The neon sign of Black Ember Bar flickered faintly in the night.
Xie Zihan stopped in front of the back alley entrance, loosening the collar of his worn hoodie. The smell of alcohol, smoke, and metal was already thick in the air.
Beside him, Xu Feng nudged his shoulder lightly, grinning as always.
"So," Xu Feng drawled, lowering his voice, "Miss Li."
Zihan didn't respond.
Xu Feng wasn't discouraged. He never was.
"She searched for you. Brought food. Sat at our table. Even burned her hand for you," Xu Feng continued, counting on his fingers exaggeratedly. "Brother Han, how did a fairy suddenly descend into your life?"
Zihan pushed open the back door and walked in. "Focus on work."
"Tch." Xu Feng clicked his tongue. "Cold. But you were thinking about her, weren't you?"
Zihan didn't answer.
But as he tied on his apron, an image surfaced in his mind uninvited—
Bright eyes.
A stubborn smile.
The warmth of her hand tugging him forward.
He tightened the knot behind his waist.
Don't think.
The bar was already loud. Music pounded against the walls. Glasses clinked. Laughter rang out, sharp and careless.
They took their positions behind the counter.
Zihan worked efficiently—pour, wipe, serve. His movements were clean, precise. He didn't waste a single second.
Xu Feng, on the other hand, was sent to Table Five with a tray of drinks.
That was when everything went wrong.
A man at the table suddenly slammed his hand down.
The tray jolted.
Amber liquid splashed—straight onto the man's pants.
The air froze.
"What the hell?!" the man roared, shooting to his feet.
"I—I'm sorry," Xu Feng said quickly, bowing instinctively. "I'll clean it—"
A foot lashed out.
Xu Feng barely had time to react.
Before the kick could land—
A hand caught the attacker's ankle mid-air.
"Enough."
Zihan's voice cut through the noise—low, cold, carrying weight.
The man staggered back, drunk eyes narrowing. "Who the hell are you?"
Zihan stepped forward, placing himself squarely in front of Xu Feng. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set.
"Apologize," Zihan said. "And sit down."
Laughter erupted from the table.
"Mafia boys don't apologize," another man sneered, already rising.
Chairs scraped.
Bottles tipped.
The next second, fists flew.
The bar descended into chaos.
Zihan moved fast—blocking, dodging, striking only when necessary. He wasn't reckless. Every move was calculated, meant to end the fight, not escalate it.
Xu Feng fought clumsily but fiercely, driven by panic and adrenaline.
Just as things threatened to spiral—
"STOP!"
The bar owner stormed in, flanked by security.
"Get them out!" he barked.
The drunk men cursed loudly as they were dragged away.
The owner turned to Zihan and Xu Feng, eyes sharp. "You two. Out. Now."
Xu Feng opened his mouth. "Boss, it wasn't our fault—"
"I said out."
No argument.
Ten minutes later, the night air outside felt cold against their flushed skin.
Xu Feng let out a shaky laugh. "Damn… today was cursed."
Zihan walked silently.
"They just exploded over a spilled drink," Xu Feng muttered. "I really thought we were done for."
"We're fine," Zihan said quietly.
Xu Feng glanced at him. "You always say that."
They reached the old colony at 10 p.m.
Lights were on.
Inside the small rented house, the scent of warm food drifted out.
Su Min looked up the moment the door opened.
"Brother Han!" she said brightly, rushing forward. "You're back! Dinner's ready—"
Zihan walked past her without a word.
The smile on her face froze.
He changed his clothes, emerged briefly, ate in silence, then stood up.
"I'm going to rest."
The door to his room closed softly.
Su Min stared at the closed door, fingers clenched.
Xu Feng sighed inwardly and lowered his head, eating quietly.
Inside his room, Zihan sat in front of his old laptop.
The screen glowed faintly.
Bar work wasn't enough.
It never was.
He opened a hidden folder.
Lines of code filled the screen—unfinished, raw, alive.
A game engine.
A system he'd been refining for months.
"If I keep wasting time…" he murmured.
His fingers began to move.
Fast.
Precise.
Hours slipped by unnoticed.
At 2 a.m., exhaustion finally claimed him.
The laptop remained open.
Code frozen mid-line.
And somewhere in the quiet of the night—
A faint smile flickered across his sleeping face, uninvited.
One he didn't notice.
But fate did.
''''''''''''''''''''''''''''
The east wing of the Tang residence was wrapped in silence.
Moonlight filtered through sheer curtains, brushing softly over the bed where Li Meilin slept. Her breathing was steady, deep—rarely so peaceful.
The door opened quietly.
Mother Wu stepped inside, cradling a small, warm bundle in her arms.
A tiny sound broke the stillness.
"Whuff…"
Meilin stirred.
Not awake—yet.
Before she could turn, the little puppy wriggled free, padded across the bed, and clumsily climbed onto her chest.
A warm tongue brushed her cheek.
Meilin gasped.
Her eyes flew open.
"What—"
She froze.
Dark, round eyes stared back at her. A tiny tail wagged furiously.
"…Zimei?" she breathed.
The next second, she laughed—clear, unrestrained, almost childlike.
"You came back to me!"
She sat up, pulling the puppy into her arms. Zimei responded by licking her chin enthusiastically, paws slipping against the silk sheets.
For a moment, Li Meilin wasn't a reborn strategist or a hidden bigshot.
She was just a girl holding something soft and alive.
Mother Wu smiled from the doorway. "Don't worry, Miss. The puppy has been vaccinated, dewormed, and bathed. Everything is done properly. Very clean."
Meilin nodded, still smiling, pressing her forehead gently to Zimei's.
"Thank you, Mother Wu."
She looked up. "Please take care of her when I'm not around."
Mother Wu's voice softened. "Of course. I'll treat her like my own."
Meilin slipped on a light shawl, Zimei tucked safely in her arms, and walked toward the garden.
Morning light had begun to rise.
The garden was alive with dew and quiet movement.
Grandpa Tang stood beneath the old pine tree, practicing Tai Chi—slow, controlled, powerful. Every movement carried years of discipline and strength.
Meilin placed Zimei down carefully and stepped beside him.
She followed his rhythm.
Breath in.
Breath out.
Her movements were fluid, balanced—too refined for a girl her age.
Grandpa Tang glanced at her mid-form, a glint of approval flashing in his eyes.
After they finished, Meilin spoke calmly, as if discussing the weather.
"Grandpa, I've invited an advanced martial arts instructor. Starting tomorrow."
He raised a brow. "Advanced?"
She met his gaze, steady. "I want to go further."
A pause.
Then he laughed softly. "Good. Strength should never be wasted."
They sat on the stone bench.
Zimei bounded over, tumbling clumsily into Meilin's lap. She laughed again, rubbing the puppy's ears, letting it nibble her fingers.
Grandpa Tang watched quietly.
The garden felt… different.
Livelier.
Warmer.
It had been a long time since laughter had settled so naturally into this space.
He thought, This house has gained something precious.
Not power.
Not status.
But warmth.
He closed his eyes briefly, content.
The morning sun climbed higher.
And for the first time in a long while, the Tang residence felt like a home again.