The pose was too suggestive — it crossed a line for Wen Yin. Her gaze cooled without a trace.
She gathered every ounce of strength and turned, pushing Xiao Mo away without hesitation.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing tonight?” Her voice carried a knife-edge she hadn’t meant to show, and her deer-like eyes went icy. Her brows creased ever so slightly.
He kept glancing at her with those inexplicable looks, while treating her with that other, intimate familiarity. Shao Yuanjia’s behavior made it hard for her not to suspect that something unclean had taken hold of him.
Disgust flashed across her face like a blade. The other man seemed to notice it and took a step back — though he did so reluctantly. Her contempt had landed where it hurt.
Shao Yuanjia opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again. When Wen Yin turned to leave, he didn’t stop her. Instead, in a rough whisper, he asked, “Wen Yin, I heard you lived in a welfare home when you were little. Is that true?”
Hearing the words welfare home, Wen Yin’s eyes tightened with a sliver of caution. She quickly ran through the possibilities in her mind. He had dug into her past. He even knew she’d been in an orphanage. Was he trying to use that to threaten her? It seemed unlikely — but with Shao Yuanjia, nothing could be taken for granted.
“So?” she said coolly. “Are you planning to use the people in that orphanage to threaten me? What do you want?”
From the way she sized him up, she assumed such a thorough investigation must be for some purpose. Maybe to blackmail her and force Shao Yinan into something. Shao Yuanjia looked flustered, as if he wanted to deny it, but he made no move.
He forced a bitter smile. He hadn’t expected to be seen so cynically in her eyes. “I wouldn’t do that,” he said. “As shameless as I may be, I would never hurt those innocent kids.”
Wen Yin’s face betrayed nothing. She watched him, unruffled. “Good to know,” she said, losing the desire to argue over mysteries that felt contrived.
She turned to go, but his next sentence stopped her mid-step.
“I came from that orphanage too.”
Her body moved before her mind could catch up. She spun around, taken completely off guard. A faint glimmer flared in her pupils.
Shao Yuanjia bowed his head slightly and met her gaze steadily. His narrow black eyes didn’t blink; there was an unfamiliar light flickering inside them. The look felt oddly familiar, like an echo from some distant place she couldn’t immediately place.
“That has nothing to do with me,” she said, tightening the hand that gripped her phone. Without another thought she turned and fled.
She bolted for the restroom and stood at the door for a long moment, staring at the person in the mirror. Her thoughts drifted back—ten, maybe twelve years—until she was a child again who knew only her own name and not who she really was.
She couldn’t remember why the big house she’d once lived in had been left behind or how she’d ended up at the orphanage. The first few days were miserable — not enough to eat, not enough warmth — but slowly she adapted. The orphanage wasn’t as grand as the place she’d come from, but the director was kind enough that the children got fed. And there were dozens of other kids to play with.
Wen Yin settled into the routine: shared meals, communal naps, sneaking out during rest time to run and play. The question of where her parents had gone faded from her mind, pushed aside by the rhythm of days.
There were plenty of children there, and she fit in quickly. Kids were simple, their motives plain. But among them there was one little boy who never quite belonged.
One noon, when Wen Yin had slipped out to play with others, a chubby, bossy boy shoved a smaller child to the ground.
“You’re not like the rest of us, are you, Jia Jia?” he sneered, thrusting a finger at him. “You’ve got a mom, yet you’re here. Maybe your mom doesn’t want you! We were born here — we’re orphans. You’re different. You probably have a reason for being here, right?”
The fat boy’s words were cruel and far older than his years. The child on the ground said nothing. He simply pressed his lips together and stared stubbornly in another direction, ignoring the small pack of boys in front of him.
“You’re so lonely no one wants you!” another taunted. “A kid nobody wants shouldn’t even be here. Go back to the mother who doesn’t love you!”
Suddenly, a shove from behind sent the bully sprawling. A small girl’s clear, young voice cut through the sneers.
“Aren’t we all kids nobody wanted, that’s why we’re here?” she said, blunt and earnest. “If we’re all unwanted, why do you act like some of us are better than others?”
Wen Yin didn’t understand social hierarchies, but she knew what she saw: they were picking on Jia Jia. That was wrong. So she chased them off.
From that day on, Shao Yinan — the skinny, shadowy little boy — gained a permanent shadow. Except for sleeping and going to the bathroom, they stuck together at every moment. Wen Yin became the boy’s first true friend.
In her sudden remembering, the thin, dark little boy looked up at her, timid yet resolute.
“Wen Yin, can I call you Wen Wen?” he asked in that fragile voice. She could hardly recall how she answered, only that it was an autumn afternoon, maple leaves raining red and gold at their feet. She had been idly stepping on the leaves, enjoying the crisp sound they made.
“Okay,” she had said.
“Jia Jia.”