Chapter 7
Chapter 7
The lukewarm milk slid down my throat with the convenience-store trademark taste—thin, factory-formula sweetness—leaving a faint, sticky aftertaste. I sipped slowly; the chill barely managed to drown the swirl of thoughts in my stomach.
Across the bar, Wei Wu had his back to me, spine as straight as a spear driven into the ground. Head lowered, he was concentrating on the gashes glass had left on his forearm. Those big knuckly hands—used to field-stripping rifles, hammering keyboards, or slamming people to the floor—now clumsily pinched a kiddie Band-Aid printed with a cross-eyed duck, trying to line it up over a wound still oozing blood. His movements were as stiff as if he were defusing a booby-trap; his brows were locked, sweat beading at his temples.
The air was thick; only the rip of plastic wrappers and the rising morning traffic outside broke the silence.
I set the empty carton down. The plastic bottom clacked against the glass. My sakura-white hair spilled forward, brushing the neckline of the neon-pink cartoon-bear T-shirt I wore over his black tank—an itch against my collarbone.
“...So,” I began, voice husky from milk and nerves, “I’ve got to drop by the office in a couple of days.”
Wei Wu’s fingers froze mid-rip. He didn’t turn, but his broad back broadcasted loud and clear: I heard you and I’m not happy. His gravel-rough answer sounded half-asleep. “Why? Aren’t you filthy rich now? The money’s wired—tell them to shove it! You forget how Bald Director choked your project funds?”
“Final equity-transfer forms.” I tugged at the tragic fluorescent-orange track pants; the coarse cloth scraped my fingertips. “Procedure’s locked. I have to show up in person with original ID. Bring...” I swallowed, voice dropping to a mutter, “...this face, and this voice.”
Silence slammed down.
Only his breathing and the muttering of the stubborn Band-Aid remained.
Seconds later he spun so fast he kicked up a breeze. The duck Band-Aid—half unstuck—flapped on his tanned, muscle-cut arm. His eyes, sharp as tempered blades, pinned me; offence and big-brother protectiveness wrestled behind them, plus a worry he refused to show.
“Scared?” Low, but heavy with elder-brother weight.
“Who’s scared!” I shrieked like a stepped-on cat, throat squeaking girlishly while I tried to reclaim Yun Xi’s coder swagger. “It’s just—troublesome! Explaining is a pain! You get it, right? Am I supposed to hold up my ID and say, ‘Sure, face, voice, gender—all different, but trust me, I’m still the same code-monkey’? Who’d believe that?”
“Troublesome?” He snorted, mouth twisting in scorn, yet the worry in his eyes ebbed, replaced by trademark Wei Wu arrogance. He grabbed an unopened milk, hesitated, then shoved—gently for him—the cold carton into my arms.
I fumbled; the chill made me flinch.
“Trouble my ass!” he barked, the bar stool vibrating. Realising the volume, he lowered his voice. “I’ll go with you. Let’s see which punk dares squeak. Been ages since I stretched my legs anyway. I’ll test those new conference-room chairs—see if they break under weight, check the sound-proofing too. With me there, nobody’s putting you on display.”
Watching human body-armour crack his knuckles, I felt the jitters of social-death shrink. Yeah, back in school when punks circled us, or at the net-café when thugs showed up, this bastard had stood in front exactly like this. Different battlefield now, same shield.
Fine. Bringing a “feral-tank” bodyguard slash brother... acceptable.
...
A few nights later.
The penthouse study glowed under a single floor-lamp, a warm halo on the walnut desk; outside, city lights scattered like dropped stars. Piles of documents—equity-transfer agreements, asset confirmations, NDAs—formed cold, ink-scented mountains. The tail end of freedom: heavy.
I wore cotton loungewear (online shopping saved my life; neon-pink bear tee forever banished to the wardrobe). My sakura-white hair was twisted into a messy bun skewered by a pencil. Blood-shot sky-blue eyes tried to mine a maze-like supplemental clause for buried mines.
On my wrist the Eternal Dream: Prime Abyss Bracelet breathed quiet silver-blue light; inside it, a miniature river of time drifted lazily. Star Dian and Yue Fei—thumb-sized—chased each other across the paperwork. The indigo dragonling zipped around, tail flicking; the sakura-white cat sprite leapt aside, batting lazily, purple eyes full of disdain.
“Party A hereby irrevocably agrees that, as of the Closing Date, all Class-A preferred shares held by it and the attendant special voting rights shall automatically convert into...”
Each clause was a sleeping pill in print. My eyelids drooped; the halo blurred into a spinning vortex. I pinched my brow, forcing the last pages into my soggy brain.
“Haa—ah!”
A monstrous yawn tore free, the girlish voice cracking with fatigue. Tears flooded; the letters turned to tadpoles.
“Hee~”
A feather-light laugh, cool as early-winter frost, landed on my nerves.
Meng Yun Xi—our Ancestor—surfaced from her nap.
“My cute ‘me’~” she drawled, tickling every inner ear hair, “thinking a sliver of space-time dragon blood plus a sealed ‘toy’ like Eternal Dream lets you squander this delicate new body?”
No scolding—just amused, creditor-style reminder.
“Remember,” she whispered, “a magical girl’s liver is still mortal flesh. Debts of youth, tallied by destiny itself, are... merciless. Especially—” the sword hovered, “—to that baby-skin face.”
Face?! Skin?!
Ice-prick terror lanced my drowsiness. I felt my cheek—still smooth? Alarm klaxons screamed inside.
“Mew, she’s right,” Yue Fei purred atop a Risk Disclosure, licking a light-flame paw. “True elegance demands rest. Late nights are the desert wind that steals radiance.”
“Master, ignore lazy cat!” Star Dian cannon-balled in front of me, indigo light blinking like a caffeine LED. “I can pump starlight energy—three nights of docs, no problem!”
“Brute force,” Yue Fei sniffed. “Starlight overdrafts life-essence. You’d sign your freedom with wrinkles and panda eyes—blasphemy against elegance!”
“Dumb cat—”
“Both... shut up...” I croaked, brain like soggy cotton. Their bickering and Yun Xi’s creditor laughter became the final lullaby.
Can’t... tomorrow... just five minutes...
The last thread snapped; my forehead smacked onto the cold contract. The lamp’s glow softened, silver-blue light dimming to cradle the sleeper.
...
BANG BANG BANG!! “Yun Xi! Get your dead ass up!!”
The door-shaking barrage ripped apart dawn. Glass panes rattled.
“It’s rush hour! Move! Wanna rot in traffic?!” Wei Wu’s recon-sergeant roar clubbed my sleep-mush brain.
“Ngh—!” I rocketed upright, heart hammering. Docs, signing—late!
I tumbled off the bed, bare feet slapping cold wood, and shot into the ensuite. Wash, dress, makeup—can’t keep Wei Wu waiting; he’s capable of kicking the door down and sling-carrying me out—did it before for morning drills.
I splashed icy water on my face—shudder—then raised my head, hoping for mercy.
Mirror: sakura-white hair a bomber-raided bird’s nest, sky-blue eyes sunk in purple craters. Face puffy, sallow—life’s punching bag.
But none of that was the killing blow.
Right on my cheekbone bloomed a plump, glistening, scarlet—
ZIT.
A proud whitehead lighthouse beaconing: Debt collected.
“Aaaahhhhhh!!!”
A glass-shattering soprano ripped the morning apart, drowning Wei Wu’s demolition knock.
“PIMPLE?!”
Trembling, I brushed the burning mount. Meng Yun Xi’s lazy prophecy echoed:
“Late-night debts... merciless... especially to the face~”
I...
hate...
all-nighters!!!
And I hate that smug ancestor even more!!!