The heavy *thunk* of the door locking behind Lán Yīng and David echoed like the final note of a discordant symphony in the suddenly too-quiet shop. Zhāng Měi leaned back against the solid wood, her chest heaving, the fierce energy of her expulsion fading into a shaky exhaustion. The air vibrated with the ghosts of Qí Hǔ's story – the murdered child, the desperate fire, the bleak declaration of having "no one." The Nightingale Loom's letter lay on the worktable like a venomous snake, its symbol mocking them.
Chén Léi was the first to move, the professional overriding the personal shock. He carefully placed the letter back into its envelope, handling it with gloved reverence now. "We need to get this to the lab, Zhang," he said, his voice rough. "Fingerprints, paper analysis, the symbol… everything. And Commissioner Li…" He shook his head, the implications still staggering. "I need to make calls. Discreet ones." He looked at Qí Hǔ, his gaze a complex mix of newfound understanding, deep respect, and profound concern. "You stay put. Locked down. We'll have patrols increase visibility in the alley. Don't do anything… *heroic*." The last word was heavy with the memory of the burned planning room.
Officer Zhang nodded, snapping her notebook shut, her face pale but composed. "Understood, sir. I'll secure transport for the evidence." She gave Qí Hǔ a brief, appraising look – the quiet shopkeeper now irrevocably transformed into a man who had walked through fire and blood – before following Chén Léi out into the alley. The bell jangled, a jarring sound of normalcy that felt utterly out of place.
Wáng Jiàn stepped forward. He hadn't spoken much during Qí Hǔ's harrowing tale, but his quiet presence had been a steady anchor. Now, he placed a hand on Qí Hǔ's shoulder, his touch firm and grounding. "Qi," he said, his voice low and sincere. "I… I need to apologize. I stopped everything to come, but the situation in Singapore… the server meltdown… it's critical. Millions are affected. My team needs me back *now*." He looked genuinely torn, the weight of his vast responsibilities conflicting fiercely with the need to be present for his brother in this moment of crisis.
Qí Hǔ met his gaze. He saw the conflict, the genuine regret. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Go," he said, his voice quiet but clear. "Fix it. We'll manage." There was no reproach, only understanding. The world outside their shattered circle kept turning.
Wáng Jiàn squeezed his shoulder once, a silent promise of return. "I'll be back as soon as I can. Stay safe." He cast a final, concerned glance at Zhāng Měi, who offered a tired nod, then turned and left, the bell chiming softly this time.
The silence that descended was thick, suffocating. The only sounds were the frantic bubbling of the long-forgotten hotpot broth and Zhāng Měi's slow, deliberate breaths as she pushed herself away from the door. She walked towards the worktable, her movements heavy with fatigue and emotion. She stared at the simmering pot, the vibrant vegetables now overcooked, the rich broth reduced and congealing at the edges.
"Sorry about Lán," Qí Hǔ said suddenly, his voice a low rasp in the stillness. He hadn't moved from his spot near the counter.
Zhāng Měi didn't look up immediately. She stirred the pot absently with a ladle, the action pointless. "Yeah," she murmured, her voice flat. "Me too." She finally turned to face him, leaning back against the table. "But that's not what you need to apologize for, Qi."
He met her gaze then, his dark eyes holding hers. The weariness was profound, etched into every line of his face. "David," he stated, the name tasting bitter. "He's not wrong. I *am* a poor bastard. Living in a dusty alley, mending rags." He gestured vaguely around the shop. "Compared to his world? To hers now? It's the truth." He paused, the bleakness returning to his voice, colder and harder than before. "And maybe… maybe it's better Lán stayed with him. Clean. Successful. Safe from…" He didn't finish the sentence, but his gaze flickered towards the shattered back door, towards the symbol on the envelope. "Looks like they're made for that kind of life."
Zhāng Měi stared at him, the ladle forgotten in her hand. For a moment, pure fury flashed in her eyes again, directed not at Lán or David, but at the resignation in his voice. Then, it softened into something infinitely sadder. "Oh, Qi," she sighed, the sound heavy with exasperation and love. "Shut up and eat." She turned back to the hotpot, determinedly scooping portions into two bowls, ignoring the overcooked state. "Food's ruined, but it's still food. Sit."
She pushed a bowl and chopsticks towards him on the cleared section of the worktable. He hesitated for a moment, then moved silently, pulling up a stool. They ate in a heavy, companionable silence, the rich flavours muted by the emotional toll of the evening. The mapo tofu was too salty, the beef slightly tough, the vegetables limp. They ate it anyway, the simple act of sharing a meal a fragile tether to normalcy.
When the bowls were empty, Zhāng Měi pushed hers aside. She rummaged under the counter and emerged with the bottle of harsh *baijiu* Qí Hǔ had opened earlier and two chipped tumblers. She poured generous measures, the sharp, medicinal smell cutting through the lingering aromas of food and dust. "Roof," she declared, picking up both glasses. "Need air. Less… broken door."
Qí Hǔ didn't argue. He took his glass and followed her as she navigated the narrow stairs to his small room and then pushed open the creaking door that led onto the flat rooftop above Qi's Silken Threads. The air was cooler up here, carrying the distant hum and neon glow of Shanghai's nightlife, a world away from the gritty intimacy of the alley below. The vast sky was a bruised purple, smudged with light pollution, only a few stubborn stars visible. They sat on the low parapet, shoulders almost touching, looking out not at the dazzling skyline, but at the patchwork of rooftops, laundry lines, and the snaking darkness of their alley.
They drank in silence for a while, the *baijiu* burning a path down their throats, a temporary warmth against the chill and the lingering horror. Zhāng Měi shifted slightly, leaning her head against Qí Hǔ's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, weighted with years of shared history and the fresh, raw wounds of the night. He stiffened almost imperceptibly at the contact, a reflex born of long isolation, but didn't pull away.
"You know," she said, her voice softer now, slightly blurred by the alcohol and exhaustion, "after you left… it was hard. Really hard. Chén Léi buried himself in the force. Wáng Jiàn… he just vanished into his computers, building his empire brick by digital brick. Lán Yīng… her music became her shield, beautiful but… hollow. Sad." She took a slow sip. "Someone had to keep them together. Keep them from drifting apart completely. Keep Harbor Light alive, even just a little bit."
She tilted her head to look up at his profile, silhouetted against the city glow. "That someone was me. The oldest. The bossy one." A faint, self-deprecating smile touched her lips. "I made them meet for dinners. Dragged Chén Léi away from cases. Pulled Wáng Jiàn out of his server rooms. Forced Lán Yīng to play for us, not just for concert halls. I nagged. I argued. I organized. Because they were all I had left of… of family. Of *our* family."
She paused, her voice thickening. "And I always called you my youngest brother. Did you know that? Even though you were the strongest. The toughest. The one who always stood between us and the world." She nudged him gently. "You *were*, Qi. You were our rock. Our protector." Her grip tightened slightly on her glass. "So when you said… back there… that you had 'no one'… that *nothing mattered*…" Her voice cracked. "Qí Hǔ, that hurt. It hurt more than you vanishing. Because I was your *sister*. I *am* your sister. Always was. Always will be."
She took another shaky breath, the confession hanging in the cool night air. "You left us because you thought your failure would drag us down. That we wouldn't be where we are if you stayed. Maybe you were right about the money, the success." She gestured vaguely towards the distant towers of Pudong. "But Qi… if you had stayed? If we were all still poor, living in some cramped flat, struggling… we'd be *together*. We'd be *family*. And we'd be *happy*." She emphasized the last word, the truth of it resonating in her voice. "Because we had each other. We had *you*."
Qí Hǔ didn't reply. He stared straight ahead into the city-lit gloom, his jaw clenched tight. The *baijiu* burned in his stomach, but it couldn't touch the cold knot of shame and regret Zhāng Měi's words had exposed. He felt the weight of her head on his shoulder, the warmth of her presence, the fierce, unwavering love in her quiet confession. He lifted his glass and drained the remaining fiery liquid in one long swallow, the burn a welcome distraction from the ache blooming in his chest.
Silence settled again, deeper this time. The city hummed its indifferent song. Zhāng Měi's breathing gradually evened out, deepened. The emotional storm, the alcohol, the sheer exhaustion of the day finally pulled her under. Her head grew heavier on his shoulder, her body relaxing into sleep against him, trusting him completely even in unconsciousness.
Qí Hǔ sat perfectly still for a long time, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breath, the solid warmth of her presence. He looked down at her sleeping face, softened now, the fierce CEO mask gone, revealing the vulnerable, fiercely loyal sister beneath. Her words echoed in his mind: *"I am your sister. Always was. Always will be." "We'd be happy." "You were our rock."*
The emptiness he'd claimed felt like a lie under the weight of her trust. Carefully, slowly, so as not to wake her, he slid his arm around her back and under her knees. He lifted her with surprising ease, her slight frame no burden. He carried her back down the creaking stairs into his small, spartan room. He laid her gently on his narrow bed, pulling the thin blanket up over her shoulders. She murmured something unintelligible in her sleep but didn't wake.
He stood looking down at her for a moment, the sleeping sister who had kept his family together, who had just declared her unwavering bond. The room felt too small, too confining, the air thick with unspoken emotions and the lingering specter of the Nightingale Loom's threat.
He turned and walked out, closing the door softly behind him. He didn't go back to the shop. He walked straight to the hidden door, unlocked it, and stepped into the cool, stark silence of his training room. He didn't turn on the spotlight. The pre-dawn gloom filtering through the high, small window was enough.
He stripped off his shirt. In the half-light, the faded scars, the chiseled muscle, stood out like a map of his hidden life. He faced the worn wooden dummy, not as a shopkeeper, not as a brother, but as a weapon forged in fire and loss.
And then he began. Not the precise pressure-point sequences. Not the controlled forms. He attacked. Punches hammered into the wood with brutal, jarring force, the impacts echoing like drumbeats in the small space. Kicks slammed against the dummy's torso, each one driven by the phantom screams of a little girl, the image of bodies cut in half, the bleak echo of his own words – *"I have no one"* – and the counterpoint of Zhāng Měi's sleeping trust – *"Always will be."* Sweat poured down his skin, mingling with the sting of tears he refused to shed. He pushed himself beyond exhaustion, beyond pain, punishing the wood, punishing himself, grappling with the unbearable weight of the past, the terrifying threat of the present, and the fragile, terrifying hope of the sister sleeping in his bed. The rhythmic, brutal sounds filled the training room, a desperate, wordless prayer that lasted until the first, pale grey light of dawn began to seep through the window, revealing the battered dummy and the man still standing before it, breathing ragged, his body trembling with spent fury and unanswerable grief. The night was over. The fight was just beginning. Again.