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Chapter Text

If Rin ran fast enough, she might make it.

But Jiang had taken his sweet time talking about the fucking Bodhidharma in his stupid classroom on the other end of the campus, and it had taken every last ounce of self-control not to bash her head into the wall as the absolute shithead, completely mindless of the time, waxed poetic about detachment and stillness.

But there would be no detachment or stillness. Not until the nightmare of these last few months ended.

The bell sounded its first long note, and Rin bolted. Her legs screamed as she sprinted from her classroom by Meditation Garden to the square across University Hall. Sinegard flew by in a blur of green foliage and grey-and-glass buildings. Twice she tripped on a wayward brick (which fucking moron decided Sinegard should have brick walkways?), and was nearly rammed by a car when she crossed University Avenue.

She slammed a hand on the hood.

“Fucking watch it!” Rin yelled behind her.

The driver blew his horn and shouted several invectives back, but she didn’t stop to argue like she normally would’ve. Rin slowed to a jog towards the growing crowd, sweaty and breathless. Blessedly, the Chancellor’s podium was still empty.

“Rin!”

Near the podium, Kitay waved at her. When she jostled through the crowds and found him, he said by way of greeting: “Why do you look like you’ve been chased by a pack of hyenas?”

“Fucking Jiang—wouldn’t shut up about—get this.” She gasped, hands on her knees. “Meditating in a cave for nine years. Listening to ants scream.”

Kitay made a face. “So not a complete waste of a Sinegard education, then.”

“I don’t even know why I bother,” Rin grumbled, though that wasn’t true. She knew why; Jiang’s program was one of the only ones who would take her. “It hasn’t started yet?”

“You’re just on time. Jima should be out in a minute.”

The nausea returned in full force. Her heart was beating so fast, she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. Rin gripped Kitay’s arm to steady herself.

“You know, I’ve been thinking.”

“Why does that make me nervous?”

“Shut up. I’ve decided to work full-time at the pub,” she declared.

Kitay let out a long-suffering sigh.

“Look, I fucking hate the café.” Rin crossed off her fingers. “Eventually I’m going to yell at a bougie customer, and then those assholes will fire me anyway. The convenience store pays like shit. At least I make decent money at the pub after tips.”

“It’s seedy as shit!”

“To you.” The pub was located in the city’s working-class district. If Rin was going to disappear in the city, it was the perfect place to do so. “I don’t mind. And the regular drunks are kinda funny.”

“It’s not going to come to that,” Kitay insisted.

“I’m just saying this so you know where to find me.” Rin regretted the words as soon as they left her. Why would she say that? Once she left Sinegard, Kitay—brilliant, funny, wealthy Kitay—would have no reason to associate with a washed-up dropout like her. “I mean, so you don’t file a missing persons report or something. You’d know I’m not actually lost, just. . . elsewhere.”

“You’re not leaving Sinegard, Rin,” Kitay said fiercely. “I’ll eat my dog if you don’t make the roll.”

Rin shuddered. Every year, a cohort of forty freshmen were elected as Foundation Scholars of Sinegard University. It was Nikan’s most prestigious academic honor, and the most unattainable—it effectively represented the top 1% of each class, in a university that only admitted the top 1% of Keju test-takers. Scholars often went on to become leaders of their fields, laureates, or both.

The validation and career boost she’d get would’ve been enough incentive to try, but its benefits—free tuition, accommodation, dining hall meals, and a generous stipend for the next four years—were of greater interest to her. Earlier this year Rin had learned that the subsidy for topping the Keju in Rooster Province only covered her first year. The next four years would have to be paid for out of pocket, or funded by a scholarship. It would’ve been doable, if Dr. Jun hadn’t dropped her from his Physics class, making her ineligible to declare any of the majors she’d been interested in, and most scholarships.

Except, of course, for the one that was a near statistical impossibility.

Rin had no choice but to simply attempt the impossible.

Between her classes and three part-time jobs, she studied. Relentlessly. She stopped eating or drinking so she didn’t have to take bathroom breaks. She trembled constantly from exhaustion and anxiety. Rin even reprised her old habit of dripping candle wax to keep herself awake.

This is better, she would remind herself whenever her eyes watered from the pain or she felt delirious from hunger and lack of sleep. So much better than life with the Fangs. So much better than being sold off for parts. So much better than going back to Tikany.

Despite that, the four essay-based examinations she’d taken last month were devilishly difficult: harder than the Keju, harder than Irjah’s midterms or finals—harder, even, than Jiang’s obscure projects. To make matters worse, no Anthropology major had ever been made a Scholar in the history of the university.

“Please don’t,” Rin said half-heartedly. “The one who peed on my foot is dear to me.”

“I mean it,” Kitay insisted. “If they don’t make you a Schol, we’ll strike outside Jima’s office first thing tomorrow morning—”

“Oh my god, shut up,” a girl in front of Kitay snapped at them. “Shut the fuck up. She’s here.”

The large doors to the Main Hall swung open with a ponderous creak.

Chancellor Jima Lain emerged first, then behind her, the deans and department chairs, solemn in their black gowns and colored hoods.

Bile rose to Rin’s throat as the square watched them take their places in nervous silence. She spotted Professors Irjah, Enro, and Yim up front; slightly off-center was Professor Jun, his severe face twisted in seemingly permanent disdain. Everyone had already settled when a last, light-haired professor pushed his way up front, robes askew—Jiang—squeezing serenely beside Jun, who looked revolted.

Jiang caught Rin’s eye, and winked. It made her chest seize with unexpected fondness and anticipatory grief.

She forced herself to look away.

Jima stepped up to the podium.

“Good afternoon. Welcome to Sinegard Monday.” Her voice cut through the tension like a hot knife through butter. “I know everyone has waited long enough, so without further ado, I will be reading the number, discipline, and names of the first year students elected to Scholarship.”

No opening remarks, no delays. Rin’s head was swimming. Her grip around Kitay’s hand tightened.

“Three scholars in Biomedical Sciences—Luo Niang, Lang Yijun, and Sun Jiayi.”

Across the square she heard a familiar, high-pitched squeal, a smattering of applause. Any other time Rin might’ve flashed Niang a smile; aside from Kitay, she was the only person in her classes who had been kind to her, albeit in private. But she couldn’t think to do that right now, not when her own future hung perilously in the balance. Three slots down. Thirty-seven to go.

“Two scholars in Chemistry—Wong Yuhan, and Shen Guanyu.”

“Three scholars in Physics.”

“Three scholars in Computer Sciences.”

“One scholar in Environmental Sciences.”

Rin counted. Thirty slots left. Twenty-seven. Twenty-three.

“One scholar in Mathematics—Chen Kitay.”

“Oh my god!” Rin shouted, throwing her arms around Kitay. “Of fucking course you’d make it!”

“Your turn next,” he said fiercely, hugging her back. “Anytime now, Rin, I know it.”

Rin said nothing, not wanting to spoil Kitay’s moment by fretting about her own fate, only squeezing him more tightly.

“One scholar in Engineering Management—Sring Venka.”

The entire square, or what felt like it, broke out into whooping and applause. Across the square Venka stood with her arms crossed, her pale, beautiful features smug. Beside her, Nezha wrapped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing lightly.

If Rin thought her awful mood couldn’t get worse, she was sorely mistaken.

“What the fuck would they give Venka a Scholarship for? It’s not like she even needs one,” she demanded.

Kitay’s expression was sympathetic, and not without a little guilt.

“No,” he agreed, “but it’ll look good on her resume. You’ve got to admit, she has the brains for it.”

Rin forced down the bile in her throat, too anxious to argue. Jima called out a few more Scholars from Law, Psychology, History and Politics, and two from Economics, including Han. They were down to the last eleven slots when Jima announced three Business Scholars.

The Chancellor read the name: “Yin Nezha.”

A spell of vertigo hit Rin. The cheers were loud and overwhelming, like a thousand voices echoing over and over from the dark pits of hell.

Rin glanced at their direction, and was stunned to find Nezha already looking at her.

He caught her eye and pouted mockingly, mouthing: No luck, Fang?

Her eyes prickled. Anger pulsed through Rin like a wave of heat.

She’d known none of it had ever been about deserving, but she couldn’t think of a person who deserved the Scholarship less.

For people like Nezha, like Venka and Kitay, the Scholarship was a confidence boost, a fun little party trick, a confirmation of something they’d known about themselves this whole time anyway: that they were smart and special. That they belonged at Sinegard.

But to Rin, it would’ve meant the chance at a future. It would’ve secured her escape from the life she had before she came here. If her journey at Sinegard ended today, it wouldn’t matter whether she returned to Tikany or not. No matter how far she ran, she would always be the same person: Nobody, with nothing to her name, belonging to nowhere and with no one.

A cool hand wrapped around her wrist. Rin flinched.

“Rin? Are you listening?” Kitay whispered.

She opened her mouth, but no words came. She’d been so consumed by her thoughts that she’d missed the last few names. From the look on Kitay’s face, she didn’t have to ask if hers had been one of them.

Rin swallowed. “That was forty, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.” Kitay’s expression was pained. “But—”

She yanked her hand away. Dared not blink. “Well that’s that, then.”

“It’s not over, Rin,” he said in a rush. “She’ll still announce—”

“The last Foundation Scholarship for this academic year,” the Chancellor said into the microphone, “awarded with distinction to the student who garnered the highest score in the exams.”

She snorted. “Sure I’ll top the Schols,” she muttered bitterly. “I’m also the lost princess of Speer and Nezha’s best friend.”

Jima coughed. “In Anthropology, Fang Runin.”

“I fucking knew it!”

Kitay’s shout rang loud and true across the square, which had been stunned into silence.

There was a smattering of hesitant, confused applause, dying out once they’d realized exactly who Fang Runin was—that mud-skinned Southerner who looked perpetually lost, who should’ve been kicked out months ago—replaced by whispering, surreptitious glares. Disbelieving sneers. She imagined Nezha and Venka’s faces, their muted shock and anger. The horrible fits they were about to throw. That was when she’d understood what just happened:

She’d proved them all wrong.

Against all odds, she was going to stay.

She was going to be a Sinegard graduate.

Her life had finally begun.

Kitay lifted her and spun her around, the green and the grey and blue of the university grounds spinning in a delirious explosion of color.

“I knew they’d be mad not to make you a Scholar,” he yelled. “Highest score!”

Rin held on, dizzied, terrified of slipping or falling—and laughed and laughed and laughed.

In that moment the Sinegard of her peers, the one she knew existed in shadows and oblique angles, revealed itself to her, like hidden images coming into sharp relief: Long days of studying without worrying about her next meal or rent. Graduation. A respectable job, an apartment in the city. Years of accomplishments. Comfort. And, for the first time, she ventured the thought: Happiness.

She knew better than most the cruelty of the world, its caprice. She let herself imbibe all those dreams anyway, its nascent shapes, the possibility of it, a painter holding the brush. 

If she could do this, Rin thought, what couldn’t she do?

She would not squander this chance. She would make this dazzling, confusing, mean city hers. She would make it yield until it gave her everything she asked of it. And when she was done, when she’d finally clawed her way to the top, nobody would ever doubt that she belonged here.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t get to do this to you.

“I have fifteen years of experience in historical research and litigation support. Rin’s new to all of this. Oh sure, she’s good at the bookish stuff; weren’t we all, at school? I’ve found that’s not so important in the real world. Street smarts trump anything you could learn from hidebound professors in lecture halls.”

This isn’t what I fucking signed up for.

“She’d be completely overwhelmed by a project this size,” Souji continues. “I’ve worked on several landmark cases in Nikara law, including the suit against three Hesperian mining companies in the southern Baolei range, and that waterways poisoning case in the northwest Murui. You’ve heard of it, I’m sure.”

Rin blinks away at the sun in her eyes, her jaw aching from how tightly she’s clenching it.

How the actual fuck is this real life? She thinks. How is it that she’s spending her Monday morning being disparaged by fucking Yang Souji of all people in front of her teenage hero?

“Speer is bigger and more important than any of those small fry, of course,” Souji drones on when their client makes no comment. The yellow and white title slide casts an eerie, unnatural glow on his angular, punchable face. “So Mr. Gurubai is committed to providing nothing but the best support for your legal team.”

To his credit, Altan Trengsin appears unaffected by her supervisor’s abject flattery.

“I’m sure you’re very good at your job, Mr. Yang.” He laces his fingers atop the desk. “But I flew here under the assumption that Fang Runin would be on the case as requested. Her concentration at Sinegard had been on Speer, no?”

Rin bristles. The smile that breaks through Souji’s face is saccharine and nasty.

“Oh, I understand the confusion, sir,” he says silkily. “Rin indeed has gone to Sinegard, but she has no special qualifications of the sort. In fact—”

“I’m aware of your active consultants’ credentials, thank you,” Altan interjects. “I think Ms. Fang is closest to what I’m looking for. Of course, if you’re adamant that she’s not capable, I could just take my business elsewhere.”

An acute silence falls in the conference room.

Rin watches Souji’s stupid face spasm, biting back a smile. It may just literally kill him to give up the project to her, especially one that would pay such a handsome commission. Since their brief, ill-advised dalliance years ago, he’d been on a singular mission to make her life miserable at work. Rin might’ve resigned if she had other real options, but of course she wouldn’t be so lucky. The only comfort here, really, is her certainty that Gurubai will kick Souji’s ass if he loses out on what well may be a multimillion yuan lawsuit all because of Souji’s ego. 

Her manager’s face settles into an ugly scowl.

“Oh, very well.” Souji casts her a dirty look. “Go on, then, Ms. Fang.”

Rin throws all her hatred and disgust into her returning look. Forces herself to stand.

She’s not worried about having to present on the fly. Souji was charismatic, no doubt, but he didn’t know the first thing about client proposals. In their line of work, bureaucracy was a necessary evil, and his preference for a more ‘informal, personal approach’ was just code for: ‘I’m not going to do any of the fucking grunt work.’ Which meant that it usually fell to Rin, Shen, Lin, or any of the handful of interns they took in every summer for free labor to actually get things done. And since Speer was a niche topic, it had been up to Rin to put it all together.

Despite this, her heart is racing as Dulin pulls up the slides. At the back, Lianhua hurries to turn down the lights.

The projector flickers back to life.

“Right.” Rin’s voice comes out high-pitched and girlish. She clears her throat. “So. Picking up where Manager Yang left off, we’ve identified the following gaps in your case.”

He’s completely still as she speaks, dark, hooded eyes unblinking. She tries not to make eye contact, but his gaze is like a magnetic field, making it impossible to look away.

Altan Trengsin unsettles the shit out of her.

She knew him at Sinegard, of course. Not personally, just by reputation: tall, handsome, and easily the most brilliant student to walk through the university’s halls in the last few decades. He graduated with a double major in History and Politics, and Applied Mathematics, perfect 4.0 GPA, and top honors, before going to Sinegard Law and doing it again. Firms and government agencies squabbled over him after he’d topped the bar, but in an unexpected maneuver he joined a smaller firm up north where he eventually made a name for himself as a rising star in human rights law. He recently won war reparations for Speer against the Mugenese government, and now he has been retained by Speerly families who had lost their ancestral land to the Nikara military industry during the Third Poppy War.

Altan was also a Foundation Scholar, the first from Speer; like Rin, he’d been top of his cohort.

Unlike Rin—the thought occurs to her unbidden—he isn’t wasting away in a shithole in the middle of nowhere.

“There’s no need to reiterate any of this, Ms. Fang.” Altan interrupts after two more slides of this. “I read the brief you sent beforehand. What I want to know is how you’ve found the information in your thesis.”

For a blessed moment, the meaning of his words doesn’t register.

Rin blinks. “What thesis?”

Altan blinks back. “Your undergraduate thesis at Sinegard. On the role of Speer in the Second Poppy War up to the Nikara Civil War.”

Her heart stutters.

“Oh.” A buzzing is starting between Rin’s ears. That’s a combination of words she hasn’t thought of or heard in half a decade, words that have caught her ankle-first in an eddy of memory and anxiety. “That.”

“Dr. Jiang Ziya is listed as the other principal author in your paper.” Altan’s brow furrows. “I paid him a visit in school, but he wouldn’t disclose your sources. Said I should ask you myself.”

She hasn’t stepped foot in Sinegard—the university, or the city—in years, but now part of her is sorely tempted, if only to hunt down and throttle Jiang, the fucking bastard.

“That’s Jiang for you,” Rin says noncommittally.

Altan doesn’t look amused.

“Everything’s been a dead end.” He’s no longer making an effort to hide his frustration. “I’ve asked my people to look into public records, national archives. . . nothing. Baji—our paralegal, he found your undergraduate thesis at the Sinegard University library. Your resources in the appendix—for example, Treatises on Dragon Province and Speer Relations in the Second Poppy War, volumes 1-3. . . we checked every library mentioned in your acknowledgements, but nobody has them. Strangely, none of them even know they exist.”

Before she could decide on what to say, Souji cuts in: “Well, it wouldn’t be right if we gave that information without finalizing the contract, would it?”

“We’ll be employing your services either way, Mr. Yang,” Altan says flatly. “We already have our hands full at the firm, and our paralegals are out of their depth anyhow.” He turns his gaze back onto her. “Which is where you come in, Ms. Fang. This has been our only significant lead in two months. Where did you find this?”

She opens her mouth. No sound comes out.

“Did you not hear him?” Souji asks snidely. “Answer his question, or—”

“It’s from the Arlong Memorial.” Rin feels bizarre, like she’s floating away and the early morning sunlight is turning the conference room and everything in it nebulous and gauzy. She’s not thinking as she speaks; muscle memory prevails. “The Dragon Warlord’s historians documented Speerly relations and military activity during the Second and Third Poppy Wars extensively for their own reference. It was their division stationed in Speer during that period.”

Altan frowns. “I’m aware. But our paralegals haven’t found anything at Arlong.”

“They wouldn’t have. Most of it is kept in their private collection. Treatises, journals, manuscripts, transcripts of meetings, schemas, military plans—everything. There was a ruling in 1964 assigning these documents as property of the Dragon Warlord. When he died, it passed on to his estate.”

Rin clamps her mouth shut. Her heart is now beating faster than a hummingbird’s. Souji’s stare is boring holes onto the side of her head; she could practically see the gears in that sick, twisted head of his turning.

Dread pools in her stomach. Whatever satisfaction Rin feels at his humiliation completely flees her.

“I see.” Altan’s expression is thoughtful. “And do you think the gaps in the case we’re building can be found there?”

“I don’t know,” she lies. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Souji demands. “What do you mean, maybe?”

“I mean the collection is huge; I haven’t been there personally to read everything,” Rin grits out. “So obviously I can’t speak to that.”

Altan hums. “Find out for us, then.”

He opens the folder that Pipaji had placed before him before the meeting started, and brandishes a sign pen.

“What are you doing?” She demands, fighting down a swell of panic. She catches herself. “Sir?”

He raises a brow at her. “Signing the contract your assistant gave me, Ms. Fang.”

The word leaves Rin before she could think better of it. “Don’t.”

Altan’s hand stills over the paper.

“Sir, please. I can’t. . .” She stammers, trying desperately to articulate her contention. “I don’t know if what you’re asking is possible.”

Souji looks positively revolted. “And why the fuck not?”

Rin ignores him.

“It’s well known that their private collection is heavily restricted, sir. I’m not sure they’d give us access, not for something like this,” she tells Altan. “With your tight timeline, no less.”

Altan lets the silence hang. Then he pins Rin with a penetrating, inscrutable look.

“Ms. Fang.” He says this slowly, like she’s a fool and he’s sounding out the vowels so she could understand. “Do you want to know why I flew halfway across the country to see you?”

That’s not at all what she expects him to say. Rin stares at him, hardly daring to breathe.

“I think it’s incredible how you’re still well-remembered years after Sinegard.” She flinches—what a strange fucking thing to say—but then Altan clarifies: “I’ve heard this paper received perfect marks. That there were discussions of submitting it to journals and presenting it in conferences. Purportedly you’re remarkably clever. Thought out of the box. Persistent to a fault. I figured you were as close as we were gonna get to an expert on the subject. That’s the kind of person I need onboard. The kind of person I thought I’d find when I got here.”

And that’s not the person you’ve found, Rin finishes internally. Because that’s not who I am.

Not anymore.

“This project is too demanding for most people, and I’m not in the business of forcing people to do what they don’t want.” Altan’s gaze is cool and stony. “So if you don’t want in—if you can’t handle this, tell me and I’ll find someone else who can.”

All heads in the room turn towards her. Rin’s body grows hot.

It’s been way too long since anyone had looked at her and saw someone smart and competent. Someone extraordinary.

But by chance, here was Altan—educated, accomplished, someone who’d made something of himself—willing to take a chance on her, even if he hardly knew her.

It almost feels like a second chance.

No, that’s not the sort of thing that happens to people like her, Rin reminds herself sternly, but still. She wants to do this. She needs to do this. She’s been drowning for so long, and this feels like somebody throwing her a rare lifeline.

But at what fucking cost? She thinks desperately. Is it worth that?

Before Rin could commit, Souji, the absolute fucking bastard, opens his damn mouth.

“Certainly she can,” he declares. “You’re right, Mr. Trengsin. Perhaps this is the big break Rin needs.” He passes her a shit-eating grin. “Prove her mettle and all.”

Rin’s head snaps to look at Souji.

What the fuck is wrong with you? She mouths.

His smile only grows.

“Ms. Fang?” Altan presses.

Her body makes the decision for her.

“Yes,” she stammers out. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Good.” Altan stands. “Figure out the logistics, and let me know when you’re flying out to Arlong.”

He packs up his things and leaves. He’s halfway out the door when he grinds to a stop, and turns to look at her.

“By the way,” he says lightly, “Dr. Irjah says hello.”

Rin stiffens. Irjah says hello? What in the ever-loving fuck does that even mean?

Before she could ask, the door clicks shut behind him.

She feels Altan’s departure like the wind being knocked out from her. Rin braces her hands on the desk, panting.

Out of fucking nowhere, the interns burst into applause.

Her neck snaps up.

“The fuck are you clapping for?” She yells.

“You did so well, boss!” Dulin shouts, clapping so hard his palms are a bright red.

“I’ve heard from my seniors that Altan Trengsin’s a tough sell,” Lianhua offers brightly. “The fact that he hired you on the spot means you’re really freaking good.”

Rin’s about to say she hasn’t done anything yet when an acid voice beats her to it:

“Oh, please. It’s nothing like that. It’s just run of the mill nepotism among the Sinegardian elite.”

Anger sparks in her stomach. She draws herself to full height.

“I told you, I am not Sinegardian elite.” She stalks up to him, glowering at his smug, victorious face. “And why the fuck did you tell him yes? You know I can’t get to Arlong,” she demands.

The corners of Souji’s mouth quirk upward.

“Why, Princess, you were so confident just now that you could do so much better than me. And that doesn’t sound like my problem, does it?” His voice turns mocking and vicious. “Clever, crafty, persistent Fang Runin: Foundation Scholar of Sinegard University, and too fucking good for this backwater province.” He didn’t make it sound like a compliment. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.” His voice dips into a low, conspiratorial whisper so that only the two of them could hear. “Or someone to suck off.”

Rin throws herself onto him, consequences be damned. “Fuck right off, Souji—”

Dulin’s long, willowy arms come up behind her, and just for good measure, Pipaji grasps her by the shoulders.

“Good luck, Princess,” Souji laughs, before slamming the conference room door behind him.

When the interns deem it safe to release her, the room feels like it’s spinning on ten different axes, and her legs like abject jelly.

Rin collapses onto the nearest chair.

“What a fucking tool,” Pipaji grumbles darkly under her breath. She’d always been the pluckiest and most outspoken of this batch of interns, never hesitating to speak her mind, and easily the smartest. “You better show up that jackass, Rin.”

“We’ll help,” Lianhua chimes in eagerly.

“Just tell us what to do. How are we going to secure permission?”

Rin could embrace Pipaji for that. She wishes she had the same determination, the same confidence in her own ability to get this done, instead of the utter dread she feels.

Fuck this shit.

“Find out for me,” Rin somehow manages to say. “Pipaji—go through the research Trengsin’s paralegals sent one more time, what resources they used. Lianhua, look everything up again: National Archives, public and private museums, university libraries. Dulin, send an email requesting permission from the Arlong Memorial.”

The interns blink at her.

“Didn’t you just say it doesn’t work that way?” Dulin asks incredulously, at the same time Lianhua says: “But I thought you knew someone from the inside.”

“No, I fucking don’t.” She’s getting a fucking migraine, and the more questions they ask, the more precariously close some unwitting bystander gets to being hurt. “Now go.”

They scampered out of the conference room in a rush.

Something Rin learned was that her life never really got too quiet, not for long. She thrives in chaos, and it’s not as if that’s by choice or preference, only necessity. She’s not religious by any stretch of the imagination, but sometimes she can’t help but think that the gods (Hesperian or Nikara) might be real, because there has to be intelligent design behind this sad shitshow.

And of course something as inane, as improbable, as fucking humiliating as this could only happen to her.

Rin buries her face in her hands and screams.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

As alluring as the thought of getting shit-faced drunk was, it’s a Monday, which means Rin has no other recourse but to rage-(grocery) shop to let off some steam.

She ends up buying way too much fruit and bread and protein bars, so now she’s hauling three bags perilously up the tight, dank stairwell of her shit apartment building in East Ruijin. Several times she has to press herself to the railing in order to squeeze past other tenants hurrying down, mostly hardened middle-aged men rushing to their shifts in the many factories outside of the city, or students jostling at her inconsiderately with their sharp knees and elbows.

Rin fucking hates this place. She wasn’t a glutton for punishment—intermittently she would try looking at other apartments, but every time she was close to biting the bullet she would think about how irresponsible that would be, what with Gurubai’s shit pay. She saved aggressively, waited on a promotion that was promised year after year, but never came, went job hunting every two months.

Nothing ever panned out, of course, but it gave Rin a sense of motion, a reminder that Ruijin was merely a leg in the journey.

A five-year leg, sure, but not the destination.

Her keys slip from her hands when she pushes her apartment door open, and Rin curses as the fruit she’d carefully balanced spills out of their bags.

“Give me those,” a male voice says.

Her head snaps up.

“Kes?” She says, bewildered. “I thought summer break wasn’t for another week?”

Kesegi grins, crouching down to help. “All-nighters paid off. Got exempted from my finals.”

Rin grunts in acknowledgement.

“Well, no wonder you’re so skinny,” she mutters as they finish gathering the groceries and retreat inside.

“Rin, I don’t really think you’re one to talk.”

“Don’t get smart with the hand that feeds you, you ungrateful little shit.”

Kesegi puts a hand on his chest. “I remind myself daily of the fact. I’ll keep those later,” he says cheerfully. “Dinner first. I bought noodles and steamed buns.”

Rin glances at the dinner table, then at Kesegi who’s smiling sheepishly.

“You are not slick at all,” she grumbles, “do you know that?”

He lets out a nervous laugh and grasps her by the shoulders, pivoting her towards a chair. “Eat, jiejie.”

It’s been a while since they’d last seen each other. Rin allows herself to settle into the meal and company. It’s mostly meaningless small talk about his studies (fine), his extracurriculars (not so fine), his part-time job at a convenience store near campus (fucking awful, she’s told him to quit more times than she could count because he’s obviously being short-changed, but for some goddamned reason he was insistent on keeping the job).

She’s by no means a tender or affectionate sister, but the truth is she missed his company. Before his sophomore year she brought him to take a look at the in-campus dorms. His college is two hours away from her apartment, and he was constantly exhausted the first year he attempted the four-hour commute. The thought of doing that to him was so unbearable that she’d signed the lease then and there, despite the significant dent to her income. He could be spending that time studying or being in clubs to boost his CV, she’d told herself. He could be networking, doing everything to offset the disadvantages of being dark-skinned and poor. He could be avoiding the very mistakes Rin had once made and make it, and she’s not going to be the thing that stands in his way.

Once he clears away their plates, Rin brings out her shitty laptop, going through the report from Altan’s firm with a sigh.

Kesegi returns with a pint of ice cream and two pairs of bowls and spoons.

“Hey, we’re not done catching up yet,” he protested.

“I know. So talk,” Rin says distractedly as she types. “I’m listening.”

He grimaces. “You know, you’re the one who said I shouldn’t be letting my employer take advantage of me.”

“No one’s taking advantage of me,” Rin says shortly. “And that’s different. You’re a student; you should be focused on studying. You’ll have plenty of time in the future to be a cog in the wheel.”

“I know that.” Kesegi thinks for a moment. “It’s just that you work so hard, and you don’t even like your job.”

“Nobody likes their job, Kes.”

He gives her a long look as if debating on what to say, but changes his mind and ladles out a bowl of ice cream for her.

“Do you have units this summer?” Rin asks as he hands her a bowl. “Are you here to ask for enrollment money? I’ll transfer it to your account.”

Kes wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Oh, no. That’s not. . . I will be paying a bit of tuition, yes. But I’m interning soon, actually.”

She stops short. “Wait, really?” She asks, incredulous.

If Kesegi’s graduating next year, that means it’s been five years. Rin couldn’t help but marvel at the time. It flew by, Rin supposes, when you were preoccupied with survival.

“And where are you interning at?”

“Well—it’s a small company,” Kesegi stammers. His cheeks have grown tomato red. “Nothing very exciting. Just working at the communications department for six weeks.”

“Cool. So, where?”

Kesegi mumbles something under his breath.

“What did you say? I can’t hear you.”

“It’s at Sinegard,” he says hoarsely.

Her hands faltered over the keyboard.

“The city,” Kesegi clarifies. “Not the university.”

“No, yeah, I. . . got that, the first time,” she manages after a long minute. Her voice is all watery and wrong; Rin clears her throat. “Well, that’s.” She casts around her mind, which had gone blissfully blank, for the appropriate thing to say. “Great. That’s great, Kes.”

This doesn’t seem to be the response he’d expected. “Really?”

“Really.” Rin forces herself to look back at her laptop, willing the swirls of black text on white to return to sharp focus. “You’d do well to network in the city.” The words are stilted in her mouth. “Opens up your options after graduation.”

He hesitates. “So you’re not angry?”

Her temple throbs. Rin’s head snaps up at him. “And why would I be angry?”

Kesegi blanches. “Nothing, I don’t know, it’s just. . . maybe you didn’t want me to be so far away,” he finishes weakly.

“I’m your sister, Kes, not your mom. I’m not here to tell you what to do.”

They lapse into an uncomfortable silence.

“So you wouldn’t mind if I moved to the city after graduation?”

Her apartment suddenly grows cold. “No.”

Kesegi’s still staring at her. She sees the exact moment he decides to speak.

“Well, what if you get a job there, and we find an apartment together and split the rent?”

A harsh buzzing begins between her ears. Her head starts swimming.

“I already have a job here,” Rin says coldly.

“I know, I know you do. But wouldn’t working in Sinegard be better?” Kesegi says this like it was the simplest thing in the world. Like getting the job and house and life you want is a mere wish away, like you can bend the order of the world so that it’ll yield everything without pushback. Like you can force your way into a place and not have it spit you out.

Rin understands his naiveté. It’s the kind of optimism you can only have at sixteen or twenty-one, before you run up against walls on every last corner. Before the world closes in on you.

She blinks furiously at the fluorescent red sign of the dodgy club across their apartment, which suffuses the room with a jarring, uncomfortably intimate light. She knows Kesegi means well. That he’s just imagining the life he thinks he wants, and thoughtfully carving out a place in it for his older sister.

But he’s young, Rin thinks, her chest so tight it could burst. So young, and so fucking stupid.

“It’s not that simple,” she mutters.

“But what if it is? Rin, it’s been five years,” Kesegi whines. “You’re too good for this place. You scored top marks in the Keju in Rooster Province. You got a full ride at the top university in this country—”

“That’s enough,” she warns.

He doesn’t hear her, or he doesn’t care, and it makes her wonder how long he’s been holding on to this. “You’re the smartest and most hardworking person I know—and you cannot live your whole life hidden away here, so I don’t understand why—”

“I told you to shut the fuck up, Fang Kesegi.”

His eyes grow wide, and that’s when Rin realizes she’d yelled.

Kesegi’s eyes skitter away. He clamps his mouth shut, tucking his chin.

Rin could hardly breathe.

“If you want to go to Sinegard, then go.” Guilt and remorse swell in her like a spring tide. She forces it down. “But don’t make this shit about me.”

His shoulders droop.

“I’m sorry, jiejie,” he whispers.

Jiejie, he says. Older sister.

That makes Rin feel so much worse.

“I’m not discussing this with you again.” She forces her voice to something that mimicked calm. “Not now, and not ever.”

Kesegi says nothing to that. 

He clears away their dessert bowls and disappears into the kitchen, the only sign of his presence remaining his soft puttering. Rin tries to keep reading, but it’s hard to focus when her head is pounding and adrenaline is receding violently from her, leaving her tired and hollowed-out.

“Will you take me up north, at least?” He ventures in a small voice minutes or hours later, after he’d laid out his bedroll in the living room, and Rin had stood to retreat to her room and turn off the lights. “Help me get settled in?”

She knows how vicious the city could be, how it destroys and eats dreamers alive.

A better, more selfless person would want to protect him from that. Would have said yes.

But Rin would not know the first thing about surviving Sinegard. She’d tried selflessness once, and a fat lot of good that’s done her.

“I’ll call my friend Kitay. He’ll take care of you,” she says, closing her door and locking it firmly behind her.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“The Arlong Memorial said no, boss,” Dulin reports dutifully.

Rin groans and faceplants onto her desk.

“What are we gonna do now?” Lianhua asks worriedly in her soft, lilting voice.

“I don’t know,” Rin mutters into the wood. “Draft me a resignation letter or bury me in a hole or something.”

Dulin snorts, smothering down a laugh. She could hear the frown in Pipaji’s voice when she says: “But Mr. Trengsin said you had access back when you were in Sinegard.”

“That was just for my thesis.”

“Okay.” Pipaji sounds skeptical. “And how did you manage that exactly?”

Rin pushes up from her desk and looks the girl dead in the eye.

“Nepotism,” she admits grimly.

The interns blink at her.

“So you do know someone from the inside,” Dulin concludes.

“Knew,” Rin corrects him. “I knew someone.”

Lianhua’s sweet face twists in concern. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.” When Rin shot her a baffled look, she asks: “Wait, didn’t they die?”

That rips a sharp, surprised laugh out of Rin.

“Yeah,” she says. “Yeah. Something like that.”

It is something like that.

Because Yin Nezha is as good as dead to her.

She’s not even sure where the fuck he is, or what he’s up to these days. Rin has neither the interest nor intention of knowing. Last she’d heard, he was finishing up his MBA at the University of Hesperia and working for his father’s company in the capital city of Rachdale as director.

That was over three years ago.

“No plans of moving back, either.” Kitay told her over video call that one time they’d gotten around to gossiping about the Chens having dinner with Nezha’s father. “Looks like you scared him off the continent forever.”

“Well, good fucking riddance,” Rin grumbled darkly before changing the topic, lest Kitay tell her more things she didn’t want to hear.

Rin hadn’t even wanted to be indebted to Nezha for her thesis, hadn’t meant to call in that favor that time. And she sure as hell will not be the first to break the last five years of estrangement and radio silence.

But she also hates this stupid fucking limbo. She’s about to go batshit insane from Gurubai constantly following up on the progress of their project, the thinly veiled threats of dismissal and bodily harm if Rin lost him this deal, and the smug, satisfied looks Souji’s been throwing her way this past week.

So on Saturday morning, Rin hunches over her phone on her apartment floor, scrolling through her long blocklist of telemarketers and scam callers until she finds what she’s looking for.

It’s not labeled; it doesn’t have to be. Her stupid brain held on to that information like fucking lint on clothes.

Rin unblocks Nezha. Pulls up their message history.

Just days after they broke up, Rin purged three years’ worth of text messages—from those first awkward ‘thank yous’ after her hospital discharge in second year, to his usual ‘I’ll come pick you up at 8’ and ‘Love you. Try not to kill someone today’—leaving only his last texts, which she received a whole two months after the fact:

The sight of it now makes Rin’s chest tight with anger.

She curses Souji and Gurubai to the Hesperian hells as she taps out furiously:

Rin very nearly sends it. She imagines what Kitay would say if he could read it: You know, if I needed something from someone I used to date and my job security depended on it, I probably wouldn’t lead with insults. Although I wouldn’t have been stupid enough to date someone with Nezha’s ego, so I suppose that thought exercise is inherently flawed.

She taps delete with a vengeance. Tries for civility.

No. Rin highlights and cuts the whole thing. No, no, no, no, absolutely fucking NOT.

Gurubai might fire her, she might have to go back to waitressing and living off of shitty instant noodles while she scoured the country for another job. She might have to live on a piece of cardboard on some sketchy Ruijin alley.

She doesn’t care. She would sooner die than beg Nezha for anything.

Rin pushes herself up with a huff. The air has gone stuffy and her head is pounding, so she throws open the door to her tiny balcony. She pushes past her wet button-downs and pants drying under the harsh sunlight, stepping over the herb pots littered on the floor, leaves in varying stages of decay. She leans over the railing and watches the chaos of early Saturday morning from above: the potbellied, shirtless men playing checkers on makeshift stools; the old lady running the family restaurant yelling orders as she placed large plates on tables. The smell of spice, which Monkey Province was famous for, floats up with the sound of children and hawkers and the occasional rumble of motorcycles.

It’s not like she loves Ruijin, but it’s decent enough. It’s far less hostile than the North, the winters aren’t as miserable, and the people look and speak like her. It isn’t home, not quite. But it’s not like Sinegard had been, either.

More importantly: there isn’t anything to run from in here. That makes it automatically better than any of the other places she’d been in.

Liar, a suspiciously familiar voice says in her head.

Rin shakes her head and draws her gaze back down to her phone.

She thinks for a moment, fingers moving over the keyboard slowly.

“Not bad,” Rin mumbles. “More decent than this jackass deserves.”

She might’ve felt good about this text. It sets the correct tone—neutral, transactional—in a way she imagines Kitay would be proud of.

But the more Rin stares at the words, the more unsettled they make her.

Because whatever lay between her and Nezha in the past was not transactional, and certainly far from neutral. Because nothing would ever be enough to bridge the chasm between them.

Because some things, Rin thinks, are better left in the past.

She closes the message, pressure swelling in her chest like a tide. When she hears the voice again in her head, she knows for certain that it belongs to him:

You selfish fucking bitch, it says.

Coward, it says.

Walk away like you always do, it says.

“That’s not on me,” Rin says out loud. “It’s not my fault I don’t want to see hair or hide of you ever again, you fucking asshole.”

She locks her phone.

There’s got to be a better way. There has to be. Surely there’s someone else she could talk to or convince, someone else she could wheedle or extort or beg into giving her what she needs.

Rin scrolls listlessly through the website of the Arlong Memorial, clicking the About page.

That’s when she sees it: A brief biography of its Museum Director. A pale, elegant face, one that struck the perfect balance between condescension and vulnerability. Dark, lovely eyes. A restrained, mauve smile.

Rin grimaces.

This isn’t going to work. If the way Nezha had first acted around her was any indication, she’ll be rebuffed with a form rejection. In all probability, pointedly ignored. But it was something else other than dreading the possibility of hers and Nezha’s reunion, so she sure as hell would try.

She blocks Nezha again. Pulls up a blank email, and types.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Yin Muzha doesn’t respond.

It’s not unexpected. She hadn’t met Nezha’s family in their nearly two years together, but if Muzha is anything like her little brother, she’s probably also a pretentious, out-of-touch fuck. Maybe her email has an automatic filter, Rin thinks; maybe she doesn’t even actually work, and she just got her title by virtue of them owning the damn place.

Rin’s studying the sad state of her savings account and deciding on when to turn in her resignation when on Tuesday, she receives an email from Arlong Memorial’s Collections Management, the one Dulin had emailed.

She takes a long drag of their shitty pantry coffee, and chokes when the email loads.

“Holy shit.” She blinks once, twice, then five more times just to be absolutely certain. “Holy fucking—hey, Dulin! Get your ass in here!”

The interns come rushing in—Pipaji first, followed by Lianhua and Dulin.

“What the fuck is going on? Did you do this?” She demands.

“No! I swear they said no the first time,” Dulin exclaims after they’d all squeezed inside her cubicle and read. “I even forwarded the email to you, remember?”

“Then what happened?” Lianhua asks.

Rin thinks. Could it be. . .?

No. That’s not possible. But nothing else could explain this.

“Well. . . I did try emailing the Museum Director directly,” she says haltingly.

“And that worked?” Pipaji’s forehead furrows. “Just like that?”

It is kind of weird, if she thinks too hard about it, but Rin’s presently too relieved and bewildered to consider that.

“Just like that,” Rin confirms.

Pipaji still looks unconvinced, but then Lianhua exclaims: “Well, that’s great, isn’t it? You can finally get this done, and Mr. Trengsin will know he was right to have hired you.”

“Yeah.” Rin should be happy, which she was—but she also can’t understand the utter dread she feels. “Yeah, it’s really great.”

She looks back at the email.

Chapter Text

“Puke in this bag.”

Rin blinks. “What?”

The old lady next to her throws Rin a disgusted look. “Every seat pocket has one. Haven’t you been on a plane before?”

“No,” she grumbles.

The lady sighs heavily, as if a great voice from the heavens had appointed her as Rin’s warden, leaving her no choice but to grudgingly accept responsibility for this ignorant youngster.

Rin takes the proferred bag. As soon as she pries it open, she vomits the sad bag of peanuts and coffee from the inflight service.

Whatever excitement she felt over the novelty of flying had quickly fled. She’d been jostled by other passengers into her compact economy seat; her ears fucking hurt, made worse by the two babies screaming their heads off—and now she’s learning that fucking turbulence is a godsdamn thing, after the whole cabin’s been tossed around in their seats for a full minute and a half, like they’re cats lobbed into a fucking typhoon. Rin’s already fucking cranky and exhausted from being in the airport at 3 a.m., and was hoping she could squeeze in a nap before the day started—but she can see now that’s a futile hope.

The lady makes a disgusted face.

“Take another one. There’ll be more turbulence over the Daba just before we land,” she warns when Rin closes her eyes and leans back with a sigh. “Here for the Summer Festival?”

“No, for work.”

Lady clicks her tongue. “Worst time in the year for that. The offices will be closed, and it’ll be congested for the parades and street parties. You should’ve just stayed home.”

“Tell my boss that.” If Rin had anything to say about it she wouldn’t be on this plane right now. She wouldn’t come to this place at all, and tempt the gods or assholes who run the fucking shitshow she calls her life.

Lady opens her peanuts, chewing gingerly. “So. First time in Arlong?”

“Yes.” Rin’s not given to small talk in the best times, let alone when she’s nauseous and sleep-deprived. 

If Lady senses this, she’s decided she doesn’t care.

“Don’t get on the sampan tours, those are cash grabs. And don’t get anything from the floating stores; you can get the same things from brick and mortar stores for a fraction of the price,” Lady rattles off with an austerity that reminds her of a benevolent Auntie Fang. “There’s lots of cheap, family-owned Nikara restaurants in the northeast quarter, much better than the overpriced crap in the shopping district. Hiking the Red Cliffs is all the rage with young ones like you, but it’s packed with tourists. This time of year it’s too hot to climb unless you start at four in the morning.”

Rin doesn’t want to encourage her because her head is pounding, but she also takes silent note in case she has the time for some sightseeing. She’d been knee-deep in preparing for the trip and reports and endless meetings, overwhelmed by the amount of work she was expected to deliver in such a short period of time, that it hadn’t occurred to her this was her first time traveling after so many years.

A steward announces their final approach to Arlong. Rin presses her forehead to the window, watching the distant specks of light grow brighter. She can faintly make out a conch-shaped grid of islands in the darkness, tortuous rivers and white bridges that stood like beacons in the night; and above the waves and fog, jagged stones stretching upward into the sky, the blood-red sunrise lining their weathered silhouettes like halos.

The plane loses altitude, arcing over the water. Outside the famous characters inscribed on the Red Cliffs wink in the oblique light—Nothing lasts. The world doesn’t exist. In their fourth year what had been a casual debate over lunch on the correct translation had turned into a huge stink between Kitay and Nezha: one moment they were trading their usual jabs, and the next they were yelling at each other, requiring hers and Venka’s intervention.

“I’m not pretending to be smarter than him,” Nezha insisted later that evening after Rin turned out the lights and they crawled into bed. “But I didn’t pull that out of my ass. The previous head curator at the Arlong Memorial’s doctoral had been on the subject. Kitay’s a fucking genius, yes, but he’s a Mathematics major. Am I supposed to take his word over that of an expert’s?”

“He’s allowed his own interpretation,” Rin grumbled. “But you act like you’re the only one allowed to have opinions on your hometown whatsoever. Who do you think you are, the fucking Old Sage of Arlong?”

“Well, the man’s probably my great-great-grandfather or something.”

Rin kicked his shin. “Not the godsdamn point, Yin Nezha.”

He laughed, curling behind her. “I know it’s not.”

They lapsed into a comfortable silence.

“Speaking of which, you should come sometime. Arlong’s a beautiful city.” He planted a soft, wet kiss onto her shoulder blade. Rin shivered. His long fingers skimmed over her stomach, the fine hairs between her thighs. “Don’t worry about accommodation or any of that stuff. I’ll take care of everything; I’ll be your tour guide.”

“You’d be a shit tour guide.”

“Please. I’ll be an excellent tour guide.” Nezha wedged his knee between hers from behind, prising her legs apart. He began rolling her clit with a finger as he spoke in a low murmur. “Arlong is best experienced in the summer. We’ll go to the beach; my siblings and I used to play in these coves we had all to ourselves. You’ll have to get on a sampan, of course; I don’t care if it’s cheesy, it’s part of the experience. And the food, Rin, god. The steamed buns here are nothing compared to the ones we have back home. I’ll take you to the museum after closing hours so we don’t have to deal with the crowds; you have to see the original Mengzi in our private collection. And our evening activities are going to be phenomenal,” he murmurs into her ear, drawing her earlobe into his mouth and sucking softly. “We’re going to have the best time.” Rin closed her eyes, sighing and stifling a moan as his fingers slid into her wet heat. “Promise you won’t visit Arlong without me, love.”

After they finished and came to themselves, holding each other in the dark, Nezha asked her quietly, with raw tenderness:

“Do you think it’s true, though? That nothing lasts?”

Rin made a face. “You’re still hung up on that?”

“Not the translation.” Nezha propped his chin on her shoulder. With their skins pressed like that, she felt the steady beat of his heart reverberating through her. “I don’t know. I suppose it just got me thinking about how so much has changed. I mean look at us. How we were before. Would you have believed it if someone from the future came up to you and told you we’d be here?”

“No? You made my life fucking miserable.”

Nezha was silent for a long while. Rin understood then that he’d tumbled into one of those moods, the ones he got into every so often: thoughtful and sentimental and not a little sad.

He pressed his mouth to the skin behind her ear. “I know I did, baby. You know I’m sorry about that. But that’s exactly what I meant.” He sounded genuinely concerned. “I know change is the only inevitability, but do you think there are things that can last?” His grip tightened around her, and Rin was about to ask where the fuck this was coming from, when Nezha admitted softly: “Because I really need us to.”

It took her a full minute to think of something to say. Rin’s face grew hot. “Don’t be disgusting, Nezha.”

She remembers the whisper of revulsion she felt at the singular intensity of Nezha’s need. She remembers her idiotic smile, the one she tried to bite back in the darkness. And though she never would have admitted it, Rin remembers foolishly, desperately wishing for it too.

She’d been so fucking stupid.

Rin forces her eyes from the window, quashing the memory back into oblivion.

The plane jolts as the ground rushes up to meet it. When they alight, Rin doesn’t allow her eyes to linger for too long on anything: the bright Welcome to Arlong, the Old Capital of the Nikara Republic signs; the LED photos of the canals and beaches; the decorative sampan on display near the bag carousels, exactly like the miniature models Nezha used to build; the early morning fog greeting her outside, rolling in from the Murui.

She swallows the knot in her throat. Flags down a cab, and goes through work emails in the taxi, trying to take nothing in. To that silly girl of twenty-one, naïve and hopelessly in love, these buildings and streets are gilded windows, colorful maps to a cherished heart whose topography she once longed to possess and understand. But to Rin, Arlong is nothing more than drab stone and stench-laden canals. Nothing more than another big, unforgiving, lonely city.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

She drops off her bags at her shitty, Gurubai-issued rental, and takes a bus to the Arlong Memorial.

Rin checks for any personal texts that came in during her flight. Before she left, her last conversation had been with Kitay:

The three dots appeared and disappeared several times, until they’d been asked to turn off their phones for takeoff. His reply had only come through an hour ago.

She tells him to have a good day at work, before checking her other messaging apps. She missed several messages from Kesegi last night:

Rin’s throat thickens with wistfulness. She recognizes the photo as their favorite Sinegard night market, a fifteen-minute train from the university. The summer they became Foundation Scholars Rin and Kitay frequented the markets, looking at the wares and trinkets in display, trying out the food, and taking in the sights and people despite the foot traffic and humidity. For the first time in months, Rin could fully and completely relax, and she drank it all in: the heat, the vibrance, the air ripe with promise and possibility. Those weeks, Rin thinks, had been some of the happiest of her life.

She studies the photo a few moments more, pushing away the nostalgia that stole into her and instead focusing on its composition. Kesegi’s a Communications major, and is far better at taking photos than she is. He once mentioned in passing that he’s saving up for a DSLR camera.

Rin has nothing to say to that, but feeling a little guilty about the last time they’d parted, she concedes:

Rin looks out the window. If Sinegard is icy and severe, and Khurdalain blinding and forward, then Arlong is their older, more graceful sister. The main avenues are filled with preserved ancient Nikara architecture, interspersed with newer buildings in the neoclassical Hesperian style. Rin’s rental in the working-class district looked like any other Ruijin alley, but closer to the city center the large, parametric buildings are like the ones she’d only seen the likes of in Khurdalain.

The bus deposits her in front of the Arlong Memorial. Rin hurries past a group of kindergarteners in green uniforms on a school trip, past the ground fountains and through the revolving doors. Inside the museum is cool and spare. A copper installation stretches upwards to the glass ceilings in the center. 

Rin studies it for a minute or five, strangely feeling like a student again, when a slender woman in a dark suit comes up to her.

“It’s quite impressive, isn’t it?” The woman asks.

“It’s really tall,” Rin agrees.

“Commissioned by Augus Privett, five years ago.” The woman holds out a hand. “Tang Sola, from Collections and Acquisitions. You must be Dr. Fang.”

“Oh, I’m not. . .” Rin wonders how she’d been identified so quickly despite not providing a photo. “I mean, I am Fang Runin, but I’m not a doctor. Just Rin is fine.”

Sola inclines her head. “Very well, Ms. Fang.” She begins walking, which Rin takes as an indication to follow. “Welcome to the Arlong Memorial Museum. It’s not your first time here, is it?” When Rin casts her a confused look, she clarifies: “I heard you were given access to the private collection for your undergraduate thesis.”

“I only needed the digitized documents then.”

“I see. Then I should show you around for a bit before we head down to the archives. Our main hall houses the permanent Nikara Civil War collection.”

Sola gives her a brisk, truncated tour, focusing on the more interesting artifacts on display: coins dating back to the reign of the Red Emperor, and clothing and jewelry from the Warring States period. In a dim, cool alcove, a single encasement in the middle holds two Third Poppy War-era swords, glinting dully in the low light.

“Wielded by the Dragon Marshal and Phoenix General during the Nikara Civil War.” Sola points out the title cards. “See? This one here is made of Speerly mineral.”

“Incredible,” Rin mutters. “I can’t believe these are here.”

“The Yin family are direct descendants of the Dragon Marshal. They’d come to ownership of many of these artifacts by inheritance.”

Rin remembers having this exact argument with Nezha at some point. “But these antiquities are part of Nikara and Speerly history,” she rebuts before she could check herself. She gestures at the Phoenix General’s sword. “Has the Speerly government never asked for this back?”

“Provenance is not a simple matter of what the government is or isn’t owed. You can make the argument that the Phoenix General fought under the banner of the Nikara Republic, and that her allegiance hadn’t been to Speer,” Sola says. “Besides, our antiquities and documents are some of the most well-preserved in Nikan, if I do say so myself. Our conservators were trained in Bolonia and Hesperia, and a lot of our staff have prior experience working in museums abroad.”

Rin glances back at the swords. Sola has a point, but Rin couldn’t say she completely agreed. But being here, discussing antiquities and provenance with an expert, is giving her whiplash. For a very long time this had been her world; she’d expected to work in an institution like this after university, but all that feels so distant now.

Sola’s voice breaks through her thoughts. “Ms. Yin extends her apologies for not giving you the tour herself.”

Rin startles, head snapping up.

“Um.” For a moment, she doesn’t know what to say. “That’s fine, I, uh, wasn’t really expecting her to.” Does the Museum Director regularly give tours to visiting researchers?

“The family’s very busy with the wedding, as you know.”

Rin blinks.

“Right,” she says. 

A strange, inexplicable coldness steals into her then. Rin jogs her memory, trying to remember if Muzha and Jinzha weren’t already married, but to her consternation she can’t remember anything.

An unnerving thought occurs to her:

Does that mean he’s in the city?

Is Nezha getting married?

Her heart starts racing. She’d been so secure in the certainty that Nezha had fucked off to Hesperia that she hadn’t considered the possibility he could fly home at any time, for any number of reasons. 

Her brain starts casting around for contingencies, but there’s no time to dwell on those thoughts. Sola herds her past an exhibition undergoing construction, a Warring States period art collection slated to open next weekend, and down a back set of stairs to the basement, where the silence turns oppressive and absolute. At the end of the hallway they arrive before a pair of wooden doors, above it a gold plate engraved with the words Museum Archives.

Sola grinds to a stop, fishing a white card with a museum lanyard from her pocket. 

“Your badge, Ms. Fang. You can use all entrances and access all sections of the museum, including IT and security. The only place it can’t unlock is the Director’s Office.”

Rin blinks, taking it from her. “Oh. How convenient, thanks.”

“Her orders. It has the same level of access as my badge, and almost like Ms. Yin’s.” She gestures at where Rin’s supposed to tap the card, and a loud click issues from behind. Sola holds the door open for her. “After you, Ma’am.”

Rin eyes her warily before walking past.

Something’s not right. She’s been crunching on this question over the past hour. She found it uncanny that she was almost immediately given access to the Arlong Memorial’s private wing, a notoriously restricted collection, just two business days after her spur-of-the-moment email to Yin Muzha. But for the life of her, Rin couldn’t figure out just what exactly was so strange. Sola has been nice and accommodating—a little too nice, really, to the point of obsequiousness, to someone who was by all accounts imposing on them. But that feels like a stupid thing to complain about, after all her trouble just to get here.

The general archives are housed in a bright, wide room, lined with hundreds of metal shelves pressed in rows against each other. On its sides are cranks that when turned opened up aisles between them. A couple are prised apart now, between them a few figures moving about silently and studying artifacts and documents with care.

“We have a few guest researchers from Jinzhou and Radan working on their publications,” Sola supplies as they walk past. “This section is open to researchers, they just have to submit a formal request.”

“Which shelf would I find the Marshal’s Manuscripts?” Rin asks conversationally.

“They’re not here. The Manuscripts are kept in the private wing because they’re family heirlooms. We’re basically just looking after their artifacts, since we’re the ones with the knowledge and expertise to handle them. It’s off-limits to everyone, really.” Sola gives Rin a look that makes her desperately uncomfortable. “Only Ms. Yin or members of her immediate family can grant access to the collection.”

Which means Yin Muzha, her twin brother, either one of their parents. Or Nezha.

Rin is almost too terrified to ask: “And how many people have ever been given clearance to enter? Before myself, I mean.”

“None. You’re the first, Ms. Fang,” Sola says smoothly.

Holy fucking shit.

For all her talk of cultural property and repatriation, the fact remained that these artifacts were the Yins’ private property, and she’d been allowed—no, invited, to view them as if she were a friend, almost as intimate and familiar as Muzha showing her around their house, or opening an album of Nezha’s baby pictures.

Rin’s the last person on earth who should be allowed that familiarity.

Her head’s full-on swimming now, but she tries not to betray her rising panic as Sola taps her badge and pushes a last door open. Rin steps inside, hesitating. This room is large and cavernous, lined with tall, dark wooden bookcases and hundreds of fabric-bound books. Several glass cases with various artifacts are scattered around the hall, and antique floor lamps suffuse the room with a sleepy orange glow, the air cool and thick with the comforting scent of old scrolls.

Near the door a bushy-haired woman in a green cardigan is looking through a box, jolting when she sees them.

“Salkhi. Ms. Fang is here,” Sola says.

The woman named Salkhi puts down the scroll she was perusing with care. Rin recognizes the Old Nikara characters from the top scroll—Zhuangzi’s Annals (probably the fucking original, too, Rin muses)—as she approaches with a nervous smile.

“Salkhi’s one of our Senior Curators,” Sola says as Salkhi offers her hand, shaking Rin’s with a firm grip. “She’s in charge of upkeep of the private collection.”

“I’ve been working for the Yins for many years in this capacity,” Salkhi says warmly. “Anything you need, Dr. Fang, anything at all, let me know. We have linguists, conservators, and historians who work with us regularly, so if there’s something I or the other curators cannot answer, we can call them in. Or if there are any other resources you need not available in our library, we can procure them for you. We set this room aside for you for the duration of your research—you can’t take anything out of the room, but you can use this as your workstation while you’re here, you have this place all to yourself. IT’s on their way down to fix a desktop computer right here, they should have that ready for you in about half an hour.”

“Wow.” Rin is genuinely at a loss. “That’s. . .” Fucking crazy? Way too much? Borderline servile to the point of ridiculousness? “Amazing. Really. This is the first place I’ve been to with such great support for visiting researchers.”

Sola and Salkhi exchange a brief look, but before Rin could figure out what passed between them the moment is gone.

“Ms. Yin asked us to take very good care of you,” Salkhi says simply. “So we’ll see to that, Dr. Fang.”

“I already told you, I’m not—” Rin clamps her mouth shut. She’s beginning to realize that’s a battle she cannot win. “Right. Thanks. You mentioned she wanted to meet me to discuss the terms of my research, did she say anything about that?”

Sola shakes her head. “I’ll let you know when she’s ready to see you,” she says mysteriously. “Message me if there’s anything else you need.”

After Sola excuses herself and leaves Rin with Salkhi, the curator gives her a friendly smile.

“I’ve been trying to get the family to open up the collection to researchers, but they’re very private about their heirlooms. I suppose it’s not very high on their priority list.” Salkhi shrugs. “All together our general and private collections rivals that of Sinegard University’s. But other than the time when they brought in an expert to determine the artifacts’ provenance no outside historian or curator has ever seen these.”

She stacks a pile of bound cloth books on Rin’s desk, initial resources she set aside in advance for Rin to look at. 

“I suspect you’ll find something novel and groundbreaking here. If you publish, it’ll create waves in the academic community. You’re very fortunate, Dr. Fang.” Salkhi gives her a smile that was probably meant to be encouraging, but the sight of it filled Rin with an ambiguous unease. “Thousands of academics would kill for this job.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

On the bus ride home that afternoon, watching listlessly the way the sun kisses the horizon and sets the river on fire, Rin drafts a text to Kitay:

She deletes it. Heart throbbing in her throat, she tries again.

Rin taps at the backspace.

Just typing out and reading those words makes Rin feel entirely discomfited. 

Why do you care? She admonishes herself. Even if he were, why should it fucking matter? It’s not like he means anything to you.

Shame swelling in her chest like a tide, Rin slips her phone inside her bag, her face burning.

She fixes her eyes outside the window, silently watching the darkening streets of Arlong passing her by.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

The sooner she’s out of this godsdamned city, the better.

Rin wastes no time getting to work. She quickly falls into a routine: She’d wake up before sunrise and shower, before taking a bus to the museum. There’s a tiny shop a block away she once passed and smelled the most mouth-watering steamed buns, where she usually gets coffee and breakfast. 

Then she starts the day with a video conference. These are usually attended by Altan; his senior partner, Chaghan Suren, who Rin quickly decided she didn’t like very much; the roguishly handsome paralegal Baji, who was far easier to deal with, if a little too flirtatious; Souji, her interns, and occasionally Gurubai, who didn’t really provide anything of import in these meetings except stare at Rin with a vaguely threatening aura that suggested, ‘Fuck this up, and I swear on the old gods, Fang, you’re out of a job.’

She doesn’t interact much with the staff at the museum other than Salkhi, Sola, and a handful of curators and conservators, holing up all day in the private wing. Sometimes she’d be so consumed by work she’d forget to eat lunch altogether, working through the afternoon and past operating hours, until security would inadvertently come down to beg with Rin to leave and get some rest. She grabs dinner from whatever’s still open before stumbling home to sleep fitfully, and she can imagine Kitay telling her that she’s wasting her trip on convenience store food, but Rin’s not here to see Arlong’s sights or try its gastronomic delights. Everything she’s doing is purely a matter of necessity.

About a week into this, Rin’s coming off a call with Altan, where she’d been reminded for the nth time of the importance of Yin Muzha’s signature on a handful of documents for the findings to be admissible as evidence in court, when Salkhi knocks on the private wing’s door. She brightly informs Rin that the special exhibition on Warring States period art is opening this weekend, and that Yin Muzha has invited her to come.

“Right. Um.” Rin glances at her report anxiously. “I was planning on working over the weekend, actually, so I don’t know if I can. . .”

Salkhi blinks at her in a moment of silent confusion.

“Oh, I get it.” Rin sighs, deciding to spare her. “I’m being summoned.”

“It’s not a summon,” Salkhi protests, as if outraged Rin would even suggest such a thing. “Ms. Yin just might not have the opportunity to come by again because of the wedding.”

Rin grimaces.

“The wedding. Of course.” Her stomach lurched uncomfortably. She’d been hoping to be called to Muzha’s office to discuss the project privately and address any concerns she had, but until then Rin supposes she’s at the mercy of Muzha’s every whim. “Tell her I’ll be there.”

So on Saturday evening, she wraps up work a few hours earlier than usual and heads out of the basement. Immediately she senses the difference: normally the museum is eerie at this time, but now she hears the distant chatter of hundreds of guests; the chime of glass and cutlery; and a live jazz band in the background. 

Rin creeps up the stairwell silently and takes a peek.

She’d been an Anthropology major in Sinegard University, so Rin likes to think she knows a thing or two about museums and rich people. She knows museums operated mainly through grants, government endowment, or private patronage. She also knows that the museum and art scene attracted the obscenely wealthy, the only people with money to throw at things not directly tied to their survival, like food, shelter, or education.

Despite this, Rin had somehow failed to register the fact that the exhibition opening is a black tie event.

Everyone’s in fucking formal wear: the women in long dresses, hair and faces made up, and the men in smart suits. The only people whose attire closely approximates what Rin’s wearing are the waiters, who carried trays of champagne and hors d’oeuvres in the midst of the guests milling around.

In that moment she feels much like the girl of sixteen at the gates of Sinegard that first day, looking at the pale-skinned Northerners with their cars and gadgets and designer outfits.

Rin shakes her head. Nothing to be done about it. She’s here now, and the sooner she pays Yin Muzha a courtesy call, the sooner she can fuck out of here. 

She surveys the area, deciding on what to do. She’s not certain what Muzha looks like, but looking for an impossibly pretty woman might be her safest bet. Rin keeps to the sides of the exhibit, half keeping an eye out for the Director, Sola, or Salkhi, and half studying the new artifacts on display. She’s one of the only ones doing this. Despite obviously preparing for this event, none of the other visitors seem particularly interested, only socializing or drinking champagne or taking photos.

As she’s studying one of the encasements and thinking about sending a photo to Kitay, Rin feels a few rough taps on her shoulder.

She whirls around. “Hey, that hurts,” she hisses.

A woman around her age in a virulently pink dress scowls at Rin.

“Haven’t you been listening? That’s the third time I’ve had to call you.” She flicks the fingers she nudged Rin with, as if ridding them of crumbs. “And watch the tone. I should tell Muzha to fire your catering company if all of you are this rude and incompetent.”

For a moment Rin can only stare at her, stunned at the sheer audacity.

“Are you deaf?” The woman demands. “I said, give me another salmon canapé.”

Anger immediately surges in her chest. 

“I don’t even know what the fuck that is,” Rin blurts out. “Do I look like I work here?”

The woman scrunches her nose. “Well, you’re not a guest, are you?” She gives Rin a disgusted once-over. “As if you would be allowed in here.”

“And if I am?” Rin fires back.

She realizes then that a small crowd has formed around them, whispering and giving them surreptitious looks. Rin’s skin crawls with anger and shame. A couple of burly men in suits come through, each taking one of her arms with tight grips.

“What the fuck are you—let go of me!” Rin yells, trying to yank her arms off.

“She’s a trespasser,” the woman in the virulently pink dress spits out, crossing her arms. The corner of her mouth quirks with barely suppressed satisfaction. “Take her out of here.”

Rin’s face grows hot. “I am not,” she spits out. “I do fucking research here—”

A supercilious, honeyed voice cuts through their exchange: “What is going on in here?”

Rin freezes. She stops struggling against security.

Absurdly, the crowd opens up like an oyster to reveal a face: beautiful and pale, like a sculptor’s rendering of the loveliest person in the world, with dark, almond-shaped eyes that now regard her with a cold, inscrutable gaze.

A wave of nausea and dizziness hits her. If it weren’t for the security holding her by the arms she might have keeled over.

Yin Muzha looks so much like Nezha.

Rin’s throat spasms, an old hurt rippling through her chest.

“Oh, Mu, I’m so glad you’re here,” the woman in the pink dress exclaims in a saccharine voice, throwing Rin a dirty look. “One of the waitresses is pretending to be a visitor and harrassing me.”

She returns to her senses. 

“That is not what fucking happened,” she retorts hotly.

Muzha and the man with her in a bright, printed suit set narrow their eyes. 

“And just what do you think you’re doing here?” She asks.

Rin opens her mouth to speak, but the uncanny familiarity of Muzha’s arrogance made her mind go blissfully blank. “I’m—”

Muzha’s lip curls in distaste. 

“Take her out of my sight,” she instructs coldly.

The men begin to haul Rin out the museum.

“Wait! Please stop!” A voice cries, harried and breathless—Salkhi. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Yin. That’s her.”

Rin stiffens.

Oh gods, she thinks with a rising swell of panic, remembering Speer, and Altan, and the impending, very real possibility of termination. It’s over. I’m fucking finished.

For a long, airless moment the museum grows still.

Yin Muzha blinks.

“Oh my god,” she says.

She steps forward. Rin braces herself—Insult, slap, or hit? Which one is it going to be?—squeezing her eyes shut and resigning herself to her fate.

Muzha does none of those things.

Her body seizes when Muzha puts her arms around her.

What.

The.

Fuck?

“Oh my god,” she repeats. Her scent, the utter softness of her skin and clothes, the tenderness of her embrace completely overwhelms Rin’s senses. “Holy shit, this is so fucking embarrassing, I am so, so, so sorry about this, sweetie.”

Before Rin could react, Muzha releases her.

“You apologize to Rin right now, Cai Jing,” Muzha snaps at the woman in a pink dress.

Jing gapes at them, face so flushed she looks about to spontaneously combust.

“Why on earth would you touch that, Mu?” She hisses, as if Rin’s a walking petri dish and not a person. “She’s not even supposed to be here!”

“Rin’s here on my invitation for her research, and as a guest to my wedding,” Muzha says harshly.

Then she links their arms together and passes Rin a familiar, winsome smile.

“And put some respect on her name.” There it is again, that cold, supercilious arrogance. “This is Dr. Fang, dìdi’s brilliant future wife from Sinegard.”

Oh.

Oh.

Oh, fuck NO.

“Wait,” Rin stammers. “Hold on—that’s not—”

“The mythical Fang Runin!” The man in the bright suit cries, clapping in excitement. The sound cuts through the stale air of the museum like a knife’s edge to a hot balloon. “How good of you to finally show! We were beginning to think Nezha had been making you up these last seven years.”

Chapter Text

In their sophomore year, Kitay’s favorite course had been Game Theory under Dr. Irjah. When her schedule permitted Rin would come sit in just to see what all the rage was about. She’d already known Irjah to be an engaging and kind instructor from their first-year Calculus classes; and though she wasn’t officially enrolled in this class, he would still call on Rin to recite and let her participate in the activities.

On one such day Irjah had introduced the concept of the prisoner’s dilemma. His teaching assistant, Raban, gave each of them a black and a red card, and arranged them in two circles.

“You will shuffle through five different partners. You will not be allowed to speak to any of them,” Irjah instructed. “In each round, you’ll pick whether you’ll play your black or red card. Play red, and you get two points. Play black, and you’ll neither win nor lose points, but your partner gets three points. At the end Raban will tally your scores and determine the top and bottom scorers of the class, who will each be called to discuss their strategies.”

Rin scored the highest in the activity. And to everyone’s surprise, Kitay—Irjah’s star student and favorite—scored the lowest.

“Why the fuck would you even play three black cards in a row?” Rin asked as they sat under the shade of a large pagoda tree after class. She broke the chocolate bar she’d gotten from Raban with a friendly ‘Nice work, Fang’ in half.

“Because I thought you assholes would’ve realized mutual cooperation benefits us all!” Kitay took the proffered chocolate sullenly.

“But that’s exactly the thing,” Rin pointed out after taking a bite. “You’re operating under the assumption that people are inherently selfless. Or that they place a higher value on altruism over self-preservation, but they don’t. In the end, everyone’s just looking out for themselves.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “Not everyone.”

“Okay, maybe not everyone,” Rin conceded, mostly to appease him. “But the vast majority. And I mean, if people are going to try to fuck you over anyway, you might as well do them one better.”

Kitay’s expression grew deeply troubled as he listened, silently staring out into the green. For a moment Rin felt a sudden, intense fear that she’d said too much, that this was a part of her finally so grotesque and repulsive for even Kitay, who was fundamentally kind and good, and the best person she had ever known.

She’d already talked herself into taking it back when he finally asked in a quiet voice: “Did your foster family teach you that?”

Rin flinched. Last winter break he’d coaxed a bit of the story out of her; and sometimes, in moments like this, Kitay’s expression rippling with discomfort and infinite understanding and sadness, she wished she hadn’t told him so much.

She pulled her knees to her chest, skin crawling with heat.

“Every day of my life teaches me that,” Rin muttered.

She never needed a professor or university-level class to tell her what she’s known all her life: that everyone looks out for themselves and has their own agenda, without regard for how it might impact others.

And speaking of axioms Rin lives by, here’s another:

If something seems too good to be true, it most probably fucking is.

“Three weeks?” Chaghan Suren’s face on her monitor sours. Since they started these morning video conferences, Altan’s senior partner at the firm hasn’t run out of things to criticize Rin for. “That’s cutting it close to pre-trial.”

“Well, that’s the Director’s condition,” Rin says, not without a little heat. “It’s her own wedding, so you can imagine she’s busy.”

“I still don’t understand why signing a few documents would take her three weeks.”

“Something about running it by legal,” she lies, smiling tightly. “You understand.”

Chaghan has nothing to say to that. He and Altan share a look in which several silent things pass between them as the rest of them shift and wait awkwardly, before the latter finally shakes his head.

“Fine, we’ll make it work. But absolutely no extensions, Rin.” Altan’s tone is clipped. “I expect you to have that ready for us in three weeks.”

“Yes.” The words come out shrill. “Of course I will.”

“Good. Update us when you have a better idea of the historical use of Kai’ping’s coast and send it over to Baji.” The paralegal waves at the camera, winking at Rin with a roguish, lascivious smile. “They’ve fenced the area; the caretaker’s insisting the transfer was sanctioned by the local Speerly government during the war, but I have my doubts. If you have any questions, give either myself or Chaghan a call.”

Her eyes flicker over Chaghan’s face on the screen, fixed in an unimpressed look. Yeah, that would be an ‘absolutely fucking not,’ sir.

“Sure.”

“Everything going smoothly so far?” Altan inquires. “They’re not giving you a hard time accessing the materials?”

Rin almost wants to tell him the truth—that no, everything is most certainly not going smoothly—but she gets the impression neither Altan nor Chaghan actually has the patience for all that.

Besides, how the fuck would she even begin to explain this clusterfuck?

“Not at all, sir.” Even smiling is literally painful. “They’ve been very accommodating.”

Altan hums dubiously. “Best to keep your guard in any case. We’ll hop off the call now, if that’s everything.”

When the Wudang contingent logs off Souji, who’d been meek as a lamb the entire meeting, opens his godsdamn mouth:

“So, Rin. Run into any old friends from Sinegard yet?”

She glowers. “Fuck off, Souji.”

“You know, Trengsin’s right. Considering the nature of this case, you’d think the Arlong Memorial would put up more of a stink.” He puts his arms behind his head, hiking his feet up the desk. “Are you back in Yin Nezha’s pants? Is that how you’ve pulled this off? I must say, I’m impressed by your loyalty to old Gurubai.”

“Do you actually have anything important to say, or can I go back to work?”

“Then again, Gurubai was under no obligation to take you on, so you must feel so indebted to him,” Souji blathers on, letting out a dramatic sigh. “But you know what else fascinates me, Princess? I didn’t imagine your main squeeze would be so gracious, not after what you’ve done. So how’d you do it?” Souji’s grin grows nasty. “Gave the little prince your sob story? Or did you skip all the talk, went straight to business? I’m sure you would know all the ways to his, ah—heart.”

Rin’s made a lot of mistakes in her short life, but rebounding with Yang Souji and telling him more than he needed to know definitely made top three.

Considering what else is on that fucking list, that really is saying something.

Before she could retort, Souji’s rectangle goes black, until he disappears from the call altogether.

“Oh, sorry,” Pipaji pipes up drily, not sounding sorry at all. “My hand must’ve slipped or something.”

Rin lets out a long breath. Puts her head in her hands.

“You might’ve done that ten minutes ago,” Lianhua mutters, frowning at Pipaji.

“Yeah, kinda regret that now.” She grimaces. “Hey, Rin, is there anything else we could do? I’ll keep Dulin up to speed when he’s feeling better.”

She’s at least glad for her interns’ unflagging loyalty. Considering they’re not actually employees and their graduation clearances are on the line, it’s admirable how they’re sticking their necks out for some woman they just met weeks ago.

“Just finish the tasks I’ve assigned on the workspace.” Rin sighs, rubbing her fingers over her eyes.

Lianhua chews on her lip.

“You sure you’re okay?” She asks sweetly. “Dealing with your ex and everything?”

“I’m an adult, Lianhua. I’ll handle it,” Rin says firmly, tired of their fussing. “Let’s get back to work.”

So the girls reluctantly bid her goodbye, before the monitor goes black.

Rin faceplants onto the desk. She feels sick, as if someone put a hummingbird in her chest and it’s now making a racket. She closes her eyes, breathing in the scent of old scrolls. Breathing out.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It’s been two days since the Warring States art exhibition opened. Two days since she’d met Yin Muzha.

Two days since she and her cousin announced to a museum filled with hundreds of people that she’s Nezha’s goddamn girlfriend of seven years.

Rin had been paralyzed by the opposing instincts to run and to start fighting someone. As she stood in indecision, several things happened all at once:

Flashes of cameras went off. Loud whispers rippled through the crowd (“Yin Nezha’s had a girlfriend this whole time?” “That must be the Southerner girlfriend he was rumored to have at Sinegard.” “Why is she so dark?”), people openly gawking with looks she’d received her whole life: morbid curiosity, judgment, disgust.

A hand grasped her elbow.

“Time for you to go, I think,” Muzha said cheerfully, gesturing at Salkhi and the man in the printed suit, and steered Rin down the stairs to the archives.

“Wonderful,” the man drawled as they hurried down the dark halls of the basement. “Now you’ve sicced the hyenas on her.”

“Was I supposed to let Cai Jing run her mouth?” Muzha hissed.

“Remind me again why that lunatic is even on your guest list?”

Muzha’s face twisted in a familiar expression of disgust.

“Father and Jin’s stupid gentlemen’s club.” When she caught Rin’s eye, she explained: “Heiress to the Cai Hospitality Group. She’s had the hots for Nezha since first form, but”—Muzha gestures vaguely at her head—“pitch black upstairs.”

“Atrocious fashion sense,” the man tittered. “Did you see that unfortunate frock?”

“Like a sad lava lamp,” Muzha snickered.

Rin stared in absolute bewilderment.

“Oh, nothing for you to worry about, darling.” Muzha gives her a pursed smile. “Dare I say my little brother has better taste than that.”

“Ms. Yin, listen,” Rin panted as Salkhi fishes out her access card. “I think there’s been a misunderstanding—”

“Who are you, our butler? Don’t call me that.” She frowns at Rin. “Muzha is fine. Or jiejie, if you like. I’ve always wanted a little sister.” Salkhi unlocked the door, and Muzha pushed her inside. “One gets weary of Jinzha and Nezha’s ghastly faces. In you go.”

They piled into the archives, Rin’s head spinning. She thought she heard footsteps and heels hurrying after them, which disappeared when Salkhi heaved the door shut.

“Maker in heaven,” the man cried as he flopped onto a seat dramatically. “I didn’t wear Léger to be mobbed by these halfwit peacocks.”

Rin was about to pull a chair when Muzha beckoned. “Come here, you.”

She blinked.

Muzha rolled her eyes, pulling Rin into another tight, official hug.

“It is so good to finally meet the famous Rin.” She sounded amused. “I’m Nezha’s best sibling, as you know, and this is cousin Charlie”—the man stood and offered Rin a prim hand with a sly smile she didn’t trust—“from mother’s side of the family in Hesperia. He’s my favorite, but don’t tell the others that.”

“That’s because everyone else is a menace,” Cousin Charlie drawled when Rin shook his hand. She meant to pull away, but Charlie’s grip turned crushing. He flipped her wrist. “Where’s the ring?” When Rin could only gape, he let out a theatrical gasp. “Don’t tell me. Biǎo dì hasn’t proposed?”

“Huh.” Muzha tilted her head. “He said he would a few months ago.”

That broke Rin out of her trance.

“He said what?” She yelled shrilly.

“You know, dìdi’s an absolute loser for this one,” Muzha tells Charlie conversationally, as if that wasn’t a batshit insane thing to say. She tucked her chin and affected a sullen expression. “‘Rin’s brilliant, jiejie. I don’t know anyone more resilient and hardworking than she is. She’s also the funniest person I’ve ever met’—blegh. I’ve known Nezha since he was in diapers, Charl, seeing him whipped is actually kind of gross.” She gave Rin an encouraging smile. “If you ask me, he might do it here, in Arlong. My brother’s stupid obsessed with this city; I like home, but it’s unnatural with him, you know? Make sure you get your nails done—oh, do you want me to put a photographer on your tail?” She frowned. “Do you think Nezha would think to get one?”

Rin was precariously close to having a conniption.

“Nezha knows I’m here?”

“We’ve been telling him to bring you round for ages,” Muzha continued as a matter-of-factly. “He keeps saying you’re busy, that you’re on all these research trips. . . now don’t get me wrong, I’m all for women getting an education, but he’s put it off for so long the whole family’s convinced he’s made you up. They were already throwing around names for his date to the festivities.”

“But—”

“I did try to talk sense into them, honey; I didn’t want you disrespected on my account, so the timing of your research was quite auspicious.” Rin was barely keeping up at this point; she’s beginning to realize yapping fucking ran in the family. “But I do understand my family’s concern. The last wedding we were in Jinzha had been thrown into a cellar for half a day with Lei Xinyue—remember that, Charl? Her parents demanded we set a wedding date because Jin had ‘tainted their daughter’s honor.’”

“An utterly brazen ploy if I’d seen one.” Charlie looked disgusted. “Lei Xinyue ended up with that casino baron. . . ?”

“Bai Shuren, Ambrosia Group.”

“So absolutely what that tramp deserves.”

At that point Rin had completely zoned out, too nauseous and overwhelmed and shaken to even keep up or understand what was being discussed.

Calm down, she reminded herself.

Calm the fuck down and THINK, Fang Runin.

Thus far, there were three things she’d gathered from this conversation.

First: At least two of Nezha’s family members thought they were still dating.

Second: Nezha was supplying the information himself, with fair consistency and until very recently. She’s not sure what his end goal is, though she presumed it was to avoid being match-made.

And third: “Of course, now that you’re here you’ll have to come to the wedding.”

Rin’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not going to take no for an answer, Rin.” Muzha said this with the superciliousness of someone who indeed seemed to have never been told no. “I was told you needed me to sign off on some things for your case to be valid or something? Well, I’m not signing if you don’t go.”

It took Rin a few painful seconds to process the words.

“That’s the condition you meant in your email?”

Muzha’s neon red lip curled.

“Nezha was right.” She sounded amused. “You are remarkably clever, Fang Runin.”

Unlike the time Altan had said it, Rin couldn’t feel a single shred of satisfaction.

“I can’t,” she stammered, staggering back. “I’m not going. I won’t.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Charlie gasped, scandalized. “This is the wedding of the century!”

Muzha raised a hand. It was so lackadaisical and arrogant it made Rin bristle.

Charlie clamped his mouth shut. 

“Darling. I’ve been very, very nice to you.” Her voice pitched lower: prim and unnervingly calm. Muzha’s Nikara had just the slightest hint of an accent, perhaps from how infrequently she used it abroad. She fixed Rin with a stern look, putting her hands on her shoulders. “I hope you know I won’t do this for just anyone.”

Her blood-red nails dug into Rin’s skin.

“Now. You have all the museum’s resources at your disposal. Sola tells me there’s no other place in the country with the things you need, and I am more than happy to do this for my little brother’s girlfriend, which is why”—she raised a finger when Rin opened her mouth to protest—“I am asking you to do this simple thing for me in return. Come to my wedding with Nezha.”

Rin stared at her.

“Why do you even want me to go?” She asked, genuinely confounded. “You don’t even know me.”

Muzha’s smile grew, knife-like.

“Because we want to get to know Nezha’s future wife,” she said, like this was the most obvious thing in the world. “And because we’ll be family soon.” She tilted her head to one side. “I know you’re intimidated, but we’re really not so bad once you get to know us. It’ll be fun.”

“Like pulling teeth,” Charlie offered. “That are rotten on the inside. With car pliers.”

“Oh, don’t listen to him. I’ll tell everyone to be on their best behavior.” Muzha’s grip didn’t let up. “So, do we have an understanding? Am I making myself clear, Rin?”

No. Absolutely fucking NOT, a voice in her head screamed. No project or job is worth seeing Nezha again.

Do you even have other real options? Another, a Frankensteinian amalgamation of Kitay and Irjah’s voices, urged. Just say yes for now, and you at least buy yourself time to figure out a fucking Plan B.

Rin forced herself to smile.

“Crystal.”

“Perfect. I’m glad that’s settled.” Muzha released Rin’s shoulders, and a wave of nausea slammed into her. “Now, I’d love to talk and pick your brain about my little brother—honestly, that boy is a mystery to me—but I’ve left a lot of confused benefactors upstairs, and we need their pockets to keep this place up and running.”

She nodded mechanically, at a loss for words.

“You’re free to come back upstairs to partake of the food and drink, but if your future sister-in-law might make a suggestion. . .”

Her dark, lovely eyes flickered from Rin’s head to her shoes, and back. Her mouth quirked.

“Maybe save it for next time. When you’re more—prepared.”

Rin’s face grew hot as Muzha and Charlie retreated, giggling lowly to themselves.

What the fuck.

What the actual.

FUCK.

Salkhi showed her the way out through the fire exit. When Rin emerged onto the street behind the museum by the garbage chute, dazed and dizzied and skin prickling with humiliation, she took a bus back to her rental.

As soon as she arrived, she hauled her bag from the closet and began throwing her shit inside.

There wasn’t any rhyme or reason to her packing. She wasn’t even sure what she was going to do next. But Rin had to keep moving. To do something. Anything was better than sitting with her own dread.

She thought about getting on the next plane to Ruijin. She imagined handing over her resignation to Souji and Gurubai. The satisfaction on their faces. Being terminated from the only halfway decent job that had taken her.

She pictured stowing away her life in a box and leaving Ruijin behind, the way she’d left Tikany and Sinegard.

Where the fuck would she even run off to this time?

Rin stubbed her toe on the wheel of her bag; the sudden, sharp pain shooting up her leg made her fall on her ass.

She screamed.

She was so fucking tired.

She’s just trying to live her goddamn life. Keeping her head down, and steering clear of bullshit’s way.

But every now and then, it seemed the gods or powers that be would decide: No, Rin, you haven’t had a hard enough go at it yet, and kick her back down as if her life and job and happiness were inconsequential playthings for them to do as they pleased with.

Rin dropped to the floor and closed her eyes.

Then she laughed hysterically, until she was clutching her sides and she was wheezing and her chest hurt. It was fucking stupid, but leagues better than crying; she’s not going to waste her tears on Souji and Gurubai, on Muzha, or Yin fucking Nezha.

In time her laughter had turned into intermittent, pathetic gasps for air, and the adrenaline had begun to ebb away. Rin lay unmoving, staring at the yellowing cracks in the ceiling, spreading out like a map of the Murui and its tributaries.

I should tell Kitay, she thought. He would know what to do.

As if summoned by her thoughts, her phone rang. Kitay’s face was splashed on the screen.

“Is something wrong?” She asked when she picked up. It was unusual for him to still be up at this time. “Are you okay? Is Kesegi okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah, no, everything’s fine,” Kitay said. “I think he fell asleep after dinner.”

Rin felt an overwhelming rush of relief and comfort at the sound of his voice. She blinked away at the sudden pressure in her eyes.

“He’s not giving you too much trouble, I hope.”

“Are you kidding? The apartment’s the cleanest it’s been in years. And he makes dinner when he gets home. If he keeps this up, he can rent out the guest bedroom permanently.”

Her stomach twisted with envy. She quashed it.

“He told me he wanted to work there after graduation, at Sinegard.”

“Why not? I’ll be here to keep an eye on him.”

She hummed, but had nothing to say to that.

“I’m sorry I haven’t had the time to call. Been swamped with end of semester shit.” Kitay was still in university, working on his doctorate in Mathematics. “What have you been up to? Do you want to turn camera on?”

“Fine, but I look like shit.”

Kitay’s nest of hair and freckles materialized on her screen. Her throat grew tight with longing. They call each other a few times a week, text constantly, and he tries to come down to Ruijin on winter and summer breaks. Still, Rin felt the distance between them and her isolation acutely, a physical pain in her chest.

“Where are you?” He appeared to be studying her background, the unfamiliar furniture and clothes strewn around her. “Are you going somewhere?”

Guilt stabbed through her. With a single exception in the ten years she’d known him, she’d never kept anything from Kitay: she always wanted to tell him everything, and it was impossible to keep things from the other half of her soul.

Still, she avoided discussing Nezha if she could help it. Rin could count on one hand the times they’ve had that argument, and the trouble with debating Chen Kitay was that there was no winning against him.

“That’s what I’m trying to decide right now.”

“And where would you even go to at this time?”

“I don’t know. Leiyang, or Khudla. Maybe Ankhiluun,” she said glumly. “Yeah, Ankhiluun doesn’t sound like such a bad idea.”

Kitay blinked. Then he pushed himself up in alarm.

“Rin, if this is like the last time—”

She laughed, cutting him off. It was a wretched sound.

“I’m sorry,” she rasped between peals, wiping the corners of her eyes. She didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with her. “It’s not like that. You should’ve seen the look on your face.”

“Oh, go on,” Kitay said drily. “I’m sure it’s really funny to you when you make me worry.”

That shut her up.

“I didn’t call for no reason,” he grumbled, still cross. “I have news.”

The words felt like a bad omen. “What.”

“Remember that quick family trip I was telling you about the other day? About that.” He hesitated, picking at his nails. “We’re flying to Arlong in three weeks for Yin Muzha’s wedding.”

Rin bristled.

“Anyway I, uh, I heard from a few acquaintances that Nezha. . . he’s engaged.” Despite herself, Rin’s heart dropped. Kitay watched carefully for her reaction. “Supposedly his fiancée’s already in town for the wedding.”

“Oh.” For a minute she didn’t know what to say. She cast around her brain for something snide. “Well. When you meet the poor woman, give her my condolences, won’t you?”

Kitay stared. “Rin, the purported fiancée is you.”

Panic surged anew through her veins, and despair, like a spring tide rushing in.

“I’m going to kill him,” she hissed.

Whatever he expected her to say, it hadn’t been this.

“Are you actually back together with Nezha without telling me?” Kitay demanded.

“What? No!” For some demented reason, Rin’s face grew hot. “You know, I’m actually really insulted you’d think that.”

“Then why is everyone convinced that it’s true?” He yelled, any pretenses of a calm conversation gone. “And it’s not just one or two people stirring up shit; everyone’s saying more or less the same thing. I’ve had to block at least thirty people at this point, my phone’s been blowing up for hours.”

“Everyone?” Rin felt sick. “Who’s everyone?”

“Family friends. Neighbors, people from secondary school. Hell, even Venka’s called me for the first time in years.”

That was another name she hadn’t heard in so long. “Wait—you two haven’t been talking?”

He gave her a hard look. “Rin. Do you really want to get into this right now?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, I don’t, just. . .” Gods, was this a clusterfuck and a half. Her head began pounding; she pinched her temples. “That fucking bastard.”

“There were even photos of you in their museum.” Kitay looked gobsmacked. “What the fuck are you even doing in Arlong?”

Rin swallowed.

Fuck Souji and Gurubai. Fuck this stupid project, fuck her senior thesis, fuck her stupid life.

But most of all: fuck Yin Nezha to the interminable depths of the Hesperian hells.

“I think Nezha’s been telling his family we’ve been together this whole time.”

“Rin, fucking WHAT?”

So she told him everything: every last, horrific detail, from that first meeting with Altan to her arrival in the city to the exhibition, leaving nothing out, repeating every conversation faithfully. It wasn’t much comfort, but it felt good to finally tell Kitay, who knew the entirety of hers and Nezha’s history without having to explain or revisit certain memories. Who understood just how cataclysmic this would be if they didn’t put an end to it.

Kitay’s reaction didn’t disappoint.

“Tiger’s fucking tits,” he hissed.

“Right? It’s the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of,” she yelled, finally glad for some commiseration. “Why the fuck did he think this was going to work? What were the chances I would even be here?”

He waved her off. “You know, I don’t think that’s the point. But you know what this means?” A manic, impish glee, one Rin didn’t like at all, crept into Kitay’s face. “If you’re still the one Nezha uses for his cover story, that means he hasn’t been in a serious relationship since you.”

This hadn’t even occurred to her. “As if. He probably has a woman, he just didn’t want to sic his family on her.”

“What? That makes no fucking sense.”

“Fuck you. It’s an excellent theory.”

“It’s a shit theory. If he were actually in a relationship, it would be far easier to introduce the new woman than let the lie go on for so long.” Kitay wagged his brows. “Hey, what if Nezha’s still not over you?”

Her skin prickled. She had never wanted to jump into her screen and throttle him more badly. “Fuck right off, Chen Kitay.”

He only laughed, the absolute fucking traitor. “This is fantastic. So now what? When are you meeting Nezha?”

Dread pooled in Rin’s stomach.

“Literally never?” She spat in disgust. “Nobody’s meeting that jackass.”

He cast her a skeptical look. “Oh, okay, so you’re going home and resigning, that’s your plan.”

Rin stared. She thought Kitay would be more sympathetic or helpful, that he’d put that brilliant mind of his to good use. She didn’t realize he would be so goddamn useless.

“You do realize those are your only real options,” Kitay pointed out with her continued silence.

“Are you going to keep being an ass or will you help me?”

He threw his hands in the air. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Rin. There’s no substitute for what you need from Muzha. And I know Nezha’s sister; I assure you she’ll have no qualms withholding her signature until you give her what she wants.” Kitay grimaced, suddenly growing serious. “Face it, you have no choice. The best you could hope for is that Nezha lets you run with it. He might let you, he has an incentive to, but you have to talk to him. And I mean properly,” he added, just for good measure, “not whatever the fuck that was last time.”

Kitay, Rin thought, was brilliant and insightful and always right.

But not about this. There had to be another choice other than asking for Nezha’s help.

“Well, I don’t even know where the fuck he is, so that’s a non-starter,” Rin spat, irritated that he was being so reasonable. “We wouldn’t be in this goddamn pickle in the first place if that bastard wasn’t such a fucking liar.” She pounded a fist on the carpet. “What the hell was he thinking?”

In the end, Kitay could only tell her cheerfully: “Well, the good news is you probably won’t have to wonder for much longer,” which in no way made her feel better. “When you see him, you can ask Nezha yourself.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Since they broke up, Rin never allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to see Nezha again.

Why would she? It’s stupid and a waste of time. With a life like hers, Rin’s learned to optimize what little she has for maximum benefit. To hack away at everything extraneous. She can’t afford to indulge in sentiment or lug the past around, like a bag that can’t be put down. She has to keep moving forward, to outrun the many things pulling her back and holding her down, or she’ll never make it.

But spending long days alone in the sunless private hall, suspended in this shitty, airless limbo, and constantly braced for an impact she doesn’t know when will come, Rin can’t help it.

She can’t focus on her meetings. She’ll be reading documents or working on her reports and her mind will drift off, yanking her ankle-first into an eddy of memory and feeling, as if to make up for all the years she hadn’t touched the heavily chained catacomb where she’d buried it all away with a ten-foot pole.

She wants to know Nezha’s whereabouts, if he’s already in the city and where he’s staying, but Rin can’t ask Muzha without rousing suspicion, or Venka without being yelled at or patently ignored. She’d deactivated her social media accounts when she left Sinegard; Nezha’s were either privated, or scrubbed. Years ago this would’ve been so easy, but Rin had cut off every last connection with ruthless efficiency, leaving her now in this abject hell of her own making. She might have laughed, if this isn’t so dire.

Rin’s already contemplating bashing her head on the wall or breaking the glass cases in the room when she hears the door swing open.

Then a voice saying: “Hello, Rin.”

She opens her eyes slowly. Lifts her head from the desk.

“Ms. Yin.” She stands. “I didn’t know you were coming into work today.”

Muzha makes a face.

“I told you to stop calling me that. And I’m not here to work,” she scoffs, as if Rin was ludicrous to even suggest it. “I just wanted to check in on you and drop this off.”

She hands over a large burgundy envelope.

“Wedding invitation,” Muzha supplies cheerfully. Rin studies the front, stomach swooping when she reads the address brush-penned in gold: Mr. Yin Nezha and Dr. Fang Runin. “It has details for all the events. Dìdi will be attending everything, so of course, you’re also invited to everything. . .”

Rin’s no longer listening to Muzha. She can’t take her eyes off their names together. Rin and Nezha. Nezha and Rin. Like a unit, a matched set. Like opposite halves whose broken, sharp edges fit perfectly together to create a whole.

A buzzing starts between her ears.

“Hey, Muzha.” Only a second later does she realize she’d spoken, her words barely a whisper. “Do you know. . . I mean, I’m sure he’s mentioned this, but I don’t—when will Nezha be—?”

Muzha’s phone rings. Her brow furrows.

“Sorry, Rin, just—stay put, okay? I’ll be right back.”

The sound of the door heaving shut permeates her skull.

Rin braces her arms on the desk.

Fuck.

Fuck.

She can’t do this.

She can’t go to the wedding. Can’t pretend at something that had once been her reality. Can’t poke at the reposing beast of summers past or skirt the fringes of its heat, like a moth drawn precariously to flame.

And once Nezha arrives, she most certainly can’t be here.

The door opens. Rin looks up. She hears a peal of laughter, then Muzha’s dulcet, delighted cry:

“Surprise!”

Then a blur of white and blue, the door heaving shut.

Rin flinches.

Features take shape under dim light and shadow, details that could have been plucked straight from her memories:

Delicately arched brows. A strong jaw. Pale cheeks, lips as soft as the petals of a rose.

Dark, lovely eyes, growing wide when they shift onto her.

Nezha is still as beautiful as he had been the day she left him.

Early summer, its oppressive heat. Late desolation. Car lights beside a quiet street. His desperate confusion. Cicadas and pleading and hands pulling her back and strangled sobs. Steps taken against inertia.

Rin’s throat closes up. The air in the room is thinning, her ears are ringing, and the corners of her vision blur, like drops of wet ink on paper.

He opens his mouth.

“What the fuck,” Nezha snarls softly, “do you think you’re doing here?”

An icy shock slams onto her.

“What I’m doing here is none of your goddamn business,” Rin hisses.

“This museum belongs to my family, I think it is my business.”

Rin’s vision turns white; her head starts pounding. Nezha has always known the power he holds, has never hesitated to wield it. She should have known he would stoop this low if it finally means retaliation.

Regret and sentiment are utterly wasted on this scumbag.

“I made a formal request to the museum director.” Rin rounds the desk and charges at him. “I had no way of knowing I’d only been let in under the pretext of your lies.”

Nezha looks unfazed. “What I tell my family has nothing to do with you.”

“Well, my job is on the line here, Yin Nezha,” Rin screams, furious that he doesn’t seem as agitated as she feels. He’s already halfway to the door before she could finish speaking, as if she and her trifles are so far beneath his consideration. “And I’m not the one who made this goddamn mess in the first place, so fix this.”

He stops short of the door.

When he turns, the cruelty and loathing in his face takes her breath.

“I don’t give a shit what happens to you,” Nezha sneers. “You have no right to ask anything of me, Fang Runin.”

Then he slams the door behind him.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Minutes or hours later, she couldn’t really say, Rin stops reeling and draws herself up. Rage builds beneath her skin, contracting and expanding like a universe, coiling and undulating like rivers of wildfire in a maelstrom.

The absolute nerve of that fucking asshole.

She’d been a fool to be afraid. Sometimes the thought, the memory of a person, is far more injurious than their material reality.

If Nezha thinks he could just pack her up, and everything she’d built with grit and blood without a goddamn fight, then he really has forgotten who the fuck she is.

She might not have been the coward who started this, but she sure as all fuck will be the one to end it.

Rin pulls up her keypad. Dials the number.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Yin Saikhara, wife to the shipping magnate Yin Vaisra from the old and illustrious House of Yin, is a devout Makerist, and the biggest benefactor to the Cathedral of St. Cicely of Antinoît in downtown Arlong.

None of the Yin children are as devoted to the faith as she, but on the rare occasions they are in Arlong they attend Saturday service with their mother. Today Mrs. Yin is joined by her eldest daughter, Muzha; her soon-to-be son-in-law, Tang Danyi; and her youngest son, Nezha, who’d just arrived from Rachdale days ago.

The Reverend presiding the service is well into his sermon when Rin is deposited outside the cathedral and hurries up the stairs, uncomfortable in her delicate, Muzha-issued suit dress.

She slips into a pew at the back of the church. Doesn’t pay attention to the low chanting or the responses or hymns.

The thought of being here, of what she’s about to do, makes her skin crawl. But Rin’s painfully aware she has no other aces to play. She doesn’t even know if it’s going to work—she’s betting everything on a hunch, an instinct about someone she’d long put away from memory.

Rin can’t pretend to know anything about Nezha, not anymore, but she supposes she still remembers the foundations: the things he fears and believes and will unquestioningly abide by, immutable, uncorrupted by time.

At the end of the service, Mrs. Yin is up front speaking with the Reverend, surrounded by her children and several society ladies wearing dresses in the Hesperian fashion.

Rin watches from afar, her legs abject jelly. She’d been humiliated and belittled and tormented by such people her entire life. If she goes now, she knows the pain she’s about to subject herself to.

She pushes forward.

It’s the only way, Rin thinks.

And: I know pain.

The number of curious looks grow as she approaches the front. Muzha sees her first and beckons her over. She’d been surprisingly easy to manipulate, horrified at the fiction Rin had spun—of being kept like a dirty secret by the man she loved because he feared his family’s judgment; of rethinking a seven-year relationship where she’d been made to feel small and inadequate and unworthy of the risk.

Muzha puts a hand on Saikhara’s arm. “Ma, she’s here.”

The crowd opens up like an oyster to admit Rin into its fold. She steps into it. At the center stood Nezha, his face older than she remembers. Meaner.

Their eyes meet in the cathedral’s low, stained glass light.

“What is this?” He snarls lowly. Dangerously.

Rin’s lip curled. “Your mother and sister asked me to be here today, love.”

Nezha flinches. A wicked satisfaction rushes through her.

“This is our mother, Yin Saikhara. She’s wanted to meet you for a very long time,” Muzha says. Her smile grows, knife-like. “Ma, this is Dr. Fang Runin.”

Rin doesn’t bother to correct her this time. The Yin family matriarch pins her with an arctic look.

“You’ve been long expected here in Arlong, Runin,” she says stiffly.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Yin.” Rin makes a show of inclining her head. “We’ve been terribly busy. And I didn’t want to impose on your hospitality while Nezha was away, but he knows I’ve always wanted to meet his family.”

Nezha scowls at the barefaced lie. The Reverend inquires politely: “Is the exemplary Dr. Fang the girlfriend we’ve been hearing about, Mr. Yin?”

Everyone’s eyes fall on Nezha then, frozen and taut and furious. For a heart-stopping moment, Rin thinks he might deny it.

But she knows his weaknesses. Then and now, he’s always been fucking stupid about his ego and image and family.

She raises a brow at him, smirking. Check fucking mate, bitch.

He glowers.

“Yes.” With effort, he smiles bitterly. “Yes, Reverend Groves, she is.”

After the small talk is over, after the crowd grows thin, the ladies making promises to see each other in the Yin-Tang wedding festivities commencing in a few days; after Muzha and Dan and Saikhara take their leave in a long black car, the latter pinning Rin with a last icy look, and leaving them finally alone outside the church, Nezha rounds on Rin, pale cheeks flushed with anger.

“I’m going to fucking kill you,” he sneers.

“Oh, trust me, darling.” Rin smiles acridly, baring teeth. “You couldn’t.”

Chapter Text

Nezha might actually just kill her.

Rin’s eyes flicker towards the speedometer. She doesn’t drive—she doesn’t have the money for a car, for starters—so she’s not sure what the speed limit on Nikan’s freeways are.

Well, whatever it is, Nezha’s definitely pushing it.

Heart racing, Rin leans back, trying not to focus on how quickly the mountains and cars are blurring past outside. The contents of her stomach feel like they’re lagging behind, and she thinks she’s going to get whiplash from the way Nezha’s weaving between lanes, overtaking the vehicles around them.

Rin reaches for the grab handle overhead.

“And who told you you could touch that?” Nezha snarls.

She glowers at him. Rin starts wiping the oil in her hands over the leather seats and trim.

“You’re revolting,” he spits.

“If you’re gonna cosplay as a shitass race car driver I’m holding the goddamn handle, jackass.”

After the churchgoers had dispersed, and after they’d seen his family off to the long black car waiting in the cathedral driveway, it had taken Rin and Nezha exactly four seconds to devolve back into the stupid, petty bickering typical of their uni days.

“We’ll have plenty of time to get to know Rin over the next few weeks,” Muzha had said cheerfully to her mother before they got in the car. Then to her fiancée: “You know, she was the top Foundation Scholar in their cohort at Sinegard. Dan here was a Schol, too”—she looped a hand around the crook of his arm—“before he’d gone to Hesrach Medicine. Freaking nerd.”

Dan rolled his eyes fondly.

“Thanks for accepting our invitation, Rin,” he said warmly. Muzha’s fiancé is a sun-kissed, sinewy man with windswept hair, a gummy smile, and an easygoing manner. “Nezha tells us you’re always busy, so I’m grateful you cleared out your schedule for us and the wedding.”

The earnestness with which Dan said this made Rin’s stomach turn with some guilt. It disappeared almost immediately when Muzha chimed in: “People are finally going to stop thinking this one’s a loser.” She jabbed a thumb at Nezha. “You’re doing our family a favor, Rin, really.”

“You will be coming with Nezha to the welcome party.”

Stunned, Rin looked up at Yin Saikhara’s cold, severe face. The lack of inflection in her voice made it unclear if it was a pronouncement or question.

“Yes, ma’am,” she said smoothly before her son could disabuse her of the notion. “I’ll be there.”

The moment the Yins’ black limo pulled out into the highway, Nezha rounded on her.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He hissed.

Rin crossed her arms. “Did you really think I was gonna let you fuck me over without consequence?” She arched a supercilious brow. “I wasn’t gonna lose my goddamn job just because you’re a liar and a pussy, Nezha.”

“The fuck did you just call me—?”

He charged at her. Rin wasn’t quite sure what Nezha meant to do exactly, but it didn’t matter. Instinct had taken over, and before Rin could think about it her knee shot out, connecting with his body with a satisfying squelch.

Nezha let out a strangled whimper as he crumpled over grey stone.

“You insane bitch,” he gasped, clutching his groin.

“Oh, I’m insane, alright.” Rin stepped over his curled form. She scowled. “Not nearly as insane as using me as your goddamn cover to your family.”

“I’m going to make you regret this.” The pronouncement was patently ridiculous considering he was wincing and rocking on his ass.

“Oh, baby,” she jeered with a nasty smile. “I would love to see you try.”

Nezha clambered to his feet with a glare, and before Rin could make a run for it his painful grip closed around her arm.

“Let go of me!” She yelled as he dragged her across the gravel of the parking lot.

“Not so plucky now,” he gritted out, “are we, Fang?”

The vitriol and condescension with which he says this—reminiscent of those first two years in Sinegard—made her skin prickle with anger. She dug the nails of her other hand to get him to let up.

Nezha winced in pain, but his grip only grew tighter as he slapped her hand away.

“Don’t fucking try that shit with me, you bitch,” he sneered.

“Go to fucking hell.”

“Go on, I’ll be right behind you.”

Nezha threw the door to a stupidly luxurious silver car open, and shoved Rin into the passenger seat. He flicked a switch on the jamb before slamming it with a force that made her back teeth rattle.

Rin tugged repeatedly at the handle, but for some reason it wouldn’t fucking budge.

“Did you fucking child lock this door?” She shrieked when Nezha got inside.

He glared at her hatefully and sped off.

This is how she finds herself half an hour’s drive northeast of Arlong, in a luxury car cruising at a hundred and twenty-five kilometers per hour.

Nezha turns the wheel, inching precariously close to the truck right outside Rin’s window.

“Leave me out of your goddamn death wish, Yin Nezha,” Rin shouts.

Nezha grins maliciously and steps on the accelerator, throwing her back.

“Stop the fucking car, asshole!”

“By all means, keep yammering if you want us to go out by vehicular accident,” Nezha says condescendingly.

Her chest tightens with loathing.

Rin turns the knobs of the fan and thermostat, sending a blast of hot air onto Nezha’s face.

“Not—your goddamn car,” he growls, reaching for the dials to turn them back down.

Rin shoves his hand away, jamming her fingers on the radio and entering the punk-rock station she loves that Nezha used to mock as ‘garbage noise music.’

Auspiciously, a loud rock scream issues at that moment from his car speakers.

“Are you insane?” He yells above the music, trying to turn it down. Their shoving makes him lose focus for half a second, and the car swerves violently, throwing Rin to the window with a shriek.

Nezha yelps, wrangling the steering wheel back under control, barely avoiding the car to their right.

Rin cups her ears with a flinch as the car blares its horn at them. The driver rolls down his window to flip Nezha out. “Are you trying to get us killed, you fuckwad?”

“Stop the car. I’m going down,” Rin declares.

“Jump out the window, then,” Nezha challenges.

“Pull over to the goddamn side!”

“And how do you suggest—ah, fuck.” A siren comes on behind them, and a megaphone announces: ‘DR-A97LK9, pull over to the side.’ Blue-and-red lights flash intermittently into Nezha’s car. He throws her a dirty look. “Now you’ve really fucking done it, you bitch.”

“I’ve done it? I’m not the one driving, jackass.”

Like a meek lamb, Nezha slows as they pull over to the nearest shoulder overlooking a wide, empty swath of rolling hills, a ribbon of what Rin assumes is a tributary of the Murui running through it. They stop before a green road sign that reads Daba National Park 45, Golyn Niis 223.

Nezha rolls down his car window as a grey-haired, mustached freeway patrol officer demands: “What the hell were you swerving and speeding like that for? You nearly totaled the car beside you.”

“Good morning, officer.” Like a switch has been flicked, Nezha turns polite and smiling. “I’m very sorry for the trouble. My girlfriend over here was insisting on holding hands while driving. I told her it wasn’t safe, but she doesn’t drive herself, so she thought I was just being cold for no reason.”

Rin chokes on her spit. “Excuse me?”

Nezha glares at her surreptitiously.

The officer pulls a disgusted face. “You think this is a movie house or a motel? This is a freeway. Both hands on the steering wheel at all times. You were also ten kilometers over the speed limit.”

“Ah, well, we’re on our honeymoon, you see,” Nezha explains.

The officer’s eyes flicker towards Nezha’s fingers. “You just said she was your girlfriend.”

“We’re eloping. There’s a nice little chapel an hour out of Golyn Niis, we’re meeting the Reverend in two hours, so we’re in a bit of a rush. Then we’ll go on our honeymoon after. We’re thinking of making the drive up to Tiger Province; Khurdalain, if I could manage it,” Nezha blathers, at the same time Rin spits out: “Are you bloody insane?”

“What the hell is wrong with you two?” The officer demands.

“We’re expecting our first child; it’s all been so sudden and our families don’t agree. That’s why she’s been hormonal these days, why we decided to elope. We wanted our child to have both a mother and a father.” Nezha gives the officer a wide-eyed, imploring look. “She also needs to pee. The gynecologist told her to never hold it in or she’ll have an infection. It’s her first trimester, too, so if you don’t mind, officer. . .”

Rin stares at Nezha, completely gobsmacked at how easily this is all coming to him, and also at the fact that he somehow thinks that’s going to work.

But then the officer says gruffly: “Oh, alright, go along.” He sighs, stuffing the sheaf of tickets in his back pocket.

“That’s it?” Rin blurts out. “You’re gonna let us go just like that?”

The officer gives her a stern look. “You don’t want to mess around with urinary tract infections, Miss. My wife had one with our fourth child. Real nasty stuff, had to get a c-section and all. This your first baby?”

“Yes,” Nezha supplies quickly before she could interrupt.

“Well, you don’t want that.” The officer glares at Rin like he thinks she’s the more irresponsible one of them both. “Our kid stayed for two weeks in the NICU. Horrible time, we weren’t even first-time parents then. But you two are young and inexperienced. Don’t fuck around with any of that.”

“No, sir,” Nezha says, his relief palpable.

“And as for you, sir, you’ve got to grow up.” He tells Nezha sternly. “None of that reckless shit. It’s fine if you’re a bachelor, but now that you have a wife”—he jabs a stubby finger at Rin—“you can’t leave her to raise a baby all on her own. And don’t worry about your folks. They can grumble all they want, but your lives are yours to live.”

“Of course,” he agrees.

To Rin’s utter bewilderment, the officer reaches inside the car to pat Nezha’s shoulder genially.

“Go on, son. Make an honest woman of your bride. It’s a long way from Golyn Niis.” He gives Nezha one last level look. “I’m radioing the other freeway patrol cars to keep an eye on you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Nezha calls out cordially after the officer’s retreating back. “You have a good day.”

“What the fuck,” Rin mutters under her breath as she watches the officer drive away.

Nezha pulls up his car window. For a moment, they fall into a tense silence.

“Well, no wonder we’re in this goddamn pickle,” Rin hisses. “You lie like you fucking breathe.”

Nezha scowls at her, all traces of humor from his face gone. He steps out of the car and slams the door behind him.

She’s so done with this asshole’s theatrics.

Rin pulls the car door to follow him out, then screams, remembering he’d child locked it. She climbs over the center console, jamming over the shift and the AC buttons, and scrambles out of the driver’s side door.

“Are you gonna tell me now why you drove us out to the middle of bum-fuck nowhere?” Rin demands.

“Haven’t figured that one out yet? Thought you were supposed to be the clever one,” he sneers.

“Listen asshole, if you’re just here to bandy words—”

He turns to look at her.

“You’re here,” Nezha says in a low, dangerous voice, “because your smart ass is going to tell me exactly what the fuck you were planning on doing after you’d showed up at the cathedral proclaiming you’re my girlfriend.”

She has to suppress a flinch at the violence in his voice.

The corners of her vision pulse red. “Fucking bastard. Was I the one who lied to my mother and sister in the first place?”

“I told them whatever they wanted to hear in private,” Nezha snarls. “You announced it to half the fucking city.”

“I’m not the one who did that first, either,” Rin fires back. “That was your sister and cousin, at the exhibit. And you know how that would’ve been prevented?” She steps closer and cranes her neck up to glare at him. “If you hadn’t fucking lied in the first place.”

“It wouldn’t have mattered if you hadn’t come here.”

“Nikan is a free country, I can go to Arlong if I fucking well please.”

“To our museum?” Nezha’s hair is ruffling from the cars speeding past in the freeway. “Thousands of museums in this country, and you had to go to this one?”

“My client told me to go here, so that’s where I’ll go.”

“And why the fuck would they ask you to do that?”

Rin crosses her arms, head pounding.

“He read my stupid thesis for his case,” she grumbles, face growing hot.

He lets out a noisy breath.

“And you asked my sister if you could come.”

“Well, was I supposed to ask you?”

They glare at each other hatefully. Nezha slams a fist on his car hood.

“Fuck’s sake,” he mutters darkly.

Rin squares her shoulders. “I don’t care about that. Tell me how you’re going to fix this.”

He scowls. “What the fuck is there even for me to do?”

“Get your sister to sign my fucking papers, asshole.”

Nezha lets out a horrible, mean laugh. “Oh, Rin. You’re a fool if you think I give a shit about your goddamn papers.”

Calm down. You still have leverage. “Oh, but I think you really should,” she mocks. “Jiejie has given me the invitation, and she told me your mother and father are expecting my attendance, since you’ve put it off for so long.”

Rin retrieves Muzha and Dan’s invitation from the car.

Nezha doesn’t take it. His face is stricken as he stares at their brush-penned names together. Rin feels a rush of vindictive glee at the thought that it’s unsettled him the way it’s done her.

His eyes flickered up to her face.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Rin?” Nezha whispers harshly, his expression mutinous. Wretched. “Do you seriously mean for us to pretend?”

She stiffens. She hears clearly the unspoken corollary. You mean for us to do this, after everything that’s happened?

After the way you’ve fucking left?

Her stomach twists in guilt and discomfort. She quashes it.

“Unless you have a better suggestion, like convincing your sister to sign my papers without me having to attend all these functions, then yes.” Rin affects her best indifferent expression. “I know this is a foreign concept to you, but you have to understand I’m just trying to keep the lights on and put food on the table. I’m not concerned about things getting awkward or any of that shit. It’s just work. It means nothing to me.”

“Of course,” Nezha sneers, his face stricken. “Of course you would say that.”

“Do I look like I want to do this, Nezha? I don’t,” Rin says impatiently, irritated by his dramatics. “But I’m not a goddamn pussy like you. And unlike you, I’m not idiotic enough to not recognize that I put myself in this pickle, and that I don’t have any other good choices at the moment. You’re free to defy your mother and father, if you like. But if you’re too much of a coward for even that, I’d stop making this weird and suck it up.”

That stuns Nezha into silence.

She waits with bated breath for his next move, heart racing. A long minute passes without him managing a reply.

“So, are we done here?” Rin presses.

Nezha’s expression twists into an ugly sneer.

“‘Are we done?’” He scoffs. He shakes his head, a single, sharp jerk. “You make me laugh, Fang Runin.”

“Well, I’m not your fucking dancing monkey,” she grits out. She forces her breaths through the knot in her chest. “If you have no more questions, let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Why don’t you tell me, Rin?” Nezha’s grown completely still, and she has to strain her ears to hear him speak over the cars and wind. “Don’t you think you might have a few things you’d like to say to me?”

They stand there for what feels like a small eternity, battling off nerves. He probably thinks she’ll budge on this, that these stupid appeals to emotion work on her. But that’s one thing, of many, that Nezha never understood about her.

She has no room in her life for sentiment. No fucking time for nostalgia. No patience for looking back at the past, and picking at it like a scab, making it bleed and bleed again. All that matters to her is getting out of the shithole that she’s in. All that matters is the future.

“I’m talking about our agreement.” Rin gives him a long, cool look. “Because outside of that, no. I have nothing else to say to you, Nezha.”

His face spasms, as if struggling with the humiliating impulse to demand answers. The intervening time gives Rin the chance to study his face. At twenty-six Nezha has grown into his familiar features, somehow more infuriatingly beautiful. But the sum of his parts is completely alien. Finer and severe. Like the boy she’d once known was a mere digression, and now he’s finally come home to his true self.

“Fine. So that’s how it’s gonna be,” Nezha says softly. “I think we’re done here.”

Before Rin could anticipate what he’s about to do, Nezha climbs back into the car and speeds off into the freeway.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

With a great rumble, the sky releases heavy sheets of rain.

“Fucking asshole,” Rin grits out, shaking her thumb at the freeway with greater desperation.

She’s completely drenched. There are no bus stops or gas stations nearby that she could walk to, and there’s no fucking coverage where Nezha left her.

Her arm has already gone numb from holding it out and the cold when a familiar pick-up truck stops in front of her.

“What are you doing?” Thankfully, it’s a different and much younger patrol officer this time.

“I need a ride to the nearest bus station,” Rin yells back.

The officer unlocks the passenger seat door, and Rin climbs in gratefully.

“How the fuck did you even get in there?” The officer demands, scrunching his nose at the droplets Rin’s flicking over his seats as he merges back into traffic.

“My ex dropped me off,” she grumbles, patting herself dry with the box of tissues he’d offered. “Long story.”

The officer raises an intrigued brow, but at least this one has the tact not to pry.

He drops Rin off at a bus station without much ceremony. When she explains to him that she left her wallet and phone in said ex-boyfriend’s car, he lets out an exasperated sigh and buys her a pre-loaded bus card, which he hands over with a few banknotes enough for two modest meals before sending her off.

“You better get on before it gets dark, Miss. And don’t date assholes next time,” the young officer says wearily.

“Don’t worry.” Rin grimaces before hopping on the bus. “Learned that the hard way.”

She has to transfer buses thrice, and the whole trip nearly takes her three hours—seriously, fuck Nezha to the deepest circle of the Makerist hells—so as soon as she gets home, she boots up her laptop and calls Kitay to complain about the utterly fantastic developments of the situation.

Instead of commiserating like she’d hoped, Kitay only lets out a long-suffering sigh. “Rin, why the fuck would you goad him on?”

She stares in disbelief. “It’s not my fault he was such a goddamn asshole!”

“I told you to have a calm conversation with Nezha. Which by the way, you should’ve done years ago”—he gives her a pointed look that Rin ignores—“and explained the situation so you two could come up with a compromise. I didn’t tell you to fuck him up and back him into a corner.”

“He wouldn’t have agreed. He would’ve said no just because he could.”

“Look, I know he’s a prick, but if you’d just told him—”

“And I’m gonna stop you right there.” Rin cuts a hand through air. “It’s done, Kitay. He started this by lying at my expense. If he sends me home, he’s fucked. I just gave him the stupid game he was asking for,” she grumbles darkly.

“Tiger’s tits.” Kitay removes his glasses and massages his temples. “I can’t believe I lived long enough to see you get back into your Nezha bullshit.”

“I am not back in my Nezha bullshit.”

“Well, I suppose I’ll be seeing you in Arlong in a few weeks.” He frowns, his brow furrowing. “Wait. So hold on. When you say you two are pretending, how deep into it are we talking?” She could practically see the gears turning in his mind as his face breaks into a tentative smile. “Are you gonna hold hands and look into each other’s eyes and be as disgusting as you were in Sinegard?”

“Are you insane?” She yells, skin crawling. She realizes with rising panic that she hasn’t actually considered this. “The fuck are you even talking about?”

“Rin. Surely you realize pretending to be lovers entails some level of acting to sell the fiction. If you’re not convincing, the both of you are fucked.”

Rin would never admit this, but to her horror, she’s slowly realizing that he’s right. Memories she hasn’t prodded in years flash in her mind’s eye then: Old Rin, as she sometimes referred to her, young and carefree as a girl with her history could be. Naïve and hopelessly in love and completely stupid. Someone she no longer recognizes, a girl burned down into ashes with her past.

Her heart begins racing in her chest.

“Oh, this is exciting.” Kitay laughs when Rin doesn’t manage a reply. “You’ll have to dust off those revolting pet names for the occasion. Remember those? What was it Nezha used to call you back then? Darling? Dearest?”

“I’m gonna disembowel you with my bare hands, Chen Kitay—”

“Ah. It was love or baby, wasn’t it?” Kitay juts out his chin and lowers his voice in what he thinks is a good Nezha impression. “‘Rin, baby, give me a kiss. And threaten me with bodily harm or murder, it’s fucking sexy when you do that. Punch me too while you’re at it, I think it’s really hot when you beat me up.’”

Rin’s face grows hot. “You put a single toe in Arlong and I swear on the gods—”

“You had a secret one for him too.” Kitay, the absolute fucking traitor, wags his brows. “You pretended to hate them, but I swear you slipped a few times.”

“I’ll gut and carve you open like a roasted pig,” she yells at her phone, wishing his ear would drop off from the sheer force of her screaming. “I’ll lop your head off in your sleep.”

He cackles remorselessly. “Come on, Rin. It’s just two weeks. And you’ve got years of experience being a simp for Nezha. Honestly, how hard could it be?”

She drops the call on him at that.

Useless. Absolutely fucking useless.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

She’s not entirely certain how, but Rin manages to bury herself in work after that. It helps that Altan and Chaghan’s deadlines have ramped up at an alarming speed, and that Souji’s micromanagement and harassment have somehow also worsened.

Despite her best efforts to ignore the specter of Muzha and Dan’s welcome party, Saturday arrives with terrifying alacrity. Nezha hasn’t contacted her since that day at the freeway, so Rin goes to the museum, secretly relieved as the guards continue to let her in, and as Salkhi greets her with her usual cheerfulness.

For two blissful hours, Rin works and deludes herself into thinking Nezha has found a way to get them off the hook.

That bubble is quickly burst as she’s reading through historical reports on the demographics of the different townships of Speer during the war years, when a text from an unsaved number comes in:

Well, shit.

Rin glances at a clock, stomach sinking. She hasn’t opened Muzha’s invitation again, but she’s sure the party is an evening event.

Rin chucks her phone.

Fuck this shit.

Fuck Nezha, fuck her job, and fuck this stupid wedding.

Miserably, she shuts off her computer. She’d just finished putting her things away when the door opens and Salkhi pokes her head in.

“Dr. Fang? The driver Mr. Yin sent has arrived for you.”

She grimaces.

“Right.” She starts towards the door. “I was just on my way up.”

“I heard it’s your first time meeting the family, but don’t be nervous,” Salkhi tells her placatingly as they walk up to the lobby. She’s still attentive as ever, but Rin’s constant presence has at least encouraged Salkhi to be more comfortable around her. “I know the Yins seem intimidating—I mean, they are intimidating, but you’ll get used to them. Also I’m sure Mr. Yin will take very good care of you.”

Rin suppresses her snort on Salkhi’s account, who’s been nothing but kind to her since she got here.

“Thanks,” she says drily. “Either way I’ll live.”

A black car similar to the one Nezha’s family used is parked at the driveway. A severe looking man is waiting by its back door, and when they approach he inclines his head in a single, sharp nod.

“Eriden, this is Dr. Fang,” Salkhi informs him.

“Are we going to the party already? It’s a little too early for that,” Rin asks.

“No, ma’am,” Eriden says with a curt precision that brooked no conversation.

“So where are we going?”

“Forty minutes north of Arlong.”

She doesn’t bother asking more after that, and climbs in after bidding Salkhi goodbye. Eriden pulls out into the highway and merges into the freeway where Nezha deposited her days ago.

Rin tries not to focus on the apprehension she feels, watching the mountains and bright summer skies of Arlong outside. She and Nezha hadn’t dated very long, only two years, but there was a reason why she hadn’t met his family in all that time. She hadn’t been stupid enough to think she would be unobjectionable to his family, and even Muzha’s gregarious, albeit snobbish veneer, is suspicious to Rin. It would’ve mattered to Nezha that his family approved of his relationship, and he never really could defy them, so even if they’d carried on after Sinegard, Rin reasons, they were always going to wind up here.

Eriden makes an exit at Nanian, where the landscape shifts into quiet suburbs, mansions, and manicured lawns, similar to the Jade District where the Chens’ home was located, and where Rin spent all of her uni breaks. Kitay’s family has been nothing but kind to her, but privately she would remind herself that none of it had been really hers. She was only a visitor in Kitay’s Sinegard; and if the city had been kind to her in those weeks, it had only been on his account.

The car pulls up to a pair of gates; Eriden rolls down his window. A garbled noise issues from the topiary: “Name, please?”

“Eriden, sent here by Mr. Yin Nezha to drop off a Ms. Fang Runin.”

Rin’s heart starts racing. She doesn’t like this. She doesn’t like this at all.

The gates give a low creak, swinging open to admit them. Eriden maneuvers around a marble fountain, stopping before large white doors where a pair of uniformed staff are standing at attention. Her skin prickles. One of them opens the door for her, but Rin doesn’t get off.

“What’s this about?” She glares at Eriden through the rear view mirror. “Where are we?”

Eriden doesn’t look at all perturbed. It’s the staff who opened her door who speaks: “The young mistress is waiting for you inside, ma’am.”

Young mistress? “Who the fuck—?”

The front doors slam open. Then a shrill voice she hasn’t heard in half a decade:

“Where the fuck is she? Do I look like I have all day?”

Rin stumbles out into the noonday sun, breathless and dizzied.

“Venka?”

From the stoop, Venka scowls at her.

“Wipe that stupid look off your face,” she snaps. “And get your ass inside. It’s fucking sweltering.”

She doesn’t wait for Rin to respond and marches back in.

When Rin steps into the wide, circular foyer, Venka is already halfway up the spiral staircase, her silk dress fluttering in the light breeze. Rin can’t take her eyes off her. She hadn’t counted on seeing Venka ever again, had thought it utterly outside of the realm of possibility, that she decides it deserves comment.

“What are you doing here?” Rin asks when she catches up to her.

Venka doesn’t spare her a glance. “What the fuck do you think? This is my house.”

“Well—why am I here?”

She scrunches her pert nose. “You weren’t seriously going to the party looking like that, were you?”

Rin’s hackles rise when she finally realizes what’s happening. “And if I was?”

Venka rolls her eyes, not deigning to reply.

They make their way down the hall in tense silence. Venka’s face is largely unchanged from their days in uni—still striking and beautiful, with a harsh, unforgiving edge. They had been inseparable, the four of them, for a time: studying together, going on weekend excursions, constantly talking.

She hadn’t dwelt on the temporariness of that arrangement until it had been pulled like a rug from under her feet, leaving her with no choice but to swallow the bitter truth that it was always bound to end: those bright, easy days in Sinegard where her biggest worry had been the next exam, where everything had been simple, and her entire world had been her studies, her odd part-time jobs, and her friendships: her and Kitay, her and Venka. Her and Nezha.

How stupid she’d been to think she could have everything. That she would get to keep it all forever.

Venka throws open a pair of white doors to a large bedroom with a bed on one side, and floor-length windows overlooking the rose garden on the other. Rin gapes at the chandelier in amazement.

“Your place is insane,” she murmurs.

Venka says nothing. When Rin looks back down, her blood-red lips are pressed into a nasty scowl, arms crossed tightly in front of her chest.

“What?” Rin asks warily.

“You owe me an explanation,” Venka demands.

Of course, Rin thinks. Of course she would ask. This has always been Venka’s way: curt and precise and to the point.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Fang Runin.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “You fucking vanished on us.”

She stiffens. “I didn’t vanish—”

“Didn’t you?” Venka says shrilly. “You couldn’t be contacted. Didn’t show up to graduation. Didn’t tell us where you’d gone. Well, I’m sure you told Kitay because he’s your best friend, but of course the fucking prick wouldn’t tell us anything.”

“Leave Kitay out of this,” Rin snaps, quashing the guilt in her stomach. “If you have a problem, take it up with me.”

“Oh, I have a fucking problem, alright.” She jabs a manicured finger at Rin. “Why did you block me? Why hadn’t you told me you weren’t fucking dead?”

That is not what she expected to hear. Had Venka taken that as a personal slight? Because none of it had been about her. Not even close. “Really? That’s what you’re mad about.”

“Oh, don’t you dare—”

“For fuck’s sake, Venka. You know why.” Before she could retort, Rin grits out: “Because you’re his meimei.”

Because he couldn’t know where I’d gone, she doesn’t say. Or what had happened.

“Oh, okay. I get it. So we only hung out because you were sleeping with him.”

“What the fuck?” Rin’s angry now. On top of everything she’s already dealing with, she doesn’t have the bandwidth to deal with Venka. “That’s not what it was and you know it—”

“No, Rin, I don’t know.” Venka’s voice turns vicious. Despite what they’re arguing about, there’s no warmth in her expression, no sympathy or regret. Only cold fury and indictment, the certainty that Rin had irreparably fucked this up. “What was I supposed to think? That we were friends?” She lets out a cruel laugh. “A friend would’ve given the courtesy of a heads up before she’d fucked out of Sinegard.”

She flinches. “Venka—”

“And alright, I’m not perfect, brilliant Kitay. I was friends with Nezha and bullied the shit out of you and apologized a year too late. But I thought the next four years counted for something.” Venka crosses her arms, beautiful face pale with anger. “Because for your information, I wasn’t going to take sides after you broke up. If you didn’t want Nezha knowing where you’d gone I wouldn’t have fucking betrayed your confidence.”

Rin feels the anger punched out of her like a hot balloon bursting and shrinking into nothing.

They stood in a palpable, heavy silence.

“It wasn’t like that,” she whispers. What else could she even say?

They flash in her mind’s eye then, memories she didn’t know she even had:

Venka, banging on her door at five o’ clock for their Wednesday and Saturday morning runs. Venka, thrifting for the first time at Rin’s insistence because she was going to fucking use her own money and that was all she could afford, and finding after five hours with wicked glee the red dress Rin wore to hers and Nezha’s first date. The one she left hanging in her old apartment.

Venka, pale and still in the gynecologist’s office, telling Rin she would’ve taken a cab home if not for the stupid doctors who wouldn’t discharge her without a chaperone. And later: what happened, weeks ago after the Halloween party. Why she wouldn’t tell the boys or her family, lest they treat her like the broken thing she wasn’t. That she trusted Rin to be circumspect, because she knew what it was like to cut away the gangrenous parts of her, too rotten and heavy to keep.

Rin knows, should have known then, that Venka would have done the same for her.

“Friends don’t pull that shit on each other, Rin,” Venka says coldly. “So, no. I’d have to assume we never actually were.”

“That’s not true.” Her voice comes out warbled and wretched. She blinks against the sudden sting in her eyes. “Venka, I’m so s—”

“No. Shut up.” She shoves a towel into Rin’s chest, making her stumble. “Don’t fucking dally in the shower. I might be good, but I’m not a fucking miracle worker.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“I look ridiculous.”

“You always do,” Venka says nastily. “Undress. You’re hurting my eyes.”

They’ve been at this for three hours now.

Rin had been stuffed into a soft robe far too long for her and deposited in a chair where Venka proceeded to pile on a million products on Rin’s face. She kept a running commentary on the many ways Rin had failed at basic upkeep, from the sad state of Rin’s brows (“You could start a bushfire with these”) to the small hairs sticking out of her head (“Cute if you’re a baby carrot, fucking ridiculous if you aren’t”) to the texture of her skin (“God, this has to be drier than the Baghra desert.”)

“If you’re gonna keep insulting me I’m gonna fuck out of here,” Rin finally snaps.

Venka grabs her chin, holding up a black eyeliner threateningly. “No. You come asking for my help, we’re gonna do this shit my way.”

“Well, I hadn’t actually asked for your help. I was deposited here.”

She makes a noise at the back of her throat.

“I suppose not. Close your eyes.” Rin obeys because she knows what’s good for her, and Venka lightly lines her lid. “It would’ve been funny to let you go looking the way you did, but I want that bitch Cai Jing to lose money. Be grateful I hate her more than you.”

The familiar name sets Rin on edge. “What does that even mean?”

“Nezha didn’t tell you? How romantic,” Venka sneers.

“Tell me what?”

Venka opens her mouth, but thinks better of it. “It’ll be easier to show you.”

She brandishes her phone, scrolling for a few moments with an intense look of concentration, before handing it over to Rin.

Rin’s head is swimming.

She’s no stranger to judgment and cruel remarks. Frankly, this doesn’t even scratch the surface of the worst things that had ever been said about her—the honor of uttering them, of course, belonged to Nezha—and their insults were exceedingly soulless and uninspired. That’s not what bothers her.

What’s disturbing is that they’ve somehow found an old photo of her.

She thought she’d scrubbed everything from existence.

Rin’s had lots of experience disappearing. She’d excelled at it, and why wouldn’t she? She’d come into the Fangs’ household from nowhere: a child with no history or name, treated like the dirt ubiquitous in Tikany. When she’d topped the Keju, it was the easiest thing to sever ties with that life. To pretend she could start over with a clean slate. But of course, there was no such thing. Rin learned this the hard way in Sinegard, where the past had followed her like a stench she couldn’t wash off, marking her as different from everyone else. Separate.

She should’ve known it was only a matter of time before whispers of it came creeping back.

She hands back Venka’s phone, unsettled.

“Why the fuck do they care so much?” Rin asks, affecting her best flippant air.

“Why do you think? They want Nezha for themselves.” Venka resumes her work on Rin’s eyelid. “Nobody knows he’s fucking stupid, and nobody cares. He’s the only Yin left for the taking and that’s all that matters.”

That does make a lot of sense. It had been that way in uni—the looks of disgust and contempt when it got around that they were dating, the way girls walked up to him, pointedly ignoring the fact that he was holding Rin’s hand, or that she was curled into him.

“And what’s this about Cai Jing losing money?”

Venka laugh is cold and cruel. “They started a whole betting pool on you. Jing bet ten thousand yuan you’re wearing the waiter’s uniform again tonight. She might be vapid as shit, but considering what you were planning on wearing. . . let’s just say that bitch is an excellent gambler.”

Venka’s bedroom has suddenly grown hot.

“Nezha’s been abroad for years, and nobody knew shit about him aside from whispers about a girlfriend at Sinegard. Now that you’ve actually showed up, these people have it out for you. So now you know,” Venka says serenely, clearly relishing the way Rin’s shifting in discomfort. “Nezha cut you a stupid fucking deal. I can’t believe he thinks this will work.”

So a few rich assholes hate her on account of being Nezha’s “girlfriend.” So what. In the grand scheme of things, Rin decides their hatred couldn’t possibly hurt her. She’s only here for one purpose, and that is to get the project done.

And as long as she gets what she needs, she doesn’t need to concern herself whether or not things work out on Nezha’s end.

“Well, they needn’t worry about getting me out of the picture, because I’m not even in the picture to begin with,” she says drily. “I’m just here to do my job.”

Venka rolls her eyes, as if she thinks Rin’s a halfwit beyond helping.

“Okay. Suit yourself.” She shrugs, brushing her brows. “But don’t say nobody warned you.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Somehow Venka’s an even worse driver than Nezha.

It is, at the least, some distraction from the fact that Venka refuses to speak to her. Rin doesn’t dare laugh, no matter how funny she finds Venka’s uninterrupted commentary on the stupidity of Arlong’s drivers, and no matter how much listening to her makes her heart squeeze in nostalgia, because she’s certain any attempt at small talk will only be met with utter hostility.

They make an exit into an unmarked road that stretches on forever, until they arrive before tall gates flanked by dense topiaries. Recognizing Venka’s car, a uniformed staff waves them in.

Rin’s jaw drops.

They drive down the hill overlooking a vast field. At the bottom of the driveway is a large, manicured garden intermittently decorated with tasteful lights and paper lanterns, surrounding a pond the size of a football field.

“Where are we?” Rin asks, gaping at the swans floating over the dark waters.

“Where do you think?” Venka snaps, as if annoyed that Rin had spoken up. “We’re at Nezha’s place.”

“This is Nezha’s house?”

The word house is inadequate for what this is. The Yin estate is a wide complex of buildings situated in the middle of all this green. The architecture is in the traditional Imperial Nikara style, with low, curved roofs and symmetrical posts.

“Well, this was part of the old Palace of Arlong, so. Not a house, per se.”

Nezha literally grew up in a palace.

That actually explains so much.

Two tuxedoed men open their doors, and Rin stumbles out, the briny breeze rolling in from the Murui hitting her with a spell of vertigo. Venka doesn’t wait for her, already halfway up the steps when Rin hurries after her.

Muzha and Dan’s welcome party is an assault on the senses.

The first things that draw her eye: Large chandeliers. Tall, arcing ceilings. The façade might have been Nikara, but the interiors are completely Hesperian. Rin looks anxiously down at the foyer. There are easily hundreds of people, dressed to the nines, and suddenly she feels grateful for the detour to Venka’s. She would’ve been more out of place here in her work clothes than she had been at the exhibit.

“I’m going to find my friend,” Venka says shortly.

She disappears into the crowd before Rin could say anything.

Her stomach sinks. It shouldn’t have surprised her that Venka wants nothing to do with her, but it still fucking hurts.

But what could she do? What was the point of regret? There’s no changing the past, Rin knows this, no matter how hard she wishes and wishes for it. No taking any of it back.

She blinks away the pain in her eyes. Feels the curious, censorious gazes like thousands of ants crawling over her skin. Rin shifts in discomfort, anger prickling beneath her skin. This is all Nezha’s fault. If he weren’t such a fucking coward and a liar, she wouldn’t be here and none of this would’ve happened.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Nezha emerges from the back of the room. A hush falls over the crowd as he walks past, conversations growing soft enough for Rin to finally hear the music.

His dark, lovely eyes meet hers in the low light.

Rin’s heart skips a beat.

He’s still so beautiful, blinking back with that pale, delicate face. A few people try to talk to him, but Nezha only has eyes for her as he approaches, a placid, errant moon finally being drawn back into orbit.

Rin swallows the knot in her throat when he stops before her.

“Happy?” She mutters in an undertone, if only to get the first word in. “I’m here. I fucking showed up.”

She thought Nezha would take the bait, or say something snide. Instead he steps in close. Close enough that the details of his face come into perfect view; close enough for his familiar, aquatic perfume to send a wave of nausea and nostalgia up her throat. Close enough for her to feel the heat of him beneath her skin, coiling around her lungs so she can’t breathe.

His arm wraps around her waist. Rin flinches.

“Nezha,” she hisses, “what the fuck are you—?”

“I am happy.” His voice is strange. Different. He tucks a stray hair behind her ear. Something buried deep within her stirs, a hidden beast answering to something old and finally familiar, coming back to life. “You look incredible, love.”

Love, Nezha said. The way he used to. As if he meant it.

Warning bells go off in her head. Her body feels wooden, like it can’t decide if it wants to leave or put up a fight.

“Don’t just stand there, Rin,” he whispers into her ear briefly, and for a moment his hatred feels like she’s being thrown a lifeline in the middle of the ocean. “You know how this works. This shouldn’t be so fucking hard.”

But then he pulls back, and the riptide catches her by the ankles.

“Ready?” Nezha laces their fingers with a startlingly familiar tenderness. His expression doesn’t betray the contempt and unfamiliarity of the last five years, only the spitting image of the face she loved in Sinegard, all those summers ago.

Rin wants to run. As far and as hard and as fast as she could, to where the past and its menagerie of horrors can’t reach her.

They shouldn’t be doing this. How the fuck is he doing this? How could he reach for Old Nezha, her Nezha, so easily, as if he’d just been there this entire time and never left—as if she had never left?

“Just fucking get this over with,” Rin grits out.

His smile is beautiful and open, the way it was in her memories and worst nightmares.

“Good,” he says, more to the guests honed in on their conversation than to her. “Then it’s about time everyone met my beautiful, brilliant girlfriend.”

Nezha slips his fingers between hers. Panic rises in her like a spring tide. His touch is exactly the way she remembers: tender and unsettling and like being set on fire. He leads her into the crowd, smiling and blasé, and all the while Rin feels like she’s coming undone.

Her teeth chatter. It’s all she can do not to vomit.

What the fuck has she gotten herself into?

Chapter Text

“What the fuck are you doing?” Rin demands.

She can’t figure out where Nezha’s brought her. After plucking her off the foyer before hundreds of guests like some infernal Don Juan, they didn’t head over to the gardens like she thought they would, leading her down a silent, cavernous hallway before opening the door to a pitch-black room and pushing her inside. She was immediately smothered on all four directions by fabric, and the room—no, cupboard, is cloistered and musty, heavy with the smell of leather and mothballs.

“You know, if you’re about to murder me, you’re being painfully obvious about it,” Rin yaps just to goad him on.

Nezha snorts. “Believe me, I wouldn’t make this much of an effort just to get you killed.”

Before she could retort, the light flicks on. Rin winces, blinking against the spots in her vision. Rows of trench coats and puffer jackets on hangers materialize around them; and on the floor, half as many pairs of winter boots.

“You have a room for your guests’ coats?” She blurts.

Nezha makes a face. “Please. This one’s for our family. The one for guests is on the other wing; obviously it’s busy right now.”

“This is ridiculous,” Rin scoffs. “What else is in this godsdamn place? A horse stable? A moat? Catacombs where your ancestors hid the bones of the Yins’ many enemies?”

Nezha ignores the jab. “Before we go out there, we need to talk rules.”

She narrows her eyes at him.

“The fuck are you going on about?” She’s not entirely certain where the jackass is going with this, but she doesn’t trust the fucking sneer he’s wearing. “What the hell do we even need rules fo—?”

“First: No cursing,” he cuts in, voice dripping with utter condescension. “And in case you’re not aware, that includes, but is not limited to: ‘Shit,’ ‘fuck,’ ‘damn,’ ‘gods’—especially do not use anything with ‘god’ in it, not in front of my mother or father when he gets here, or members of the clergy.”

“Are they even supposed to be here? Considering you fucking hypocrites invite actual clergymen to these debaucheries I didn’t think you’d be such prudes.”

“Prudes? That’s called sophistication and having the intelligence to articulate ourselves without resorting to expletives.”

Rin stares at him. “That’s called pretentiousness, jackass.”

Nezha once again pretends to not have heard her. “Second: We have to be convincing, so no breaking character and no alluding to the ruse once we step out of this room and until we’ve left the estate.”

“Oh, joy. This is already the longest evening of my goddamn life,” she grumbles.

“Third: No snide remarks, no unsolicited opinions that are too political or inflammatory, and no bickering or debating. Not with me, or with anyone else. And I know you’re going to try shit, Rin”—Nezha casts her a pointed glare, which she returns with all the force of her hatred—“but piss off anyone out there and they could demand Muzha put a stop to your little project, and this diabolical bargain really will be for nothing.”

“Then you might as well bring a fucking lamp to the party,” Rin snaps, her chest tightening with anger. She anticipated having to be civil with him and everyone they come across, but asking her to efface any semblance of a forebrain or personality is just downright tyrannical. “What am I supposed to do, be your goddamn ornament?”

“If you won’t be able to control that vile mouth of yours, then yes,” Nezha says nastily. “Just shut up and enjoy the food and drink, and let me do all the talking. Speaking of which—don’t you dare get drunk.”

Now that’s Rin’s final straw.

“And he wants me to do this fucking sober!” She yells.

“Have you seen yourself inebriated?” Nezha demands incredulously. “Considering you manage to become a bigger disaster than you already are I don’t think that’s an insane thing to ask.”

“Fuck off. If you get to make rules then I do too.” These are completely arbitrary constraints Nezha’s making all because he enjoys the power trip. If the fucker thinks she’s the only one who gets to be miserable all evening, then he forgets who he’s talking to. “You’re not allowed to touch me, you’re not allowed to look or fucking breathe in my direction—and for the love of god, stop with the goddamn pet names.”

Nezha walking up to her at the foyer, smiling and taking her hand and calling her love the exact way he once did, triggered in Rin a fight-or-flight so intense the thought of being gutted and chucked into the Murui for fish feed sounds alluring in comparison.

He stares at her like she’s stupid. “Rin. What part of pretend girlfriend do you not understand? The point is to appear as if we—”

“I know what a pretend girlfriend is, you patronizing shit.” Even if Nezha has a point, Rin would sooner die than admit that. “But you could’ve at least given me a heads up before you tried anything.”

It’s not a matter of feeling violated, as such. But if Rin has to spend the next few hours on edge—girding herself for Nezha’s next touch, his next tender look, the unwanted barrage of memories she didn’t even realize she still has—she really will go on a fucking rampage.

To her surprise, he acquiesces.

“Alright. I’m sorry.” In all fairness, Nezha looks earnest. “I thought it would be obvious to you from the outset, but you’re right. I should’ve asked.” And there it was; of course the jackass was preternaturally incapable of saying anything half-decent without being a condescending asshole. “But you have to be realistic. Nobody’s going to buy the charade if we don’t—look and act the part.”

Rin scowls.

“Hands, waist, shoulders”—she counts out three fingers—“and absolutely nowhere else.”

“Fine.”

The words slip from her before she could think better of it. “And I’m not your love or baby, so don’t call me those, asshole.”

Nezha lets the silence hang.

“It’s weird.” Rin stumbles over the words, damn it; the deflection is a few beats too late, and the awkwardness has already had time to settle in. She crosses her arms tightly. “Think of something else if you insist on being this extra, for fuck’s sake.”

“Fine.” Nezha clears his throat. “We’ll go with—darling, then.”

Not baby or love, like he used to call her. Not (redacted), which had sometimes slipped out of her—and only on occasion and against her will, really, like whenever she’d been completely blissed out and about to. . . anyway, this is not information anyone could torture out of her, not even with the most sophisticated or timeworn methods, but suffice to say it isn’t that, either.

Darling, which she’d once scrunched her nose at, and which Nezha once told her was the default term of endearment in his parents’ social circles—usually couples trapped in sad, loveless arranged marriages without affection or intimacy. (“That could never be us,” he’d said then—early morning, Sinegard, bracing on the slippery floor of his shower because falling over would be so fucking stupid and funny; his mouth on the skin behind her ear, hot and wet; the sharp, delicious stretch of him, arching into it, pulling him in deep inside her; that precarious feeling of holding her feet over a thousand-foot drop; improbably, deliriously happy, utterly high on the thrill that only he had ever given her—“what we have, baby, it’s too fucking good to ever be that.”)

But it’s serviceable. More importantly: it meant nothing to them.

She blinks away the sudden, dizzied image from her mind’s eye, startled when the same face materializes before her.

This isn’t him, she reminds herself sternly. Old Nezha is gone forever, and life isn’t a goddamn movie.

“Fine.” Rin turns toward the door, swallowing down the sudden pressure building in her throat. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“Wait.” He holds out a hand. “Just one more thing. What do you do now?”

“What?” She snaps, startled.

Nezha hesitates.

“I mean, your job. What is it that you do now?” He asks slowly, as if he’s brand-new and only just learning to form words with his mouth. His gaze grows distant. “And where do you live? I realized I didn’t. . .”

Rin stiffens.

Of course you don’t, she thinks. I made sure of that.

Nezha catches himself. His expression hardens like lava cooling into solid rock.

“They’re going to ask.” His tone turns stilted. “I have to know.”

Something in her clenches. Rin crosses her arms.

“Senior Research Associate in Litigation Support,” she says shortly. Only what’s necessary, and nothing more. “Historical research firm in Ruijin.”

In the soil of the look Nezha gives her the last five years is buried. Its secrets. Its loose ends.

“Monkey Province,” he says softly.

“Congratulations,” Rin retorts, rather lamely. “You’d ace a fourth grade Nikara geography exam.”

For a moment Rin thinks he might ask more, demand answers he must think he’s entitled to. Her body stiffens and makes the decision for her, the same decision it’s made these past years: Run. Far, and hard, and fast. Until you put enough distance between yourself and everything threatening to hold you back. Until you make it. Even if you don’t know where you’re running to.

But then the moment passes, and he shakes his head. The coil in her chest loosens. And at last, that is a rule both Rin and Nezha could agree on, even without discussion or prior negotiation:

They’re here to pretend.

They’re not here for revisions or autopsies of the past.

“Enough of that shit.” Nezha pushes past her to the door and holds out a hand. When Rin doesn’t take it he huffs, and shoves his palm into hers roughly. This time there’s no hint of tenderness, however remote, in the touch. This time it doesn’t make her feel anything. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“There you two are,” Muzha says in amusement when Rin and Nezha find their way back to the foyer to curious stares.

The woman has somehow done the impossible, managing to look even lovelier than she already normally does. She’s wearing a red dress showing off her pale, willowy physique, and a large gold necklace set with many blood-red rubies. Her hand is curled around Dan’s elbow who, while respectable in his glasses and dark suit, looks otherwise comparatively plain.

“I was looking for Rin when I heard she came through fifteen minutes ago.” She casts Nezha a mildly disgusted look. “Don’t tell me you already tried to get a quick one in.”

Nezha chokes. “Why does your mind always go straight to the gutter?”

“Because look at her. Doesn’t she look absolutely stunning? Bet you got all hot and bothered.” She winks at her little brother, who makes a face. What was it that Nezha said about Yins and sophistication?

Muzha draws Rin into a tight, official hug.

“Now that’s more like it,” she murmurs into Rin’s ear, amused. “Well done, darling.”

“It’s all Venka,” she replies, for lack of anything better to say.

“Ah, yes. Ven always did have an eye for silhouette and color.”

Muzha links their arms, and together they make their way through the crowds, Nezha and Dan trailing behind them. She leads Rin down wide, carpeted hallways suffused with low light, and Rin can’t help but admire the tapestries, old portraits, and tasteful furniture on display. It’s not hard to believe this was once the residence of the Dragon Marshal and the presidents of the early Nikara Republic, and Rin now understands why the family opted to host this party at home: the Yin estate is simply bigger, better, and far more luxurious than any hotel in the city, maybe even the whole country.

Still, despite its cavernous size, the estate feels suffocating from the sheer number of people in attendance, who all looked important and wealthy. Rin swears she even sees a couple of celebrities milling around.

“You know, this may be my welcome party,” Muzha tells her conversationally, “but you, sweetheart, are the real woman of the hour, do you know that? Everyone’s been anxious to meet you.”

That snaps Rin out of her thoughts. She looks up at Muzha, who again is giving her that unsettling, knife-like smile.

“Anxious?” She repeats in a small voice. “Everyone?”

“Haven’t I already told you? Nezha’s a complete mystery to us all.” Muzha maneuvers her towards the doors leading outside. “Nobody has any idea what’s on that boy’s mind or what he’s up to.”

“I am right here, jiejie,” Nezha pipes up behind them crossly.

Muzha ignores him as they step out into the balmy summer evening.

“And he’s twenty-seven, completely in his prime. Everyone’s been waiting for him to get out there and fool around with girls. Looking for opportunity, if you catch my drift. Jin was an absolute menace at his age; godawful to Yubei, they’d already been seeing each other then.”

Nezha snorts. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Why? What’s he gonna do, roughhouse me?” She and Nezha exchange a look that might’ve been commiseration, before Muzha snorts. “I’d like to see him try.”

Rin watches this interaction with no small degree of bewilderment and fascination. To her knowledge, Nezha hadn’t been particularly close with either of the twins; that was partly the reason why he was always so sullen after spending the summer in Arlong, why in later years he’d cut those trips short, only staying to attend his little brother’s memorial and no longer. And even well into their relationship, family was the one topic Nezha hardly ever broached, and which Rin had been perfectly happy to oblige. She had no interest in discussing the other Yins, and she didn’t have a family to talk to him about anyway. But clearly, Rin thinks, those years in Hesperia sequestered from the rest of the family fostered some bond between Muzha and Nezha.

“So you know”—Muzha lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper so that only Rin could hear—“all things considered, I think you lucked out with this one, but don’t tell him I said that. Yeah, he’s moody, and honestly kinda strange, but at least you know he’s not gonna fuck around. The boy’s completely obsessed with you.”

Rin can’t help her snort then. “I don’t know if lucky’s the word I’d use.”

Muzha takes what she said to mean something else. “Oh, honey. I wouldn’t be so anxious about the future and all that.” Rin gives her a questioning look, but Muzha only smiles mysteriously, showing off the large rock of her silver engagement ring. “All in due time, sweets.” She releases Rin, and begins scaling down the outdoor steps with Dan’s assistance.

Rin grinds to a halt as the expanse of the Yin estate’s gardens sprawl out before her.

“What the fuck,” she mutters.

The welcome party is already in full swing, and absolutely fucking insane.

Rin immediately gets the feeling of having stepped into an otherworldly, lush, remote jungle paradise; a Shangri-La that shouldn’t exist, but somehow absurdly does:

Large trees and topiaries, lit with moody orange lamps; bisecting the green a long, rectangular pond, intermittently broken up by small bridges connecting both sides; an orchestra in a dais off to one side; tables piled high with food—towers of oysters and lobsters and shellfish, main course and dessert tables a few meters long; a busy open bar where many guests are gathered, and where bartenders are showing off their skills and pouring cocktails; and aside from the buffet tables and waitstaff peddling specialty dishes on silver carts, there’s an actual fucking open kitchen where servers are ringing up orders and chefs are whipping up dishes on the spot.

A wave of vertigo hits Rin. She’s so dizzy and overwhelmed by all this that she doesn’t register Nezha putting a firm hand on the small of her back.

“What’s wrong?” He asks quietly.

“I—” She doesn’t even have the wherewithal to say something snide; her heart’s racing, and the humidity is making her faint.

Rin had always known Nezha was rich. She was an Anthropology major, so she knew her history, the locus of power the Yins have occupied in Nikara society for centuries. And outside of that: She knew his father owned one of the country’s largest conglomerates. That they gave Sinegard University its largest endowment every year. Hell, even without any of that context one can tell he comes from wealth from the luxury car he drives, the bespoke clothes and coats and shoes, the gadgets, the black cards. The aristocratic, supercilious way he carries himself, secure in the knowledge that the world is his oyster.

Despite this, she recognizes now that there had still been some disconnect, some gap in that understanding. She knew Nezha was rich the way she knew trigonometric functions or dates of historical events: as a mere matter of fact. But knowing that the Yins are wealthy is not the same as grasping the full extent of its material reality, not when she never had the vocabulary or scope of knowledge for it.

Because Yin Nezha isn’t just rich. He’s old rich. Private jet rich. From a family that certainly exerts a disproportionate amount of control over the Nikara economy rich. Shadow government rich. Definitely unethically, wastefully rich.

Crazy fucking rich.

“You guys live like this?” Rin hears herself whisper.

Whatever look she’s wearing on her face, it makes Nezha shift in discomfort. He clears his throat.

“Let’s go,” Nezha says softly, not answering the question, fully in character now. “My family’s waiting for us.”

He takes her hand in his. Together they scale down the garden stairs, and Rin feels fucking sick, her knees abject jelly in her Venka-issued heels.

They don’t stop to talk to anyone, although not for lack of trying; several people try to stop Nezha to talk, but he only smiles politely and raises a palm as if to signal later, otherwise leading her uninterrupted across the green.

Rin doesn’t even know where to look first. So many things are happening all at once, so many guests, their scrutinizing looks. The oppressive weight of their disdain makes Rin curl in on herself, feeling intensely vulnerable, and she’s not sure if it’s her imagination or their whispers actually carrying:

Mud-skinned. Absolutely ghastly. How on earth is someone so pretty dating someone so hideous? Yin Nezha has his pick of girls. Do you think it might be because she’s good in bed? She might’ve hoodwinked him in Sinegard’s red-light district; that’s the only place someone like that would encounter someone like him. Maker help him, she’s clearly a gold-digging tramp.

She feels a tug on her hand.

“Don’t look. And stop listening,” he whispers.

Rin’s head snaps up to look at the side of Nezha’s face. His jaw is taut, but his shoulders are drawn back and his eyes are fixed straight ahead, expression perfectly impassive.

“Easy for you to say,” she hisses, stunned when her voice comes out brittle.

Nezha gives her an odd, almost apologetic look. He shook his head mutely, hand tightening around hers. “Come on.”

Get a grip. You’ve survived far worse. Rin blinks, forcing breaths through the pressure in her chest. They’re just words, and words can’t kill you.

The foliage thins out and the grass transitions into stone, until Rin and Nezha wind up in a balcony full of long tables, lit overhead with hundreds of paper lanterns. The sudden brininess of the breeze makes Rin nauseous, until she realizes with a jolt that the dark waves of the Murui are crashing onto cliffside rock about a hundred feet below them. The bustle of the main gardens now feel like a distant, fever dream; this section, which consists of mostly the older adults, is more formal and subdued.

“Ah, yes, here they are.” A female voice announces as Nezha leads Rin towards the longest table right by the balcony.

“I told you,” was Muzha’s amused reply. “The mythical Dr. Fang is real, and she’s finally graced us with her presence.”

Rin stiffens. At least twenty pale faces blink back, their scrutinizing, unfriendly gazes swinging onto her like a harsh spotlight.

“Hello, darling.” A tall woman who looks uncannily like an affable Saikhara stands and takes Nezha’s face in her hands, planting kisses on his cheeks. “It feels like it was just yesterday you were running around these gardens”—she gesticulates with long, ringed fingers—“and now you’ve brought a girl home to Arlong? Who is this young lady?”

“Good to see you, Auntie Han,” Nezha says, cheeks slightly flushed. The sight of it gives Rin absolute whiplash; how the fuck is this coming so easily to him? He pulls her flush to his side by the waist. “Everyone, this is Rin. My girlfriend from Sinegard.”

Rin suppresses a shiver.

“Excuse you, sir.” Muzha wags a finger loftily at Nezha. “That’s Dr. Fang Runin to you.”

“Wait, I’m not,” Rin stammers, holding up her palms. She figures the sooner she clarifies, the less problems it’ll cause down the road. “A PhD, I mean.”

A man near the head of the table snorts. “What’s this?” The sneer he gives Nezha is strikingly familiar. “For all your posturing that your woman’s Einstein incarnate I thought she’d at least have a Doctorate.”

“Rin’s working on it,” Nezha replies smoothly before she could say anything. “And she is very smart. She got the highest score in our cohort of Foundation Scholars.”

That earns Rin a smattering of half-impressed hums, but the man’s lip only curled.

“Oh, so this is the Southerner peasant girl who handed yours and Minister Chen’s son’s asses at the Schols.” He leans back and crosses his arms, pinning Rin down with a cold amusement. “Do you know I lost twenty five grand at the gentlemen’s club because of you, Ms. Fang? Not that I had any confidence Nezha would clinch it, but it would’ve been humiliating for the family if nobody had put their money on a Yin topping the Schols, wouldn’t it?”

An acute silence falls on the table.

“Jin, can we not do this today, please?” Muzha says, exasperated.

Rin glances at Nezha. If anyone else had said that to him, he would’ve lashed out or punched them ten seconds ago. But to her utter bewilderment, he only swallows the barb and inclines his head.

“That’s enough, Jinzha.” Auntie Han casts Muzha a commiserating look. She plucks the glass of whiskey from his hands. “How many of these have you had anyway? Join us, you two.”

Yin Jinzha snorts, but says nothing more. Muzha gestures them towards two adjacent chairs near the head of the table, which was empty.

“Muzha, sweetheart, your Ma says to leave the seat beside Nezha open,” another Auntie with neon pink lips interjects before they could take their seats.

Muzha stares at her. “I set this aside for Rin when she RSVPed.”

Auntie Pink Lips is unbothered by this. “Don’t worry, she’s aware.” She gives Rin a cutting smile. “Come sit beside me, Runin.”

It’s also the empty seat beside Jinzha. Rin hesitates, heart racing. She glances at Nezha, but he just shakes his head silently, leaving her no choice but to round the table.

“So you’re saying she’s not from the jade Fangs of Tiger Province?” One of the women with large pearl earrings and an updo asks Nezha, pointing at Rin as if she isn’t just right there.

Nezha blinks. Someone else supplies: “That can’t be, Fang Ziling’s children are all male.”

“Not even the textile Fangs from Ram Province?” An Uncle in an orange dress-shirt huffs.

Bile rises to Rin’s throat as she realizes what’s happening. It hasn’t even been two minutes, and already Nezha’s relations are trying to suss out her pedigree.

“No,” she blurts, wishing they would just stop. “I’m from Rooster Province, sir.”

Uncle harrumphs. “I don’t know any prominent Fangs from Rooster Province.”

“Well, what would a Rooster clan even export, Peng?” The Auntie beside him with a long neck says primly. “Smuggled goods? Drugs?”

Absurdly, that elicits a smattering of haughty, rich person laughter. Rin’s body grows hot.

“Oh, don’t be crude, Wen,” Auntie Han admonishes from beside Nezha. “You’ve made Runin uncomfortable.”

“Just Rin is fine, Auntie,” Nezha tells her, and then to Rin: “You’ll forgive my aunts, darling. That’s just their sense of humor.”

“Yes, sorry,” Auntie Wen chuckles, eyes darting up and down Rin’s body, and not sounding sorry at all. “It really is.”

Rin glowers at Nezha, before draining her glass of water lest she says something that’ll get her access revoked on the spot.

“Well, it’s good you’ve finally made your way to Arlong, Rin,” Auntie Han says, smoothly side-stepping that spot of awkwardness. “I thought Nezha would only let us meet you on your wedding—”

“Where’s the ring?” Auntie Wen interrupts again in that grating, gravelly voice. Then to Nezha: “Has Vaisra and Saikhara given their blessing?”

He shifts uncomfortably. “Auntie, that’s not. . .” He casts Rin an uncertain look; really, she has to applaud his commitment to the bit. “Rin and I have talked about this, and we’ve decided to take things slow.”

This earns choked protests from around the table, several of the adults speaking over each other.

“If you’ve been together since Sinegard, how long has that been?” Auntie Wen demands.

“How many years?” Auntie Pink Lips asks in an urgent whisper, and when Rin manages a startled reply, cries: “Maker in heaven! Seven years? How much slower do you intend to go, Nezha?”

Nezha’s growing flushed from all the attention, and Rin can’t deny, the sight of his discomfort gives her utter satisfaction. But that, too, is short-lived when Uncle Peng huffs: “Keep dallying and the girl’s eggs are going to be rotten.”

Rin blinks. She’s so startled and incensed by how casually degrading that is that she can’t help a sarcastic laugh. “I wouldn’t worry about that. It’s not like I could ever bear children, anyway,” she says with some heat.

The chatter stops. Auntie Wen puts a scandalized hand on her chest. “Excuse me? What do you mean, you can’t bear children?”

Rin gives her a droll look. “I had a hysterectomy years ago for endometriosis.”

“Well, that’s just absurd! You were too young to decide on something like that, hasn’t anyone given you guidance?” She cries above the horrified whispers and murmurs. She whips her head towards a woman at the end of the table. “Didn’t my Meili also have endometriosis, Daji? All you did was take out the cyst!”

The glass of champagne stops midway to Auntie Daji’s blood-red lips. She looks almost wryly amused that she’d been called upon to participate in this stupid discussion. Her voice is a sultry drawl when she speaks: “That isn’t the same thing, Wenjie.”

“I was in pain all the time,” Rin snaps, unable to restrain herself despite the warning glares from Nezha across the table. “I could hardly get up from bed, let alone attend my classes at university or study.”

“Are you aware of this, Nezha?” Uncle Peng demands.

“I—” His dark eyes lock onto Rin’s, filled with what appears to be genuine panic. “Yes, I was the one who took care of her in the hospital.”

“Why’d you let her do it?” Uncle Peng is shouting now, glaring daggers at Rin as if her decisions about her own body is personally offensive to him, a person she’d only met five minutes ago. “Does your mother and father know your fiancée can’t give you children? What did they have to say about it?”

“Well, they—” Nezha seems to have short-circuited now; he likely had not prepared for this scenario. “She was in a lot of pain, Uncle. I was the one who convinced her to go to the emergency department.”

Uncle Peng tuts superciliously. “If you marry a woman you can’t have sons or daughters with, what the hell do you intend to do with your lives? Are you going to be happy-go-lucky forever and live without any purpose or responsibility?”

“Uncle Peng, there are a lot of meaningful things Nezha and Rin could do aside from raising kids,” Dan pipes up softly but firmly from beside Muzha, at the same time Jinzha snorts: “Oh, don’t let that surprise you, Uncle. That’s typical Nezha for you.”

Anger coils like a ready spring in her chest. Nezha’s eyes lock onto hers, as if already anticipating her next move: Remember our rules. Whatever you’re about to say, don’t say it.

Well, fuck Nezha and his outlandish rules.

“My parents gave me up to the foster system,” Rin snaps at Uncle Peng. “And I spent my childhood being a parent to my foster brother because his parents were layabouts. I think I’ve earned the right to be happy-go-lucky and irresponsible for once.”

Another charged silence falls on the table, intermittently broken by the other adults poking half-heartedly at their meals.

“That’s awful, Rin,” Dan says softly, and Rin’s head snaps up to look at him. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

She’s too angry to make any type of acknowledgement.

“Can we move on to lighter topics, please? I didn’t invite Rin for you to drag her over hot coals,” Muzha tells Uncle Peng crossly.

“Alright, meimei. I’ll bite.” Jinzha’s mouth curls in an expression she does not trust. He wipes the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “So what is it that you do, then?”

Rin blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Your job, Ms. Fang,” Jinzha says like she’s stupid. “Nezha keeps telling us how smart you are, and I presume too good and busy for anachronistic crap like meeting your boyfriend’s family.”

“I never said that, Jinzha,” Nezha protests.

Jinzha casts them a suspicious look. “No, but I do have to wonder why none of us have seen hide nor hair of her even once in seven years.”

Adrenaline spikes through her veins. “We were at Sinegard the first two years,” Nezha says calmly, “and I was abroad for the next five.”

“I work in litigation support,” Rin says quickly to detract Jinzha from inching precariously close to the truth. “I’m a senior researcher.”

Jinzha frowns as he chews on his steak slowly. When he swallows, he says brusquely: “So basically a legal assistant.”

“Jin,” Muzha warns sharply.

“What? I’m just asking a question.” He inclines his head at Rin. “Well, Ms. Fang?”

“I—” Rin’s face grows hot. What the fuck is wrong with her? There’s nothing wrong about her job, nothing humiliating about it or illegal. “I don’t work in a firm, but our clients—”

“Yes, I know what outsourcing is,” Jinzha snaps impatiently. He gives Nezha an accusatory look. “You gave us the impression your girlfriend’s terribly busy with a high-powered job. What would a glorified secretary be too busy with? The photocopier? Brewing the perfect cup of coffee?”

Rin’s torn between the urge to beat the shit out of Jinzha, and running towards the balcony to chuck herself into the Murui and swimming the fuck out of here. He may be an asshole, and somehow crueler and more conceited than even Nezha—but there’s no denying Yin Jinzha’s sharp.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with being a secretary,” Nezha replies softly, “but that’s not what Rin does.”

“What was your major, anyway?” Jinzha demands.

Her voice comes out strangled and girlish. “Anthropology.”

He scoffs. “Well, no wonder. Anthropology? What on earth possessed you to declare a major like that?”

“Jinzha, that’s enough,” Auntie Han exclaims, mortified.

The corners of her vision pulse red.

“Ask your brother.” Rin inclines her head towards Nezha. “Ask him why I declared Anthropology instead of Chemical Engineering like I wanted. Go on.”

Several heads turn towards Nezha.

“Darling, please.” Nezha’s voice is soft and placating, but his eyes are flashing dangerously. “We’re having such a pleasant evening—.”

“No, I’m fucking not,” Rin snaps. “Your brother’s insinuating I’m stupid because of something you did.”

He makes a show of reaching for her hand across the table. “Look, you and I both know what happened was wildly unfair—”

She snatches it away. “No, Nezha, fuck off. Tell him.”

Rin hears the sharp intakes of breath, the scandalized whispers. She doesn’t care. She’s been fucking humiliated enough this evening, and she’s not gonna let Nezha off the hook if it’s the last thing she does.

Nezha clenches his jaw and looks at Jinzha. “Well—Rin and I, in our first year at Physics—we had an argument—”

“An argument? You brawled with me after calling me mud-skinned Southerner trash and got Dr. Jun to drop me from his course,” Rin hisses.

“I’m sorry, what?” Muzha blurts out.

“That’s ridiculous. I didn’t tell Professor Jun to drop you,” Nezha retorts, the perfect boyfriend veneer he’s maintained all evening straining dangerously at the seams. It makes Rin’s blood spark with excitement.

“No, you started it, but I’m the only one who got dropped because I don’t have a family that regularly throws an obscene amount of money at Sinegard,” Rin says snidely.

A thick, uncomfortable silence falls on the table, and finally none of the Yins have anything snide to say to that.

Jinzha is the sole exception.

“You really mean to make this girl your wife, Nezha?” He lets out a mocking laugh. “Surely you could find another woman who didn’t hate you so much.”

Nezha’s head snaps towards his brother, and he opens his mouth presumably to explain himself when a cold, high voice cuts in:

“What is going on in here?”

Rin looks up.

Yin Saikhara looks unearthly and severe in her dark blue gown, hair pinned back in a tight updo. With her is a younger woman with a delicately beautiful face, and intelligent eyes.

“Saikhara, thank goodness you’ve arrived—Yuxin!” Auntie Wen cries, standing to greet the two women.

She’s not the only one. Yuxin seems to be popular enough with Nezha’s family that many of them stand to kiss and embrace her, including Dan and Muzha with whom she seemed particularly close, Auntie Han, and even Jinzha who reaches across the table to shake her hand, before she turns to Nezha.

“You didn’t tell me you were already here in Arlong.” Yuxin smacks his shoulder playfully.

Rin’s stomach lurches in discomfort, which somehow worsens when Nezha passes Yuxin an old, familiar grin.

“Heard you were busy with your 1.2 trillion deal with Arstal.” Absurdly, the way Nezha says this makes nostalgia gnaw at Rin’s chest: Easy, cocky, amused. Young. “I thought our silly little parties would be beneath you now, hotshot.”

Yuxin rolls her eyes. “You’re so stupid. I wouldn’t miss jiejie’s wedding for the world.”

Then Nezha stands from his seat and actually hugs her.

“It’s good to see you, Yuxin,” he murmurs.

Rin blinks.

She reaches for her glass of water because it’s something to do. There’s condensation on the glass, but for some reason Rin can’t feel the wet or cold through her skin. She drinks mechanically, ignoring the way the balcony’s started spinning around her, or the way she suddenly can’t feel her fingers and toes.

“Rin, darling.” She thinks she hears Nezha, but his voice is garbled over the buzzing in her ears. There’s none of the disdain he’d directed at her not five minutes ago. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet. This is Guo Yuxin, my MBA classmate at Rachdale and one of our family’s old friends. Yuxin—Fang Runin, my girlfriend from Sinegard.”

“I’m so glad to finally meet the famous Rin,” Yuxin says warmly. Rin has the distant sense of standing on wobbly legs and taking the woman’s outstretched hand, soft and elegant; hands that never had to work a day in its life. “Nezha’s told me so much about you. I heard you were the top Schol in Sine—”

“Come sit, Yuxin,” Saikhara cuts in smoothly, gesturing at the empty spot beside Nezha. “Tell us more about Hesperia and Arstal.”

“Is it true, child?” Uncle Peng’s voice is jovial this time. “Delmani clinched the deal to drill the Maral oil field?”

“Thank you, Auntie,” she tells Saikhara as she slips into place beside Nezha, before flashing the old man a smile. “Yes, Uncle. We just finalized the deal two days ago, so I’m finally allowed to say that on the record.”

A burst of applause comes up from around the whole table. Rin looks around, utterly confused, but puts her hands together hesitantly because it feels stupid to be the only one not doing it. As she does so she catches Saikhara’s eye from the head of the table, who gives Rin a frosty, tight not-smile as she claps, a cold quirk of the lips.

“Nezha ought to learn from you.” To her surprise, Jinzha’s tone with Yuxin is friendly. “We could definitely use a director as good as you.”

“What? He’s doing just fine, gege,” Yuxin says. She casually puts a hand on Nezha’s arm, and to Rin’s surprise, he doesn’t pull away. “He’s closed that deal last quarter with Wieske and Kloosterman, didn’t you, Nezha? That was a 550 billion deal.”

In that moment, Rin realizes what’s going on in here:

She might have forced them into a temporary stalemate at the cathedral, into pretending at civility—but the family has started this concerted, premeditated attack on Nezha’s “relationship.” Who’s in on it? Jinzha and Saikhara? Definitely. Auntie Pink Lips and Uncle Peng? They’re probably accomplices. What about Auntie Han, pretending to be the good cop? Dan? Muzha?

She should’ve known Nezha’s family wouldn’t take something like this lying down, Rin thinks. She has to applaud their effort in dissuading Nezha from making his own choices.

“Now I want to ask you a question, Yuxin.” Uncle Peng cranes his neck forward to meet the woman’s eyes. “Do you want children?”

Yuxin’s fork is midway to her mouth when it pauses.

“Well, of course, Uncle Peng,” she says, though she seems mildly confused. “When things have slowed down and I’ve settled down and the time is right. Why not?”

Uncle Peng gives Rin a look as if he’d just proven a point. She realizes he’s still stuck on their first talking point after everything else that’s come to pass.

“Hear that, young lady? Yuxin’s brokered a 1.2 trillion deal with one of the largest oil companies in the world. That’s more money than your entire ancestry will ever earn, so don’t tell me it’s not possible to juggle a career with children.” Uncle Peng snorts, but that starts up a watery coughing fit. “You women fought so hard for equality, and now that it’s here, you want us men to cut you some slack? Think about my poor nephew and the heirs you’d be depriving him of!”

“Careful, sweets.”

Rin’s head snaps. Auntie Pink Lips gives her a tight smile.

“That’s hand-made in Lucania; Saikhara hand-carried them home herself.” She gestures at the champagne flute Rin realizes she’s nearly crushing with a fist. “You don’t want to give your future mother-in-law any more grief, do you?”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

The moment they were deep into discussing the details of Yuxin’s historic deal, Rin excuses herself to the loo.

She’s fucking done.

Fuck Nezha, fuck his family, fuck this goddamn ruse. There’s got to be some other way to get Altan what he needs, one that didn’t require her to debase herself like this, and for a job she doesn’t even fucking like.

Rin finds her way to the main gardens after a few wrong turns and backtracking, the party now in full swing. She makes it as far as the pools when a hand grasps her arm.

“And where the fuck are you running off to all on your own?”

Rin yanks her arm and finds Venka scowling at her with a glass of Martini.

“Fuck off. I’m going home,” she says shortly.

“Yours and Nezha’s summer spectacle is done or what?”

“I don’t even know what the fuck he brought me here for,” she hisses in an undertone, checking briefly that no one’s listening. “His mother already has a girl set up for him, some hotshot businesswoman named Guo Yuxin or something.”

She laughs nastily. “Oh wow. It hasn’t even been two hours and already they pulled that card on you? They really must hate you.”

“Oh no. Whatever am I going to do?” Rin mocks, irritated by Venka’s gloating over her misfortune. “I’m out of here.”

“And exactly how are you gonna manage that without a car? In case you haven’t realized, this place is far from any highways or public transport.”

She glares at Venka.

“I have feet, don’t I?” Rin snaps. “I’m going to walk—”

“Ven! You didn’t tell us you and Nezha’s girlfriend were friends.”

A group of pale, skinny girls in sleek gowns walks up to them, glamorous and haughty and entirely untrustworthy.

“You should introduce us,” their ‘leader’ says, blood-red lips curling into a smile.

Venka rolls her eyes.

“We’re not friends, but whatever.” She points out each of them in turn, not bothering to hide the fact that she’s being inconvenienced. “Yaling, Changying, Luoyang, Xinyue, from mine and Nezha’s high school. And you all know who Rin is,” Venka snarls.

Rin wonders briefly why those names sound familiar, and then with a jolt remembers: the girls in Venka’s group chat.

“So how’s it like, Runin? Dating the Yin Nezha,” Changying drawls. “Nobody’s ever managed it in high school, you must be so proud of yourself.”

“Nezha has his pick of girls,” Xinyue says tartly. “Heiresses, daughters of ministers and governors, even Hesperian nobility—”

“Rin’s the top Foundation Scholar in our cohort at Sinegard,” Venka says in a bored voice, checking her nails. When the girls give her quizzical stares, Venka raises a brow. “What? I’m just saying you’d have to be of a certain intelligence to keep up with him. Look, I’m out of here.”

“Oh, she didn’t mean it as an insult. Xin’s not very articulate,” Luoyang says in an undertone to Rin once Venka’s well away. “All she’s saying is that people have expectations, even if he is just the second son.”

For some reason, that irritates the shit out of her.

“They’d do well to mind their business instead of his,” Rin says coldly. “And Nezha’s just a guy.” She scopes out the garden’s exit routes surreptitiously. “I don’t see what the big deal is.”

“He’s not just a guy.” Yaling sounds mortally offended. “He’s the last eligible bachelor from the Yin family. That is a big deal.”

“Well, I suppose it would be if the pinnacle of your achievements would be marrying into wealth,” Rin says snidely.

Yaling scoffs. “Excuse me?”

From a distance, Rin sights Nezha emerging into the main gardens, his head craning as if he’s looking for something.

Before Rin could duck or make a run for it, their eyes meet across the green.

Then he starts making his way towards her. Fuck.

“I have to go,” Rin says.

Changying’s blood-red nails dig into her arms.

“No. Nezha can come fetch you himself if he wants,” she says nastily.

“You think getting into Sinegard and sleeping with Nezha makes you better than us?” Xinyue hisses. “Bet we could find all sorts of dirt on you, you fucking slut.”

Her heart starts racing. She yanks more urgently as Nezha closes in on them. “Let go of me!”

Changying’s nails only dig deeper until they break skin.

She pulls with too much force, or it’s the grass and the fact that her feet are fucking painful and unsteady in her stupid, Venka-issued heels; or maybe it’s even the fact that she’s tipsy from all the champagne she’d been sneaking throughout dinner, trying to numb herself to the fury and utter humiliation she still feels.

Rin loses balance, arms shooting out to compensate but it’s too late—one of the girls give a slight push and she tips back into the dark waters of the pool.

Fuck.

Fuck.

It’s cold, and she can’t sense the floor beneath her; the pool is actually really deep. Rin tries to kick, to swim up to the surface, but Venka’s gown weighs her down, and her arms and legs are beginning to burn. It’s no use. Rin plummets quickly to the bottom. She chokes involuntarily, and water rushes into her throat and lungs.

Tiger’s tits. This is actually how I’ll go out, Rin thinks, rather hysterically. Nothing’s changed or gotten better, and I’m going to die, just like that.

But isn’t this easier than pretending? Than trying to fight everything? Beneath the surface the party has grown still, quiet, her limbs growing cold and numb to all the pain. She’d never really learned how to swim after that accident at the end of second year, not even after Nezha’s tried to teach her in third year.

And she’s just so tired.

She stops flailing. The corners of her vision grow dark; she gives into it.

Rin closes her eyes and waits for the end.

A familiar, strong grip wraps around her waist.

And then: the sensation of water moving around her. Being hauled up to the surface, finally breaking air. Being rolled onto the grass. The crushing pressure of air on her throat and chest.

“Rin.” Someone grips her shoulder to shake her awake. Nezha. “Rin, wake up. Are you okay? Can you hear me?”

“Nezha, I’m so sorry,” one of the girls is now saying in a panic. “It was an accident—”

“Are you a fucking psychopath? I saw what you just did,” Nezha snarls. “If you manage to fucking kill her I will—”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” another female voice. Venka’s.

“Why the fuck did you just leave her with them, meimei?”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know, I was just—I’ll tell Eriden to start the car.”

“Somebody get Dan or Auntie Daji,” Nezha’s yelling now, frantic.

She perceives a general shuffling, a cacophony of agitated, harried voices. Bile or water rises to her throat, and Rin lets out a gurgling cough, gasping.

“Rin?” Nezha’s large, warm hand smooths the hair away from her face, his breaths coming up quick and short. “Gods, Rin, wake up, please.”

“What’s happened?” A soft, vaguely familiar voice cuts in above her. “How long has she been in the water?”

“I—I don’t know,” Nezha says, startled. “A minute?”

Fingers press at the pulse on her neck, and when Rin cracks her eyes open, a friendly, round face is bent over her.

“Niang? What the hell are you doing here?” Venka demands.

“Dan’s my senior—Rin?” Niang brings her face closer to hers. “Hi, how are you feeling? She’s up,” she tells Nezha.

Nezha shifts closer, clammy hands coming up to her cheeks.

“Rin.” The relief is palpable in his voice. His hands are trembling against her skin. “Fuck, are you okay?”

“Fine,” she tries to say, but it comes out weak and hoarse.

“You should still bring her to the hospital, get her checked out,” Niang’s telling Nezha now. She gives them a lingering look, before smiling softly. “And I’m glad you two are still together.”

“Oh my god.” Muzha pushes through the crowd that’s formed around them. “Nezha, what’s happened?”

Dan, who had been right behind Muzha, kneels by Rin’s side to make more of the same checks, asking Niang questions that flew way over Rin’s head.

“No. No hospital,” Rin manages when she hears the word again, trying to push herself up. “I wanna go home.”

Nezha presses his palms to her shoulders.

“Don’t be stupid, Rin.” His voice is gentle but firm. “Lie back.”

“I said there’s no need.” She lets out a few wet coughs, a wheeze. “I’m not gonna die. Just get me the fuck out of here.” And she really must be ill, or the residual adrenaline and fear from nearly drowning is making her delirious, because Rin whispers: “Please, Nezha.”

Their eyes meet briefly. Rin’s stomach swoops.

Nezha and Venka exchange concerned looks. The sight of it makes Rin feel entirely strange. It’s almost like a scene from her old life, or what her life might’ve ended up being if at certain junctions Rin had continued on another way, and she got to be happy and keep them all.

“Alright,” Nezha says softly after Niang and Dan give him a reluctant go signal, along with several stern reminders. Somebody produces a towel, and he wraps it around her shoulders. “Come on.”

He helps her up on wobbly legs, and they start towards the main house. Rin wants to shove him off, to refuse this utterly humiliating show of chivalry, but her body’s decided that it’s fought enough battles for her tonight.

“Let’s get you home, darling,” Nezha murmurs, low enough that only Rin could hear.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

There’s only one consolation in all of this.

At least none of it is fucking real.

If it were, tonight would’ve certainly been the death blow of that relationship, Rin thinks, watching the dark shapes of the Daba and intermittent city lights from Nezha’s passenger seat. She’d be packing her bags and upending her life in much the same way she had five years ago, only this time, she would actually have things to lose: an apartment in Sinegard, maybe Khurdalain. A high-powered job in the city Jinzha couldn’t sneer at. Maybe even a Doctorate. Her best friends, seven years with Nezha, an entire life together liable to unravel.

The Yins might have treated her worse than the dirt at the bottom of their shoes, but at least their words can’t hurt her, not in ways that matter. It’s not like there’s anything left to take away from her, anyway.

This, she tells herself. It was fucking pathetic, and it made for poor comfort—but Rin takes it all the same.

Nezha’s voice interrupts her thoughts. “Are you cold? Do you want me to turn the heater up?”

“I’m fine,” she says shortly.

“If you’re not well I’ll just drive straight to the ED—”

“I said I’m fine. Stop fussing.”

They fall into an awkward silence.

After a few moments, for some absurd reason, Nezha tries again.

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” he says cautiously.

Rin stiffens. Kesegi. Every time her brain treacherously leads Rin down this well-worn path of longing and regret, she only has to remind herself—she may be living a dull shadow of a half-life, but this was a choice she’d made, no matter how much it didn’t feel like it at the time: her little brother’s life and freedom and future for hers.

It’s worth it, she tells herself.

She has to believe it’s worth it.

“Can we not, Nezha?” She snaps when she realizes this is a question. “I’m not in the fucking mood.”

To his credit, Nezha doesn’t push.

“Rin. I’m really sorry about tonight,” he says quietly. “About all of it.”

Instead of placating her, the words only make her furious.

“What the fuck are you even doing this for, Nezha?” She asks. She meant to be snide, but the words come out as flat and hollowed-out as she feels. “Your family’s going to make you marry some heiress of their choosing anyway, why the fuck would you go out of your way to lie?”

Nezha is silent for a long time, as if he’s actually considering his answer.

“They didn’t pick out Dan and Yubei,” he says, eyes distant. “My siblings wound up with people they loved.”

Rin snorts. “Well, I don’t know what fucked up family dynamic’s going on in here, but considering the way they’d behaved tonight I don’t think that’s the case for you.”

“For fuck’s sake, Rin. It’s not your problem, alright?” Nezha snaps irritably as they pull over to the curb by her rental’s alleyway. “I’m just trying to buy some time.”

He pulls the brakes. Rin unbuckles the seatbelt and pulls the towel wrapped around her shoulders without sparing Nezha a glance.

“We’re both just trying to make do here, so you and I have no choice but to see this through to the wedding.” He pins Rin with a neutral, inscrutable gaze. “I’ll call if anything else comes up.”

“What the fuck, Nezha,” Rin scoffs. “You really think I’m gonna do any more of this shit? Haven’t you and your family done enough?”

He stiffens.

“I already told you, I am sorry about what happened. They shouldn’t have—”

“Yeah, you know what else shouldn’t have happened? Your stupid, judgmental friends pushing me into a goddamn pool. Your whole family scrutinizing my life, like they had any fucking right—”

“You knew that coming in,” he snarls. “I warned you before we got out there; we even had rules, but you couldn’t hold your goddamn tongue and act to save your life—”

“Fuck your goddamn rules, Nezha. You’re delusional if you think those are perfectly acceptable things to tolerate for a ruse,” she snaps.

A thick silence falls inside the uncomfortably intimate darkness of Nezha’s car.

There’s a brief moment of hesitation, but Rin decides, fuck it. All she wants to do is to lash out, to hurt. To draw blood. What does one more broken rule matter at this point?

She aims for the jugular. “And you wanna talk about shit acting? Because a good partner wouldn’t have stood for that fucking disrespect,” Rin spits. She throws every last bit of disdain and hatred she feels into her gaze. “But you would know nothing about being one, Nezha.”

She doesn’t give herself a chance to regret the words and slams the door.

/

Nezha gets five seconds of blissful ignorance before his brain parses Rin’s parting words.

How dare she. How fucking dare she.

His hands fumble for the seatbelt. Nezha might have laughed if he wasn’t so infuriated. She wants to lecture him about being a good partner? About disrespect? Her?

He stumbles out into the humid evening, slamming the car door with a force that might have broken it. But Nezha doesn’t care; right now he just needs to find that fucking bitch and have it out with her, the way they should’ve had at the freeway days ago, in the museum a week ago. At Sinegard, all those years ago.

He had fully intended on leaving the past alone. Didn’t want to debase himself asking for answers he shouldn’t have had to beg for in the first place. But if Rin wants this fight, Nezha will give it to her. He’s sat on his arguments for years, an arsenal held close to his chest where they hurt nobody else but him. It’s about time he sank the blade and drew blood the way she had; let her bleed out, the way he had.

The alleyway she’d entered is a dodgy, dank complex of narrow buildings and boarded-up shops. His limbs grow heavier the longer he wanders its empty length, realizing he’s lost her. She only had a head start of maybe ten seconds, but that didn’t matter; Rin had always been light on her feet. A flight risk. Good at disappearing.

Nezha forces himself to stop. And because there’s no use getting lost trying to find her, to turn back the way he came.

There’s a metaphor there, he thinks, about symmetry and circles and how some cruel things can’t be escaped. If the Nezha from five years ago could see him now, everything about this brand-new life would be unrecognizable to him, except this single instant: Early summer, an otherwise ordinary late evening. Puddles of orange light. Rin’s back retreating into the darkness, swallowing her into its interminable depths where he couldn’t reach. The subsequent icy shock.

It’s a well-trodden path: the map of this memory. Nezha had picked it apart, drowned in it, smashed it into pieces and cut himself trying to put it back together. Trying to figure out how he’d gotten it all so wrong.

“It’s sweltering out here, love.” That was the first thing he’d said: a truce, a surrender. He remembers that last touch: her small, dark cheek in his palm, its hollowness. “Why didn’t you come upstairs? I was waiting for you.”

She pulled away from his touch.

“I won’t be long. I just came to give this back.” A brown box of his things; a summary of two years.

“Rin, baby, what are you doing?” His body recognized what was happening before his brain could catch up. Nezha’s throat thickened. “Let’s go upstairs and talk properly, please. Have you eaten something?”

“I didn’t come here to talk.” Her face was half-cast in shadow, lovely and stiff and inscrutable. “Let’s break up.”

Nezha startled. “What the fuck, Rin.”

“I mean it.” She’d said this calmly, a point Nezha belabored for many years, certain its peculiarity would be what yielded answers: why had she been calm that evening? Rin was never calm. “This isn’t working out.”

He remembers the panic, the strangeness of her demeanor, this fight. Was it even a fight? He didn’t know anymore.

“We had a disagreement. One disagreement, but if we just talked this out—if you just let me—” Nezha’s voice kept catching in his throat. She began walking; he tried to stop her. “This is far from the worst fight we’ve ever had, but we pull through, don’t we? One fight doesn’t mean the whole thing is forfeit, baby, you know that. Listen to me, please.”

“It’s not just one,” Rin said softly.

“Damn it, Rin.” There was a brief struggle, but she didn’t yell her way through it like she normally would’ve, just avoided his eyes as she pulled away from his clammy grasp. “That’s not how this works. Tell me what’s the problem, tell me how to fix this. I’ll do anything you want. Fight me, shout at me, anything.”

“I don’t want to, Nezha,” she said. “I’m so tired.”

“Tired?” He laughed, a hysterical, wretched sound. “Of fighting? You?”

Rin had nothing to say to this.

He remembers resorting to cruelty, because that was raw and familiar. Foolproof. There’s a metaphor there, about symmetry and circles and how the way things began were often how they also ended.

“Is that really all you have to say to me?” Nezha sneered. “After everything, you’re just going to walk away without telling me what I did, like I’m fucking dispensable?”

But that, too, hadn’t gotten a rise out of her. He remembers that last glimpse of Rin’s face: how her dark eyes were utterly vacant, her expression unrecognizable. None of her fire, that painful, lovely burn.

“I suppose you are,” Rin said, unblinking. “The one thing I could dispense with.”

Other things he’d belabored, those long, dark days and weeks and months that followed:

If he’d held on tighter, if he’d moved sooner and reached her retreating back and forced some explanation, would it have changed anything? Was there anything he could’ve done to make her stay?

“You can’t just fucking walk away without an explanation, Rin.”

Or was it always meant to end this way: with anchors and hooks pulling him under, Nezha drowning forever in waves of memory and solitude and pain, where nothing could reach?

“This is not how this works, you bitch!”

Didn’t it matter that he loved her?

Didn’t he matter to her?

“You fucking coward, say something!”

But Rin had disappeared, and Nezha would never know.

There was no trace of her left, only the box of his things by his feet: the Sinegard Business shirt that no longer smelled like her; the keys to his apartment; the necklace he’d given her for their first anniversary, the blue scarf for no reason other than it looked good on her.

He wore her clothes to bed no matter how stupid and overly sentimental it felt, as if doing so would upend this twisted nightmare. As if Nezha would wake up tomorrow, and there Rin would be, like she was always meant to: her dark cheeks and clever eyes, a sharp retort. That quick, confident grin.

He didn’t sleep that evening. Morning came to that city vacant of her.

She was not in the university. Wasn’t in its libraries or gardens, in Jiang or Irjah’s offices. She wasn’t in the café or the convenience store she worked part-time in, or in their friends’ apartments. She was not in hers, either, even when Nezha turned his key; nothing left except a few papers and books from school, a half-eaten loaf of bread on an otherwise empty fridge. That little red dress he loved so much, hanging in her closet.

And when Nezha made the short hike to the hilltop park near his apartment, the one that felt like their secret because they’ve never brought their friends there; the one they took walks to on crisp evenings, hand in hand, to watch the bright lights of Sinegard at night; the one where he got to have Rin all to himself, where she used to let him kiss her with slow, deep neediness—

When Nezha didn’t find her there he crumpled onto their old bench and let himself howl, finally certain that Rin was gone.

Chapter Text

“Get up. You’re giving me second-hand embarrassment,” Venka said viciously.

She nudged his side with her toe. Without opening his eyes, Nezha felt around for her foot and slapped it away. “Fuck off, meimei.”

Venka only kicked his hip harder in retaliation.

“What the fuck is your goddamn problem?” Nezha finally pushed himself up when her pale leg swung back again. Pain shot through his spine, radiating to a hundred tiny points on his back from the hours he’d spent on his new flat’s hardwood floor, and his hip throbbed where Venka kicked him. Nezha hissed as he pulled the garter of his sweatpants to inspect the underlying skin. “This shit’s going to bruise, you bitch,” he spat.

“That’s not nearly enough payback for all the pathetic bullshit I’ve been forced to watch,” Venka snapped. She crossed her arms, scrunching her nose. “Your date will be at the Bainbridge at seven o’ clock tonight. Go shave and take a shower, you smell.”

Nezha stood on unstable legs, lumbering like a beast reawakening from hibernation. He hit several empty sorghum wine and whiskey bottles in the process, clattering noisily against each other. “The fuck are you talking about, Ven.”

“You’re going to get yourself a new girlfriend,” Venka declared flatly. “Or a fuck buddy. Or a one night stand, I don’t really care which one.”

Nezha scowled. “And why the fuck would I do that?”

“Because you’re single, you dingbat,” she said. “Rin’s not coming back.”

He winced. A lump grew in his throat, and the backs of his eyes prickled suspiciously. Nezha blinked several times; he would sooner fling himself off the West Arch Bridge and into the dark waters of the River Dacres than cry in front of Venka.

“Want me to say it again? Fang Runin’s not coming back,” Venka yelled, enunciating each word as if she were speaking to a child. Nezha got the feeling that she was relishing in his misery. “She’s gone. You idiots are never getting back together. She’s finished with you, and your big uni love affair is over. Done for. Kaput.”

“I fucking know that,” Nezha snarled, ignoring the way his chest tightened.

He did know that. He didn’t have to like it, didn’t have to accept the fact—but he knew. Nezha had spent the last two months in a daze, turning what felt like the entirety of Sinegard inside out trying to find her. He wasn’t inclined to crediting Rin with any sort of generosity, but not long after her sudden disappearance he realized it had all been pre-meditated: She broke up with him after all his final exams have been sat, his thesis defended, and his requirements for graduation turned in.

For weeks Nezha followed a tight routine: Having slept fitfully or not at all, he’d open his eyes to a dark morning and pluck himself off the carpet or couch, wherever it was he’d wound up drifting off. He’d throw on a shirt, sweatpants, and sneakers, and begin the painstaking process of walking around the city. Nezha had a car, of course, and using it would’ve been far more efficient, but Rin used to get around Sinegard by foot or public transport. There was something grotesquely romantic about undertaking the rotten work of finding a single person in a city of twenty million the way he lost her: without handicaps or shortcuts, using nothing but brute force to drag his sore legs through Sinegard’s humid alleys and smoggy sidewalks.

He’d head over to the university first, closest to his apartment. Classes were recessed for the summer, so Nezha would wander its halls alone like an old, lonely ghost. He’d pass by their usual haunts for the ceremony of it, despite knowing he wouldn’t find Rin there: the university library, the desk she used to reserve in its Microform room, the mess hall. He’d cross the green in front of Main Hall, where they’d been made Foundation Scholars what felt like a lifetime ago. Then he’d head over to the East Hall where Dr. Irjah, the new Dean for Student Affairs, held office.

Dr. Irjah’s exasperated secretary would wave Nezha inside wordlessly, no longer bothering to ask what he’s here for. And to his credit, Irjah never turned Nezha away; he let Nezha ask the same worn questions, and in turn gave the same worn answers.

“Sir, please. You’ve met Rin; she was your student,” Nezha would insist. “You know how responsible she was, how motivated. She was looking forward to graduating. It’s completely out of character for her to disappear all of a sudden without telling anyone where she was going. I’m really worried about the fact that she couldn’t be contacted.”

“I am already in coordination with the local authorities, Nezha,” Irjah would tell him delicately. “Please be assured we’re doing everything we can to ensure Rin’s alright.”

“You’ll tell me when you have news, won’t you?” He tried not to sound as desperate and pathetic as he felt, but he wasn’t certain there was any use trying. “Any and all updates; nothing’s too inconsequential, sir, I left my phone number with your secretary.”

“I will.” Invariably, Irjah would give him an odd, almost pitying look. “But is there anything the university can do for you, Nezha? You don’t look too well. Are you eating and taking care of yourself? Do you feel ill? I can fetch someone to accompany you to the university hospital—”

“That’s not necessary, sir.” Nezha would cut the conversation once Irjah started inquiring after him. “I just need news of Rin. Where she is, if she’s doing fine, how I can contact her.” He’d swallow the knot in his throat, trying not to cry. “Please. I’m begging you.”

But despite the Dean’s insistence that they were on it, those calls or texts never came. Did they have information they were withholding from him? He wouldn’t put it past the man to lie, no matter how kind and accommodating he had been, even if Nezha couldn’t imagine why he’d do that. Unless the university wasn’t actually trying to find her? Either way, Nezha figured he couldn’t depend on Irjah’s assurances alone.

He’d seek out Dr. Jiang next, Rin’s mentor and thesis adviser, in the Anthropology building. He was only marginally more successful trying to track Jiang down versus Rin. In three weeks, he’d caught Jiang once in Meditation Garden, tending to a few suspicious flowers and cacti Nezha hadn’t realized were his personal plants.

“Sir, please. Wait,” Nezha called out when their eyes met and Jiang began retreating like a startled dormouse. “I know you don’t know me, but—”

“Sure I know you. You’re the Yin brat Rin’s seeing, aren’t you?” Jiang rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Or I suppose were seeing.”

“Where is she? Do you know what happened to her?” Nezha demanded, before Jiang gave him a dry look and he caught himself. “Sir?”

Jiang scratched his head. “Well. . . if she didn’t tell you, perhaps it isn’t for you to know.”

He stared at the man in disbelief.

“Is that an acceptable reason to just abandon someone?” Nezha heard himself yell.

Jiang raised a white brow. “Tantrums won’t work on me, Yin Nezha,” he said serenely.

Nezha’s head began pounding; his vision blurred, and the air began to grow thin.

He didn’t know if he wanted to shake Jiang, pull out his own hair, or fall to the grass and start sobbing. What the fuck was wrong with everyone? How were they so goddamn calm? Nezha had woken up to this nightmare where Rin had suddenly ceased to exist, where he seemed to be the last person still straining for her, where everyone had moved forward from the loss of her and decided everything was fine.

But nothing was fine, Nezha thought, nothing would ever be fine again as long as he lived in a world without her. Until he found her, until he had his answers, he would keep plummeting into the interminable depths, suffocating but stubbornly refusing to die. Bogged down by the weight of memory and desperate confusion and pain, surging on and on without reprieve.

“Sir, please.” Nezha’s voice broke. “You’re the only one who can help me. I don’t know what I did; she could be anywhere in the country. Where am I supposed to start looking? How could I. . .”

He cut himself off, throat so tight he couldn’t breathe.

Rin’s adviser watched him with a long, grave look.

“You stupid boy.” Jiang’s voice was so soft Nezha almost hadn’t heard him. “Don’t you know there’s no use trying to find someone who doesn’t want to be found?”

But still Nezha refused to be deterred.

He’d speak to her co-workers at her part-time jobs, though none of them knew Rin well enough to provide any useful information; and her former landlady thrice, before she’d yelled at Nezha on the fourth day to get lost.

“You have to know your little girlfriend had a man in her apartment for months,” the landlady told Nezha snidely. “Dark as a tree bark with a Southerner drawl.”

His heart stopped. “What?”

This had been his first significant lead since beginning this search. Nezha and Rin used to alternate between their apartments, but at the beginning of fifth year she was almost permanently in his place under the pretense of her apartment having leaks. Nezha had been too pleased with this arrangement that he hadn’t thought to question Rin’s sudden acquiescence, despite the fact that all his previous attempts of asking her to move in had been met with rebuffs and screaming.

“Did she say who it was?” Nezha asked urgently. “Since when?”

“Does it look like we talked? Whoever it is you’re looking for, she’s long gone. And good fucking riddance.” She spat at the ground beside him. “Now get the fuck out and don’t bother me again, or I’m going to call the cops.”

“Now that’s just absurd,” Kitay said wearily when Nezha wound up in his apartment that same afternoon. Kitay’s place was always part of the itinerary, because it was on the way home and Kitay always had answers. He had to have them. But so far, the man’s been insistent that he didn’t know anything. “Rin would never cheat on you.”

“But she had a man in her apartment for nearly a year without telling me?” Nezha snarled. His eyes still stung from much he’d cried on the bus on the way here; he’d hastily wiped his tears before ringing Kitay’s bell, though Nezha wasn’t sure he was fooling the man. “No wonder she never let me come round these past months. Did you fucking cover up her affair?”

Kitay shot him a sullen look.

“There was no affair to cover in the first place, Nezha,” he said drily. “Even if there were, I happen to have this thing called ethics.”

“Let’s not pretend you wouldn’t throw that out the window for Rin,” he sneered. He paced Kitay’s dining area, barely restraining himself from taking the plates and glasses and smashing them into the ground. “Is that where she’s gone off to? Has she ran off with her side piece? Tell me. I’m not interested in playing the fool chasing after a goddamn whore.”

“Watch it,” Kitay warned in a low, calm monotone. “You and I both know Rin would never do something like that—”

“No, I fucking don’t know, Kitay,” Nezha shouted, the corners of his vision dimming. “The Rin I know wouldn’t disappear just weeks before graduation. The Rin I know wouldn’t leave without a fucking itemized verbal list of all the ways I failed as a partner. She would’ve fought me and told me exactly why she called it quits, she would’ve told me if there was someone else, she wouldn’t vanish without explanation like a goddamn coward.”

Without thinking Nezha’s leg shot out, kicking one of Kitay’s dining chairs. The wood of its back rails splintered on impact with the floor.

An acute silence fell in the apartment.

Kitay was the first to break it.

“You’re gonna have to replace that,” he said calmly.

Nezha pinned him with a resentful glare.

“I don’t know the person who broke up with me,” he muttered darkly when his breaths had evened. “And I don’t think I knew the person I’d been seeing, either.”

“No,” Kitay had agreed. “Maybe not.”

There were no answers to be had there, so Nezha stopped coming over to Kitay’s. Stopped going round to Irjah’s office, or hunting Jiang down for answers. Stopped walking around the city like a madman in a fugue. Stopped bombarding Rin’s phone with calls and texts he knew were going to go unanswered.

He started going through the motions of graduation, of completing his enrollment at the University of Hesperia, where he was starting his MBA that fall. Started packing up his life in Sinegard.

He tried going through the things Rin left in his apartment, but the sight of them filled Nezha with rage and a confusing sorrow requiring alcohol, rendering him useless the rest of the day. In the end, he’d called in people to pack up his things, before flying to Arlong briefly for Mingzha’s memorial; and after, to Rachdale with Muzha.

Asked what he wanted to do with the things that clearly belonged to a woman, Nezha opened his mouth to say ‘burn them,’ or ‘throw them in the garbage,’ but what came out instead was: “Ship it over to our home in Arlong.”

“And how should we label the box, sir?” One of the hired help had asked.

He’d shrugged then. “Anything. I don’t care.”

There hadn’t been any labeling or summarizing two years with Rin, not when he hadn’t known what any of it meant in the end.

Nezha squinted against the pale light filtering through the window of his new Rachdale flat, shielding his eyes from the Hesperian sun.

“You should be angry,” Venka was telling him now, standing over him in the couch. “Not languishing from melancholia like some lovesick wife in the middle ages with a husband lost at sea.”

“I am angry.”

“Remember, she didn’t give you the courtesy of a clean break.” Venka jabbed a long finger at him. “I wouldn’t let that bitch win your breakup, if I were you.”

Nezha snorted bitterly. “Considering she didn’t give me any say on the matter, I think that ship sailed long ago.”

“Exactly. What’s one date going to hurt?” Venka said, suddenly serious. “Best case scenario, you move on and get a new girlfriend. Worst case scenario, I get to laugh at you. Win-win.”

He let out a long breath and closed his eyes. It did nothing to dislodge the knot in his chest, a constant and unabating pressure that had been there ever since Rin left him.

“I’m still not over her, meimei,” Nezha said softly.

He heard the grimace in her voice. “Not with that attitude, you won’t.”

They fell into a vaguely uncomfortable silence; neither he nor Venka did particularly well with sentiment.

She clapped her hands together, and he perceived her jump up beside him.

“So get up.” She snatched the whiskey bottle Nezha was clutching, and tugged him to his feet. Sometimes it startled Nezha just how strong Venka was. “You really think Rin’s hung up on you, wherever that bitch is? That’s not her way. I’ll bet you she’s getting dicked down as we speak.”

“Shut the fuck up, Venka,” Nezha snarled, trying to push away the mental image of Rin, dark and naked and sweaty and entirely beautiful in some other man’s bed.

“No. Not until you get in the shower.” Venka looked smug, as if pleased she’d finally hit a nerve. “And you better be on your best behavior or I’m going to wring your neck. The girl’s a friend of a friend; very smart, and actually pretty. Not that Rin was a high bar.”

Nezha glared at her. “I don’t trust your taste in women.”

“Considering what yours is, maybe you should.” Venka shoved him into the bathroom. Before she slammed the door shut, she yelled: “And I’ll slip your suite’s keycard and a couple condoms in your wallet, just in case. You never know if it’ll come in handy, no?”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

As it turned out, Venka was right: his date was smart and pretty.

And those condoms were looking more and more like they were going to come in handy.

His date, Yiren, was an incoming freshman at the University of Hesperia’s School of Medicine. When she arrived at the Bainbridge’s twenty-third floor balcony, a pale, willowy, beautiful Nikara girl in a peach dress, Nezha introduced himself, giving her the bouquet of roses Venka had the foresight to prepare.

“Thank you, that’s very sweet of you,” Yiren said, before going in for a hug.

Nezha obliged her. The touch felt nice; Yiren was soft and warm, and she smelled like a field of flowers and spring rain.

What startled Nezha most was how much he enjoyed Yiren’s company and conversation. He drove to the Bainbridge fully expecting the evening to be a dud, for her to be so thoroughly uninteresting to him compared to Rin. But he was pleasantly surprised by how normal all this was: offering to take her coat and pulling a seat out for her and complimenting her, things he used to be given a lot of grief for. In the two years they’d dated, Nezha had never taken Rin out on a dinner date like this one. Whenever he floated the idea around her birthday or Valentines’, she’d throw a huge fit about money and his callous frivolousness that Nezha eventually stopped asking.

It helped that Yiren was intelligent and soft-spoken, if a little self-conscious, and listened with what was genuine interest when he talked about ships and his work at his father’s company. As the evening went on, and both of them relaxed, conversation flowed more easily: from how living and studying in Hesperia was treating them; to what their favorite films and books were, and even which Bolonian and Lucanian towns and beaches they planned on visiting while in the continent.

Nezha’s heart picked up pace as he gazed at Yiren’s pretty face in the candlelight. This was actually nice, he thought, in a way Rin could never simply let things be nice before. Comfortable. Why hadn’t it ever been like this with her? With Yiren, Nezha could talk about himself without treading carefully, his life not a minefield of offensive things: what he ate or enjoyed or where he traveled weren’t taken as personal affronts, but as simple matters-of-fact.

As they capped off dinner with wine and dessert, Nezha reached across the table for her hand. Not because he thought it was the right or nice thing to do, but because he wanted to. Yiren let him take it without any difficulty or protest; his face grew hot at the simple contact.

“I didn’t realize it was so late,” he said when he’d glimpsed his watch. “I’m having a really good time.”

“Me too.” Yiren’s hand was soft and elegant in his, not like Rin’s: dark, rough, calloused. “Did you expect not to?”

He wondered if this was a trick question, the way Rin was always looking for something to be angry about.

“Honestly, I didn’t know what I expected. But you ended up being much better than whatever that was,” Nezha ventured.

Yiren laughed, flushing.

“Well, I’m glad I wasn’t a complete letdown,” she teased.

Could it have always been this pleasant? This easy?

Was this what he’d kept himself from, all those years with Rin?

He steeled himself as the waiter took away their dessert plates.

“I have a suite on the thirtieth floor, if you feel like talking a bit more over drinks,” Nezha told Yiren. It’s been years since he’s had to do this; his flirting was clumsy, an old machine creaking back to life.

She blushed prettily. A ripple of mutual intent surged between them in the look they shared.

“Yeah, okay. Why not?” Yiren’s smile was filled with heat and promise.

That was how Nezha wound up with a pretty girl in a Hesperian hotel suite. He poured them glasses of champagne from the mini-bar. They toasted and sat together on the couch, thighs touching, talking about nothing in particular.

When Nezha ventured a hand on the skin of her knee, Yiren’s breath hitched. She didn’t move, allowing his fingers to slowly hike her dress up her thigh, dark eyes on his. Her lips were pink and wet and parted; he wanted to know how she tasted like.

Nezha pressed his mouth to hers. It didn’t set him on fire the way kissing Rin used to, even those brief, almost-routine kisses they used to share, before they’d part ways for the day or when he’d fetch her from her midnight shift at the convenience store. But this, at least, wasn’t at all a bad kiss. His hand slid up the slit of her dress, and she arched into his touch, his fingers finding the garter of her lace panties.

Yiren moaned into his mouth as he began stroking the bare skin of her hip. Their lips and tongues sought each other’s as she worked on his tie, the buttons of his dress-shirt. Nezha’s hand drifted up the skin of her back, and she shivered as he fingered the ribbons holding her dress together behind her neck.

He was about to tug it loose when his phone rang.

“Do you have to take that?” Yiren asked breathlessly between kisses when the rings didn’t let up.

“I don’t know,” he grumbled.

Nezha fished his phone from his pocket impatiently, fully intent on rejecting the call when his eyes caught on the name and contact photo on his screen.

It’s Rin.

A wave of cold dread slammed into him, washing away the heat of lust.

It’s been nearly two months since that balmy evening in Sinegard. Two months since he last saw her and heard her voice. Two months of calls, texts, and emails that had gone unread, unanswered. Two months since she’d cut him off without warning and left him lost. Adrift.

And now for some reason the bitch was calling now? While he was out on a date, the one that had been going so well before she came and ruined it?

But of course she did. Of course Rin just had to ruin everything. It was so absurd Nezha could laugh. Or scream, or cry.

Yiren’s voice broke through his thoughts. “It’s alright.” She put a hand on his arm; to her credit, she looked like she meant it. “Maybe it’s an emergency.”

Part of him didn’t want to pick up. Let Rin keep waiting and wondering the way she’d done to him, Nezha thought viciously, while he got back into it with Yiren. It would feel so fucking satisfying. But even as the thought occurred to him he knew whatever satisfaction he’d derive from it would be temporary. A complete lie.

Nezha stood, drawing away from Yiren’s touch.

“Right. Sorry, just—one second,” he stammered out.

Before she could say anything else, Nezha stepped out into the balcony, closing the sliding door behind him.

He was trembling as he walked up to the glass parapet. As the biting late summer air pierced his windpipe. As he stared down at Rin’s smiling, beloved face on his screen, its light breaking up the darkness.

He swiped. Nezha’s voice shook as he answered: “Hello?”

The other end of the line was chaos: Bass pounding. Brisk, lilting conversations that could only be Nikara. The sound of carousing, shitty house music.

“Hello? Nezha?” The voice sounded nothing like Rin. “What the fuck took you so long to pick up?”

“Who’s this? Why do you have this phone?” He demanded.

There was scuffling on the other end of the line.

“Are you kidding me?” The voice slurred, as if the woman was struggling to form words with her mouth. “It’s only been a few weeks. You’ve already forgotten how I sounded like? Fucking bastard.”

Understanding came to Nezha then, a riptide catching him by the ankles, pulling him right back under.

“You’re not as slick as you think you are.” Rin’s voice was compressed, as if she were lying on her side. “I know you’re just pretending not to know me.”

Nezha was sick with anger and disappointment. “Rin, you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk. And you know what? Fuck you,” Rin drawled. “You’d known who was calling before you picked up; you just wanted to embarrass me.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I deleted your number,” he snarled. That was a lie. Even if it weren’t, it didn’t matter; Nezha still memorized it.

“Fine. You’re fucking blocked on mine,” Rin said blithely.

For weeks, Nezha had imagined this day. What he’d say to Rin if they spoke again. How understanding he’d be, how tender. How forgiving, if only he could have her back.

But the way she spoke now—so callous and disdainful, like she hadn’t left him hanging for months, like she hadn’t abandoned him and driven him mad with grief and desperate confusion. . . hatred rushed into Nezha like a violent flood. He felt it washing away the good, until all that remained was regret over the love and longing wasted on a heartless monster like her.

Oh, Nezha thought, but how easy this was. How familiar: these same patterns of cruelty. Of knowing each other’s wounds with an intimate violence, and choosing those points to draw blood.

“I’m putting the phone down,” he warned.

“Fuck you. I’m not done talking,” Rin hissed.

“I don’t give a shit. There’s a girl waiting for me in my hotel room,” Nezha shot back.

“What?” To his surprise, Rin’s voice deflated. “You have a. . . what?”

Pressure began to build in his throat.

“You heard me.”

She hesitated. “You’ve already started seeing other people?”

“Yes, Rin. I have.” Nezha thought about what Venka said, about winning this breakup. Such an absurd concept. What even constituted a win under these circumstances, after everything had been burned down and all that remained was ash? “Did you really think I was going to mope around after you left?”

Rin let the silence hang. Nezha wondered what was on her mind. Did that make her jealous? Did that make her feel like she’d lost this fucking game he didn’t know they were playing? He wondered if she’d curse him out; he wished she would. Instead she said:

“Oh.” Her voice grew uncharacteristically soft. “Oh. Well.” She swallowed. “That’s, um.”

“Don’t tell me that bothers you.”

“No. No, it doesn’t,” Rin said, unusually earnest. “That’s good, actually.”

That is not at all what he expected to hear.

“Good?” Nezha spat. “The fuck does that even mean?”

“I dunno. Means you’ll be okay.” Rin sounded listless. Distant. The sounds of the bar in her background disappeared; she seemed to have stepped out, and now he could hear her clearly. “I mean—you were always going to be okay. You’re a Yin. You have money, connections. A Sinegard education. And now a girl in your bed.” She paused. “Is she hot? She better be hot. It would be a waste of your pretty face if she weren’t. And she better be sophisticated and rich; I bet your family and friends would love that.”

What the fuck was wrong with her? Why was she being so goddamn strange?

“Miss me with that nice ex-girlfriend bullshit, Rin,” Nezha sneered. “I think you’re just trying to make yourself feel better about crawling into another man’s bed. That’s what you’ve been up to, isn’t it—?”

“Oh. Another thing.” He’s realizing Rin’s drunk drunk; her words were amalgamating into one incoherent babble. “A Hesperian education, you’ve got that now too. Least from what I’ve heard.”

“From whom? Kitay? Have you been in contact with him this entire time?”

“Not really,” Rin muttered. “Just recent. Man’s too smart for his own good.”

The lights of Rachdale’s evening cityscape, the balcony, all of it were beginning to spin around him.

“What the fuck is this about, Rin?” Nezha snarled. He blinked away the pressure in his eyes. “Why would you call Kitay but not me?”

Rin ignored him.

“I should take a leaf out of your book.” She sounded like she was drifting off. “Start seeing other people, that would make me feel better. But the pickings out here are terribly slim.” She let out a few syncopated wheezing noises, which he realized belatedly was laughter. “You’ve spoiled me, Yin Nezha. What the hell was I thinking? I never should’ve dated someone like you.”

He didn’t know what to say to that. As she continued to speak, dread coiled in Nezha’s stomach, a frightening understanding slowly stealing into his bones.

“But anyway, it’s not like I have the time for any that. I’m up to my neck with this whole imbroglio,” Rin muttered darkly.

“Imbroglio?” Nezha’s voice was barely a hoarse whisper. “What imbroglio?”

“It was just my luck, really. It’s not like anything’s been decided yet, although. . . even assuming I get out of this, best case scenario, I still don’t. . .”

She trailed off. Rin’s breaths grew short. Ragged.

Something was wrong, Nezha realized with striking, terrible clarity. Something horribly wrong had happened to Rin.

“I don’t know what to do,” Rin confessed, a long quiver of air. “Or where I’ll go, or how I’ll. . .”

Her voice broke. She sounded tiny and defeated and entirely unlike her usual, magnificent self.

“I’m scared, Nezha,” Rin whispered.

“What’s wrong?” His body grew cold; he began trembling. “Rin, where are you?”

“I’m so sorry I called,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to. I wasn’t going to, I know I shouldn’t have. . . I just wanted to hear your voice one last time.”

Something in him broke at those words.

“I’d been looking everywhere for you,” Nezha choked out. Whatever anger and resentment he felt had dissipated under the sheer force of his longing and fear. “What’s wrong? Who did this to you? I can get to you in a few hours and we’ll fix this, baby, whatever this is.” He could hardly breathe through his sobs. “Please, Rin. Let me come find you.”

“I don’t need your help, Nezha. Just talk to me, that’s all I want,” Rin murmured sleepily. “Anything you want. Do you want to tell me about your father’s new ships?”

“God, fuck you,” Nezha hissed. He swiped the back of his hand over his cheeks. “Why are you doing this? Why do you keep pushing me away?”

“Why are you being such an asshole? I just wanted to say hello for a bit. You’re the one abroad on a hot date, and I’m—”

She let out a soft whimper from the back of her throat; Rin sucked in a sharp breath.

“You win, alright?” She snarled. “You win, you fucking bastard. I hope you’re happy.”

“Happy?” Nezha whispered in disbelief. “Do you think being abandoned like that was winning?”

“Sorry I interrupted you and your woman. Have the life you deserve, I guess.” Rin seemed for a moment like she meant to say more, but then changed her mind. “Goodbye, Nezha.”

She hung up.

Nezha stared at his phone in disbelief, heart racing like a bird’s as his ears buzzed with her voice.

I’m scared, Nezha, she said.

I don’t know what to do, or where I’ll go, she said.

I just wanted to hear your voice once last time, she said.

Fuck. Fuck.

Nezha’s hand was trembling as he dialed Rin’s number. It dropped.

He dialed again. Dropped. Again. Again. And again.

He remembered the fear in her voice; how small and defeated she’d been. The vulnerability she had never permitted herself to show him. Had she drank to muster the courage to call? Did she not think she could trust him?

Why had he given up on her as easily as he had?

Nezha imagined Rin in god knows where, drunk and terrified and alone; tears rushed to his eyes, his heart twisting with pain and self-hatred.

He had to go back home. Had to find her.

Nezha hurried back into the suite. He nearly jumped out of his skin when he realized Yiren was still on the couch; he’d completely forgotten about her.

“Everything okay?” She asked in a tone that brooked no warmth or friendliness.

“No.” He walked past her. “I’m sorry, Yiren, but you’ve got to go.”

Yiren blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m leaving.” Nezha began shuffling the pillows, distractedly trying to find his wallet and keys. “Where did you toss my suit jacket?”

She stared at him for a moment in disbelief.

“So you’re going to leave after you made me sit here for half an hour,” Yiren said, “and made me look like a fool.”

“I told you, I have an emergency.”

Her face soured. She changed tack.

“Who’s Rin? Your girlfriend?” Yiren snapped.

Did he look like he had the time for this fucking bullshit? This woman was nothing to him.

“Yes,” Nezha hissed. “I need to get back to her.” His vision blurred, the full force of his despair curling vise-like around his chest. “Now get the fuck out of my way.”

Yiren raised a hand and hit him across the face.

“I fucking hate cheaters like you,” she spat, before taking her things and slamming the door behind her.

He gave Yiren a head start of five minutes so that he wouldn’t run into her in the lobby. Nezha was pulling out of the Bainbridge’s driveway, restless and nauseous, when his phone rang.

“What the fuck have you done to your date?” Venka’s screech rose above the headwinds buffeting his face and his car engine, throttling at top speed. “My friend called me and started fucking yelling—”

“I don’t give a shit about your friend. I’m going home,” Nezha snarled.

“Oh, you better get your ass back to your fucking flat because I’m going to—”

“You’re not listening, meimei. I’m going home,” he gritted out. “To Nikan. Rin’s called, she’s—I need to get to her.”

Nezha’s voice broke. He was helpless against the sobs that tore out of his throat.

“What? Did she tell you where she was?” Venka demanded when he’d managed to tell her about the call.

“She wouldn’t say, Rin was drunk, she was. . . gods, meimei, I’d told her I was on a date.” The highway and lights ahead blurred. Cruelty was so easy; but its aftermath, always so wretched. How the fuck could he do that to her? To his Rin, whose bravery and nonchalance were veneers, behind which lay that kindred part of her: a small, lonely, broken thing? “I have to find her, meimei, I can’t give up on her like this. Rin needs me,” he said.

I need her, he didn’t say. Didn’t have to.

“For fuck’s sake, Nezha, calm down,” Venka was shouting now. “Pull your shit together. Do you think you’ll be any good to Rin if you’re spiraling? I’ll meet you in half an hour, don’t fly back home without me.”

He didn’t know how he made it to his apartment. Didn’t know what he packed in his carry-on. One moment he was locking the doors to his flat and the next Venka was pushing him past Rachdale immigration and airport security, and they’re boarding the eleven-and-a-half hour flight to Sinegard.

They didn’t have any other leads despite their attempts to figure out where Rin’s call had come from, and despite Venka pulling strings with the friend of a friend who owned Rin’s service provider. In the end, their only recourse had been to head straight to Sinegard’s Jade District upon landing.

“Ms. Sring? Mr. Yin?” Merchi greeted them in his night clothes after Venka repeatedly pushed the buzzer, casting them a bewildered look through the gates. “It’s good to see you after such a long time, but why are you here so early—?”

“Where’s Kitay?” Venka demanded. The amount of energy she had despite hardly sleeping on the flight both amazed and terrified Nezha. “We need to talk.”

“It’s four o’ clock, Ms. Sring,” Merchi exclaimed. “The young master is asleep—”

“I don’t care. Wake him up.”

“Ms. Sring, please, you know I can’t do that—”

“I’m going to start screaming out here if you don’t—”

A sliver of light fell on the gravel of the Chens’ driveway.

“That’s enough.” A familiar voice intoned. Kitay emerged through the entrance doors of their mansion, and crossed the driveway towards the gates. “Sorry for the trouble, Merchi. Let them in.”

“But Master Chen—”

“I was expecting them.” Kitay met their eyes in the darkness. “Open the gate, please, then leave us.”

Merchi obliged reluctantly.

The sight of Kitay looking so calm and nonchalant made cold fury rush to his head. As soon as the gate swung open, Nezha strode up to Kitay and cuffed him by the collar of his pajamas. Merchi let out a horrified cry.

“Where the fuck is she?” Nezha snarled.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t fuck with me, Kitay. Rin told me you’ve been in contact with her.”

Kitay hesitated. “If you’ve spoken to Rin, why haven’t you asked her yourself?”

Nezha’s grip on his lapels tightened. “This isn’t funny, you fucking prick. You think I’d be asking if she told me?”

“Then perhaps consider that I’m not at liberty to tell you.”

“Enough. We didn’t come here to fucking bandy words with you.” Venka wedged herself between them impatiently. “You said you’d tell us if you had any leads, you said you’d let us know once you’d gotten in touch with her. How long have you been keeping this from us?” She spat. “What are you and Rin playing at?”

“Nobody’s playing at anything. Rin just has a few things to take care of.”

“What things?” Nezha snarled, at the same time Venka shrieked: “Kitay, she cut us off!”

He grimaced. “It’s not like that. But that was Rin’s decision. She asked me not to tell either of you.”

A wave of vertigo slammed into Nezha. “That’s bullshit. I’m her boyfriend.”

“Was,” Kitay corrected. “Was her boyfriend.”

“This is ridiculous. What the hell is this, Kitay? We’re her best friends too.” Incredibly, Venka’s voice was brittle. It was the first time Nezha had ever heard her sound that way. “Does that not mean anything to her? To you?”

Kitay’s face spasmed, but he said nothing; nothing could be said.

A long silence fell between the three old friends.

“She called me,” Nezha heard himself whisper; he hadn’t realized his mouth had moved of its own accord. “She asked after me. She said she was in trouble; she said she was sad and terrified and didn’t know what to do. Rin told me she just wanted to hear my voice, she. . .”

His voice and knees gave.

Nezha crouched onto the gravel of the driveway, bending over as pained howls were wrenched from him against his will.

“If she’d gotten herself into a goddamn pickle she knows we’d help her,” Venka said in hoarse disbelief. “What the hell is her problem?”

Kitay’s gaze grew distant.

“We can’t help her this time, Venka,” he said softly. His gaze grew distant. Troubled. “Not with this.”

Instead of placating her, that only made Venka angrier. “Bullshit, Kitay. There’s no such thing.”

But Kitay’s words, Rin’s voice on the phone, all those weeks spent looking and longing for her broke something in him.

Nezha crossed the short distance between them on hands and knees. He reached for Kitay’s skinny wrists.

“Do you want me to beg?” He heard himself whisper.

Kitay’s eyes grew wide. “Nezha, don’t—”

“I’ll beg,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll do anything it takes for you to tell me where she is, Kitay, just please—”

“Nezha, that’s enough.” Venka’s hiss was harsh and filled with pained disgust as she threw her entire weight at pulling him up. “Stop being so goddamn pathetic.”

It was disgusting and pathetic. If it were anyone else, Nezha would’ve been horrified; worse, he would’ve laughed.

But he would endure humiliation for this. He would endure anything, if it meant having his Rin back. What was the point of pride and pretenses, of the future and his life without her? Before Rin had come into his life Nezha had been drowning, going through the motions in an existence ultimately absurd and senseless.

If she left him for good, Nezha would be worse off than he had been before her. He will always remember what it was like to once know and touch divinity, to be made hallowed by his worship; he will forever be sullied and damned by its loss.

“I need her, Kitay. I know she needs me, too.” He couldn’t make out Kitay and Venka’s faces through his tears, could barely get the words out through his staggered, choked breaths. His grip tightened around his fragile wrists. “I love her so much. I can’t lose her, I wouldn’t survive it, and you’re the only one who could help me. Help me, Kitay. Please. Don’t do this to me. To us.”

Kitay’s face spasmed, clearly distressed.

“I’m sorry, Nezha,” he said softly after a long silence, prying his wrist off his grasp. “I really am. More than you’ll ever know.”

Nezha felt those words like the wind being knocked out of him.

“No. Fuck off.” Venka walked up to Kitay, until their faces were almost touching. Her voice was low and controlled and dangerous. “You don’t get to apologize and absolve yourself like this has nothing to do with you. Like you’re not exactly the same thing she is: a fucking asshole who treated her best friends like garbage,” she spat.

Her breaths came up harsh, and her arms and legs were trembling, from anger or disappointment or grief he didn’t know.

Kitay’s face was pale and stricken in the twilight, shadowed with regret.

“Get the fuck up, Nezha,” she ordered.

Nezha didn’t stir.

“I said get the fuck up, Yin Nezha!”

He couldn’t, not even if he wanted to. He tried shifting his legs; his limbs had all the strength of a rice noodle.

In an impressive show of strength, Venka peeled Nezha off the ground, arms coming up around his shoulders to hold him up.

“I know that bitch had a miserable fucking life. That’s why she’s this sick in the head,” Venka hissed cruelly before they ambled together to the gate. “But I’ve known you for years and expected more from you, Chen Kitay. You of all people should’ve known that this”—her grip tightens around Nezha’s shoulders, so painful he was certain it would bruise—“this isn’t how you fucking treat people who love and care about you.”

Kitay didn’t try to apologize or follow them.

Nezha and Venka walked the few dark streets over to the Srings’ mansion, where she deposited him in the guest bedroom.

He lay in bed, wide awake and completely hollowed out.

Rin hadn’t called or texted again. Of course she hadn’t. If not for the fact that he had no strength remaining in his limbs, Nezha might have texted her, just in case she hadn’t blocked him yet. In case there was still a chance of changing her mind, of telling her all the tender things he wanted to say:

I’m sorry, baby. That date was nothing to me; but you, you are everything.

And: Tell me where you are and I’ll come find you, my love. I heard it in your voice; I know it’s not over for you, too.

And: We could still fix this, baby. It’s not too late. It’ll never be too late.

But each time he’d worked up the strength to message, something would stay his hand.

Nezha would remember Venka’s words: This isn’t how you treat people who love and care about you.

And Rin’s, weeks ago: I suppose you are the one thing I could dispense with.

She could waltz in and out of his life as she pleased without regard for how hard he was trying to put himself back together; for how a single look, a word, a touch from her would break him all over again. For how utterly Nezha is at her mercy. But why had he ever expected any restraint or lenience from Rin, even in her leave-taking? In the end, all she had ever known to do was to hurt. To destroy.

Hours later, days later, he couldn’t say, Nezha finally found the strength to tell Rin not the words he wanted to say, but what she deserved to hear.

/

People aren’t grateful enough for the fact that Rin doesn’t have the ability to burn people down or go on killing sprees.

If she did, Rin thinks as she glares at the video of the pale-eyed man on her work laptop, her body count would probably number in the hundreds or thousands.

Spit-roasting Chaghan Suren’s condescending ass would only be the beginning of it.

“Do we still have no word on those forms, Rin?” Altan’s senior partner asks snidely.

No ‘hello’ or ‘sorry for calling on short notice?’ Mind you, it’s a fucking Sunday, Rin wants to say, but restrains herself on account of Altan and Souji, who were both also in the call.

Instead, she says: “I’m trying to get it done in two weeks like previously discussed.”

“Well, I’m asking you to expedite it,” Chaghan says like she’s an idiot for not being able to read his mind. “Zhanuan has already started construction on Kai’ping; we want to file a temporary restraining order this week.” 

“Just to clarify, Zhanuan Industries was contracted by the Dragon Warlord to manufacture chemical munitions in Speer during the war?” Altan asks.

“Yes. They were initially registered as a manufacturing corporation in Dragon Province under a Mr. Meng Yimu. It was only after the Third Poppy War that they’d applied for licenses to process natural gas,” Rin says.

“How did Zhanuan end up with ownership of that coast?” Altan rubs a large hand over his head, clearly frustrated. “The earth and sea are sacred to Speerlies. No tribe would’ve sold their land for any amount of money, especially not before the country’s industrialization and independence.”

“No,” Rin agrees. “I think I’ll be able to establish the tribes’ relationship with the land, their cultural and socioeconomic practices; that’ll help you prove the agreement to sell might have been spurious. And Zhanuan was part of the military complex; there should be information on the construction of the old plant.”

She cuts herself off, chest having grown a little tight. Those stupid fucking bitches. Rin’s still a little breathless from nearly drowning last night.

“You should also look into how Kai’ping’s original settlers were dealt with,” Souji tells her.

Altan grimaces. Whatever dealt with meant for the Speerlies who used to occupy that stretch of Kai’ping’s coast before the Nikara militia claimed it for their use, it couldn’t have been anything good.

“It’ll strengthen the case if there’s proof of violations against indigenous peoples,” Souji continues.

“Yeah, I’m on it,” Rin says, listing that down. For all the man’s faults, Souji does have experience working with marginalized groups in Nikan and the Hinterlands. Unfortunately, tribes being forcibly ejected from their land aren’t uncommon.

“The old plant has been abandoned for decades; so far Baji hasn’t found any proof of the land being sold,” Altan says. “Have your people look into Zhanuan before we file the TRO; let’s make sure we’re going after the right people.”

Rin hums in acknowledgement, making a mental note to assign this work to Pipaji.

“That’s all for now. I expect updates by Wednesday,” Chaghan says briskly.

“Actually, I’d like a quick word if you don’t mind,” Rin says before Chaghan could cut the call. The man arches a pale brow when she clarifies: “With Altan. Alone? If that’s okay.”

Altan blinks.

Souji asks: “What’s this about, Rin?”

“The project?” Rin scowls at her manager. “What else would it be?”

“Well, if it’s about the project I don’t understand why you can’t just say it while we’re all here,” he presses.

Souji didn’t have to get on the call, but he’s not here because he’s particularly hardworking or passionate about indigenous rights. He’s just been adamant about not letting Rin talk to Altan alone, as if he thinks the lawyer’s going to pirate her. The thought is fucking absurd. Maybe she should be flattered Souji thinks so highly of her credentials. “I just wanted to clarify something about the wording on one of the forms.”

“No problem. I have a bit of time,” Altan interrupts before Souji could protest. “Thanks for hopping on the call on short notice, Mr. Yang; sorry again to bother you on a Sunday.”

Souji smiles thinly. “Pleasure’s all mine, Mr. Trengsin.”

Chaghan isn’t as cordial, and casts Rin a suspicious look before hopping off the call without so much as a goodbye. Prick.

“So, what’s that wording you wanted to clarify?” Altan asks when it was just them alone.

“Ah, sorry. I just said that to get Souji off my back.” Rin hesitates. “That wasn’t actually my concern.”

Altan arches a brow.

“I hate to bring this up,” Rin prefaces quickly, nervously. “But I haven’t exactly been forthcoming about the situation with the forms. The Yins—Muzha, the Museum Director, that is, she’s. . . she’s been kind of giving me a hard time over signing them.”

That got his attention.

“What do you mean?” Altan asks warily.

She already regrets this. She doesn’t want to look incompetent in front of Altan, or fucking whiny. But if Rin has to endure one more event like the party last night—humiliated at every turn, constantly reminded of how worthless she is, and nearly fucking killed—she’s really going on a rampage. This is way too extra for a job she doesn’t even fucking like, and won’t compensate her properly for all her trouble.

“Yin Muzha had a few, uh, conditions, that I personally need to fulfill for her to sign off on them,” Rin says slowly.

“And you only thought to tell us now?”

Rin blinks. Chaghan appears behind Altan on his video, in what’s clearly an apartment, not their office. Had they been in the same place this entire time?

Altan blinks back, seemingly having short-circuited.

“Sorry, Rin, just—one second.”

He mutes his microphone. The men exchange words; Chaghan looks about to have a conniption as Altan appears to talk him down, gesturing at a door in the background.

Are those two fucking? Rin wonders, intermittently casting her eyes away from the screen, staring out her rental apartment’s window at Arlong’s cloudless blue skies. It’s not like they’re all in one room, but watching them still makes her feel like a voyeur.

Finally, Chaghan rolls his eyes and marches into the room Altan pointed out.

“Sorry about that.” Altan clears his throat when he unmutes, flushed.

“No need to explain.” Rin holds her palms up. “Not my business.”

Privately she’s thinking: Weird choice. Really fucking weird. Like, outright questionable I’m forced to rethink my good opinion of you a bit, but okay. She pinches her leg off-camera so that she doesn’t accidentally laugh.

“Thank you. So, what exactly were Yin Muzha’s conditions?” Altan asks, a little too eager to breeze over that spot of awkwardness. “Nothing that’ll compromise the admissibility of our evidence, I hope.”

Rin freezes. She hadn’t considered that. “I. . . gods, I hope not.”

Altan grimaces. “Is it illegal?”

“No. No, it’s just really fucking stupid,” she grumbles. “Basically Muzha wants me to attend her wedding.”

“Oh. Well.” Altan shrugs. “That’s not so bad, is it?”

“She wants me to go as her little brother’s date,” Rin explains. “You know. Theguyiwasseeingbackatuni.”

“I’m sorry, the what now?”

Rin winces.

“He was my ex.” Gods. The pear of anguish is probably less painful. “Yin Nezha, I mean.”

The corner of Altan’s mouth quirks.

The Yins’ reputation at Sinegard precedes them, so Rin can probably venture a guess at his thoughts. So. You were saying about questionable choices?

“Let me get this straight. Muzha asked you, her brother’s ex-girlfriend, to come to her wedding as his date.” Rin nods. He frowns. “Why on earth would she do that?”

“She doesn’t know we’d broken up.” But that only seems to confuse Altan more. Rin sighs. “Look, it’s a long story. A long, convoluted, extremely stupid story.”

“Well, long, convoluted, and extremely stupid or not, I need to know the details,” Altan says levelly. “I just need to know if it’ll have any bearing on the case we’re building.”

Well, fuck me. So Rin has no choice but to begrudgingly tell him about the ruse—carefully tiptoeing around the circumstances of her leaving Sinegard in fifth year; surely that isn’t material—and gives him vague details about the other events she’s expected to attend. The whole time the corners of Altan’s mouth are twitching. The man is putting up a brave front trying not to laugh, and she has to commend him for his valiant efforts.

“Is there a written contract between you and Muzha?”

“No. But there is an invitation,” she says, “addressed to Nezha and myself.”

“And between you and Nezha?”

She shakes her head. “He’s equally invested in keeping up appearances as I am.”

Altan grimaces.

“I’m sorry,” Rin mutters. “I didn’t think it was going to be an issue, it’s just. . . the only reason I had access at all in uni was because I was seeing him.”

“It’s fine.” Altan massages his temples. “I suppose that explains why the only resource we could find was an undergraduate thesis. It was just our luck Baji found it, really.”

Rin watches him anxiously as he steeples his fingers, thinking.

“Okay. Here’s what we’re gonna do,” Altan begins slowly. “Continue your research, and please follow up on those forms. So yes, that means you’ll have to keep up your informal agreements with Muzha and Nezha, for now,” he adds pointedly when Rin opens her mouth to protest. “Once we have a strong case, we can file a motion for the court to subpoena the pertinent documents in the Yins’ private collection.”

“Wait, you could do that?” Rin blurts before she could check herself. “Why didn’t we just file a motion in the first place?”

“Because we’d have to convince the court first that those documents are substantial evidence,” Altan tells Rin flatly. “Otherwise they can quash the request. And if they do, then we’ll need Muzha’s signature anyway for the evidence to be admissible in court. If things get too litigious for their comfort, her lawyers might tell her not to sign at all.”

Rin’s heart sinks. She’d been hoping Altan would tell her she no longer has to play nice with Muzha, Nezha, or any of the Yins. But of course, she wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Okay,” Rin says glumly.

“Sorry I don’t have better news,” Altan says when he senses Rin’s disappointment. “This is something Chaghan needs to know about, so I’m going to tell him. But let me know if there are any changes to your agreement, and if you can help it, try not to tell Yin Nezha any details about the case.”

Rin snorts. “Don’t worry. That’s not gonna be an issue.”

Altan tells her he’s stolen enough time from her Sunday, and after thanking her hops off the call.

As soon as it drops, Rin faceplants onto the dining table.

Two weeks.

Two more fucking weeks.

And unless she builds a strong case against Zhanuan in under that time, she’s fucking stuck in Arlong at the mercy of Muzha’s whims.

Having to keep pretending she and Nezha are still together, no less.

Rin lets out a long breath.

Well. Nothing to be done about it. This seems to be a recurring theme in her life: rich cunts getting to dictate Rin’s fate, and her having to make do until she finds a way out. What good will sighing and self-pitying do? It won’t build her case, it won’t pay the bills or Kesegi’s schooling, or change anything. So Rin peels herself off from her seat and begins preparing for a day’s work, showering and gathering her things before heading to the Museum.

She keeps busy on the bus ride over, delegating tasks to her interns and making lists. If she focuses on work, it keeps her mind off unsavory things: today it’s stubbornly snagging on the party last night, the cruel words from the Yins and their friends. The condescending looks. The resignation she felt as she drowned.

And Nezha: Jumping in to save her, the way he did at the end of second year. The real fear in his voice as he shook her awake, the real tenderness in the way he smoothed the hair from her face. The way he’d put his arms around her as she hobbled to his car. Asking about Kesegi. What he’d said about Muzha and Jinzha winding up with people they loved. About needing more time to find something like that.

And even after everything: those last words she’d said to him.

Nezha had been plenty cruel, even back when they’d been together. And she is certain he would’ve been just as passive if he were taking Rin to meet the family for real. But she still can’t help her guilt at the memory of his stricken expression; at the way she’d callously broken their unspoken rule to not broach the past at any cost. Her only concern then had been to lash out and hurt, and she’s very good at that—but so is Nezha. Rin has no doubt that if she hadn’t walked out, Nezha would’ve had a lot of unsavory words for her in turn.

The Museum is busy with visitors when Rin hops off the bus and ducks into the main hall, passing now-familiar encasements and artifacts on her way to the basement stairs. She’s so engrossed with the mental work list she’s running that she doesn’t hear the voice calling her until a warm grip curls around her hand.

Rin jumps, yanking her hand away as she whirls.

“Don’t fucking touch me,” she hisses.

Nezha frowns at her. “Darling, that’s no way to say hello to your boyfriend.”

She bristles. What the fuck is this bastard doing here?

“Hello, Rin.” The smile Nezha gives her is winsome and criminally pretty, as if they hadn’t parted on awful terms the previous evening. “Cat got your tongue? Are you that happy to see me?”

Rin’s about to tear into him for the jibe when she realizes Salkhi’s right behind him in her customary sweater and plaid skirt.

And fucking Guo Yuxin.

“I—” Rin’s mouth works. Remembering Altan’s words, she forces her voice into something approaching calm. “You startled me,” she manages lamely. “What did you grasp my hand for?”

“Well, I’d been calling you but you were checked out. Sorry, darling,” Nezha says softly, making a show of pushing a strand of her hair from her eyes. His fingers ghost briefly over her cheek, before tucking the long strands behind her ear. Rin flinches. Incredibly, her face grows hot. “Everything okay? Are you feeling better?”

Nezha’s gotten close enough that Rin can pick out the gold flecks in his irises, his perfume and warmth curling around her like an embrace: clean and aquatic and fresh, the same one he used to wear back at Sinegard, she realizes with a strange, panicked jolt. Her eyes flicker up to his face; even his concerned expression is old and familiar. Why the fuck is this man being so goddamn extra?

“Yeah. Okay,” Rin stammers out.

His eyes flit over her bag. “Don’t tell me you’re working on a Sunday.”

She breaks eye contact, overwhelmed by the intensity of his dark gaze. “Have a lot of work to get through.”

Nezha frowns at her. “I was going to take you out after this.”

The fuck you aren’t, jackass, Rin communicates in the glare she shoots him.

He widens his eyes slightly, as if to say: Just roll with it, you bitch.

“Rin should join us for lunch, Nezha,” Yuxin finally pipes up behind him. He startles, as if he’d forgotten she’s there. She steps up beside him, delicate and pretty in her floral dress. “I feel bad for stealing him away on a Sunday, I’m sure you wanted to spend time with Nezha. We’re thinking of having steak,” she tells Rin.

Behind them, Salkhi rolls her eyes.

“Yuxin’s asked me to show her around the Museum for a bit,” Nezha says. “Sorry I forgot to tell you, darling. I hope that’s okay?”

Rin narrows her eyes. Some part of her wants to say no, absolutely fucking not. No reason, she just wants to be a difficult little shit. But knowing the jackass will willfully misinterpret this, Rin just shrugs.

“I don’t care. Nezha can spend his weekend however and with whomever he wants.” She fixes her bag on her shoulder, and gives Yuxin a frosty smile. “And glorified secretaries are at the behest of corporate overlords like yourself, so I can’t just duck out of work for steak at leisure, I’m sorry.”

Yuxin’s face turns beet red; Nezha’s brow arches.

Before either of them could say anything more, Rin says, “I’ll be heading downstairs to work. You two have a good time.”

“Rin, wait.” Nezha steps in close. Rin’s heart stutters as his warmth steals into her space. Before she could make a run for it, he makes a show of rubbing the small of her back comfortingly. “I’ll come find you downstairs when we’re done, okay?”

Adrenaline and heat surges through her.

“No need. I’ll be busy,” Rin says shortly. Nezha doesn’t seem to realize his blasted fingers are tracing absent patterns on the small of her back, leaving soft tingles in their wake. She shifts away, unsettled. “You should show Ms. Guo around Arlong.” She flashes the woman a painful smile, which she returns with a startled, weak one of her own. “Nezha likes playing tour guide, plus it’s a nice day out.”

Rin retreats to the basement staircases, chest tight and strangely winded, the way she had been emerging from the water last night in Nezha’s arms, and wonders briefly if she should’ve heeded Niang and Dan’s advice when they said to go to the hospital.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“Ms. Fang, you have to join them for lunch.”

Rin startles, looking up sharply from her work. Salkhi charges towards her desk like a woman on a warpath, wild hair more frazzled than usual. “What?”

“You can’t let Mr. Yin go out for lunch alone with that woman,” Salkhi warns.

She frowns. “Why? What’s going on?”

Salkhi glances around the private collection hall. Assured they were completely alone, she sits across Rin, leaning in conspiratorially.

“Ms. Guo has been flirting with Mr. Yin all morning,” Salkhi whispers urgently.

Rin frowns. “Flirting? What do you mean, flirting?”

“She’d been preening the whole time we were going around. Kept blushing and making eyes at him.” Salkhi counts out her fingers as she goes through this verbal list. “She said she was here to learn, so Sola told me to show her around and explain our more interesting artifacts, but she hardly paid any attention to me. She just kept craning up her neck to look at him and giggling, like, ‘You are such a nerd, Nezha,’ ‘Were you also a history minor in uni? Your mind amazes me’”—Salkhi affects a high-pitched, girlish voice dripping with mockery to comical effect, as it’s nothing like her usual soft-spoken, calm alto—“‘How do you know so much about ships?”

Rin blinks. “Nezha talked to her about ships?”

“That’s not all. Did you see what she was wearing? That’s a date outfit.” Salkhi looks disgusted. “And those tiny heels. You’d think a high-powered CEO from Rachdale would know how to walk in heels all day. But no,” she mocked, “she kept ‘slipping,’ so Mr. Yin kept having to offer his arm. And she really did take advantage and held on the entire time. She only let go when Mr. Yin saw you.”

Her stomach clenches. She quashes it. “I mean, you do have slippery floors.”

She yelps when Salkhi slams a hand on the desk.

“Ms. Fang. With all due respect, don’t be obtuse,” Salkhi says with surprising vehemence for someone normally so soft-spoken. “I wouldn’t accept that kind of disrespect if I were you.”

Rin blinks, utterly bewildered at how invested Salkhi is in her personal life. She continues: “Now, to be fair to Mr. Yin, he didn’t really seem all that interested. And his demeanor with you was entirely different, so that showed her. But you can’t let them go to lunch without you.”

Her stomach unclenches at that, damn her.

“Salkhi. I appreciate your concern, but I’m not worried.” Nezha is criminally attractive, so girls fawning over him are a dime a dozen: rich, confident and fashionable, with the right skin color and surname. Rin used to take one look at them and wonder why Nezha was dating her of all people, more often than she cared to admit. But there was no fucking way in hell she would’ve asked for reassurance; she didn’t need it, plus the ego boost would’ve made him even more insufferable. “I trust him.”

Salkhi pulls a face.

“Okay, well, I just thought you ought to know. And for the record,” she says darkly, “I don’t think it’s Mr. Yin that’s untrustworthy.”

Rin is spared from having to reply when the door swings open.

“Did you need me, Mr. Yin?” Salkhi bolts up from her seat when Nezha walks in. “I apologize; I just had to help Ms. Fang with something.”

He waves her off. “Yuxin needs to use the photocopier and send a fax, can you assist her?”

“Of course, sir. I’ll take her to Ms. Yin’s secretary’s office upstairs right now.”

Nezha frowns. “Don’t you have a machine just outside?”

“It broke this morning,” Salkhi says quickly. She power-walks to the door, craning her head to fucking wink at Rin. She can only gape back in disbelief. “We’ll be a while, sir, so you and Ms. Fang can. . . take your time.”

The door closes. Nezha turns to meet her eyes.

Rin averts her gaze back to her monitor and types.

“So.” All vestige of softness and concern from the lobby is gone, and Nezha’s voice is once again its usual drawl. Rin will never cease to be amazed at just how proficient of a liar he is. “At the lobby, just then. What was that about?”

“I don’t follow.”

Nezha crosses the room until he’s leering over her desk like a shitty micromanager. “Yuxin’s convinced you’re upset with her.”

Her head snaps up to glare at him. “Why on earth would she think that?”

“I don’t know, Rin.” The way he shrugs is so fucking arrogant and lackadaisical it makes her want to punch him in the face. “You were pretty short with her awhile ago.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? All I said was I had work to do. I even told you rich assholes to have fun,” Rin snaps impatiently. “Does she think the fucking world revolves around her? Was she mad a mere mortal like myself didn’t simper at her feet like she’s the Goddess of Beauty incarnate?”

Nezha arches a brow. “She’s thinking you were jealous.”

Rin scoffs. For some demented reason, her face grows hot. “And why the fuck would I be jealous? Jealousy presupposes I actually like you.”

Now both of his brows disappear into his carefully tousled hair.

“What’s this? Were you jealous because of me?” His lip curls in amusement. Nezha clicks his tongue superciliously. “Ah, Rin. I admire your commitment to the bit, but might I suggest not getting too deep into character? I know you can’t help it because, well, look at me”—he preens—“but I think we can agree we should try to minimize liabilities in this set up.”

Why, this fucking piece of SHIT.

Rin bolts up from her seat and rounds the table to stomp on his foot.

Nezha yelps. “You fucking bitch!”

“That’s what you get for being so full of yourself,” Rin sneers. “If she’s always like this, tell your friend to get help or get fucked.”

“No can do. You’ll have to come out to lunch with us.”

She laughs acridly. “Oh Nezha, you make me laugh.”

“I’m serious, Rin. I can’t afford to make Yuxin upset,” he says, suddenly serious. “I’m trying to win the bid to supply tankers and barges for their 1.2 trillion project.”

If what Salkhi said was true, Rin doesn’t see any reason why he has to try so hard to suck up to Yuxin. “And that’s my problem because?”

“Come on, Rin. You’re supposed to be the clever one.” Nezha arches a brow at her. “It’s your problem because if I tell Muzha on you, she’s not going to sign on your forms.”

She stomps on his other foot this time.

“Bitch, what the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

“You’re the one milking my forms for all it’s worth, what’s wrong with you?”

“That’s business, darling,” Nezha says dismissively. He rounds the desk after her. “Come on. Steak lunch on me. Two hours.”

“Fuck off. I don’t have time for this bougie bullshit, Yin Nezha.”

“You’re gonna have to eat anyway. One and half.”

“No I don’t. Hunger is good. It’ll keep me light, focused.”

Nezha snorts. “It’ll keep you miserable.” He glances at her desk, picking up the volume she’d been perusing before Salkhi came in, an account of Dragon Province’s naval activity in the two years before the Third Poppy War.

“Hey, don’t touch those,” Rin protests.

“Excuse you, these are mine.” He studies the document for a while, before waving it back at her. “And these are no good.”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“Wartime naval records are the most egregious gap in our archives. It’s the Maritime Museum that has them.” Nezha gives Rin a thoughtful look, before breaking into a boyish, cocky grin. “Want me to get you in?”

The sight of it is so jarringly familiar it makes Rin’s heart skip a beat. “Fuck off. I can get in there myself.”

“No, you can’t.”

“And why the fuck not?”

“Because I said so.” Nezha’s expression is fucking smug and infuriating. “Because I’m part of their Board of Trustees.”

She scoffs. Tiger’s fucking tits. “Of course you bloody are.”

“So.” Nezha plants a hand onto her desk, leaning in a way that accentuates the long, elegant lines of his physique, damn him. “Come with us to lunch?”

Rin glares at him.

“One hour and fifteen minutes. Tops,” she says, jabbing a pen at him.

“Alright. We have a deal.”

They fall into a vaguely uncomfortable silence. Rin’s heart begins racing. Bickering with Nezha is fine; cooperating with him for the sake of her project she can tolerate.

But silence is dangerous. Silence means possibility. Silence is an opportunity to take stock, a chance to probe contraband memories and loose ends. Rin opens her mouth to break it, but he beats her to it.

“Are you okay? After last night, I mean,” Nezha clarifies. “No wheezing or anything like that?”

“No.”

“Good. Sorry about that again.” His voice is suddenly earnest. “I’ve talked to Muzha and Dan; those girls are uninvited from the rest of the wedding.”

Rin snorts. Getting uninvited to a party is not nearly enough punishment for actually trying to kill someone, she thinks, but she’s learned by now not to expect anything by way of justice if she’s up against rich cunts.

“Don’t you think it’s funny?” Nezha asks suddenly.

“What’s funny?” Rin says harshly. “That I nearly died?”

“That I’d saved you from drowning. Twice.”

She turns away from him, heart picking up speed. This is broaching the subject of the past too closely for comfort. “That just means you’re bad luck.”

“Means you’re a shit swimmer,” Nezha corrects. “And you owe me one.”

“Fuck off. I don’t owe you shit.”

“You sure about that?” Rin realizes with a jolt he’s stepped in behind her. His hand braces on the desk, and when she turns to glare at him he’s crowding her to its edge. Nezha’s expression is suddenly inscrutable. Grave. “Because you know, I can think of a few things I’m owed.”

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, FUCK.

“Step back, Nezha,” Rin warns, her face and body growing hot. He’s so close she can see the scars on his right cheekbone and brow; his long, thick eyelashes; the perfect bow of his pink lips. “I’m serious, get away from me.”

“Don’t look at me like that.” Nezha tilts his head curiously. “I’d never ask you anything I didn’t already deserve, would I?”

Fuck. She’s trapped, Nezha’s long arms braced on both sides as he leans into her with his warm, solid body. Rin’s nerves are frayed and have gone into absolute overdrive, goosebumps running down her arms and nape, head swimming in panic and Nezha’s mere proximity.

“This doesn’t have to be hard,” he murmurs. “I just wanna talk.”

“No, Nezha. Fuck off,” Rin hisses, breathless.

Nezha’s eyes search her face. His warmth, his proximity, the intensity of his gaze makes her limbs feel like abject jelly, a suspicious stirring settling low in her belly.

Her knee swings back, ready to aim for his crotch, when the door bursts open.

“Oh!” A familiar alto. Salkhi. “Sorry to interrupt, sir, I—we’ll be outside.”

The knob of Nezha’s throat bobs, gaze lingering on Rin’s lips. Her throat grows dry.

“No. No, you weren’t. She wasn’t. . .” His voice grows soft. “Rin’s joining us for lunch. You ready to head out, Yuxin?”

“Yeah.” Yuxin’s voice has grown small. Her eyes flit between Nezha and Rin, expression inscrutable. “Yeah, good. We should. . . let’s use your car.”

Nezha steps back, his warmth receding from her.

A wave of vertigo slams into her. She starts panting as if she’d just run a kilometer and a half.

“Okay,” he murmurs, and haply to Rin: “Let’s go, darling.”

He offers Rin a hand wordlessly; she takes it. They walk out of the archives behind Yuxin in a stilted, heavy silence, neither of them willing to look each other in the eyes.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Rin could kiss Salkhi and Yuxin for interrupting. She doesn’t know how she wound up nearly fucking cornered by Nezha, but she was certain he’d been about to force an explanation from her: about fifth year, graduation, the whole enchilada.

But Nezha’s deluded if he thinks she’s here to talk about any of that. Rin’s here to work, not give any explanations or justify herself to anyone.

Really, the fact that Yuxin’s determined to keep Nezha’s attention on her is a good thing, Rin reminds herself as she saws off a piece of steak. It’s not irritating or vexing or upsetting; it doesn't make her want to skin Yuxin alive or subject Nezha to a medieval torture device. It’s good. This is good. Rin isn’t being bothered, she’s eating steak, she’s not expected to participate in any meaningful way.

“Oh, Nezha of little faith,” Yuxin teases, leaning forward with a pretty, winsome smile. If Rin was skeptical about what Salkhi said, she has no such doubts now. Yuxin kicks his foot playfully. “I’ll award the contract to you, of course. I don’t think my conscience could take it if I’m the reason Uncle Vaisra doesn’t make you Managing Director.”

Nezha, the fucking bastard, nudges her leg back with a grin. “Shut up.”

“Seriously though, the acquisition’s been a bit of a nightmare.” Even if Rin were interested in joining or tuning in on their conversation, there’s no way she can follow considering how much jargon they’re using. “I’ve been lobbying the Board to vote in favor. But the hidebound ones especially, they keep wringing their hands about the risk. ‘Target firm’s not solvent; Delmani’s going to absorb the loss for at least five to ten years.’” Yuxin makes a face, waving an elegant hand dismissively. “But that’s business, Nezha. How will Delmani grow if we’re so risk-averse? And come on, you’ve seen the financial projections. It’ll pay for itself long-term with how much we’d be cutting on operational expenses due to its proximity to Maral.”

“That’s true.” Nezha shakes his head, half frustrated on Yuxin’s behalf, half impressed. “Your sales forecasts were insane; you were quite conservative about your assumptions and forecasted market performance, too.”

Yuxin flushes, which is how Rin knows that was a compliment. “I know, but we’re still wrangling licenses and permits. You know that’s where things stall. Look at Erron Energy, they built all those facilities they were eventually unable to use. Your investors get cold feet and start pulling out, and before long your venture’s dead in the water. Arstal was a big leap forward, but I don’t want to be prematurely optimistic.” She gives Nezha a soft smile, before reaching across the table to squeeze his arm comfortingly. “But once we get past that, you have my word the contract’s yours. It’s not like I’d want to give it to anyone else, anyway.”

She’s almost as pale as he is. Rin tries to look away, but can’t. If Saikhara and Nezha’s aunts were indeed pushing this union, she thinks, would it really be so terrible? They get along well. They’re business partners, and they understand each other’s work and world. They’re both young, wealthy, attractive. Yuxin’s already into him, and more importantly: his family adores her.

And sure, arranged marriages are fucking archaic, but Nezha marrying Yuxin wouldn’t be anything like Auntie Fang selling Rin off to the village inspector in Tikany anyway, would it? Rin imagines he’ll be very happy with their picture-perfect life in Rachdale: comfortable, not having to worry about anything for the rest of their lives, giving his parents the pale, beautiful, posh grandchildren they want. Nezha would be a fool not to take this opportunity.

Unbidden, Rin’s eyes meet Yuxin’s. The girl flinches, and pulls away from Nezha awkwardly.

“I mean, you know,” Yuxin stammers. “Because obviously you guys are the best in the industry.”

“Rin.” She’s so spaced out she doesn’t realize Nezha’s speaking to her. “Rin, darling, are you okay?”

“What?” Her head snaps to look at his face, furrowed with concern. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay, I’m full.”

“Don’t you like steak? You can order something else, if you want. Lunch is on me.” Yuxin’s elegant hand is poised to call for a waiter. “Please, Nezha, I insist,” she says when he tries to argue, “I’ve stolen into yours and Rin’s Sunday enough, it’s the least I could do.”

“No need. Thanks for lunch, I enjoyed it.” Rin pushes away her half-eaten steak and stands.

Nezha stares at her with a bewildered expression. His hand drifts to her arm haltingly. “Rin. . .”

She yanks it back. “I’m stepping out for a quick work call. Take your time.”

She doesn’t wait for them to reply. Rin steps out into the parking, scrolling her phone for someone to call in case she’s still in sight from the window where they’re sitting. She considers calling Kitay, but remembers he’s in a conference in Lusan with Dr. Irjah. So she rings Kesegi instead, but after two tries he still doesn’t pick up; the kid’s probably catching up on sleep. The rest of her contacts are people from work.

Realizing she has nobody she could call, Rin settles on a stone bench out of sight under the hot midday sun, head fuzzy and chest tight. She tips her head back on the stone wall behind her, closing her eyes, trying not to think or feel anything.

After fifteen minutes Yuxin and Nezha’s animated conversation drift from the front doors.

“It’s sweltering out here, darling. Why haven’t you come back inside?” Nezha asks when they walk up to her, making a show of stroking her head.

She stands suddenly, dislodging Nezha’s hand, irritated at his touch and his pretenses.

“I was cold.” Rin starts towards his car. “Let’s go.”

Nezha and Yuxin fill the rest of the drive back to the Museum with chatter about their friends from Rachdale. From the corner of her eye she sees Nezha occasionally cast glances at her, but doesn’t initiate any conversation. Rin crosses her arms and shifts away, watching instead the waters of the Murui gleaming in the early afternoon sun, wind riffling through her hair as Nezha drives with his car top down.

When they pull over to the Museum, Rin unbuckles her seatbelt and alights the car wordlessly. Yuxin takes the seat beside Nezha she’d just vacated.

“Sorry again for intruding on your Sunday, Rin,” Yuxin calls after Rin’s retreating back.

Irritation flares in Rin. Their relationship isn’t real, of course, but it doesn’t change the fact that these are nothing but empty platitudes. If you were actually sorry, you would’ve fucked off hours ago, you bitch.

“How many times do I have to tell you it’s fine? I don’t give a shit if Nezha has female friends,” Rin snaps.

“Rin, please,” Nezha starts.

“I know, sorry, it’s just. You’re so cool about all this,” Yuxin says.

“Cool?” Rin repeats sharply. “All this?”

She backpedals a bit. “I mean, you know. Other girls are particular about not letting their boyfriends have female friends. But not you, Rin. You’re very self-assured. Nonchalant. I think it’s cool.”

Nezha snorts. “Oh, believe me. She’s not.”

“Believe me,” Rin speaks over him frostily, angry he’d throw her under the bus. “If he fucks up, Nezha knows I have no problems cutting him loose.”

He flinches. With effort, he forces his expression into something that distantly resembles affection for Yuxin’s sake, though his eyes are cold. Deadened.

“Have a good rest of the day,” Nezha mutters impassively.

“You’re not coming back to pick her up?” Yuxin asks.

His expression is pained, as if straining under the autocratic requirements of this farce.

“I’ll come back after I’ve dropped Yuxin off,” he finally manages through gritted teeth.

Who’s telling me this? Nezha The Fake Boyfriend or Nezha The Real Ex-Boyfriend? “I’ll finish late. No need to trouble yourself.”

“All the more he should come back for you. You’ll be tired, and it’s not safe at night,” Yuxin presses.

“I’ll text you,” Nezha says.

She shrugs. Tries not to read into it. “Fine.”

Rin turns away. The convertible rumbles to life as she heads inside. She doesn’t allow herself one last look at them, doesn’t let herself think, only throws herself into her work until the tightness in her chest lets up.

Hours pass. The text never comes.

It’s half past nine in the evening when the door to the hall swings open.

Rin looks up sharply. For a moment, her heart stutters in anticipation, half-expecting to see a pale, beautiful face, before she catches herself.

You fool, she thinks. You absolute fucking fool, did you actually think he meant it?

It’s only security, here as usual to beg Rin to go home.

“Ms. Fang, please. I don’t think Mr. Yin would be happy to see you working this late on a Sunday,” they admonish as they escort her out.

She passes them a thin, ironic smile.

Fake Boyfriend Nezha, then. Rin watches the lights of cars on the bus ride home, contending with the pit in her stomach stubbornly refusing to be quashed. Of course it hadn’t been real.

Why would I think it was real?

They’re not anything to each other. Hadn’t been for years now.

Small wonder Nezha wouldn’t follow through. Frankly, Rin would’ve done the same. At the end of the day she’s a fake girlfriend. Fake girlfriends don’t need real care or real consideration or real comfort. By design, fake girlfriends do not create obligations towards them. They don’t have real feelings that need to be protected. And if there are no real feelings involved, no real affection or sensitivity, then there can be no real expectations, and no real hurt.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Kesegi returns her call as she lies in the darkness after midnight.

“Sorry. I’d been out taking photos around the city all day and didn’t see my phone.”

Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly, as if moving through an old, empty house.

“Sinegard’s very nice, isn’t it?”

Kesegi hesitates.

“Rin, are you okay? Did something happen?”

“No. Nothing’s happened. I’m okay. Why would you say that?”

“I mean. . . you just don’t really call me unless there’s good reason.”

“I wouldn’t want to disturb you unless it’s necessary. But am I not allowed to call my little brother sometimes?”

“You wouldn’t be disturbing. And of course you can; I wish you did it more often.” Kesegi stops short. “Rin. . . are you crying?”

“What?” She sniffs. Swallows thickly. “No, I’m not. Of course not.”

“Rin, please. You sound all stuffy and hoarse from here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would I cry? I think I’m just coming down with something.”

“Well then, you should take something for it,” Kesegi admonishes her. “Do you have food and supplies at home? I can have meds and soup delivered to your rental, I’ll take care of it. Just text me your address.”

“There’s no need.” Rin closes her eyes. “I’m a big girl, Kes. I don’t need you to fuss over me.”

“Even big girls need to be taken care of, jiejie,” he says quietly.

Not me. I’ve done everything on my own.

Rin says nothing to that.

A long, thick silence stretches on for what feels like a small eternity.

“Rin, please don’t hang up on me when I say this. But I really worry about you sometimes,” Kesegi admits softly. “It’s okay to rely on other people, you know.”

She opens her eyes. Painful pressure. Lets the darkness in. Wishes she could tell Kesegi the truth.

Who’s even there for me to rely on? People have only ever let me down.

But the words will only burden him, and a burden is the last thing she wants to be.

“It’s your graduation year, Kes. You should worry about yourself, not me.”

“I can worry about the both of us at the same time, thank you very much.” If he had more to say, he lets it go. “Call me if you need anything, Rin. Or even if you just want to talk. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“I mean it. And remember if nothing else, you’ll always have me.”

“I know, Kes.” Clamps her jaw to stifle the quiver in her voice. Wetness on the sides of her eyes, sliding into her pillow. “I know that.”

“I love you, jiejie.”

“Good night, kid.”

Chapter Text

As a baby, Nezha had been responsible for the departure of at least eight wet nurses and nannies from their employ.

For all their faults, the Yins paid employees comparatively well, whether they worked in the Yin Group’s offices and manufacturing plants, the Arlong Memorial Museum, or the family’s personal and household staff. Working for the family—one of Nikan’s oldest and most distinguished houses, with a proud history of emperors and generals, founders of this great Republic—is a rare, coveted privilege, reserved only for the most competent, skilled, and brightest of Nikara. And so it was only befitting, so went the onboarding spiel, that employees repaid this honor with great loyalty and an inimitable work ethic.

Well. No amount of motivational speeches, prestige, or indeed compensation, could tempt even the most seasoned of nursemaids to hold the position of the Yins’ second son’s nanny longer than twenty-nine days.

“I’ve never met a more incorrigible child,” Sylvie cried in heavily accented Nikara. She had been flown in just two weeks ago from Bolonia’s Dupuis College, which produced highly trained nannies meant to be employed with elite families, such as the Royal Family of Acherdorf, King Mustaq of Harjah, and Herbert Torkley, former Prime Minister of Hesperia. Eriden had been cautiously optimistic when he’d spoken to the placements office of Dupuis, assured of their graduates’ work ethic and specialized curriculum—but in the end, Sylvie was only now just the latest casualty in his fruitless quest to find a permanent childcarer for Master Vaisra’s infant son.

“Incorrigible? Master Nezha is just a baby,” Minmin, the head housekeeper and unofficial second-in-command to Eriden, spat in disbelief. “He can’t help the discomfort he feels!”

“If you understand him so well, perhaps you should care for him yourself,” Sylvie sniffed, grip tightening on her suitcase. “There’s something wrong with that child”—she shuddered dramatically, as if she were speaking not of a two-month old infant but a river monster—“and I’m not going to waste away in this country being tormented by this absolute menace. I quit.”

Eriden and Minmin watched Sylvie throw the door open, casting the common area of the servants’ quarters in the pale glow of the sunrise. Her grey nanny’s uniform receded into a dot on the rolling slopes of the estate’s gardens, until winking out of sight.

“Oh, chin up, son,” Minmin said briskly. “These foreigner girls have always been of a weaker constitution anyway.” She made a face like she’d sucked on a bitter lemon. “Not as forbearing as us Nikara, and just as well. It wouldn’t do to expose the young Master to any of that Bolonian nonsense.”

“Lady Saikhara is going to be furious,” Eriden muttered.

“What would she be furious for? It’s not like she’ll be the one to pick up the slack, is she?” Minmin asked tersely, her thick Southern drawl slipping. “Go look for another nanny. I’ll deal with it for now.” 

As if on cue, the now-familiar cry of a baby pierced the early morning silence, choked and tortured, just down the hall from the servants’ quarters. 

Eriden and Minmin walked towards the nursery in weary silence. The members of the Yin family resided in the west wing of the old palace, where they slept and ate and received guests, while the east wing housed the servants’ quarters, their work areas, the kitchens, and old stables converted to storage. The twins’ nursery had been the chambers adjoining the Masters’ bedroom, where their mother could easily access them to cuddle, play, and on occasion nurse them. But now that they were seven they’d been given their own rooms, after Muzha threw a nasty fit when Jinzha refused to have the walls painted hot pink, ending in lots of snot, a trip to the ED, eight stitches between them both, and spankings from their parents.

And so the nursery had been set aside for the newborn who’d been brought home from the NICU two weeks after his mother’s discharge, due to complications during labor and delivery. But after only his sixth evening in his new home, Master Vaisra had decided he would no longer abide being loud, fussy little Nezha’s next-door neighbor.

“As it were, I am hardly at home, toiling to give you and your children this life,” he told his wife sternly from the head of the breakfast table the next morning, eyes ringed with dark circles. “The least you could do is ensure that son of yours gives me a moment’s peace.”

Lady Saikhara, whose pale, lovely face was lined with exhaustion, inclined her head apologetically at her husband.

“I will rectify this,” she said quietly, watching her hands on her lap. “I’ll fix whatever’s wrong with Nezha, I swear it.”

“I can’t sleep at night, Ma. He’s so loud,” Muzha whined.

“Just give him back to where he came from,” Jinzha announced. Now that, in Minmin’s humble opinion, was the incorrigible Yin child. He was at that age where he thought he was older than he actually was, and knew everything about the world. He crossed his arms with a huff. “Nezha’s annoying. I don’t like him.”

Vaisra grimaced. Perhaps realizing reprimanding the twins would be unproductive, he averted his gaze to the servants instead.

“Have a physician see him,” Vaisra ordered Eriden and Minmin. “And clear out a room at the east wing, where he can be attended to at all times.” He took a sip from his goblet and resumed breakfast. “I think this house has earned some peace and quiet for once.”

Eriden inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

But none of the five pediatricians or so who’d seen the young master had satisfying answers for them. 

“It’s reflux,” they would say. Or cow’s milk allergy, or malabsorption, overstimulation, a hair tourniquet, colic; Eriden and Minmin heard them all. 

“We can start him on a different formula, and medications for reflux,” they would say. “Make sure to swaddle him and that his bedroom is dark, comfortable but not too cold, it reminds them of the womb.”

Obviously, none of those worked.

“All his labs and scans are fine. Some children are just preternaturally difficult,” Dr. Sien had told Eriden and Minmin during his most recent house call, looking down at Nezha crossly, who was grimacing and pulling his legs up. “There’s nothing more we can do for him except bear it and wait for his fussing to pass. He’ll outgrow it soon enough.”

“You know, there’s a good shaman in our village,” Minmin told Eriden now as they approached Nezha’s nursery. “One of my nieces, Ling, used to be quite fussy too, though not quite as bad as Master Nezha. A curing ritual fixed her right up.”

Eriden cast Minmin a surly look. “Lady Saikhara would never allow it.” At his tender age of one month, young Nezha was already a full-fledged Makerist, consecrated by none other than His Excellency, the Bishop of Arlong. The Lady believed that, with the repeated failure of Western medicine in curing her son’s ills, this surely had to be the work of Chaos. It was insidious in that way; it could work its evil even through unassuming, brand-new infants. But neither the waters of baptism nor the oils of exorcism and hallowed chrism could fix him.

They entered the chambers, dark and cool and quiet save for the low drone of a lullaby on staticky radio. Minmin scooped Nezha into her arms, shushing him as she deftly fixed him a new bottle one-handed; the one Sylvie left uncapped was already curdled and cold. 

Cuddling, Minmin found, was the one thing that seemed to soothe Nezha. He was perfectly content to be cuddled for hours—the entire day, even. She’d reported this enthusiastically to the Lady Saikhara nearly two weeks ago, finally glad to have discovered such a simple, elegant solution. All he wants is his Mother, Ma’am, Minmin had tried to tell her, that’s how babies are. You’ve carried them in your womb long enough and now they’re out in the cold world without you, it’s only natural that he looks for and needs you.

The Mistress of the house had only scoffed at her with disdain.

“Do I look like I have nothing better to do than carry and soothe that wicked child? Neither Jinzha nor Muzha gave me this much grief,” Lady Saikhara had said sharply, glaring at the bundle the old housekeeper placed in her arms. Nezha grimaced and began to fuss, soft, strangled gurgles from the back of his throat. She pushed him back into Minmin’s arms. “Don’t let him get used to getting what he wants, and don’t bother me again with these silly trifles. I don’t want to hear any of it unless he’s quit all that dreadful fussing for good.”

Stunned, Minmin swallowed down her protests. She headed back to the east wing, fished the laundry basket for one of Lady Saikhara’s nightgowns, and wrapped little Nezha with it before picking him up to cuddle.

Some part of him had seemed to understand that this was but a mere phantom of his mother. Some part of him had realized it couldn’t be helped; he had to settle for whatever he could get. A few more minutes, and his sad little chokes finally faded away into soft, even breaths. 

Eriden now fixed Minmin and Nezha with an inscrutable look. “I’ll have Xing oversee the housekeepers for now.”

Minmin waved her hand at Eriden. Go on, she mouthed at him. She heaved Nezha over her shoulder with a sigh, rubbing his back with a large, coarse hand until he burped.

“Whatever will we do with you? So little and handsome, and already so vexed with the world,” she cooed, swaying softly in the dark half-light of Nezha’s old storage room-turned-nursery. When he stilled, she retired to the armchair where she expected to be all day, passing a finger over the soft curve of his cheek. “Hush now, young master. You’ll have all the time and reasons to be unhappy when you’re grown.”

Nezha had not been gifted with unnatural sentience as a baby; he only knew because these were Minmin’s favorite bedtime stories when he’d finally been old enough to understand. She used to tell him these stories in a humorous, off-kilter way, breezing over the ugly details she must’ve decided he was either too young to understand or handle.

But he knew. 

Even at that age, he understood Minmin had not been telling the whole truth. That she’d sold him a fantasy, one where Nezha was tolerated and cherished, his sullenness and sensitivity treated like a cute idiosyncrasy. She must’ve thought she was doing him a great kindness. That he needed shielding from the truth; that he was too weak for it.

Nezha resented it. Minmin had come from some backwater town at the border of Dragon and Rooster Provinces, coming into their employ to support the five children she’d left behind. For small-minded people like her, for whom there were no stakes or obligations, they filled their lives almost compulsively with these silly, meaningless affectations: Cuddles, tenderness, kind words.

But none of this would be becoming of a Yin. Theirs was a proud, noble legacy—or so his mother had told him after she found him crying alone in the kitchens when Minmin died in her sleep, and Nezha had clung hard to Saikhara’s skirts, lost and confused and unmoored. That Nezha had to rein in these wicked longings and ‘set his eyes on things above.’ His mother loved doing this, quoting Sacred Scriptures to make a point. The funny thing about them was that it was filled with horrifying, violent imagery, a vengeful Maker, contradictions, archaic language, and sometimes it got terribly confusing figuring out what it’s trying to say, how one could live up to them in this day and age. 

“The day I spare you the rod and chastisement is the day I have given up on you, Nezha,” his Mother had told him, after she’d dragged him by the ear to his chambers and flogged him for crying over a mere servant. “The Maker has tasked me with straightening out your wickedness to purify me for the Judgment and His Eternal City. Now, enough with the crying; I do not have the time to punish you all day.”

He remembered wondering what on earth those things had to do with each other, the question fading away as the whip brought a fresh wave of blinding pain. Nezha squeezed his eyes shut, forcing himself to swallow his cries and his pleas for her to stop. Justifications didn’t matter. It was enough to know, however vaguely, that he had put himself in this position because of some failure on his part. Even at a young age, Nezha had been good at reading between the lines.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Set your mind on things above. Live up to the proud legacy of being a Yin. Earn it. Nezha clung to the many, dizzying demands of being his parents’ son, a lifeline in choppy seas: 

Keep your head down. Do not bother your parents or the twins. Don’t ask questions, just obey. No cursing, no using the Maker’s name in vain. Never do anything Mother or Father wouldn’t approve of; be smart and independent enough to know what those are without asking. Be useful, but don’t overstep your bounds. Emotions and needs are liabilities; dispense with them. He kept a mental catalogue of all these rules, studied the ways the goalposts shifted, honed his intuition for how he ought to conduct himself so he could finally be acceptable.

It wasn’t enough.

And as if the gods or his family were trying to make a point, Mingzha arrived—and he could be as boisterous and clingy as he wanted, could reach above his head and be picked up by his mother, bouncing him cheerfully on her lap; could interrupt Jinzha or Muzha, and be looked at and played with; could ask their father silly, inquisitive questions, and instead of being met with silence or disdain, would be given answers and attention.

One summer, when he was nine or ten, Nezha was strolling down the quiet hallways at home with nothing better to do when he chanced upon his mother and father in the study. The twins were seated before him, discussing the matter of university: Jinzha was going to Sinegard next year, and Muzha to the University of Hesperia in Rachdale. Nothing unusual; Nezha had been called to his father’s study several times like this before, to be given orders or reprimanded. The only odd one out was Mingzha, playing by his father’s feet, for no apparent reason other than his presence was simply wanted there, Nezha supposed. The rules had always been different for Mingzha.

His little brother was now waving a yellow block in the air, and for some inexplicable reason found this so amusing he began shrieking and laughing, that innocent, joyous sound Nezha loved so much, the one he wanted to bottle up for quiet afternoons and cold evenings.

Father trailed off, looking down at Mingzha curiously. 

Nezha stiffened.

The look on Vaisra’s face terrified him. He wanted to rush in and beg: Not him. Wanted to bargain. Please, Father. I’ll watch him and take him to his rooms. Punish me, punish anyone else, but not Mingzha. He’s so little; he doesn’t know any better.

But then the strangest thing happened.

Vaisra smiled.

Nezha stared, heart racing with terror. He didn’t know his father could smile like that; he almost thought Vaisra didn’t know how to.

Father shifted, bending to pick up the toddler and set him upon his knee. “You’re looking more and more like your grandfather by the day, young man.” Vaisra studied Mingzha’s face, even venturing to smooth the back of his finger on a chubby, round cheek. Mingzha gurgled a laugh. Vaisra’s expression softened.

“Isn’t he so handsome?” Saikhara stood to take Mingzha from Vaisra’s arms, pressing her face to the side of his head, and breathing his soap-and-powder scent in. “So adorable when he laughs, my xiao bao.”

Xiao bao, Mother called him. Little treasure.

Muzha nudged Jinzha. “Aw, you’re not Ma’s xiao bao anymore.”

Jinzha snorted, but didn’t seem displeased. “Whatever you say, xiao gong zhu.”

“Gege can be da bao now that Mingzha’s here,” Saikhara cooed, dancing softly in the study as Mingzha laughed. 

Little princess. Big treasure. Pressure built in Nezha’s throat. 

How was this possible? These pale, beautiful figures, sitting together in the study, the summer light making them look gauzy, ethereal. . . how perfect they looked, how happy. How utterly unrecognizable. This wasn’t, couldn’t be the Father who wouldn’t spare Nezha a glance; not the Jinzha who hated him, nor the Muzha who snapped at him for even walking into a room. Not the Mother who hit him and terrified him with stories of eternal torment, if Nezha wasn’t good. 

For once, they looked just like those families from the stories, the five of them—a family who loved and belonged with each other.

Nezha wanted to open the door, to whisper hello, to reveal himself. For one of them to realize he was lurking by the door, just waiting to be let in. He almost did it, but something stayed his hand. Some hidden intuition; the part of him that knew, that had always known he was different. That he wouldn’t ever be let in, because there was something deeply, terribly wrong with him.

Their figures blurred behind a film of tears. Nezha stumbled back, trying not to make a noise, but one of his shoes caught on the edge of the carpet. He stumbled and fell on his backside.

Their heads snapped towards him. And just like magic, just like a spell, the illusion was broken—and they were Nezha’s family again.

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you, Nezha?” Muzha cried, startled like a dormouse. “Have you been eavesdropping on us this whole time like a creep?”

Jinzha sneered, “What do you want, freak?”

“I—I was just. . .” Nezha caught Father’s blank look, and Mother’s, cold and distant, Mingzha still smiling in her arms. Shame swelled in him like a tide. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Nezha ran.

Past the terrifying tapestries in the hall, past the back doors of the east wing and the garden pools, bounding towards the edges of the estate. If he kept running, he wouldn’t feel the pain in his throat and chest, wouldn’t remember their blank looks.

His feet brought him to the rocky cliffside, the turbulent waters of the Murui crashing hundreds of feet below. Nezha had always wondered what it would be like to fall, to dive into the deep waters where everything was cool and dark and quiet. If the fall would hurt. If it was going to be quick.

Do you even love me, Ma? Nezha remembered once asking his Mother, when the spanking and the scolding had finally been too much; he didn’t even know what he did that had been so terrible. Please, if you love me, please stop.

I don’t. Not when you’ve been such a bad boy, Saikhara hissed. Stop crying.

Why would they raise him, why would they let him live if he was this wretched? They should have just left him alone—shouldn’t have fed him, should’ve thrown him to the ocean or the wolves or given him away. Then they wouldn’t be so burdened. Everything would stop hurting.

Murderers go to hell—it’s Mother’s voice, cruel and omniscient, in his head—and anyone who kills and violates a person’s body, even if it is their own, will receive no mercy from the Divine Architect, and no pity from me.

Nezha stumbled back from the precipice, shaking with terror. He fell to his knees and cried.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“Do you know why human blood appears green underwater?” Kitay asked one afternoon, sitting in the gardens of their high school half an hour before their Physics final.

Venka made a face. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder, ruffled about by the breeze. “You’re going to fucking tell us either way, so spit it out.”

“It’s because normally, blood absorbs weakly in the red part of the spectrum,” Kitay supplied eagerly. He wasn’t even trying to put up a pretense of studying at this point; he was secure in his position as top of their batch, and his sights were already set on the Keju. Nezha might’ve been, too, if it weren’t for the fact that these last exams would determine if he finishes the year as top two or three. He didn’t really care either way. Nezha hardly cared about anything or anyone these days—but Father and Mother certainly did. “But underwater the red component of light is attenuated faster than blood’s blue or green components, which become more dominant the deeper you go.”

“You could’ve told us something useful for the exam,” Venka grumbled, not once looking up from her notes. “Besides, if I’m bleeding out in the fucking ocean Physics would be the least of my problems.”

“If you’re deep enough for your blood to appear green there would also be the issue of barotrauma,” Kitay said, “which is part of Physics, so technically speaking—”

“Your fun facts wouldn’t save my goddamn ass either way, you fucking nerd,” Venka snapped. “Now shut up and let me study in peace.”

“Are you even listening, Nezha?” Kitay asked petulantly.

He snorted. “No. I knew that already.”

“How?” Kitay demanded.

Nezha cast his wild-haired childhood friend a surly look. “For fuck’s sake, Kitay. Do you think you’re the only one who can read a book?”

That was a lie. Nezha might’ve read it off a book once, those colorful almanacs about the ocean and ships he pored over as a child. That wasn’t why he knew.

The trail of Mingzha’s blood had been green.

Nezha hadn’t even realized how deep the Murui was, near the grotto. Years of competitive swimming, of expanding his lung capacity and conserving energy, had paid off. One moment they were wading in the shallows, admiring a glittering cloak that had somehow washed up to shore, and the next a rip current caught Mingzha by the ankles, drawing him to the dark navel of the river.

“Mingzha, don’t!” Nezha screamed as he saw his brother struggling against the undertow. That’s the first lesson any competent instructor teaches about open water: If you get caught in a rip current, don’t tire yourself out trying to fight it. It’s the struggle that’ll kill you. Drift along, and give into the change. Mingzha was too little, too inexperienced, to know any of that. But Nezha. . . he was old enough, he was the one with the most experience and knowledge about swimming in open water in the family, and he should’ve known better.

He had to get Mingzha, or die in the attempt.

Nezha dove. At first he caught a glimpse of that pale, chubby face, arrested in a still scream. Then Mingzha began plummeting, faster and faster, dragged by the many jade amulets and gold chains around his neck. The pressure around Nezha’s head and chest grew; the waters turned dark and still. Adrenaline kept him moving. 

He must have been swimming for minutes or hours, so deep he began to see corals and fish, strange creatures. Even as he pushed himself forward, Nezha knew Mingzha was gone. But what kind of life, what horrors awaited him, if he broke surface and dared to return home alone? He would never be forgiven. Better to close his eyes, better to let the waters take him to where Mingzha is. Better to let all this end.

Nezha’s lungs seized. His vision blurred; pressure pounded relentlessly on his skull. 

And yet. 

And yet, some animal part of him, the one not given to self-abandonment, took the last of his strength, and propelled him back up.

He didn’t know if it had been delirium or death or the oppressive crush of oxygen, but the last thing Nezha remembered was painful, blinding sun; the world ending in a ball of fire.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Everything hurts. Death was not supposed to hurt. The only thing that could explain this was that Nezha must have ended up in hell like Mother had warned, that dark playground of eternal torment.

He expected moans of agony, unquenchable fire and the smell of smoke; grotesque, inhuman demons. Not white rooms, translucent tubes and wires crisscrossing like tracks on a railroad. The sharp, offensive smell of antiseptic. Several intermittent beeps, together an ominous symphony.

A woman wearing a blue shirt with otters in water donuts walked up to him. 

“Hello, Nezha.” She had a sweet, lilting voice. “I’m Dr. Lu. How are you feeling?” 

“I—” Swallowing was like rubbing together sandpaper. Nezha’s temples began to throb, and his tongue felt leaden when he tried to speak. “What’s. . . who. . .”

“You’re at the Children’s Hospital, sweetheart. At Sinegard.” Nezha felt the faintest sensation of a caress on his head. “Do you remember what happened?”

Nezha opened his mouth, uncertain what to say. Images and memories were sequestered from him, muted, like sound traversing water to air; the only thing that remained at the fore was fear.

“You nearly drowned in the river, near your house in Arlong. But don’t worry; you’re safe now,” Dr. Lu said, removing the stethoscope around her neck. “Can I listen to your heart and lungs for a bit?”

“Where’s Mingzha?” He whispered.

“I. . . I’m not sure, sweetheart. Who’s Mingzha?”

“He’s. . . I. . .” His mouth and brain wouldn’t cooperate. Why wouldn’t they cooperate? “The current—Mingzha, he—and I, I tried—”

I tried to follow him to the bottom of the Murui, Nezha couldn’t say.

I followed the trail of green, but the river swallowed him up.

I never meant to come back. Not without Mingzha.

The air grew thin. A terrible howl pushed up Nezha’s throat.

“It’s alright.” Dr. Lu wiped the sides of his eyes. He wanted to push her away, but he didn’t have the strength. “It’s okay, sweetheart. Everything’s gonna be okay. We’re going to take very good care of you.”

“You were the only one we found by the grotto,” Eriden told Nezha much later, after he’d been transferred from the pediatric neurocritical care unit to a regular suite. “They sent divers to retrieve young Master Mingzha, but they couldn’t find a body.”

Retrieve. Divers. A body.

“So Mingzha. . .” Nezha managed hoarsely. “My little brother. . . he’s—”

Eriden hung his head.

“They stopped search and rescue operations yesterday. The authorities have declared young Master Mingzha dead.” Eriden’s voice shook. “I’m sorry.”

Nezha’s throat spasmed.

“Where’s Mother? Father?” He’s not sure why he asked for his parents, wasn’t even certain what he would say, how he would begin to explain himself—but Nezha wanted someone near, anyone. He had no one else but them. Who else would he have but them?

Eriden hesitated. “Are they coming?” Nezha pressed.

“No, Master Nezha,” he said softly. “They, uh, they don’t have time to fly to Sinegard.”

Nezha’s stomach dropped.

“And Muzha? Jinzha?”

“They’re busy with the wake and funeral preparations in Arlong. I’ve been tasked to watch you for the time being.”

Nezha knew better by now than to hope for his family’s affection, that they just didn’t have it in them to give him what he inexplicably ached for. Spent years learning not to begrudge them that. 

But if they could not give him tenderness, Nezha thought, they could’ve at least sat with him in this room. Signed off on his forms, listened to the doctors make explanations. They didn’t even have to talk or look at him if they were that angry, didn’t have to pretend at a love they didn’t feel—but Nezha would’ve thought being ill was reason enough to set aside whatever animosity or resentment they felt towards him, even for just a moment.

Because how could they not make time? The Yins had money, they had private jets and servants. How could any of them be of use to Mingzha now, adrift in the waters, forever out of reach? What could their prayers and weeping for him do now, how could they hold vigil by an empty casket, knowing that Nezha was in Sinegard, terribly ill and alone?

How much of a disappointment had he been to deserve this?

“I didn’t. . .” Nezha choked; the air around him was growing thin. “I swam to the bottom of the river. I tried to get him, but his necklaces—Eriden, I swear I didn’t—”

“I know.” For the first time, naked emotion spasmed through Eriden’s normally severe face. “I know, Master Nezha. You don’t have to explain yourself.”

“Yes—yes, I do. Please believe me.” His throat spasmed; Nezha’s cheeks grew wet. “I swam as hard as I could—”

“I believe you. It’s alright.” Eriden lifted a hand as if to pat Nezha’s shoulder or head, face pinched with pain; then, as if realizing giving this small comfort would be deemed improper, he drew back. “Sir, please. Lie back down and rest, you need to regain your strength—”

“No!” The room began spinning in a kaleidoscope of colors, and his ears felt like they were about to burst, the ringing swelling to a painful crescendo. “You have to believe me—Eriden, tell Father I—” 

He choked. Nezha’s entire body grew rigid; the hospital suite faded out of view, and all sensation, like water circling a drain: Eriden shouting for a nurse, the ominous drone of an alarm. Machines and people; a painful burning through his veins. Then nothing.

Nezha lapsed in and out of consciousness in the following days as he continued to seize, unresponsive to the medications they’d been pumping into his system. Every time he awoke, he would look down at his pale skin, which had turned into a bright patchwork of bruises in varying stages of resolution; his body hurt, and his thoughts and memories were sluggish, hazy.

In the months and years that followed, Nezha would learn that he’d swam long and deep enough for his lungs and brain to suffer from pressure injury. A week passed. His pediatricians and neurologists insisted he had not made enough progress to be sent home, but Father had instructed Eriden to sign off on the necessary waivers, and Nezha was airlifted home to Arlong just in time for Mingzha’s funeral. Before boarding the plane, he’d been washed by the nurses and clumsily dressed in a white shirt and a black suit and tie, and given a considerable dose of anti-seizure medications, before loading him into a car that brought him straight to the Cathedral of Arlong.

Nezha and Eriden arrived right before the service began. By then the medications have set in, making the Cathedral’s dark interiors ominous and distant and gauzy. At the front pew, the rest of his family sat, solemn and still as dolls in all black.

Nezha held his breath as they approached, as Eriden parked the wheelchair at the center aisle by his family’s pew.

Four pairs of eyes fell on him. Nezha’s face grew hot.

“Father. Mother.” He didn’t know what to say, how to begin, only that he had to fix this. “I don’t. . . I’m—”

“Quiet,” Vaisra warned lowly as the organ sounded the requiem’s first notes. Saikhara gave Nezha a last, lingering look, before averting her gaze to the altar, her beautiful, severe face pale and diminished by grief. Muzha wasn’t moving at all, and she was evidently trying very hard not to look his way.

Only Jinzha held Nezha’s gaze, his expression filled with dark hatred.

After the low chanting and the Bishop’s exhortations about sweet, innocent Mingzha being called home to the Maker, all of which had rung hollow; after the Reverends blessed Mingzha’s image, adorned with thousands of flowers, with holy water and smoke. After they brought his empty casket to the cemetery and buried it, and their family stood in a line to receive hundreds of condolences, polite inquiries after Nezha’s health, and well-wishes for his recovery. After they left and were dropped off in the estate’s foyer, suspended in this strange, airless impasse, Jinzha turned to Nezha.

“Had to be the center of attention even in your brother’s funeral, didn’t you?” He sneered.

Nezha was so stunned by the ridiculousness of this charge that for half a minute, he couldn’t speak. “I. . . I wasn’t, Jinzha, I swear I didn’t—”

“Why did you take Mingzha with you to the grottoes? Why didn’t you take someone else with you? He’s six, Nezha. You knew he didn’t know how to swim.” Jinzha’s voice was harsh, but there was something watery and fragile in his expression. He swallowed it down. Narrowed his eyes at Nezha in suspicion. “I’ve thought about it for days. You’ve always been jealous of him ever since he was a baby.”

If he hadn’t already been on the wheelchair, he might have fallen to his knees.

“Never,” Nezha lied, because it was the right thing to say; the thing that would keep him safe. “I wasn’t. I didn’t do anything, gege, I swear I—”

“Ah. There it is.” Muzha finally spoke. His sister had never been actively cruel towards him, not in the way Jinzha had always been; she’d mostly contented herself with acting as if Nezha didn’t exist. That only made everything all the more wretched when she muttered: “So you saw Ming drowning and you didn’t even call for help.”

“There was no time.” His eyes blurred with tears. “Jiejie, please, if you just listened—I can explain everything, I’ll tell you whatever you want to know, the doctors even said—”

“That’s enough.” Vaisra’s command cut through their useless bickering. “Go back to your rooms, Jinzha, Muzha.”

The twins shifted, but didn’t dare disobey their Father.

Then he averted his gaze to his youngest living son, his expression aged fifty years by grief. Nezha opened his mouth, but before he could make a sound Vaisra only said: 

“The coroners ruled Mingzha’s death as an accident, so that’s the story we’ve given everyone. Wipe your tears and never speak of this again, Nezha. This behavior is unbecoming of a Yin.”

His chin quivered. Nothing in those words indicated absolution or forgiveness.

“Am I understood?” Vaisra pressed, in a tone that brooked no argument.

“Yes, sir,” was all Nezha could manage.

Mother was the last to depart. Through all these interrogations and stern reprimands she stood like a marble effigy, cold and beautiful and arrested in sacred horror.

“Mother, please. Please, believe me, please.” Nezha clung to the part of her skirts that he could reach; it made him feel like seven again. She was his last hope for salvation; he couldn’t let her go. “I didn’t do this to Mingzha. I swam nearly an hour. I almost reached the bottom of the river before I lost consciousness; I wasn’t going to go back up without him. I never meant for any of this to happen, I’m so sorry.”

Saikhara pried her dress from Nezha’s grip, finger by finger. It did not take much force.

“I am not the one to whom an explanation is owed.” Her voice was soft as a caress.

Nezha choked out a sob. “But Mother—”

She trembled, stumbling back with wide, vacant eyes.

“You poor thing,” Saikhara hissed. Her face rippled with a singular emotion for the first time since Mingzha died: with holy and terrible, pure fear. “When the Judgment comes, I only pray the Maker looks mercifully upon your wretched soul.”

That was the last time she’d looked at him that year.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Drift along. Give into the change. Useful for when one was caught in the tempests of open water—and of life too, Nezha found.

Things became much easier when he’d stopped trying to fight everything. The demands on Yin Nezha—son, brother, student, and heir to one of Nikan’s largest conglomerates—ramped up with terrifying alacrity. So he pretended: that he knew what he was doing. That he was holding together. Keep at it long enough and the masks set into place, becoming you. Create veneer upon veneer, until truth and falsehood amalgamated into one dizzying kaleidoscope, finally obscuring the boy who used to cry for his Mother all day, who watched his family through that sliver of door, who tried to drown himself the day Mingzha died; that small, lonely, broken thing. He immured that desperate, grotesque self in impenetrable stone, where it couldn’t touch or repulse anyone, until even he almost forgot himself.

Only a vicious human hurricane like Fang Runin could barrel through those walls.

To be frank, Rin brought out the very worst in Nezha. Partly because she had no patience for his bullshit from ten miles away, partly because her brusque independence was an opposite pole, drawing out parts of him he would much rather hide. She infuriated him; none of that hatred had been an accident or a fluke, but by god hadn’t it been balanced by a powerful, addictive, all-consuming love.

He never meant to love that ugly, mud-skinned peasant girl from Rooster Province with a funny Southern drawl, ratty clothes, a permanent scowl. Didn’t even know how the fuck it happened. Whenever Nezha dissected those first years, filtering through thousands of memories to look for the turning point, the transmogrifying instant that made Rin, that entirely strange creature suddenly his terrible muse, his divine ideal, the love of his life, he came up short. 

All he knew was like a badly spliced film, like a cheesy soap opera, loving Rin came at Nezha like a freight train: unexpected, violent and cataclysmic at the moment of impact. And in the aftermath, standing in the smoke and wreckage, Nezha had forever been changed.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“And it’s Sinegard! Yin wins by nine one-hundredths! Coming in at 39.85, just the second ever in the history of the NCAA to go under forty to break Lai Minjun’s record!”

Nezha yelled, pumping his fists in the air. He pushed up his goggles, throwing the entire stadium into sharp relief. The pep team’s drums started the familiar beat of the Sinegard cheer as hundreds of his schoolmates in the university’s maroon colors joined in chorus.

“Nice work, Yin,” Khurdalain’s Zhang offered a hand from the lane beside him.

Nezha took it with a wide grin. “Yeah, bro, you too.”

The other men followed suit as they lifted themselves from the pool; Nezha saw the same faces yearly in the swim circuits, and they were friends of a sort. The only exception was Yuelu University’s captain Wang Yichen, whose team threw Nezha dirty looks as he walked past. Wang shoulder-checked Nezha. 

“Fucking dopehead,” he thought he heard Wang murmur.

“Hey, did that asshole fucking jostle you?” Rin demanded when Nezha approached the poolside bleachers.

“It’s okay, baby.” He wasn’t normally of such generous spirit, but he was too elated to give a fuck. Nezha’s face hurt from smiling. “I imagine it gets tiring getting your ass beat by me.”

Rin narrowed her eyes at him. Then she shouted:

“Hey, Wang! Swim faster next time, you fuckwad.” 

Nezha jolted. The Yuelu contingent had apparently been passing behind him. 

“Rin,” he hissed, tugging at her wrist. “Baby, don’t.”

Wang scowled. “Tell your Southerner bitch where to shove it, Yin,” he sneered.

His vision dimmed. “What did you just call my girlfriend—?”

“Nezha, don’t.” Rin body-blocked him. “A slow jackass isn’t worth your gold medals.”

“Come now, Nezha,” Kitay drawled. “You know us Sinegardians are prohibited from punching below our university ranking.”

“Like that matters jackshit,” Wang’s vice-captain sneered. “At least Yuelu has real scholars. You Sinegardians are just a bunch of legacy kids who think you’re so smart because you went to the same school as mommy and daddy.”

“Real scholars who strike regularly because you assholes keep abusing them?” Kitay snorted derisively. “You’re just salty because even your own professors think your number two ranking is a hack.”

“Oh, he could keep going,” Venka told Wang and his teammates primly, making a show of studying her nails. “Most Sinegardians aren’t clever enough to debate Kitay, I’m not hopeful for you lot.”

Wang let out a huff. Their manager tugged at his arm and murmured: “Back off. Let’s just go.”

“You should try drugs next time!” Rin shouted as Wang and the Yuelu swim team’s backs retreated. “Maybe then you’ll swim faster than a fucking slug.”

“Baby, considering you managed to nearly drown in knee-deep water I don’t think you’re one to talk,” Nezha quipped at the same time Kitay complained: “For fuck’s sake, Rin, don’t disgrace Sinegard after everything I said. Slugs can’t swim.”

Rin pinched Nezha’s waist. “That’s the first and last time I’m ever going to be nice to you, you jackass. And fuck you, Chen Kitay.”

Nezha grinned. He lifted Rin from the bleachers, drawing her into his arms. “Don’t feel bad, my love. I didn’t know that about slugs either.” 

“You dumb fucks really do deserve each other,” Venka muttered darkly.

Nezha ignored Venka. “Now, as touched as I am that you’d heckle Wang for me, I’d rather you just give me a celebratory kiss.”

Rin pulled a face. Incredibly, her cheeks turned red. “Shut up. That’s not a thing.”

“You break national records, that definitely becomes a thing.”

“You are the most arrogant motherfucker I’ve ever had the misfortune of meeting,” Rin grumbled as Nezha pulled her body flush to his.

He smiled against her skin. “Considering that arrogant motherfucker’s about to kiss you senseless, misfortune’s not the word I’d use,” he murmured, before pulling her lip into his mouth.

Every time they kissed and touched, Nezha couldn’t help the fearful drop in his chest. Happiness still felt like a strange, ill-fitting scarf, keeping him pleasantly warm but liable to be blown away by a strong wind at any moment. Nothing ever lasted, not for him, except perhaps pain; a distant, shapeless longing. Grief. 

Rin had no such qualms. She lived in the now, utterly present and alive, in a way Nezha had never been—one of the many things he loved about her. She arched into him with a sigh as she opened her mouth, and Nezha relished the taste of her familiar minty toothpaste, the popcorn and lime soda she must’ve been snacking on during the race. His cock stirred when she moaned into his mouth, scraping his bottom lip with her teeth as her stomach pushed against his wet trunks.

“You two are revolting,” Kitay complained loudly behind them. “Can we save the foreplay for when the entire stadium isn’t watching?”

“I’m pretty sure Rin creamed herself watching Nezha’s strokes,” Venka said in disgust.

Rin pushed him away as Kitay made a loud retching noise. 

“Don’t be disgusting,” she yelled, rounding to kick Venka’s leg. His meimei danced out of the way with a wild, unapologetic laugh. “I didn’t cream myself, you bitch!”

“You had your tongue down Nezha’s throat five seconds ago, don’t make me laugh,” Venka sniped as Nezha quipped: “You sure about that? What if I checked?” pretending to reach for the garter of Rin’s pants.

Rin raised her knee threateningly. “Want me to kick your crotch?”

“Please don’t, qin’ai.” Nezha cupped her small face, peppering kisses over her lids and cheeks, the corners of her mouth. “You know that’s your favorite toy,” he murmured lowly into her skin.

“Not here, Nezha.” The flush in her face extended below the collar of her EasyMart uniform. “I’m fucking serious, people are looking at us.”

“So? Let them look. You’re so fucking gorgeous like this.” He slid his hands into her jeans’ back pockets to pull her closer. “God, baby”—he nipped her ear softly—“I could fuck you right now.”

“You still have your victory party,” Rin said breathlessly.

“Fuck the party. I’d rather celebrate with you.” He pressed a kiss to her neck. “Skip work for me baby. Please? Just this once.”

“I can’t,” she whispered regretfully. Briefly she hesitated, before cupping his cheek, the one with scars. Her dark, lovely eyes flickered up beneath her lashes. “I already called in sick Tuesday because of Critical Theory, remember? A second absence is a written warning.”

Nezha rallied his thoughts, momentarily distracted by the tender caress of Rin’s thumb over his cheekbone. “And?”

Rin glared at him. “And I need that job? Fucking jackass.”

“Fuck that job.” Nezha grimaced. Rin spared no opportunity to complain about her part-time job at the convenience store, her manager, and the shit pay. “We’ve been through this a thousand times, baby. If you would just let me—”

She clapped a hand over his mouth. “Don’t say something that’ll make me change my mind about coming over.”

Their eyes met. Rin’s fingers ghosted over the small anchor tattoo on his chest, smile growing. Oh, she really was in a good mood. 

Nezha forced his protests down, cock stirring at the promise in her voice. “Fine. But this discussion isn’t over.”

She rolled her eyes. “Fuck off. I’ll see you at home tonight.”

“What? No way.” Lately Rin was slipping more and more often, referring to his apartment as home. “I’m fetching you from work.”

Rin punched his arm. “Don’t drink and drive, dumbass.”

“I won’t drink. I’m saving my energy for our private party.” Nezha winked.

“Alright, we get it, you horndogs fuck,” Kitay complained. “Now can we please stop traumatizing everyone with unsolicited updates on your goddamn sex life?”

“Jealous, are we?” Nezha snarled.

Kitay made a face. “You assume your relationship is aspirational.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” Rin admonished Nezha, punching his shoulder.

“Why does he get to talk shit about me but not the other way around?” Nezha demanded.

“Because she loves me, Nezha,” Kitay mocked, at the same time Rin said: “Because you’ve talked enough shit about us to last ten lifetimes.”

Venka sucked in a breath between her teeth. “Oooof, those are good ones.”

Nezha glared at his friends before grabbing Rin’s ass, earning him a yelp. “You are such a brat.” Before Rin could retort, he started towards his coach and teammates for the awarding ceremony. “Text me when you get to work, love,” he hollered with a shit-eating grin.

Rin flipped him off in response before ducking out of the stadium.

Sinegard University’s swim team finished first in the overall competition, with Nezha winning four golds and a silver for the university. After photos and a couple interviews, he, Venka, and Kitay piled into his car to go to the Onyx, which was the favored bar of Sinegardians for its location in the heart of the city, and its rooftop deck with a 360-degree view of the city’s skyline. The bar was already packed with their schoolmates and friends when they entered, as Nezha’s vice-captain Liao started up a chanting of  ‘Captain, Captain’ which dissolved into loud cheers and congratulations and pats on the shoulder.

Nezha held up a hand as a waiter with a tray offered him drinks. Han, who saw this, demanded: “What the hell, man? You’re not drinking?”

“We’re not the ones Nezha wants to party with,” Venka shouted over the music as they slid into the booth occupied by his teammates and their partners. “He’s just making an appearance, but he and his baby have their own celebration.” She wagged her brows suggestively.

That elicited teasing jeers and suggestive hand signals from his teammates who had been honed in on this conversation. Nezha elbowed Venka. “Shut up, meimei.”

“Come on. That’s not news, Bro.” Liao shoved him playfully. “You and your girlfriend were eating each other’s faces at the stadium.”

“Ah, fuck.” Nezha laughed, embarrassed. “Adrenaline rush.” He took a sip of water to hide his cheeks. “But no, yeah, Rin is. . . she’s incredible.”

Kitay snorted into his drink, then winced. Nezha derived some satisfaction from how he’d gotten a bit of liquid up his nose. His freestyle specialist Hong asked: “Where’s Rin anyway, Cap?”

“At her part-time job,” Nezha said absently, already fielding Rin’s texts. 

“Hey, not that story, you prick,” Nezha protested when he realized Kitay and Venka were apparently regaling his teammates with a colorful, slightly hyperbolic version of the story of how he and Rin met.

“Nah, Cap, we have to hear this. I didn’t realize you were such an asshole,” Hong said, grinning, at the same time Liao guffawed: “Shit bro, I had no idea your girl’s fucking hardcore.”

“She really is.” Nezha laughed, face growing hot. His phone dinged with a notification. “It’s alright. I deserved that.”

“I’m surprised your girl even gave you the time of day after all that, Cap,” he heard Hong exclaim.

“Yeah, well, don’t let her brusqueness fool you. Rin’s just as obsessed with Nezha as he is with her,” Kitay said sagely.

“Bickering is basically their foreplay,” Venka agreed.

The three dots appeared, disappeared, reappeared. Disappeared again.

He knew then that he got her. Nezha’s smile grew, the pit of his belly stirring in excitement. 

The read receipt came on, but Rin didn’t reply immediately. Nezha shifted in his seat in anticipation. He loved playing this game with her, loved the push and pull of it, the sweet rush of affection and elation when he finally got her to give in. When she finally allowed herself to let go.

Anyone who knew her cursorily might not believe it, but Rin wasn’t the most forthcoming with her emotions. She was reckless, confident, vital—but beneath all that, she was exceedingly reticent. Rin clammed up whenever the conversation drifted to family, home, or their childhoods, and none of them knew much about her life in Tikany. Even Kitay claimed to know ‘the gist of it, but nothing detailed.’ Whatever Rin left behind in Tikany certainly couldn’t have been good, but that was the one thing she never shared with him, not even a year into their relationship, and not even after Nezha began to talk a little more about his life in Arlong, his family. He’d even told her about Mingzha, something neither Venka or Kitay knew.

“I didn’t think to tell you because it hadn’t happened in a while.” Nezha had to tell Rin the story after he had a seizure in his apartment, about eight months into them dating, smack-dab in the middle of midterms and training season. They’d been studying together, and Nezha had been in the middle of fetching a painkiller for his migraine, when Rin heard a loud thud and found him seizing on his bedroom floor. “I’m sorry, baby. I didn’t mean to make you worry.”

“Do I look like a fucking doctor, Nezha? I didn’t know what to do,” she yelled. “I didn’t even know you were sick, not even Kitay or Venka—what would’ve happened if you—” Her throat pulsed. “You could have died right then and there!”

“It won’t. It’ll take a whole lot more than that to kill me.” He looked up at Rin, who was still pacing restlessly by his bed. “Baby, relax. It’s okay.”

“Don’t baby me, you fucking piece of shit,” Rin hissed. She was trembling, and incredibly, her eyes misted over. “You were on the goddamn floor—I tried to talk to you, but you wouldn’t—” Her fingers came up to her temples. “Relax, my fucking ass.”

“Rin.” Nezha couldn’t help his smile. “Please don’t cry.”

“Fuck off. I’m not crying. Why the fuck would I cry?” Rin sniffed wetly, swiping at her eyes surreptitiously. Nezha laughed. “I have a goddamn migraine and two hundred pages left to revise and you thought it was a good time to almost die, asshole.”

His throat grew tight with pressure.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he said softly.

Rin glared at him, but acquiesced.

He shifted to envelop her in his arms, breathing her in: his herby, minty shampoo she copped from his bathroom, the faint saltiness of sweat.

“You can have some, if you like.” Nezha inclined his chin at the bottle of seizure meds by his bedside, before resting it on the top of her head. “They’re quite good for migraines and stress.”

“Fuck you.”

“I’m sorry.” It was a strange feeling, Nezha thought, to have someone so upset at the notion of him getting ill or hurt. “I’ll take better care of myself. I won’t let it happen again.”

Rin snorted. “You better. And fuck your family.” Her voice was muffled by his sweater, skinny arms coming up around his waist. “Ten million times over.”

“Don’t say that.” He pressed a kiss to her hair, chest swelling with affection and a familiar, old pain. Then more softly: “Mingzha was my fault, qin’ai.”

“Tiger’s tits, Nezha. You were twelve, just a kid. Kids aren’t supposed to. . .”

Rin’s gaze grew distant; a brief flash in her eyes. (Disgust? Terror? Guilt?)

“It wasn’t right.” She swallowed audibly; her voice hardened. “What they did to you.”

Nezha didn’t know if he agreed, but this wasn’t about Mingzha. There was something there—that brief silence, that conviction. And it used to hurt, how Rin would rebuff his affections, how she often hardly gave him anything to work with. How she refused to talk about her thoughts and history beyond the superficial, the impersonal. How she never told him in plain language words he’d longed to hear his whole life: I’m worried about you. You matter to me. I’m grateful to have you in my life. I love you.

Outside his kitchen window in Sinegard was a tree. In winter, it shed its leaves, and Nezha would stand there watching magpies bearing small, broken twigs. He wondered with foolish worry how those birds could build anything sturdy enough to hold their eggs. Everything they had to work with was so recalcitrant, so little. But just a week before spring Nezha looked out the window and suddenly realized how massive and sturdy the nest had become.

The sight of it had coaxed a broad smile from him. But of course. He should’ve known the birds would make it. Nezha’s whole life was a testament to the same principle—in order to build, to endure the bitter sparseness of winter, he had to take anything he could find. Anything given, even the brittle, the remainders, weaving the few until it yielded mass.

Only he and Kitay remained in their booth at the Onyx. Nezha looked back down at his phone, finding only this reply:

Neither the enthusiastic consent nor god, yes baby, please, i need you to fuck me he wanted—but it was something.

She could pretend at nonchalance all she wanted, but Nezha knew Rin wasn’t completely unaffected by this, couldn’t be. She usually could muster something wittier than a simple ‘oh.’

He imagined Rin behind the register in her EasyMart, hot and bothered as she pictured everything Nezha was describing, clenching her thighs for friction, flushing from her face to her chest. Its heaving swells.

Nezha sucked in a breath. His face grew hot.

Nezha laughed aloud. Gods, Rin was incredible.

“What’s so funny?” Kitay asked without looking up from his phone.

“Nothing. Just Rin.” When he sensed Kitay giving him a curious look, the corner of Nezha’s mouth curled. “You sure you wanna know?”

Kitay threw him a disgusted look. “Oh, gods. No.”

Rin really must be in a good mood because instead of yelling or replying with vomiting emojis, she only reacted 👀.

His cock stirred. Nezha was already imagining kneeling in front of Rin, burying his face between her legs as she stands with her hand braced on the wall or his windows. He imagined her high, breathy moans when he licks up her slit, gliding his tongue and getting into every last crevice of those pink, swollen lips, and pulling her sensitive clit into his mouth—suckling and lapping up every last drop of her familiar, musky slick while he grasps her pelvis, hard enough to leave bruises, urging her to roll those gorgeous hips deliciously against his face. . . fuck.

Like a lovesick fool, his stomach fluttered at the word gorgeous.

Nezha slipped his phone inside his pocket, grinning like a maniac.

“I gotta go.” The words came out in a breathless rush as he stood. “Rin’s getting off in half an hour.”

Kitay arched a brow at his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, okay, me too.” He stood with a tired grunt. “Venka’s fucked off with a girl ten minutes ago, I don’t think she’s coming back.”

“With whom?” 

“Dunno, some Politics major with red hair. Can you give me a lift?”

The drive through Sinegard’s central business district was comfortably quiet, Kitay continuing to scroll on his phone. Nezha stopped at the red across Jade Dragon Tower, where the Yin Group’s Sinegard office was located. The top floor windows were still lit at this hour, and he couldn’t help but wonder if Jinzha was in one of those rooms, meeting with his Hesperian partners or preparing his report to the Board. Despite the fact that they both lived in the city, he and Jinzha hardly saw or spoke to each other. As Senior Director, he was neck-deep in steering the company’s first international venture with J.B. Tarcquet Holdings.

“Is that where you’re working after graduation?”

Nezha’s head snapped towards Kitay, face cast in the bright glow of his phone. “Huh?”

“I mean, there are other branches, aren’t there?” He inclined his chin towards the building. “Is Jinzha assigning you to Sinegard?”

It took Nezha a few moments to process the question. “I don’t know.” He and Jinzha haven’t had that conversation yet, but he guessed it wasn’t too far off. “Most likely. Why?”

Kitay pointed up. “Green light.”

Nezha pulled the shift, taking a left towards the university district.

Kitay changed tack. “Did you know Venka’s thinking of applying to the École Polytechnique in Givraine?”

“Ah, I see what this is.” Nezha’s lip curled. “Do you miss me already?”

He made a face. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m only asking because of Rin.”

“Huh.” That was curious. A distant, vague anxiety stole into Nezha’s stomach. “I mean, she’s pretty much got her heart set on continuing under Jiang.”

Kitay snorted. “As if there aren’t any universities in Arlong or Khurdalain.” He began playing absently with a snag on his shirt. “Obviously she’ll be going with you,” he murmured after a brief hesitation, and not without sullenness.

Nezha was encouraged by how certain Kitay seemed of this fact. Up until this point he and Rin have successfully skirted any discussions of the future. No particular reason, really; for a while there things had been too volatile he hadn’t thought there would be a future to speak of. He wondered if this was Rin’s way of testing the waters via her best friend. “You could pretend to be happier for us.”

“That you’re possibly spiriting Rin away to the other end of the country? Fuck no. Tell Jinzha you want to be assigned to Sinegard.”

Nezha snorted. “Jinzha decides what he wants. Most likely he’ll put me here, but if I ask for it he really might just kick my ass to Ankhiluun out of spite.”

“Tiger’s tits. Both of you need help.” Kitay unbuckled his seatbelt and hopped off when they pulled over in front of his apartment building. “You and Rin have fun, I guess.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” He grinned. “We will.”

Kitay threw him one last disgusted look as Nezha sped off, driving over to Rin’s EasyMart. It was not very far, and Rin was already waiting in the curb when he arrived.

“I’m fucking hungry,” Rin grumbled by way of greeting when she climbed in. “Can we get steamed buns and dumplings first?”

“Yeah, okay. I was going to get you a burger, but I figured you wanted a proper meal.” He leaned over to press a kiss to her cheek as she fiddled with the seatbelt. “Can’t have you running out of juice. Got a long night ahead of us.”

Rin made a face. “The fuck are you talking about?”

Despite her words, the flush in her cheeks betrayed her. Nezha’s lip curled.

“Oh, I think you know what I mean.”

“Haven’t the faintest clue.”

“Ah, qin’ai. Don’t be a brat—”

“Nezha, stop!” Rin squealed, shifting when he pinched her waist. She pinned his hand down on top of her leg. “I’m going home if you keep this up,” she warned mirthfully.

He arched a brow. “And who’ll mop up the sopping mess you’ve made?”

Rin’s flush grew deeper. “Don’t be disgusting.”

“Those were your words!” Nezha protested.

“Must’ve been a scam texter.” Her grip relaxed, and he took the opportunity to slip his fingers between hers. “Where are your medals?”

“In the compartment.”

“Are these real gold and silver?” Rin said, admiring their dull glint as she held them up to her face. “They’re heavier than I thought. What if I sold them?”

“Go on,” Nezha laughed, startled. “Honestly I’d let you.”

“Never beating the gold-digger allegations.”

“Sweetheart, you know I think you don’t gold-dig me enough.”

Rin made a face but said nothing, putting the medals back in the compartment. She watched him as he drove, silent for a full minute, the thumb of her free hand absently stroking his knuckles.

“Do you like my face that much?” Nezha teased.

“You wish,” she snorted. “Are you really the new record-holder for the 100-meter freestyle?”

Nezha glanced at Rin briefly, heart squeezing painfully at the uncharacteristic softness in her dark, lovely face; the private intimacy of this evening drive, Sinegard’s nightscape, its oblique lights and shadows.

“Yeah.” He grinned. “Pretty impressive boyfriend you’ve got, huh?”

“Gods. Your ego’s big enough as it is.”

“Like the rest of me, baby?”

Rin punched his shoulder. “You are so full of shit.”

Nezha laughed, pressing his mouth to her knuckles.

“Look, the Berkh’s lit up for the Mid-Autumn Festival.” He pulled down his car top, and a crisp, biting headwind met them as they approached the Berkh, Sinegard’s largest and widest bridge. It traversed the River Daian, the largest tributary of the Northern Murui east of Sinegard. Its embankment was where the city’s biggest open-air night market was located, that loud, pungent, busy place filled with family-owned restaurants and street food carts and delicacies, booths selling everything from clothes to cheesy souvenirs and traditional Nikara medicine and ceramic wares by old artisans, and even the occasional live entertainment.

“How the fuck is it so cold already? It’s hardly even fall,” Rin complained, rubbing her arms.

“I have a jacket in the backseat.”

“God, I love this time of year,” she sighed after putting on Nezha’s jacket, craning her head to admire the installation of red, yellow, and orange lights running the course of the bridge. “Sinegard can be really pretty when it wants to be.”

Nezha stole another look at Rin, the way the lights shifted on her face; her dark, lovely eyes.

“Yeah.” He pressed his mouth to her knuckles again, lingering and wet this time. “Really beautiful.”

Rin’s cheeks flushed deep red; his meaning was not lost on her.

How rare this was, how extraordinarily fortunate Nezha had to have been to have found Rin. What were the chances they would’ve found and loved each other? Between Tikany and Arlong and Sinegard, between the lives they’ve both left behind, between those first tenuous years‚ how many opportunities had there been for her to have been lost to him forever, or him to her? He’d used up all his luck for this, Nezha was certain, accumulated from years of pain and grief and loneliness. Maybe he was only being refined and forged, and made finally worthy for the incomparable joy to come: the love of his life, the most magnificent thing he’s ever seen and known. The other half of his heart and soul.

Nezha blinked furiously as he took a right into the dark parking space of the River Daian’s embankment.

“You know”—his voice came out warbled; Nezha cleared his throat—“Kitay asked the funniest question before I dropped him off.” His heart was racing as he pulled the top back up and turned the ignition off. It was that same fear, the one of being caught watching through the sliver of door at home in Arlong. “He was wondering if I’ll be staying here after graduation.”

Her hand tightened in his.

“Has he.” Rin’s voice was strained.

“He was concerned I’d take you away from him and this city.”

Rin’s expression darkened. “That fucking asshole.”

Nezha studied her face in the dark, the way it had grown tight with uncertainty and fear and longing. Hardly daring to breathe or hope.

“We are staying after graduation,” Nezha ventured before he could think better of it. “Aren’t we, baby?”

Rin drew away from him.

“Well, I’m staying.” She crossed her arms, looking Nezha in the eye. Her face carefully neutral. “I don’t know about you.”

He frowned. “Of course I am. Why would you say that?”

Rin shrugged, but didn’t answer.

In that intervening silence he sensed her fear. He recognized it because he felt it too, every day of his life.

“There’s no one else for me, qin’ai de ni,” he murmured.

She looked unconvinced. “Words are wind.”

They were speaking of something else now. Something too terrible for either of them to articulate, some ambiguous truth they both knew and understood.

Well, to love was to rise to the occasion, or to die trying. Mingzha, and his entire life, had taught him that.

Nezha leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers before Rin could completely close herself off, breaths quick and shallow.

“I love my life when I’m with you, Rin,” Nezha said. Certainly, and without fear.

She let out a soft whimper from the back of her throat, then closed the space between them.

Rin kissed him slowly, tenderly, coaxing his mouth open as he lavished in her familiar, bitter sweetness. She sighed when he pulled her close and let her taste him, her small hands caressing his jaw and hair. It was everything all at once: terror, longing and unbounded affection and relief, overwhelming desire. Gratitude.

Rin pulled away, lovely eyes fluttering open in the dark. She shifted onto his lap, and through her skin felt the heavy beat of her heart.

“I know, Nezha.” Rin was already leaning in for another kiss, but just before then, so softly he could’ve almost imagined it, a confession or a promise or a spell: “Me too.”

Whenever he looked back at that moment, it felt unbearably intense, that instant of metamorphosis; a puppet, unreal, inanimate, touched by love and turned into living, breathing flesh.

Yes. That’s what it was. Being loved, being needed and chosen by Rin was like being born. Like after all these years, Nezha’s life had finally begun.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Fifth year came at all of them with a vengeance. When he returned from Arlong for Mingzha’s memorial, Nezha threw himself into his summer semester classes and his senior internship with the Yin Group’s largest business segment, the shipping company Azure Marine.

He’d been assigned to shadow Mr. Hu, the Director for Business Development. His team was neck-deep in preparations for their pilot venture in the northern Hesperian territory of Angusk to drill oil in collaboration with J.B. Tarcquet.

“You’re joining the company at a very exciting time, Nezha. President Yin has worked years to secure this partnership.” Mr. Hu was a brusque, hidebound man who used to be Vaisra’s chief of staff, before he was promoted three years ago to facilitate Azure’s expansion outside the Nikara continent. He was a gruff man with no patience for incompetence, though he treated Nezha kindly enough. “We’ll need all hands on deck for this venture. If we pull this off, we’ll solidify ourselves as the market leader in the eastern hemisphere over the next five to ten years.”

Nezha had always been an excellent student, but the prospect of working for his father and brother made him anxious. They were fastidious, demanding, and wouldn’t hesitate to let him know if he’s not up to standard—which in all likelihood was the case. “I look forward to learning from you over the next three months, sir.”

“Zhou here will be showing you to your office. We have daily team meetings and thrice-weekly meetings with the COO”—he meant Jinzha—“and once weekly with the President. I need to pop into my office for a call, but let me know if there’s anything else you need, Mr. Yin.”

“I get my own office?” Nezha asked Mr. Zhou when Mr. Hu left.

Mr. Zhou blinked. “Of course you do, Mr. Yin. Follow me, please.”

Between learning the ropes of the business, working on his undergraduate thesis, and swim training, Nezha hardly got to spend time with Rin, let alone their other friends. She was neck-deep in her nth thesis proposal for Jiang (“‘Cliché and tired. I’m disappointed after five years of my committed tutelage you still haven’t learned to think outside the box, Runin.’ Tutelage? Committed? WHERE?”), her part-time jobs, and her internship at the Nikara Museum of Anthropology, which she constantly complained about in colorful texts to Nezha. That constituted an alarmingly large fraction of their interactions these days.

They’d been engaged in this song and dance for three weeks now. After their evening by the River Daian, Nezha felt they were ready to progress in this relationship. He wasn’t insane enough to propose, of course not; Rin would completely lose her shit if he tried anything like that—but he wanted her to properly move in with him. And why not? Rin was already in his apartment so often, it would be such a small matter to move the rest of her things. When you had something as good as this, you held on tightly and didn’t let go. And as for him, he didn’t want to be let go: he wanted to belong to Rin, fully and utterly, materially, as if she were a vise or an anchor, finally stilling the wildness Nezha’s felt his whole life.

Rin flew off the handle when he told her this.

“Moving in together? Us?” She spat harshly. “That’s the stupidest fucking idea you’ve ever come up with, and considering everything you’ve ever done I don’t say that lightly.”

Nezha was stunned by the sudden cruelty, for a minute he could think of nothing to say. When it became clear she wasn’t in fact kidding, and had no plans of taking the words back, he snarled: “Don’t tell me the sex was so good it gave your brain a factory reset.”

Rin’s returning glare was murderous. “Don’t fuck with me, Yin Nezha.”

“I’m fucking around? Who between us has suddenly reneged—”

“We said nothing about moving in together,” she hissed, jabbing a finger from across his living room table. “Nothing about playing goddamn house on our fifth year. We’re still children, for fuck’s sake.”

“Oh, are we? Until we start taking all our clothes off?” Nezha let out a mirthless huff. “Don’t make me laugh, Rin.”

“Fuck off. You know exactly what I mean.”

“Fine. So when are we doing this, graduation?”

“I’m barely making ends meet as it is, with what money would I—?”

“Money was never even an issue. I could’ve taken care of everything and helped you, I wanted to, but your fucking pride—”

“Oh, my pride,” Rin mocked. “What’s next? I won’t need to get a job? You’ll house me and clothe me and feed me as long as I’m a good little pet who pays with cooked meals and sex?”

“Where the fuck are you even getting any of this?” He figured Rin might need some convincing, but Nezha hadn’t anticipated just how terribly this conversation would go. “You know what your goddamn problem is, Rin? You think in these absurd absolutes, and you’re always so goddamn paranoid, like people are out to get you when they’re not—”

“People have been fucking me over all my life, Nezha,” Rin hissed, “and you were the worst of them all—”

“Fuck’s sake, Rin.” Nezha threw his hands in the air. “Did I put a gun to your head when I apologized and started hanging out with you and when I asked you out? No? So what the fuck does first year still have to do with anything? Are you just going to keep dredging that up every time we fight?” When Rin didn’t immediately managed an answer, he threw her a dirty look. “For someone so smart it’s incredible how stupid you can be.”

Rin stared at him.

Then her hand shot out for the first thing it could reach—one of the scented candles that came with the apartment’s furnishing—and threw it on the floor where it splintered to a thousand pieces.

“That’s my goddamn candle!”

“YOU have the goddamn audacity to call me stupid—”

“You said ‘me too,’ Rin,” Nezha yelled hoarsely. His head was pounding; the corners of his vision were beginning to turn white. “Me too. Do you even know what you meant when you said that? Or am I just a boytoy to play with and toss aside at leisure to you? Did you think we’d keep this up for years, and live in separate houses when we get married?”

At the words Rin violently shuddered.

“Marriage?” She hissed. “Who said anything about marriage?”

The evening ended with Rin shoving her bleeding feet into her sneakers and storming out of the apartment.

That was three weeks ago.

They’d negotiated a fragile, if awkward, truce since then. In the meantime, Rin resumed staying over at Nezha’s as the monsoon rains showed no signs of letting up, both of them carefully tiptoeing around the subject of the future. Besides that spot of trouble, it was easily already the happiest summer of Nezha’s life.

Nezha averted his gaze back to his phone, typing up a quick reply.

Absurdly, like a prepubescent boy, Nezha’s heart fluttered.

“Are you even paying any goddamn attention, Nezha?”

His head snapped up. Jinzha was glowering from the head of the table, the rest of the Hesperia expansion team’s eyes trained on him.

“Who the fuck are you texting that’s so important you’re not paying attention to this meeting?” His brother snarled, hands closed into fists on top of the mahogany table. “If details of this 230 million dollar venture are beneath you, then by all means, the door is right there.”

Nezha’s face grew hot. His throat grew tight with anger and embarrassment; but as always, he forced it down, inclining his head. “I apologize, sir.”

“This isn’t a fucking case study in Sinegard, Nezha.” Jinzha stood, bracing his hands on the table to lean forward menacingly. “If you want to be useful to this goddamn business and family I’d start by paying attention.”

He knew the fastest way to get Jinzha to stop was to acquiesce. “Yes, sir.”

The rest of the workday slipped from him, with Jinzha barking at Zhou to put Nezha to work, that he’s ‘not to be coddled just because he’s my brother,’ as if he had ever been coddled by any of his family on account of being a Yin.

When he arrived home at half past eleven, his bedroom was dark, and Rin was already fast asleep. Nezha padded over to the bed, taking the anthropology text she’d been reading from her hands and putting in a bookmark to keep her place, before climbing into bed beside her.

“Nezha?” The duvet made a loud ruffle as Rin shifted. “Did you only just get home? What time is it?”

“Just ten minutes past twelve.” He dropped a kiss on her nose. “Go back to sleep, qin’ai.”

“It’s so late,” Rin murmured sleepily, skinny arms coming up around his waist. “Thought you’d already be here when I came.”

“Sorry, babe. I couldn’t leave while Jinzha was still in the office. He’s been pulling a lot of all-nighters because of the venture.”

Rin mumbled something incomprehensible into his shirt.

“By the way.” Nezha planted his chin on the top of her head, his hand coming up to stroke her hair. “What’s the occasion on Saturday?”

She took her time gathering her thoughts, then snorted. “Fuck off, Nezha.”

“Rin. Qin’ai.” He felt like a fool, grinning as he pressed his face into her hair, which smelled like his minty shampoo. “Are you taking me out on a birthday date?”

“No. I just wanted to go to the amusement park.”

“Did you.” She hummed into his chest. “I dunno, babe. It is my birthday on that day.”

He heard the frown in Rin’s voice. “Why? Do you have other plans?”

He hummed. “That depends.”

“I already bought the tickets. If you don’t wanna go I’m taking Kitay.”

“Did you buy just two?” Nezha teased, thoroughly enjoying what he sensed was Rin’s growing irritation. “I mean, if you absolutely insist on taking me out on a date, I’m afraid I have no choice but to accept.”

Rin shoved him away. “You delusional jackass. Nobody’s fucking insisting. I just didn’t have money to buy Venka and Kitay tickets too.”

“You could invite them.” He bit back at his laugh. “Those two could pay their own way in.”

She’s had enough. Fully awake now, Rin kicked his shin hard.

“You’re the one who kept bitching you wanted your birthday to be just the two of us,” she yelled.

Nezha let out a light, buoyant laugh. Despite her complaints, he rolled over until Rin was trapped beneath him. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, and breathed her in: that salty, vaguely smoky scent, before planting a wet kiss where it met her shoulder.

“Get off me, Nezha, I swear on the gods.” Rin tried to shove him off to no avail. “You’re fucking heavy.”

“You remembered,” he murmured into her skin. Nezha closed his eyes and steadied his breaths; if he didn’t, he was certain he’d start crying. “God, baby, I love you so much.”

Rin shuddered. Her hand rubbed the spot between his shoulder blades. “Stop being so dramatic. I only remembered because I put it down in my planner, you dork.”

Nobody else would’ve thought to put it down, Nezha thought darkly. It’s not as if his family made much of a fanfare when he was growing up, even as the twins and Mingzha got dinners and parties and once, a trip to the beach. The only indication he ever had of anyone remembering was the twins complaining when the servants made noodles for dinner every year for his birthday, which they both hated. When he was younger he used to wonder why he’d always been treated differently from his siblings, but after Mingzha stopped asking why, finally certain that he deserved to be treated so poorly.

And yet.

And yet, even after all that, here was Rin: unaffectionate, no-nonsense Rin, who worked three part-time jobs to support her own studies, who refused to say I love you or call him baby, who was practically a sworn enemy in first year—but who saved up for amusement park tickets to take him out on a birthday date, who acquiesced (albeit angrily) to wear cheesy couple shirts on his birthday. Who woke up hours early on Saturday morning to personally make him a breakfast of noodles and red eggs, “For longevity and good fortune, or whatever the fuck, just eat and stop asking questions, dumbass.”

Nezha blinked. The spread on the table blurred behind a film of tears.

“I. . . You didn’t have to.” He pulled a startled Rin into his arms, swallowing the knot in his throat. “Thank you, baby.”

Rin pulled away to slide a small hand over his jaw, pressing her mouth to his cheek.

“Happy birthday, sha zhu,” she whispered, smiling.

As he pulled her into a proper kiss, as he lost himself in her painfully sweet taste, for the first time a subversive thought:

Flawed as she was, as he was, if Fang Runin of all people could manage to love and forgive him, what excuse did Jinzha and Muzha have? His father? His mother?

Nezha trembled, squeezing his eyes shut as overwhelmed grief and anger and love and a sweet ache washed over him all at once.

They tucked into breakfast, casually discussing what rides they were getting on, and which of the park’s snacks they were going to try. Nezha’s had several meals made by renowned chefs throughout his life; he’d dined at three-star restaurants in Nikan and abroad, and their own cooks at the Yin estate were nothing to sneeze at—but none of them had ever tasted as good as Rin’s simple noodles and eggs. She was plenty experienced in the kitchen, of course—but it was the thoughtfulness, the effort she put into waking up early to prepare and make this for him that made the difference. Because she knew it would make him so happy, because she cared. Nobody had ever treasured and considered Nezha’s feelings like that before.

It was already shaping up to be the best birthday of his life, and it wasn’t even nine o’ clock in the morning.

Nezha should’ve known that the Nikara gods or the Hesperian Maker or whatever cruel deity was running his life wouldn’t be so kind.

As he and Rin were dressing to leave, his phone rang atop his dresser.

“The meeting’s in five minutes, where the hell are you?” Jinzha demanded when he picked up.

“Good morning.” Nezha’s eyes met Rin’s, watching him curiously. “I. . . was told I didn’t have to report on weekends. Mr. Hu—”

“Are you always this goddamn stupid?” Jinzha snarled. “You answer to me, Nezha, and to Father. Not to that old goat.”

He swallowed. “Am I going to do anything useful at work today? I have somewhere important to be.”

“Watch the tone you’re taking with me,” Jinzha spat. “Father’s flown in this morning for a meeting with Tarcquet.”

Nezha blinked. “But why, all of a sudden—?”

“Save your questions for someone who gives a fuck. It’s Father who asked for you, so if you’re not coming feel free to call him yourself to explain.”

Jinzha didn’t give him an opportunity to respond and dropped the phone.

Rin’s expression was shuttered off when the spinning of his room and the ringing in his ears stopped, and Nezha came to himself again.

“It’s fine. Go if you have to,” she said shortly. “I’ll call Kitay.”

He looked at Rin: her flushed, lovely face. That ridiculous shirt he picked out, dwarfing her frame. It filled him with affection and an intense ache.

“It’s just a meeting.” He tilted her chin upward to meet her eyes. “An hour or two, then I’ll catch up to you. Okay?”

Rin looked skeptical. “Aren’t they gonna want to have lunch with you? It’s your birthday.”

Certainly fucking not, Nezha didn’t say. “They’re too busy, baby. Just. . . wait for me, please.” Nezha drew her in by the shoulders, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Promise I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Okay,” Rin said softly. She cupped his scarred cheek with a hand. “I’ll wait.”

When Nezha arrived at Azure Marine’s headquarters, the shareholder meeting was already underway. He slipped into an empty chair on the side of the boardroom, not presuming he had a place at the table. Mr. Hu was briefing the board on the progress of the oil rig construction in Angusk, and the Yin Group’s new office being set up in Rachdale. At the head of the table was his Father, who met Nezha’s gaze briefly, unfeelingly; and to his right, his Hesperian venture partner Mr. Josephus Tarcquet, who wore a permanently unimpressed expression.

“Mr. Zhou Anlan will be sent to Rachdale as Managing Director of Azure’s business operations in Hesperia,” Mr. Hu said.

“You’re not sending the young Mr. Yin abroad, Vaisra?” Mr. Tarcquet inclined his chin at Jinzha. “I’d have thought he was a shoo-in for the job.”

“He’s needed here in Nikan,” Vaisra said lightly as Jinzha inclined his head in uncharacteristic docility. “But there’s no need to worry, Josephus. I’m sending my second son Nezha abroad with Zhou’s contingent; he’ll be my eyes and ears and hands in Rachdale. Make sure everything’s taken care of.”

All heads in the boardroom turned towards him. Nezha stiffened.

“Why are you sitting by the sidelines, Nezha?” Vaisra asked softly; it sounded like a threat. “There’s an empty chair here beside Zhou.”

“Excellent.” Mr. Hu’s voice was distorted, like sound traversing air into water. “Then let us congratulate and give a warm welcome to one of our new colleagues who will be working abroad at our Rachdale branch, Mr. Yin Nezha.”

A round of applause. Pale faces with grotesque smiles. The bright boardroom spinning in twenty different axes. Nezha propped himself up on shaky knees. He felt the muscles of his face contort into the proper position; it was only pure muscle memory that propelled him, but he felt like he was floating away, or being swept into the deepest, darkest trench, the pressure of thousands of feet of ocean bearing on him until it crushed him clean.

Of course.

Of course.

He was never meant to be this happy forever.

There was a price. There was always a price.

Everything was muted and gauzy, like reaching him at the bottom of the ocean from the distant surface. Only Vaisra’s stare made it through all the noise, pure and unadulterated, unchanged by the medium. The weight of his many expectations, the difficulty of living up to them. How small he always made Nezha feel. The false promise that if he worked hard enough, he would finally be deemed adequate.

Jinzha had been trying, for years. Nezha saw how his brother buckled against its oppressive weight. How the goalposts constantly shifted. How his Father only ever doled out scraps of affection and praise, even for his eldest, most important son and heir.

If even Jinzha couldn’t manage it, what hope did Nezha have of ever being good enough?

“I thought I would be gaining experience here at our Sinegard branch before getting my MBA at the Zhang School of Business,” Nezha managed when it was only the three of them alone, much later at Vaisra’s office.

Vaisra didn’t look up from the paperwork. Jinzha stood to his left, flipping the pages for him, and pointing out the blanks he needed to sign.

“Birton’s the number one ranked MBA program in the world. Sinegard is parochial in comparison,” Father said steadily.

“But why?” Nezha blurted before he could check himself. “Why, all of a sudden—? That wasn’t the plan.”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

He was supposed to stay. In Sinegard.

With Rin.

Vaisra looked unperturbed. “One of us would have to be there, and you know your brother is marrying Yubei in the spring. Between the both of you, what obligations do you have tying you to this country?”

Jinzha snorted. “Perhaps that Southerner peasant girl he’s said to be seeing at Sinegard.”

Nezha heart stopped. His head snapped to Jinzha.

“Don’t even try to deny it. So many people have told me there’s no way it’s coincidence.” His brother’s sneer turned ugly. “Any reason in particular why you’ve conveniently neglected to mention this? Why haven’t you brought her to meet Father and Mother?”

“I—” Nezha’s face grew hot. “It wasn’t on purpose. There just hasn’t been time.”

“‘There hasn’t been time,’” Jinzha drawled mockingly. He scoffed. “I shudder to think what kind of woman could tolerate you.”

But Vaisra said nothing to that, only looked at Nezha through the tops of his glasses.

After a brief silence, his soft voice finally pierced through the tension:

“Do you know why so many family businesses fail, Nezha?” Vaisra asked.

“I—” Nezha didn’t know what to say to that. “Sir, I don’t—”

“Indifference.” Vaisra took the cap of his fountain pen, turning the cap back on slowly, methodically. “Complacency. Letting personal conflicts get in the way of business. And above all: Placing their highest loyalties elsewhere instead of the family, where it properly belongs.”

Those last words were too pointed to not have meant anything. Nezha stiffened.

“You, Jinzha, and Muzha have as much stake in this as I do.” Vaisra spoke in a monotone, and his eyes were dark and unfathomable, like black holes swallowing up everything in its path. “Each of you have a place here, a role in this family, this business. If one of us falters, if one of us goes astray, the entire edifice falls apart—and everything we have, everything we and generations of our ancestors worked for—great Yin men who have won wars and ruled empires—all that will be lost. Our great legacy and inheritance will turn into ash, because of the weakness and selfishness of one.”

Vaisra pinned Nezha with a dark, penetrating look.

“Jinzha’s place is to succeed me as President. He will have to remain, because he still has much to learn: How to make firm decisions. How to lobby to the Board, manage conflicting interests.” Unbidden, Nezha’s eyes drifted towards his brother. Jinzha’s expression hadn’t changed, although his shoulders gained a strange, new tension. “We’ve worked a decade towards this partnership with Tarcquet, your Mother and I. Even your sister Muzha had her part in it.”

Vaisra threaded his fingers together.

“So. The next time you wonder, ‘Why is my family so hard on me?’ or ‘What good have they ever done?’ perhaps you should reflect”—he leveled his youngest living son with a firm, cold look—“and ask yourself: Other than give us cause for grief, what have you done for this family, Nezha?”

Nezha’s body grew cold.

“Am I being useful? Or am I no better than a leech, who only knows how to take and take? Am I dead weight? And if I am, how could I rectify that? How do I repay the people who have given me everything—who have forgiven me everything?” Vaisra leaned back, planting his hands on the table. “You are a Yin man, Nezha. Surely you are smart enough to know that working as a director of Nikan’s largest company in the world’s biggest market, and studying in the number one ranked business school. . . that’s not the work of people who wish to punish you.”

The room seemed to be spinning around him; its air, cold and thin.

Nezha didn’t know how he was still standing, how he was still managing to form words; all he wanted to do was flee and hide, or curl up on the floor, and let the earth swallow him whole.

“Do I make myself clear?” Vaisra said. An order, not a question.

“I. . . understood,” Nezha stammered. “Is there anything else I could do for you, sir?”

The corners of Vaisra’s mouth quirked briefly, as if amused.

“That’s all. I’m glad we have an understanding, son.” Nezha trembled. He couldn’t remember his father ever calling him son before; whatever this was, this didn’t feel like tenderness or affection or mercy. “I believe it’s your birthday today, is it not?”

Nezha’s heart skipped a beat. Jinzha’s head snapped to his. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Since the three of us are here together, why don’t we celebrate?” Despite his words, Vaisra’s gaze was cold and unfeeling. “You are free to invite Chen Kitay and Sring Venka to the hotel for lunch. And this. . . paramour, of yours.”

But that sounded like the worst idea on the planet, so Nezha made vague excuses about his friends being busy, that they hadn’t planned on meeting up today because of their workloads.

Nezha sat through the most uncomfortable lunch of his life at his Father’s hotel’s steakhouse. It was a place he usually liked, and he’d wanted to bring Rin here several times before—but today, the food and wine tasted like ashes in his mouth. He didn’t dare take out his phone in front of Jinzha and Vaisra, and even as the two men relaxed and settled into steady conversation about business, Nezha’s veins rushed with panic and adrenaline, his head swimming, and his ears feeling like they’d been stuffed with cotton.

After a waiter took away their dessert plates, perhaps sensing his agitation, Vaisra looked at Nezha.

“Surely you made plans with your paramour.” There was an uncharacteristic hint of mirth in his voice. “Don’t let me take away from your time together more than I already have.”

Bile rose into his throat. He did not have to be a genius to understand the meaning behind those words.

“Thank you, Father.” Nezha’s chair made a loud, shrieking noise as he stood. “I will update you on the progress of the application to Birton.”

“See to it that you pass,” Vaisra orders.

The words that came out of him were mechanical. Practiced. “Yes, sir.”

It was nearly 4 o’ clock in the afternoon when Nezha pulled out of the hotel lobby, which means he’d made Rin wait over 7 hours. She left 25 missed calls and four texts:

He returned Rin’s call. When she picked up after his third try, she told him tersely not to bother coming; she was fucking exhausted from the heat, and all she wanted was to go home.

Nezha drove to the amusement park anyway to pick her up. When he got off his car, he started in a daze towards the shrubbery, where Rin sat in her cheesy couple shirt, sweaty and flushed and scowling, holding a sad pink balloon.

Her jaw was tight with tension when she stood.

Their eyes met in a long, charged silence.

“I’m trying so hard to stop myself from screaming at you right now.” Rin yanked at the balloon’s string with a flourish. “I wore this stupid fucking shirt. I broke my back working extra shifts to afford the goddamn tickets and the food inside. I even bought you this stupid, overpriced pig balloon, only for you to stand me up.”

‘The demands of people do not dissolve; they only multiply. More and more complex, more difficult.’ Nezha had read this in a book before, and never has anything more perfectly encapsulated this struggle: swimming against ever-rising tides, only barely managing not to drown. Demands that require betraying other, equally crucial parts of him in service of another; never being enough for anything or anyone. Being only a means to all these different, conflicting ends.

Nezha’s chin trembled, Rin’s lovely, dark face blurring out of view.

“What the hell happened to an hour or two?” She demanded. “I didn’t. . . Nezha.”

Something broke in him.

He hung his head and cried: wet, ugly, humiliating sobs.

Nezha was so tired. Of being taken apart, of people chipping away at him piecemeal. Of everyone cherry picking only the parts that served them, chucking away the rest: A filial son, at the expense of his own desires and interests; a good partner, at the expense of his identity and history, his loyalty to his family. Why was he always made to choose? Why compromise—and why was he, in the end, always the one who was left hollowed-out, and utterly, devastatingly pillaged?

“What’s wrong?” The irritation had drained out of Rin’s voice as quickly as it came. Her skinny arms came up around him tentatively, before drawing him into an embrace. He pressed his face into her shoulder. “Sha zhu, what happened? Tell me.”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Nezha’s grip grew tighter. Why couldn’t he ever have it all? Why hold on tightly, when everything only ever slipped away from him in the end? “This is perfect, qin’ai. You’re perfect.” Why keep going, why hope, why even try? “Everything’s perfect.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

He didn’t tell Rin. Of course not.

Not yet, at least. Nezha needed time to think of contingencies. He wasn’t optimistic about his odds of bargaining with his Father and Jinzha about staying in Nikan; Vaisra wanted Nezha to remain in Rachdale for a minimum of five years. Reasonable enough from a business perspective, as those first years were the most crucial in steering a company’s growth, and establishing a foothold in the competitive, fast-paced Rachdale market.

But feelings didn’t answer to reason, and Nezha lived in a daze as summer lapsed into fall.

He put off his Birton Business School application as long as he could, but when the September deadline loomed with terrible alacrity and Vaisra inquired on his progress, there was not much he could do other than submit. It wasn’t a strong application, in Nezha’s opinion; Birton was the most competitive MBA program in the world, and certainly there were more promising candidates from Hesperia, Bolonia, and the western continent. They had no reason to choose someone from a “parochial” country like Nikan, from a university at the bottom of the world’s top fifty, no less. There was a good chance he wouldn’t pass. He hoped he wouldn’t pass.

But of course, Nezha wouldn’t be so lucky.

A month later, a large, white envelope arrived in his mailbox from the University of Hesperia in Rachdale. Nezha didn’t have to open it to know it was an acceptance letter; its size and thickness was indication enough.

He stuffed the unopened envelope at the back of his drawer, willing himself to forget. To pretend it didn’t exist.

Sometimes Nezha would find himself watching Rin—feeling wistful, as if she were already lost to him. Things were better now than they had been those first months together, but he doubted he and Rin were stable enough to date long-distance for half a decade. That was a tall order for couples who didn’t share their volatility. What hope did he and Rin ever have of making it past a year, let alone five?

There was, however, a third option.

Rin could apply to Hesrach. She could come with him, and study abroad on scholarship. Rin was easily the most brilliant and hardworking person he knew, and in a school like Sinegard University, that was saying something. Anything she wanted, she inevitably got. It was that resilience and grit that Nezha loved most about her. He harbored no doubts about her ability to pass, but he didn’t know if she would want to go to Rachdale. She hadn’t even wanted to move in with him within the same city.

But if Rin knew the stakes—if she understood just how long, how detrimental the separation would be to their relationship unless they did something about it. . .

But if she truly wanted Nezha, if she knew this was the only way to make this work. . .

Head pounding, Nezha closed his eyes.

Rin wanted him; there was no doubt about that.

But did she want him enough? Enough to do this for him?

He didn’t know the answer, and at this point, Nezha was too terrified to ask.

Rin honed in on his newfound skittishness.

“What is wrong with you, Nezha? You’re so absent-minded all the damn time,” she’d spat after telling him about Jiang’s recent round of revisions on her thesis, and after the whole story had flown above his head. He’d been fixated on how Rin’s expression shifted when she was animated; how she gesticulated when she told mundane stories about her day. How much he was going to miss her. “And you keep staring with those sad puppy eyes too, like I’m about to fucking die or something. What the fuck is going on?”

Nezha couldn’t help but smile. Trust Rin to be so observant and clever. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired. I think.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “If you’re fucking lying, Yin Nezha—”

“I’m not, babe. Why would I?” Nezha reached for her hand; Rin let him take it. Trying to memorize the way she felt under his hands, how she smelled. Her brisk, deep voice. The coarseness of her skin, a testament to everything she’d done to get here. “Everything’s okay, I promise. I would never lie to you.”

“Why do you keep going to your brother’s office anyway?” Rin asked, draining her glass of water. She already had dinner hours ago, and was only sitting with Nezha to keep him company. “Haven’t you reached your required internship hours yet?”

“I have.” Nezha didn’t dare look up from his plate. “Jinzha and Father just want to make sure I’m not a complete mess when I start actually working for them.”

“But you’re not even a fucking employee yet. You’re a student with a full load at uni.” He heard the frown in her voice, the irritation. “Your father and brother are being fucking unreasonable. As always.”

“They’re not. Really, babe, I’m okay.” Nezha squeezed her hand. “Even you have part-time jobs.”

“This isn’t the same thing.”

Nezha shrugged. “Same principle.”

Rin watched him eat with her brow furrowed, as if he were a complex problem to be solved.

“So it’s confirmed?” She ventured haltingly after a full minute. “Jinzha’s assigning you here to Sinegard?”

It took everything in him to sit still, to not flinch or recoil or give anything away.

Not yet. It’s not the time.

I’m not ready.

“Yeah.” The word filled Nezha with intense self-loathing. So much for never lying to her. “Yeah, he did.”

“Okay.” Rin leaned back then, temporarily mollified. And after a brief silence: “Good.”

Nezha gave her a wan smile, desperately wishing he could feel the same way.

As monsoon season lapsed into a crisp, dry fall, Rin continued staying at his apartment. Nezha didn’t dare interrogate why; so long as he kept pretending, her pile of things continued to grow, and in a roundabout way, he’d finally gotten what he wanted to start with.

Small mercy, he thought. He and Rin adjusted to living together better than he’d expected.

It was a shame it wouldn’t last forever.

He asked nothing. Said nothing. Bided his time. Drifted along, given himself to the change: the grueling work of senior year; his responsibilities at the office; the swim team. These last months with his best friends. With Rin, his beloved. His heart and soul; his home.

Nezha would’ve been perfectly content to pretend for the next few months. To prolong this bittersweet limbo, this farce, until something finally gave.

But in that, too, he and Rin weren’t the same. Hadn’t ever been.

One evening in early November, coming home from another meeting at the office, Nezha stepped into his apartment, and found all the lights were off.

“Rin?” Nezha closed the door behind him. He toed off his shoes, and hung his suit by the door. “Baby? Are you home?”

Nobody responded. He frowned. It was late, but still too early for Rin to be asleep; she hadn’t said anything about covering a shift or working late at the library, or hanging out at Kitay’s.

Nezha put down his bag. He was in the middle of unbuttoning his cuffs when he heard a soft puttering through his dark, slightly ajar bedroom door.

The sight of it made his heart race. As if his body recognized the danger, far before his brain could play catch up.

Padding over softly, Nezha pushed the door open. He let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding when he saw Rin standing before his desk, in his large Sinegard Business shirt that dwarfed her.

“Hey.” The sound escaped him in a rush of air. “I thought you weren’t home. Why are all the lights off?”

Rin froze. She didn’t turn to look at him, or move, or say anything.

The intervening distance felt like a thousand miles as Nezha closed it, heart jumping to his throat. His hands slid around her waist, pulling her back to his chest.

“What were you doing that you didn’t hear me come in?” Nezha planted his chin on her shoulder, pressing a kiss to the skin behind her ear. “You okay, my love?”

She recoiled from his touch. Pushed his hands away.

“Rin. . .” Dread coiled in Nezha’s stomach. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

Her swallow was audible in the terse, thick silence.

Rin turned to face Nezha, her lovely eyes meeting his in the dark. He’d been momentarily lost in them that he registered too late the object in her hands.

“Congratulations.” Her voice was carefully neutral. Listless. She held out a large blue-and-white envelope to Nezha. “You, uh, got into the Birton School of Business. In Hesperia.”

Nezha’s heart stopped. He took it.

“Sorry I opened it.” Rin crossed her arms with a shrug. “I was just cleaning when I. . . just wondered why you’d gotten a letter from them. I hadn’t even known you’d applied.”

The indictment was loud and clear. “There’s no need to apologize, love, I’m. . .” His mouth worked. “I was going to tell you.”

Rin was so silent, so still for a long time she looked like a marble effigy. “So you’re leaving the country after graduation.”

“Baby, that’s not. . .” Nezha wiped his face. Her forced calm was making him more agitated than her anger ever had. “Nothing’s been decided. My father just told me to. . . I mean, I had no expectations when I’d applied, it’s a highly competitive program, I didn’t even think I’d be shortlisted, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt in case the Zhang School of Business didn’t—”

“‘Highly competitive’ but it’s your backup for Sinegard?” Rin let out an incredulous, mirthless laugh. “You’re funny, Nezha.”

She turned away. Rin began rearranging his desk, rather ineffectually; she kept toppling things over in her haste, positioning objects in ways that made no sense.

Nezha reached for her elbow, quelling his rising panic. “Love, please. Don’t do this.”

Rin jerked away. “I’m busy.”

“I was just looking for an opportunity to tell you; we’ve just been so busy. My family doesn’t even know yet, so I don’t know for sure—”

Rin slammed his drawer shut. “You’d be a fool to not go.”

She walked past him, refusing to meet his eyes.

Gods. Fuck.

Terror rushed through him, like a spring tide ebbing violently back out to sea.

No. No. 

This couldn’t be happening.

He couldn’t lose Rin, not like this. Nezha didn’t think he would survive it.

There was no other way, then. He had to get through to her, or die trying.

Nezha followed Rin to the laundry room, where he found her taking out the load he’d forgotten this morning. “Baby, please. If you would just listen to me—” 

“Smart enough to get into the world’s top university but stupid enough to mix whites with colors?” Rin snarled, throwing one of her now-stained white shirts on the washer with a force that made the cover rattle. “At this point you’ve got to be doing this on purpose.”

Please, Rin. 

Please. For once, don’t be so goddamn stupid and cruel.

“I’m sorry, baby. I swear I’m not, I was just. . .” Nezha took a large gulp of air. Willed himself not to take the bait. “Look, I’ll replace your shirt, alright?”

“Of course. All your problems are easily solved by money. No need to be conscientious when you can always just get a new one, can’t you?” Rin’s grin was acrid and bitter, nothing like the one he loved. “Huge apartment, luxury car, a full ride to the top university abroad. And all these meetings”—understanding dawned on her features, and she let out a harsh laugh—“your father’s sending you abroad to work at your new branch in Rachdale. Isn’t he? That’s why you applied.” Her jaw had to be painful from how long she’d been holding that grotesque rictus. “What a charmed life you live, Yin Nezha. Millions would kill to be in your position.”

She picked up the basket of dry clothes and pushed past him.

Charmed?

Charmed?

That was fucking ridiculous. His life, his grief and pain, was anything but. But that had always been Rin’s special talent—she had a way of making Nezha feel like his problems were stupid and inconsequential compared to hers.

“I was going to tell you, okay?” Nezha found her angrily folding clothes in the couch, absurdly in pitch-black darkness. “I didn’t think it made sense to tell you prematurely when I didn’t even know I’d get in.”

“As if you wouldn’t get in.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

Rin ignored him.

“Look. I’m sorry, alright? I really am sorry.” Nezha knelt in front of her, taking her hands in his; trying to still his own anger and resentment swelling like a tide, trying to say this as earnestly as he could. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had no stake—”

She jerked his hands off. “You think I’m mad that you’re leaving? I’m not,” she hissed, standing to draw away from him. “I don’t give a shit if you want to study or work abroad after graduation or not. That’s your business, Nezha, not mine.”

“Goddamn you, Rin.” He blinked furiously against the heat in his eyes. “Is what we’re doing just fucking around to you? What do you mean, ‘it’s not your business?’”

Rin’s expression wavered for a moment, but he saw the moment she forced it down. “How the fuck is anything thousands of miles away my business, Nezha? Because I’m not doing this long-distance shit with you.”

His throat was tight with pressure. “I was thinking you’d come with me.”

Rin huffed out a laugh. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Why not?” Nezha demanded. He wasn’t thinking, hadn’t really considered this option properly before now, surprising even himself once the words poured out. “You want a Masters, don’t you? Hesrach has the top Anthropology program in the world. You’d be learning from the best professors in the field.”

“‘Get your Masters at Hesrach,’ alright,” Rin mocked. “How? With what money?”

“The way you’d gone to Sinegard. With a scholarship.”

“Oh, a scholarship, alright. The top university in the world would give me a scholarship.”

“Why not? I think they would. I think you’re that brilliant.”

“Only a goddamn fool like you would think the world is a fucking meritocracy,” Rin muttered darkly.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

She ignored him. “And what about my living expenses?” Rin crossed her arms. “What if I don’t get a scholarship, what then?”

“You could work a part-time job. You could get a loan,” Nezha blurted out. “I could loan you money, and I don’t care when you’re able to pay that off, but if it’s really important to you we could draft an agreement—”

Rin threw her hands in the air in surrender.

“I’m so goddamn tired of juggling school and my part-time jobs, Nezha.” Despite himself, the way her voice warbled made his chest constrict. She swallowed it down. “So fucking tired of being everyone’s charity case. And now you want me to be hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt to either the Hesperian government or you?”

“That’s how school works, Rin,” Nezha said, frustrated at how difficult she was being. “If we weren’t Schols we’d either have to fund our own tuition from savings, or if not, take out loans anyway.”

“Please, tell me more about how loans and the goddamn economy works, Yin Nezha, future Director of Azure Marine,” Rin jeered nastily. “Of course you’d know more about money considering you have so much of it.”

Nezha scoffed. This wasn’t really a conversation anymore, or a discussion geared towards finding a solution. Once the subject of money had been broached, Rin had devolved into the defensive; there was no getting to her because she believed her economic disadvantage made her morally and ideologically superior to him.

“Stop trying to change the subject,” Nezha snarled. “If you don’t want to do the long-distance thing, and you wouldn’t come to Hesperia with me, what the fuck are we gonna do?” 

Rin looked at him like he was stupid. “Either you stay or we break up.”

A spell of vertigo hit him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“I thought you said Hesrach wasn’t final.”

“It’s not, but—”

“But it is. That was always the plan. You just couldn’t figure out a way to tell me. Right?” When he didn’t reply immediately, Rin’s mouth twisted into a sneer, vicious and filled with utter disgust. “That’s you, Nezha. You’ve always been a smooth little liar.”

Nezha’s mouth worked. He didn’t even know where to begin to unpack that.

“So you’re not even going to apply?” He asked hoarsely. “You’re going to give up on this relationship without even fucking trying, just like that?”

She scoffed. “Oh, now we’re giving ultimatums.” 

“Ultimatums? You know what’s an ultimatum? ‘Either you stay or we break up.’”

“I’m not giving ultimatums, I’m stating fact,” Rin spat. “I’m not going to Hesperia, it’s not possible for me the way it is for you, and if you’re not staying then I think we’re done here.”

One and done, an open-and-shut case. Useless, so easily dispensed once he no longer fit into the picture, or served a purpose. A recurring theme of Nezha’s life; or perhaps, his very person suggested it.

“Of course. That’s what you’ve always been good at.” Nezha stepped in close. In the low, oblique moonlight streaming through his living room window, Rin’s face was all harsh shadow. “Always the goddamn victim. Poor foster kid Rin from the South, with no money and family, who we have to tiptoe around because our mere existence is offensive to her.” His breaths came up harsh. A voice in his mind—Reason, shouted for him to stop, but it was distant. “Venka’s going to Givraine. Kitay’s thinking about Khurdalain or Yuelu, and it’s not like you have anything tying you to this country or city, is there? You’re free to do whatever the fuck you want. And what have you done with that freedom, Rin, huh? Make more outrageous demands? Give everyone around you a hard time? That’s the goddamn problem with you, Rin. You’re a selfish fucking bitch.”

Rin recoiled. Her face grew slack.

“What did you just call me?” She hissed.

“You’re a selfish bitch,” Nezha spat. He didn’t give himself time to feel remorse. “You couldn’t condescend to be a decent fucking girlfriend for once. I’ve spent the entirety of the last year and a half accommodating all your goddamn demands. No dinner dates. No buying gifts. No affection, none of the things a man could reasonably expect from his girlfriend, not unless they’re on your goddamn terms. Because what? Because I tormented you in first year? Because I victimized you, and I’m going to have to atone for that forever? Because you’re the only one who’s allowed to benefit from this goddamn relationship, because we’re only allowed to think of your comfort and needs but not mine?”

Rin flinched. For a brief moment, she actually looked startled and hurt that a sudden wave of guilt washed over Nezha.

“That’s enough,” she warned.

“No. You’re not the only one who gets to be fucking tired,” he gritted out, eyes prickling with heat and pressure. “Not when you’re the only one who ever got what you needed. After everything I’ve fucking done, after every sacrifice I’ve made, after every last goddamn thing I did you couldn’t do this one simple thing for me? You couldn’t be fucking assed to try? What am I even to you?” He meant to be cruel, to hurt, but any satisfaction and sense of victory had slipped entirely from him. “A distraction? A way to pass the time, an ego boost? Your personal sex toy?”

Nezha didn’t realize what had happened, but one moment they were staring at each other hatefully and the next his face bloomed with pain, Rin’s hand suspended in mid-air.

She hit him. 

She hit him.

The world spun as his head absorbed the initial impact and the whiplash. He craned his neck to glare at Rin, and instead saw the strangest thing: for a moment, her dark, scowling face blurred, yielding the dizzied image of his mother.

“I told you,” Rin gritted out. “That’s enough.”

Nezha looked up at her resentfully. Didn’t try to hold back the hot, angry tears in his eyes. His voice came out warbled, wretched; echoes of that twelve year old boy on his hands and knees, tender welts on his backside. Begging: Ma, it hurts. Please, if you love me, please stop.

“Do you even love me, Rin?” He whispered hoarsely. “I tell you every day, but you never say it back. And every day you really do make me fucking wonder.”

Her expression remained unmoved.

“And what would that entail, Nezha?” Rin’s voice in contrast was low. Controlled. “Throwing away the parts of me that are offensive? Letting myself be subsumed by you? Putting my entire life and future in your power?”

They stood across from each other in his living area, taking stock of each other. In actuality, Rin was so close; all Nezha had to do was stretch his arm, and there she would be: just a small, lovely girl, despite everything still the other half of his heart.

And yet.

And yet, the chasm between them had grown into a vast ocean: dangerous, nearly impossible to broach.

He didn’t know where Rin had gotten that. After all this time, after everything, how could she say any of that?

Nezha gripped the back of the couch to steady himself. For the first time in a year, he finally let himself acknowledge the bitter truth: Maybe he didn’t know Fang Runin as well as he thought. Maybe he never really had.

“The fucking problem with you is that you don’t feel any goddamn self worth when you’re not needed by anyone.” When her gaze locked with his, it was cold and immovable, a distant moon. “And if you think I will be satisfied having my entire world revolve around you, then you really don’t know the first thing about me.”

Oh, but it always has been like this: Her way, or not at all.

“You will never be enough, Nezha,” Rin said.

She took her bag and slammed the door. This time, Nezha didn’t follow.

Chapter Text

“Cancelling? What the fuck do you mean she’s cancelling?”

“Her thesis defense was pulled up to the third week of February.”

Venka arched a bewildered, perfectly sculpted brow.

“Jiang wants her to submit her paper to the Nikara Review of Anthropology and the Hesperian Journal of Physical Anthropology.”

“Okay?” She spat, loud enough to attract a few concerned looks amidst the lunch rush in the university’s main dining hall. “So?”

“So she’ll be busy.” Kitay sighed with barely concealed exasperation. He’d long given up the pretense of eating, chopsticks resting on his plate. “So she doesn’t have time to come on the trip.”

Venka looked mutinous. She and Nezha normally traveled home to Dragon Province for the winter holidays: partly because they were expected to celebrate with their families, partly to escape the miserable Sinegard winters. For Nezha, these trips home were unexciting at best, depressing at worst—but for Venka, whose parents were already making overtures about marriage and meeting potential husbands now that she was graduating, going home was nothing short of torture.

So when Minister Sring informed his daughter that he would be away on a diplomatic trip with her mother over Machermas, and that she should fly to Bolonia to join them when Sinegard recessed for the winter holidays, Venka spun an overdramatic tale about how she was in danger of not graduating if she missed the January deadline for her senior year thesis.

“They’re gonna know,” Kitay had nagged anxiously the moment Venka got off the phone with her father and booked a four-day ski trip at a Helmish chalet in the Wudang Mountains.

Venka glared at him. “How would they know?” Her laptop lit with a Transaction Approved splash screen. “For fuck’s sake, Kitay, even I’m not fretting, so why would you? They won’t know unless you fucking snitch on me.”

“You should take him with you,” Nezha suggested, putting his arms over his head, leaning back on the couch. “Make sure he doesn’t run that big mouth of his.”

“I was not going to run my mouth,” Kitay shouted indignantly at the same time Venka gasped: “Oh, the four of us should go! And before someone starts hand-wringing about the money”—she raised her voice, jabbing a manicured finger across the living area at Rin, who’d been cleaning up Kitay’s apartment kitchen—“I already paid for it; it’s just more value for my money if I have company.” She wagged her brows.

Rin shot her a droll look. “Can you not say things like ‘value for money?’ It’s not believable when you’re the one who says it.”

“Come on, Rin,” Venka whined, clasping her hands together in supplication and affecting her best kicked puppy look. “Will you really leave me to celebrate Machermas alone? If nothing else, just consider this payback for robbing me of my hot girl summer in Khurdalain last year.”

This was an exceedingly clever strategy on Venka’s part, knowing that once she got Rin to agree, Nezha and Kitay would quickly fall in line. He was inclined to keep his meimei company either way, but it was still amusing to watch Rin flush in embarrassment at the memory of Khurdalain, which turned into a scowl when she caught Nezha smirking.

Rin rounded the counter and squeezed beside Venka on the floor. 

“What dates? Is this on Machermas eve and the day of?” When Venka showed her the confirmation document—Rin’s eyes slightly grew at the price—she sighed. “Fine, I’ll come. Gods forbid you idiots eat take-out or a frozen dinner on Machermas eve.” 

“Oh, don’t worry. There’s private catering, you can just relax,” Venka squealed, hugging her at the same time Nezha huffed: “Then I’m coming too. I’m not letting my baby slave away in the kitchen by herself.”

“What? No! It’s Machermas eve, we’ll have to cook. It’s relaxing to me,” Rin insisted when Venka looked about to protest. Nezha understood this was her way of ‘paying’ for the trip. “And I don’t want any of you incompetent fucks in my kitchen.” She craned her head back to glare up at him. “Especially you, Yin Nezha.”

Nezha had only responded by grinning, leaning over to drop a quick kiss on Rin’s mouth. She made a face, but didn’t pull away.

“Don’t let me be a third wheel on my own trip.” Venka tugged at Kitay’s arm. “You have to come,” she whined, “they’ll turn the chalet into their love nest if you don’t.”

“Bold of you to assume that’ll make any difference to them,” Kitay grumbled at the same time Nezha said cheerfully: “Perfect, now I know what to get you two for Machermas: noise-cancelling headphones,” earning him a sharp pinch to the thigh from Rin and half a dozen expletives from Kitay.

That was nearly a year ago. ‘Friendsmas,’ as Venka had taken to calling it, was the crown jewel of their fifth year. Everything related to and led up to it, giving meaning to the abject drudgery of their speed run towards graduation: they’d drawn up an itinerary on a shared spreadsheet, including trails they were going on as it was Rin’s first time skiing; they had endless discussions over Thursday lunches on what they were cooking for Machermas eve, what booze they were bringing, movies to watch and board games to play. Once, during a caffeine-fueled all-nighter at Venka’s, they even had a heated argument regarding bedroom arrangements, ending with Kitay loudly proclaiming: “Enough. This is functionally an undecidable problem. There’s no arrangement that will stop these two from being horny and sneaking around, so just give them the room on the ground floor so we at least don’t have to hear them go at it,” much to Rin’s chagrin, and Nezha’s delight.

“Baby, this time of year temps at Wudang can dip into the negatives. That’s worse than Sinegard,” Nezha had said as a matter-of-factly, winking. “You’re not used to the cold; you’ll need me to keep you warm,” which earned him a kick to the hip.

None of them would willingly say something so sentimental, but between them Nezha sensed a wistfulness, acutely aware their time together at Sinegard was coming to an end. And while he was certain they’d continue to be best friends well after graduation, Nezha hoped, but ultimately didn’t know, how many of these golden, carefree days lay ahead of them, with his best friends, the love of his life, with whom he could be himself fully. His family, in every way that mattered. 

So for Rin to renege on the trip last minute was nothing short of a travesty.

“We’re all goddamn Schols working on our undergrad theses, who the fuck isn’t busy?” Venka’s nostrils flared. “She’s not gonna fail if she takes four days off on winter break, the campus won’t even be open then.”

“Actually, the library and university archives will be open except on Machermas eve and the day of,” Kitay corrected her. “And there’s a lot she could accomplish in that—”

Venka shot up, slamming her hands on the table. 

“I’ve had this fucking trip booked an entire year out, Chen Kitay,” she hissed. “And you dumb fucks all said you’d come. Do you think I don’t have a goddamn thesis to write and exams to revise? All I asked from you assholes was to show up.”

“Nobody’s saying that. Look, I’m still coming, alright?” Kitay held his palms up in acquiescence, looking genuinely contrite. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I’m just relaying what Rin told me.”

“The fuck is she relaying shit for? If she thinks she’s too good for my Machermas trip, she can say that to my face.” Venka rounded on Nezha, as if only just remembering he was also there. “Don’t just sit there. Where’s your girlfriend? Tell her to come here and explain herself.”

As expected, Rin hadn’t shown up to Thursday lunch. Nezha was secretly grateful for this. He didn’t know whether or not he’d forgiven her just yet. They’d perfected fighting and making up to an art form, this last year and half they’d been dating. Their fights usually ended with Rin deciding she was over it, as if nothing had happened; or with Nezha groveling, involving flowers, kissing, and make-up sex. Neither of them bothered revisiting whatever they’d argued about, trying to figure out what they could’ve done differently; that way lay only more arguing. It was best to just side-step their fights, soldiering on until they either forgot about it, or it stopped being relevant. And either by providence or sheer luck, Nezha and Rin had fallen upward, somehow managing to avoid these stalemates over matters that could end a relationship.

Until now.

One of them would have to compromise; of this, Nezha was certain. And it definitely could not be him. His reasons were not a matter of personal ambition, indulgence, or even the pursuit of self-interest, like Rin had made it out to be; but duty and filial piety were foreign concepts to her, because Rin had never been beholden to anything and anyone other than herself.

Not even, Nezha was quickly learning, to him, or their life together.

He snorted, cutting up his chicken with a force that shredded it. “Well, good fucking luck with that.”

Across him, Kitay narrowed his eyes. He’d shown up to lunch, but so far he hasn’t said a single word to Nezha. 

“Excuse me?” Venka asked shrilly.

“I’m saying Rin’s uninterested in conversing like a goddamn adult,” Nezha spat, spearing a broccoli irritably. “All she knows to do is throw tantrums like a fucking child, so I wouldn’t hold my breath for an explanation.”

His friends stared at him for a few wordless moments. “Keeping your future plans secret from your partner wasn’t very adult of you, either,” Kitay suddenly retorted.

“Like Rin’s the paragon of good communication and honesty?” A harsh, mirthless laugh escaped Nezha. “Don’t think I’m unaware she’s keeping things from me, too.”

Kitay was unamused. “Then perhaps consider you haven’t proven yourself trustworthy enough to be relied on.”

Heat rose in the space behind Nezha’s nose, between his eyes. Oh, the absolute fucking audacity.

“So if I don’t tell her things, that’s my fault—but if she doesn’t tell me things, that’s still my fault? For someone so goddamn sanctimonious it’s funny how your ethics works,” Nezha sneered.

“You’re putting words in my mouth,” Kitay said coldly. “All I’m saying is—”

“I don’t give a fuck about your opinions, Kitay. Will you stay out of our relationship for once? You don’t even know anything,” Nezha snarled, relishing the way Kitay bristled. The way the man acted like he was the singular authority on all matters pertaining to Fang Runin was a never-ending source of vexation for Nezha. “What goes on between Rin and I is none of your goddamn business.”

Kitay blinked.

“Seems to me like there isn’t still a relationship to stay out of,” he said mildly, standing. “But sure, suit yourself.”

Before he could bite out a retort, Kitay took his tray and stormed off to the upper floor.

Nezha let out a noisy breath, furious that Kitay had gotten the last word in. “Prick,” he grumbled.

“What the fuck is going on? Have you idiots broken up?” Venka demanded.

“Nobody’s broken up, meimei,” Nezha ground out irritably. “She’ll get over herself before the trip, and Rin’s a fool if she doesn’t.”

She will. She has to. Nezha understood on an intellectual level that moving to Hesperia was not ideal for Rin. But it wasn’t as if he was asking her to do something ruinous or unreasonable, either. Even if she was convinced she couldn’t get a full scholarship—which Nezha doubted, considering he’d qualified for one and Rin was easily smarter than him—would it really kill Rin to try? He’s accommodated her as much as he could; he let her set the agenda and pace this last year and a half. Nezha almost always let her have her way, something he’d never done for anyone before, even when he thought she was being outrageous.

She’d been so happy to keep taking. Wasn’t it about fucking time she did the same for him?

“Tiger’s tits, Nezha. Get over yourself and fix this,” Venka screeched. “I’m going to kill you if you made me put in all this effort for nothing.”

“And you assumed I’m the problem? Seriously, the way you and Kitay give Rin endless free passes just because you feel bad she’s poor should be studied,” Nezha spat. He waited for the inevitable remorse, pleasantly surprised when it didn’t come. “I’m not apologizing because I’m not the one who did anything, so if you insist on being a goddamn menace, go badger Rin instead. Now will you shut up and let me eat in peace?”

His meimei’s brow furrowed, face paling with disbelief and fury. “You want peace? Alright. I’ll give you peace.”

Venka noisily pushed back her chair, snatching her tray from the table.

“Have as much peace and quiet as you want from now on, you friendless bastard,” she snapped, before storming off on the opposite direction Kitay went.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Days turned to weeks turned to an entire month of cold, silent hostility. Not having friends or a girlfriend freed up much of Nezha’s time, and between exams, swim training, writing his thesis, and his increasing responsibilities at Azure Marine, it had been the easiest thing to go about his own life. He threw himself into work; eventually the first sharp tendrils of anger ebbed away into dull resentment—and finally, calm indifference. Without Rin’s infuriating temper and mercurial moods, Kitay and Venka’s overbearing personalities, or his parents and siblings’ demands, Nezha’s days were long and subdued, fully his for the first time in his life.

Sometimes he’d wonder where Rin was, what she was up to, if she even thought of him, checking for texts that never came—but in time, even the desperate edge had faded away. If at first he’d been disinclined to make amends, now he just. . . didn’t give a fuck. Rin had crossed a hard line Nezha didn’t even know he had. Being with her had been a reprieve, like finally breaking for air—until she’d yanked him right back into the same treacherous waters he’d been drowning in all his life. The cruelty he’d glimpsed that day in the apartment was terrifyingly intimate. Sinister in its precision. Nezha had spent the last year and a half happy and foolish; armor discarded, all his vital points open, weightless—and all the while Rin was getting into position, poised to strike right where he would bleed out. 

As long as they were together, Nezha would never know peace.

And he was just so tired.

One week before the winter holidays, Nezha messaged Venka:

Well. Fuck him for trying, he supposed.

If her Snapgram posts and stories were anything to go by, it seemed like Venka at least had a good holiday with Kitay. And Rin. Turns out the deadline for Jiang had been nothing but a barefaced lie to avoid him—or to get Nezha to not come on the trip. Of course it had been. Never mind the bastards he’d grown up with and called his best friends—his girlfriend, who knew Machermases in Arlong made him miserable, pulling this shit on him was a new all-time low, even for him.

Bitterness coiled around his throat as Nezha scrolled through Venka’s posts: the stories of Rin clumsily skiing; a photogenic flatlay of the Machermas eve dinner Rin whipped up for three; picturesque images of bare, snow-flecked trees, cozy fires, board games and wine bottles. His friends in ugly sweaters, stray gift wrap strewn about the floor. Nezha squinted at their smiling faces, looking for a subtle tightness, a dullness in their smiles; something indicating covert unhappiness, or suppressed guilt. But photo after photo, Nezha could find no proof of his importance, no evidence his presence had been missed. He imagined them drunk on the floor of the chalet, Venka exclaiming: “Ugh, Nezha’s been stalking my Snaps all day like a freak,” and Kitay and Rin laughing, the latter rolling her eyes. “Gods, what a fucking loser. When we get back I really should just break up.”

Oh, Nezha thought, but he should’ve known some things never changed. It didn’t matter if they were his family by blood, or the one he’d chosen for his own. He would always be the odd one out. He would always be kept at arm’s length, watching but never invited in—because he was too much, too difficult, too exhausting. Too irreparably broken to be deserving of care or grace. 

He took a long draught of his Àirdh, face hot, blood rushing in his ears. The estate had gone deafeningly quiet at this hour. After Machermas dinner—which had been no different from the thousands of dinners they’ve had before—Mother retreated to her bedroom for evening vespers, and that was the holiday done. But what had he expected? Life wasn’t those saccharine, idyllic Machermas stories, and they were nothing like other families. Sentiment and tenderness were for the weak and small-minded, but they could not afford such silly trifles. They had a name to protect, a legacy to live up to.

Nezha blinked away at the stinging in his eyes, glancing at his half-empty whiskey glass. What was taking this goddamn Àirdh so long to hit?

The door to the sitting room swung open with a low creak.

“What on earth are you moping in here for?”

Nezha grimaced. Counted to three in his head and took a deep, steadying breath before he spoke. “I’m not moping.”

Muzha closed the door with a soft click, padding across the sitting room to block his view of the fire. “You’re sitting in Pa’s chair with an Àirdh, that’s moping in my book.”

“It’s just a nightcap. Want one?” Nezha pushed himself up before Muzha could respond, knowing she wouldn’t say no to an Old Fashioned. 

“Yeah, why not.”

At the bar cart Nezha tossed a sugar cube and a half into a glass, then a splash of the Lucanian amaro Muzha favored and cherry juice, crushing the cubes with the back of a spoon.

“What are you even doing here?” Muzha asked as she watched him drop a single ice ball into the glass, before topping it off with Bolonian Migny.

“Trying to fall asleep, like I said.”

“No, duh.” His sister rolled her eyes when he brought over her drink. “I meant why are you in Arlong.”

Nezha sank back into his seat, swallowing a mouthful of Aìrdh, which went down his throat with a smoky, creamy heat. “It’s Machermas,” he murmured. “Am I not allowed to go home to my own house on holidays now?”

She arched a brow. “You knew Pa and Jin weren’t going to be here.”

“Maybe I just didn’t want you and Ma to spend the holidays alone.”

Muzha snorted, but said nothing to that.

“I saw Ven’s gone skiing with Chen Kitay at Wudang.” Muzha peered at Nezha over the rim of her whiskey glass. “You weren’t invited?”

The way she said this made it clear exactly what she thought of him being excluded by his friends. “Of course I was,” he grumbled, face growing hot.

She hummed, seemingly unconvinced. 

“She even brought their maid to cook for them.” Muzha swirled her drink, wrinkling her nose. “I don’t know why Ven included her in the pictures, have you seen?”

Nezha’s head snapped up. “That’s my girlfriend,” he hissed, before remembering he didn’t even know if he and Rin were still together.

Muzha blinked. “What?” He glared at her, jaw taut. His sister let out a startled laugh. “Oh, sweetie. You’re joking.”

“Don’t call me that,” Nezha spat. “And you and Jinzha always talk, he didn’t tell you?”

If she recognized the glaring corollary there, the barely concealed indictment—that the twins keep in touch despite their hectic schedules, yet consistently neglected to extend that same concern towards Nezha—she made no indication of it. 

“That’s the Southerner peasant girl Jin was telling me about?” Muzha exclaimed. “Dìdi, I even gave you the benefit of the doubt. I got mad at Jin for believing the rumors, for thinking you could possibly have such poor taste.”

She said this like she’d done something he should be thankful for. 

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint,” Nezha said acridly, scowling.

Muzha scoffed. “Well, I suppose you were always going to have your turn,” she mumbled, adjusting her sweater as she took a long draught of her whiskey. “Jin must’ve messed around with a quarter of the female population in Sinegard. Although admittedly I hadn’t imagined you’d have an ugly peasant girl fetish.”

“It’s not a fetish.” Nezha’s face grew hot. His sister didn’t even know the first thing about Nezha—hadn’t bothered to try to rectify that, in the twenty-one years he’d been alive—and yet the casual certainty by which she made all these assumptions infuriated him. “Rin and I have been together nearly two years. This is nothing like Jinzha fucking around.”

“Language, Nezha.”

“You’re not Ma. Don’t you ‘language’ me,” he snapped. The alcohol must’ve finally hit, because otherwise he wouldn’t have the wherewithal to be so reckless and confrontational. “And I don’t care what you say about me, but I don’t appreciate you talking about my girlfriend like that.”

“My god, dìdi, won’t you relax?” Muzha snapped, shifting to finally look at him. “I don’t even know what you’re bitching about, I’m just stating fact. Is she not from some peasant family in the South? Is she not ugly?” And when Nezha failed to come up with a retort immediately, so stunned he was by the alacrity of Muzha’s cruelty: “That’s what I thought.”

“She’s the most beautiful girl in the world to me,” Nezha gritted out, his vision suddenly blurring. He forced down the knot in his throat. “Rin’s the smartest person I’ve ever met. She’s the top Foundation Scholar in our cohort, and she’ll be going to grad school in the fall—Sinegard or Hesrach, she’s still deciding.” 

Muzha scoffed, shaking her head with a low laugh as she continued to drink. The flippancy made Nezha want to pull his hair out. What the fuck was wrong with her? With everyone? Why are people so insistent on punishing him for being earnest; why was he always ridiculed and dismissed for demanding the barest measure of respect?

“She’s funny and sharp, nothing like the vapid bitches we went to school with. And she works so hard; she’s brave and resilient, she wouldn’t even let any of us give her gifts or hand-outs. And I know you think she’s not much to look at, jiejie”—Nezha’s voice treacherously warbled then; he swallowed, not wanting to weaken his argument by crying and being pathetic—“but she’s the only one who’s ever taken care of me, and I love her so much. Ma has her objections about your boyfriend. Of all the people in this family, I thought you would understand me.”

Muzha stared at him in the darkness, her lovely face inscrutable. She’d always been a strange one. Growing up, she hadn’t been quite as cruel as Jinzha, content to ignore Nezha rather than actively berate or ridicule him, and he couldn’t remember anything she’d done in the last ten years or so that had been particularly egregious—though she’d also mostly spent that time away at boarding school in Rothboury. They weren’t close, not by any stretch of the imagination, and their conversations were mostly petty society gossip, or her silly teenage dramas. She and Jinzha were tight, but there were some things even Jinzha wouldn’t condescend to listen to for hours on end, stories about backstabbing bitches and her dates and the wild shit they’d been up to in Rachdale. Nezha listened to her, mostly because he didn’t have a choice, but because part of him was pleased to be confided in, in a way nobody else in the family was; and unlike his older brother, Muzha treated him just fine when they were in the company of other people.

But Nezha wasn’t entirely certain why he’d interpreted that as Muzha caring about him, or being his ally.

“It’s not the same. Dan’s going to be a doctor, and at least he comes from a respectable Nikara family, if modest.” His sister sniffed, crossing her arms. “And don’t be naïve. Of course she takes care of you; it’ll pay off in the future. What else do you think could she possibly want from you?”

Nezha flinched.

“So you’re saying no one in their right mind would like me for me,” he said lowly, “that’s what you’re saying.”

“Stop acting like a child,” Muzha snapped. “You know exactly what I mean. You won’t hear anything from me if you dated someone like Venka or Cai—alright, you’ll hear something if it’s Jing, but at least she brings something to the table. She has her own money, her own businesses; she won’t rely on you for anything, and you can rest assured she likes you for you. But how do you know this Rin isn’t just biding her time? You’re saying you’re in love with her, alright. How do you know she loves you?” She asked mercilessly. “How do you know she’s not just using you for your status or looks or money?”

He’s heard enough. Nezha shot up from his seat.

“I don’t know, and I don’t give a fuck,” Nezha sneered. His vision turned white. “I’m just a tool to be taken potshots at and traded away in this goddamn family anyway. I’d let Rin use me and bleed me dry if that’s what she fucking wants; at least she pretends to give a shit about me.”

Muzha drew back, as if Nezha had struck her. Her breaths were coming up quick and short, and her face had turned ghastly pale.

“My god, Nezha,” she whispered: harsh, low. Urgent. Her eyes were wide with a strange, inscrutable emotion; what Nezha thought he saw confounded him. “Is that really what you think we’ve been doing all this time?”

Nezha glared at his sister.

“Yes.” His eyes stung, and his voice faltered. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

Muzha finally had nothing to say to that.

The adrenaline ebbed away from him like a spring tide suddenly receding. He thought rendering Muzha speechless would make him feel satisfied, but he was only left hollow and unmoored.

“I told Ma I’d accompany her to the Machermas morning service,” he muttered, avoiding the indictment and horror in her gaze. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Wait.” He heard Muzha standing, felt the brief brush of her fingers on his arm. “Nezha—”

He slammed the door. Nezha hurried down the hallways to his bedroom, locking and bolting it for good measure, before sinking into bed with a long sigh. 

He reached for his phone to check the time: 01:37. There were no notifications or missed calls; there wasn’t a single text from any of his classmates or relatives or friends wishing him a Happy Machermas. Nothing from Rin.

A violent wave of self-loathing swept over him, and Nezha tossed his phone. All that shit he’d given his sister, all those false, hyperbolic claims about Rin caring for him—and she couldn’t even condescend to a truce for one day. Couldn’t be arsed to send a simple text. Nezha laughed miserably, a hot wetness gathering at the corners of his eyes. Wanting something isn’t as good as having it.

Nezha laughed and laughed, until he ran out of air, until his absurd, forced peals bled into grotesque chokes of pain. Maybe Muzha was right. Maybe that parochial bitch was just here for a good time; maybe she really was using him for his body and money, and Nezha, too blinded by love and loneliness and desperation, had taken what he could get, mistaking it for the real thing.

A sharp, hot pain flared in his chest, rising to his throat. Nezha pushed himself up and ran. He barely made it to his en-suite bathroom before vomiting the entirety of his dinner and that half bottle of Àirdhic whiskey.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Winter descended upon Sinegard with a vengeance. The city and campus were perpetually blanketed in thick, dirty slushes; the cold so ruthless and inescapable it seemed to seep into Nezha’s pores, freezing his blood and organs solid, encasing him in a solid, impenetrable block of ice.

As ice, he’d been able to push through the tedium of his last semester in university; just as in the months and years following Mingzha’s death, the distance and numbness. Ice stoppered all the orifices and wounds from where he’d been bleeding out, and ice dampened all color and shade and sensation. The barrenness would have terrified him, if it wasn’t such a wonderful relief to finally stop feeling everything so acutely.

Only two instances felt like a crack in the ice. A week into the new semester, while he was catching up on schoolwork between classes in the library, Rin had finally messaged him.

Nezha stared at his laptop—the contact photo, the date and time, hardly believing his eyes. First came astonishment. Then: a pulse of vindictive glee. How fortuitous, he thought, this forgotten leverage he had against her. He’d already opened the message, but he wondered how long he ought to leave her on read. What was a reasonable timeframe that would make Rin anxious, but not hold up her thesis? Was Muzha terribly busy these days? Then he realized it shouldn’t matter to him what happened to Rin. He let himself imagine not following up with his sister; let himself watch Rin learn the hard way that she was stupid to have fucked with him.

It was a feeble spark of an idea, which upon contact with ice fizzled into colorless smoke.

He closed the app. Tried to breathe through the heavy beating of his heart, the heat of his skin, the oppressive stuffiness of the library; focusing on the essay he was working on, its words blurring together like droplets of water blotting out ink.

Instead, Rin sent three more messages in quick succession.

God. So she was planning on papering over this, the way she had so many times before.

Of course she was.

Nezha let out a breath, burying his face in his hands and willing himself to calm down. But Rin was not done.

And after a few more minutes:

Two months. Nearly two months of radio-silence, of self-loathing and numbness and despair, and Rin had finally conceded—but only because he was still useful to her yet.

Hands shaking, Nezha shut his laptop. Closed his eyes and willed himself not to cry.

Cruelty was so easy; loving, so difficult. And loving Rin, that selfish, heartless monster, the ultimate act of self-sabotage.

Something in him stirred; he willed it away. Nezha didn’t know what terrible spell Rin had cast on him, but he was tired of these games, tired of effacing himself to become what she wanted. Tired of her tugging at the other end of the string tied around his heart, and pulling him right back.

Not long after, he texted Muzha to get it out of the way.

He half-expected her to ignore him, to say something snide or withhold the forms as punishment for the fight they had at Machermas. But to his surprise, Muzha replied in under an hour:

And indeed, in ten minutes the forms with Muzha’s digital signatures were in Nezha’s email inbox.

He knew better than to believe this meant something—that he’d been forgiven, much less understood. But Muzha had surprised him with her generosity, certainly more than he’d insinuated she had. That was the second crack in the ice.

Once Nezha read that the purported original proverb ‘the blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb’ is a myth borne out of misinterpretation. The aphorism, which entered the Hesperian language from Àirdhic in the 18th century, has always meant what it means now: he can try to run from them, spite them, or paint them out to be irredeemable villains. But in the end, as inadequate and as weak as he was, he was still one of their own—and with them, he belonged. Nezha might not have been the son or brother they’d chosen to emerge alive, that fateful summer day in the River Murui; and he might be the least of all the Yins, who’d failed over and over to prove his mettle, but he was still a Yin. Against all odds, they were accountable to him by virtue of the very guts and flesh and blood that make up his being and theirs; and that responsibility, at last, was something none of them ever took lightly. Forget love and friendship and desire; those were ephemeral, temporary. Conditional. But kinship, legacy, duty—these are indestructible, unchanging. Family is non-contingent by design. And when all else fails, family endures.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“Rin’s oral presentation is tomorrow at 4.”

“Okay.”

Kitay frowned, looming over him across his table in the dining hall as Nezha picked through his salad. “Are you really not coming?”

“I have class,” Nezha lied.

“How long do you plan on keeping this up?” Kitay demanded, his freckled cheeks flushed with irritation. He crossed his arms. “Do you not realize you’re just shooting yourself in the foot with your fucking ego? At this rate you and Rin are going to keep this up well after graduation.”

“That’s her choice, not mine.”

Kitay stared in disbelief. “Nezha, for fuck’s sake—”

Nezha’s head snapped up to glare at him.

“I’ve given you lot what you wanted and left you well alone,” he snapped. “Maybe consider giving me the courtesy of the same.”

Kitay ignored him. “Rin’s been stressed, alright? She drew a tough panel. It’s not as if she’s even mad at you anymore. She’s been trying to talk to you, but she said you wouldn’t even reply to any of her texts.”

Treacherously, Nezha’s heart flipped. He forced it down, saying nothing.

“Look. I know you’re upset, and I admit you have a right to be,” Kitay said in an undertone. The corners of his mouth were tight with disapproval. “But I’m assuming you two aren’t done with each other yet. So as her friend and yours: please, just come. It’ll mean a lot to Rin that you’re there. I’ve already talked to her about this, I assure you she’ll be receptive to whatever it is you have to say. And. . .” The man cut himself off, swallowing thickly. He made a face like he’d sucked on a bitter lemon. “Just. Believe me, she really, really needs you in her corner right now. All of us.”

Nezha stared at the bespectacled man for a few bewildered moments, then laughed.

“‘My friend?’ That’s rich coming from someone who’s making all these unsolicited demands without offering his own apology in the first place,” he spat.

Kitay startled. Nezha pushed himself up from the table, dislodging his tray.

“If you had to do this, and Rin couldn’t be assed to come talk to me herself, then that just tells me she still doesn’t fucking get it.”

This time, he didn’t give Kitay a chance to get a word in and left the dining hall.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Despite himself, Nezha still went.

He wasn’t entirely certain what he came here for, but finally at quarter past four Nezha pushed into the Anthropology building’s largest lecture hall. He neither had interest in, nor the intention of making amends unless Rin made an effort to initiate, but he’d lost faith long ago that she was capable of something like that. Was he here to support her as a friend, then? Would they be better off that way: Close enough to bask in the radiance of the other’s warmth, but not near enough to burn, to subsume?

Or was it guilt? Grief, over a life he’s realizing he may never have? It seemed like only yesterday they were making childish, earnest proclamations about spending the rest of their lives together—and now here was the cold reality, humbling them not half a year later. What fools they’d both been, to think anything could last, much less between people like them.

Rin was well into her presentation when Nezha took a seat at the topmost row, obscured by the lighting. Up front were her panelists, including their old History professor Dr. Yim; Dr. Jiang, standing serenely off to the side; and a few rows behind Kitay, and Venka who was whispering something in his ear.

“Worship of the Vermilion bird, also known as the Phoenix, or Fenghuang is a fundamental aspect of Speerly identity,” Rin said. She spoke clearly, authoritatively, though her expression was tight with anxiety. “Nikara settlers established about a hundred temples across Speer, largest of which is the Jiafong Temple in Kai’ping.”

Two months imagining her happy and healthy without him; and as it turned out, that could not be further from the truth. Rin looked terrible. She’d lost weight, her small white button-down hanging off her tiny frame looser than usual. Her cheeks were gaunt, and her eyes, tired and ringed. Nezha expected to feel vindictive glee. Instead, the dull, constant ache in his chest only intensified.

Like a man finally stumbling upon an oasis, Nezha drank her in: Her steady cadence, her intelligent gaze, the nervous way she wrung her fingers. He’d forgotten how Rin felt in his arms; he ached to hold her. “Speerlies turned to religion to construct a group consciousness, defining ethnic boundaries between Speerlies, Mugenese, and mainland Nikara,” she continued. If she’d seen Nezha in the back, she made no indication of it. “Any attempt of the Nikara Republic to restore their sociopolitical and cultural norms onto Speer following its re-annexation was only minimally successful due to competing versions of modernity, interpretations of Republican ideology, and Nikan’s attempts to enforce their conception of rational ‘modern religion’ modeled after Hesperian Makerism, to eradicate Speer’s backwardness.”

Her last slide panned to a familiar image, labeled Map 3.1 Sacred spaces in Kai’ping, based on a map designed by the Nikara Republican Army Map Service, NRAMS L993, 1945, held in the Private Collection of the Arlong Memorial Museum, Dragon Province.

“By defending these elements amidst the postwar reconstruction of Kai’ping, the city’s imagined geography remained a predominantly Speerly space.” She paused, dark eyes sweeping the hall, until her gaze locked with Nezha’s, startling. 

Nezha’s heart skipped a beat. That brief look expanded and collapsed like an entire universe between them.

Rin flushed, forcing herself to look away. “That concludes my presentation,” she stammered. “Thank you.”

“Ms. Fang will now be answering questions from the panel,” Dr. Jiang’s serene voice intoned after the round of applause.

The male panelist spoke first. “Ms. Fang, what comment does this study make on the contentious subject of Speer’s sovereignty?” His clipped, brusque tone reminded Nezha of an older Dr. Jun.

A few rows below, Kitay and Venka exchanged knowing looks.

Rin blinked. “I. . . well, although that is outside the scope of this research,” she began carefully, “the paper concludes that the Speerly leadership class’ performance of identity, and their interactions with the Mugenese and Nikara during the occupation years ultimately defined a distinctly Speerly ethnicity. Which strongly suggests that—”

“Well, if the god they venerate is part of the official Pantheon approved by the Nikara Imperial court, and brought to the island by early settlers, don’t you think it stands to reason that this is merely a denomination of Nikara folk religion, rather than a separate religion unto itself?” 

“Perhaps in the pre-colonization years prior to the First Poppy War, but occupation has forced Speerly religion to evolve separately from the mainland folk religion,” Rin responds. Judging from the way her jaw ticked, he figured this was a sore spot with her. Nezha couldn’t help but smile at that. “This study posits that it is this resistance against both Mugenese and Nikara nationalism, as well as the unique dialogue created by the necessity of compliance and cooperation during the years of occupation, is what distinguishes their religion, and consequently their identity. At this point in time, Speer is completely ethnically distinct.”

The questioning went on for about half an hour. Nezha thought Rin did very well, though he could see the growing anxiety in her face the longer this went on, her faltering confidence. When the panelists had no more questions for her, Jiang instructed Rin to step out of the room.

Nezha stood, uncertain if he wanted to stay to hear Rin’s final marks, or to exit now to avoid being ambushed.

That moment of indecision cost him. “We’re going out for dinner to celebrate,” Venka said, catching him by the arm before he could leave through the back door.

Nezha removed his arm off her grasp with no real force. “Okay.” He kept his voice level. “You guys have fun.”

Venka frowned at him. “I meant the four of us.”

“I’m not feeling well, actually.”

The corners of Venka’s mouth turned down. “Are you really still mad at us about Machermas?”

“I’m not mad, meimei.” Nezha sighed, realizing he meant it. “I really am just tired.”

“Please take your seats.” Dr. Yim announced, interrupting their conversation. Rin had been herded back in to the center of the dais, pale and stiff with terror. 

“After extensive discussion amongst the panel and your advisor,” the professor said in his slow, gravelly voice, “I am pleased to inform you that we have awarded you a grade of 98 for the written component, and 95 for the oral component, with an average of 96.5, equivalent to a grade of 4.0.” Dr. Yim gave Rin a warm smile. “Congratulations on passing your undergraduate thesis With Distinction, Ms. Fang.”

Passing a thesis With Distinction was a rare honor, which approximately only two percent of Sinegard’s graduating class yearly managed to achieve. Venka gasped beside Nezha, squealing. Kitay and the handful of Anthropology majors who’d come to watch stood, whooping and applauding. 

Rin’s hands were shaking over her mouth. Her eyes brimmed as she approached her panelists, thanking them profusely and shaking her hands. Snippets of the professors’ praise wafted up the auditorium: ‘This is an invaluable contribution to the field of Nikara Anthropology,’ ‘There are a few minor revisions I’ve written in my copy, but I am certain many high-impact journals will be interested in publishing your work,’ ‘Congratulations, Dr. Jiang. And Ms. Fang: I hope you consider continuing your graduate studies with us at Sinegard. This is the best place for you if you wish to be at the forefront of Speerly studies, and I’ve no doubt the university will want to keep talent like yourself with us and award you full aid.’

The words and the sight of Rin so happy made Nezha’s heart squeeze with longing.

He’d been so consumed with anger that he hadn’t realized in the same measure he thought Rin was holding him back, he too had been holding her back. And hadn’t she tried to tell him that? That it would be better for her to stay? But he’d been so absorbed in his own goals, the duty he had to fulfill, to see that. 

Nezha’s vision blurred; the air in the auditorium seemed to thin. 

How would they ever survive this severance? What if their most self-actualized versions—the ones they’ve fought so long to reach, were fundamentally incompatible? What if this was all this was meant to be in the end: a pit stop, a leg in each other’s journeys, and nothing more? What if conceding to the other’s vision of the future would either be the death knell of love, or the highest form of betrayal against their own selves?

A familiar, sweet voice broke through the noise and agony of his thoughts: “Nezha?”

He startled. Rin’s head was inclined up at him, a beautiful flower looking to the sun. 

“Our professors would like a word with you.” At her side, her arm was raised slightly, offering a hand. “Will you come?”

Rin looked so lovely then: so incandescently happy and hopeful, so tender, that in that moment Nezha wouldn’t have been able to deny her anything.

“Mr. Yin, please extend our gratitude to your sister for allowing Ms. Fang access,” Dr. Yim said when Nezha arrived before them, shaking his hand. “I’ve heard rumblings about valuable antiquities held by the estate of the Dragon Marshal. Important scholarship such as this is made possible by the generosity of benefactors such as your family.”

“Please, sir. I did nothing at all.” Nezha didn’t dare look at Rin, embarrassed he was getting any credit at all. The pressure of her gaze was like a hot brand on his skin. “This was all Rin’s work. I don’t believe our archivists know yet the full academic value of the antiquities and documents we have; it’s because of her that they’ve decided to reappraise our collection at all.”

Rin slipped her hand into his. Nezha stiffened.

“He’s been a lot of help,” she said softly, linking their fingers together. Despite everything, the simple touch felt like coming up for air after a long, helpless drowning. “I wouldn’t have been able to do any of this without him.”

He could hardly breathe. He chanced a look at Rin, who was gazing up at him with naked, tender yearning.

You don’t feel any goddamn self worth when you’re not needed by anyone. If you think I will be satisfied having my entire world revolve around you, then you really don’t know the first thing about me.

Nezha pulled away, swallowing down a swell of self-hatred.

“I hope you consider discussing with your family opening up your private collection to scholarship,” the female panelist said. “If Ms. Fang continues her graduate studies with us at Sinegard, your estate can rest assured your antiquities are in good hands.”

He forced a painful smile. “I’ll be sure to put a word in, ma’am.”

When the professors left, Jiang squeezing Rin’s shoulder and winking cheekily, Venka and Kitay bounded toward them.

“Well done, you,” Kitay yelled, lifting Rin off the ground and twirling her. “With Distinction!” Then she accepted a tight hug from Venka, stumbling over her words in her excitement.

“Now come on. Our dinner reservation’s at six,” Venka said briskly, already starting towards the door. “I got us a table for five; you don’t mind if Niang joins us, do you, Rin?”

“Go ahead.” Nezha stumbled back. “The four of you have a good time.”

Venka pouted. “Nezha, come on. You have to come with us.”

He avoided their eyes. “I have a migraine, like I said.”

Rin approached him, hand suspended in mid-air as if to touch him, but in the last moment she hesitated. “Are you okay, Nezha?”

“Yeah. Fine.” The gentleness in her voice was too much.

“Nezha, please. Can we put this aside just for one night, for Rin’s sake?” Kitay asked exasperatedly at the same time Rin said: “Sorry, Venka. We can reschedule, or the three of you go ahead. I think I’ll just take Nezha home.”

“There’s no need,” Nezha says before Venka could open her mouth to speak. “It’s your celebration. You shouldn’t miss it on my account.” 

He gave Rin a last, wan smile, looking away from the naked hurt rippling through her lovely face.

“Congratulations,” he mumbled, turning away to leave.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

An hour later, he heard the door to his apartment open.

Nezha flicked off his bedside lamp, pulling the duvet up to his shoulders. A soft puttering in the living area, approaching his door. Then three hesitant knocks, a small voice:

“Nezha?” It was Rin. “Are you awake? Can I come in?”

He closed his eyes. Said nothing.

A stream of light shone briefly at the corners of his vision, disappearing with a soft click. Rin padded over to the bed, which sank from her weight behind his back.

“Hey.” She put a small, tentative hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay? How are you feeling?” 

Her voice, her touch made Nezha sick with longing. He focused on keeping his breaths even.

“Have you taken something for it already? I can run and get your prescription refilled.” She brushed the hair from his eyes. Nezha hated himself for being comforted by it.

When he didn’t respond, Rin shifted to lie beside him with a long sigh, pressing up against his back. Her skinny arms encircled his waist, and she perched her chin on his shoulder, hot breaths skimming his ear.

“Nezha, baby. Talk to me, please.” Rin pressed her mouth to the skin behind his ear: long, lingering. The caress set every last nerve ending on fire. “I missed you so, so much.”

Oh god, he thought, chin quivering. Fuck me. 

He wasn’t strong enough for this.

“Did Machermas go okay with your parents and siblings?” Rin slipped her legs between his, arms hooking under and over his shoulder. And oh, Nezha wanted nothing more than to melt into her touch, to give in fully to her, like clay in a potter’s hands. “I wish you’d come. I mean. It was okay, we had a nice time, but. . .” He hears her swallow thickly, before dropping another kiss onto his skin. “Oh, baby. It just wasn’t the same without you.”

He’s had enough.

A low moan of pain escaped the back of his throat. Nezha trembled and began to cry.

Rin’s arms tightened. 

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered hoarsely, pressing her face to his shoulder blade. “I fucked up, Nezha, I know I shouldn’t have—”

Nezha tried to shove her away. Rin wouldn’t let go. This turned into a whole scuffle, and he might’ve laughed at how ridiculous this was if he weren’t sobbing his heart out like that child of ten, utterly miserable.

“Sha zhu, please. Don’t do this,” Rin begged.

“You’re supposed to be out celebrating with your friends.” 

“I don’t want to. Not if you’re not there.”

Rin’s placating tone only infuriated him. Nezha barked out a harsh laugh. “Please. You’ve made it abundantly clear that I’m nothing to you.”

“That’s not true,” she insisted, clinging onto him harder. “Nezha, please. I know I said a lot of awful things, I know I hit you and hurt you and I shouldn’t have. I never meant to do any of it, I swear, I was just—”

Rin’s voice broke.

“You said you wouldn’t leave,” she sobbed, so softly he almost missed it. She pressed her face to his shirt, soaking it with tears. “You said. . . you said you loved your life with me. And yet all this time, you were quietly planning an exit.”

His eyes burned, heart squeezing painfully at the wretchedness of her voice. 

“Leave you? When have I ever given you the impression that I would leave you?” Nezha hissed against the fresh wave of tears. When he pulled away to sit up and face her, Rin didn’t fight him this time. “What the fuck do you think I suggested applying abroad for?”

Rin’s mouth quivered; she pulled her knees to her chest. Like this, she wasn’t the force of nature he’d always known her to be, the fierce human hurricane. 

It reminded Nezha that in the end, Rin was only just a girl: small and fallible and utterly, terribly human.

“I don’t think I can go with you,” Rin whispered. “Even if I wanted to.”

“What do you mean, you can’t?” Nezha spat. “Why?”

Her expression trembled. The silence stretched on between them, oppressive and unbearable.

“For fuck’s sake, Rin, if you really want us to fix this—” 

“I do. I do want to fix this, Nezha. I’m so sorry.”

He swiped at his tears with his fingers, sniffing.

“Apologize and grovel all you want,” he murmured lowly. “But if you don’t actually do anything—if you don’t pull your weight here—” Nezha swallowed back the knot in his throat. “I can’t be the only one who keeps fucking trying here, Rin.”

“You’re being really unfair.” Rin drew back, wounded. “I am trying. More than you know.”

“By giving ultimatums? By insulting me, by misconstruing my intentions and keeping things from me?” Nezha demanded. “And you have the gall to tell me I’m unfair. How the fuck do you expect me to know when you don’t tell me anything, Rin? Am I supposed to read your mind?”

Her face broke. She hung her head and cried silently, tears falling on her lap.

Nezha let out a long, exhausted breath, rubbing his head with a hand.

“I’m just trying to understand,” he said wretchedly. “Why is it so easy for you to confide in Kitay but not me? Do you not trust me?”

“I do.” She buried her face on her knees, sobbing harder now. “I do, Nezha. Gods, I want to tell you everything.”

His heart pinched at the sight of her like this. “So tell me.”

Rin trembled. “I can’t.”

Nezha let out a frustrated breath. 

Oh, but it was always doomed to the same routine; the same inescapable, cruel circles. 

And he was just so fucking tired.

“I can’t tell you, Nezha. Not now.” Rin swallowed, composing herself. Wiped her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “This isn’t something for you to worry about.”

He stared at her in disbelief. “If it concerns our future together, I think it is something for me to worry about.”

She shook her head vehemently. Shifted closer to him on the bed, and ventured to take his hands in hers. Nezha let her.

Finally, she conceded: “I’ll tell you on July 1st.”

Nezha blinked, momentarily confused. “What?”

“Meet me on July 1st. I’ll tell you everything then; everything you want to know.” Rin’s face pinched in pain. “We’ll even talk about Rachdale, if that’s still on the table.”

“What do you mean? Why wouldn’t it?” Nezha asked. A vague, new feeling crept into his stomach, everything else fleeing to make room for it: raw fear. “That’s Graduation day. What else is happening on July 1st?” And when Rin said nothing, only stared at him with wide, terrified eyes, he pressed, urgently: “Rin?”

Her hands tightened around his, breaths coming up quick and short. In this light, she looked so small and vulnerable and utterly lovely.

“Nezha. Qin’ai de ni.” Rin cupped his cheeks with small hands. “Do you trust me?”

Nezha favored this term of endearment because it was the closest approximation to the breadth and depth of love he felt whenever he looked at Rin. She used to make faces when he’d first started calling her that, saying it was ‘too fucking saccharine.’ He never imagined the day would come when he would hear those words from Rin’s mouth. Beloved. Nezha was Rin’s beloved.

It should have gratified him. But the tone she’d suddenly taken, the graveness in her face. . . dread pooled in Nezha’s stomach.

“Qin’ai,” he said hoarsely. “What’s going on?”

“Do you trust me?” Rin pressed. Her dark, watery gaze searched his. “Can you trust that I want this? That I’m doing everything I can to have this with you?” And when he hadn’t managed an immediate reply: “If you don’t, can you promise me that you’ll try?”

“What the fuck, Rin.” Nezha’s heart began racing. “You’re scaring me.”

She shook her head, giving him a wan, watery smile.

“Don’t be,” she whispered soothingly. She climbed onto Nezha’s lap, wrapping her arms around him and pulling his face to her shoulder. “There’s no reason to be afraid.”

“But—”

“Promise me, qin’ai.” Rin tilted his chin up and leaned in close. “Just give me time. I’m going to fix this.” She stroked the line of his jaw with a thumb, the touch making his stomach stir. Rin opened her mouth against the skin of Nezha’s jaw, the corner of his mouth; she drew his bottom lip in between her teeth, licking and sucking. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

Later Nezha would wonder if that had been a mistake. Later he’d regret honoring his promise not to tell Venka and Kitay, only too glad that for once, he was the person she’d trusted and confided in above everyone else. Later he would rage at having been played like a fiddle, of falling for her bald-faced lies.

But all of that would come later. Right now, Nezha put his arms around Rin and pulled her near. The wildness in his chest finally stilled at her embrace; the ice thawed from her warmth.

/

“Only our Senior Archivist or Head Curator can give permission to access our special collections.”

“But I was given permission,” Rin insists for what felt like the nth time in ten minutes. “By your Board member, Yin Nezha.”

The receptionist at the Dragon Province Maritime Museum gives Rin a droll look from behind the front counter. 

If things had gone Rin’s way, she would’ve liked to not have to take Nezha up on his offer. But of course, as her fucking luck would have it, Chaghan’s requesting naval records from the period of the Third Poppy War, when Zhanuan built their plants in Speer and the Imperial militia had shipped in materials and manpower from Arlong. 

So for what felt like the thousandth time in weeks, Rin swallowed her pride, texted Nezha to harass him to hold up his end of the bargain, and when he’d replied in the affirmative—rather tersely, to Rin’s fucking consternation, but she got what she wanted in the end so she’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth—took a bus straight here, bright eyed and early to take on the day’s tasks.

And now only this stout, middle-aged bundle of cat-eye glasses and bitchiness stood in Rin’s way.

“I understand, Ma’am, so either you have a letter from Mr. Yin or he calls us himself to give permission,” the receptionist replies shortly.

“So call him right now.”

“I can’t do that,” the receptionist protests.

An idea occurs to Rin—one so goddamn cringey and humiliating and entirely against every last principle she holds dear—and this was the Yins’ domain, where nepotism and connections ran the world. If there’s anything that’ll work, it’s probably this.

“Look. I hate to throw my weight around like this, but I’m Mr. Yin’s girlfriend.” Rin winces, then remembers to smother it back down with a fake smile. “And he’s the one who told me I can come here anytime to do research, so if you just confirm with him right now—”

The receptionist snorts.

Rin blinks when her shoulders start shaking in suppressed giggles.

“I’m sorry”—Rin’s voice comes out shrill—“is there something funny?”

The receptionist, wearing a nameplate labeled Zhang Jinmei and a corny yellow badge with a smiley and the words Ask me! I’m happy to help, looks up. 

Makes a show of trailing her eyes up and down Rin’s get-up—worn slacks and dirty sneakers and crumpled work shirt. Cheap plastic glasses. Her fraying backpack.

“Ha, good one.” Receptionist Jinmei’s mouth twists into a disgusted snarl. “Please leave.”

Rin stares at her.

Oh. 

Oh.

“Oh, I see what this is.” She crosses her arms, scowling. “You think I’m lying.”

“Oh? Did I say you were lying?” The receptionist’s tone is so shrill and so goddamn mocking it takes every last bit of Rin’s self-control not to throttle her. “I haven’t—”

“No. Fuck you. I know that look, I’ve been getting that goddamn look for years.” Rin leans forward against the marble counter to level a glare at this bitch. Who the fuck does she think she is? “You think there’s no fucking way Yin Nezha would date an ugly, mud-skinned, gold-digger like me when hotel heiresses and oil baronesses are throwing themselves at him. Don’t you?”

The bitch has the audacity to say blithely: “I said nothing of the sort.”

“I don’t care if you didn’t say it, I know you were thinking it!”

Her skin prickles with indignant anger. Rin knows better than to place her self-worth on her appearance and the opinions of stupid, judgmental cunts—and it’s not like she’s actually still dating Nezha, but for fuck’s sake, the bastard had been obsessed with her once upon a time. 

“Then this doesn’t have to be difficult,” the receptionist drawls, holding out her palms in a sanctimonious farce at generosity. “If you really are Mr. Yin’s girlfriend as you say, tell him to call us and confirm your request.”

They hold each other’s gazes in an absurd battle of nerves. 

“That is, if you even have his number”—the corners of the receptionist’s mouth quirks in smug satisfaction when Rin doesn’t immediately manage a reply—“or if he knows you at all.”

Oh, FUCK YOU.

“Yeah.” Rin brandishes her phone from her bag. “Yeah, you know what? I think I will.”

She swallows down the bile in her throat. Dials.

She doesn’t know if Nezha will pick up. Considering the terms at which they’d parted the last time she’d seen him, chances are slim to none.

But Rin’s going to be damned if she doesn’t at least try, casting the receptionist’s smug fucking face a glance. Seriously, what the fuck do these people get off on? It’s not as if this woman is Nezha’s relative, or friend, or even a serious romantic prospect—so what’s in it for her? The investment of random strangers in Rin’s humiliation is so fucking baffling it really should be studied.

Nezha doesn’t pick up.

The call drops. The receptionist’s smile is brighter than the sun.

“Well.” She clicks her tongue ironically. “I guess that’s that, no?”

Fuck.

“Must be in a meeting or something. I’ll try again.”

The receptionist doesn’t answer, only snaps her fingers in mid-air.

If Rin had an ingot for every time security tried to haul her off a museum Nezha either owned or was a board member of, she would have exactly two ingots—which isn’t a lot, but it’s fucking uncanny that it’s happened twice.

When she sees the dark figures of security in her periphery Rin makes a run for it, phone still ringing in her hand, but the guards were simply taller and faster, hands curling around her arms to drag her away.

“Let go of me, you bastards,” Rin yells, yanking her hands off in vain as they drag her to the doors.

“Just leave quietly and nobody has to get hurt,” one of the guards says gruffly.

They were halfway to the door when a voice cuts through their scuffling.

“Well, well, well.” Sanctimonious. Fucking arrogant. It issues from her phone, echoing in the cavernous museum lobby. “Look who we have here—”

Adrenaline and relief swells in Rin’s chest with a startling suddenness and violence. That’s really the only way to explain the words that come out of her stupid, filthy, thrice-damned mouth.

“Sha zhu, the Maritime Museum’s kicking me out because they don’t believe you’d date someone as ugly and as poor as I am.”

She snaps her jaw closed. Oh, gods. 

No.

No.

“Rin.” Nezha sounds like he’d stopped breathing. “What did you just call me?”

Hot. Rin feels so hot. So hot she could spontaneously combust or melt into a puddle and be absorbed by the earth, which frankly would be better than remaining here, than facing up to what she’d just done—

“I have you on speakerphone,” she stammers. Tosses her phone on the counter as if it had been touched by the plague. “With your receptionist, a Ms. Zhang Jinmei.”

Rin doesn’t register what they’re discussing, only that the receptionist’s face has paled in horror upon recognizing the voice on the other side of the line. “I said no such thing, Mr. Yin!” She cries. 

But Rin doesn’t give a shit. Couldn’t even derive any small modicum of satisfaction from having proven a cruel, judgmental bitch wrong.

She’d fucking done it. She said the forbidden words. 

Sha zhu. Silly pig, in the Southern Nikara vernacular. 

Rin hardly even called him that when they were dating. The only reason why she ever let Nezha use pet names at all was because she’d simply given up trying to make him stop. Even Kitay and Venka didn’t know, it was only ever used in private. It had been borne out of a drunken Friday evening in Nezha’s apartment: autumn, fourth year, nine or ten o’clock, unwinding from the week. (“I just don’t get why you wouldn’t fucking call me baby”—Nezha the sad drunk, half of his body hanging from the couch, bottle of beer swaying precariously a few inches above his carpet—“What are we, Rin? Just roommates? You refuse to fucking tell me you love me, give me something here, you bitch.” Crawling on top of him, smiling down at his beautiful, sleepy face. Tracing the scars on his cheek with the backs of her fingers. “Are you seriously pressed about that? Stupid baby. Silly pig.” “Silly pig?” “Yeah, silly pig. I’ll call you that because that’s what you are.” “I hate you. You’re the fucking worst.” “Oh”—buttons popped open, belt unbuckled, a warm hand slipping beneath the garter, his low groan, stroking his cock before taking it into the wet heat of her mouth—“am I now, sha zhu?”)

“Call Mr. Wu and Ms. Chu to come down,” Rin distantly hears Nezha say on speakerphone. “I’ll meet you all in the lobby in five minutes.”

“Mr. Yin, please,” Ms. Zhang whimpers at the same time Rin asks shrilly: “What do you mean you’ll be here in five minutes?” 

“You have impeccable timing. I’d just finished a breakfast meeting in the area.”

Rin’s heart stops. “You can’t come—Nezha—” 

The call drops.

Oh. Oh, Maker in fucking hell. This is too much. Way too much humiliation and torment over a fucking job that barely even pays minimum wage.

“What have you done, Jinmei?” A shrill voice hisses across the lobby. Harried footsteps on marble floors. “Don’t you know the Yins are our biggest benefactors? Would it have killed you to double check? For such an old gossip how do you not know Mr. Yin’s engaged to a Sinegard-trained historian—?”

“I am so, so sorry for this oversight, Dr. Fang,” a man in a smart suit says anxiously, bowing lowly before Rin. “It seems a staff from the Arlong Memorial has called our archivist after all—”

“If your goddamn receptionist hadn’t been such a judgmental asshole none of us would be here,” Rin hisses.

Too soon, a familiar silver car pulls up the driveway.

The staff hurry to stand in two lines on each side of the door as Nezha enters, lowering themselves into perfect, 90-degree bows. Rin stumbles after them, dazed and light-headed. 

Nezha doesn’t pay any of them heed, instead cutting a straight path towards her. 

His beautiful face crumples with an inscrutable look, and he places large, firm hands on her shoulders; Rin’s body wilts at the touch.

“What have they done to you?” He asks lowly.

Rin opens her mouth; no sound comes out. Her heart’s racing faster than a hummingbird’s as she recoils, but Nezha’s grip only tightens. 

“I—” He’s looking at her so intensely, so expectantly, Rin can’t think straight. “I just—”

“Mr. Yin, I am very, very sorry about this.” It’s the man who had spoken to Rin. “There’s been a miscommunication regarding Dr. Fang’s permit, but I—”

“Miscommunication or not, that was no way to speak to my partner.” Rin’s head snaps up at the vitriol in Nezha’s voice. “If this is the kind of employees you have, my family and I might have to rethink about our continued support for this institution.”

“Sir, please. It doesn’t have to be this way. Jinmei is but one employee—she isn’t even a regular, only contractual, and we can easily terminate one rotten egg—”

“No! Please, Mr. Wu. Don’t do this,” the receptionist sobs. Suddenly she doesn’t look like a mean, catty woman out for Rin—only diminished and old and tired. “I’d only just started a month ago—” 

“Should have thought better of disparaging Mr. Yin’s guests, then,” Ms. Chu hisses, which only makes her crying worse.

“I didn’t know! Please, Dr. Fang, if I had known who you—”

“So it was alright to disrespect me if I wasn’t connected to Nezha?” Rin meant to be snide, but instead this comes out flat.

“I have two children and a sickly father,” the receptionist steamrollers on; either she didn’t hear Rin, or she’d tunnel-visioned into this singular goal of begging. “I’m the only one earning for our family, it’s taken me months to get this job; without it my entire family would grow hungry. Please, Dr. Fang, have pity on me, please.”

The weight of their combined gazes makes bile push up her throat. 

Why should this be up to her? Why does she get to decide on this stranger’s future, the way the next few months and years of her life will look like, all because they made a single terrible decision? Unbidden, it takes her back to those fraught days—Sinegard, spring. Dark paneled halls and maroon velvet robes. Echoes of a gavel. She knows what it’s like to have all the cards stacked against her; to have no other recourse but to beg no matter how it debasing it felt, because she has no power here. Because she never had any.

If she pays the cruelty forward, what does that make her?

Nezha grimaces. He gives Rin a long look, his hand drifting to the small of her back. 

“Let’s go,” he says softly. “This isn’t for you to deal with.”

She pries herself from Nezha’s touch. “Don’t let them fire her.”

He looks puzzled. “But—”

“I mean it.” Rin avoids Ms. Zhang’s eyes. “The job market is shit right now, she probably doesn’t even get paid much to start with. So don’t. . .” She shakes her head. “Not on my account, Nezha. Please. It’s not worth it.”

Nezha gives her a long look, lovely eyes flitting over her face as if trying to understand. But he won’t understand, because he doesn’t know anything. What it’s like.

“Alright,” he acquiesced. To the staff: “Reprimand her, retrain her, I don’t care, but don’t terminate her. Believe me, I’ll know if you do.”

“Thank you, Mr. Yin,” the receptionist cries, bowing with the rest of the staff.

“Don’t thank me,” Nezha says harshly. “I wouldn’t have been quite as generous as Rin has been.”

The receptionist takes Rin’s hand in hers, face is flushed with relief. “I won’t forget your kindness and mercy, Dr. Fang. I’ll do better, I swear it—”

She draws her hand away, entirely discomfited.

“I know I don’t have Mr. Yin’s status and money,” Rin says, finally looking the terrified woman in the eye. “But that doesn’t make me your enemy, Ms. Zhang.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

When the elevator doors close in front of them, Nezha leads with:

“So. Sha zhu.” His eyes are trained on the elevator monitor, tone carefully casual. “Haven’t heard that one in a while.”

“Fuck off. It just slipped, okay?” Rin’s face grows hot. “Your fucking bouncers were hauling me out the goddamn lobby.”

Nezha’s expression is inscrutable. “You really should’ve just let them fire her.”

“Over a fucking ruse? It wasn’t worth losing her job over.” 

“Ruse or not, she’s a receptionist.” Nezha says this with so much casual condescension that a startling wave of irritation rises to Rin’s throat. “She has one job: be friendly and welcoming to all guests, and she failed. You don’t think doing a hack job warrants termination?”

Rin’s not in the mood to explain her thought process here. “Not on the first strike. You always make allowances for mistakes.”

Nezha snorts. “‘Make allowances for mistakes.’ Tiger’s tits. Who are you and what have you done to Fang Runin?”

“She became a cog in the wheel owned by people like you and Guo Yuxin,” she says drily. “That’s what happened.”

The elevator doors slide open. Rin power-walks past Nezha.

“Archives are this way,” he calls out behind her when she’s already made it halfway down the wrong hall.

For fuck’s sake. Rin pivots on her heel and glares. 

“You couldn’t have said that ten seconds ago?” She spits out when she passes him.

Nezha grins. “If you weren’t being such a bitch to the guy who saved your ass—”

Rin barks out a laugh. “Who the fuck do you think you are, the goddamn avenger of Arlong? You’re just a rich tyrant throwing your weight around, Nezha. World of difference there.”

Nezha ignores the jab. “And what is your deal with Yuxin? I hadn’t even been thinking of her but she lives in your head rent-free.”

For some reason a knot she hadn’t even known was there loosens in Rin’s chest. “I was just rattling off shining beacons of capitalistic greed.” 

“Being a businessman doesn’t automatically make one a greedy capitalist—”

“Oh, don’t start with that. There’s no such thing as an ethical billionaire.”

Nezha’s lip curls. “Just admit that you’re jealous.”

Irritation flares in Rin’s chest. “And why the fuck would I be jealous?”

“Why, indeed,” Nezha drawls, “would you be jealous of a woman who’s friends with someone you’d—?”

She shoves him before he could finish that sentence, hard. “Fuck off, Yin Nezha.“

“Oh, I’ll fuck off, alright”—he inclines his chin towards the archives—“but good luck getting inside.”

Before he could move Rin digs her nails into the pale skin of his forearm.

“Ow! That hurts, you bitch!”

“You owe me this, jackass,” she grits out, breathless from the effort of tugging at Nezha’s hundred-something pounds of pale symmetry and pure muscle. “You said you were gonna get me in if I chaperoned you to your infernal lunch date.”

“Hey, we’re fucking square on that one. I paid for that lunch—”

“No, you didn’t. Guo Yuxin—”

“Sweetheart, I wire transferred the payment, so we were square.” His lip curls. He plants his feet, and no matter how hard she tugs Nezha remains frustratingly immobile. “And now you owe me again.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart, you shit.” She tries to stomp on Nezha’s foot, but he senses her intentions a second too soon and steps back fluidly. “I’ll buy your stupid ass lunch, and that’s that.”

Nezha’s expression is incredulous. “After you made a scene in the lobby, I’m only getting lunch?”

“Be thankful you’re getting anything at all. Now get me in, or I’ll tell your dearest mother and father that you’ve lied to them for years.“

He lets out a surprised, supercilious laugh. “Oh, wow. Ratting me out to my parents. I’m terrified.”

But that’s just a bluff, Rin thinks with a grin, baring teeth. Nezha would’ve never come here and held up his end of the bargain if there isn’t anything in it for him. “Trust me, I know you are.” Rin affects her best confident voice, like she’s playing a game of Poker and she holds a winning hand. “And I swear on the god of hell I’ll do it.”

Nezha’s expression soured. 

“You’re not gonna try anything funny,” he says softly. “Not until your infernal fucking project is over.”

“Yeah? Try me.” Rin crosses her arms. “I wonder who between us has more to lose.”

They hold each other’s nasty glares, battling off wills for a long minute. 

Nezha, predictably, is the first to break. 

“Just get in there, you bitch,” he snarls, grabbing her arm and shoving her towards the door.

The staff in the counter welcomes Rin and Nezha with profuse apologies over the confusion at the lobby, attributing the mess to an email to security slipping through the cracks over the weekend, briskly showing them to a private study room. 

“I set the room aside for you all day, Dr. Fang,” the archivist says placatingly as she leads them past long mahogany shelves to the Microform room. The Naval Museum’s archives were older than that of the Arlong Memorial’s, with a significantly smaller collection. “The documents you requested are already on the table; I’ll be at the front desk should you have any questions until 5 o’ clock.”

“Thanks but, I won’t be long,” Rin tells her, “only an hour or two.”

She inclines her head. “My pleasure, Mr. Yin, Dr. Fang, and sorry about the confusion earlier again.”

“Don’t let it happen a second time,” Nezha says shortly.

The archivist inclines her head and closes the door quietly, leaving them alone. Rin rolls her eyes.

“What a fucking asshole,” she not-mutters, intending for him to hear.

Nezha glares at her. “Just get to work.”

He pulls the chair across hers and picks up one of the volumes on the table at random, perusing it with a very put-on interest.

Rin stares in disbelief from the top of her shitty work laptop.

“Excuse me?” She taps her fingers on the table when he makes no indication of noticing her. She inclined her chin at the volume. “I need that.” 

Nezha hands over the fabric-bound volume lackadaisically, picking up another one to read. He finally seems to realize she’s scowling at him, because his head snaps up to glare at her. “What?”

“What?”

“The fuck are you staring at?”

“Get the fuck out of here, I’m trying to work.”

Nezha scowls. “I haven’t even done anything—”

“Yeah, no, you’re breathing in my fucking direction. Go. Away.”

“And let you off the hook that easily?” Nezha makes a show of reading the volume in his hand; he handles it correctly, too, gently flipping from the top corner of the page, which Rin had no doubt he’d picked up from watching her handle historical documents in uni. Fucking prick. “I’m not leaving until I cash in on this deal.”

“Just send me the bill.” She’s so close to bashing his head on the wall. Why the fuck is he being so goddamn stupid? “Did you really think I was going to have lunch with you?”

Nezha’s lip curls. 

“Why not?” He arches a brow. “Am I making you uncomfortable, Rin?”

She flinches.

They’d been skirting the old fact of their relationship since their paths have first recrossed at the museum. Rin’s not going to deny her part in it; it’s not as if she wants to be confronted by the past, its complicated entanglements and painful memories. But this limbo is growing more intolerable by the day, this infernal game of chicken she and Nezha have fallen into. Bracing for when one of them breaks its unspoken terms.

She crosses her arms. “Why would you?”

Nezha bares teeth. “Why, indeed.”

To speak of it, to even allude to it, is to be on the offense. And Rin would much rather be the one causing pain and inflicting blows, than be on the sharp end of Nezha’s blade.

“Come on, Rin. It’s just lunch. It’s just me.” Nezha leans back, drumming his fingers on the wood the way he knew grated on her. He looks so smug and pleased with himself it takes everything in her not to punch him. “Nothing for you to be afraid of.”

She huffs out a laugh. 

“Fuck’s sake, Nezha. You think I’m afraid of you?” A spell of vertigo slams into her; Rin grits her teeth, as if that’s enough to keep it at bay. “Maybe you’re the one who’s afraid.”

“Oh, I’m not.” His voice has grown soft. Dangerous. “I’m not the one who did anything to you.”

They glare at each other across the table.

So he wants to play this game? Fine. Fine.

“Don’t tell me you’re still hung up on me after all this time.” Rin imbues her voice with more cruelty than she feels. “I’d have thought you had better things to do than mope over your teenage dalliances.” She snorts, leveling Nezha with a droll look. “Because I certainly had.”

Which is, admittedly, a shot in the dark. Nezha taking the bait is contingent on many things beyond her control: maybe he really is still hung up on her (doubtful, considering his abhorrent behavior), or because he’s counting on the fact that Rin will fold first. Rookie mistake. He forgets who he’s talking to.

“If you’re still holding out hope that I’d do any of this again”—she gestures vaguely at Nezha with a hand—“don’t hold your breath. I’m not interested in do-overs.”

His face pales, twisting into an ugly sneer. Hook, line, and sinker.

“And you thought I’d want a do-over of the worst years of my life? Don’t be delusional,” Nezha snarls. 

Rin crosses her arms, stunned by his cruelty.

“I’d long killed the bastard who’d been a fool for you.” Nezha says this with such violence she has to smother a flinch. “So don’t you fuck with me, Fang Runin.”

The silence that befalls them is acute. Rin’s head is swimming, and her chest tightens with anger and humiliation.

“Awful lot of bullshit over a non-issue,” she mutters darkly. “All you wanted was lunch, wasn’t it?” Absurdly, this is all she could think to say. “Fine. Let’s have lunch.”

Nezha’s expression is inscrutable. She half-expects him to snap, to tell her where to shove it, that it takes her a moment to comprehend when he answers: “Fine.”

“Which I’m doing because I’m an adult,” Rin doubles down, quashing down the wave of fury pushing up her throat. And beneath that: the strange, irrational hurt. “I can keep my word and be civil, or whatever.”

Nezha snorts. “Or whatever.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Being civil with an ex, Rin’s learning, means awkward silences.

A shit ton of awkward, uncomfortable silences. Ones where she would rather burn herself alive, ram her head into a spike, or stab herself in the chest. 

But to admit discomfort is to cede defeat, and Rin would rather die than give Nezha any reason to think he could affect her, because she isn’t affected. She’s not.

She has, at least, the pretense of work to preoccupy her—although Nezha’s words keep replaying in her brain, even as she tries to shove them down.

I’d long killed the bastard who’d been a fool for you.

You thought I’d want a do-over of the worst years of my life?

The worst years? If she isn’t trying to appear nonchalant about any of this, Rin would’ve already kicked him, tossed him into a furnace, or punched the living daylights out of Nezha for those words alone. Imagine that being the worst experience of your godsdamned life. This bastard’s had it far too easy.

She’s not insulted by the insinuation that she was the worst thing to have happened to him. That’s not what this was. 

Whenever Rin looked back—hardly ever, she doesn’t make a habit of indulging in nostalgia—Sinegard, that harsh, intimidating place, those five years, remained a shining beacon of light in her memory. Perhaps being there hadn’t been all that great or rare for Nezha and Venka and even Kitay after all, only a natural progression in the lives they’d been living—but the city saved Rin. Or, at least, for a time. Who knows how much worse things would’ve been if not for the Keju and Schols? But more than that: it had allowed her a glimpse behind the curtain. It had promised her that even poor, orphaned shopgirls from backwater towns in the South had a chance. That she could have it all, if only she was willing to pay in blood, sweat, and tears: a future, a place, a name for herself. A family in her friends, the people she loved most in the world. That it was possible for someone like her to belong somewhere. To belong with someone.

Sinegard had been a spell, a terribly beautiful sleight of hand that had given her five years of reprieve in what otherwise would’ve been an entirely bleak existence, before the illusion inevitably broke. 

She’d been so fucking stupid.

The air in the microform room grows thin. Rin unbuttons her collar, blinking away at the pain in her eyes.

Nostalgia is a drug, she reminds herself, quashing down her somber thoughts. Swallows thickly. This is why Rin doesn’t fuck with Sinegard, or that summer five years ago, with a ten-foot pole. It had all been a lie. There’s no going back. 

You know you never want to go back.

“Are you still not done?”

Rin looks up. 

Nezha’s casually perusing the business section of a broadsheet he’d fetched from the front desk, leaning back in a way that accentuated the elegant, patrician lines of his body.

A muscle in her jaw twitches. “Do I look like I’m done?”

He doesn’t look up from his newspaper. “You’ve been staring at the same page for fifteen minutes now, and your stomach’s so loud.”

Her hands fly to her stomach instinctively. “Fuck off. It’s not.”

Nezha suddenly closes his broadsheet with a loud flapping noise, like the sound of birds taking flight. “What are you looking for? Give that to me.”

“Don’t touch that.” She swats his hand when he reaches for one of the export logs she’d been reviewing off Arlong’s historical port. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I know my way around this archive. I used to read the old naval reports and deck logs for fun,” Nezha insists.

Rin knows this. He’d only told her a thousand times when they’d been dating. “I don’t need your help. I’m almost done.”

Nezha, that inconsiderate nightmare of a person, pays her no heed. He rounds the table to stand behind her, bracing himself on the table with the heel of his palm.

“What kind of case requires looking into decades-old shipping logs anyway?” He muses aloud into her ear.

Rin nearly jumps out of her skin. “For fuck’s sake, Nezha.”

He leans in, bringing his face precariously close to hers as he reads off her monitor. Rin holds her breath. Unbidden, a wave of comfort washes into her chest in from his old, familiar heat, emanating into her personal space; the tendrils of that salty, aquatic perfume.

“Zhanuan Industries,” he murmurs. “Where have I heard that name before?”

Rin quashes it. She shuts her laptop closed. “That’s none of your fucking business.”

“Is your client suing Zhanuan?” Nezha asks incredulously. “Does Muzha know about this?”

Rin glares at him. “Nobody’s suing anyone. And for your information, I gave your sister a proposal detailing the research I’m doing, what purpose it’ll serve.”

Nezha snorts. “Have you seen Muzha? She’s too preoccupied finding an alternative supplier for peonies and anemones—”

“Peonies and the fucking what—?”

“—because her florist’s farm had a ‘bad yield’ this year, or whatever the fuck that means. She hadn’t read a single line of your proposal, I assure you.”

“Well, Sola and Salkhi had the sense to run it by legal, so quit your hand-wringing and let me do my fucking job in peace.” Rin doesn’t know that actually, but it doesn’t matter. Surely someone from the Arlong Memorial’s staff would’ve already said something if her project was objectionable to them.

If Nezha meant to interrogate her more about her project, he thinks better of it. He turns, so that he’s now leaning back on the table, looking down at Rin.

“So, this job.” He braces his palms behind him on the wood. “Are you directorial level or what?”

Rin snorts. “I fucking wish.” She doesn’t say their firm isn’t big enough for any of that mumbo jumbo—and even if it were, Gurubai and Souji would never be so generous as to promote her. “You really think they would’ve tossed my ass to Arlong if I were?”

Nezha arches a brow. 

“I’m not complimenting you, so don’t take it as one”—which earns him a dirty look from Rin as she starts keeping away her things—“but if your little Ruijin startup hasn’t made you director or CEO at this point your Sinegard education’s wasted on them. How many years have you been working for this company?”

“About four.”

He opens his mouth, hesitating. 

“You didn’t end up getting your Masters?”

“I had responsibilities, Nezha.”

He looks like he wants to ask more, but on the last moment thinks better of it and says smoothly: “It pays well, I hope.”

Her head snaps up to glare at him. “Does it look like my job pays well?” 

Nezha blinks. His eyes flicker over her bag and shoes, her jeans, the phone in her hand. Funnily enough, all things she’s owned since her days at Sinegard. She realizes that to Nezha she must look almost exactly as she did before, using the same worn things he’d begged for years to replace.

Some rots, Rin supposes, are simply unresectable.

Or, an alternative metaphor:

After dispensing with everything else, these are what remain: Mud-skinned. Foster kid. Former shopgirl and drug mule from the South. Almost a child bride. Things that define her, things Rin cannot escape, no matter how fast and hard she hits the ground running—and oh, hadn’t she tried? To better herself, to rise above her circumstances? To not be so worthless, irrevocably defiled by the filth in her past?

Her throat spasms. A wave of humiliation swells in her chest.

“You’re a Sinegardian, Rin. A Foundation Scholar,” Nezha says slowly, looking genuinely bewildered. “Top of our cohort, in fact. You know who else was top of their cohorts? Doctors Jian Yun and Wu Yueli, Holm Laureates for Physiology. Former Nikara President Huang Jiarong. The philantrophist Yang Tianming—”

“So you’re saying I completely failed to live up to my potential.” She meant to sound harsh, but instead her voice comes out warbled. Wretched. Rin blinks wildly against the pain in her eyes. “That topping the Schols had been wasted on me, that’s what you’re saying.”

“Rin, I wasn’t. . .” Nezha’s mouth works, eyes darting over her face. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

But she can’t hear him over the rush of blood in her ears, or think, not with the way he’s looking at her. She could take anything Nezha doles out—his disdain and hatred and cruelty—but not this. 

Not his pity. Never his pity.

“I’m going to tell you something.” Rin zips up her bag; carefully, so as not to yank too hard lest its frays start widening. “Nobody cares about Sinegard and the Schols in the real world. And I’m not talking about your boardrooms or academic conferences or entry-level managerial positions in daddy or uncle’s company. I mean the world the rest of us lives in, Nezha. The one with a housing crisis and predatory loans and jobs that don’t pay a liveable wage, where even breathing is prohibitively expensive. The dog eat dog world. The people suffer meaninglessly every day world.

“I was a Schol. Top of our cohort, yes. But I’m not pale-skinned. I don’t have money, I don’t know the right people, I’m not a Sring or a Chen or a Yin, I don’t have a foot in the door.” She crosses her arms, blinking up at him. Haply Rin wonders why she’s even telling him any of this when she very well knows Nezha would never understand. “Do you really think Sinegard has prepared me for any that?” 

A spasm of discomfort and vague guilt passes through Nezha’s face. Rin slings the bag over her shoulder, heading for the door. “If anything, it’s only made everything so much worse.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

“Oh, you condescending bastard—”

“What the hell is your problem this time?”

“You think I’m too poor to buy you a proper lunch?”

“Who was the one who went off about their job not paying well?”

Rin stomps on his foot. Nezha yelps. 

“You and your goddamn stomping—!”

“You could’ve picked something you would actually eat,” Rin snaps, her face growing hot, probably from the humidity and the noonday sun high in the clear skies. “You don’t eat street food.”

After traversing the highways adjoining the sprawling, manicured plazas of Arlong’s cultural complex, Nezha’s convertible crossed into a busier quarter of the city. Its smaller roads connected a grid of reconstruction-era Brutalist buildings, which were vestiges from the time when the country had been under Hesperian occupation, and the seat of the Dragon Marshal had been the capital of the new Nikara Republic. 

Nezha closed the top roof as they sat in traffic (“Lots of muggers this side of town,” he’d said), and the car crawled amidst heavy foot traffic and motorcycles—not unlike the streets of Ruijin or even downtown Sinegard—until finally at half past one they pulled to a stop in the parking lot of a large, open-air complex. As soon as Rin stepped out of the car, she was slammed with the heady, distinctly Nikara fragrance of spice, oil, charcoal smoke, and sweat; the drawl of hundreds of people speaking over each other, amid hawkers advertising their fare in melodic shouts; and bright, flashing signages above just as many stalls, with photos of every kind of food item imaginable, from pig’s blood congee and cheese-filled jianbing, to stinky tofu and chicken egg waffles.

“And why do you remember that?” Nezha’s lip curls in amusement. “Thought about me and those days often, haven’t you, Rin?”

She attempts to stomp on his other foot, but Nezha jumps away.

“Ah, Runin. Beating the same dead horse isn’t gonna work.” Nezha laughs, hopping lightly backwards as Rin tries to catch his expensive leather shoes, like this were some infernal variant of whack-a-mole. “You’re getting predictable and lazy.”

“Don’t fucking call me that. And I never thought about you, asshole”—Rin pants from the exertion, as Nezha returns her glare with a childish, victorious grin—“anyone who’s met you five seconds ago would be able to tell you’re too bougie for this shit—”

“Watch it!”

Nezha yanks her suddenly by the wrist, and Rin topples gracelessly into his chest. Blood rushes into her ears as she’s assaulted by that sparkling scent of lemons and the sea; that familiar heat and solidity. She cranes her head. The elegant, pale lines of Nezha’s neck are the same; the strong jaw and thick, pretty lashes, his fine nose.

His pink, soft lips, which now mumble: “Fucking assholes.” Nezha cast one last dirty glare at the cyclists that had nearly rammed into her, before averting his gaze down. “Hey, you alright?”

Rin gapes at him, head swimming. Her heart is beating in her ears, making it impossible to think, and they’re standing so close together the heat of his breaths are fanning her mouth—and oh, how familiar this was, she thinks haply, how old. Her body begins to relax in his touch the way it has a thousand times before, before her mind could play catch up and think better of it—no. NO.

Not knowing how else to make it stop, Rin kicks him on the shin.

Nezha lets out a surprised grunt of pain. 

“What the hell was that for?” He yells.

“Don’t touch me,” she spits. Rin’s face is burning as she stumbles back. “And how’s that for unpredictable, jackass?”

He throws her a dirty, disbelieving look. “The next time a group of cyclists come for you, I’m leaving you to be steamrollered, you bitch.” 

“Go fuck yourself.” She shoves past him, walking away briskly to cool off the heat in her veins.

Together Rin and Nezha begin walking down the busy pedestrian street adjoining the hawker center. The street is packed with tourists and families on a Saturday, its roadside establishments already decked out with red paper lanterns for the Summer Festival, fluttering in the uncomfortably humid midsummer breeze.

“Arlong’s street food isn’t anything like the ones up north,” Nezha says suddenly, haughtily. They haven’t been walking five minutes and she already feels utterly disgusting, but there’s not a single drop of sweat in the bastard’s smooth, perfect brow. “Even the smallest youtiao carts require permits and are subject to random inspections; we’ve consistently ranked first in food and water safety among the Tier 1 cities in the country. That hawker center’s new, but Huinan Lane”—Nezha gestures at the road ahead of them—“is filled with old restaurants dating to the period between the Second and Third Poppy Wars. The recipes they use have been passed down through many generations.”

But of course. Even after everything has changed, after they’ve spent the last few hours sniping at each other, Nezha’s love for Arlong perseveres. Rin quashes the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth.

“Wanna know why Arlong’s old cultural institutions have survived the wars when so many in other cities haven’t?” She instead asks archly.

Nezha ignores her. “You’re in the cultural and culinary capital of Nikan, you have to eat as the locals do.” He turns suddenly, flashing her a large grin, and it’s so startling and unexpected it makes Rin’s heart skip a beat. “You still like steamed buns and noodles?”

“Well, well.” Rin’s lip curls. “Who’s been thinking about the past now?”

Nezha rolls his eyes, but Rin swears the tops of his cheeks grow pink. 

“That was the entirety of your diet in uni.” The noonday sun strikes the high points of his face and lashes like a halo, drawing out the flecks in his dark, lovely eyes. It’s not fair, she thinks. He doesn’t even have to try. “Come on. Don’t miss the best steamed buns in the country on your ex’s account.”

Rin scowls. She follows Nezha inside an old, bustling restaurant, not at all the place she expected: it was loud and sticky and chaotic and glaringly local, filled with multi-generational families seated around round tables; waiters pushing carts of bamboo steamers filled with all manner of dumplings; and in the distance, stacks of aquariums with live fish and crustaceans. Nezha leads them to a booth off the side, flagging down a waiter and rattling off orders as if he’d been here many times before.

“We’ll have two of the steamed pork buns, no coriander. One large beef rib noodles, one large chicken noodles, and a basket of the shrimp and chives jiaozi, please. Also a cold lime soda for the lady—”

Rin waves the waiter off. “I don’t do those anymore.”

Nezha arches a brow. He used to nag her endlessly for consuming too much caffeine and soda. “Health-conscious now, are we?”

“It’s a concept called change. Ever heard of that before?” Rin asks drily. She laces her fingers together, smirking. “But maybe not. You’re the kind of sentimental sap who remembers an ex’s order.”

Nezha arches a sculpted brow. “Oh, I didn’t choose those for you.” He casually pours himself a glass of water. “Those are just their best-sellers. See?”

He points out the door, where indeed the restaurant’s bright roadside signage reads Xiāngliào Shāngháng: Arlong’s Original Beef Rib Noodles and Steamed Pork Buns Since 1934.

“Okay,” Rin says blithely, cheeks growing hot. “If you say so.”

“Okay.” Nezha smirks, taking a sip of his glass.

She distracts herself by taking the pitcher, cold with condensation.

“I’d have thought a place like this wasn’t your family’s scene,” she says, eager to breeze over that spot of embarrassment.

“It’s not. It was Eriden and Minmin who used to take me.”

Rin hesitated. “Your old nanny?”

Nezha hums, expression growing wistful, but says nothing more. He used to talk about Eriden and Minmin with much fondness and familiarity—usually stories from his childhood about how they carted him off to different doctors and hospitals around the country, how they used to bribe him with things like dragon’s beard candy and tangyuan sold in carts, things the Yin children had been prohibited from eating, just to get him to stop crying. Nezha used to tell Rin these stories in an off-kilter way, like what had happened to him as a young boy hadn’t been awful and terrifying. His parents and siblings had been conspicuously absent from those stories.

“So.” Rin pours herself a glass to distract herself from how her chest tightened. “What’s the real reason you’re slumming it with me? Future wife’s busy cashing in on her 120 trillion dollar deal or what?”

Nezha chokes on his water, filling Rin with sadistic glee. “Excuse me?”

“Your betrothed. The oil baroness. Or did you not take her because she’s too bougie for even the ‘cleanest’ street food in the country?”

“First off, it’s a 1.2 trillion dollar deal, not 120. Second, I am not betrothed to Yuxin, or to anyone for that matter. Third”—Nezha cracked an amused, smug smile—“what is your deal with her?”

“Whatever. It’s an unfathomably large sum of money the likes of my filthy bloodline will never see in a thousand years, same principle. And you might not be betrothed just yet, but obviously your family wants you to be.” Rin states this as a matter of fact, completely detached, with no personal feelings about it whatsoever. “I know nothing about business and even I know marrying her will be a great boon to Azure Marine.”

“It’s cute that you’ve given this a lot of thought,” Nezha says patronizingly. “If I didn’t know you better, I’d almost think you were jealous.”

Rin glares at him. “Have you seen your nightmare of a family, Nezha? That’s what she’s marrying into. What’s there to be jealous of?”

The dim sum cart arrives, and the waiter places a couple of bamboo steamers on their table, removing the covers to release columns of fragrant, spice-laden steam, making Rin’s mouth water.

“I’ll admit they weren’t on their best behavior during the party, but they’re not always that bad.” Nezha helps himself to the dumplings, so Rin does the same.

“Not participating in small talk is not being on their best behavior. Bungling up the name of someone they’d just met was not being on their best behavior. Your relatives are simply assholes who think being below your tax bracket is a free pass to disrespect someone,” she says snidely.

Nezha puts the small platter of condiments in front of her, making no comment about that. “Try some with the chili oil.”

When Rin bites into the dumpling, a moist, scalding-hot burst of ground pork, shrimp, and chives flood inside her mouth. She groaned. “Oh. Fuck, that’s good. Needs more spice, though.”

“That’s already a lot of spice.”

“Nah, this is nothing.” Rin pops the rest of the dumpling happily into her mouth, her mood immediately improving. She hadn’t realized just how hungry she was. “Ruijinese cuisine uses a peppercorn native to the mountains. It numbs the tongue and makes it tingle. Kinda like what I imagine being electrocuted is like.”

Rin’s steadily making her way through her own dumpling basket, but Nezha’s taking his time—as he always had, he’s always been a fastidious eater—his expression thoughtful as he swallowed. She’s about to ask if he’s gonna eat the rest of his dumplings when he opens his mouth to speak. 

“Can I ask you a question?”

She stops short at the tone he’d suddenly taken with her. Dread coils in Rin’s stomach. “What.”

Nezha hesitates, but she sees the exact moment he decides fuck it. 

“Why Ruijin?”

Rin stops chewing.

“Oh. Um.” She swallows. The dumpling goes down her throat painfully. “I, uh. I like the countryside?”

Panic sets in as soon as the words leave her. I like the countryside? What the fuck is wrong with you?

Nezha scoffs. “No way. You’re a big city girl. You’d sooner jump off a cliff than go willingly into a field.”

Rin scowls at the man. She wants to say she lives in downtown Ruijin, which is heavily urbanized, thank you very much, but that would only contradict her previous statement. And it’s not as if she wants to give Nezha more information about her life than on a strict must-know basis. She wants to say she’s lived in Tikany. Now that is a proper countryside—but Rin had never wanted to get into Tikany with Nezha, and she sure as hell doesn’t want to now.

So she just says: “Maybe I’ve just grown tired of big city living.”

“And maybe I think you’re full of shit. You’re too acclimated to Sinegard to settle for the boondocks.”

Rin kicks his foot under the table. 

“The boondocks? Hey, for your information, Ruijin is a Tier 2 municipality, you prick.”

Nezha kicks back. “And provincial labor rates still aren’t as good as that of Sinegard or Khurdalain’s, or even Arlong.” He stares at her like he thinks she’s being stupid on purpose. “Never mind if you want to reprise the country bumpkin aesthetic, that’s just poor business sense. Did you not get offers elsewhere?”

“That’s none of your business, and that’s two questions, not one.”

“Can I ask another question then?”

“No. I get to ask my question first.” 

Nezha shrugs. “Fine. What is it?”

She blinks, stunned by his easy acquiescence. 

This is fine. This, Rin can handle.

If they make a game out of this, it mitigates the significance of what’s happening here: Bridging the gap of the last five years. Putting an end to questions they must’ve had all this time. With the exception of Kitay, Rin had cut out every last tie with her life back in Sinegard, and whether she likes it or not, Nezha had been an important chapter of that story. An entire book all on his own, if she’s being honest.

Yes. It’s only natural to wonder, Rin assures herself. Curiosity is perfectly reasonable, and it doesn’t have to mean anything. Nezha has questions; it’s not a moral failure if she has them, too.

“Do you not have anyone else you could’ve used for your cover story?” Absurdly, her heart jumps to her throat. And after a brief hesitation: “Other than me?”

Nezha chokes on his dumpling.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Rin says, oddly pleased.

He glares at her over his glass of water.

“I dated girls after you, if that’s what you’re asking.” Rin arches her brow. She doesn’t know what he sees in her expression, because he follows up with: “Don’t tell me you didn’t date anyone after me.”

Rin scoffs. “Of course I did.”

“Who? Someone from Ruijin?”

“That’s a question.”

“It’s already my turn.”

She scowls, realizing he’s right. 

“Yes.” Rin doesn’t bother elaborating.

“Can’t imagine he was much of an upgrade.”

Well, of course Souji wasn’t, but Souji would be a downgrade relative to a cigarette butt. In any case, Rin would much rather be gutted on the spot than admit to Nezha’s face she hasn’t had a decent boyfriend since, well. Since him. 

“Souji’s a perfectly respectable guy, thank you very much,” Rin lies primly.

“Oh, I’m sure he is. But I’m just saying”—Nezha preens, crossing his fingers off—“I’m a Birton graduate. Director of a Global 500 company. I’ve got a great personality, I’m great in bed, and I look like this.” He flashes her an irritatingly pretty smirk. “Doesn’t get better than that.”

Rin scowls. For some blasted reason, her cheeks grow hot. “Suppose you stop being such an egotistic prick?”

“Suppose you look at the facts?”

The other rule of this game they were playing, because Rin decides it has rules now: Only questions pertaining to the last five years were allowed. Anything broaching uni is strictly off-limits.

The waiter reappears bearing their buns and bowls of soup. Nezha places one of the platters of palm-sized buns in front of her. “Try them. Arlong’s world-famous steamed pork buns.”

Her stomach chooses this exact moment to grumble, so Rin picks up a dome-shaped bun gingerly, startling when they scald her fingers.

“Careful. It’s hot,” Nezha says, amused.

Rin ignores him and takes a bite. Savory-sweet heat rushes into her mouth, burning her tongue, and oh, the bread: it’s thin and light and flaky and unlike anything she’s ever tasted.

“Shit.” She hadn’t wanted to look impressed, but the combination of flavors in her mouth is literally life-changing. Their eyes meet. Rin lets out a wild breath of a laugh. “Nezha, holy fucking shit.”

That coaxes a smile from Nezha. A real one. “Told you they were good.”

Rin wastes no time digging into another bun, realizing how hungry she is.

“Here, have mine.” Nezha pushed his plate towards her. “We’ll just get more.”

“Fuck yeah, we’re getting more.” Rin’s already tucking into his serving. “Call the waiter. I’d bleed my savings account dry for this shit, I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to do that.” The sound of Nezha’s laugh is so old and familiar Rin’s mind goes blissfully blank for a few moments. “It’s fine. My treat,” he explains when Rin casts him a confused look. “It’s your first time in Arlong, after all.”

Rin stops chewing. Scowls. “I was being hyperbolic, you dumbass.”

“I know. So just buy dessert later or—”

“Fuck off. This is a transaction and I’m paying.”

“Fine, fine. Tiger’s tits,” he mutters darkly. Nezha takes a pork bun but doesn’t eat it, weighing it on his hand thoughtfully. “Hey, have you been on the sampans?”

Rin says through a stuffed mouth: “The lady said those were cash grabs.”

Nezha wrinkles his nose in disgust. “What lady?”

“The lady I sat beside on the plane.”

“Well, she’s wrong. Those aren’t cash grabs,” he says indignantly. “Arlong is a world heritage site for a reason, and those sampans are some of the most well-preserved relics from the pre-Republican era.”

“Wanna know why? Because your ancestors hoarded Nikara wealth and sold the country out to Hesperia,” Rin retorts.

Nezha kicks her under the table. “Just shut up and eat.”

Rin kicks back harder.

After they go through a concerning number of dumpling baskets and platters of steamed buns, Rin and Nezha ramble back to his car in the sticky, languid afternoon heat.

“Gods, you could roll me down this fucking street,” Rin groans, rubbing her bloated tummy. “I feel like my stomach’s going to burst.”

“You haven’t even had the egg tarts yet.” Rin protests at the prospect of more food, but Nezha tugs her towards a busy stall that’s attracted a small crowd. “You’ve got to try them,” he insists, “they’re some of the best Nikara desserts.”

“That’s not saying much.” Rin pries her arm from Nezha’s grip, unsettled. “You just think Arlong’s the best in everything.”

“Oh, naturally.”

Nezha buys the egg tarts, and at this point Rin’s too food-drunk to argue. When she takes the small bag, it’s pleasantly warm. Rin bites into a piece, the flakiness of the pastry and wonderful sweetness of the custard cutting through the lingering salt and fat from their lunch.

“Oh. That’s really nice,” she concedes.

“See?” Nezha pops an egg tart into his mouth. “Best food, best city in the world.”

Rin swallows her mouthful of custard. “Really? Better than Rachdale?”

Nezha stiffens. When their eyes meet, he makes a show of relaxing his shoulders.

He swallows his mouthful. “I mean. . . they’re not the same. Rachdale is cold and constantly overcast. I suppose that’s the only real con. But there’s a lot of art and interesting architecture and history. It’s also quite diverse, and people are far more open-minded than they are here, more cultured. Still lots of assholes, of course, but that’s most big cities.”

Nezha’s expression turns pensive. “Yeah, it’s nice. I like it.” The corners of his mouth grow tight. “I’ve warmed up to it a lot over time.”

“Oh.” Rin hesitates. “So—that’s permanent? Rachdale, I mean.”

Belatedly she realizes that’s two questions in succession, but Nezha doesn’t seem to notice. Or if he does, he doesn’t really care.

“I don’t anticipate any vacancies in Arlong or Sinegard for the next five to ten years, so more or less.” Nezha fishes his keys from his pocket. “And I studied and now work there, most of my family lives there. My friends are there.” He shrugs. “Don’t really have a reason to move back.”

Rin crosses her arms, the breeze rolling in from the river suddenly chilly.

Of course. Of course he doesn’t. 

Nezha has an entire life in Rachdale. After all, five years is a long time to be away. It only makes sense that he has new interests, new preoccupations, new haunts. That he’s made new friends, and in time, will wind up with a new partner. 

It’s not even a matter of moving abroad. That’s just how life goes for most people. One chapter closes, and you move on to the next, the past receding into insignificance and obsolescence. Why would he come back? There’s nothing tying him to Nikan, nothing worth returning to here.

You thought I’d want a do-over of the worst years of my life?

Rin would have done the same. If the best years of her life are still ahead of her—if the future lies in an immense, far-off city halfway across the world—she, too, would have taken the first flight out of the continent and never looked back.

A swell of yearning and hurt spasms through Rin’s chest. She quashes it.

“And what about you, Rin?” Nezha asks softly over the low rumble of his car once they’d climbed back in. “Are you happy in Ruijin?”

Rin holds her breath.

What a strange question to ask. She hadn’t asked Nezha if he was happy; why would he ask this in return? To humiliate her? To feel good about himself, and placate his ego?

Because what does Rin have to show for over the last five years? She casts her mind back for specific achievements or happy memories, but only finds a dark, unending, shapeless blur. When you’re barely getting by, when you’re running—not towards but from—there’s no room to breathe, or stop and catch her breath. There’s no resting her weary bones and head. Under these circumstances, only what’s integral ever makes it to the hierarchy of priorities. 

Nezha holds Rin’s gaze across the console, his searching look like a dagger to her flesh. 

I was happy, she wants to say, throat growing tight with a desperate edge. And now I’m surviving. Maybe the best years of my life are far behind me, that’s true. But I’m still standing. Still here.

Doesn’t that count for something?

“Yeah,” Rin lies, blinking away the haze in her vision. “Yeah, I suppose I am.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Fifteen minutes into the drive, Rin realizes: “Wait, this isn’t the way home.”

“No,” Nezha agrees. After a beat: “Have you gone on the Red Cliffs ferry boat tour?”

She frowns. “No? Why?”

He shrugs. 

“The pier’s not very far from here.” Nezha flicks on his signal and makes a turn right, towards the direction of the river. “I think we could make it in time for the sunset trip.”

Rin startles. A whole day in Nezha’s presence has completely drained her battery, and all she wants to do is to take a long shower and crash into her bed and get the fuck out of here.

“What sunset trip?” She demands.

“Well, you can’t come to Arlong without getting on the boats.” Nezha glares at her like this is personally insulting to him. “Or seeing the Red Cliffs.”

“I already saw it from the plane. Besides, I’m not a fucking boat nerd like you are.” The Murui’s waters look calm enough at this hour, but who knows what’ll happen when the tides rise? “And I don’t like the waves, or the smell of the sea.”

“Alright, first off: the Murui is a river, not a sea. Second: don’t tell me you’re scared of the water.”

“Fuck off. I knew that,” Rin snaps as his car slows to a stop. “And I’m not scared.”

Nezha’s lip curls. “That’s what I thought. Let’s go.”

Before she could say something in reply, Nezha hops off the car and makes a beeline for the ticket booth.

Rin slams the passenger door furiously. All she wants is for this goddamn day to be over and to get out of Nezha’s hair. But perhaps because he’s realized dragging her around Arlong would be the surest way of pissing her off, Nezha keeps making these stupid pit stops. Should she just make a run for it? Rin spots a bus stop and begins striding towards it, then remembers her bag is in his goddamn car.

For fuck’s sake.

Nezha’s second in line and fishing a black card from his wallet when Rin walks up to him to ask for her bag back. But before she can get a word out, a gravelly, saccharine voice interrupts: 

“Nezha?”

They turn around. A tall woman with a long neck in a white button-down and capris approaches. She looks to be in her fifties, and is accompanied by a girl in a blue dress about their age. 

The girl is also definitely glaring daggers at Rin.

Rin stares back, bewildered.

“Hello, Auntie Shao.” Like a switch that’s been flicked, Nezha turns polite and cordial. “Are you and Ling going on the ferry tour as well?”

“We are.” Auntie Shao sniffs. She casts Rin a cursory glance, then seems to decide she’s beneath her notice. Rin narrows her eyes. “Our driver’s just dropped us off, but I have no clue where we should go. . . Ling, darling, it smells awfully like salt in here, don’t you think?”

Rin smothers a laugh. 

The women’s scandalized glares swing towards her in unison.

“Ah, forgive my manners. Auntie, Ling: this is Rin, my girlfriend. Rin: our family friends, the Hongs.” Nezha’s hand slips around her waist, pulling her flush to his side. “And I’ll buy your tickets, if that’s alright.”

“Oh, Nezha, darling. You’re too kind,” Auntie Shao simpers. She looks Rin up and down with faint disgust. “I didn’t know you had a girlfriend, I was thinking Ling would accompany you to the wedding.”

Ling smiles dreamily at Nezha. “It would be terribly boring if you went on your own.” She grasps his arm with both hands, unconcerned about the fact that Rin’s just right there.

She expects Nezha to snap, but he only lets out a polite laugh, prying his arm away gently. “Thank you for your thoughtfulness, Ling, but that’s not necessary.”

Ling doesn’t let go. Instead, she presses up even closer. Nezha’s smile wavers in discomfort. 

“No, really, I don’t mind. I just worry about you, Nezha.” She glances up at his face with a revoltingly coy expression, fanning her long lashes. Her other hand wanders to his chest. “You know how vicious the aunties and girls get.”

Rin stares at Nezha, stunned by this uncharacteristic passivity. This moron usually has no problems dishing it, why is he not putting this goddamn bitch in her place?

She hooks her arm around Nezha’s free one and tugs.

“That’s our problem to deal with, Ms. Hong. Not yours,” Rin says coldly, their heads snapping onto her. And to Nezha, before any of them could speak: “Darling, I think it’s your turn at the ticket booth.”

Ling releases him in astonished humiliation.

After the payment Nezha hands over Auntie Shao and Ling’s tickets with an embarrassed, contrite smile. Rin casts them one last dirty look before pulling him towards the prow at the lower deck.

“What the fuck was that for?” Nezha mutters under his breath.

“She was coiling around you like a viper,” Rin mutters back through gritted teeth. He arches a brow. “For fuck’s sake, Nezha, don’t tell me she wasn’t making you uncomfortable. She was touching you inappropriately and you wanted me to do nothing about it? Now that would be suspicious.”

Nezha’s expression spasms for a few moments in indecision.

She half-expects him to get mad, but surprisingly he settles on: “Right, of course. Thanks.”

“Why would you just stand there and let them have their way? Those people are nobody to you.”

“Not nobody. Auntie Shao’s the wife of one of Father’s associates.”

“So that’s a free pass for her daughter to harass you?”

He draws back, stunned. “Ling wasn’t harassing me.”

Rin throws her hands up in the air, rolling her eyes. “You know what? Forget it.” She braces her hands on the railings sullenly, gazing out into the Murui as the ferry pulls away from the shore. That turns out to be a horrible idea, because then Rin becomes fully cognizant of the fact that the boat is bobbing up and down on the waves, and that combined with the smell of salt and seaweed is making bile rise up her throat.

Nezha’s hand curls on the railing beside hers. He inclines his chin towards the orange-and-pink horizon. “Pretty, isn’t it?” But Rin’s gaze is drawn to his hand almost brushing hers: large, elegant, firm. Soft and warm, a hand that’s never worked a day in its life.

Before she realizes what’s happening, Nezha shifts behind her, the warmth of his tall, lean body pressing up against her back.

Rin stiffens. Adrenaline flares through her veins and aims straight for her chest.

“Nezha, what are you doing?” She hisses.

“Don’t move.” His hot breaths fan the small hairs on her ear, sending gooseflesh up her arms and down her spine. Nezha braces his hands on both sides of her, effectively pinning Rin to the railings with his body. “They’re recording us.”

Rin cranes her head. From the top deck, she sees Ling, her phone trained on them. When she meets Rin’s eyes, she averts its quickly, making a show of taking a video of the sunset.

“That bitch,” she whispers.

“I told you not to look. And don’t be so loud,” Nezha snarls.

“This is ridiculous,” Rin grumbles. “I didn’t fucking sign up to do this shit today.”

“Well, sorry,” Nezha says, not sounding sorry at all. “But this is exactly what employers mean when they say you’ve got to be flexible.”

“Okay, firstly: I’m not your goddamn employee. Secondly? Go fuck yourself.”

“Tell that to my sister who hasn’t signed your fucking forms yet.”

One of Nezha’s arms goes up around her waist, pulling her flush to him. Rin sucks in a breath, suddenly light-headed. She feels every inch of his strong, muscular body against her back, setting her skin on fire. The combined bobbing of the ferry on the water and Nezha’s familiar warmth is making Rin dizzy and nauseous. She forces air in and out of her mouth. Relax. It’s just Nezha. It’s only just a few more minutes, Fang Runin, calm the fuck DOWN—

That effort goes entirely to shit when Nezha plants his chin on her shoulder.

“Sorry, have to ham it up,” he murmurs lowly in her ear. A secret, pleasurable warmth settles in the pit of Rin’s stomach. “They’re still taking photos and videos of us.”

“It’s fine.” Rin begins trembling. If Nezha notices, he tactfully makes no mention of it. “I can’t believe people are this interested in you and your love life.”

Nezha snorts. “I’m not what they’re interested in,” he mutters darkly.

Rin has nothing to say to that.

They fall into a long, pressured silence. 

As the outlines of the cliffs begin to form in the horizon, Rin’s breathing evens out, rising and falling in time with Nezha’s breaths. Something in her loosens, until she folds into Nezha in a way her body still remembers to. He shifts to accommodate her, curving around her comfortably, like two puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together. The briny, brisk breeze whips through her hair and rushes in her ears. 

“Look.” Rin startles when she remembers just how close Nezha is. “There it is.”

The Red Cliffs finally emerge through the fog as the ferry approaches it, tall and imposing. Nezha’s cheek is still pressed to hers. The places where his skin touches hers are on fire.

Rin cranes her neck, studying the Old Nikara characters glinting in the blood-red sunset: Nothing lasts. The world doesn’t exist.

“You know, I picked a fight with Kitay over the translation once,” Nezha muses.

“I know,” Rin says. “I remember.” 

She also remembers the conversation they’d had, the promises they’d made and broken. Come to think of it, Nezha hadn’t broken any of his promises, only her. It makes Rin want to laugh. What an absurd thing to think about now. The circumstances and people they’ve become, the future and their dreams: all of it turned out far differently than what she’d once dared to hope for.

Rin startles. The cliffs disappear behind a sudden watery blur.

“I can see how he’d arrived at his translation,” Nezha says softly. “The world as you know it now is transitory. If nothing is permanent, if something is there one moment and gone the next, then was it real and true to start with?”

Rin’s tongue feels leaden in her mouth.

She decides she hates this interpretation. If the person she’d once been (smart, vital, determined and brave; full of potential) wasn’t actually real or true; and if the only certain, tangible thing is what is (a washed-up nobody; a girl with no hope, no chance, no future)—then what is she still trying so hard for?

“So you’re saying nothing matters.” Rin’s voice comes out warbled. She clears her throat. “You’re saying the failed attempts, the in-betweens don’t count for anything.”

She hears, rather than sees his frown.

“That’s not what I said.” Nezha cranes his head to look at her curiously. “Hey. You okay?”

“Fine.” She turns her head away, blinking at the stinging in her eyes. The pressure of Nezha’s gaze is suddenly too much to bear. “I’m fine.”

The ferry rounds the cliffs slowly, letting them indulge in one last, careful look. Then the light begins to fade, the moon and stars rising overhead as the boat returns to shore under the cover of darkness.

Nezha’s grip has long relaxed on her waist, though he seems to have decided it would be prudent not to let go.

“Rin? Can I ask one more question?”

“What?”

“What were you going to tell me that time?” He hesitates. Sensing the question in the intervening silence: “Graduation, I mean. The first of July.”

Rin stiffens. 

Slowly, she turns to look up at his face. Nezha looks so beautiful and soft under the pale moonlight, his expression inscrutable. Seeing him like this makes an old hurt throb in her chest.

“That’s against the rules.”

Nezha frowns. “I didn’t know there were rules.”

“Why do you still remember that?”

“I. . . no. I don’t,” he says haltingly. “I just—remembered, all of a sudden.”

Rin crosses her arms. She turns away to watch the dark shapes of the river, breathing. Trying to still the horror that she feels.

“Why ask?” Rin doesn’t dare speak above a whisper. If she does, she thinks she might cry. “It’s not as if it still matters.”

And it doesn’t. She knows for a fact that it doesn’t.

That battle’s long been lost. And if Rin’s still bleeding, that’s no longer something Nezha needs to concern himself with.

“No,” he decides; and that, at last, is something they can agree on. “No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

Nezha goes down the car when he drops Rin off at the curb.

“I don’t think they’d follow us all the way here,” she says shortly. “Go on.”

“Won’t hurt to be cautious.” His voice is neutral enough that Rin can’t tell if he’s joking.

Nezha and Rin avert their gazes from each other.

“Right.” Rin clears her throat. Forces herself to look him in the eye. “Thanks.” Nezha arches a brow. “For, uh, the museum. And lunch, and the ferry. You didn’t have to.”

“It’s fine.” For a moment Nezha looks like he might say more, and Rin doesn’t know if she wants him to or she doesn’t, but in the end he only settles on: “Thanks for the save. With the Hongs, I mean. See you at the Summer Festival?”

To mark the occasion, Muzha and Dan will be hosting a sailing competition for the guests and family who are already in town for the wedding, as was the Yin family tradition. “Okay.”

“Okay.”

They lapse into an awkward silence.

They’ve talked about so much today, albeit in tangents, that Rin thinks she ought to make some comment. The trouble is, she doesn’t know what to say to him. This used to be so easy. Once, she might’ve called herself the authority on the many moods of Yin Nezha; she memorized him like sacred text, and every look, work, and touch of hers held power. The man before her now may be a spitting image of that boy who loved her, and whom she loved in turn—but that boy is gone, forever condemned into non-existence. No amount of insinuations or stilted lunches or clearing the air would ever bring Nezha, her Nezha, back.

Even if there were, that’s not something she can ever want back.

She tears her gaze away from Nezha’s lovely, inscrutable face, throat tightening with pain.

“Well, good night,” he says.

“Good night. Drive safely.”

Nezha slips his hands into his pockets and rounds his car. Without sparing her a look or touch or kiss like he once might have, he climbs back into his car and speeds off, leaving Rin cold and strangely bereft.

𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

As soon as she arrives at her rental, Rin strips.

In the shower, she turns the cold knob all the way up, a rush of water slamming onto her head and torso, nearly knocking her off-balance from the strong pressure.

Rin hisses, shivering and cursing under her breath. She normally likes her showers scalding hot, but she grits her chattering teeth and forces herself to stand under ice-cold water for ten, twenty minutes, hoping it washes away the hot prickling flaring all over her body. It’s no use. Rin scrubs her arms and torso and legs raw, and her head begins pounding from the cold and wet, but the restless edge she’s felt all day has only intensified.

After she dries her hair, Rin dresses in a shirt and panties. Slips into bed.

The room plunges into darkness. Her heart is racing faster than a bird’s. Rin closes her eyes.

This is what she sees:

Arlong, sunset. Waves lapping at the prow. A warm body pressed up behind her; an old, familiar hardness. Hot, shallow breaths on the shell of her ear. The deep voice that haunted so many of her most frightening waking memories and nightmares:

“Haven’t I told you?” Nezha. Or Not-Nezha, because the only place where they have this level of intimacy and comfort anymore is in this dreamscape. “I am an excellent tour guide.”

Her mind: that treacherous, foolish thing, readily supplies the script. “Fuck no, you aren’t,” Not-Rin says.

“Oh? And why’s that?”

Not-Rin breathes: “Because we didn’t get to do everything on your list.”

Not-Nezha smiles into the skin of her neck. “So you do remember our list.”

“No. It just occurred to me today,” Not-Rin says blithely.

Garter around her hips loosening. Fingers ghosting over the fine, sensitive hairs. A sigh escapes her, a release of pressure. “And what did we neglect to do today, baby?”

“You said”—Rin gasps, back arching away from the bed as fingers stroked up and down her wet slit—“there would be evening activities. Phenomenal ones.”

“Go on, qin’ai.” Her brain fills in the details for her, drawing from both past and recent memory: the low chuckle, the talented mouth and tongue. The weight of his body on hers; pale, soft skin scratching against her nipples. “Get yourself started and I’ll watch.”

The last bastion of her rational mind, clinging desperately onto plausible deniability, shouting: this is wrong, you’re not supposed to be fucking doing this, you have got to STOP. 

It’s just necessity, Rin argues. It’s just nature, just biology. 

I just need to take the edge off so I could sleep.

Satisfied by this justification, she lets herself go.

Rin’s fingers ghost over her clit. She begins rolling the swollen, tender nub, mind pitching right back into the murky waters of her fantasy.

“That’s it. Just relax,” Not-Nezha murmurs in that low cadence. Her imagination swaps out her fingers for his in her mind’s eye, rolling and flicking her clit; his large, pale hands, squeezing her breast and pinching her hardened nipple. “You’ve been working so hard; I’ll make you feel so good, baby.”

At the ferry boat, she felt the hard press of Nezha’s cock through his pants. Rin pretended to not take notice of it, certain it was just biology in the way her masturbating right now is also biology—but right now her mind readily offers up the fresh memory of his erection on her ass.

“Ah. Of course you noticed.” She hears the smile in Not-Nezha’s voice as he begins grinding his cock on her. “You’ve always been so wet, so good for me.” 

“Fuck off,” Rin grits out, a moan ripped from her throat when she experimentally dips a knuckle inside her pussy, the stretch pleasant but insufficient. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“You can be honest with me, baby.” Not-Nezha sucks a hickey on her favorite spot on her neck, kneading her breast. “It’s just your room, it’s just us.” He nips at her skin, before licking the pain away and kissing, the way Nezha used to. “It’s alright to admit you still want me.”

Rin forces the thought from her mind, adding a second knuckle in.

“I don’t mind if you think about me whenever you touch yourself, qin’ai.” Not-Nezha has somehow lost his pants, and his thick, hot cock is sliding between the cheeks of her ass, hips rolling deliciously. Pressure begins to build in her belly. “You know I’m fucking good at this.”

Rin gets on her knees. She starts riding her fingers in earnest, bracing a hand on her sheets as she whimpers lowly, desperately. And gods, what Rin wouldn’t give for his large cock right now instead of her fingers, because her hands are not enough, because she wants pain and hot pleasure and him—

“Come for me, qin’ai de ni.” It comes to her in flashes of memory: Nezha growling in her ear; his pale, beautiful face. Her breast in his mouth, his nimble tongue. Dark, lovely eyes hazy with lust and raw desire. How roughly he used to thrust in and out of her. “Fuck, baby, you’re so tight.”

She grinds down on her hand erratically, chasing her release.

“Fuck, Nezha,” Rin cries out. “Baby, I’m so close.”

The wanton cry reverberates around her rental apartment, echoes penetrating through her skull.

Her rational mind screams. 

Rin freezes.

It all ebbs away then: lust and figments of imagination and adrenaline and memories, like water circling down a drain.

She pulls her fingers out with a wet squelch. Rin runs to the bathroom, turning the other knob all the way up until the shower is steaming from the scalding heat. She washes herself again, scrubbing away at her goose flesh, her breasts, the gap between her thighs, until every last trace and whiff of her arousal is gone.

Then Rin returns to bed, mortified, and pulls the duvet over her head like there’s any hiding from what she’d just done.