The relentless, rhythmic *thud-thud-thud* against the wooden dummy was the first sound Zhāng Měi registered as consciousness seeped back. It wasn't the gentle city hum outside her penthouse, nor the soft chime of her smart home system. It was raw, percussive, echoing up through the floorboards from the hidden room below. It spoke of fury, grief, and a relentless energy that hadn't ceased since she'd fallen asleep on his narrow bed. She blinked, disoriented for a moment by the unfamiliar, sparse room – Qí Hǔ's room. The thin blanket, the single wardrobe, the faint scent of sandalwood and sweat. The memory of the night before crashed over her: the shattered door, the chilling letter, Qí Hǔ's harrowing story, the *baijiu* on the roof, her own raw confession, and the crushing weight of his resignation.
The thudding continued, a brutal counterpoint to the pale dawn light filtering through the thin curtain. It wasn't stopping. It sounded less like training, more like self-flagellation. Zhāng Měi pushed herself up, the remnants of the potent liquor making her head throb in sympathy with the impacts below. She couldn't leave him like this. Not walled up with his ghosts and his punishing routine.
She found him in the training room. The single spotlight was off, the space lit only by the grey pre-dawn glow from the high window. He was a silhouette of coiled tension, shirtless, sweat sheening his skin, his muscles bunched and straining with each devastating blow he delivered to the unyielding wood. His breath came in harsh, controlled gasps, his focus absolute, yet radiating a desperate, almost feral energy. He didn't seem to notice her presence in the doorway.
"Qi," she said, her voice raspy from sleep and emotion. He didn't flinch, didn't pause. The next punch landed with a sickening *crack* that sounded like knuckles meeting bone. "Qí Hǔ!" she called louder, stepping into the room.
He finally stilled, mid-motion, his chest heaving. He turned his head slowly, his eyes meeting hers. They were dark hollows, shadowed by exhaustion and something deeper, bleaker. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the worn mat. He didn't speak.
"Enough," Zhāng Měi stated, walking towards him. She didn't flinch from the raw power radiating off him, the visible tremor in his arms. She stopped a few feet away. "You've been at this all night. You'll break your hands before you break that dummy, or whatever demon you're fighting." She gestured towards the door. "Shower. Now. We're getting out of here."
He stared at her, uncomprehending for a moment. "Out?"
"Yes, out," she insisted, her tone brooking no argument, the familiar 'oldest sister' command surfacing. "This place… the air… it's thick with ghosts and threats right now. You need…" she searched for the word, "...perspective. Light. Something other than dust and violence and bad memories. So move it. Shower. I'm calling a car."
He looked like he might resist, the ingrained habit of isolation warring with the bone-deep fatigue and the residual warmth of her head on his shoulder hours before. Finally, the tension in his shoulders eased a fraction. He gave a curt nod, a muscle jumping in his jaw, and turned towards the small adjoining bathroom without a word.
Zhāng Měi pulled out her phone while the shower ran. By the time he emerged, dressed in his usual worn grey trousers and black t-shirt, hair damp, face impassive but the frantic edge dulled, a sleek, black luxury sedan was idling discreetly at the mouth of the alley. Old Man Li peered curiously from his newsstand as Zhāng Měi practically marched Qí Hǔ out of the shop, locking it firmly behind them, ignoring his muttered protest about needing to open.
The transition was jarring. From the damp, gritty alley smelling of fried dough and stone, they slid into the hushed, climate-controlled, leather-scented interior of the car. Qí Hǔ sat rigidly, staring straight ahead, looking profoundly out of place amidst the polished wood trim and soft ambient lighting. Zhāng Měi gave the driver an address in one of the most exclusive residential districts overlooking the Bund.
The car glided through the awakening city, leaving the labyrinthine alleys behind for wide boulevards, gleaming towers, and manicured parks. Qí Hǔ watched the transformation outside the window, his expression unreadable. The sheer scale, the polished affluence, the purposeful flow of people in expensive clothes – it was a world away from his realm of thread and quiet restoration. He said nothing.
The car swept through security gates and into the underground garage of a soaring, glass-and-steel tower. They took a silent, high-speed elevator that whispered open directly into Zhāng Měi's penthouse apartment. The door opened onto a vista of floor-to-ceiling windows framing the Huangpu River and the iconic Pudong skyline in a breathtaking panorama. The interior was a study in minimalist luxury – pale wood, cream marble, sleek furniture, abstract art. The air smelled faintly of orchids and money.
Qí Hǔ stopped just inside the threshold, his worn shoes silent on the pristine marble floor. He scanned the vast, open space, the dizzying view, the sheer, sterile opulence. His face remained impassive, but Zhāng Měi saw the slight tightening around his eyes, the way his shoulders seemed to draw in slightly, as if the space itself was an imposition.
"Make yourself at home," Zhāng Měi said, kicking off her heels with a sigh of relief. "Bathroom's through there if you want a proper shower. I'm making breakfast."
He didn't move towards the bathroom. He simply stood, a statue of worn cotton amidst the gleaming surfaces, looking lost. Zhāng Měi ignored his discomfort for the moment, bustling into the open-plan kitchen – a symphony of stainless steel and polished stone. She pulled out eggs, fresh greens, mushrooms, spring onions. The rhythmic sounds of chopping and the sizzle of oil soon filled the air, a strangely domestic counterpoint to the penthouse grandeur.
She worked efficiently, plating up fluffy scrambled eggs studded with vibrant vegetables, toasted artisanal bread, and slices of ripe mango. She carried the plates to a sleek dining table positioned to maximize the view. "Sit," she instructed, placing a plate in front of him and one opposite.
Qí Hǔ hesitated, then pulled out the sculpted chair and sat. He picked up the fork – solid, heavy, unfamiliar – and poked at the eggs. He took a small bite. It was objectively delicious, miles away from his alley baozi or simple rice cakes.
"Good?" Zhāng Měi asked, watching him closely as she ate.
He nodded, swallowing. "Good." His voice was quiet. He ate methodically, his gaze occasionally drifting to the staggering view of the river and the futuristic towers beyond. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but heavy with unspoken thoughts.
"David's world," Zhāng Měi said suddenly, gesturing vaguely with her fork towards the window. "All this. The view, the address, the car. That's what he measures worth by." She looked directly at him. "It's impressive. It's comfortable. It's also… cold. Empty, sometimes. Especially if the person sharing it is a vacuous prick." She took a bite of toast. "My point is, Qi, 'poor bastard' is relative. You have skills he couldn't dream of. Integrity he wouldn't recognize. And a family," she emphasized the word, "that values you infinitely more than Lán Yīng's shiny accessory ever could."
Qí Hǔ didn't respond, focusing on his food, but she saw his jaw tighten slightly. He finished his plate in silence.
"Right," Zhāng Měi declared, standing up and clearing the plates before he could protest. "Enough introspection for now. We're going shopping."
Qí Hǔ actually looked alarmed. "Shopping? No. Mei, I don't need—"
"Don't 'Mei' me with that nonsense," she cut him off, already heading towards the foyer. "You have exactly three shirts that aren't fraying and trousers older than some of my interns. It's an offense to my eyes and my position as your elder sister." She grabbed her oversized designer handbag and a pair of sunglasses. "Consider it an intervention. Or hazard pay for putting up with David yesterday. Now, move."
He stood rooted to the spot, genuine resistance flickering in his eyes. "Zhāng Měi, it's unnecessary. My clothes are fine for the shop."
She stopped, turned, and fixed him with a look that had cowed boardrooms and fashion houses. It was pure, undiluted 'oldest sister' authority, honed over decades of managing their chaotic found family. "Qí Hǔ," she said, her voice low and firm, leaving no room for argument. "Do not deny your sister this. It's happening. Get your stubborn behind in the elevator. Now."
The words hung in the air. *"Do not deny your sister."* It echoed her rooftop declaration, binding him not with force, but with the unbreakable claim of kinship she had reaffirmed. He stared at her for a long moment, the fight visibly draining out of him. He gave a single, almost imperceptible sigh, a silent capitulation, and walked towards the elevator without another word.
The car took them to a discreet, exclusive menswear boutique in the heart of the French Concession, a place where the air smelled of cedar blocks and fine wool, and the staff moved with hushed reverence. Qí Hǔ looked like a trespasser in a museum. Zhāng Měi, however, was in her element. She swept in, commanding immediate attention.
"Something for my brother," she announced to the impeccably dressed manager. "Classic lines. Natural fabrics. Quality. Nothing flashy. He needs…" she eyed Qí Hǔ critically, "...everything."
The manager, sensing a significant commission, sprang into action. Qí Hǔ endured the process with stoic resignation, a mannequin being manipulated. Zhāng Měi directed the selections: finely woven cotton shirts in deep blues and soft greys, perfectly tailored trousers in charcoal and navy, a beautifully cut lightweight wool jacket, a soft cashmere sweater. She vetoed anything too stiff, too trendy, or too ostentatious. "He needs to move," she explained tersely when the manager suggested a particularly structured jacket. "Think understated strength. Not boardroom puppet."
When they tried to steer him towards expensive leather shoes, Qí Hǔ finally dug in his heels. "No," he stated flatly. "Not practical." Zhāng Měi relented, settling for a pair of exceptionally well-made, comfortable-looking dark leather boots with excellent grip.
He emerged from the changing room in the first outfit: dark grey trousers, a deep blue shirt open at the collar, the cashmere sweater soft and warm. He looked… transformed. The quality fabrics draped perfectly on his lean frame, highlighting the powerful musculature without constricting it. The colors complemented his dark eyes and the weathered planes of his face. He looked less like a shopkeeper, more like a man of quiet, capable substance. He avoided the mirror.
"Well?" Zhāng Měi asked, a satisfied glint in her eye.
"It's… fine," he mumbled, plucking at the soft cashmere sleeve, clearly uncomfortable.
"Fine is acceptable," she declared. "We'll take it. And the others. Pack it all." She handed over a sleek black credit card without glancing at the total.
Back in the car, a mountain of discreetly wrapped parcels beside him, Qí Hǔ finally spoke. "This was… excessive, Mei. You didn't need to—"
"I absolutely did," she interrupted, adjusting her sunglasses. "Seeing you in clothes that don't look salvaged from a dumpster improves my quality of life. Now, next stop: Zhang Industries."
She took him to her corporate headquarters – a gleaming tower bearing her name. She didn't give him a tour; she *paraded* him. Through the hushed, minimalist lobby where receptionists gaped, into the high-speed elevator, past rows of sleek workstations where heads swiveled, and straight into her corner office, another breathtaking panorama of the city laid out behind her imposing desk.
"This," she announced, gesturing grandly, "is where the magic happens. Or the chaos gets managed. Depends on the day." She showed him design sketches pinned to boards, fabric swatches, mood boards for upcoming collections. She introduced him briefly to her startled head designer ("My brother, Qí Hǔ. Ignore him, he's just observing.") Qí Hǔ stood quietly, taking it all in – the power, the creativity, the sheer scale of her empire. He asked a few surprisingly insightful questions about textile sourcing and production challenges, his quiet voice cutting through the office hum, earning a raised eyebrow from the designer and a proud smirk from Zhāng Měi.
"See?" she murmured as they left, heading back to the elevator. "Not just a pretty face with fists. You get it." He didn't respond, but she saw a flicker of something in his eyes – perhaps reluctant acknowledgment.
Their next stop was Wáng Jiàn's tech fortress. The atmosphere here was different – buzzing with intense energy, screens everywhere, young people in hoodies moving with focused urgency. They were met by a flustered assistant. "Ms. Zhang! Mr. Qi! So sorry, Mr. Wáng is still deep in the crisis room. The Singapore meltdown… it's escalated. He said he's truly sorry, but he can't break away, not even for five minutes."
Zhāng Měi waved a dismissive hand. "Tell the workaholic we stopped by. Don't let him forget to eat." She didn't push. She understood the weight of Wáng Jiàn's responsibilities. "Come on, Qi," she said, steering him back towards the elevator. "His loss. More time for us."
The rest of the afternoon unfolded in a surprising, almost leisurely rhythm. Zhāng Měi seemed determined to show him a different Shanghai, a different life. They walked through bustling, tree-lined streets in the former French Concession, window-shopping at quirky boutiques Zhāng Měi actually approved of. They stopped at a tiny, hidden soup dumpling place she swore by, tucked away down an alley far more charming than his own, joining the lunchtime queue of office workers and locals. The *xiaolongbao* were divine, bursting with rich broth, and Qí Hǔ ate his share with quiet appreciation, a faint ghost of satisfaction softening his features.
Later, they wandered through a sprawling, chaotic flower market, the air thick with the perfume of a thousand blooms. Zhāng Měi haggled fiercely for a bunch of exotic orchids, finally triumphant. She thrust them at Qí Hǔ to carry. "For the penthouse. Brightens the place up." He held the delicate flowers awkwardly, contrasting sharply with his new, expensive clothes.
As dusk painted the sky in hues of rose and gold, they found themselves on the Bund, the grand colonial buildings illuminated, the Pudong skyline across the river igniting into its nightly electric symphony. They leaned against the railing, watching the river traffic glide by, the lights reflecting on the dark water. Zhāng Měi bought them sweet, sticky tanghulu from a street vendor, the candied hawthorn berries a burst of tart childhood memory.
They ate in companionable silence for a while, the sugar crackling between their teeth, the city lights shimmering around them. The frantic energy of the morning, the horror of the night before, the weight of the Nightingale Loom's threat – it all receded, held at bay by the simple act of walking, eating, *being* in the vibrant heart of the city, sister and brother.
Zhāng Měi finished her tanghulu stick and licked the sugar from her fingers. She looked at Qí Hǔ, his profile outlined against the glittering skyline. He was still quiet, still carrying an invisible weight, but the harsh lines around his eyes had softened slightly. He looked less like a cornered wolf and more like a man simply watching the world go by, albeit a world he still seemed only partially connected to.
"It's different," he said suddenly, his voice low, almost lost in the city hum. He wasn't looking at her, still gazing out at the river. "Seeing it… from up there. From here." He gestured vaguely, encompassing the Bund, the penthouse view, the expensive clothes he wore. "Not just shadows and alleyways."
Zhāng Měi smiled, a genuine, warm smile that reached her eyes. She linked her arm through his, a gesture that would have made him stiffen yesterday. Today, he merely accepted it, his arm solid beneath the fine wool of his new jacket. "It's all Shanghai, Qi," she said softly. "The glitter and the grit. The silk and the dust. You belong to both. You always did. You just forgot the view from up here."
He didn't reply, but he didn't pull away. He kept watching the lights dance on the water, the unfamiliar weight of quality fabric on his shoulders, the scent of orchids mingling with the salty river air and the fading sweetness of the tanghulu. For a few stolen hours, the threads binding him to his sister, to this dazzling, complex city, felt less like chains and more like lifelines, shimmering faintly in the twilight.