Rain had soaked the city, turning the streets into mirrors of flickering neon. Xinyue pressed her hood tighter, feeling the cold slice through her soaked jacket. Every footstep echoed differently here, unfamiliar alleys twisting around her, strangers moving past with hurried indifference. The world outside the mansion was vast, chaotic, and unforgiving - yet strangely liberating.
She hugged her small backpack to her chest, the weight both comforting and maddeningly light. She had nothing but what she carried and what she had learned in silence. Her stomach growled, but she forced herself to wait, listening to the rhythm of the city: the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, the distant shout of a taxi driver, the soft clatter of a bottle tumbling across the sidewalk. Every sound was a signal, every shadow a potential threat.
At the corner of an alley, the smell of warm bread drifted from a small café. Xinyue froze, watching the cook move inside, oblivious to the dripping figure outside. Her fingers brushed the strap of her backpack, and her lips pressed into a thin line. Hunger was gnawing, but so was caution. One wrong move could be deadly, or worse, call attention to her - and she could not afford that.
For a moment, she considered walking away, leaving the warmth, leaving the scent, leaving the possibility of stolen comfort behind. But instinct pushed her forward. She moved like a shadow, silent and precise, slipping a bun from a basket near the counter and disappearing back into the alley. Relief flooded her when she sank to the ground, biting into it, warmth and taste flooding senses that had been starved for hours. She closed her eyes and let herself feel a flicker of joy before the instinctive watchfulness returned.
The city demanded cunning. It demanded patience. It demanded vigilance. And Xinyue had learned quickly how to obey all three. She walked past towering neon signs, past groups of drunk men laughing too loud, past the darkened corners where dangers waited quietly. She noted the flow of traffic, the timing of streetlights, the places where she could disappear without a trace. Survival was no longer instinct alone; it was calculation, strategy, and the ever-present understanding that every human could either be an ally or a threat.
Nights became her domain. In the shadows behind closed shops or under the scant shelter of a bridge, she opened her old, battered laptop. Its screen flickered weakly, but it was more than light - it was possibility. She typed lines of code with precision, the illegal programs she practiced becoming a kind of armor, a weapon for a life that demanded strength in a world that refused to protect her. Her fingers flew over the keys as rain pelted the metal roof above her, and in those moments, she was more powerful than anyone in the city. More than Meilin. More than the Qiao parents. More than the fear that had defined her life for years.
But danger was never far. One night, as she navigated a narrow alleyway, the low growl of voices behind her froze her blood. Three older boys stepped from the shadows, their expressions cruel, their eyes calculating. Xinyue's heart pounded, but she did not panic. The lessons from her past guided her - patience, observation, timing. As they approached, she slipped under a low fire escape, rolling to her feet on the other side, disappearing into the dark, wet streets before they could reach her. Their curses echoed in the night, but she was gone, invisible and untouchable.
By the end of that first month, Xinyue had become a ghost in Shanghai. She ate when she could, hid when she needed, and moved silently, learning from every encounter, every mistake, every close call. Hunger sharpened her mind, fear sharpened her senses, and pain -the pain of her past, of Meilin, of the mansion -became fuel. She had survived because she had no choice. She would thrive because she had a plan.
The city could be cruel. It could be cold. But it was honest. And Xinyue, alone in the rain-soaked streets, felt the first stirrings of a life that belonged only to her.