, there's the knock again. Softer this time. Almost hesitant. He sighs, weariness deepened by the constant interruptions. 'Can’t a man brood in peace?'

"Come in," he calls out, no longer bothering to mask his irritation.

The door creaks open, and Qian Zhao steps inside, his frame silhouetted against the dim light. Despite the awkwardness, his face shows calm concern. Zhao's face is a mask of calm concern.

"Hey, little brother," Zhao greets softly. "Just checking on you again. Need anything?"

Quinming smirks, shaking his head. "Little brother? Well, I guess that makes you the big, mature one."

‘Big, mature one? Haaa, I really can't get used to that. He’s still a kid in my eyes... Though Brother Zhi always did say I needed to act my age, whatever that means.’ Quinming’s thoughts momentarily drift to Brother Zhi, a pang of nostalgia mingling with his current exhaustion.

"I’m fine, Zhao. Really," he mutters, his voice calm but unyielding.

Zhao lingers, his eyes searching Quinming's for something unspoken. "You don’t have to keep everything to yourself, you know," he says quietly.

Quinming laughs, more for Zhao's sake than his own. "Old habits die hard," he replies, his voice carrying a hint of dark humor. "Besides, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your daily dose of worry."

With a shake of his head, Zhao finally chuckles. "Always the tough guy, huh?"

"You know me," Quinming says, leaning back against the pillows, trying to appear more relaxed than he feels. "Never let them see you sweat."

Zhao's expression softens, but Quinming can see the worry etched in his eyes. "Just... take care of yourself, okay?”

Zhao moves closer, his steps measured and deliberate. There is a quiet strength in him, an unspoken resilience that Quinming finds both infuriating and comforting. ‘Kid’s got potential. Would’ve made a decent martial artist if life had gone differently. Damn shame.’

The concern in Zhao's eyes is genuine, a stark contrast to Quinming's discomfort. "I know it's awkward, but I don't mind helping. Better than you trying to manage on your own and making things worse."

Every time Zhao stepped in to adjust his pillows or refill his water, Quinming felt his pride take a hit. He let out a quiet, resigned breath. ‘This kid,’ he thought, watching Zhao’s earnest care. ‘Always hovering, like a shadow that won’t leave. Annoying as hell, but useful.’

Zhao's loyalty reminds Quinming of Mu Jianshou. He suppresses the twinge of bitterness, shoving the painful memory of his old friend back down.

"Alright, kid," Quinming says, his voice carrying a mix of sarcasm and reluctant gratitude. "Just don’t get too comfortable playing nursemaid. I’m not planning on making this a habit."

Zhao chuckles, a light, genuine sound. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Quinming.”

Quinming cannot help but smile a little, despite himself. It is strange, this new dynamic. Being stuck in the body of a fourteen-year-old boy while his mind is that of an eighty-nine-year-old man. It is a peculiar kind of hell, like an extended joke at his expense.

"Seriously, though," Quinming continues, his tone shifting to a mock-seriousness, "if I start asking for bedtime stories and warm tea, feel free to smother me with a-”

The door bursts open, cutting him off mid-sentence. Lian strides in, her presence as disruptive as a hurricane in a teacup. “Quin-Quin, you wouldn’t believe the night I had yesterday.”

He rolls his eyes, leaning back against the pillows with a sigh. “Here we go. Lian’s grand adventures. Enlighten us, oh great one.”

The chair grinds against the floor as she yanks it next to his bed. Quinming winches.

She tosses her hair, ignoring his sarcasm. “There was this merchant, right? Claimed he had a map to a hidden treasure…”

Quinming nods, the motion small but acknowledging. He tunes out most of her story, his thoughts drifting. ‘Lian’s relentless spirit reminds me so much of Sister Zhong Zhen. Always pulling me into her crazy adventures.’

A vivid memory surfaces. Sister Zhen, her face flushed with excitement, had shoved a brittle, ancient map into his hands. "Quinming, you won't believe it! I bought this from a merchant in the marketplace. It leads to the Phoenix Blossom Spring!”

He'd been skeptical but followed her anyway. They had ventured into the treacherous terrain, guided by the map's cryptic clues. ‘That was a laughable choice, trusting her instincts over mine.’ But as they neared their destination, the trap sprang. The Shadow Serpent Sect had used the map as bait to capture unsuspecting youths from the Righteous Faction.

With the odds against them Quinming managed to kill them all. In the end, he dragged her battered self to safety, all while she laughed her ass off. ‘Of course, she found it hilarious. Nearly got us killed, and she’s giggling like a child.’

‘If it wasn’t one adventure it was her complaining to me to beat so-and-so up.’ He shakes his head slightly, a fond smirk appearing. ‘Ah, the good old days of playing her personal enforcer.’ The memories flicker like an endless stream, each scene more chaotic than the last, leaving a bittersweet taste.

‘But that was then, and this is now. Stuck in the past, living in the present, and dreading the future – what a delightful mix. If only I could trade half these memories for a good night’s sleep.’ He sighs internally, feeling the weight of his past adventures and future uncertainties pressing down on him.

Lian’s voice cuts back in, snapping him out of his reverie. “…and then he tried to swindle me! Can you believe it?”

“Sounds like he had a death wish,” Quinming says dryly. “Trying to con you is like poking a sleeping dragon.”

She grins, clearly pleased with the comparison. “Exactly. So, I taught him a lesson he won’t soon forget.”

Looking towards her, Quinming raises an eyebrow, barely interested. “Oh? What did you do this time? Make him choke on his own arrogance?”

“Wow, you almost hit it right on the nose! Treat this old merchant's daughter as a fool, ha! So, I decided to have a little fun.” She leans in, lowering her voice conspiratorially, her earrings tinkling softly. “I switched his wine with vinegar. He almost choked!”

Quinming's smirk widens a hair, but his tone remains dry. “That’s one way to deal with them. Did he notice before or after he turned green? I’d have loved to see his face when he realized he’d been had.”

Lian sits back, her grin widening, the embroidered lotuses on her dress seeming to bloom with her happiness. “Eventually. But I blamed it on the kitchen. Said the new cook must have mixed up the bottles. The look on his face was priceless.”

Quinming shakes his head, a reluctant smile forming. “You’re something else, Lian. I’d have taken the direct approach and just punched him.”

Lian laughs, the sound bright and infectious, her earrings swaying with the movement. “Oh, trust me, I wanted to. But this was so much more satisfying.”

Shaking his head, Quinming's tone turns sarcastic. “I’ll bet. Maybe I should start taking notes. Not like I have anything else to do while rotting in here.”

Eyes twinkling with delight she grabs his hand as she leans in. “See? You’ve got to find the fun where you can, even in a place like this.”

Quinming flinches, retreating slightly. “I suppose you’re right. Twisted fun is still fun. Better than counting cracks in the ceiling.”

As she leans back in her chair, her expression softens, the delicate scent of lotus flowers lingering in the air.

“You know, you should laugh more often, Quin-Quin. It suits you. Who knew you had a sense of humor buried under all that brooding?” Lian’s voice is warm and teasing.

Quinming’s smile fades slightly, his guard slipping back into place. “Maybe. We’ll see. Don’t get your hopes up.” ‘Though, with this lot, that's asking for a miracle.’

Lian stands, giving him a playful wink. “Well, I’ve got to get ready for the night. Don’t go stealing all my pranks now. I’d hate to have to compete with you.”

Turning to leave, she finally notices Zhao standing there, his presence almost forgotten in the excitement. “Oh, didn’t see you there, Zhao!” she teases, lightly touching his arm as she struts past him.

Quinming catches the faint blush spreading across Zhao’s cheeks. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Zhao, if you turn any redder, Lian might think you’re having a fever.”

Zhao stammers, scratching the back of his head. “I’m fine, just… caught off guard.”

“Caught off guard, huh? Just make sure you don’t trip over your own feet next time.”

With the door closing behind Lian, Zhao seems a bit dazed, his usual calm demeanor slightly rattled. Quinming cannot help but chuckle as the young man stumbles over his words, “Before go anything needs? I mean, before I go, do you need anything? Water? Another blanket?”

Quinming's smirk widens. “Just your head screwed on straight, Zhao. But if you happen to find my sanity while you’re at it, bring that too.”

A nervous chuckle escapes the young man as he scratches the back of his head. “Right. I’ll, uh, keep an eye out for it.”

After Zhao leaves, Quinming's eyes linger on the door. ‘So, the kid's got a crush. Makes sense now.’ He lets out a sigh, shaking his head. ‘Love in this twisted place. Well, good luck to him. He’ll need it.’ His smile fades slightly as the weight of their situation presses down on him, the fleeting humor unable to fully mask his concern.

~~~~

Night has settled by the time the next knock comes, softer than before. Quinming opens his eyes.

"Come in," he calls out yet again, a resigned sigh escaping his lips. ‘Great, more of this.’

Qian Yun and Qian Zhao enter again, Qian Yun carrying more medicine and Qian Zhao with another bowl of that damn broth porridge. ‘If I see one more bowl of that stuff...’

“We need to change your bandages again and make sure you’re eating properly,” Qian Yun says, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Quinming shifts uncomfortably, trying to muster a smile. “You’re relentless. Can’t say I’m not being well looked after.” ‘Relentless doesn’t even begin to cover it. I feel like I'm being smothered by kindness.’

Qian Yun chuckles softly. “You should be used to this by now. Remember how you always hated taking your medicine as a child?”

Zhao laughs lightly, joining in. “You used to hide under the bed, thinking we wouldn’t find you.”

Quinming forces a laugh, trying to play along. “Ah, the good old days,” he says, though his mind is a whirl of confusion. ‘Good old days? I've never liked medicine but why would I ever hide under a bed?’

As Qian Yun starts to untie the bandages, Zhao continues, seemingly oblivious to Quinming’s discomfort. “Remember when we used to sneak into the kitchens as kids? You always managed to find the best hiding spots.”

Quinming just nods and smiles, having no idea anymore. “Yeah, those were the days,” he replies, though his tone lacks conviction.

Zhao’s eyes light up with genuine nostalgia. “And that time we got caught stealing mooncakes? Your quick thinking saved us from a whipping.”

Quinming nods, his smile becoming strained. “Yeah, I was always good at getting us out of trouble.”

Qian Yun adds, “Zhao, do you remember the time Quinming climbed that old maple tree outside Madam Li’s quarters?”

Zhao chuckles. “Yeah, I remember. He got stuck and refused to come down until we promised him extra dumplings for dinner.”

“Uh, right... I think I remember that.”

Qian Yun pauses in her work, looking up at him. “Quinming, you’re awfully quiet. Are you feeling alright?”

‘Alright? In this mess?’ “Just tired,” Quinming replies, managing a weak smile. “All this reminiscing takes it out of me.” ‘And adds to the pile of questions I don't have answers for.’

Feeling cornered, Quinming decides he can’t keep up the charade any longer. He takes a deep breath, his voice shaky. “I... I don’t remember any of that,” he admits. “My memory is a bit messed up. I’m sorry if I don’t recall everything.”

Zhao’s expression softens immediately, the playful teasing vanishing. “It’s okay. I’m just glad you’re still here. We can work on remembering together.”

Qian Yun looks up from her work, her eyes full of understanding. “Memory loss can be a result of severe trauma and fever. Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Quinming leaned back, feeling drained. “Right, trauma and fever,” he muttered, more to himself than to them. ‘And all the mysteries that come with it.’ The room fell into a brief silence, the air heavy with the weight of their shared concerns and unspoken words.

The door bursts open, and Lan rushes in, eyes wide with excitement. “Big brother Quin-Quin!” she exclaims, dashing towards him with open arms.

Zhao steps forward quickly, catching Lan by the collar just in time to prevent her from jumping onto the bed. “Whoa, Lan! Careful!” he admonishes gently, pulling her back.

Lan pouts. “But I want to hug him! He’s been sick, and I missed him!” ‘She's cute, but her enthusiasm is exhausting.’

Quinming manages a tired smile. “I appreciate it, Lan, but I’m not exactly in hugging shape right now.”

Qian Yun glances at Lan with a mixture of amusement and mild exasperation. “Lan, Quinming needs to rest and heal. You can sit with him, but no jumping on the bed.”

Lan’s face lights up at the compromise. “Okay!” She carefully climbs onto a chair beside the bed, her wide eyes fixed on Quinming with adoration. “You look better today,” she says earnestly.

Quinming chuckles softly. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Qian Yun finishes applying a fresh layer of salve and begins to rewrap his bandages. “Try to rest more, Quinming. No more moving around unnecessarily.”

Lan leans closer, her voice a whisper. “I brought you a flower,” she says, pulling a small, delicate blossom from her pocket. “It’s from the garden. I thought it might make you feel better.”

Quinming takes the flower with a warm smile, his heart touched by her innocent gesture. “Thanks, Lan. It’s beautiful. You’re too sweet.”

Zhao watches the exchange with a soft smile, his earlier concerns momentarily eased by the tender scene. “You’ve got quite the admirer, Quinming,” he teases lightly.

Lan blushes, her cheeks turning a rosy hue. “I just want him to get better,” she mumbles shyly, casting a quick glance at Quinming before looking down at her hands.

Quinming squirms in his bed, the room shrinking around him with every kind word and gentle touch. Their kindness feels suffocating, a blanket too heavy to bear.

Lan clings to his hand, wanting—no, needing—to be near him, her bubbly chatter like an incessant drizzle on a weary roof. Quinming's exhaustion makes his head throb. ‘Please, just give me a break.’

"Does it still hurt a lot?" Lan asks softly, her eyes wide with worry as she reaches out to touch Quinming's hand.

"Just a little," Quinming mutters, his voice hoarse. ‘More than you can imagine, little one. But best you stay ignorant.’

Lan’s wide eyes sparkle with concern. “You’re so brave, big brother Quin-Quin. When I grow up, I want to be just like you.”

Quinming manages a wry smile, the irony not lost on him. “You might want to aim a bit higher, Lan.”

Zhao chuckles, shaking his head. “Leave it to you to make even hero worship sound unappealing.”

Quinming sighs, his eyes closing briefly as he fights off the wave of exhaustion. “I’ve always been good at ruining fantasies. It’s a talent.”

Qian Yun gives Quinming a stern look. “Rest. No more quips. You need to heal.”

Quinming gives a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be the perfect patient.” He then turns to Lan with a playful wink. “That means no more jumping on me, okay?”

Lan giggles, nodding vigorously. “Okay, big brother Quin-Quin. I promise.”

As the room settles into a quieter rhythm, Quinming can’t help but feel a pang of something he hasn’t felt in a long time. It isn’t quite hope, but it’s close. He squeezes Lan’s hand gently, her presence a small, bright spot in his otherwise dark world.

‘Maybe,’ he thinks, ‘just maybe, things aren’t as bleak as they seem.’

A knock on the door and Quinming expects more of the same. But he tenses seeing who it is. Auntie Mei, the perennial shadow of Madam Li. The room seems to grow smaller as she steps in, the air thickening with tension.

Auntie Mei steps inside, her usually stern face now etched with weariness. She holds a small pot of salve, her movements methodical but lacking the usual briskness. Her eyes flick briefly to Quinming's battered form, then to Mrs. Qian and Zhao, who watch her with barely concealed wariness.

Mrs. Qian and Zhao exchange glances. Lan, oblivious to the tension, bounces on her toes, her smile wide and innocent. “Auntie Mei! Are you here to see big brother too?”

Auntie Mei's gaze flickers over Quinming's battered form, her expression a complex mix of emotions. "Madam Li sent this for you," she says quietly, holding up the jar of salve. Her voice is steady, but there is a slight tremor in her hands as she approaches the bed.

"How thoughtful of her," Quinming replies, his tone laced with sarcasm. He watches Auntie Mei closely. She flinches. ‘Hit a nerve, did I?’

Auntie Mei sits on the bed beside him, unscrewing the jar and dipping her fingers into the salve. "Hold still," she instructs, her voice soft but firm. She begins to apply the salve to his wounds, her touch surprisingly gentle. "This should help with the pain."

As she works, Quinming studies her face, searching for any hint of her true intentions. Auntie Mei's eyes are downcast, focused on her task, but there is a sadness there, a deep weariness that he hasn't noticed before. She glances up briefly, meeting his gaze, and in that moment, he sees a flicker of something that looks like regret.

‘What are you hiding, woman?’

"Auntie Mei, will Quinming get better soon?" Lan asks, beaming up at her.

Auntie Mei's gaze softens as she looks at the young girl. "Yes, Lan. With time and care, he'll get better."

Lan looks up at Auntie Mei with wide eyes. “Why does Quinming have to get hurt so much?” she asks, her innocent question hanging in the air like a dark cloud.

Auntie Mei pauses, her face momentarily stricken. She takes a deep breath, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Sometimes, bad things happen to good people, Lan,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.

Mrs. Qian exchanges a look with Zhao, both of them understanding more than they let on. Auntie Mei’s subtle admission does not go unnoticed.

Quinming watches her with suspicion, his eyes once filled with warmth for her now guarded and cold. "You don’t have to pretend," he says flatly, his tone carrying the weight of unspoken accusations.

Auntie Mei’s hand pauses mid-air, her breath catching. She resumes her task, applying the salve with a gentleness that betrays her inner conflict. "I’m not pretending, Quinming," she says quietly. "Not anymore."

Quinming’s eyes narrow. "Why are you really here? Did she send you here to, what?” he asks, his voice cold. "To placate me? To keep me quiet?" ‘Or to finish the job?’

She flinches but doesn’t meet his gaze. "I’m here to help," she says simply, her hands still moving gently over his wounds. "I promise.”

Lan scoots closer to Quinming, her small hand squeezing his. "You’ll get better soon, right? Auntie Mei’s medicine always works," she says, her voice bright and hopeful.

Auntie Mei’s eyes soften at the child’s words. "Yes, Lan. It will help," she says, though her voice lacks its usual conviction.

As Auntie Mei continues to apply the salve, her touch becomes more tender, almost apologetic. She avoids Quinming’s gaze, focusing on the task at hand. “You’ve grown so much,” she says quietly, her voice tinged with regret. “You remind me so much of your mother.”

“What do you know about my mother?” he asks.

Auntie Mei hesitates, her fingers pausing over his wounds. “More than you,” she replies, her words heavy with hidden meaning.

‘Oh... Now that’s intriguing.’

The room is silent, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife.

She finishes applying the salve, her hands lingering on his skin for a moment longer than necessary. “Rest now, Quinming,” she says, her voice trembling. “You need your strength.”

‘Strength for what, exactly? What are you brewing?’

Mrs. Qian exchanges a glance with Zhao, her lips pressed into a thin line. "We’ll stay and make sure he’s comfortable," she says, a subtle edge to her words.

Auntie Mei nods, understanding the unspoken distrust. "I know you will," she says, her voice steadying. "And... I’ll do what I can too."

As she finishes applying the salve, she stands, her gaze lingering on Quinming’s guarded expression. "Rest now," she says softly. "You need to heal."

Quinming watches her go, his mind a whirlwind of suspicion and confusion. ‘What’s her game this time?’ he wonders.

Zhao and Mrs. Qian exchange a quick glance, a mix of understanding and unspoken agreement passing between them. Zhao’s jaw tightens slightly, and Mrs. Qian's eyes flash with a brief but noticeable anger before she quickly masks it with a calm expression.

Auntie Mei finishes wrapping his torso and gives him a gentle pat on the shoulder. “Get well soon, Quin-Quin,” she says before leaving him alone in the quiet room.

As the door closes, Zhao's fists clench at his sides, his knuckles white. "She has a funny way of showing concern," he mutters under his breath.

Quinming can only agree with him. ‘She’s got a funny way of doing a lot of things.’

He's got a feeling, a whiff of chaos, and it's coming from Auntie Mei. ‘It remains to be seen if this chaos is good for fishing.’