At the mansion, the servants rushed to treat Zhenlong's head. The side of his face was still bleeding where the branch had connected, a thin red line running down his cheek and dripping onto his collar.
One of the servants dabbed at the wound with a cloth, her hands trembling slightly. Zhenlong sat still, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the wall.
Then another servant hurried in, her face pale and panicked.
"Boss," she said breathlessly. "The kid. He's throwing things at us. One of the servants got hit. He won't let us treat his ankle."
Zhenlong's jaw tightened even more. He closed his eyes and let out a long, slow sigh.
"Such a pain in the ass," he muttered.
He started to get up but the servant tending to him grabbed his arm. "Boss, I'm not done. The wound needs to be cleaned properly. It could get infected."
Zhenlong pulled his arm away. "I'm done."
He grabbed the first aid box from the table and walked out of the room, ignoring the servant's protests.
The hallway stretched out before him and he could hear the sounds of chaos from Wenhao's room long before he reached it. Shouting. Thumping. The crash of something heavy hitting the floor.
Zhenlong opened the door and stepped inside.
The room was a disaster. The lamp was overturned. The pillows had been thrown across the floor. A chair lay on its side. Broken glass glittered near the window.
And in the middle of it all, Wenhao was lying on his stomach on the bed, his face buried in the quilt, his shoulders shaking with sobs.
Zhenlong closed the door behind him.
The click of the lock made Wenhao's head snap up. His eyes were red and swollen and his face was blotchy and wet. He grabbed the nearest object—a book—and raised his arm to throw it.
Then he froze.
It was Zhenlong.
And Zhenlong looked pissed.
His face was hard and his eyes were cold and there was blood still drying on his cheek. He walked into the room like a storm cloud and dropped the first aid box on the bed.
"Show me your ankle," Zhenlong said.
Wenhao looked away, his jaw clenched, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. "No."
Zhenlong reached out and grabbed his leg, pulling him closer despite Wenhao's protests. He looked at the ankle. It was already swollen, purple and angry, twice the size it should be.
Wenhao tried to pull his leg back but Zhenlong held it firmly.
"Let go of me," Wenhao shouted. "Don't touch me. Don't come near me. I hate you. I hate you so much."
Zhenlong ignored him and opened the first aid box. "Why?" he asked calmly. "Do I hit you? Do I make you do labor? Do I starve you? Can't you just stay peacefully until your father signs the documents?"
Wenhao's face contorted with rage and grief. "He would never. Why would he? Who are you to take the things he built with so much hard work? You're nothing. You're a thief. A bully. A monster."
Zhenlong chuckled and started wrapping the ankle with bandages. "You're a kid. You wouldn't understand. Just do as I say."
"No," Wenhao spat. "I wouldn't."
Zhenlong pressed down on the swollen ankle.
Wenhao screamed.
The pain was white hot and blinding and tears poured down his face as he tried to pull away. But Zhenlong held him still and continued wrapping the bandage, his movements quick and efficient.
"Stop," Wenhao sobbed. "Stop it. Please."
Zhenlong finished wrapping the ankle and sat back. He looked at Wenhao's tear-streaked face, his messy hair, his rumpled clothes. The boy looked absolutely wrecked.
Zhenlong sighed and stood up. He walked to the door and opened it.
"Bring him clean clothes," he said to the servant outside. "And clean this room."
He left without looking back.
Later, in his own room, Zhenlong stood in front of the mirror. His face was bruised and swollen where the branch had hit him. He touched the wound gently and winced.
Then he started laughing.
A low chuckle that grew into something louder. He laughed until his side hurt and tears formed in his eyes.
He had been hit by a kid with a stick. A nineteen-year-old brat who had swung a branch at his face and then tried to run away.
And he couldn't even be mad about it.
He was honestly impressed.
The next morning, Wenhao woke up with a throbbing ankle and a burning hatred for everyone in the building.
He couldn't walk. He couldn't run. He couldn't even stand without pain shooting up his leg.
He was trapped.
He was bored.
And he was going to make everyone else miserable.
The servant brought his breakfast and Wenhao looked at it with intense scrutiny.
"This egg is overcooked," he announced loudly. "Look at it. It's rubbery. It's practically bouncing. I've seen more appetizing food in a garbage truck."
The servant didn't respond.
"And the toast," Wenhao continued. "Is it burnt or is it just trying to be fashionable? Because it's failing at both."
The servant set down the tray and started to leave.
"Wait," Wenhao called out. "I wasn't done. Tell the chef that if he's going to serve me breakfast, he should at least pretend to care. This is insulting."
The servant hurried out.
Wenhao picked up the egg and stared at it. Then he sighed and took a bite because he was hungry.
Later, the guards rotated shifts. A new guard appeared outside his door. Tall. Stern. Expressionless.
Wenhao hobbled to the door and leaned against the frame.
"Hello," he said brightly. "You're new. I'm going to call you Guard Number Three."
The guard stared at him.
"Don't worry," Wenhao said. "Guard Number One was a terrible listener. Guard Number Two was allergic to conversation. You have big shoes to fill."
The guard said nothing.
Wenhao tilted his head. "Do you have parents? Blink twice if you're kidnapped too."
The guard blinked once.
"Damn," Wenhao said. "So you're here voluntarily? That's sad. You could be doing anything else with your life. Like knitting. Or bird watching. Or learning to smile."
The guard's expression didn't change.
"...Tough crowd."
Wenhao hobbled back to his bed.
The boredom was eating him alive.
He tried reading but his ankle throbbed and he couldn't concentrate. He tried sleeping but he wasn't tired. He tried counting the tiles on the ceiling but Gerald had already been named and there was nothing new to discover.
So he made it his mission to annoy every single person in the mansion.
A servant walked by carrying laundry. Wenhao called out to her.
"Excuse me," he said. "Do you ever wonder what the meaning of life is? Because I've been thinking about it. And I think the meaning of life is good food and comfortable shoes. What do you think?"
The servant stared at him and walked faster.
Another servant passed by with a vase of flowers. Wenhao pointed at them.
"Those are dying," he said. "Look at them. They're practically begging for mercy. You should water them more. Or maybe they're just sad like me. We're all sad here. This is a sad house."
The servant set the vase down and fled.
Hua Cheng walked in to check and Wenhao grinned.
"You," Wenhao said. "The scary one with the ring. Where's Zhenlong? Did I scare him off with my superior intellect?"
Hua Cheng ignored him and kept walking.
"That's fine," Wenhao called after him. "I'll just talk to myself. It's more interesting anyway."
He spent the rest of the morning lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling, and narrating his own thoughts out loud.
"Wenhao is bored," he said dramatically. "Wenhao wants to go home. Wenhao would do anything for a good meal and a comfortable bed that doesn't smell like expensive sadness."
He paused.
"Wenhao might be losing his mind."
He laughed at his own joke and then stopped because laughing alone was sad.
But he kept talking anyway.
Because if he stopped talking, he would start thinking about his father. And Shen Wei. And Xinyi. And everything he had lost.
And he wasn't ready to think about that yet.