Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Forewords,

I leave this story to the world,

in case someone out there is willing to believe.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

Chapter 1

My Color

Pitter-patter.

It came without warning.

Pitter-patter.

“Why did Shang Chao tell us to rush to our base?” Yang Cheng asked, his voice barely cutting through the sound of the departing bus.

Xia Qing replied, “I don’t know, either.”

The doors hissed shut behind them, and with the engine’s growl fading into the distance, the unyielding downpour was all that remained to define the night. The neon signs bled into the wet pavement, colors trembling across the puddles:

Pink.

Blue.

Green.

Everything looked softer that way, unreal almost, not unlike a memory trying to stay intact.

Yang Cheng shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie. The air smelled of wet asphalt and cheap citrus from the soda ad behind them. Drops slid from his hair down to his collar. It felt pointless to brush them away. Beside him, Xia Qing tugged her cardigan close, eyes following the curtain of water as if it were saying what she couldn’t.

“It’s pouring so hard all of a sudden...” She murmured.

He wanted to answer -- maybe joke, maybe agree -- but words often died in his throat. Every silence between him and someone else always turned into a reminder: he was better at following orders than keeping conversations alive.

He wanted to fix that. He just never knew...

“Xia Qing.”

...where to start.

She looked at him upon hearing his call. The drizzle made halos on her shoulders, her hair picking up the subtle strands of the sign’s gleam.

“Um...” Yang Cheng shifted, awkwardly running a hand through his hair. The sleeve of his hoodie darkened where the rain had reached. “I didn’t mean to lie to you.”

It wasn’t that he wanted to hide, he just didn’t know how to explain himself without sounding like someone else entirely.

Back then, silence had seemed simpler -- safer, even. Words tended to twist once they left his mouth, and the more he tried to define himself, the more he sounded like a stranger.

That was why he kept quiet, he supposed.

He wondered if it wasn’t about honesty anymore, but habit.

“Heh, his Trust Value is zero!”

When you spent your whole life with a Trust Value of zero, you started to believe the number knew you better than anyone else.

“Let’s not play with him.”

“Mama... where is everyone?”

“Yang Cheng, what’s your Trust Value?”

“Why don’t you show everyone?”

People saw it before they saw him -- on their screens, in their eyes, pulsing cruelly on his wrist -- a silent verdict: untrustworthy.

“Nothing worth looking at!”

“Apologies, but we have Trust Value requirements for our interns. You’d best look elsewhere.”

After a while, he stopped trying to argue. What was the point of speaking when the world had already decided what your voice meant?

“Why is this guy’s Trust Value zero?”

He told himself silence was safer. However, ‘safety’ wasn’t the same as ‘peace’.

“He doesn’t deserve to be alive.”

“Someone like that doesn’t deserve to have friends.”

It was easier that way, easier to say nothing at all when he wasn’t sure who he was supposed to be.

“I know...” Xia Qing looked straight ahead, her reflection rippling across the wet glass.

‘Yang Cheng... promise me something.’

On the opposite side of the street, the traffic light cycled through red and green, mirroring the city’s inability to make up its mind.

“...That’s why I want you to be brave and face yourself honestly.”

‘No matter what happens in the future...’

Yang Cheng blinked, unsure whether the warmth in his chest was shame or relief.

“If you can do that,” She continued, “then I’ll support you unconditionally.”

‘...you’ll still face yourself with courage and honesty. Okay?’

He let out a small smile, more a reflex than confidence.

“But if you can’t... I won’t stop and wait for you, either.”

The bus’ taillights vanished around a corner, leaving them beneath the partially lit shelter. Rain drummed against the roof, drowning out all else.

‘Be brave.’

Her words stayed with him, heavier than she probably meant them to.

‘Face yourself honestly.’

“In this world, a hero’s identity isn’t something you can have just by wanting it. It comes from each person who supports, trusts, and loves you.”

He could still hear Shang Chao’s voice, steady and certain, as though it belonged to a different universe.

“The reason so many people are calling you E-Soul right now is because, compared to his mighty status, you’ve shown people your unlimited potential.”

Belief had always sounded simple when someone else said it --

“Remember? You’re the one who saved Little Pomelo. So, Yang Cheng, you need to believe in yourself.”

-- In his own chest, it echoed against empty walls.

‘Believe in yourself.’

He wanted to. He really did. Unfortunately, ‘trust’ didn’t come naturally to someone who’d spent his whole life proving he was more than a number.

‘Be yourself and become...’

Pitter-patter.

‘...a whole new E-Soul that’s unique to you.’

Xia Qing exhaled, the barest hint of a smile playing on her lips. “It doesn’t look like it’s stopping anytime soon.” Her gaze lifted toward the street, where puddles shimmered under the fluctuating colors, “Shall we run?”

He followed her line of sight, then stared at the road ahead -- the blur of neon and rain.

A motorcycle passed by, sending a spray of water across the pavement.

He almost laughed. Something about the sound of the engine, the cold splash, the absurdity of standing still in a world that kept moving.

“Mn,” He said, shoulders relaxing as he stepped out from under the shelter, “let’s run.”

Pitter-patter.

It came down harder now, washing the street into streaks of silver and shadow.

Yang Cheng’s breath came out in thin, uneven clouds as he and Xia Qing ran, shoes slapping through rivulets that caught the city’s fractured light.

Then --

Click!

-- a sound that didn’t belong to the storm.

He turned.

A man in dark gear stepped forward, arm lifted, the glint of a gun catching the lamplight. The orange stripe on his sleeve burned against the blue-gray night.

“!!!” Yang Cheng froze. His chest locked up the same way it always did when danger appeared -- the old voice already screaming in his head:

‘Don’t move.’

‘Don’t fail.’

‘Don’t mess it up.’

The barrel leveled.

A shot was about to happen!

The world seemed to hush around the tempest.

And then Xia Qing’s voice sliced through it, “Shang Chao!”

Yang Cheng’s gaze followed the shout, his stomach plunged.

‘Yesterday, Shang Chao confessed to me.’

Under the open roll-up door, a figure in yellow turned toward the noise. A beam from inside spilled through the torrent, striking the smooth curve of a gold-cyan helmet.

Yang Cheng’s breath hitched.

His helmet.

Shang Chao.

‘Xia Qing!’

Everything in him tangled -- jealousy, admiration, the ache of never measuring up. He’d spent years watching Shang Chao shine beside Xia Qing -- how they talked so easily, laughed as though the world was theirs. Every time Yang Cheng opened his mouth, he felt like an interruption, a shadow among people who belonged to the light.

He used to tell himself it didn’t matter. It was fine if he lagged behind... some people were just born to lead. But now, that same jealousy (the thing he’d once mistaken for resentment) twisted into ‘fear’.

Because what if this was the moment he lost him?

What if this was the price of standing still?

For once, his body refused to obey that voice whispering, ‘Don’t move.’

He ran!

The pavement blurred beneath him. The rain hit as needles. A white-blue light flared in his peripheral vision, and he knew it wasn’t from the storm. It was him. Energy traced along his arms, weaving through the spray, with a weak crackle just under his skin.

His lungs burned. Somewhere, his thoughts still scrambled --

‘You’ll mess it up.’

‘You’ll make it worse.’

‘Stay out of it!’

-- However, his legs refused to stop.

Lightning flickered across the pools as he charged forward, the reflection contorting, mirroring the rhythm of his pounding heart.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

The gun went off!

He reached the man a fraction of a second later, shoulder driving hard into the shooter’s arm. A fierce arc snapped between them -- the rain turned the flash into a field of broken knives. Metal cracked. The bullet screamed into the night!

Pain bloomed down his side, but he didn’t care. The air smelled of ozone, sharp and electric. He swung, again and again -- movement messy, desperate, nonetheless enough. The man stumbled back! Weapon skidding into the gutter.

Yang Cheng’s knuckles throbbed, his breath coming in shards. Faint static still hissed between his fingers before fading into steam.

“Yang Cheng!” Shang Chao’s voice, distorted through the helmet, broke the moment.

He looked up.

The rain smeared the visor’s sheen into a hazy cyan, which swept over the armor’s surface. The glow held the last remnants of his power, a slight shimmer that disappeared with the rain. The sight of it struck him as a warped reflection -- his own mask, worn by someone else, standing in the place he might have fallen.

He exhaled, trembling.

He didn’t know if the tightness in his chest was relief, guilt, or the sudden realization that all the ounces of belief Shang Chao ever had in him... was worth more than any number on his wrist.

‘LUCKY CYAN -- MY COLOR’.

The lights fell away one by one until only the stage glowed, a cool cyan tide that rolled through the crowd.

Yang Cheng sat near the center, second row from the stage. Three seats. He hadn’t chosen them -- Shang Chao had, insisting they were ‘lucky’ with that grin that made refusal impossible.

The concert hall was laced with the scent of metal, smoke, and perfume.

Beside him, Xia Qing leaned forward, eyes bright, Shang Chao waved his lightstick like a kid, already grinning before the music started.

Then the first chords rang out:

♫ “Sometimes things may be so tough. Feels like everything is enough, but you can overcome it, use your own gift.” ♫

Mellow and steady, carried by a voice too clear to belong to anyone ordinary.

Aqua light slid across the seats, washing over Yang Cheng’s face.

The weight in his chest loosen, just a little.

♫ “Life is strange, it’s no surprise. It can be hard to find what’s right, but you can find the answers, I know...” ♫

He knew this melody by heart -- Lucky Cyan’s voice had carried him through more nights than he could count. Here, somehow, surrounded by real sound instead of static, the lyrics felt... new. Once, he’d thought they were meant for everyone else.

People with value.

People who had color.

With them, he couldn’t tell if that ache in his throat was from pride or disbelief.

♫ “Sometimes things may be so wrong, feels like everything is lost, but you can be the one to fix these mistakes.” ♫

Shang Chao’s lightstick flashed turquoise and gold with the beat. Xia Qing’s hand hovered near her chest, as if holding on to the sound.

Yang Cheng watched them both, two lives glimmering under the same hue that had once meant nothing but pressure to him.

He should’ve been happy. Maybe he was. He’d saved them. That was supposed to mean something, wasn’t it?

♫ “Life is hard and full of tears, feels like everything you fear, but you can be the one to confront it.” ♫

His hands tightened in his lap. It scared him, still -- the thought that what they had could vanish without warning.

(And he’d be the only one left.)

♫ “(Ooh) Wish I could tell you that’s where you belong.” ♫

He blinked as the crowd lifted their lights, a thousand points of cyan radiance rising as an expanse of electric fireflies taking flight.

♫ “(Ooh) Wish I could make you smile when you feel alone.” ♫

Shang Chao turned toward him, shouting words he couldn’t quite hear, probably teasing again.

♫ “(Ooh) All my feelings will be here for your goals. There’s one last thing to say...” ♫

Yang Cheng half-smiled despite himself.

♫ “You’re blessed with luck, I’ll give you all my love. Even when I’m gone, you’re in my arms, defending you at any cost, I swear.” ♫

The stadium exploded with energy as rows of lightsticks moved in unison. The spectacle was dreamlike, reminiscent of being submerged underwater or within someone’s heartbeat.

♫ “Let me pass my color to your heart, my story stays in you...” ♫

Shang Chao sang along, off-key and too loud, Xia Qing laughed, nudging him.

Yang Cheng stayed mum, though his pulse aligned with the rhythm.

♫ “Someday, I hope you’ll feel it, too.” ♫

He glanced at them -- one on each side -- for the briefest second, he wondered how close he’d come to losing this.

One gunshot, one moment slower, and there would’ve been no luminescence left to sing under.

The realization rushed through him, vivid and fleeting. He blinked it away and let the music swallow it whole.

When the bridge swelled, Shang Chao shouted over the crowd. “It’s your color, you know!”

Yang Cheng turned to him, startled, “What?”

Shang Chao grinned wider, motioning to the sea of cyan. “Your color! E-Soul’s color!”

Yang Cheng didn’t know what to say, “...”

He’d worn that color many times -- it never seemed to belong to him. It was always tied to a greater purpose... to expectations, to a name he was still learning to accept.

Taking in his surroundings -- the light, the noise, the warmth beside him -- it didn’t feel ‘borrowed’ anymore.

‘Even after you take off your mask, you are still E-Soul.’

He smiled, small and quiet, however real.

That had to be enough. Was it?

When the final note faded, confetti drifted down -- silver and sky-tinted, fluttering as gently as snow.

Shang Chao reached up to catch a piece, and Xia Qing brushed another from Yang Cheng’s shoulder.

The crowd cheered again, voices overlapping into a single, quivering sound.

Yang Cheng closed his eyes, breathing it in.

He no longer dwelled on the what-ifs. Instead, he focused on the lights, the colors, and the simple fact that this time, he’d made it here with them.

Edit: COVER UPDATED

Dedicated art will also be updated for other chapters soon :)

You may also check out the tumblr account for this work (may contain spoilers). For artworks you may have missed, updates, and Q&A:

Click Here

— Dokjayaaa

Chapter Text

Chapter 2

Three Smiles, One Lie

In a world where accidents happen…

“Someone help! A villain’s on the loose—“

…one man stands firm.

“Not on my watch, I got you covered”

The camera pans to a dark-skinned man. He wore a black costume with gold accents that fit his tall, muscular stature. Firm man has successfully blocked an attack with no visible scratches. He then pulled out a shiny pack with a label. 

Firm Man Condoms: Protection that never goes soft!

Buzz.

The exclusive edition of E-Soul merchandise—

Buzz.

Who is the new Hero X? Many citizens have been questioning the results of the 18th Heroes Tournament— 

Buzz.

Buzz.

The sound of static. 

He didn’t know how many times he changed channels by now. Shang Chao sat languidly in his dim room, illuminated only by the TV’s glow, washing his face in cold light. His half-lidded eyes watched in a daze. The same advertisements. The same news. It’s all about heroes. 

Once, that light used to mean something.

Once.

The remote slipped from his fingers. 

Clack.

“Tch.”

The boy clicked his tongue. He sat up to look for the fallen object. Shoulder heavy as he leaned down. On the ground lay scattered gears, half-dismantled motors, screws, scraps of crumpled blueprints that haven't moved for quite a long time now. Abandoned, not because he lost interest, but because he decided they weren’t good enough. He wasn’t good enough to finish them. Now his floor looked almost unwalkable.

Shang Chao let out a long sigh as he picked up the remote, taking in the faint smell of metal and still air. He was about to turn off the television but his finger lingered on the power button. 

What flashed was a familiar face. One he hadn’t paid any attention to before- no, more like treated with indifference. 

‘E-Soul’s first reveal in 34 years? Today, a citizen captured footage of an apparent E-Soul heroically fighting a criminal to save a victim.’

Badump.

‘According to exclusive info, the individual was once a children’s theater actor.’

He paused for he didn’t know how long. 

Badump.

The reporter’s voice faded beneath his pounding chest.

“Yang Cheng?”

Time felt like it stopped as he stared at the battered but determined Yang Cheng— saving a young little boy.

Yang Cheng. Quiet, awkward Yang Cheng, standing there bloodied but unbroken. A face that once blended in the background now on his TV screen.

Once the segment was over his eyes drifted towards his desk, a half-built contraption sat open, wires spilling out like veins. The body of an idea that never found its pulse. One screw misaligned, and suddenly the whole thing felt worthless.

Badump.

Shang Chao unknowingly approached it with a newfound spark. His hands caressed the dusty metal. And for the first time in a while his eyes… glistened with something he couldn’t quite understand.

“Yang Cheng huh...”

Suddenly, ‘worthless’ didn’t feel like the right word anymore.

He slowly lowered the cuff of his yellow sweater. Gently caressing the number on his wrist. 

In this era, where heroes are forged by trust, trust value becomes everything. 

Shang Chao looked upon his with hopes of raising it and becoming a hero himself. That’s right, he didn’t plan on following his father’s footsteps. He didn’t want to forge heroes. He wanted to become one. At least, he used to. 

The same number. Unchanging. Hollow. It appears on his wrist every single time. Staring back at him. Mocking. 

Zero.

Shang Chao. The Treeman CEO’s Son. That Shang Chao. Always had a zero trust value. Ironically so. 

Despite his perfectly wide smiles, his friendly demeanor, the appearances he kept — he wasn’t able to raise it. He didn’t understand why. There must be something wrong. That maybe, the trust value showing on his wrist must be mistaken. Like a system bug. It’s not that everyone whom he met so far doesn’t trust him one bit. It couldn’t be because all of them are fake. That couldn’t be it. But of course, deep inside, he knew better.

Like a bucket of ice water. Cold and numbing. Now he’s stuck with the realization that he’s fated to be nothing more than a shadow. He lived with hopelessness underneath the mask.

Like Yang Cheng?

Not exactly. 

“Conceal it.”

His father’s voice resounded out. 

“You don’t need trust anyway. You won’t become a hero.”

A firm tone that carved his future for him.

“So long as you inherit Treeman under my name, you’ll live.”

It’s not that Shang Chao didn’t try to argue. It’s not that he didn’t speak of what he really wanted. He did.

But every time, he was met with a disapproving look.

“You don’t know what it takes to become a hero. Don’t even try to be one. Why else do you have zero?”

Unlike Yang Cheng.

He’s better than Yang Cheng.

At least, people don't know the truth about him.

At least, on the outside, he doesn’t look ‘untrustworthy’.

Lies. 

That’s how he lived his life so far.

Since no one truly trusts him anyway, he doesn't need to be honest, right?

“Ridiculous. Playing hero with zero trust value”, he mumbled.

To Shang Chao, Yang Cheng was simply a typical quiet kid who isolated himself from everyone. Much like himself, he didn’t have hopes towards the boy who openly showed his trust value. His demeanor screams exactly like someone you couldn’t trust, how could he associate himself with him? 

It irritates Shang Chao — how someone could be so open about their flaws. Meanwhile, he polished his mask until it gleamed. And hated himself for the cracks only he could see.

“Does he think he could become a real hero? And with a known hero’s name at that”, Shang Chao covered a smile he didn’t know he let out. 

Shang Chao didn’t believe it. Someone like Yang Cheng can’t possibly become a hero. And yet—

The look in Yang Cheng’s eyes beneath the screen. It burned in his mind. That stubborn reckless light.

“Alright. Yang Cheng.”

Shang Chao picked up a screwdriver from his desk and twisted it with his hands.

“I’ll make you a hero. Not Treeman’s. Not the Commission’s. My own.. hero”

***

The bell chime rang as three people stepped in. Smiles lingering on their faces. The sunlight’s warmth followed them, curling into the scent of ground coffee and fresh pastries. The morning radio resounded overhead.

‘Hello X City, Hua Lian here. Morning comes again. Has everyone gotten enough sleep?’

Behind the counter stood a middle-aged man. Donning an orange floral shirt, Uncle Rock observed the three unsuspecting teenagers with an unreadable calm. His pointer finger repeatedly tapped the counter — slow, steady, intentional.

‘Okay stupid question.’, the DJ chuckled lightly.

Xia Qing, with her bright smile greeted the friendly looking Uncle Rock with a, “Good Morning, Shitou-shu.”

‘I’m sure there are surely those who cannot fall asleep easily.’, the radio continued.

The boy with middle-parted brunette hair waved his hand with poise and elegance. Shang Chao carried himself as if he hadn’t just come face-to-face with death just days ago.

‘Perhaps it’s because of regret or worry.’

Then, in between the two, was Yang Cheng. His head still slightly hung low, but today he carried a small, sincere smile as he nodded towards Uncle Rock.

‘Is there something you regret too?’, the voice on the radio asked.

‘What if I did that back then.’

‘If only I moved sooner.’

‘My life would have been better if I made a different choice.’

Xia Qing plopped into the nearest seat with a sigh, “My legs hurt from last night.”

Shang Chao chuckled, “That’s because you jumped the highest. I’m pretty sure you elbowed someone too.”

“I said sorry!”, she protested. “Besides, you two weren’t any better. Even Yang Cheng screamed the lyrics.”

Yang Cheng’s ears reddened, “S-shang Chao told me to join in…”

“No, no it was cute. Very… passionate.”, Shang Chao grinned, leaning back.

Their laughter was light, genuine — but beneath it all, something fragile hummed. None of them mentioned the incident. None of them mentioned why Shang Chao was moving a bit slower today. Or why Yang Cheng kept glancing at the door as if expecting danger. The silence between their jokes wasn’t empty. It was filled with unspoken ‘What ifs’.

Uncle Rock, despite his smile, brewed coffee with a heavy silence as he listened on the radio. 

‘We often get trapped in the ‘What if’ and dream of a better past…’

It wasn’t all that bad. An attack towards Shang Chao, even if it didn't turn out as ‘successful’ as he planned, it was bound to strain the original E-Soul’s reputation. Progress — but not enough.

‘….but no one knows if the result would have truly been better.’

Shang Chao survived. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

Among the citizens blended watchful eyes. Behind sidewalks or perhaps among those who sat in the cafe drinking morning coffee. Uncle Rock was certain, bodyguards, hidden in plain sight, are assigned towards Shang Chao now. His Father, Shang De, Treeman’s CEO, reserved and stoic as he appeared — he deeply cares for his son in his own way. 

Not that it mattered.

Uncle Rock— or rather Yan Mo would stop at nothing. He’d continue moving forward. Like always. Whatever it takes to achieve his ultimate goal. 

‘Because there is no such thing as a perfect choice. Because at that moment we made the best decision we could…’

And so, even as things go stray sometimes, he was bound to think of something again.

’…so what’s important isn’t what choice you make, but rather the strength to accept the outcome of that choice and move on, wouldn’t you say?’

His eyes pierced towards the trio. It settled longer — a bit longer towards the only girl of the group. Her laughter dying down with the sound of the coffee grinder.

Xia Qing.

‘So everyone..’, the DJ’s voice filled the cafe.

 ‘… I hope you can let go of the heavy regrets that keep you awake and sleep soundly from now on. We’ll now start the show with our daily ‘Top Ten Hero Trivia’!’

Chapter Text

Chapter 3

In Light of the Wrong Future

“I.. I can’t put it in”

Shang Chao froze mid-step. His hand hovering over the warehouse door. Yang Cheng’s voice, strained and frustrated, slipped through the thin crack.

“Wait no— position it this way”, a girl’s voice resounded out. It was Xia Qing, tone earnest but slightly impatient.

Shang Chao’s eyes widened.

Yang Cheng groaned, “It’s too tight..”

Behind the door, Shang Chao’s soul left his body.

“Excuse me? In my warehouse?”

His face heated instantly, mind spiraling into every wrong direction imaginable.

Xia Qing clicked her tongue, “Just push harder! It’s better when it’s tight!”

Shang Chao’s mouth was wide agape. Even for him, this was too much.

Absolutely not. 

Whatever the two had going on, NOT. IN. HIS. PRECIOUS. WAREHOUSE.

He flung the door open.

“What are you two— !!”

The sentence died.

Xia Qing looked up, unfazed. “Oh, perfect timing. Snacks arrived.”

Shang Chao blinked. He stood there, holding a bag of chips and soda like an idiot. On the very edge of the sofa, Yang Cheng sat, cheeks red as he held a crochet hook and a tangled mess of yarn. With a ‘click’, the situation finally pieced itself together in Shang Chao’s mind.

“…Crochet?” he managed, deadpan.

Yang Cheng scratched his cheek. “Xia Qing is teaching me.”

Xia Qing proudly held up a half-finished mini E-Soul plushie. “He’s learning fast.”

Some tension melted from Shang Chao’s shoulders. His smile came out small as he neatly placed the snacks on the table, chips parallel to the table frame. 

“It looks.. Nice?” 

Yang Cheng winced immediately. “It’s a mess. I know.” He scratched the back of his neck like he was bracing for the worst.

“No, no— It’s cute,” Shang Chao said, a half-laugh slipping out as he carefully aligned the three soda cans in a perfect row, labels all facing forward.

“You can’t even recognize what it’s supposed to be,” Yang Cheng muttered.

“I do. That’s why it’s cute.”

Yang Cheng blinked, caught somewhere between offended and oddly touched. Xia Qing, who had been quietly smiling at the exchange, checked the time on the wall clock.

“Oh. The time. I need to pick up Little Pomelo,” she said as she stood up. 

Yang Cheng perked up. “Do you want me to come with you? I can—”

He stopped. The words caught somewhere in his throat, along with the memory of the last attack. His eyes briefly flickered toward Shang Chao, fear mixing in the space between seconds. The same garage. It suddenly felt unsafe.

Xia Qing noticed. “It’s okay,” she said gently. “I’ll be quick. You two stay, keep practicing. I’ll be back before you mess something up.” 

Yang Cheng tried to laugh, but it came out small.

“Right… okay.”

She grabbed her bag and headed toward the door, waving at them. Once it clicked shut behind her, the room fell into a silence that felt much bigger than the space. Yang Cheng stared at the yarn in his lap. Shang Chao stood there like he wasn’t sure whether to sit, walk, or evaporate. Huh.. Strange.

They’d hung out many times. All three of them. But without Xia Qing? It was like suddenly remembering you don’t actually know how to talk to each other.

Yang Cheng cleared his throat. “S-So… uh… the snacks you bought look good.”

Shang Chao nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re… snacks.”

Silence again.

Yang Cheng fiddled with the crochet hook. Turning. Flipping. Pretending to fix a loop that didn’t need fixing. His feet tucked themselves under the sofa. He tried to open his mouth, maybe comment on the snacks Shang Chao arranged so neatly it looked like a product display. But snacks? Again? The words tangled up and died in his throat. Yang Cheng suddenly felt extremely aware of his breathing. Was it too loud? Was he inhaling weirdly? Did Shang Chao notice? It was unbearable, he wanted to bury his head under a pillow.

Shang Chao sat on the opposite end, stiff as a ruler. His hands folded in his lap. His ankle crossed over the other in a controlled, picture-perfect angle. His gaze briefly wandered on the table, rechecking the alignment of the soda cans, back to Yang Cheng, then down again. He’d already run through three possible conversation starters in his head — polished them, adjusted the tone, rewrote them again— but the silence dragged on too long. By the time he finally settled on a line that sounded natural, it no longer fit. He could only curse himself as he begged for anything to come out his mouth, without making it sound forced.

Tick.

Tock.

The wall clock filled the entire room like it was mocking them. Yang Cheng shifted in his seat, knees bumping together. He glanced at the clock again.

“…How long has she been gone?” he finally asked.

Shang Chao didn’t blink. “Wait.”

Tick.

Tock.

Yang Cheng tapped the crochet hook against his leg. “She said she’d be quick.”

“Maybe there’s traffic,” Shang Chao answered, too fast. Then he paused, reconsidered, then pulled out his phone to call. “Actually— I’ll just check on her..”

He hovered his thumb over the screen as he waited for a response.

There was none.

Yang Cheng leaned over to peek. “She’s not answering?”

Shang Chao stared at the silent phone. “…Not yet.”

Their eyes met. Both froze for a split second.

Then they simultaneously stood up so fast the sofa creaked. They burst through the door. Yang Cheng immediately sprinted ahead with E-Soul enhanced speed, leaving behind Shang Chao—Then ran back just as fast.

“Wait, where are we going?!”

“To look!”, Shang Chao shouted, slightly offended.

“I know, but where?!”, Yang Cheng replied.

“??!”

Shang Chao looked completely blank for half a breath, then slapped a hand over his face.

Yang Cheng spoke again, “Shouldn’t you know? It’s your neighborhood!”

Shang Chao retorted, “I DON’T TRACK XIA QING’S EVERY MOVE! I’m not her dad!”

“She literally just said she was getting Little Pome.. lo…”, Yang Cheng’s voice drifted in the air.

Shang Chao blinked.

Yang Cheng blinked back.

Then they spoke in perfect unison.

“…The school.”

Above them, the district billboard flickered while they ran. It switched through advertisements before the headlines cut through in bold red:

[ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION ON TREEMAN HEIR — INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.]

Yang Cheng slowed just enough to look up.

Another line flashed:

[NEW E-SOUL SPOTTED IN NEARBY DISTRICT DURING INCIDENT.]

Shang Chao’s jaw tensed, but he kept running.

Then a third headline burned across the screen:

[SHOOTER STILL AT LARGE — WHO IS TARGETING HERO CANDIDATES?]

The wind pushed cold air past them. Somewhere far off, thunder muttered. The clouds had gathered low and gray and thick, heavy, like they were holding something back. 

Yang Cheng swallowed. Hard.

Something was wrong.

Not just with the city.

Not just with the headlines.

Something felt wrong.

That’s when they heard it.

A small voice… thin, trembling, “…Jie… jie…?”. Pomelo.

Shang Chao froze.

Yang Cheng’s breath hitched.

Little Pomelo’s cry came again. Closer this time, choked.

Without thinking, Yang Cheng dashed toward the sound, rounding another corner—

—and his world dropped out from under him.

Several people gathered around something. There, on the pavement, under a broken streetlamp that flickered like it couldn’t bear to illuminate the scene

lay Xia Qing.

Her body curled slightly on its side.

And beside her…

Red.

It’s not much.

Not even a pool yet.

But enough.

Enough to twist Yang Cheng’s stomach into a knot so tight he felt lightheaded. The air squeezed around his chest. Thick, suffocating, like the moment before fainting.

No.

No.

No.

His ears rang. The street blurred at the edges. His throat felt dry.

Why was she lying there?

Why wasn’t she moving?

Why was Little Pomelo kneeling by her, shaking her shoulders with tiny, desperate hands?

This wasn’t real.

It couldn’t be real.

Just moments ago they were…

Yang Cheng stumbled forward, knees nearly giving out.

“Xia Qing…?”

His voice cracked.

Shang Chao ran up behind him, but even his footsteps felt distant.

The streetlamp flickered again.

✦ SNAP! ✦

The morning after the attack felt unreal, too soft for the kind of night they had survived. Sunlight stretched across the quiet street, but Xia Qing still carried the tension in her shoulders and the tight ache in her chest, the echo of a gunshot that hadn’t stopped ringing. None of them said it outright, but it was clear no one wanted to be alone, so they made their way to the garage together -- Xia Qing in the middle, Yang Cheng a step behind with his hood up and his eyes flicking toward every passing shadow, and Shang Chao a half-step ahead, trying too hard to look normal.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” She asked, her tone subdued.

“I’m fine.” Shang Chao said.

He wasn’t. Neither was Yang Cheng. Neither was she. They went inside anyway.

The familiar scent of metal and lacquered wood greeted them as Shang Chao unlocked the door. Normally, the place felt warm and oddly homey. Today, it felt suspended -- like the room hadn’t fully resumed living after last night.

Yang Cheng dropped onto the sofa as if gravity had tripled. Shang Chao settled at his workbench, his movements stiff and deliberate. Xia Qing hovered between them, unsure where to place her hands or her fears.

“So,” She tried gently, “did either of you sleep?”

Yang Cheng shook his head.

Shang Chao forced a shrug. “I closed my eyes. That counts, right?”

Not really.

She watched them, noticing how Yang Cheng flinched every time a motorcycle engine growled outside and how Shang Chao held himself like someone still waiting for danger to return. The tension in his shoulders hadn’t eased, he moved carefully, guarded, as though he could still see the flash of the gun every time he blinked.

“Okay,” Xia Qing inhaled deeply, “we’re not doing this.”

Both boys looked at her.

“‘This’.” She clarified, gesturing at their hunched postures and quiet, uneven breathing. “Sitting here like we’re trapped inside last night. Letting that man stay in our heads.”

Yang Cheng’s fingers curled, “...”

Shang Chao said nothing, “...”

Xia Qing reached into her bag and slapped a crumpled flyer on the table.

‘LUCKY CYAN: MY COLOR TOUR -- TONIGHT, 7 PM’.

Yang Cheng blinked.

Shang Chao reacted with the bewildered jolt of a man who’d just been whacked with a wrench.

“A... concert?” He asked flatly.

Xia Qing, “Yes. Today.”

Yang Cheng whispered, “Why... now?”

“Because we need something good.” Xia Qing replied. “Just one bright thing. One night where we’re not looking over our shoulders. One night where we get to be... alive.”

Shang Chao rubbed his forehead, “Are you sure you didn’t hit your head last night?”

She smacked his arm.

“Ow--!”

“You know I’m right.”

Silence settled between them, “...” heavy, though less suffocating than before.

Then, timidly:

“...Do we even have tickets?” Yang Cheng inquired.

Shang Chao flushed to the tips of his ears.

“...I bought some.”

“???” Xia Qing, “Bought? When?”

“...Pre-sale.” He coughed into his fist. “They’ve been sitting in my drawer for weeks.”

“Three?” She questioned.

“...Three.”

Yang Cheng stared. “Why three?”

“I don’t know,” Shang Chao sputtered. “I just-- bought three. They were good seats.”

Xia Qing laughed -- a real laugh, light and warm, breaking through the gloom akin to sunlight piercing a storm.

“Then it’s settled.”

Yang Cheng hesitated. Eventually, slowly -- carefully -- he nodded.

Shang Chao clicked his tongue but didn’t argue.

Not really.

“Fine.” He muttered. “But if anything feels off, we leave.”

Xia Qing replied, “Agreed.” 

A faint warmth unfurled inside her. Not denial, not avoidance -- a fragile certainty that, after everything, they deserved a single night not shaped by fear.

“Lucky Cyan,” She slung her bag over her shoulder, “let’s go.”

Yang Cheng rose beside her. Shang Chao reached for his sweater.

And together, not alone this time and not walking with last night’s fear pressed against their backs, they stepped out of the garage.

The door shut. A new chapter opened before them.

A night under the lights.

A night to breathe.

A night they would remember.

For.

A.

Long.

‘Long’.

Time.

✦ SNAP! ✦

Chapter Text

Chapter 4

The Weight of Being Seen 

The screwdriver spun between Shang Chao’s fingers. How many times has he turned it? 49? 51? It was but a distraction. He wasn’t even fixing anything. Just… moving. So his hands wouldn’t shake. 

It had been days since Xia Qing’s attack. Days of nothing but silence.

His room now clean, disciplined, orderly. The floorboards, once littered with gears and half-built mechanisms, had been swept bare. The scattered parts he used to step on barefoot were now tucked into drawers, arranged by size, origin, and function. Even his tools were aligned in perfect descending order. But it reflected the opposite of his mind.

The door had been locked from the outside since the night of the attack on Xia Qing. An act disguised as protection but carried the same weight as punishment.

“The assailant is still out there,” his father had said. “You will stay in. No arguments.”

He tried not to think about Xia Qing lying there, about Little Pomelo’s cries, about the red on the asphalt. His chest tightened at the memory. He let out a shaky sigh. He shook his head and focused on the screwdriver.

Click.

Click.

Click—

No. This wasn’t helping.

He exhaled sharply and tossed the tool onto his desk. The metallic clatter echoed too loudly in the sterile room.

Fine.

He would look at his phone.

Just for a moment.

He hadn’t touched it since that day. Not because he was ‘avoiding the news’ but because he didn’t want to see her name in there.

But the screen didn’t show Xia Qing.

It showed… ‘him’.

[NEW E-SOUL VS. OLD E-SOUL—PUBLIC OPINION DIVIDES INTERNET]

[WHO DESERVES THE TITLE?]

[E-SOUL’S NEXT MOVE?]

“What…?” Shang Chao whispered.

He scrolled further. More headlines. Then—an interview clip. He immediately clicked the play button. A reporter’s voice played through the speakers:

“Mr. Yang Cheng, what do you have to say about the perpetrator behind the attack still on the loose?”

“Will you still continue being the new E-Soul?”

Yang Cheng appeared on screen. He didn’t look like the Yang Cheng Shang Chao remembered. Not the slightly awkward one. This one looked carved from resolve.

Yang Cheng spoke, voice steady.

“The title of E-Soul has endured thirty-four long years. I have also liked him deeply and fantasized about his maintaining peace and justice in this world.”

Shang Chao’s stomach twisted.

Yang Cheng continued, “But the truth is that a scale cannot be balanced by relying only on one side.”

A chill crept up Shang Chao’s spine.

“So, rather than leaving the weights to others, we should become the weights ourselves.”

No way…

Yang Cheng’s eyes burned with something dangerous. He didn’t even stutter.

“I have decided that on the day of the thirty-fourth Anniversary, I will challenge the previous E-Soul.”

Shang Chao’s breath vanished.

He snatched his phone closer, checking the timestamp.

‘Posted a week ago.’

His pulse slammed into his throat. He pulled up his calendar, fingers trembling.

The anniversary… 

It’s today.

He looked around with his heart beating in his chest. His gaze shot to the metal barricade on his door that his father had reinforced. To the screws bolted deep into the wood. To the window, guarded by a yawning staff. And… to the screwdriver lying on his desk. 

***

“I’ve already finished investigating under Mr. Shand’s orders.”

Enlighter’s voice echoed inside Yang Cheng’s head as he tightened the straps of his suit.

The broken E-Soul figurines, scattered on his desk, trembled as Yang Cheng’s fist accidentally brushed past them. The sleep-deprived, determined, Yang Cheng, threw one last practice punch into the dummy, shoulders coiling with coiled anger he didn’t know where to place.

“The two kidnappers were still in jail, but that was only on paper.”

Metal clinked as Yang Cheng snapped his gauntlet into place.

“They were released during incarceration.”

His jaw tightened once again.

“Has the agent responsible been found?”

Enlighter gave a humorless laugh.

“Your question would’ve still been valid days ago. I’ve investigated the agent’s whereabouts. He hasn’t made any moves in over a week.”

A week.

Exactly the time since Xia Qing was attacked.

Enlighter continued, “So he’s either been asleep all week… or he’s no longer part of this world.”

A cold shiver ran down Yang Cheng’s spine, but he didn’t stop tightening the final latch on his chestplate.

“To go through all this trouble to get those two scapegoats out, these guys must have beef with you.”

Yang Cheng looked at his now broken mirror, staring at his reflection holding an E-Soul helmet.

“Even if they get caught again, they’d have a clear motive for this new crime. No one would suspect the person behind-the-scenes— the one who wants to ruin you repeatedly.”

He lowered the helmet.

Click.

Seal.

The garage door groaned open. For a moment Yang Cheng thought it was just his imagination, but the sky for the last few days had been nothing but heavy gray. It was a color that followed him around like a curse.

He stepped out.

The light hit him.

And… someone’s breath called him from the side.

“Yang Cheng”

A panting voice. Almost breathless.

“Thank goodness… I got to you on time—”

Shang Chao.

Yang Cheng’s face didn’t move. Not even a twitch. He just walked past him.

Why bother acknowledging someone who didn’t show up for days? Who didn’t call, didn’t message, didn’t check? Someone whose so-called support was just polite surface-level affirmation? Someone who always looked perfect—even while disappearing the moment things got messy.

Shang Chao followed quickly.

“Yang Cheng. Yang Cheng— Hey! Are you listening?”

Footsteps.

Yang Cheng kept walking.

A hand grabbed his shoulder.

He stopped.

Just barely. As a thin wire of restraint pulled tight inside him.

Shang Chao spoke. His voice steady, practiced, the kind of calm tone he’d perfected over years of hiding everything underneath, “Yang Cheng, look I understand where you’re coming from—“

“Understand?”

Yang Cheng’s reply cut off Shang Chao. A sharp tone that uttered disbelief  through the damp air.

“You? Shang Chao? ..Understand me?”

Shang Chao’s lips parted. A reply ready. But nothing came out. Stuck. As he suddenly felt a lump on his throat. It tightened. The way it always did whenever he tried to say something real instead of rehearsed.

“Bullshit!”, Yang Cheng snapped, surprising even himself. His shoulders shook under the helmet. “How could you think you understand me?!”

All that pent-up emotions now flowing out in the form of words. Raw and unfiltered. So unlike Yang Cheng who kept his head bowed, swallowed by timidity. It came off naturally as if he never had trouble speaking up at all. This version of him.. was someone Shang Chao helped build — but not like this. Not this way.

“You don’t know what it feels like to be me,” Yang Cheng’s voice cracked. “You don’t know what it feels like to start off with ‘zero’ trust!

“I—”

The syllable slipped out before Shang Chao could stop it.

He almost said it.

That he too..

That ‘zero’ wasn’t just a number to him, either.

That he lived with ‘zero’ his whole damn life, too.

But he stiffened. His breath stopped. Before the words could form, another voice drowned them out:

‘Stay out of this.’

His father’s tone echoed so clearly it felt like it pressed a hand over his mouth. Shang Chao learned early. Speaking up only earned disapproval. Hiding was easier. Faking perfection was far easier.

How could he speak up now? How was he supposed to explain any of this without making Yang Cheng’s grief about him?

He couldn’t.

So he stayed silent. 

For the first time, Shang Chao wished his trust value wasn’t a secret.

Yang Cheng mistook the silence as arrogance.

“See”, Yang Cheng continued with a bitter smile under his helmet, “You won’t even deny.”

Something hot snapped inside Shang Chao—resentment he didn’t realize he’d been holding. That Yang Cheng could shout. That he could show everything openly. That he never had to swallow everything down just to survive in his own house.

“You really think I don’t get what it’s like to be flawed?” Shang Chao’s voice sharpened. “I made your E-Soul. That spike in trust value? That was ‘me’.”

“Yeah?” Yang Cheng shot back, taking another step closer. “And I’m still the one who has to live with it!”

They were toe-to-toe.

Then..

Yang Cheng shoved him. Hard.

Shang Chao stumbled, shoes skidding on the ground. It wasn’t enough to fall.. but enough to jolt something in him loose.

A lifetime of staying quiet.

A lifetime of folding himself small.

A lifetime of hearing a voice that says, be perfect or don’t speak at all.

Shang Chao’s fist shot forward before he could think. A clean, instinctive punch to Yang Cheng’s shoulder. 

Yang Cheng blinked, stunned, then swung back. A punch that contained no electricity. As if proving it came from himself, and not from what he gained as the new E-Soul.

And suddenly they weren’t talking. Not properly. Shoves. Grabs. Half-aimed punches that were more frustration than violence. Anger tangled with fear, tangled with the raw grief of losing someone they both cared about.

Words slipped between hits.

“You—don’t—get—to act—like you’re the only—one—who could feel!”, Shang Chao argued between messy punches.

“Oh stop acting like you care!” It came off harsh again. Yang Cheng’s voice.

Another shove. Another skid across asphalt.

They weren’t trying to hurt each other.

They were trying not to drown.

Finally Yang Cheng shoved Shang Chao against a wall, forearm against his shoulder, breaths ragged.

“Can’t you see? Behind all that. I just wanted to have at least one person see me.” His voice trembled. “That’s how Xia Qing is to me. She sees me. Someone like you— talented, wise..”

His hand lowered with his head, as he took a step back. “What do you know?”

A beat.

“You’re just an outsider”

Shang Chao didn’t move. He didn’t even blink. But something inside him cracked so sharply, it felt like the sound echoed between them.

“I see you.. too”

Why couldn’t he just say it. Those simple words that lingered on the tip of Shang Chao’s tongue. It wouldn’t leave his mouth. It stayed trapped, locked behind the familiar wall of self-doubt. So instead, he voiced out something smaller, something safer.

“You’re right.”

He hated how soft it sounded, far from what he intended. How it shook despite all his training not to. Still he continued. Forcing out something louder, firmer. Because fake confidence was the only mask he knew how to wear.

“Still, that doesn’t mean you could just recklessly come barging in E-Soul’s door asking to be killed.”

Yang Cheng flinched.

He should just listen. What Shang Chao said should’ve been enough.

It wasn’t.

A clouded mind can’t possibly listen to reason. 

Yang Cheng fired back instantly, “You have no say in this!”

Drip.

Along with the drop of a coming rain, Yang Cheng’s voice came within seconds.

“You don’t get it”, he continued with a mumble slightly above whisper, almost lost in the drizzle — but loud enough for Shang Chao to hear. “If you were in Xia Qing’s situation, you wouldn’t be saying this..” 

A brief silence.

Drip. Drip.

Shang Chao stood frozen.

“Are you saying…” he whispered, “I should’ve been the one in her place instead?”

He didn’t understand why he asked. Maybe because the thought festered in him. Maybe because deep down, he believed it before Yang Cheng even said anything. 

“…No”

The answer immediately resounded in Yang Cheng’s mind, “Of course not. That’s not what I meant—”. 

But in reality? His mouth didn’t move.

For some reason, there it was again. Like he’s back to zero. Just like old times. When fear stole his voice and locked every apology inside. Now he stood frozen again, unable to fix what he’d broken.

Silence stretched.

A long, shattering silence.

Drip. Drip… Drip…

The drizzle turned into rain. Soft at first. Then harder. Pounding on the ground. Pounding on Shang Chao’s heart.

The more Yang Cheng remained silent, the more Shang Chao’s heart tightened. The silence was too loud. Every second Yang Cheng remained quiet, Shang Chao’s own thoughts — grown from years of self-criticism and impossible standards — crushed him. 

…

‘Oh.’

‘He agrees.’

Shang Chao couldn’t see what expression Yang Cheng made. He couldn’t see the face of guilt behind the helmet. What he saw was just his reflection, distorted from the raindrops, trying not to falter. How did Yang Cheng look like right now? It suddenly felt terrifying to imagine.

The next words came not from Yang Cheng. But from Shang Chao. 

It wasn’t loud.

It wasn’t confident.

It wasn’t even steady.

“You know…” He inhaled carefully, as if breathing wrong would make him fall apart. “I really did believe in you.”

Yang Cheng’s head snapped up.

“I started to believe you could become a great hero on your own,” Shang Chao continued. “I told myself.. I’ll make sure of it”

Rain poured harder, blurring the edges of his smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I trust you.”

A shaky breath.

“and I still do.”

Yang Cheng felt a prick in his chest. Those words sounded sincere. Too sincere, it stung. It didn’t feel like it was meant for him. He didn’t feel like he deserved it.

Shang Chao continued with a shaky undertone, “So even if you don’t trust me enough to stop you right now… at least, try not to die on me.”

A brief pause.

“Would you?”

Pitter. Patter.

His feet felt numb from standing far too long in the rain. So Shang Chao stepped aside. Then again. With a heart too fragile to stay — he walked past Yang Cheng. Leaving slowly, quietly, in deliberate steps. Like someone trying not to collapse.

Behind him, the rain sheets fell.

And in its silver curtain stood a lone E-Soul. 

Once again. 

Yang Cheng stood all alone. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 5 

Things Eventually Fall Into Place

“Achoo!”

His parted hair clung damp against his forehead, ruined by the rain. Shang Chao didn’t fix it, too bothered with his thoughts. He sat on a small shed near a convenience store, sheltered just enough to stop shivering.

“Ugh. Is the rain stopping anytime soon?”

He mumbled to himself. Words, more for distraction than conversation.

‘Even after you take off your mask, you are still E-Soul.’

He said that towards Yang Cheng as further reassurance to encourage the boy. But if he was honest, he said it more for himself.

A reminder that somewhere beneath all that facade, there was still him. Part of it was still real. Mask or no mask.

‘I trust you.’

“Trust… hah.”

It didn’t come off easy. 

Not to Shang Chao, who didn’t even trust himself.

But he did trust Yang Cheng. Right? Of course he did—

So why did he sit up again, foot tapping impatiently against the ground, unable to stay still?

He was still worried after all. Despite believing in Yang Cheng’s capabilities, he can’t keep pretending not to care. Especially not when Yang Cheng’s going up against the real E-Soul. The same E-Soul who once fought Zero himself. When Shang Chao thinks about it.. Yang Cheng was crazy for even trying. 

“Ugh. Damn it.”

Woosh.

A gust of wind flew over him as Shang Chao immediately rose from his seat, sending a cold shiver all over his body. The rain still poured. But his feet still ran on the slippery concrete. His body moved before his mind could catch up.

“Damn.. Yang Cheng..”

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He had planned everything—Yang Cheng’s training, his growth, his image, the way the public would receive him.

He was supposed to be in control.

So why did his chest hurt like this? Why did his hands tremble every time he imagined Yang Cheng facing E-Soul alone?

It made no sense.

Yang Cheng was a project. A symbol. A substitute for everything Shang Chao believed he lacked.

When did he start to care?

Was it when he noticed the small, unguarded smile that appears on Yang Cheng’s face after successfully saving someone?

Was it the way Yang Cheng hummed with satisfaction as he watched videos about the new E-Soul?

Shang Chao simply used him. He approached him, not with kindness, but a means for control. That’s why, he decided to manufacture a hero through Yang Cheng who shared the same trust value. To fill a void he refuses to admit exists.

If Yang Cheng can stand on the stage, maybe he too could have a place in this world.

Yang Cheng’s victory was also his.

That’s really all there is to it. That was how it’s supposed to be. A twisted sense of ownership and projection towards a boy who unknowingly gave him purpose.

By the time Shang Chao got back to where he left Yang Cheng standing, the spot was empty. 

Of course he isn’t there anymore. But still—

“Yang Cheng!”, Shang Chao called out louder. Desperate for his voice to be heard amidst the rain.

He kept running. Heading towards the city. Without even knowing where to start looking. But he pushed past through crowds of people still. Even as he didn’t feel his legs. Shang Chao never ran like this in his life. Not even when they were looking for Xia Qing. Never this messy. Never without a plan.

Back in middle school, Shang Chao used to run laps every morning. It was required. A routine. A shape his body moved through with precision and control. Back straight. Breath measured. Steps never straying away from the track. Even when his lungs burned, even when his legs shook, he never stumbled. A Shang Chao who fell out of rhythm was a Shang Chao who would be corrected.

Now?

His strides were messy, uncoordinated, splashing into puddles with no regard for form. He slipped once, twice, caught himself on a wall, panting like someone who had never run before.

“You’re just an outsider.”

He misstepped as he recalled Yang Cheng’s voice. His foot slid on the slick pavement.

He fell.

Palms hitting cold concrete, mud splashing against his clothes. He hadn’t been this filthy since he was a child. For a moment, he just stared at his dirt-covered hands, rain washing streaks through the grime. A perfectionist, ruined by a single misstep.

Yang Cheng was right.

He was an outsider. He used him. That’s all he ever did.

He should accept that.

He should stop.

But instead—

Shang Chao pushed himself to his feet with a force that bordered on desperation. He didn’t even brush off the dirt. Didn’t bother with composure. Didn’t look back.

He ran and called out again.

“Yang Cheng!”

He turned into a corner. Somewhere with less people. He didn’t even know if this was the right direction. If he could even make it. His heartbeat was erratic. His vision blurred at the edges.

Fear.

He knew the taste of it. He grew up teaching himself to avoid it, hide it, overwrite it with obedience.

But this was different.

This fear wasn’t for himself.

It was for Yang Cheng.

“He couldn’t possibly have already—”, he hissed through clenched teeth.

But then. He saw him.

Yang Cheng.

He stood at the corner across the road, rain cascading down his face like tears the sky shed for him. His mask, now sitting in his arms. 

“Yang Cheng!” Shang Chao’s voice cracked.

Yang Cheng sees him too.

Time felt like it stopped, the moment their eyes locked.

“Shang… Chao..”

Yang Cheng smiled unbeknownst to himself. “You came all this way..  for me?” 

“Idiot. Who else?”, Shang Chao called out with a relieved smile as he stepped off the curb.

Yang Cheng’s eyes widened as he took one step toward him.

Then—

Headlights.

A horn.

A blur of white steel.

Shang Chao froze.

Yang Cheng didn’t.

He moved. Electricity filling his veins.

A hand reached out — desperate, instinctive.

“Shang Chao!”

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Stop…

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I said stop.

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I’m talking to YOU. You know..

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That’s enough. Reader.

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It’s for the best.

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Why are you so desperate?

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What did you expect?

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For him to live?

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How funny.

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Did you really think fate would allow it?

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Just stop… 

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This isn’t a world of sunshine

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Why are you still here?

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You asked for it..

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Yang Cheng reacted before he even had time to think. One second, the headlights swallowed Shang Chao whole. The next, Yang Cheng crashed into him with his arms wrapped tight. The world spun as they tumbled across the asphalt. Bits of dirt covered them in each tumble. 

When they finally stopped rolling, Yang Cheng pushed himself up with shaking arms.

“Hey are you alright—“

Silence.

“…Shang Chao?”

Shang Chao didn’t move.

“Shang Chao!” Yang Cheng’s voice cracked. His hands were trembling too hard to hide.

Shang Chao remained silent — but his eyes opened slightly, peeking on Yang Cheng’s expression. It’s not that he couldn’t move, nor is he injured. Rather, he wanted to mess around a bit. Because the sting of Yang Cheng’s earlier words still echoed in his chest.

“Fine. Let the boy panic a little. Serve him right for—“

Yang Cheng leaned in closer, swallowing hard, reaching for Shang Chao’s wrist.

Pulse check.

Shang Chao’s heart stopped for a completely different reason.

His wrist… His trust value… Exposed.

Shit.

He jolted upright so fast he hit his forehead against Yang Cheng. Preventing the latter from even getting a glance of the number.

“Aw”, Yang Cheng yelped. 

“Surprise?” Shang Chao forced a laugh, wiping dirt off his cheek. “Relax. I was pranking you. Totally fine. See? Alive. Breathing. Not dead. Again.”

Yang Cheng stared at him.

There was no laughter, nor relief. Just wide, unfocused eyes.

“I don’t… understand,” he mumbled.

Shang Chao blinked. “Understand what?”

“Why?”, Yang Cheng let out without thinking.

“Why what??”, Shang Chao’s brows knitted.

Yang Cheng’s thoughts echoed loud.

Why can you still smile like nothing happened? 

You almost died. Not once. But twice! Why is it that death keeps chasing you? 

Why does it feel like you’re meant to disappear no matter how many times I pull you back?

But what came out was, “Why I want to punch you in the face again.”

Shang Chao blinked. “…Huh?”

Yang Cheng still hadn’t fully caught his breath. His chest rose and fell too fast, like he was forcing air into lungs that refused to cooperate. His hands hovered in the space between them. Wanting to grab, to shake, to hold—yet pulling back at the last second.

His voice came out low, almost hoarse.

“I really… really want to punch you right now.”

Shang Chao stared at him with a wry smile. “For saving you from making a stupid decision?”

“For almost dying again,” Yang Cheng snapped again, but the bite melted halfway through, cracking under something rawer. “Do you… do you have any idea what just…”

Shang Chao’s shoulders lowered. His eyes softened, just a fraction. “Hey. I’m fine. I told you—”

“No, you’re not,” Yang Cheng said quietly.

The words stopped Shang Chao. Those words hit him harder than a truck ever could. For it hit somewhere he didn’t know was unguarded.

For a second, the world was still. The settling dust, the overturned trash bin from their tumble, the faint ringing in Yang Cheng’s ears. Even the sky, now almost out of rain to pour, seemed to hold its breath.

Yang Cheng looked at him with that strange expression again. Anger? Annoyance? No.

Something closer to… fear.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Yang Cheng murmured. He shook his head, as if trying to reorganize thoughts that refused to stay still. “You shouldn’t be… you shouldn’t be able to smile like that. Not after— not when—”

Shang Chao swallowed a lump. His joke died in his throat.

“And the way you just…” Yang Cheng gestured his hand on the road. “Ran into danger without thinking. Like you don’t care if you.. if something happens to…”

“I do care,” Shang Chao cut in. A bit too quickly. Too defensive.

“Then act like it!” Yang Cheng burst out.

…

Yang Cheng’s tone lowered again, trembling in a way he tried, but failed, to hide.

“You can’t keep doing that. You can’t just throw yourself in front of things, and then get up like nothing happened. You can’t…” He pressed his lips together. “…keep scaring me like that.”

…

Shang Chao, for another moment, didn’t know what to say. He tried to deflect. “What, are you saying you’d miss—”

“Shut up.”

The command wasn’t sharp. It was desperate.

The storm clouds finally shifted, and a blade of moonlight cut through the dark, slicing across the street in fractured beams. It lit their breath. Their dirty, soaked clothes. The steam rising faintly from the still-wet pavement.

Shang Chao’s throat worked. “Yang Cheng…”

Yang Cheng, for the first time, looked at him with steady eyes. “You almost died twice,” he whispered. “And I… I can’t—” He cut himself off, shaking his head furiously. “I can’t keep watching you get close to disappearing. I just—”

Shang Chao’s heartbeat stuttered. 

Yang Cheng stood up to take a step back, as if afraid of what might come out next.

So Shang Chao closed the distance instead.

He didn’t say anything dramatic. He didn’t smile. He didn’t joke. He didn’t tease.

He simply reached out…

and held Yang Cheng’s wrist. 

He didn’t mean to. It was instinctive.

“I’m here,” he said softly.

Shang Chao’s voice resounded in a way that felt unfamiliar.

“I’m still here.”

A breath hitched.

He couldn’t tell whose it was.

A flutter. 

A beat.

“Ah.”

He wasn’t saying anything. Yang Cheng. Stunned? Maybe. 

His pulse thrummed under Shang Chao’s fingers, an unsteady rhythm that gave too much away. This is dangerous. If Shang Chao keeps holding his wrist like this… 

[The fight between old and new E-Soul is about to begin!]

The announcement broke the silence.

“S-shang Chao… You can let go of me now—“

But Shang Chao gripped tighter. 

“Promise me you won’t go first”

“But…”

[The 34th Anniversary Event is about to become the battlefield.]

“What are we supposed to do with that?”

Chapter Text

Chapter 6

Please Stop Almost Dying, Thanks

[The 34th Anniversary Event is about to become the battlefield.]

“What are we supposed to do with that?”, Yang Cheng asked.

Shang Chao answered, “I don’t know, Yang Cheng. Maybe not die?”. He didn’t even consider the idea. 

Yang Cheng opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. Then, softly.

“But Xia Qing has…”

A cold, heavy silence.

Shang Chao felt something tighten in his chest. So that’s what this was about. Still.

“So you’re still thinking of going?” he asked, voice low. “Without a plan?”

“I have a plan,” Yang Cheng insisted. “Uncle Rock helped me.”

“Uncle—” Shang Chao’s brows furrowed, incredulous. “He’s a cafe owner. How is he going to help—”

“You said you trust me”, Yang Cheng said without pause.

And Shang Chao. Damn him, does. 

He hated it. He hated that Yang Cheng said it so simply. He hated that it worked. So..

Shang Chao clicked his tongue and looked away. “Fine,” he said. “Go. Whatever.”

Yang Cheng froze. “Really?”

Shang Chao exhaled sharply, “Can I even stop you?”, he uttered.

“Then…”, Yang Cheng reluctantly picked up his fallen mask. After another look at Shang Chao, he raised the helmet back in his face. Yang Cheng nodded once before turning away, steps steady, posture squared toward the city lights ahead.

Shang Chao watched him take three… four… five steps.

Then he followed. Shang Chao observed Yang Cheng’s back. It looked bigger than he remembered. His walk felt steady even with his pathetically messy, soiled suit. The trust value glowing on his wrist pulsed faintly, numbers rising even now.

Yang Cheng, who was filled with thoughts focused on defeating the Old E-Soul, took a while to register that Shang Chao was walking behind him. He didn't comment. He kept walking, water dripping from the edge of his mask, footsteps splashing through shallow puddles. The silence pressed between them, but Yang Cheng didn’t break it. He never did, not when something bothered him. 

Every few meters, he made a quick, subtle glance. Like he was checking if Shang Chao was still there, yet pretending he wasn’t.

They passed the quieter outskirts. Then..  the first signs of the city. Billboards flickering, traffic humming, distant murmurs of a crowd gathering for the anniversary event.

Yang Cheng finally stopped. He turned, rainwater sliding down the metal curve of his mask.

“…Shang Chao.” His voice, barely louder than the street noise, pronounced a soft, careful, “You.. shouldn’t be following.”

Shang Chao met his gaze without hesitation. “I need to watch.”

“There’s a livestream”, Yang Cheng’s followed.

“I’ll—” Shang Chao paused. “I’ll stop when you’re near.”

Yang Cheng looked behind, then back to Shang Chao, “But we’re already…”

Even without finishing the sentence, Shang Chao knew what Yang Cheng meant. The silhouette of the hero tower was already visible. People are starting to notice Yang Cheng’s presence. Their phones, cameras, drones ready. They’re already ‘near’.

With a sigh, Shang Chao waved his hand, gesturing Yang Cheng to go. And Yang Cheng… did. Without hesitation.

The biggest district billboard echoed with the live news.

[BATTLE BETWEEN NEW AND OLD E-SOUL, WHO WILL BE THE ULTIMATE WINNER?]

“I’ll watch.”

Shang Chao had said it. He even meant it at the time.

But the second Yang Cheng walked into that arena, lightning fluctuating across the sky… the second the air shifted, as the camera panned to the unmistakable silhouette of the old E-Soul waiting up ahead…

Shang Chao’s stomach dropped so hard he almost doubled over.

Battlefield.

He suddenly wasn’t ready for that.

He felt sick. Actually, physically sick. Like he was about to vomit.

The reporter’s voice echoed.

‘I think that Old E-Soul has the advantage in battle experience and equipment from his support team.’

His knees threatened to give.

“I can’t—“, The words escaped before he could stop them. “I can’t watch this.”

And just like that, his feet moved. Following the instinct that screamed for him to turn around and lock himself in his room like he always did when things got too big. He did this all the time as a child. When his father’s voice got too sharp. When expectations grew too heavy. When trust values glowed too brightly.

Hide. Shut down. Disappear.

And now, of all times, the old instinct came crawling back like a curse.

The second reporter continued.

‘But don’t forget. In this world, the source of power is still Trust Value. At this time, New E-Soul’s supporters have already begun to overtake those of Old E-Soul. So the deciding factor of this duel…’

He shouldn’t worry. Worrying meant fear. Fear meant his trust might drop. Yang Cheng needed that trust to stay alive.

He should be calm. Calculated. Stable.

But as he walked in a hurry, trying to ignore the rumbles of thunder in the sky, the air vibrating with static, the loud news, the talk of the crowd that watched with divided opinions— his breath kept hitching. The edges of his vision tunneling.

He ran away. Back to his residence. Ignoring the guards taken aback by the presence of the Treeman heir suddenly entering from outside.

The sky turned purple.

Even Shang Chao wasn’t able to ignore it past the windows. A crackle split the sky, violet lightning branching across the clouds like a warning.

That color. That intensity.

He remembered it. During Old E-Soul’s fight against Zero.

‘Lightning Slash’

That was the Old E-Soul’s signature move. His finishing strike. The one he used when he intended to end things.

Just seeing it made Shang Chao’s pulse spike faster than he ran. And suddenly, the feet taking him to his bedroom door— turned straight into their rooftop.

Shang Chao went directly into the private loading area where his father’s helicopter sat.

He climbed in. Clicked the belts. Fiddled with controls he definitely wasn’t supposed to know. His hands shook, but adrenaline guided him.

“This is fine. Totally fine,” he muttered to himself like a lunatic. “I’ll return it. Eventually.”

Shang Chao slammed the throttle forward.

“Yang Cheng… You better not die on me.”

The helicopter roared to life, rotors tearing at the air. The aircraft vibrated, metal rattling like it was about to shake apart.

Then.. a deep rumble rolled across the sky. It didn’t sound like a normal thunder.

The purple lightning above started moving. It dragged itself across the clouds, slow but deliberate, as if drawn toward the distant battlefield, like something had finally chosen its prey.

BBBBBRRRRRUUUUUMMMMMMM!

***

The smoke has barely settled when Shang Chao arrived at the place. 

There he saw him. 

A body, slumped on the ground, head leaning against the charred remains of a pillar. Eyes closed. The cyan in his tattered clothes now barely perceptible, his body filled with burns and cuts. His chest didn’t look like it’s moving.

For a full heartbeat, Shang Chao just stands there.

When Shang Chao saw this scene his initial thought was: Bloody hell.

His second thought was something he said out loud, “Idiot.. are you alive?”

His voice cracked slightly. He hated that he can hear the fear in it.

Behind him, struggling footsteps approached. Xia Qing just got down from the helicopter. Her pace is uneven, breath thin, but she forced herself forward anyway.

 “Shang Chao..” She gripped her own arm for balance. “Is he okay?..”

Yang Cheng remained unmoving. However, what he didn’t realize was that for a second, Shang Chao caught his right eye glancing sneakily through his broken helmet, at their direction. 

A deliberate, annoying, petty little glance.

Shang Chao nearly collapsed from relief and anger at the same time. He inhaled sharply.

 “I see.. trying to get back at me huh… if this is how he wants to act then..”

“If I knew this would happen,” Shang Chao spoke in the most emotional manner he could do, “I wouldn’t have…”

Xia Qing’s breath catches as she stammered, “Wha— what do you mean?”

Shang Chao dropped to one knee beside Yang Cheng, lowering his voice, filled with grief he does not feel.

“He was an honorable man. E-Soul— no, Yang Cheng.. I’m sure he.. he will always be remembered as a hero”, Shang Chao tried his absolute best to control himself.

Xia Qing’s face crumbled. Her tone trembled with genuine heartbreak.

“Ahh.. so Yang Cheng really is..”

“I’m not dead!”

Yang Cheng finally dropped the act. “Xia Qing why in the world were you so quick to accept my de— wait. Xia Qing??”

Xia Qing let out a weak but relieved smile, breaking through the exhaustion of her still-recovering body.

“Yes? Yang Cheng.”

Yang Cheng finally realized Xia Qing is swaying.

Her knees buckled. So Yang Cheng stood up. Despite the painful bruises pulling at his muscles, despite the fact that he just fought a monster while half-dead, he moved. Fast.

“Xia Qing! careful!”

He caught her elbow with his least-injured hand, steadying her before she falls. His breath stuttered from the pain, but he gritted through it, pulling her upright.

“You’re supposed to be at the hospital,” he muttered, voice rough but gentle. “Why did you come running out here?”

Xia Qing opened her mouth. Probably to scold him, probably to cry.. but she doesn’t get the chance.

Because Shang Chao sees it.

And something in him jerks.

He didn’t change expression, but for one sharp second, the sight of Yang Cheng leaning close to Xia Qing, touching her arm, supporting her—

Somewhere beneath his mind sounded an irrational:

Get away from him.

He blinked, startled by his own reaction. He folded his arms across his chest like he can physically shove the feeling back inside.

“Hah…” he muttered under his breath, trying to scoff but failing to hide the stiffness in his shoulders. “Would you look at that. A dead man is talking.”

Yang Cheng, still steadying Xia Qing, shot him a glare.

“You’re one to talk,” he snapped. “You almost cried over me two minutes ago!”

Shang Chao’s eye twitched. “I did not.”

“You were kneeling dramatically!”

“It’s called acting, you ungrateful corpse!”

“Don’t call me a corpse in front of Xia Qing!”

Xia Qing tried to speak between them, flustered and embarrassed, “U-um… Yang Cheng..” She’s blushing. Not romantically, just flustered because he’s fussing over her.

But Shang Chao’s brain didn’t care.

He spoke with a clenched jaw, “Hey! Your hand’s bleeding on her, you idiot! Let go before you stain her clothes!”

“This is the least of my problems right now!” Yang Cheng barked back.

Xia Qing blinked as their bickering escalated, her head turning left and right like she was watching a tennis match. What…? They’d never fought like this before. She hasn’t seen Yang Cheng this worked up before.

She narrowed her eyes slightly. “Did something happen while I was gone? Now that I think about it, Shang Chao also looks injured…”

“You can’t even stand properly, genius! What are you planning to do, collapse on her next?!”, Shang Chao let out a sarcastic sneer.

Yang Cheng bristled, tightening his arm around Xia Qing just to make a point. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you want to hold her up instead? Should I step aside and let you play hero?”

Shang Chao’s jaw clicked audibly. “Don’t start with me, Yang Cheng. You can barely breathe.”

“And you can barely mind your own business!”

“I am minding my business. I’m trying to keep you from being a danger to literally everyone around you!”

Yang Cheng leaned closer. Too close. “Say that again.”

“Gladly,” Shang Chao bit out. “You. Are. A. Hazard.”

“Oh my god, you’re both injured!” Xia Qing yelled, suddenly exasperated. “Stop acting like children!”

They both freeze.

Xia Qing has noticed that authorities were starting to gather. The smoke was cleared enough, the cameras would see them. She sighed deeply, pressing her forehead with her palm.

“Let’s… just go back.”

Yang Cheng reluctantly removed his hand from her arm.

And Shang Chao told himself the odd relief he feels is because..

“Good. Because he needs medical attention. Obviously. That’s all.”

He absolutely does not admit, even to himself, that it felt like something sharp got removed from his chest the moment Yang Cheng let her go.

Somewhere on the battlefield, the Old E-Soul lay in the cratered ground. The world buzzed with noise. From confusion, coming from people who needed results. But here— it was quiet.

His fingers twitched. His blurred vision, looked at the sky above him, now with a washed-out smear of violet and gray.

His trust value, once blinding in its prime, flickered weakly. Dropping lower than it had ever been in all thirty-four years.

A number that could be read as defeat.

But he didn’t feel defeated.

Instead, he exhaled a long, tired breath. The kind that releases something he’d been holding for far too long. A burden he should’ve put down years ago. The old mask on him was now cracked clean down the center.

He closed his eyes.

For the first time in a while, he felt — light.

High above the city, the rooftop of the Shang residence sat cold and quiet. Wind brushed against the railing, carrying the faint echoes of the anniversary chaos from miles away.

Shang De stepped out into the open air, shoes sinking into the thin layer of dust left on the landing pad.

The landing pad that should not have been empty. His gaze lingered on the vacant square of concrete.

No helicopter. No son.

He didn’t sigh. He didn’t panic. He simply stood there, dark eyes reflecting the void where the aircraft once rested.

Behind him, a door slid open. A subordinate spoke in a low voice.

“Mr Shand, the reports… they confirm your son is safe.”

Shang De gave no verbal reply. He simply kept his eyes on the empty helicopter pad. After a long quiet..

he stepped back inside. 

— SNAP! —

Shang Chao observed Yang Cheng’s back. It looked bigger than he remembered. His walk felt steady even with his pathetically messy, soiled suit. The trust value glowing on his wrist pulsed faintly, numbers rising even now.

His wrist…

Shang Chao’s expression slowly— painfully— fell out of its calm mask.

His brain? It resounded: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH

Wrist.

He grabbed his wrist.

Not the shoulder nor the arm. No, of course not. His dumb, treacherous, emotionally-compromised body had to go straight for something weirdly intimate like—

Who holds someone’s wrist like that?!

Shang Chao pressed both palms into his face.

Two drenched boys, faces bruised from fighting, standing too close… one grabbing the other by the wrist like some tragic drama couple.

It would look like—
A lovers’ quarrel.
A very stupid lovers’ quarrel.

“Why the wrist…” he said in his mind. “It was supposed to be the shoulder. Shoulder! Normal people touch shoulders!”

He peeked at his own hand like it had personally betrayed him. Which, as far as he was concerned, it had.

His thoughts spiraled as he recalled what he just said.

‘I’m here’

Shang Chao’s ears burned.

Why did I say it like THAT??

Why did I stand so close??

Why did my voice sound like..

Oh no.

OH NO.

The worst part? Yang Cheng didn’t even say anything. He just stared. Like Shang Chao had cast some emotional spell on him.

If anyone— literally ANYONE— saw that scene without context, it would be game over. He’d have to move countries. Change identities. Become a monk.

He slapped both cheeks.

“Focus. Shang Chao. Yang Cheng is having a big fight. You need to give your trust.”, he whispered to himself.

But his mind unhelpfully replayed the moment his fingers tightened around Yang Cheng’s wrist..

and he let out another internal scream.

— SNAP! —

The helicopter punched through a strip of cloud, rattling hard enough to make Shang Chao’s teeth click together. He tightened his grip on the controls, leaning forward, eyes locked on the tiny blinking dot of Hero Tower in the distance.

He wasn’t a pilot. He wasn’t supposed to be doing this. He wasn’t even supposed to ‘leave’ the house.

None of that mattered now.

There was only one thought pounding in his chest...

‘Get.’

...Loud.

‘To.’

Frantic...

‘Yang Cheng.’

...Impossible to ignore.

“Just a little more...” He muttered, though the controls jerked every time the wind slammed into them.

Please don’t crash.

Please don’t crash.

He dipped lower to get beneath the thick storm clouds.

Please don’t crash--

“???”

He saw a blur of movement on the street, quick and unmistakably familiar.

Shang Chao squinted.

“...What the--?”

Someone was sprinting toward Hero Tower with hair flying back, a hospital gown snapping at their legs, and bare feet pounding the wet pavement.

Shang Chao’s brain emptied.

“Xia Qing...?”

For one horrifying second he thought she was a ghost, because how else would she be here? How could she be out of the hospital?

He leaned closer to the windshield.

No, she wasn’t a ghost or a hallucination. It was Xia Qing! Running in a hospital gown.

Right.

Down.

The.

Center.

Of.

The.

Street.

“Are you kidding me?!” He shouted at the city below. “You’re supposed to be resting! You can’t even run with proper shoes--”

A full-force escapee who’d torn free of her IV and left three nurses in the dust.

Shang Chao dragged a hand down his face, “...”

She escaped, just like him.

Unbelievable...

A strangled, half-panicked laugh tore out of him.

Absolutely unbelievable...

He dropped the helicopter lower and yelled through the open door: “Xia Qing! What are you doing?!”

She didn’t flinch. She looked up, spotted him, and screamed with her entire soul: “Don’t leave without me!”

Shang Chao nearly swallowed his tongue, “I’m not leaving you-- but get in before you die!”

He angled toward a low rooftop. Xia Qing scrambled up the fire escape ladder (powered by stubbornness more than strength) and dragged herself over the railing. As soon as she got close, Shang Chao grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside.

She collapsed into the seat, gasping, “I wasn’t... staying... in that bed... while Yang Cheng... walked into a deathmatch... alone...!”

“You shouldn’t even be out of the hospital!”

“There was no time for clothes-- just go!”

Shang Chao bit back the urge to scream.

He slammed the door shut and pulled the controls toward him. The helicopter pushed back into the storm, blades fighting the wind.

Both of them shook with fear and exhaustion, anger simmering beneath it, yet their focus stayed the same.

They were heading to Yang Cheng.

“Hold on.” Shang Chao said quietly.

They were heading toward the tower where lightning kept striking the steel...

Xia Qing gripped the seatbelt. “I already am.”

...Toward a choice neither of them could walk away from.

The helicopter dove toward Hero Tower.

— SNAP! —

Prologue — END

Chapter Text

Chapter 7

Runaway Young Master

‘And that’s it for our vlog! Leave in the comments below your suggestions on where we should travel next. Don’t forget to like and subscribe!’

‘Once again, your girl Moon is signing out!’

Yang Cheng stared at the screen. Then dropped his phone on his stomach with a sigh.

“…She looks happy,” he muttered to no one, arms limp on either side of him. The hospital ceiling stared back. Sterile, bland, the opposite of Moon’s sparkly, chaotic energy.

It wasn’t fair.

Moon was out there living her life. He was stuck in a room that smelled like rubbing alcohol because Xia Qing declared—

“You fainted even before we could walk a distance, Yang Cheng. You’re staying here.”

He groaned into his pillow.

“I didn’t faint. I… temporarily lost balance.”

For a full minute.

Fine, maybe he did faint. But it was definitely because he was too surprised at the rapid spike on his trust value.

He flopped back dramatically—only to jolt upright when the door slammed open.

“YANG CHENG!!!”

Little Pomelo flew in. The boy practically surfed into the room, arms wide, wearing the brightest grin in the entire hospital wing.

“You did it!” Little Pomelo crowed, jumping onto the foot of the bed. “You actually fought the real E-Soul! You’re so cool! Everyone in class is talking about it!”

“Don’t jump…!” Yang Cheng tried.

Too late. Little Pomelo bounced.

Right onto Yang Cheng’s leg.

“GAH—Pomelo!!”

Behind him, Xia Qing appeared in the doorway, panting, one hand gripping the doorframe.

“Sorry—he ran—faster than—my stitches—can keep up—”

The moment she lifted her head, Yang Cheng’s irritation died. She looked pale. Slowly recovering. Moving gently, like everything hurt.

“…You should be in bed,” Yang Cheng said, frowning.

“You should be in bed,” Xia Qing shot back.

“I am… in bed.”

“…Good.”

“…”

“…Anyway!” she said too loudly. “There are kids outside asking for you.”

Kids?

Plural?

As in—

The door burst open again. A tidal wave of children crashed into the room.

“E-SOUL!”

“Yang Cheng!!”

“You were so cool!!”

“Can you sign my notebook???”

“Take a picture please!”

“CAN YOU DO THE POSE?? THE ONE FROM BEFORE??”

Xia Qing tried to shield him. Pomelo tried to hug him again. The nurse tried to stop them all. The children tried to climb the bed.

It was chaos. Pure, overwhelming, heart-cramping chaos.

Yang Cheng endured it with the exact expression of a man being eaten alive by baby piranhas.

“Okay! okay! one at a time—c-can everyone just… OW—no pulling—my IV—WHOSE CHILD IS THAT— WAIT IS THAT MY GLOVES—”

Eventually, after autographs, blurry selfies, three accidental elbow hits, two spilled juices, and one child who attempted to climb into the ceiling vent…

Xia Qing herded them all out.

The room fell silent.

Yang Cheng collapsed backward, limbs dangling off the bed like a ragdoll.

“…I’m dead,” he wheezed.

“You’re alive,” Xia Qing reminded with a chuckle. “Unfortunately.”

Yang Cheng weakly lifted a hand before letting it fall against his chest.

“…Xia Qing?”

“Hm?”

He swallowed. Suddenly, the room felt empty. Too quiet without all that noise.

“Where…” He hesitated but asked anyway. “Where’s Shang Chao?”

Xia Qing blinked.

“Ah,” she said softly. “He was with me earlier but something came up.”

Yang Cheng furrowed his brows. “What did?”

“He’s wanted.” Xia Qing replied.

“What?!” Yang Cheng immediately sat upright.

Xia Qing puts her hand up, ”Not criminally… just paternally.”

Yang Cheng blinked.

“His words, not mine.” Xia Qing suddenly reached into her bag. “Speaking of Shang Chao. He told me to give you this.”

Yang Cheng looked at it, wary. “…What is it?”

Xia Qing handed him a small item, cleanly wrapped in tissues. “Some kind of… present? I honestly can’t tell.”

Yang Cheng slowly unwrapped it. Inside the wrapping was a cheap golden trophy.

“…He gave me a trophy,” he whispered.

Xia Qing peeked. “Something’s written”

Yang Cheng stared.

It wasn’t even embossed. On the front, written in marker, with an ironically neat handwriting:

#1 Biggest Idiot — For Attempting To Fight E-Soul

And right below, a barely perceptible:

— From the guy you punched in the face

“Congrats, I guess.”

***

Shang Chao stared at the trophy he bought for Yang Cheng. It didn’t feel right leaving it like this. Yang Cheng always celebrated victories properly, even the stupid ones. Shang Chao pressed a thumb to the dented metal, thinking.

A proper emboss would take hours. He had fifteen minutes of free will left before his father’s people tracked him down. So he rushed to a stationery store.

The bell above the door chimed violently as he slammed it open. Shelves of glittery craft items assaulted his eyes.

Perfect.

There he stole (borrowed) a sharpie to scribble what he had in mind. After which, he hunted through rows of stickers until he found one: a sparkly gold badge that read ‘#1 Fighter!’ He held it up, squinted, and grumbled, “Too sincere.”

He found a second sheet buried behind it.

One lonely sticker: ‘Barely Survived!’

“…Much better.”

He kneels on the floor, trophy on his lap, carefully aligning it.

He moves it 1 millimeter. Stares. Moves it back 1 millimeter.

Not realizing he has completely blocked the aisle.

An elderly man behind him called out, “Young man… excuse me…”

Shang Chao replied, “One sec one sec one sec.. it’s a bit off-centered—”

A staff member from the store approaches.

Staff, “Sir, if you’re not purchasing, please—”

Shang Chao, “I am purchasing. I’m just perfectionizing.”

Staff, “That’s not a word, sir.”

Shang Chao, “It is when you’re suffering.”

The staff sighs. The elderly man sighs. A child sighs just because everyone else is sighing.

After five agonizing minutes, Shang Chao finally presses the sticker in place— perfectly aligned.

He beams like he just saved the world.

“Okay! Go team.” Shang Chao resounded out.

He scrambles up, nearly knocks down a rack, and sprints to the cashier. Paying immediately.

The cashier shouted after him, “Sir, the marker—!”

He tossed a coin on the counter mid-run and yelled back, “Consider it a tip!”

He bolted down the sidewalk, trophy held like a priceless relic, sweat streaking down his temple. Mid-run, he wrapped it with what he has. Tissues. If he was quick, he could reach Yang Cheng before—

“Shang Chao?”

He skidded to a stop. Xia Qing stood there with a bag of toys in her hand, blinking at him as if he’d materialized from a dimension of chaos.

“You look… frantic,” she noted.

“I brought something for Yang Cheng.” He held the wrapped gift up triumphantly.

She blinked again. “It’s.. something.”

“It’s perfect,“ he insisted.

They started walking together, but halfway across the road, Shang Chao suddenly froze. His spine locked.

A man in a black suit was scanning the street.

“Oh no,” Shang Chao whispered.

“Oh no?” Xia Qing echoed.

Shang Chao backed away slowly. “Something came up. You go first. Give that to Yang Cheng, okay?”

“What came up?”

“I’m wanted.”

“Wha—“

“Not criminally. Just paternally.” Shang Chao bolted in a run, leaving Xia Qing standing there.

Shang Chao immediately returned to their estate. Instead of entering through the front door like a normal human, he examined the wall, nodded at the balcony above, and said:

“…Parkour.”

It was not parkour.

It was slipping twice, grabbing a potted plant for balance, failing, then apologizing to the broken pot. But eventually, somehow, he managed to climb over the balcony railing and roll into his room like a triumphant thief.

He dusted off his hands. “Home safe.”

He opened his curtains, expecting freedom.

Instead, a staff member stood in his room. Arms crossed. Expression dead.

Shang Chao froze mid-celebration.

“Young master,” the man said flatly. “You’re home.”

“No, I’m a hallucination,” Shang Chao whispered. “You’re tired.”

The man stepped forward.

“Your father wants to see you.”

***

“Father.”

Shang De’s gaze swept over Shang Chao immediately. “Your face.”

Shang Chao stepped into the room with sunglasses, a mask, and a bucket hat on. A flimsy disguise that made him look more like a celebrity dodging paparazzi than an heir visiting his father.

Shang Chao kept his tone light. “I figured… if I go out like this, people won’t recognize me. Less chance of another attack.”

That was an excuse. The truth was he didn’t want his father seeing the bruises Yang Cheng left.

Shang De didn’t comment. Instead, he gestured to the low table beside him. A table littered with Treeman’s miniature heroes, trophies, board pieces, little monuments of the company’s pride.

“Shang Chao,” he said calmly, “what do you think makes up a hero?”

Shang Chao blinked. Of all questions… why this? Still, he answered the obvious.

“Trust?”

“Mm.” Shang De nodded slowly, turning a small domino between his fingers. “Trust is fragile. Even in close relationships.”

Shang Chao’s heart raced.

Is this about me escaping? Stealing his helicopter? Or…

Yang Cheng’s face flashed in his mind before he could stop it. His father’s voice snapped him out of it. 

“For the same reason,” Shang De continued, setting the domino in a neat line, “gaining trust is as easy as losing it. It’s easy to fabricate stories. Easy to market heroes.”

His tone sharpened by just a hair. “What isn’t easy is keeping them.”

Shang De touched the first domino, easing it forward until it wobbled. He kept his finger there, trapping it between falling and standing. Shang Chao is at loss. Unable to grasp why his father is telling this to him.

“One slip up,” Shang De murmured. “One wrong move…”

A flick of his finger.

The dominoes toppled in perfect sequence, falling in a clean line — until they crashed into a small E-Soul figurine standing at the end. It wobbled. Shook. Nearly fell.

“Anything could happen.”

Shang Chao’s breath paused.

Shang De moved a single pawn from a side chessboard, then placed it carefully on the table, away from the rows of collapsed dominoes. His eyes fixed on Shang Chao.

“Tell me, Shang Chao,” he said quietly, “If you were this pawn… would you place yourself along the dominoes’ path?”

The question was simple. The answer was obvious.

Of course he shouldn’t. It would be foolish. But his eyes kept dragging back to the E-Soul figurine almost knocked over. And part of him wanted to say something… anything… to defend.

But Shang De didn’t wait for an answer.

“Shang Chao, what do you think about studying abroad?”

His heart stopped.

It’s a question. He can just answer. But this was his father. He knew his father. Questions were never questions. They were commands dressed politely.

“Abroad?” he managed.

Shang De gently placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“You’ll learn a great deal there. We have the resources.” He made a soft smile. Calculated. “Treeman needs to evolve. And you… you’re the only heir.”

Shang Chao forced himself to breathe.

“I already have a university in mind for you,” Shang De added warmly. “Requirements, paperwork — all handled. You don’t have to worry about anything. Just go. Learn. Keep your place.”

He then tapped Shang Chao’s shoulders before walking past him.

“I have high hopes for you. Shang Chao.”

Shang Chao stood in place without looking back. His eyes unable to look away from the table of toppled dominoes. The E-Soul figurine. And the solitary pawn standing safely outside the collapse.

With a thud, the door shuts close behind him.

Chapter Text

Chapter 8

The Not-So-Perfect Life of Class Representative Xia Qing

Xia Qing liked to tell people she was ‘fine’.

Because technically, she was.

She had two functioning legs, a sharp mind, decent grades, and the dubious honor of being Class Representative — bestowed upon her after the entire class voted for her while she was absent due to a fever.

So yes. She was fine.

And Xia Qing remained. Arms full of folders, attendance sheets, two confiscated slingshots, and one apology letter a student wrote in crayon.

Perfect Class Rep?

She wished.

“Xia Qing, can you help distribute—”

“Xia Qing, the projector isn’t working—”

“Xia Qing-jie, can you sign my late slip—”

“Xia Qing! Emergency! We’re out of broomsticks!”

Her smile never cracked.

But her left eye twitched exactly three— no, four times.

At 6:30 AM on a Monday, with three club presidents surrounding her like vultures asking for signatures, half the class asking about field trip waivers, and the math teacher requesting a printed handout in the next ten minutes, she was also tired.

“Class Rep, can you—”

“Class Rep, we need—”

“Class Rep, the printer is—”

“The printer is dead,” Xia Qing said flatly, hands full of paperwork. “It died yesterday. I sent flowers.”

The door slid open.

She didn’t bother checking, until the ripple of whispers hit her like a gust of wind.

“It’s him…”

“Is he early today?”

“Yang Cheng—!”

Ah. Of course.

Yang Cheng hovered awkwardly by the door, shoulders stiff, posture weirdly straight like someone told him “be natural” and he short-circuited.

His eyes darted around too quickly, as if trying to find one safe person in the chaos.

His gaze landed on Xia Qing.

He brightened, awkwardly, but sincerely. “Uh. Good… morning?”

She didn’t stop writing. “Take a number.”

His face cracked into a helpless smile as he shuffled closer, hands clasped behind his back like a kid caught trespassing.

“Rough day?” he said.

“Rough life,” she corrected. “Mind saying what’s on your mind before the crowd steals you again?”

He opened his mouth. Clearly about to invite her to hang out, judging from the hopeful tilt of his shoulders—

“Yang Cheng!! Can we get a picture?”

He froze. Then the tidal wave of admirers hit him from the side. Someone grabbed his wrist. Another tugged at his sleeve. Someone thrust their phone at his face.

He sent Xia Qing the saddest apologetic look she’d ever seen.

She waved him off because she wasn’t mad. But something inside her sank. The awkward guy who used to hide behind her during group activities had become… this.

Visible. Wanted. Constantly pulled away.

And he didn’t know how to handle any of it.

Lunch break.

Xia Qing sat at her desk, finally taking a sip of water—

“Class Rep!”

The entire Science Club burst inside like an avalanche.

“We need your help! Someone accidentally mixed the salt with—”

“It wasn’t me!”

“You literally have salt on your hands—”

And a quiet member also trying to request, “Umm.. I think frogs escaped from the Biology department (again)”

Xia Qing inhaled. Slowly.

Calm. Calm.

She fixed it. Again. Returned to her classroom. Her lunch was gone. Someone ate it by mistake. Again. Her stomach growled loudly enough to rattle the windows. With a sigh, she left the classroom to buy another lunch.

In the hallway, she spotted Yang Cheng.

He looked lost in a crowd. Standing stiffly, bowing awkwardly whenever someone recognized him.

His eyes met hers.

Hope blossomed.

He tried to step toward her—

“E-Soul!! The PE club wants an interview!”

And he was dragged away.

Her heart thudded with a small, familiar ache. They used to spend lunch together almost every day. Now she barely got a wave.

By the time she finally had a rare ounce of free time, Xia Qing  decided to poke her head into the gym.

“Yang Cheng? I was thinking we could—”

A wave of students swarmed him mid-interview.

She backed away.

“…Never mind.”

Yang Cheng jogged down the hallway the moment filming ended.

“Xia Qing! Let’s hang out today—”

He looked around. Empty classroom.

He sighed.

She was busy again. Fame was getting in the way. Fans intercepted him every time he walked one, two steps. By the time he broke free, Xia Qing was already doing nine other things.

After school.

Xia Qing collapsed onto her desk, hair messy, notes everywhere, shoulders drooping.

“I just… want five minutes. Five minutes where no one calls my name.”

Across campus, Yang Cheng sat against a wall, mask half-off, exhausted from yet another crowd showdown.

“Just one place,” he muttered.

“One place where no one bothers me,” Xia Qing muttered.

They both whispered the same thing at the same time:

“Science lab.”

Ever since the whole E-Soul thing, the old science lab had been their hideout. Quiet. Dusty. A place for three.

The lab was dim, light filtering through the curtains. Xia Qing slipped in through the side door, dragging her bag behind her. Then a sigh.

The same moment, Yang Cheng appeared from the opposite door, shoulders stiff, a tangle of nerves in his gait. Then a sigh.

They blinked. Looked at each other.

A silent understanding passed between them.

Then, almost simultaneously, they chuckled. Relief, amusement, and the comfort of familiarity all tangled in that sound.

“Ah. It’s you two.”

The moment was broken by an impossible to ignore, voice.

Shang Chao.

He sat at the back table near a window, a lollipop on his mouth, a book on his lap, the sunset catching in his hair. There were six empty snack wrappers beside him, carefully tucked behind a beaker stand as if he didn’t want anyone to see he’d been there for a while.

There was something strange about seeing Shang Chao here first. Usually, he’d come last. Since he’s just as busy as the two.

Xia Qing finally sat down, exhausted. Yang Cheng flopped right beside. Shang Chao threw them both candy he had no intention of sharing originally.

Xia Qing said, “I’m so tired…”

Yang Cheng followed with, “Same…”

Shang Chao commented, “…Should I leave?”

“No.” Xia Qing and Yang Cheng declared together.

The three of them settled into the familiar silence of the science lab. The kind of silence that isn't truly silent. The faint hum of the old electric fan. The distant chatter from the hallway. The clack of Xia Qing's pen as she finally let her shoulders rest from a day of keeping an entire class in line.

Yang Cheng sprawled against one of the stools, hair slightly damp from running through crowds of fans. He's trying to breathe. Xia Qing is trying not to fall asleep sitting up. And Shang Chao, sitting on the far side of the table with his book open, though it's clear he hasn't turned a page in a while.

Three teenagers.

Two busybodies.

One safe room.

For now, this little corner of the world belonged to the three of them.

Xia Qing broke the silence with a sigh. "I think my class hates me now."

"They don't," Yang Cheng mumbled, already half-asleep even with the candy in his mouth. "You're their lifesaver."

"Right," she says, deadpan. "Their stressed, chronically-caffeinated lifesaver."

Yang Cheng snorted.

Shang Chao gave the smallest huff of laughter, the kind you miss if you're not looking.

For a moment, it feels normal again. Balanced.

Shang Chao looked at the other two, the way their exhaustion melts when they're together, the way they lean naturally into each other's space. He traced the edge of his book with his thumb. After sitting in silence, he uttered quietly.

".. Want to watch the sunset at the baywalk?"

Xia Qing blinked. Yang Cheng sat up straighter.

It's not a dramatic invitation. Not sentimental. Not even logical — they have school tomorrow, and the beach is out of the way. Additionally they’re both tired, busy, overwhelmed.

So they paused. For a moment. 

Shang Chao caught onto that. It was probably bad timing.

Yang Cheng and Xia Qing looked at each other. Without even needing to speak, they both smiled.

"Yeah," Yang Cheng uttered.

”I want to go.”

✦ SNAP! ✦

The apartment was quiet in the way late nights tended to be -- very still, unusually gentle, the sort that made Xia Qing aware of every breath she took. 

Little Pomelo had already fallen asleep. He was curled up on the couch, the glow of the TV painting gentle lines of color across his cheeks. He had dozed off waiting for her to finish her homework, the pencil still loosely hanging from his small fingers as if he’d tried to fight sleep and lost.

Xia Qing eased the pencil away, set it aside, and draped a blanket over him before settling on the floor beside the couch, knees drawn to her chest. Tonight felt heavier than most -- whether from the silence, the exhaustion she kept outrunning, or the dull ache in her chest she had never managed to name.

Everyone assumed she was unbothered and untouchable -- ‘fine’ in every way that mattered. She let them believe it, for smiling took less effort than explaining the weight she carried.

She leaned her head back against the couch, letting the hum of the TV fill the room. Her thoughts drifted (uninvited, though familiar), first to Yang Cheng’s shy smile and awkward earnestness, then to Shang Chao’s quiet loyalty and ridiculous jokes, both boys moving through the world like they were stretched too thin yet still trying to hold steady for everyone else.

People always said she was the ‘strong’ one.

Her breath wavered ever so slightly.

If only they knew...

She couldn’t remember the exact moment she decided she had to grow up first. It could have been the morning she woke to an empty rice cooker and the realization that her parents wouldn’t be coming home. Or perhaps it was the night Little Pomelo cried because he couldn’t find his pajamas, and she was only eight but she learned how to fold laundry anyway.

All she ever knew was this: if she didn’t take care of things, no one would.

Thus, she learned to fix every mess, shoulder every burden, and smile through wounds she never spoke about. No one ever asked her to be strong -- she simply learned early that weakness didn’t have space in a house where no one stayed long enough to catch it.

Her chest tightened, a small pinch beneath her ribs.

She remembered a line she once heard drifting from a speaker outside a convenience store -- a woman singing with a voice too tender to be sad but too honest to ignore:

♫ “Every eldest daughter was the first lamb to the slaughter...” ♫

Xia Qing had stopped in her tracks that day, struck by the uncanny sense that someone had looked straight into her and whispered: ‘I see you.’

Because she understood what it meant to wear a wolf’s skin: pushing past her fatigue, enduring the strain of holding things together, and wishing -- silently -- that someone would look her in the eye and say she didn’t have to be strong ‘alone’.

Her gaze drifted to Little Pomelo, sleeping soundly on the couch.

He was her heart outside her body.

Her first responsibility.

Her first ‘promise’.

“Jie... I can’t find Mama.”

Little Pomelo -- barely five, hair sticking up on one side -- clutched his stuffed E-Soul toy to his chest. His brows were drawn tight, the same worried expression he wore every time their parents were out of town.

Xia Qing didn’t turn around. She lowered the heat and kept stirring, “Mama’s still working. She’ll call later.”

Little Pomelo shuffled closer, pressing his forehead against her back.

“But... I’m hungry.”

“I know.”

She reached behind her with one hand, patting his head in the manner their mother used to when she still had time to give proper hugs.

“Just a bit more. I added extra egg. You like egg, remember?”

He nodded against her shirt.

A beat. Then:

“Jie... why are you cooking? Mama said children shouldn’t use the stove.”

Xia Qing swallowed, keeping her gaze on the congee turning thick and warm.

“Mama’s tired. Baba too. Someone had to help.”

“But... who helps jiejie?”

The question fell into her, akin to a pebble dropped in still water -- tiny, yet sending ripples outwards.

Xia Qing blinked once, twice.

“...It’s okay. I can handle it.”

She poured the congee into two porcelain bowls and slid one toward him on the counter.

“Eat slowly.” She instructed. “It’s hot.”

Little Pomelo nodded, swinging his legs as he took a careful sip.

“Mm! Good. Better than Mama’s.”

Xia Qing huffed a thin laugh. “Don’t let her hear that.”

Then she climbed back on the stool, reaching for the soy sauce bottle on the top shelf.

Little Pomelo watched her, eyes round, legs still swinging.

“Jie?”

“Hm?”

“When I grow up, I’ll help you too.”

Xia Qing paused, “...” before forcing a smile over her shoulder.

“You don’t have to,” She said gently, “just grow up happy.”

Little Pomelo shook his head stubbornly. “No. I want to help jiejie. So jiejie won’t be alone.”

Her fingers tightened around the soy sauce bottle.

A tiny exhale left her, so faint that only the kitchen walls heard it.

“...Okay,” She muttered, “then let’s promise each other that.”

Little Pomelo beamed, bright enough to fill their small kitchen with warmth.

Her eyes softened.

That was the thing about promises made in childhood -- they stayed in the bones long after the moment passed.

“I’m never gonna leave you out...” Xia Qing whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from Little Pomelo’s face.

Maybe that was her greatest fault -- her heart stretched to include everyone, regardless if it was Yang Cheng, Shang Chao, her classmates, her teachers, her brother, or anyone else who needed her.

She stayed, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.

She sighed mutedly.

There was a sweetness in loving people -- a vulnerability, a gentle ache -- however, she knew this truth well:

One day, when things shifted and hearts began choosing each other, she would step back. She had always known how. Eldest daughters didn’t fight to be chosen. They made sure everyone else was okay, even when they ‘weren’t’.

Xia Qing rested her cheek against the couch cushion, listening to Little Pomelo’s soft breathing, letting it ground her.

“Someday,” She mumbled into the quiet, “I hope someone stays long enough to see me too.”

But until then... she would keep going, just as she always had.

She would not let anyone down.

She would not leave anyone behind.

It was simply who she was.

✦ SNAP! ✦

Chapter Text

Chapter 9

The New E-Soul Debut Mission

Yang Cheng once thought that becoming the official E-Soul would come with, at minimum, a manual.

Or a brochure.

Or even a welcome basket.

Instead, he got a glowing badge, three hours of sleep, and Shang Chao calling him awake at dawn.

“Rise and shine,” Shang Chao said brightly through the phone. “We have a mission.”

Even before the sun rose, Yang Cheng would go rush out the hero tower. In a suit. Then right outside, Shang Chao would wait in his car.

“Mission?” Yang Cheng croaked. “Like—an actual one? With real danger? And possibly explosions?” Failing to hide the hint of excitement.

“Yes,” Shang Chao said.

Xia Qing poked her head through the passenger seat. “Also the PR department is tagging along.”

Yang Cheng blinked. “…What?”

“Surprise debut activity.” Xia Qing announced.

And that was how Yang Cheng found himself standing in front of a small festival stage, next to a cardboard cutout of the Old E-Soul, while a reporter asked him extremely invasive questions like:

“How does it feel to replace a legend?”

“Do you think you can live up to the expectations?”

“You cried on camera last week—can you comment?”

Yang Cheng began rethinking his entire life.

Shang Chao, meanwhile, stood at the edge of the stage, watching the scene with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “He’s fine,” he murmured when Xia Qing nudged him. “He’ll adjust.”

Xia Qing squinted at him. “You sure you’re okay? You look… pale.”

“I’m always pale.”

“That’s not the problem.”

Shang Chao didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away. Just in time for the alarms to go off.

The festival crowd screamed.

A minor villain—minor in the sense that he only caused medium-level property damage on weekdays—strode into the center of the plaza.

“I AM—” he roared.

Xia Qing flicked her fingers. “Shut up,” she said, and sent him flying with a grocery cart.

The crowd cheered.

Yang Cheng could only shake his head.

And Shang Chao… well he was busy trying to remove something from his hands. Probably the slightest amount of saliva that splashed.

“Shang Chao.” Xia Qing’s voice called for him. “Support Yang Cheng! This is ad material!”

The said Shang Chao. Didn’t respond. For some unknown reason, that only a perfectionist might understand, he’s preoccupied with rubbing clean his hands with a frown. 

So Xia Qing’s voice called louder, “Shang Chao!”

Shang Chao blinked, snapped into motion, launched forward. And saw that the villain, still stuck in the grocery cart, was pelting Yang Cheng with fruits and boxed fruit juices.

Phone. Camera. In perfect angle.

“Stop—throwing—produce!” Yang Cheng wailed, as he managed to catch all in perfectly good condition.

With a swift motion, fast as electricity, he kicked another one that was supposed to hit him in the face. More cool factor.

Though the juice box redirected towards the cameraman named Shang Chao.

Splash—

I mean. Catch!

(What does catch even sound like?)

Shang Chao caught a strawberry juice mid-air, crushed it in his hand, and made a smile. “Yang Cheng. Maybe, aim properly. At the villain.” A thin vein bulged in his forehead. 

Yang Cheng made a guilty smile as he stared at the crushed carton.

“…Why do I suddenly fear you more than the guy throwing fruit juice?”, He mumbled to himself.

The villain screamed. Mostly because strawberry juice was now dripping down Shang Chao’s fingers like blood.

Yang Cheng took advantage of the moment to deal a blow.

The battle lasted for four minutes.

With that, the fans swarmed, all over Yang Cheng.

And the latter clumsily put up his awkward smile again.

Yang Cheng’s suit, the newest part that got wet by strawberry juice, flickered. With a resounding static. The familiar sound that crackles whenever Shang Chao’s inventions malfunction.

“Omg aesthetic!!” the fan cheers.

Yang Cheng panics internally.

Xia Qing panics internally.

Shang Chao immediately steps forward and fixes it with one tap.

A sigh of relief. 

But his hand shakes.

Yang Cheng noticed, ”Hey..  are you oka—”

E SOUL WHAT WAS THAT?!!

IT’S SO COOL!!!

The wave of crowd brushed past Shang Chao. One bumping in his shoulder causing his phone to fall… and break. The poor boy tried to reach it but he got pushed out to the edge of the crowd. 

“Everyone, one at a t—“ Xia Qing tried, but failed to calm down the said crowd.

It took five whole hours for the dust to finally settle.

“Why did I sign a baby?” Yang Cheng muttered. “What part of being E-Soul involves babies?”

“Brand diversification,” Xia Qing said as she carried three water bottles to the table. 

Shang Chao silently fiddled with his phone, his movements precise and methodical.

The three of them sat together right outside a convenience store.

Xia Qing opened one bottle and offered it to Yang Cheng, who was opening a twin popsicle. She put the other one beside a genius engineer, struggling to turn on a phone.“Still won’t open?”

Yang Cheng also commented. “Aren’t you rich? Rich?.. like you can just replace it right?”. He split the twin pop and gave the other half to Xia Qing.

“I’m fixing it.”, Shang Chao insisted.

He didn’t make a snarky remark. Fixated on trying to revive the broken object. 

“It has memories.”

Xia Qing raised a brow. “You backed up your files, right?”

Silence.

“…Right?”

Shang Chao pressed the power button again. Nothing. He muttered, “It’ll turn on.”

Yang Cheng leaned back on the bench. “This job is crazy. First day and I already fought fruit juice, signed a baby, and my suit short-circuited.”

“You also kicked a juice box in midair,” Xia Qing pointed out. “Very cinematic. PR will love that.”

“I wasn’t trying to be cinematic,” Yang Cheng groaned. “I was trying not to die.”

“You won’t die from a juice box.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Beside them, Shang Chao still stared at the unresponsive screen. It reflected nothing but faint neon light from the convenience store sign. He tapped it again. Gentle, then firmer.

Yang Cheng watched him for a moment. “…Seriously, are you okay? You’re kinda—”

Before he could finish, a group of teens passed by.

“OH MY GOD IT IS E-SOUL!”

“TAKE A PICTURE WITH US PLEASEE”

They swarmed again.

“AH—WAIT—” Yang Cheng squeaked.

“Back up, back up—!” Xia Qing tried to push them into a line, but the teens closed in faster.

Someone unintentionally pushed Shang Chao out the way. His grip tightened around the broken phone. Then it slipped from his hand. Fell to the pavement again.

A second crack.

He didn’t even react this time. Rather, he just quietly picked it up.

After another round of chaotic photos and autographs, the fans finally scampered off, screaming into their phones.

Yang Cheng lightly flinched as he just noticed Shang Chao’s popsicle, sitting quietly on the table, is strawberry . “I swear I’m going to have PTSD from strawberries.”

“Better than grapes,” Xia Qing said. “Grapes stain.”

“Everything stains,” Yang Cheng countered.

Shang Chao still wasn’t eating. He was twisting the phone in his hands as if checking every angle for another fracture.

Xia Qing pushed the last bottle of water closer towards him. “At least drink.”

Shang Chao took it without looking, “Thanks.”

Xia Qing stretched her arms. “Well. Mission accomplished. Probably. I think. PR will tell us tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Yang Cheng almost cried. “We’re working tomorrow again? But Sundays are rest days..”

“Welcome to hero life.”

The trio sat there quietly—traffic buzzing, cicadas whining, neon lights humming above.

Click. Clack.

The sound of Shang Chao’s attempt to fix the phone. Still black screen. Not a speck of life.

In the end, the two watched him.

Yang Cheng munched the last bit of his popsicle. “Hey… do you ever take a break?”

“I’m fine,” Shang Chao said effortlessly.

A faint flicker. The phone lit up through the cracked screen. 

With amazed looks, Yang Cheng and Xia Qing clapped.

Shang Chao raised his phone. And subtly, he made a faint smile.

It was cut short.

The phone died again.

“…”

Shang Chao nodded to himself. “It’s fine. It’s conserving energy.”

Yang Cheng stared. “By dying?”

“That’s a response.” Shang Chao muttered — and then, without warning, he slowly lowered his head and plopped it onto the table.

Thunk.

Yang Cheng froze. “Shang Chao?”

Xia Qing’s bottle almost slipped from her hands. “Shang Chao?!”

He didn’t move.

⌁ SNAP! ⌁

♫ “I always knew where I stood. I tried to be so good.” ♫

A burst of cyan light sweeps across the screen.

The shot opens on Yang Cheng, standing alone on a rooftop at dawn. Wind tugs at his jacket, Trust Value on his wrist cycling between numbers.

♫ “Look at me now, I don’t know how.” ♫

At first, he looks unsure, then he steps forward.

♫ “But I’m a real hero.” ♫

Cyan lightning ripples behind him.

— SNAP —

♫ “No hiding in the shadows, time to strut.” ♫

A hand slams a screwdriver onto a desk. Shang Chao appears next, framed in golden light, surrounded by blueprints, gears, and half-finished inventions.

♫ “I’m gonna make a splash to make this cut--” ♫

He turns, sunlight glancing off his glasses -- and for a second, a warm, shy vulnerability passes through his expression.

♫ “You’ve got to believe that I am free, so no hesitation.” ♫

His silhouette dissolves into falling strawberry juice cartons.

✦ SNAP! ✦

A tiny figure runs across the street.

Little Pomelo in a hero cape made from a towel, waving a wooden sword. He points toward the camera, yelling something inaudible, nonetheless determined.

Behind him, the shadows of adults blur into gray.

A hand gently rests on his head.

♫ “Picture your planet in disharmony...” ♫

Xia Qing stands beneath a streetlamp. Her hair lifts in the wind, her hospital bracelet glints subtly.

She looks straight at the viewer -- strong, tired, yet unbroken.

The camera pulls back to reveal she’s shielding Little Pomelo with her coat.

♫ “Jump into the night, ‘cause I can smell the trouble!” ♫

Yang Cheng sprinting through a scatter of glowing Trust Values.

♫ “Don’t you miss the fight, just get there at the double!” ♫

Shang Chao tightening a strap on the E-Soul suit.

♫ “I gotta make a difference, I’m moving with a purpose.” ♫

Xia Qing catching a falling grocery cart villain with one hand, annoyed.

Pomelo yelling ‘Jie!’ at the sky.

♫ “I’m feeling my... inertia, inertia, inertia!” ♫

Cyan lightning exploding across the horizon.

♫ “Stubbornly, I will believe, I will believe (Keep dreaming!)” ♫

The silhouette of the Old E-Soul turning away -- Yang Cheng reaching out toward him.

♫ “Stubbornly, I will believe, I will believe (Keep dreaming!)” ♫

Shang Chao reaching too, but stopping halfway.

♫ “Is it my turn to be the hero? (Yeah!)” ♫

Xia Qing stepping between them, eyes sharp.

♫ “‘Cause I got to be the hero (Yeah!)” ♫

Their shadows converging.

♫ “‘Cause I got to be the hero (Yeah!)” ♫

All three of them run forward across a rooftop.

♫ “‘Cause I got to be the hero (Yeah!)” ♫

Yang Cheng glowing cyan.

Shang Chao lit gold.

Xia Qing bright white against the storm.

They leap from the rooftop edge!

.

.

.

.

.

♫ “All my life, they said that I was strange, but I knew that I could be the change.” ♫

A blurry hand reaches upward.

Another hand catches it.

♫ “I still ain’t done enough...” ♫

Cyan meets gold.

White flares around them.

♫ “...Not even close.” ♫

The world fills with light.

The title appears: ‘TO BE THE SUN AGAIN’.

⌁ SNAP! ⌁

Chapter Text

Chapter 10

Bean There, Gone That

Yang Cheng didn’t know who invented the brilliant idea of wearing disguises, but judging from the way Shang Chao walked with zero shame in a bucket hat and oversized mask, it was probably him.

Meanwhile, Yang Cheng was drowning in an itchy wig and sunglasses that kept sliding down his nose.

They walked side by side.

Quietly.

Somehow, he felt an odd sense of deja vu. With Xia Qing around, silence had a buffer. Without her, Yang Cheng’s thoughts screamed.

He tried to start a conversation once.

“So… um…”

Shang Chao glanced at him.

Yang Cheng panicked, forgot what he was going to say, and pretended to cough. “Nevermind.” The boy has completely forgotten that he’s a bad conversation starter. 

They continued walking. Leaves, burnt orange and gold, tumbled across the sidewalk like small, lazy dancers. Some clung stubbornly to the cracks in the pavement, while others rolled ahead with nothing but the breeze to guide them. The wind carried a chill that hinted the end of fall. 

Up ahead, Shang Chao’s disguise shifted with the breeze. Observing from the side, Yang Cheng noticed the way his neat hair sticks out softly. The way his posture always looked perfect. The way his hands stayed tucked in his pockets. The way his eyelashes looked longer from the side. The tiny, faint dot on Shang Chao’s neck, he didn’t remember being there.

Lots of things he never noticed. Because he just never looked this close before. 

Then he realized, he absolutely should not be looking this close!

“Focus,” he whispered to himself, tugging his wig lower. But his eyes kept drifting to the relaxed line of Shang Chao’s shoulders. Slender, almost too slight to be sturdy. Like he could be toppled by a strong gust. And yet, to Yang Cheng, there was a strange reassurance in the way he carried himself, like he could silently take care of everything without even trying.

He’d grown used to it without realizing. Strange how comforting something could be, just by existing nearby. Silence really shouldn’t feel this loud.

Shang Chao was so quiet lately.

Yang Cheng opened his mouth again.

Closed it again.

Silence really was dangerous.

They turned to a familiar corner. The cafe they planned to go to finally came into view.

Their cafe. The cafe where they used to spend countless afternoons planning for another New E-Soul campaign, complaining about homework, talking about small things. The place that always smelled like cinnamon and old books.

The place Uncle Rock always greeted them with:

“Oh look, my favorite headaches have arrived.”

But today, a sign hung on the door.

[CLOSED PERMANENTLY. THANK YOU FOR THE MEMORIES.]

Yang Cheng stopped walking.

“…Huh?”

He stepped closer, pressing his hand to the glass as if it would magically open.

“No way. No way he closed down.” He read the sign again. “Not even… not even a farewell discount? Or a last-day coupon? Seriously?”

Shang Chao stood beside him, slightly behind. Leaving no comment.

Yang Cheng exhaled, the disappointment settling deeper than he expected.

“Did something happen? Uncle Rock never looked like he had problems,” he murmured. “He always seemed… happy. Like, genuinely happy. You know? Comforting, even. Like he had everything figured out.”

He looked down.

“Somehow I feel…  sad.”

For a while, Shang Chao didn’t reply.

Then, quietly. “Yang Cheng,” he said, “not everyone who smiles is happy.”

Yang Cheng blinked.

Shang Chao’s eyes remained fixed on the sign. His voice was calm, matter-of-fact. Not cold. Not distant. Just… certain.

“Some people smile because they have to,” he continued. “Because it keeps others calm. Or because it’s what’s expected of them. Or because it’s easier than explaining why they’re not okay.”

The wind brushed past them. Their disguises fluttered.

Shang Chao finally turned his head slightly toward Yang Cheng.

“I don’t think Uncle Rock was carefree,” he said. “I think he had a lot on his mind.”

Then, softer. So soft it almost wasn’t there.

“…People can hide things very well.”

Yang Cheng felt something twist in his chest. Not because he understood. But because he suddenly realized how little he knew.

He stared at the shut cafe one more time.

“Guess we’ll need a new hangout spot,” he tried to joke.

But it didn’t land.

Not when the street felt colder.

Not when silence felt heavier.

Not when Shang Chao, who always filled the space without trying, suddenly felt a million miles away.

In that moment. Somewhere in between. Yang Cheng felt an urge to reach out.

Words came out his mouth before he could think.

“You know,” he said softly, looking at his reflection beside Shang Chao, “I  never really noticed it before. How even when everything’s loud, or messy, or falling apart around us… you just… keep moving forward. Calmly. Like nothing can shake you.”

Shang Chao’s fingers twitched.

“It’s… kind of impressive, I guess. Even when I’m panicking, or when things go wrong… you just… handle it. And I—sometimes I wonder if I can be like that too. If I could stand steady when the world’s.. you know. Tipping over.”

For the briefest second, a faint glow pulsed beneath Shang Chao’s long sleeve.

Yang Cheng paused, tracing a line in the air with his finger, as if connecting invisible dots. “I— I didn’t always know how to trust anyone. Back then… I felt so small. Playing hero for kids on stage, pretending to be strong when I wasn’t. Pretending to be someone I wasn’t.”

He looked down, chuckling softly at the memory. “And I always wished that things could be different. That I could be… bigger, braver…”

A pause.

”…Real. And you— you helped me get there, without even trying. You just… pushed me. Taught me, by letting me stand on my own. You made me believe I could change.”

Yang Cheng recalled, “Remember when you told me to..” He clumsily mimicked Shang Chao’s posture,  “Be yourself and become..a whole new E-Soul that’s unique to you? or something like that.”

He smiled wryly. “I felt really… overwhelmed .” He stuttered. “But like— uhh. There’s also that feeling when you start to think that maybe, even someone like me could have a sense of identity I could… accept.”

His eyes softened, hesitantly glancing at Shang Chao’s reflection through the cafe’s glass door. “A lot has changed. I’ve succeeded. But… maybe that’s why… when things change around me now, I get scared. Like… like the cafe closing. I realized I don’t want to lose the things that matter. I’m afraid of change, in a way I never was before.”

Yang Cheng took a deep breath, his voice quiet but steady. “…But some things… actually do stay. Some things remain. Like… you. Like the fact that you’re always here, even when everything else changes.”

Shang Chao’s posture softened, just a fraction.

Yang Cheng, shyly scratched his neck. “Now that I think about it. I haven’t really thanked you properly.”

Shang Chao turned to him. His eyes trembling slightly. 

“Yang Cheng.. I—“

“I’M SORRY I’M LATE!”

Xia Qing came hurrying up the street, huffing, hands full of a small paper bag.

Shang Chao stiffened. He took a small step back.

“…A stray cat,” she said, catching her breath, “I was looking for the stray cat I feed everyday and it disappeared. Just gone. Not sure where it ran off.”

Xia Qing glanced at them both. “Did you two wait long?” she asked, oblivious to the fragile weight of the silence she had just shattered.

Yang Cheng blinked, a faint blush rising, realizing the intimacy of the moment had been broken. 

Shang Chao smiled, and shook his head as an answer.

Xia Qing blinked. Noticing the atmosphere. She wanted to comment if something happened while she was gone but…

“Pfft”. She put a hand on her mouth to suppress a laugh. “What’s with the get up?”

The Yang Cheng and Shang Chao she’s staring at wore ridiculous disguises. Like they’re asking for attention rather than avoiding it. 

“I- It’s Shang Chao’s idea…” ,Yang Cheng’s blush reddened even more.

After some long silence, Shang Chao finally talked. “Cafe’s closed. Xia Qing. The cat you’re looking for… maybe we should go look for it”. 

“No no, it’s fine.” Xia Qing waved both hands to refuse. “We haven’t really hung out properly for ages so I think it’s best we find a new spot. I was thinking maybe the karaoke, or the arcade…”

“Anywhere is fine”, Yang Cheng said with a soft smile. “If it’s with you two.” 

“Then, let’s look around?”

Xia Qing and Yang Cheng began walking.

Shang Chao didn’t.

Instead, he stood still. Watching their backs. Watching the space between them.

“Shang Chao.”

It was unknown who among Xia Qing and Yang Cheng called that name out first. Both of them looked back. The former asked with a questioning pair of eyes.

“We’re going together, right?"

That prompted Shang Chao to smirk softly.

"Of course. We should." 

He took one step. Then another.

"Let's go.”

Shang Chao took a step forward and lightly slapped the backs of the other two, pushing them ahead. Xia Qing nearly tripped. Yang Cheng almost kissed the pavement.

“Young master!”

Shang Chao stopped mid-step. He looked back at a man in a suit — formal, efficient, and not someone both Xia Qing and Yang Cheng recognized — was running toward him.

The man slowed, knuckles tightening around his bag strap. He leaned close, speaking just low enough for Shang Chao to hear. 

Shang Chao slid off his mask, lowering his head to hear the man’s urgent whisper. 

Then.. the color drained from Shang Chao’s face instantly. His breaths hitched, short and uneven. His usual calm precision was gone, replaced with dread that no one could mistake.

“Sorry,” he said quietly, almost too softly to hear. “…I… I have to go.”

Yang Cheng instinctively reached out a hand.

It reached nothing— but a distant Shang Chao already running away.

Further and further.

Until all that was left was the echo of hurried footsteps and the space he used to fill.

Shang Chao didn’t look back. Not once. 

Chapter Text

Chapter 11

Yang Cheng Doesn’t Want to Celebrate

Yang Cheng pushed a warehouse door open with his shoulder, while he held a bag with his free hand. The air inside smelled faintly of solder, old wood, and memories he couldn’t quite place.

He set the bag down and stretched.

“…This place feels messier than I remember,” he muttered.

It wasn’t dirty. Just unkept.

A picture frame on the wall hung slightly crooked.

He fixed it automatically.

A stack of cables rested on the worktable, half-coiled, half-forgotten. He reached out, intending to organize them, fingers moving on instinct — then stopped midway, frowning.

“…We used to be more organized than this,” he said to no one.

His eyes drifted across the room.

A mug sat on its side on the far shelf, handle chipped. Someone’s handwriting on the whiteboard had faded to ghost-gray. A blueprint stuck out from under textbooks, a corner bent. 

Yang Cheng stood alone in their old base for a while.

“Yang Cheng! There you are.”

Xia Qing peeked in through the doorway, carrying folders, a pack of junk food she bought that’s branded ‘E-Soul Chips’, and takeout from XFC. She wore a thin scarf over her long-sleeved uniform, usually worn during the start of winter.

“You’re not answering your phone. Did you fall asleep here again?”

“No,” he said quickly. “Just… cleaning up.”

Xia Qing raised a brow. “You? Cleaning? You hate cleaning.”

He shrugged. “It just felt a little… off today.”

“You mean because your birthday’s a day away?” She stood beside him as she dropped her things on the nearby table. “Nervous much?”

“I’m not nervous,” he lied.

But between the decorations planning, hero-tower duties, fan events, unannounced missions, and the noise of being E-Soul — they hadn’t hung out properly in a while.

“Xia Qing…”

“Hmm?”

“I was wondering if I could celebrate my birthday… quietly.”

“You can. After, well, the big event.”

“I meant… without the huge, loud, public…” Yang Cheng searched for the right word. “You know. Just a few people. You, me, Little Pomelo. No strangers I don’t know.”

“By strangers,” she dryly said, “you mean your fans.”

He sat at the sofa and covered his eyes with the back of his hand, head sinking back into the cushions with a tired exhale.

Xia Qing pondered before letting out a gentle smile. “Remember when you used to act as a hero in that tiny children’s theater?” She sat beside him. “You had every kid’s name memorized.”

“Mm.” Yang Cheng’s lips twitched. “Well, I can’t memorize millions now.”

“But sometimes,” Xia Qing said softly, “it’s the ones you don’t know whose names are, the ones you least expect, that you end up changing the most.”

She pulled out her phone.

“I visited the venue. I’m not supposed to show you this yet but… look. Everything they prepared for you. From the people who trust you.”

A massive E-Soul balloon.

Unfinished, hand-painted banners. Still in process.

Rows of golden figurines shaped like him.

A fan-made hologram wall of his old hero plays.

Warm. Thoughtful. Grand.

Yang Cheng stared at the birthday decorations, scratching the back of his neck. “Uhhh… I think it’s too much.”

Xia Qing puffed her cheeks. “No, no, it’s—”

“Cute?” Yang Cheng finished for her. He smiled like it was the most natural guess in the world.

Xia Qing blinked. “I was about to say it’s alright, actually.”

Yang Cheng flushed, embarrassed at the wrong guess. “I… don’t know why I said that.”

He gazed at the numbers on his wrist. High. Always. He almost forgot how it used to be empty.

“I don’t even know if I can attend on time. We have exams tomorrow…”

Xia Qing chuckled lightly. “E-Soul. A national symbol. Living in the hero tower. With massive endorsements, millions of followers even without a proper backup organization — still worrying about university exams. Seriously, Yang Cheng?”

“I don’t know…” He rubbed his temples. “It feels like the normal thing to do.”

After walking Xia Qing home, Yang Cheng walked back to the Hero Tower alone.

He wandered through the city first, hands in pockets, breath fogging in the cold air. The autumn leaves had almost all fallen, scattered across the tiles like burnt paper. He nudged one with his shoe, watching it drift away.

He sighed. “…It’s cold,” he muttered to himself.

The air carried the first hints of winter. The sharp kind that got into your bones, the kind that made everything feel heavier than it should. The cold bit at his cheeks, sharper than usual. He pulled his hood up, blaming the late-autumn winds for the strange tightness in his chest.

When he arrived at the tower, he took the long way up. Past the empty hallways, past the quiet training deck, until he reached his dim room. The automatic lights slow to flicker on. Only the soft hum of the city below kept him company.

He dropped his things on a couch and went to gaze at the city through the glass windows that reached the ceiling.

He checked the date on his phone. It was the tenth of November.

A tiny notification blinked: [1 day until event.]

Tomorrow was his birthday.

Funny.

If someone told him years ago that he’d be spending the night before his birthday as one of the city’s top heroes, he’d have laughed.

He used to dream of being recognized. Now he dreamt of disappearing for a weekend.

“…It’s just pre-birthday mood swings,” he told himself. “Everyone gets those.”

The chill seeping through the window suggested otherwise.

He sat on the floor and curled his legs up, his head leaning on the glass windows. He let his thoughts wander.

To how much he’d changed.

To the people he’d met.

He let out a slow breath, the city lights reflecting faintly in his eyes.

Eventually, he closed his eyes. “You’ve done well today, Yang Cheng...” he murmured.

And so, the next day, E-Soul still decided to go to school.

Some classmates greet him ‘Happy Birthday’, sure.

But… fewer than he expected.

Everyone looked preoccupied. Maybe it’s the exams.

Then—

“Yang Cheng, hey, have you heard the news?”

His brows furrowed, “News?”

“Treeman is shutting down! Isn’t that wild? Can you believe it? Aren’t they like one of the biggest hero agencies?”

“What?” Yang Cheng inwardly spoke.

Another student chimed in. “Well… duh. Mr. Shand is dead. The CEO. How else do you think—”

The next words passed through Yang Cheng’s ears like distant chatters. A ringing silence.

Yang Cheng froze. He had no real connection towards Shang De. No personal grief.

But.. a single name punched through his thoughts.

Shang Chao.

Yang Cheng instinctively opened his phone.

He swallowed as his hand hovered over it.

Should he message? Would Shang Chao even want to talk right now? Would reaching out help or make it worse?

Still he opened his inbox. 

His thumb tapped open a chat box with no new notification.

There, Yang Cheng saw Shang Chao’s last chat. 

A-Cheng, let’s do some minor adjustments on your suit today. Meet you at Uncle Rock’s cafe. 

Sent 3 days ago.

Following it was his own messages, still on delivered.

Shang Chao. What happened?

You looked really troubled.

Shang Chao… can I call you?

It’s fine if I can’t.

You can reach out anytime.

If not to me, then maybe to Xia Qing.

Xia Qing looked extra tired today.

My birthday’s coming up. You’re still coming, right? (๑•́ -•̀)

Hope you’re okay. 

An E-Soul sticker with a “Hang in there” message.

He shook his head, trying to ignore the fact that all of it remained unseen.

He typed a letter.

Then erased it.

Typed again.

Erased it.

He swallowed.

“…His father just died. Maybe he needs space,” Yang Cheng whispered. “Maybe he’s… processing.”

Still, he typed again.

Are you—

“Yang Cheng!”

Xia Qing burst in, eyes wide and troubled. Her usual dependable posture faltered; for once, she looked unsteady. Papers clutched in her hands trembled slightly.

“It’s… it’s about Shang Chao!” she blurted, voice tight, almost cracking.

Yang Cheng replied in a serious tone, “I know. His father—”

“He’s moving abroad.” Xia Qing cuts.

Chapter Text

Chapter 12

Don’t go.. Shang Chao

“He’s moving abroad.”

Yang Cheng didn’t know how he processed the word. What he did know is that his feet moved immediately, leaving Xia Qing behind without thought.

Yang Cheng ran.

Faster than he ever did. Faster than when he saved a citizen falling from a high-rise building. 

It wasn’t the calm, measured sprint of a hero responding to a call — no. His feet were chasing after a thought that had slipped too far ahead of him.

He tore through the hallway, bursting through the exit. People turned. Students blinked in confusion. Someone even called after him, but their voices felt like echoes inside a tunnel — distant, irrelevant. His shoes hit the pavement with the rhythm of a panic-stricken drum. He didn’t look back. Didn’t care who was in his way.

A bike. He grabbed it, mounted, and pushed off. He shot forward, weaving through cars, the wind slashing at his eyes until they watered. The streets blurred. People shouted, some calling, some greeting, some cheering, some confused. But he didn’t hear them. He barely noticed the screeching of tires or the honking horns. Only the thought of Shang Chao, gone, racing ahead of him.

He blinked the blur away.

No time. No time. No time.

He went directly, straight to the Shang Residence, and got off the bike before it could even slow down.

There he saw, police tapes blocking the entrance like a thin red line between him and sanity. A full barricade wrapped around the estate.

POLICE LINE — DO NOT CROSS.

A swarm of reporters camped around the gates. Cameras flashed. Microphones thrust forward. And when they noticed him… Reporters crowded around, phones raised, lenses pointed.

“Isn’t that… E-Soul?”

“Rumors say he’s connected to Treeman…”

“Did you know about the CEO’s death?”

“Mr. Yang Cheng please look this way”

“E-Soul, are you here to investigate what happened to Mr. Shand—“

He didn’t hear the rest.

Or maybe he did, but the words didn’t reach him. They bounced off him like rain on metal.

He pushed through the barricade, brushing past people muttering half-words, cameras flashing. Politeness wasn’t even a thought. A few reporters yelped, stumbling backward, but Yang Cheng didn’t stop. He ducked under the police tape with a single motion and stormed straight into the front doors as if daring someone to stop him.

He ran through the hallways like a madman who thought he owned the place, the rapid slap of his footsteps echoing off marble. 

The foyer was eerily quiet. A staff member, frozen mid-step, stared at him. 

Yang Cheng grabbed him by the collar before the man could even speak.

“Shang Chao—the son— The heir!” His voice cracked at the edges, raw with something that bordered panic. “Tell me where he is.”

The staff’s lips parted but no sound came out. He stared, stunned, eyes darting between Yang Cheng’s face and the grip on his uniform. “I—I—Hero… Yang, I— I didn’t expect—”

“Where is he?” Yang Cheng shook him once again, impatient, desperate, like every second could mean losing him further.

“Wha- why are you looking for the Young Master—“

“Are you going to tell me, or what?!” Yang Cheng’s tone raised higher than he could realize. 

“Y-Young Master Shang… he… he took a flight.”

”Yesterday.”

Everything inside Yang Cheng… stopped.

His grip loosened. His hands fell. The staff backed away, rubbing his throat, but Yang Cheng barely noticed.

Yesterday.

A day ago.

A whole day.

He’d left. Without a word. Without even—

The walls suddenly felt too close.

Yang Cheng staggered outside, the reporters’ noise swelling again, but it all dissolved into static the moment he pulled out his phone.

He dialed.

The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please try again later.

The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please try again later.

The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please try again later.

The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please try again later.

The number you have dialed is unavailable. Please try again…

The automated voice became grotesquely familiar. A slap. A dagger. A confirmation.

Not even a message?

Not a single goodbye?

This wasn’t the first time.

Yang Cheng pressed a shaking hand to his forehead, breath uneven as he forced himself to think — to recall the Shang Chao he remembered.

It dragged him back to the hospital hallway, to the sterile smell of antiseptic and Xia Qing unconscious on the bed after being shot in the side. Yang Cheng remembered looking over his shoulder instinctively.

There was no Shang Chao. Just an empty space where he should’ve been.

“Understand?.. How could you think you understand me?”

Yang Cheng had said that back then. And now, standing in the middle of nowhere, he realized.

He wasn’t even better.

He didn’t understand Shang Chao. Not really.

What a hypocrite he was.

Slow. He had always been slow. His mind always moved slower than he could act.

E-Soul was known for speed — the fastest reaction time, the quickest movement. But Yang Cheng? He was always a step behind. Slow to recognize, slow to speak, slow to understand. And most times, his actions dragged him along faster than he could control.

It wasn’t that he was self-centered. It was that he lived every second overthinking.

Overthinking his words. His steps. How he appeared. Whether he was pleasing others. Whether he was making things worse.

So much noise inside his head that he rarely noticed how others truly felt.

He once had ‘zero’ trust. How else was he supposed to act?

The desperation to raise that number by even one — one person, one bond, one connection — swallowed him whole. And when he finally found that bond…

He didn’t notice it slipping.

“Hey… are you okay—”

Yang Cheng noticed the way Shang Chao’s hands were shaking when he fixed his malfunctioning suit at the event. But before he could even finish, Shang Chao looked away. The cheering crowd swallowed the moment entirely.

Yang Cheng had noticed. He was capable of noticing things. He just wasn’t the type to ask.

Because words didn’t come easy. 

Because he always messed things up when he spoke. 

Because for someone like him, “Are you okay?” required courage almost no one else understood.

And yet… he tried.

“Hey… do you ever take a break?”

Yang Cheng munched at his popsicle to cover his trembling hands.

“I’m fine”, Shang Chao dismissed him immediately.

Shang Chao never said much. And Yang Cheng… he was someone who preferred to wait. He believed things came naturally with trust. He believed Shang Chao would eventually tell him what hurt.

Like he did. 

“I don’t want to lose the things that matter. I’m afraid of change, in a way I never was before.”

He was the one who opened up first. He was the one who trusted first. He was the one who showed the softest part of himself.

And Shang Chao heard him.

So then—

Why did he leave him?

Why leave without a word? Why go knowing Yang Cheng would shatter? Knowing he would chase? Knowing he would blame himself? Why disappear… right after hearing him say he feared change?

Shang Chao suddenly started to feel distant. It piled up. The subtle withdrawal he had shrugged off. The moments Yang Cheng had wondered if he mattered. Every small absence now seemed monumental. And now he’s left with the question: 

“Why didn’t he say anything? Am I not that important to him?”

The words trembled in his chest—

And no answer came.

The frantic pounding of his heart matched the static in his mind. He thought he might collapse. His vision blurred.

What will he do now? He didn’t know where to place his feelings. He just ran again. Not knowing why. Like it’s the only thing he could do.

He hated Shang Chao. 

He couldn’t trust him.

He wanted to scream. Or punch something. Or just… let it all out. 

But then, a quiet figure caught his eye.

A lone girl, sitting on the baywalk, curled up with her arms wrapped around her knees. Hair slightly mussed, eyes staring at the distant waves.

“Xia Qing…”

✦ SNAP! ✦

It was supposed to be quick.

Xia Qing stepped out of the garage, the door clicking softly shut behind her. The stillness of the street met her -- the low hum of distant traffic, the rustle of leaves, the weak buzz of a streetlamp warming up.

“I’ll be back before you mess something up.” She’d joked.

The image of Yang Cheng’s anxious smile and Shang Chao’s stiff shoulders lingered in her mind as she walked, bag slung over her shoulder, phone tucked in her pocket. Without her, the garage felt wrong. The two of them were so used to having her in the middle that she wondered what they were doing now. Probably staring at snacks, failing to start a normal conversation.

Her lips quirked.

‘They’ll be fine,’ She told herself, ‘it’s just a quick trip.’

The school wasn’t far. She took the usual route: past the district billboard, past the convenience store, down the slope lined with small shops and shuttered stalls. The sky was already thick with clouds that dragged the light out of the air.

Her thoughts drifted -- as they always did when she had a spare moment -- to her to-do list: finish her homework, help Little Pomelo review for his quiz, remind Yang Cheng to eat something that wasn’t instant noodles, ask Shang Chao if he ever slept more than four hours.

Keep.

Everyone.

Together.

She breathed out slowly, her pace steady. People always said she liked being ‘busy’. That wasn’t quite it. She simply didn’t know what to do with herself when she wasn’t.

By the time she reached the school gate, the crowd had thinned. Most of the younger kids had already been picked up. A few parents lingered near the entrance, talking in low voices. A teacher waved at her from afar, she waved back automatically.

Then she saw him.

Little Pomelo stood by the gate, clutching his stuffed E-Soul toy by the ear, backpack hanging a little crooked on his shoulders. The moment he spotted her, his entire face lit up.

“Jie!”

Her chest loosened.

“There you are.” She called back, lifting a hand. “Sorry, I’m late.”

“You said five minutes...” He complained, marching toward her with all the seriousness a kid could muster.

“How many minutes was it, then?” She questioned, crouching slightly to his height.

“Seven,” He said smugly. “I counted.”

She ruffled his hair. “So dramatic. Come on. Let’s go before it rains.”

They walked side by side, his shorter steps forcing her to slow down, the usual pattern between them. Little Pomelo swung his toy back and forth with one hand, the other holding a folded worksheet he was trying to read while walking -- sounding out the bigger words under his breath, eyebrows scrunched in concentration.

“Did you behave today?”

Little Pomelo, “Yes,” then added, “mostly.”

“Define mostly.”

“I didn’t fight anyone.”

“That’s a low bar.”

He giggled.

Instantly, it all felt simple -- pavement under their feet, the smell of impending rain, the tender, stumbling cadence of him sounding out words he didn’t quite know yet. She let herself sink into it and, for a few steps, allowed herself to forget everything else -- the headlines, the lurking danger, how Yang Cheng flinched when the word ‘attack’ came up in conversation.

Then the district billboard flickered above them.

A bright red headline flashed across the sky, distorted for a second by a glitch:

[ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION ON TREEMAN HEIR -- INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY.]

Xia Qing’s heart dipped. Her feet slowed, ever so slightly.

Another line followed:

[NEW E-SOUL SPOTTED IN NEARBY DISTRICT DURING INCIDENT.]

Yang Cheng...

She looked up at the screen for a heartbeat too long.

“Jie?” Little Pomelo tugged at her sleeve. His eyes were fixed on the billboard. “It says... assassination. And E-Soul. And shooter...” He glanced up at her, voice smaller. “Is that about Yang Cheng-gege?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” She said, scooting him closer. “Eyes on the road, Little Pomelo. You almost walked into a pole.”

“I did not.”

“You were about to.”

She pulled him just in time to avoid him bumping his head on a signpost. He pouted at her, even while a trace of worry edged his eyes. He was more perceptive than he let on. He always had been.

The air hung heavier now. The clouds pressed lower. Her instincts pricked -- a creeping, animal sense that something was shifting beneath the surface.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket.

She reached for it, intending to text the boys that she had Little Pomelo and they were heading back. Before she could unlock it, a siren wailed somewhere in the distance, sharp and urgent, then cutting off abruptly.

Little Pomelo flinched.

“Jie...?”

“It’s okay.” She said quickly. “Come on, we’re almost home.”

They turned the corner.

Half a block ahead, a man stood too still for someone just waiting around. His coat collar was raised, cap pulled low. He kept his head down as people passed him by -- a couple with grocery bags, a cyclist, a woman talking furiously into her phone -- yet his shoulders never shifted.

He was waiting.

For what?

For who?

Xia Qing’s steps slowed. Her hand tightened around Little Pomelo’s.

“Jie...? That hurts...”

“Sorry.” She whispered, loosening her grip. “Stay close to me, okay?”

He stared up at her face, reading the change in her expression. His toy stopped swinging. He moved closer, practically nestled to her side.

The man’s gaze lifted.

Even from a distance, she felt the piercing, assessing flicker of attention that slid past other pedestrians and landed square on her.

“!!!”

Her pulse jumped.

Hero candidates, the headline had said.

But she wasn’t--

Lights flashed again above them, painting the street in harsh white.

Her gut screamed, ‘Move!’

“Little Pomelo,” Xia Qing, quietly, “get behind me.”

He obeyed instantly.

She shifted her body, subtly putting herself between him and the stranger. The man’s hand twitched toward his coat.

No.

No, no, no--

Not here. Not him. Not Little Pomelo!

Not again!

Time began to slow in that warped way it always did when fear crystallized into clarity. She saw the angle of his shoulder, the dip of his fingers into his coat, the ghost of a glint on metal.

Her own body moved before her mind caught up.

“Run.” She pushed Pomelo sideways, toward the nearest doorway.

The first shot cracked the air apart!

Pain exploded white-hot in her side!

She didn’t hear herself gasp, but she felt the ground lurch beneath her feet. Her knees buckled. Someone screamed -- maybe Little Pomelo, maybe a stranger -- and distant footsteps scattered in panic.

Another shot rang out, too close and too loud.

Thud!

She hit the ground.

“Jie!”

Little Pomelo’s voice cut through everything -- through the ringing in her ears, through the roar of her own pulse. She tried to raise her head, tried to see him, but her sight faltered around the margins.

“I’m... fine...” She tried to get the words out, only for her voice to come out brittle.

She brought a hand to her side on instinct. Her fingers came away wet.

Red.

Not much. Not a pool. However, enough.

Her breath stuttered. The world narrowed to fragmented pieces: a broken streetlamp overhead, someone shouting for help, a door slamming, Little Pomelo’s small hands grabbing at her shoulder.

“Jie, wake up, please, please--”

She wanted to tell him not to cry, to tell him she was okay, to promise it would pass like every other bad day they’d already survived together.

Her tongue felt heavy. They wouldn’t come.

Instead, she forced her hand to move, searching for him, finding his wrist and squeezing weakly.

“Little Pomelo... stay low... don’t... don’t look...”

Her chest burned. Breathing hurt.

Somewhere in the distance, footsteps pounded closer -- familiar, desperate in their urgency. A voice called her name, cracked in the middle.

“Xia Qing...?!”

Yang Cheng.

She wanted to look at him. To say, ‘You’re safe. That’s good. That’s enough.’

Her vision blurred -- streetlamp, sky, a flash of silver in his eyes. The sound of his breathing heaving in uneven bursts.

“Xia Qing!”

Like a film reel slipping out of its frame... everything went white.

.

.

.

.

.

When she woke, the rigid calm of the room told her she wasn’t at home.

The ceiling above her was foreign -- it was too white, too bright, the corners smudged by the fuzziness of her vision. A monitor beeped in a fixed interval to her right, small and insistent. The sheets felt stiff against her skin.

She blinked, throat dry.

“--Xia Qing?”

It came from her left. She turned her head with a cautious tilt, and pain flared in her side -- sudden but clean, as though a seam had been carefully re-stitched.

A nurse hovered nearby, eyes widening when she saw Xia Qing awake. “Oh, good. You’re up.”

“Little Pomelo...” Xia Qing rasped, “Where...?”

“Your brother is fine.” The nurse assured her quickly. “He’s with the staff outside. He refused to leave until we promised to tell him the moment you woke up.”

Relief swept over her so forcefully it made her dizzy. She let her head sink back against the pillow.

“What... happened?” She managed.

“You were brought in with a gunshot wound.” The nurse, “It missed anything vital by a few centimeters. You lost some blood, but we got to you in time.”

Gunshot.

So it hadn’t merely felt reality was splitting -- it ‘had’ been.

A flicker of memory: the man’s eyes, the metal flash, the headlines screaming about hero candidates.

She swallowed.

“How long...?”

“You’ve been in and out since last night.” The nurse replied. “It’s still the same day, technically. We’re going to keep you for observation for a while. You need rest.”

Rest... right.

She closed her eyes briefly.

When she opened them again, there was a pair of small brown ones staring back at her from the edge of the bed.

“Jie?”

Little Pomelo’s cheeks were blotchy from crying, though he hadn’t shed a tear since she woke, as if afraid the wrong movement would shatter her.

“Hey.” She whispered, lips curving upward. “You’re supposed to be in school.”

“Jie got shot...” He said, wobbling. “School can wait.”

She huffed a quiet laugh that hurt a little. “Don’t say it like that. You’ll make it sound like I got run over by a truck.”

He sniffled. “You were on the ground. There was blood. Jie didn’t answer me. I thought...”

His fingers twisted in the bedsheet.

She lifted a hand (heavier than it should’ve been) and brushed his hair back, the same gesture she always returned to, “Jiejie’s here. See? Breathing and everything.”

“That’s not funny.”

“A little funny.”

He glared half-heartedly.

The nurse smiled and slipped out, leaving them in a bubble of quiet.

After a moment, Pomelo climbed carefully onto the chair beside her bed. He rested his arms near her hand, close yet not touching the bandages.

“E-Soul-gege was yelling a lot.” He mumbled. “He looked like he was going to break.”

Xia Qing stared at the ceiling for a suspended second, “...”

She recalled flashes -- his voice, shredded around her name, the sense of raw, volatile energy rising off him in waves.

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know...” Little Pomelo, honestly. “They made him leave. He kept trying to stay.”

Of course he did.

Her chest ached in another form now.

She wanted to see him, to see both of them, to show them she was alive and assure them the worst version of events in their heads hadn’t come true.

Be that as it may, the hours blurred.

Doctors came and went, checking her wound, adjusting her IV. Sometimes Pomelo sat by her side, doing homework or humming a mellow little tune. Sometimes a staff member took him out to eat, promising they’d bring him back.

No Yang Cheng.

No Shang Chao.

The logical part of her knew there were reasons.

Yang Cheng was probably under security watch. Possibly even blamed. Possibly swarmed by reporters.

Shang Chao... she could imagine the iron grip of his family, ‘protection’ that existed only to lock him away.

Still, a hidden, traitorous part of her heart whispered: ‘No one came.’

She shut that voice down with practiced ease. Eldest daughters didn’t hold grudges for things they understood.

On the third day, a nurse left the TV on while rearranging supplies. The volume was low, nonetheless not low enough to miss the familiar name when it appeared in bold letters.

“--Mr. Yang Cheng, what do you have to say about the perpetrator behind the attack still on the loose?”

“Will you still continue being the new E-Soul?”

Little Pomelo perked up at once. “Jie, look!”

She turned her head.

On the screen, Yang Cheng stood under the weight of cameras and microphones. He looked... different. Not the flustered boy who tripped over his words, but someone tempered by the ugly, relentless churn inside him.

Her fingers curled in the blanket.

“The title of E-Soul has endured thirty-four long years, I have also liked him deeply and fantasized about his maintaining peace and justice in this world.”

She’d heard that tone before. Not from him, but from people who had decided they were done being afraid of the wrong thing.

“Don’t...” She whispered under her breath. “Don’t do anything stupid...”

“But the truth is that a scale cannot be balanced by relying only on one side,” He continued, “so, rather than leaving the weights to others, we should become the weights ourselves.”

Little Pomelo blinked. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” She muttered, “he’s about to say something reckless.”

Then came the line that made her blood run cold:

“I have decided that on the day of the Thirty-Fourth Anniversary, I will challenge the previous E-Soul.”

Little Pomelo gasped. “He can’t do that! Can he do that?!”

Xia Qing didn’t answer, “...”

Her side throbbed with every heartbeat. Anger, fear, and reluctant, horrible understanding tangled together under her skin. Of course he would challenge the old E-Soul. Of course he would take a mountain and decide to climb straight up instead of walking around. Of course he would choose the path that hurt the most if it meant it might fix anything ‘at all’.

“You idiot.” 

Little Pomelo glanced at her, worried. “Jie...?”

“I’m fine,” She forced a smile, “just... thinking.”

Sleep came harder after that.

Nurses muttered dates and times. She overheard someone say, “A week since she came in.” The calendar on the wall flipped forward. Each day cinched around her chest, a thread drawing itself taut.

The Thirty-Fourth Anniversary drew near, a storm on the horizon she couldn’t divert or slow.

On the morning of the anniversary, she woke to rain tapping against the window.

Her side still hurt, even so, the pain had settled into a manageable, well-worn throb, one she could work around.

A doctor checked her vitals, “You’re healing well, but we still recommend at least a few more days of rest. No strenuous activity. No running.”

“Sure.” She nods obediently.

She didn’t mean it.

When he left, she stared at the clock on the wall. Her heart syncopated with the ticking.

Tick.

“How far is Hero Tower from here?” She asked in a hush.

Tock.

Little Pomelo, who was seated cross-legged on the visitor’s chair, squinted at her. “Jie’s not allowed to go anywhere.”

Tick.

“I’m just asking.”

Tock.

He rolled his eyes. “That’s what people say before they do something they’re not allowed to do.”

She smiled tightly.

On the small TV, muted news footage showed glimpses of Hero Tower. Crowds gathering. Banners waving. A caption ran along the bottom:

[34TH ANNIVERSARY: WILL OLD E-SOUL APPEAR?]

Somewhere out there, Yang Cheng was putting on that suit.

Somewhere out there, he was heading toward a fight he might not walk away from -- because of a title, because of a legacy, because she got caught in the crossfire of someone else’s grudge.

Eldest daughters didn’t make things about themselves.

This one felt awfully close.

“I’m going.” Xia Qing, before she could talk herself out of it.

Little Pomelo froze. “Going where?”

“Out,” She replied. “I’ll come back. But I can’t stay here while he walks into a deathmatch alone.”

“You’re injured, Jie...” He pointed out, horrified. “You can’t even bend without wincing.”

“I’ve done homework with a fever and still topped the class. Pain and I have an understanding.”

“That’s not... that’s not a flex!”

She reached over and squeezed his hand.

“Little Pomelo.” Xia Qing, softer now. “Stay here. Please. Be good. Let them take care of you.”

He stared at her -- at the bandages, at the IV line, at the determination set in her jaw.

“You’re going anyway...”

She swallowed.

“Yes.”

He looked down, shoulders quivering. Then he leaned forward and hugged her very gently, careful of her wound.

“Come back, Jie.” He muttered into her hospital gown.

She closed her eyes. “I will, I promised, didn’t I?”

When he pulled back, she waited until a nurse stepped out to fetch something, until the hallway sounds thinned out, until the curtain of rain outside grew thick enough to blur the window.

Pitter-patter.

Then she moved.

Pitter-patter.

The IV cannula came out with a sting and a line of blood. She pressed gauze against it, wrapped it clumsily. Her legs shook when she stood, but they held. The hospital gown flapped at her calves, useless at hiding how unready her body was.

She ignored it.

Each step toward the door was a small rebellion.

A nurse glimpsed her in the hallway and did a double take. “Miss Xia! You’re not supposed to be--!”

“I’ll be back.” She called, already moving toward the stairs. “Sorry!”

“Miss Xia--!”

She didn’t look back.

By the time she burst out of the hospital doors, the rain had turned the pavement slick and shining. The cold hit her full-force, biting at her bare feet.

Tap.

She ran anyway.

Tap.

Tap.

Every step hurt.

Huff.

Huff.

Every breath dragged fire through her side.

Huff.

However, the thought of Yang Cheng walking toward the tower alone hurt more.

“Just a little more...” She muttered to herself, echoing words she’d heard from someone stubborn and stupid and dear. “Just... a little more.”

She sprinted down the center of the street, hospital bracelet slapping lightly against her wrist. Cars honked. Someone shouted.

She.

Kept.

Going.

Then a shadow crossed over her.

The sound of a helicopter tore through the air above. She squinted up between raindrops, hair plastered to her face.

A familiar voice shouted from somewhere above her, incredulous and half-panicked: “Xia Qing...?!”

“Xia Qing...”

She looked up.

Yang Cheng stood there with his chest rising and falling, breath heaving as it would after cycling nonstop. His hair clung damply to his forehead, and his eyes -- usually bright and easy to read -- were clouded with confusion and ache.

Without a word, he sank down beside her. He chose a spot that wasn’t too close and wasn’t too far, near enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against the cold of hers.

The wind by the bay was keen and cold, stinging her nose as it slipped through her sleeves. Xia Qing drew her knees closer to her chest, chin resting lightly on top. The waves below slapped against the concrete over and over, measured and unchanging, even when she wasn’t.

She hadn’t planned to come here.

The voices from school still reverberated at the back of her mind.

“Did you see the news?”

“Treeman’s CEO--”

Her feet had simply pushed her onward.

“Found dead, right? At home?”

“No details yet. They’re being weirdly quiet about it.”

“My dad said the police sealed the whole estate.”

“And the cameras were... broken?”

Talk had followed her down the hallway, a low, persistent murmur she couldn’t shake off.

“Also weird, right?”

“They’re saying it’s a medical emergency for now, but--”

She had walked faster, turning corners, trying to stay ahead of the words, away from school, away from the whispers, away from the sudden hollowness where Shang Chao’s presence used to be.

Her heart had dropped once, sharply, when she finally let herself absorb what she was hearing. She had never even met Mr. Shang properly, he was always a distant figure, important and untouchable. Yet she had seen Shang Chao’s face enough times to understand what news like that would mean.

Families like theirs didn’t have ‘unexpected deaths’ without consequences. There were always ripples.

“He’s moving abroad.”

She had said the words out loud, although they still didn’t feel real in her mouth.

Later, more voices drifted past as she moved through the corridor.

“Apparently most staff didn’t talk either. Someone said the estate was cleared when they got there.”

Cleared.

She had paused mid-step, breath catching as the pieces lined up.

Cameras broken.

Staff silent.

Police withholding details.

A CEO dead in his ‘own’ residence.

That wasn’t what a medical emergency looked like.

An alarm had begun to bloom under her ribs.

‘Shang Chao... where are you?’

She took the nearest turn and almost collided with a teacher.

“Xia Qing.” The woman had smiled in greeting, then frowned. “Are you heading to the office? You look pale.”

“No, I--” Xia Qing had hesitated before asking, “Have you... heard anything about the Shang family? About their heir?”

The teacher’s expression had shifted from surprise to sympathy in an instant.

“Oh. Yes. Administration sent a notice this morning.” She lowered her voice. “Shang Chao withdrew from all courses. Effective immediately.”

Xia Qing’s breath had stalled.

“Withdrawn?” She repeated. “Just like that?”

The teacher nodded. “It appears so. A family decision, I think. Given the circumstances.”

‘Circumstances’. It covered too much and explained very little.

Her pulse had started to pound in her ears. “Did he... say anything? To anyone?”

“No. His file was processed before homeroom.” Then, gently: “I’m sorry. You three were always together.”

Xia Qing had bowed, thanked her, and walked away as fast as she could, the hallway seeming to dissolve around her.

Withdrawn... why would he withdraw? Why now?

She reached a secluded corner of the hallway and pressed a hand to her chest, the weight there almost unbearable.

A death.

A sealed estate.

Broken cameras.

A sudden disappearance.

Shang Chao wasn’t someone who ran away.

Unless something inside that house had broken him open. Unless whatever he saw -- whatever happened to his father -- was a sight no child should ever witness.

Her throat had seized around the thought.

He must have been alone.

He must have been terrified.

He must have--

“You rushed all the way here, didn’t you?”

Now, sitting by the bay, she inhaled deeply and glanced at Yang Cheng.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stared out at the water, jaw clenched, fingers curling around the edge of the concrete as though he needed something solid to hold on to. A thin tremor ran through his hands. His eyes shone, catching the light, which made them appear dangerously close to overflowing.

“Yang Cheng...”

His voice splintered before she could say anything else.

“Why didn’t he tell us?”

The question fell out, torn straight from his chest.

Xia Qing’s breath hitched. She should have expected that. Naturally this would be his first wound. It wasn’t the news itself, but the feeling of not being chosen to share the weight of it.

“I don’t know.” She admitted.

“But you’re close...” Yang Cheng turned to her, his tone rising without meaning to, “He listens to you. You always know what to say to him. You--”

“Not for this.” She cut in, calm but firm.

He fell silent, “...”

Wind brushed their faces. A plastic wrapper skittered across the ground before being carried off by the breeze. Far off, a couple laughed but it sounded wrong -- out of place.

Yang Cheng buried his forehead into his palm. “I called him... today. He didn’t answer.”

“He left yesterday.” Xia Qing murmured.

He froze.

A tremor passed through his chest -- a barely-there shudder -- that truth alone crushing a piece of him inside.

“Yesterday...” He echoed.

“Yang Cheng...”

“I was--” He swallowed hard, and his next words broke apart. “I was wondering what outfit to wear tomorrow. For my birthday.”

Her heart twisted at the subdued shame in his voice.

He laughed. A hollow, bitter sound. “How stupid is that.”

“It’s not stupid.” Xia Qing, a strain in her voice born more of pain than anger. “You didn’t know. None of us did.”

Yang Cheng shook his head. “I should’ve seen it. Something was wrong. He was... distant. Off. I kept waiting for him to say something. I thought... I thought he just needed time.”

Her eyes softened.

“You’re not wrong for giving someone time.”

He didn’t meet her gaze. “But I didn’t even try.”

“That’s not true.”

“It ‘is’,” He insisted, hoarsely. “I noticed his hands shaking that day in the garage. I noticed when he looked tired during training. I noticed when he kept avoiding messages. I noticed everything. But I didn’t do anything.”

“That isn’t ‘nothing’.”

“Then why does it feel like I failed him?” He asked, almost pleading.

Xia Qing exhaled through her nose, gaze rerouting to the water, letting his words settle instead of rushing to cover them.

Because she felt it too.

The failure.

The emptiness.

The echoing sense of being ‘left behind’.

“He’s not gone forever.” Xia Qing, gently.

“You don’t know that.”

“No.” Xia Qing admitted, “I don’t.”

Yang Cheng turned to her -- lost, not angry. “Then how? How do you always know him better than I do?”

Xia Qing sighed mutedly, “I don’t know him better than you. People think I do because I’m... steady. But Shang Chao hides from me too.”

Yang Cheng blinked, startled.

She looked down at her hands, fingers twisting in her cardigan. “There were days he’d disappear from our group chat, days he’d say he was busy. Days I tried to ask if something was wrong but he’d smile and change the subject. He never told me anything real. Not once.”

Yang Cheng’s chest pulled inward.

“So don’t think he only left you behind.” She mumbled. “He’s been slipping from both of us for a long time... we just didn’t see it.”

The wind moved through the baywalk, cold and empty.

Yang Cheng hunched forward, elbows on his knees, “Xia Qing... do you... think he wanted to leave?”

Xia Qing fell mum, “...”

She didn’t force an answer. She didn’t pretend she knew the truth.

Eventually, “...I don’t know.” her voice shook, not from uncertainty, from ‘honesty’.

“But I don’t think he wanted this. And I don’t think he wanted to hurt us.”

Yang Cheng stared at her, searching for a sign -- certainty, reassurance, anything...

She didn’t have certainty.

Only grief.

“We weren’t just a trio.”

Only truth.

“We were a ‘home’.”

His throat clenched.

“And now,” Xia Qing, eyes glassy, “it feels like the house is missing a wall.”

Yang Cheng shut his eyes.

They weren’t heroes or students or survivors of a terrible week. Merely two kids sitting by the sea, missing the same boy in two different ways.

As the tide rose and receded, Yang Cheng exhaled shakily, and Xia Qing rested her chin on her knees, both of them held together by the kind of silence that didn’t demand anything.

Then Yang Cheng’s phone vibrated.

Once.

Then again -- a small, sharp interruption that cut straight through the quiet. He startled at the sudden sound, blinking away the remnants of tears. Xia Qing shifted beside him, glancing at his pocket. She didn’t speak.

Yang Cheng reached for the device with hesitant fingers, the metal biting against still-warm skin. He expected a meaningless notification, maybe a news update or a reminder for an assignment. Anything ordinary.

However, on the screen, a single line appeared:

[1 NEW VIDEO RECEIVED]

[TITLE: FOR A-CHENG]

His breath stalled.

The world seemed to tilt slightly, as if the concrete beneath them slid a fraction. Xia Qing drew herself upright, watching his expression change.

“Yang Cheng...?”

He didn’t answer at first.

A part of him recognized that phrasing instantly -- the gentle ‘FOR’, the familiar nickname said in that exact way. A tone only one person ever used with him, even when pretending it meant nothing.

‘FOR A-CHENG’.

It wasn’t a mistake, nor was it random.

A message meant for ‘him’.

His thumb hovered above the screen, afraid the slightest touch would make it vanish. His pulse throbbed painfully at his throat, caught somewhere between dread and desperate hope.

Finally, he drew a slow breath and opened it.

The screen brightened between them. Xia Qing leaned closer, not intruding, simply preparing herself for whatever name they were about to hear again -- the name that had haunted both their hearts all afternoon.

Yang Cheng pressed play.

⌁ SNAP! ⌁

Chapter Text

Chapter 13

Happy Birthday, A-Cheng

The video opened with a blur. Shang Chao adjusted the camera with both hands, his fingers shaking just enough to be noticeable.

A faint, embarrassed laugh.

“Okay. Test one.”

The familiar voice of Shang Chao resounded out. Yang Cheng unconsciously froze. Like his body braced for impact before his mind caught up.

Shang Chao cleared his throat. 

“Yang Cheng. Hey! Ahh—too excited.”

He ended the clip. 

Buzz.

“Yang Cheng. Hey.” 

He winces. “Nah. Lacks energy.”

He stopped recording. Then starts again.

Buzz.

The next clip showed Shang Chao wearing a paper birthday hat. It drooped to one side, stubbornly refusing to stay up. He snatched the hat off, out of frustration. The edge caught in his hair and tugged painfully.

“Ow—okay, I hate this already.”

Buzz.

This time he wore party glasses, a tiny horn in his mouth.

“Tooooooot!”

A brief silence.

“…I look stupid.”

He took the glasses off, tossed the horn aside.

Buzz.

The camera was way too close now. Half of Shang Chao’s face filled the frame.

“Maybe I should—”

The camera fell.

Thud.

It seemed he forgot to delete some clips during final editing. 

Buzz. New clip.

 “Okay, I’ll get straight to the point.”

Shang Chao casually sat on the floor. He took a breath.

“Happy Birthday, A-Cheng.”

A small smile.

“I made something. Don’t laugh— actually laugh. That’s the point. It's a compilation. Of your dumb moments. And my genius ones, obviously.”

Buzz.

The original sound quality, like an old record. As if the file had been corrupted. Like Shang Chao had barely managed to salvage the files from his broken phone. Montage plays.

The video shook like the cameraman behind was trying not to laugh. It focused on Yang Cheng, trying to adjust with a newly upgraded suit, running, jumping — then tripped spectacularly on flat ground.

Shang Chao wheezed behind the camera.

“Yang Cheng. It was a straight line. A straight line.”

His laughter exploded. The camera moved in haywire as if the man behind it ran in a hurry. “Wait—don’t get up—stay there. I need a photo.”

Yang Cheng groaned off-screen.

“Shang Chao I swear—”

Buzz.

Yang Cheng stood beside a clunky prototype with too many blinking lights.

Shang Chao talked off-camera, “Okay, A-Cheng. Press the red button—no, the other red—YES that one—”

BOOM! A burst of confetti launched straight into Yang Cheng’s face.

Camera panned sharply — Xia Qing clapped excitedly like a proud kindergarten parent.

Xia Qing: “It worked!!”

Shang Chao: “It wasn’t supposed to do THAT.”

But he laughed uncontrollably.

Buzz.

A horribly tangled mess of crocheted yarn is shoved into the camera.

Shang Chao snorted, “Ladies and gentlemen… I got a bracelet as a gift. Yang Cheng’s, magnum opus.”

A loud, uncontrollable laugh.

“This took him. Wait, how long again?”

The camera directed to Xia Qing putting up three of her fingers as she smiled. Then it panned, with struggle, trying to get in frame, someone in a blue hoodie. A Yang Cheng hiding behind Shang Chao’s shoulder. Avoiding the camera.

“Stop recording. Delete that.” Yang Cheng said in embarrassment.

Shang Chao responded, “No no.” Another broken snort, “It’s cute. In a conceptual-art kind of way.”

Buzz.

The angle, unintentionally on the front cam showed Xia Qing who looked like she forgot how buttons worked. It flipped, showing an angle over Shang Chao’s shoulder.

Shang Chao spoke, “Okay, hold the wrench like this—steady—don’t force it—”

CRACK.

The wrench handle snapped clean in half. The camera shook slightly from Xia Qing’s chuckle.

Shang Chao suppressed a laugh, “How—HOW did you—?! It’s reinforced steel, Yang Cheng!”

Xia Qing’s voice resounded from behind the camera, “I got the evidence.” Her laughter overlapped with Shang Chao.

Buzz.

The frame was too low at first, pointed at a table leg and Little Pomelo’s socks. The camera jostled -- then tilted up.

Little Pomelo sat cross-legged on the floor, tongue peeking out in concentration as he drew on a big sheet of paper. Crayons were scattered everywhere.

“What are you doing?” Shang Chao’s voice asked from behind the camera.

“Homework.” Pomelo, seriously.

“That doesn’t look like Math.”

The camera zoomed in. Three uneven figures filled the page: one with a big helmet and cape, labelled in shaky handwriting: ‘E-Soul’. One with spiky hair and tiny goggles: ‘Shang Chao-gege’. And one with long hair and a bright sun drawn over her head: ‘Jie’.

“This is our hero team!” Pomelo announced proudly. “E-Soul is saving people, Jie is scolding him, and Shang Chao-gege is fixing the broken things.”

“...Why am I the one being scolded?” Yang Cheng complained faintly from somewhere off-screen.

Pomelo shrugged. “Because you do dangerous stuff.”

Xia Qing laughed. The camera shook just a bit, as though Shang Chao was also trying not to.

Buzz.

The three of them tried to take a group photo using a self-timer.

Clip 1: Shang Chao blinked mid-shot.

Clip 2: Yang Cheng sneezed.

Clip 3: Xia Qing’s hair covered half her face.

Clip 4: A perfectly framed photo... except Little Pomelo ran into frame screaming, “Jie, look!”

Shang Chao: “We’re never getting a normal picture.”

Buzz.

Soft music played from whatever Shang Chao used to edit. An instrumental that sounded close to home. The clip quality was lower, sunset-colored.

Yang Cheng ran into frame, half soaked, still in his uniform. Xia Qing laughed beside him, holding a bucket that somehow ended up randomly in her hands. Shang Chao’s voice behind felt warm, “You two look like wet puppies.”

Yang Cheng made a mischievous smile and threw a handful of sand in Shang Chao’s direction.

The camera jerked — Shang Chao’s startled yelp: “Ack—HEY—this phone is expensive!”

A tiny, genuine laugh escapes Yang Cheng before it collapses into silence.

Buzz.

The next scene showed the same scene at the beach. But this time, it was Yang Cheng and Xia Qing sitting quietly at a distance.The camera was steady. 

Then, it zoomed close to Yang Cheng’s face. His side-profile, bloomed with a small, radiant smile. And the camera stayed there for a while.

Buzz.

The clip cut short as if it was not intended to be there. The scene changed back to Shang Chao’s room. He was sitting at his desk this time, the camera propped too low, showing the underside of his chin.

He didn’t smile.

The atmosphere felt quieter. The environment dimmer, as if the clip was filmed for a long time. His room looked messier than normal.

 “Yang Cheng…”

He hesitated, as if saying his name hurt. This time, when he talked, his voice sounded softer.

“I’m leaving.”

He swallowed.

“I’m serious this time.”

Silence.

“I know it’s… a lot. It’s a lot for me too. To be honest, I didn’t want to make this video at all. Saying goodbye and stuff. But… I didn’t want you to think I forgot.”

He forced a thin smile. One that looked like it could collapse at the edges anytime.

“I never wanted to leave.”

He sniffled once, very quietly.

“I wanted to keep… doing things with you. Achieving things. Or messing around. Or eating unhealthy snacks. Playing stupid games with little kids even though we’re too old for that.  Crochet with Xia Qing even though you’re so terrible Little Pomelo would do better. Hide-and-seek with your fans. Or just… sitting together unproductively at the old science lab.”

A tiny, helpless smile.

“There’s that arcade and karaoke Xia Qing suggested too. I wanted to come.. though preferably maybe with some preparation time to practice my gaming and singing skills. I haven’t tried those things yet but you’d be surprised at how easy I learn.”

His tone sounded helplessly eager.

“Also.. test my inventions. Even the failures. You always looked at them like they were miracles. And sometimes I forgot they were trash.”

He laughed weakly.

“That’s really all I want.”

“… But I can’t really say that to your face… can I?”

A breath trembled out of him.

“I wish I could say it properly. Face-to-face. But I know myself. I’ll panic. I’ll fold. And then I’ll say nothing again and you’ll… leave confused.”

He caressed his wrist.

“You deserve at least a little more than that.”

His voice softened into something fragile.

“Yang Cheng… I don’t think you know how much I—”

He stopped.

Then he took a long, painful breath.

“That day.. when you said you were afraid of change? I didn’t think I fully understood you. Not really. But I remember listening. And thinking—”

His voice cracked for the first time.

“Me too.”

He quickly wiped something under his eye. Pretending it was dust. The frame glitched. It cut. Or maybe Shang Chao didn’t have enough time to edit properly. Then it went back to normal.

“Do you ever get that feeling that you’re losing… pieces of yourself? One mistake at a time? Lately I’ve been feeling like—everything I do is starting to affect you guys.”

A breath.

“I didn’t mean for it to.”

“I’m sorry.”

“For making things harder. For being distant. For being, I don’t know… Me. I don’t really know how to make sense of it all. I’m scared. But what can I do? I’m not… in control. I pretend to be but I never was.”

He lowered his head. His smile.. looked a bit more sincere now.

“Except when I met you, of course.”

Shang Chao looked directly at the camera.

“Yang Cheng, you might not realize this but..  you gave me purpose.”

He laughed again — painfully.

“It’s complicated. Maybe someday I can explain properly. But I want you to know that… Whenever you won, it felt like I won too. I never thought I’d actually feel it. That sense of satisfaction.. accomplishment … It’s stupid, right? Someone like you, miles stupider than me, gave me that.”

His fingers fidgeted.

“So thank you.”

“But don’t let it get to your head too much. You still owe me a lot. Not that you’ll ever repay me properly.”

A tiny smile.

“…Though maybe you already did.”

Then another long silence. As if he didn’t want to say what’s next.

“I guess… this is my goodbye.”

He raised his head again and covered his eyes with his hand.

“Don’t miss me too much, okay? Sometimes things won’t go how we wanted.”

He straightened his posture, a forced composure.

“I’ll keep thinking of you. Even when I’m away. So you better do well. I adjusted some parts of your suit so you’ll mess up less. The right gauntlet is still loose, tighten it before missions. And drink water. And eat something today. I have a feeling you haven’t.”

“If you screw up, that’s fine too. Expectations are overrated.”

His voice warmed, quietly and gently.

“Mess up. Fail. Struggle. That’s okay. That’s exactly the Yang Cheng I know.”

A soft, final smile.

“I’m gonna be away for a while. Probably a long time. So I’m asking… just this once—please don’t wait for me.”

His voice was barely above a whisper now.

“Please live your life like I never left.”

His mouth bobbed, the only thing Yang Cheng could see from his face.

“But keep this. The video. Just this. So you don’t forget that I—”

His voice broke completely.

“That I was there.”

A short laugh slipped, watery and defeated.

“Time may change us. I hope it won’t… If I do ever, come back different, I’ll give you a voucher for a free punch towards Shang Chao. Just not in the face. Not again. Maybe the shoulders no?”

He looked down at something he’s holding. 

“I didn’t get a proper gift in time. Someday. I will… Ha. What am I even saying. It’s not like we can’t call each other. Don’t be a stranger.  No matter how busy you get, alright… hero?”

He raised a hand in farewell.

“Bye, Yang Cheng.”

Video end.

Chapter Text

Chapter 14

Wherever Shall We Go From Here

“Bye, Yang Cheng.”

Shang Chao’s voice lingered a moment longer than the screen did, echoing faintly as the display faded to black.

Yang Cheng didn’t move.

If someone were watching from behind him, they would only see the shape of his shoulders, unnaturally still, as if the world had pressed pause on him alone. No expression. No breath. Just a boy sitting with his phone shut.

Drip.

A single tear hit the corner of his phone screen before he even noticed it. It rolled slowly, warping Yang Cheng’s reflection.

Drip.

Another followed. He didn’t lift his head, nor did he wipe his eyes. Didn’t blink. Didn’t react.

“Yang Cheng?”

He didn’t hear it.

“Yang Cheng!”

Xia Qing’s frantic voice didn’t reach him until she physically grabbed his shoulders. The third time, her voice tore…

“YANG CHENG!”

But he still didn’t move.

Not until Xia Qing suddenly shoved him sideways.

Something massive crashed where he’d been standing a heartbeat ago. A chunk of concrete, hurled from the direction of the city proper. The impact shook the ground, dust billowing around them.

Yang Cheng’s eyes widened.

The faint, muffled, directionless noise that rumbled somewhere in the distance finally sounded clear in his ears. Screams came from the city where they were near.

No time to think. No time to feel. No time to breathe.

He was the closest hero. That meant—

He sprinted. Xia Qing followed without hesitation.

A deafening crack split the air. A chunk of concrete broke free from a collapsing shopfront and plummeted toward a woman frozen in fear.

Yang Cheng moved.

One blink, and he was there.

His sneakers skidded across the ground as he grabbed her by the waist, pulling her out of range just as the rubble slammed where she stood. The shockwave bit at his heels.

“You’re safe— go!” he said, pushing her toward a clearer street.

His heart hammered. He wasn’t even wearing his hero suit.

“Yang Cheng!” Xia Qing’s voice shouted through the dust. She ran up to him, already reaching into her bag. “Here!”

She tossed the folded E-Soul suit toward him.

He caught it mid-stride without looking, electricity already flickering across his skin. He slipped the suit on in one sharp motion, zipping, fastening, bracing.

The helmet snapped into place with a click.

Now he could breathe.

Almost.

A shape emerged in the settling dust.

Huge, chaotic, malformed, a mass of black, writhing goo and jagged bone-like structures. No face. No symmetry. No sense. The very sight of it twisted the air.

An abnormality too disordered to describe.

Yang Cheng attacked first.

And immediately got punished for it.

The creature swatted him like a ragdoll. He flew across the pavement, crashing through a car with enough force to bend the metal. His ribs screamed. His vision doubled.

“What the—“ Yang Cheng muttered.

In a split second, the creature flew towards him to attack again. He dodged by a hair’s breadth.

It’s fast… too fast.

Not only that, it’s attacks were wild. As if its attacks were not driven by trust, or rage, or any emotion he could latch onto.

“Just what is that thing?”

It was strong. Strong like the old E-Soul— no, maybe even stronger.

People were still trapped behind him. Screaming. Running. He pushed himself up.

He had to protect them.

He launched forward again. His strikes hit something impossibly dense. Like punching wet iron. The creature retaliated with tendrils that cracked the ground each time they missed him by inches.

He was losing ground.

And the monster kept pushing closer to the civilians.

Yang Cheng maneuvered between it and the people, taking hit after hit, teeth gritted, breath shaking.

He pivoted, blocked, countered—

—and felt something shift.

His right gauntlet slipped, just slightly, the strap loosening where Shang Chao would usually hook it tight with a quick flick and a scolding click of his tongue.

“Tch… now?”

The half-second he spent adjusting was one half-second too long.

A blow to his side sent him crashing to the street. His ears rang. He coughed up blood. He tried to stand again, pushing his palms against the ground.

Stand.

Stand—!

But his legs didn’t respond.

The monster approached him, steps heavy enough to shake the pavement. Its shadow started to swallow him whole. He reached for strength that wasn’t there.

Move.

Please… move.

He tried—gods, he tried—to force strength into his limbs, to summon lightning, to move even a finger.

Nothing.

His fingers curled helplessly against the asphalt. His body stayed limp, useless.

Because of course they did.

The creature’s silhouette grew larger.

Closer. Closer—

His breath hitched as the edges of his vision blurred to white.

It flashed in his own mind.

Zero trust value. Zero strength. Just like before… back when he lived every day waiting for disasters he couldn’t stop.

His old self, curled up on the middle of the street, bruised and exhausted, shivering under the rain. Helpless. Powerless. Worth nothing to anyone.

But there was also…

Xia Qing smiling at him over a steaming cup of instant ramen. “Eat slowly, Yang Cheng. You always burn your tongue.” She pushed her bowl toward him because he forgot to buy dinner again. The feeling of warmth and care. A hand that always dragged him forward.

And…

A… voice. Soft and familiar. A fleeting touch atop his head, fingers brushing through his hair. A blurred silhouette leaning close, smiling at him in a way that made his chest tighten. Something he… couldn’t afford to remember right now. Calling him.

“You’ve done well today, A-Cheng...”

A pulse of fear rippled through his chest, cold and absolute.

“Ah… I won’t make it.”

The thought settled without drama. No adrenaline spike. No frantic denial. Just quiet acceptance.

He wasn’t fast enough.

He wasn’t strong enough.

He wasn’t the old E-Soul.

He was just Yang Cheng — who scraped by on luck, who barely held things together, who couldn’t even stand to save the people right in front of him.

The monster loomed over him, its body blotting out what little light remained.

“So this is it…?”

Dying here? Without telling Xia Qing he was sorry? Without asking… him why he left without a word? Without fixing the mess he’d made in everyone’s lives?

The monster raised its black, grotesque arm trembling with barely-contained force.

He exhaled one last, shaking breath.

“I can’t… I can’t move…”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

But then—

“YANG CHENG!!!”

A voice cut through the roar. A blur of movement. Her body slammed into him, shoving him aside with everything she had—

Xia Qing.

The attack meant for him struck her instead. The impact sent her flying. Her small frame hit the ground with a sickening, fleshy thud.

Blood splattered across the asphalt.

“Xia… Qing?” His voice cracked.

She lifted her head weakly. Blood dripped from her mouth.

“Y-Yang Cheng… run…”

Run.

Run?

Something inside Yang Cheng snapped.

The ringing in his ears shattered into a piercing hum. His heartbeat pounded like thunder. Heat surged from his chest to his fingertips, electricity ripping through his veins so violently it hurt. His blood boiled.

His vision sharpened to a single point — the monster.

The ground beneath him cracked as a massive burst of lightning erupted from his body, bright enough to make the monster recoil.

His teeth clenched so hard something in his jaw clicked.

“Die?”

The word came unbidden, unrestrained, dangerous.

“I’m the one who’s supposed to die?”

“I’m the one who’s supposed to lie down and let you take everything I have left?”

Blue-green light climbed up his arms, exploded across his spine, and surged outward like a storm given flesh.

“Get—” he staggered to his feet, electricity cracking from the strain, “—away from her!”

He vanished in a flash of cyan light, reappearing behind the monster in a burst of speed so sharp it split the air. His fist crashed into its side, electricity detonating on impact.

The monster shrieked, stumbling, dark liquid sizzling where lightning seared it.

Yang Cheng didn’t stop.

“I’m weak?”

“I’ll die here?”

“No— YOU.”

He launched himself forward again, not caring about form, not caring about anything but ‘not losing another person.’ His blows landed harder, faster. The monster actually staggered.

It hesitated the moment it hurt Xia Qing.

He didn’t notice.

Yang Cheng kept attacking, blinded by panic, by grief, by the echo of Shang Chao’s stupid birthday edit still floating in his ears.

He drove it back.

For the first time, it looked—

Injured.

He struck again. Slamming a kick into the monster’s ribs, sending it smashing through a utility pole. Sparks exploded along the street as stray currents jumped from metal to concrete.

He didn’t feel the pain in his body anymore. Didn’t hear the screams. Didn’t notice Xia Qing calling out faintly from behind him.

He only saw red.

“You hurt her.”

“You almost killed me.”

”You ruined everything.”

“Come on…” Yang Cheng growled, lightning wreathing his fists, “get up.”

The monster lurched, struggling to rise.

Yang Cheng grinned. Sharp, unhinged, teeth bared in something that wasn’t heroic at all.

“Good,” he hissed. “I’m not done.”

Lightning burst again. This time brighter, louder, angrier. Each blow stronger than the last. Every strike chipped more of the monster apart. Black goo splattered everywhere, dissolving on the ground. The monster reeled. A chunk of its tar-like body sloughed off, revealing something caught inside—

A flicker of color, small, out of place, peeking from the shifting black goo. A flash of thread.

Woven poorly. Sloppily made.

A badly crocheted bracelet.

Yang Cheng froze mid-strike. The lightning around him stuttered.

He knew that bracelet.

He’d seen it before, as it formed from his own hands, trying his best to make it presentable. He’d made it himself. He’d made it for him.

“…What?” Yang Cheng’s brows knitted.

The creature staggered again, and as more goo dripped away—

A familiar arm was visible beneath. Trembling. An arm too thin. Too pale. Too… human.

The same arm that propped a chin during group projects. One that fiddled with wires every chance it got. One that shoved snack packs into his hands with a muttered “just take it.”

“…no,” Yang Cheng breathed.

His chest collapsed in on itself. His earlier rage evaporated into something infinitely more terrifying.

“It can’t be…”

“Shang…”

His tongue felt numb. The world tilted. He called out. A name he didn’t think he would again for a while.

“Shang Chao?”

✦ SNAP! ✦

The world tilted.

Xia Qing couldn’t tell if it was from blood loss or the way Yang Cheng’s voice suddenly sounded -- small, disbelieving, cracked open at the center.

She pressed her palm to the asphalt and forced herself halfway upright. Pain tore up her ribs, blurring her vision, but she refused to fall. Not yet. Not while Yang Cheng stood frozen a few feet away, lightning flickering uselessly around his fists, staring at the monster as though he were looking at a ghost.

Or worse -- someone he’d been grieving an hour ago, suddenly breathing...

In.

Front

Of.

Him.

Xia Qing wiped blood from her mouth, fingers shaking. “Yang Cheng...” She rasped out, barely a whisper. She didn’t know what she was trying to say. Warning him? Begging him to stay back? Trying to deny the impossible?

Until she saw a strip of color slipped between the dissolving tar. Yarn, knotted and endearingly rough.

“!!!” That bracelet -- Yang Cheng’s crooked stitches, Shang Chao’s reluctant acceptance, the three of them laughing over how ugly uneven it was -- flashed in her mind, sharp enough to hurt.

“No...” She mouthed.

The monster shifted, and that was all it took. She didn’t need a clear view of the shoulder, the hand, the half-buried face.

She already ‘knew’.

“...Shang... Chao?”

Her pulse stuttered so violently she almost blacked out.

Everything inside her twisted piercingly -- fear, confusion, a reflexive ache she didn’t want to admit. The part of her that had stopped trusting him. The wall she’d built around that wound cracked open despite her.

‘He’s here. He’s alive-- heavens, what have they done to you?’

Yang Cheng took a deliberate step forward, fingers quivering.

Xia Qing’s gut clenched. “Yang Cheng... stop.” Her voice broke on the second word. “Don’t go near him. Not like this.”

She didn’t even know who she was protecting -- Yang Cheng from whatever this thing was, or Shang Chao from the terrified lightning trembling in Yang Cheng’s hands.

And that terrified her more than the monster in front of them.

“Yang Cheng,” She gasped, forcing her body upright another inch, “look at me-- look at me, please--”

He didn’t turn.

The wind shifted. The monster jerked. The boy she’d known all her life stood shuddering in front of both of them.

For the first time in days, Xia Qing felt the fragile, dangerous truth snap into place:

This wasn’t a fight anymore.

This was a ‘tragedy’.

And they were all trapped in the heart of it.

✦ SNAP! ✦

Main Story: Aftermath (Pt. 1) — END

Chapter Text

Chapter 15

To You, Who’s Still Too Young

Shang De could never forget the first time his son looked at him with those eyes.

“Father. Look! I made a hero figurine.”

A tiny voice. Eager. Both hands holding a crude clay model with all the pride in the world.

He remembered thinking, “He doesn’t resemble me at all.”

The child’s hair was too soft. His posture too timid. But his eyes—those were unmistakable.

Her eyes.

The same eyes that once stared at him from a hospital bed with more pity than love.

“Chao. Shang Chao shall be his name. Chao—to surpass.” That woman had smiled at the nurse, not at him. “So that one day he’d surpass even his father.”

He never really remembered her face. He refused to. But her last request, “Take care of him for me” clung to him like a curse. A feisty woman she was.

“Father, I want to be a hero.”

Shang De stiffened. He dreaded hearing that. He had trained heroes for half his life. He had seen the system break adults far sturdier than this small, fragile child.

“You’re still too young to be thinking that.”

Shang Chao nodded quietly and waited for the next year to come.

Every birthday, every New Year, every random quiet afternoon—

“Father, can I be a hero now?”

“You’re still too young.”

He said it so often that the phrase lost meaning. Shang Chao did not handle the repetition well.

One day… one terrible, unforgettable day—

Shang De returned to his office to find his son crashing out amid torn contracts and shredded documents, the kind worth millions.

A tantrum. A desperate one.

A child’s way of saying, Why won’t you look at me? Why won’t you choose me? Why won’t you trust me?

But Shang De did not understand that language.

He only saw chaos. And he punished chaos.

Harshly.

Not out of anger, but because discipline was the only language he knew how to speak.

“You don’t know what it takes to become a hero,” his voice was low, cold. “Don’t even try to be one.”

That was the first time he locked his son in his own room.

The door clicked shut.

thump thump thump

Small fists knocked.

“Father— I’m sorry! I’m sorry— I won’t do it again— please…”

Shang Chao’s voice cracked, raw, frantic. But no footsteps returned to him. No answer. Shang De simply walked away.

Shang Chao did not ask again after that.

Over the years, his son learned to stay out of sight. To do everything alone. To excel without supervision, because praise was something he never learned to expect.

Shang De mistook this for maturity.

“He’s growing fine on his own”, he told himself. “Better than I ever did.”

And when Shang Chao began tinkering, creating, designing strange little gadgets—

Shang De allowed it.

He believed he was granting freedom. The freedom his own father never gave him. He didn’t realize he was creating distance.

Whenever the company faced trouble, Shang Chao would slip.

“I can help. Father.”

That hopeful tone again. That flicker of the child holding a clay figurine. Shang De always shut it down.

“Stay out of this.”

Because he was still too young. Because Shang De still remembered that tantrum too vividly. Because he didn’t know how to trust someone who carried her eyes. 

Months passed. Then years. Work engulfed him. He didn’t realize how long it had been since he’d had a real conversation with his son.

Occasionally he wondered:

“Do normal fathers… talk to their children? How?”

He didn’t know. No one ever taught him. So he accepted the distance as… fate.

A quiet afternoon. He was reviewing reports, barely listening to the sound of footsteps outside his office.

“Father.”

Shang De looked up.

There it was. For the first time in years. That light in his son’s eyes. The exact same light she had when she looked at him. It hit him harder than the tantrum ever did.

Shang Chao stood there hesitantly, trying to hide excitement behind a neutral face.

“Father… I have a classmate my age who went viral. I was thinking…”

Careful phrasing. Indirect. Mimicking adult talk. Trying not to sound childish. Trying so, so hard to ask the same question as before, but in a way he hoped wouldn’t get him rejected.

It was painfully obvious.

Shang De understood perfectly.

He also knew his answer should have been no, but that spark. Her spark was right there.

And he hadn’t seen it in so long. So long he thought he’d lost it.

So he lied to himself.

“Maybe he isn’t too young anymore.”

“Maybe this is fine.”

“Maybe I can give him this one thing.”

He looked back at the reports, pretending to sound indifferent.

“You have the resources. Utilize them properly.”

Shang Chao’s eyes brightened by just a fraction, but enough for Shang De to see.

“I did something right,” he told himself.

And for the first time in his life, he allowed himself to believe he was a capable father.

But then…

“M–Mr. Shang!” A junior staff member, breathless.

“Your son… someone attempted to kill him!”

For a moment, Shang De couldn’t hear anything. Not the staff’s rambling explanation, not the startled murmurs in the room.

All he heard was a distant echo.

“Take care of him for me.”

And suddenly he was back in that memory he spent years avoiding.

Her hand slipping from his. Her eyes dimming. And the crushing realization that he was holding onto something he could not protect. The feeling returned so violently he nearly staggered.

When Shang Chao returned home that night, the faint trembles he tried to hide didn’t escape Shang De’s notice.

A near-fatal attack. Because he was connected to that boy — Yang Cheng.

Shang De didn’t see the brave teenager who tried to smile it off. He saw the same fragile child clutching a clay figurine, asking if he could be a hero.

He saw everything he feared.

He saw loss.

And fear, the kind he never acknowledged, twisted into control.

“The assailant is still out there,” Shang De said, voice sharp to hide the shaking. “You will stay in. No arguments.”

The order was absolute, non-negotiable.

Just like before, when he punished the childish tantrum. Just like before, when distance seemed like the safest option.

But Shang Chao — clever, too bright for his own good, did exactly what he did as a child.

He broke the rules.

Past guards Shang De handpicked. Past security systems meant to keep villains out, not his own son in.

He shouldn’t have felt it — a sliver of pride cut through the panic.

“That’s my son”, he thought. Too smart, too resourceful. Maybe a bit like him too.

But pride did not matter.

Only fear did.

And fear told him one thing:

I am going to lose him too.

That night, Shang De paced outside his son’s room long after Shang Chao had gone to sleep, exhausted from the confrontation, unaware of the storm building behind the door. Sending him away felt like admitting failure as a father. But keeping him close felt like a guaranteed repeat of history.

“Take care of him for me.”

He couldn’t. He never knew how.

But maybe… 

Maybe the world could.

He stared at the passport he had secretly prepared months ago, long before his son knew anything about going abroad. It had started as a backup plan. A ‘just in case’ if something happens within his company, related to his work.

Now it was the only plan.

“A child targeted once,” he muttered, “will be targeted again.”

Keeping Shang Chao by his side meant danger. Sending him away meant safety. He convinced himself it was the logical choice. The fatherly choice. The only choice.

And so, without asking, Shang De made arrangements behind his son’s back.

A school abroad. Guards stationed along the route. Everything prepared for a sudden departure. He promised himself he would explain later.

Not now. Not while the fear was too loud.

But the truth was uglier:

Shang De never explained his decisions. He only enforced them. 

Just like his father did to him. Just like he swore he wouldn’t repeat. Yet here he was, repeating it in the worst moment possible.

He justified it to himself.

“He’s still too young.”

Too young to choose danger.

Too young to understand risk.

Too young to realize how easily Shang De could lose him.

He never thought—

Not once—

That forcing Shang Chao away would set off the chain of events that led to his own downfall.

Or that the decision meant to save his son was the same decision that would destroy him.

***

A long-haired man, dressed in a white suit jacket, a beige vest underneath, watched the security feed with a glass of citrus water in hand, swirling it lazily as he leaned back in his padded leather chair.

On-screen, Yang Cheng was yelling.

‘Stop— throwing— produce!’

Uncle Rock, or rather Yan Mo, watched the footage not out of entertainment, but necessity.

Yang Cheng was slipping. Not in skill, no, the boy had grown perfectly ever since he became E-Soul. Rather, he was slipping from his grip.

Connections made him unpredictable.

Connections made him harder to recall, harder to re-shape.

Yan Mo played with a silver coin in his hand, eyes fixed at the screen.

Watching Yang Cheng, swiftly dodging and catching fruit juice, yelling at a pitiful villain while civilians laughed. A childish scene. But the noise around him was the problem.

Treeman’s influence. Public attachment.

Ties he’d have to cut cleanly if he wanted to pull the boy back into his control.

“…I let you move too freely,” he muttered under his breath.

Even the old E-Soul would have been easier. Quiet. Contained.

Yang Cheng was not.

So Yan Mo monitored him. Every mission, every interview, every shift of expression — waiting for the moment he could intervene and tighten his hold again. He replayed the interview. As if desperate to find any small detail to take advantage of.

Among the chaos when the minor villain appeared, something caught his eye. It narrowed.

He paused the footage.

Rewound.

Play.

A figure half-concealed during the scene. Not a civilian. Too still. Posture too rigid.

Yan Mo zoomed in.

Shang Chao.

He tapped the screen once. Not out of surprise, but out of recognition.

Shang De’s son.

The heir.

The boy whom he hasn’t touched since Shang De sent watchful eyes.

But the image sharpened, and his thoughts stilled.

Shang Chao looked wrong.

Breathing shallow. One hand clutching his wrist too tightly. A tremor—violent, involuntary—running up his arm.

Yan Mo studied the footage more closely. Frame by frame.

The boy’s silhouette bent strangely for a split second, trying to push something out.

He zoomed in the footage closer.

A strange black liquid manifested from inside the boy’s yellow sleeve. One he recognized well.

Fear.

Yan Mo, covered his mouth, a half-smile forming behind.

If Shang De’s son was unraveling like that—

Then Yang Cheng…

Could be dragged in.

Could be weakened.

Could be reclaimed.

Because if Shang Chao fell, Yang Cheng would break soon after.

And a broken hero was far easier to control.

“…Shand,” he whispered, voice flattening. “It seems your son is in trouble.”

The screen flickered, freezing on Shang Chao’s distorted, terrified expression.

A soft, delighted chuckle escaped Yan Mo as he tightened his yellow necktie.

“How interesting.”

***

It started with a call.

At first, Shang De didn’t bother to pick it up. Not from that man. He let it ring, expression flat, thumb hovering over the decline button.

Then his phone buzzed again.

A message.

‘Mr. Shand. I thought you might want to see something. It’s about your son.’

Shang De froze.

Logic said: ignore it.

Instinct said: block him.

Experience said: this man never reached out without a reason.

But it involved Shang Chao.

So he called, not out of reason, not out of caution— but out of the unexplainable, unshakeable reflex that activates only when a parent feels their child might be in danger.

The line clicked.

“What are you planning?” Shang De asked immediately, voice clipped.

A faint chuckle drifted through the speaker. Smooth. Polished. Poisonous.

“Planning? I simply wanted to do something for you,” Yan Mo replied. “As someone who runs a hero agency, like you. I mean you even worked under MG before. So consider this from colleague to colleague. I saw something, and I thought you deserved to know first.”

A file came in. A video.

Yan Mo hummed. “You’ve been quiet for a while, Shand. Something on your mind? I can help.”

Shang De didn’t respond. Because the footage was already open.

It showed Yang Cheng. The new E-Soul. In the midst of one of his usual reckless confrontations, that bizarre mix of tension and comedy the boy was known for.

But Shang De wasn’t watching Yang Cheng.

His eyes locked on the small figure in the background, wearing a yellow cardigan, half-hidden behind a support beam.

Shang Chao.

The child’s breath unsteady, eyes widening, liquid pooling faintly along his fingertips.

Liquid Fear.

Shang De’s stomach dropped.

The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

“What? How did he—“

No… He would’ve noticed. He would’ve sensed it. He watches the boy closely, protectively, every day— Huh.. Did he really?

Yan Mo’s voice seeped through again, slow and knowing.

“A child manifesting fear at that age… unstable. Dangerous. These things spiral quickly if not managed correctly.”

“I can handle my son myself,” Shang De forced out.

“Ah… like how you handled Yang Cheng?” Yan Mo replied softly.

The tone wasn’t mocking. Rather, it was worse — gentle, understanding.

Shang De’s breath hitched.

Yan Mo continued, voice a blade wrapped in velvet. “Your son is rebelling because of him. Running out of your grip. A child with instability… influenced by someone that emotionally persuasive… well, the results can be unpredictable.”

Silence.

Then.

“What do you want?” Shang De whispered.

Not as a chairman. Not as a CEO. But as a father terrified he was failing the last piece of someone he once loved.

“Nothing,” Yan Mo said. “A hero. I just want the hero called E-Soul.”

It felt like a simple request. Deceptively simple.

And Shang De, desperate, drowning in fear for Shang Chao, agreed.

But he was not careless.

He arranged the meeting at his own residence. A meeting done on secret. On his ground. His guards stationed. His security active. He thought he could control this. He thought he could protect his son.

Yan Mo arrived with an amiable smile and empty hands.

The greeting lasted seconds.

The conversation barely minutes.

Shang De turned slightly—a habitual gesture, checking the room—and that tiny movement was all the opportunity Yan Mo needed.

A shift of a cape. A flash of metal. A strike so precise it bypassed all defenses.

From a masked man. From a hero. ‘Ghostblade’. 

When Shang De turned, all his staff already fell on the ground. All cameras broken. In one single second.

And him? he realized too late that he was wounded. Shang De gasped, choking on breath he couldn’t pull in.

Yan Mo caught him by the shoulder as he fell, almost gently.

“You did the right thing, you know,” he murmured near Shang De’s ear.

“A child is safest when his father is gone. It makes him… reachable.”

He let the body drop.

No struggle.

No time to scream.

Then he vanished, with a gray-haired assassin by his side, leaving the room immaculate.

Except for the blood.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Hurried footsteps echoed down the hall, too fast, too uneven to be calm. The door slammed open.

“Father!”

Shang Chao rushed inside, breath hitching, eyes scanning wildly.

No movement.

His steps faltered, slower now, dread sinking cold into his spine.

“…Father?”

A softer call. Barely more than a breath. Fragile. Like the child he never allowed himself to be.

But his father did not move.

No irritated sigh. No reprimand for barging in without knocking. No sharp glance that meant ‘compose yourself, Shang Chao.’

Just—

A figure who had always stood firm, always immovable, always too solid to crumble…

Lying in a pool of his own blood.

TO CELEBRATE PART 2, Here’s an artwork of Mr. and Ms. Shang in their early days. Made by yours truly.

— Dokjayaaa (says she will make more if time allows it, definitely)

Edit: I was informed that the image might not be visible to some readers, so here’s a drive link for you to check out: 

Shang Mama and Papa

Chapter Text

Chapter 16

To You, Who Never Loved Me

Shang Chao wasn’t planning to wander at his own— his father’s house. 

He walked not out of boredom, but because accepting his father’s decision, ‘going abroad, for his own good’, left the house feeling unfamiliar. Every hallway felt like it was slipping away from him, piece by piece, as if he’s already gone.

Shang Chao traced his steps through rooms he barely entered, palms brushing old cabinets and silent portraits, until he found a door he didn’t recognize. 

A basement?

He never knew they had one.

He went down.

Most of it was junk, old prototypes from Shang De’s early years. Files dated beyond Shang Chao’s birth.

Then he saw it.

A glass cylinder. Cracked at the base. Seeping something black onto the floor.

A strange, dark, oozing liquid.

Out of his own curiosity, he crouched. He touched the edge of it with a fingertip. Nothing happened. The stain didn’t react, didn’t pulse. Just… sat there.

He wiped his hand and shrugged it off. He assumed it was oil. Or failed synthetic fuel. Or anything unimportant.

He should’ve known better.

A few days later, he saw it.

A small dark spot on his neck. A mole that wasn’t there before. He stared at it in the mirror. Leaned closer. Touched it.

When he looked at his fingertip, it was there. It rippled.

He jerked back. Heart stopping, as the blackness spread across his hand. Cold. Alive. Crawling.

His breath hitched. The room blurred. His vision tunneled, like something was swallowing the world around him—

Then his phone rang.

Xia Qing.

Her voice grounded him immediately.

“…Fried chicken or noodles? Yang Cheng can’t decide, we need a third opinion,” she said.

Shang Chao swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “Either’s fine.”

When he hung up, his hand still shook.

“Tell father,” he thought. “You should tell him.”

But the memory of punishment, childhood fear sharpened into survival instinct, coiled tightly around his decision. His father mustn’t know he went snooping around their old basement.

“Maybe I shouldn’t..”

It happened again, at school.

He was mid-sentence with a classmate when the blackness crawled under his skin, stomach flipping violently.

“I— I need a minute,” he muttered, and bolted.

He ran until his breath burned, feet carrying him to the old science lab. The place they always ended up in. The place the three of them half-claimed as their own.

The panic hit harder this time.

Walls stretching. Ceiling lowering. His pulse pounding in his ears—

Then he saw it.

A ridiculously, weirdly shaped amigurumi of E-Soul, him, and Xia Qing — Yang Cheng’s early attempt at ‘weaving without stabbing himself.’

A shaky breath escaped him.

He clutched his own messy bracelet hidden under his sleeve. Grounding himself in their shared incompetence.

The room came back into focus.

He scanned the space. Xia Qing’s mountain of discarded thesis drafts, Yang Cheng’s compilation of scripts (mostly it was lines erased, some with messy superimpositions, and doodles at the side, scripted jokes included), a half-finished project he abandoned after arguing with Yang Cheng about screws, a whiteboard still scribbled with their debate about whether pigeons could be trained to deliver snacks during exams.

He sat by the window and looked at the buildings outside. Soon, he’d be living far from this room.

“They should be here by now…” he murmured. “I guess they’re busy.”

He opened the secret compartment under the desk, stuffed with snacks they promised never to tell Xia Qing about, and pulled one out.

A light novel sat nearby.

He flipped it open. The protagonist spoke of yearning to return home, no matter how far his journey took him.

“…To come home, huh,” Shang Chao whispered.

He wasn’t sure where his home even was.

He read the line stated by the protagonist. The page he’d bookmarked had a highlighted line.

‘I won’t lose too much, just myself. There are always some things that are more important than others.’

He brushed his thumb over the quote, almost defensive.

“…There are always some things that are more important…” His voice thinned into a whisper.

On the night after Yang Cheng’s surprise debut event, in his room, Shang Chao tried turning on his shattered phone again. It fizzled. Pixel fragments flickered across the screen. Then died.

There it was again. Frustration and fear clenched at him… until, suddenly—

Beep.

It turned on.

Reality snapped back. The black retreated, like it was never there. A breath of pure relief escaped him. “Still here… it’s still here, thank goodness…”

His gallery. The video clips. Yang Cheng’s birthday file.

He opened an editing software and continued where he left off. Adjusted the timeline. Trimmed a clip.

Maybe… maybe he really should tell his father. The fear was growing worse. More frequent.

He rehearsed the lines while walking through the residence.

Father I found something on your basement. No no. It should be… Father, I’m a problem— No I mean… Father, I think something’s wrong with me. I need help. Please—

He froze mid-step.

Shang De stood in the hallway staring at a framed portrait.

His mother.

Instinctively, Shang Chao hid behind a column. But Shang De spoke without turning. 

“Chao,” he said. “Come here.”

Shang Chao stiffened. Then, reluctantly, stepped forward.

Shang De didn’t look at him. His gaze remained fixed on the portrait.

“Did you ever think,” he said quietly, “that you needed a mother?”

Shang Chao blinked. “I… I never really knew her.”

“You have her eyes,” Shang De murmured. “And her stubbornness.”

A pause. Heavy. Unusual.

“She was a lot like you.”

Something warm, unfamiliar, flickered in Shang Chao’s chest.

He looked at the portrait again. At the eyes that mirrored his own. All he could do was stand there, listening to his father speak of a woman he never met… and feeling, for the first time in a long time, like the distance between them was just a little smaller.

“You’ll be… leaving soon,” Shang De said.

A statement, not a question.

Shang Chao nodded.

Shang De exhaled, long and controlled. “The people there are competent. I vetted them myself.”

Of course he did. Shang De always did everything himself.

A brief silence settled, heavy but not uncomfortable.

Shang De’s tone shifted. Lighter, almost awkward, as if he wasn’t sure how to navigate this kind of conversation.

“Shang Chao,” Shang De continued, still refusing to look directly at him, “if… anything happens…” He paused, searching for the right words. “…you will call. Immediately.”

Shang Chao blinked. 

“It doesn’t matter what time it is.” A faint sternness returned, but softer than usual. “Even if it’s trivial. Even if it’s something you think you should handle on your own.”

Shang Chao’s fingers curled at his sides.

Shang De cleared his throat.

“And… if you need something,” he added, quieter now, “you don’t wait. You tell me. I’ll arrange it.”

Shang Chao stared at him, stunned into silence.

Shang De gave a small nod, as if that concluded the conversation. But the last line slipped out, too soft for anyone except a son straining to hear.

“You’ve always done things alone.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to continue doing so… not while I’m still here.”

For a moment, the world stopped spiraling.

For a moment, Shang Chao forgot the rehearsed lines, the fear crawling beneath his skin, the darkness waiting to swallow him.

For a moment—

He was just a son. Standing beside a father who didn’t know how to love him properly, but perhaps loved him anyway.

And he couldn’t bring himself to break that moment.

— SNAP! —

Shang Chao hadn’t meant to run. He couldn’t even remember choosing to.

One moment he was standing in the street with the messenger’s urgent whisper lodged in his ear --

“Young master... something happened at the residence...”

-- cold dread slowly crawling up his spine, freezing everything inside him.

The next moment, his feet were already moving.

He barely registered the guard shouting after him about the car. His body had made the decision long before his mind could, and he found himself sprinting across the city with no destination except ‘home’, lungs burning as the surroundings warped into a smear. Every instinct left in him folded into one urgent command:

‘Get there.’

‘Get home.’

‘Get to Father!’

He burst through the doors of the estate and stumbled toward the study -- ‘his’ study, the room his father reserved for every confidential meeting. His hand slipped on the doorknob from the sweat on his palms, but he forced it open all the same.

“!!!”

The scene froze, painfully still.

His father lay on the floor, neither seated nor resting, but collapsed in a way that no living body should be. A pool of dark red spread beneath him, warm and steady, it hit Shang Chao instantly that it had been flowing for far ‘too long’.

His breath fractured.

“F-Father...?”

“...”

There were no sharp rebukes or impatient glances, just the man he’d grown up believing was unshakeable -- fallen and quiet.

Thud!

Shang Chao dropped to his knees so abruptly the impact jolted through his body. His hands landed in the blood as he reached for his father’s arm, his fingers shaking uncontrollably.

“Please... wake up. I’m here. Please...”

Silence pressed against him until it felt suffocating.

A piece of him seized in a brutal twist, then shut down as though someone had pulled a switch inside his chest.

His wrist pulsed once.

Then again.

Then harder.

The black stain throbbed more furiously than it ever had before, beating with a rhythm that wasn’t his. A cold surge shot up his arm and wrapped around his shoulder, inching toward his throat with unsettling purpose.

“No-- not now-- please--”

His voice tore apart before the rest of the sentence could form. His vision blurred -- and not from tears. Darkness crept along the edges of his sight like ink sliding across paper. His pulse spiked, wild and uneven. His breath splintered.

“I should’ve told you... I should’ve--”

However, the thought dissolved.

Because ‘he’ dissolved.

He blinked --

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

-- and suddenly found himself in the hallway, his hands empty, the metallic taste of copper coating his tongue. He didn’t remember standing up. He didn’t remember leaving the room. He didn’t remember anything except the sound of his heartbeat smothering every rational thought.

Thump.

He hadn’t meant to leave his father behind.

Thump.

He hadn’t processed the scene he’d walked into.

Thump.

He hadn’t processed ‘anything’ at all!

Thump.

He simply ran.

Thump.

Hours blurred together. Somehow he ended up at the airport, legs moving on their own. He waited in line with a blank expression, handed over documents with trembling fingers, and signed whatever he was told to sign as if on autopilot, creating the illusion he was actually planning to leave.

But he didn’t board.

He pretended to walk toward the gates, turned around halfway through the concourse, and left the building entirely. He didn’t want to go, he didn’t know if he should stay -- his body instinctively kept walking because the alternative was collapsing under everything he had seen.

He drifted through the city, a ghost in his own skin -- past a bus terminal, a park, an empty street behind a row of shuttered shops -- until exhaustion finally forced him down onto a bench. His knees drew to his chest, his head dropped into his arms, he swore he would rest ‘for just a moment’.

He woke to sunset.

Cold. Disoriented. Still trembling.

The stain on his wrist pulsed again, harder than before.

He swallowed thickly. He needed something (anything!) to quiet his mind.

He stumbled into a convenience store. He’d never bought alcohol before, and his hands shook so badly he almost dropped the bottle. He muttered to himself as he stared at the shelves, cheeks burning with shame.

“H-How do people even...?”

He paid, stepped outside, and unscrewed the cap. The first sip struck his throat aggressively, dragging a cough out of him as his eyes watered.

“Why do people drink this willingly...?”

He glared at the bottle.

“This is awful.”

Gulp.

He drank anyway.

Because the images in his head wouldn’t stop.

“I’m awful.”

Because the blackness on his wrist wouldn’t stop.

“Everything is awful.”

Because the memory of his father lying cold on the floor...

Wouldn’t.

Stop.

He sat on the curb with the bottle beside him and his head spinning, the afternoon deepening around him. His hands quivered violently, making it nearly impossible to open his phone.

His gallery was still open.

The video he had made for Yang Cheng’s birthday (the last gentle thing in his possession) sat on the screen.

“I haven’t... sent this yet...”

His thumb hovered over the screen.

He was slipping, thoughts fraying and breath growing thin, yet in the last fragile corner of himself he still wanted Yang Cheng to know he ‘remembered’, he ‘cared’, he wanted to leave something good behind.

He typed nothing, “...”

He simply hit send. To an old, unsaved number only he knew by heart.

[TITLE: FOR A-CHENG]

The sending bar crawled slowly across the screen.

His vision flickered. His breath hitched. His hand spasmed.

The phone slipped from his grasp and clattered onto the ground.

One checkmark appeared.

[SENT]

And that became the final human action he ever made.

“...!”

The corruption surged without restraint. A piercing cold snapped through his spine! The darkness spilled across his arm, slithered over his jaw, drowned the whites of his eyes, twisted through his limbs until they bent too sharply to be human.

Memories surged in rapid cuts:

Yang Cheng laughing at the beach, chasing sand.

Xia Qing counting messed-up crochet stitches.

Himself holding a birthday hat, tripping on confetti.

The three of them arguing about screws.

Xia Qing leaning over a broken project: “We can fix it together.”

Shang Chaos voice in the video: “Happy Birthday, A-Cheng.”

“No-- not yet-- please--”

Against the wall, he clawed at his own skin, desperate, terrified!

He clenched his teeth until he tasted blood.

“Don’t-- take-- them-- from me--”

The black crept over his mouth.

“Don’t-- take-- me--”

A whisper reverberated through his skull, low and hollow:

L̵̝̫̮͒͛é̵̫͉̻ṭ̷̦̕͠ͅ ̴̬̾g̷͎͙̾o̵͚̠͛.̸͕͓͒

He shook his head frantically.

“I don’t... I still haven’t--”

L̷̨͈̅̈́e̵̼̬̺͓̯̜̘̓͑͛t̸̫̖͕͕̼̀̏̽̀̿̅ͅ ̵͙͍̟̙̫͊̋̉͠͠ġ̶̡̰̹̏̄͑͊͝ͅǫ̶̢͖̦̙̬̪̀͒̎̓̂.̶̣̮̦̍

“I still... have things... I still haven’t--”

The corruption swallowed the words.

The last shred of Shang Chao’s mind screamed:

‘A-Cheng... don’t see me like this. Please.’

His fingers scraped helplessly against the crocheted bracelet on his wrist -- Yang Cheng’s clumsy stitches, Xia Qing’s teasing laughter, the memories that kept him standing far longer than he deserved.

It broke something inside him.

A second whisper seeped into the unraveling corners of his mind, faint as a sigh and merciless as truth:

Ḃ̴̨̧̡̮͔̯̫̱̬̪̟̳̋́̐̆́̅̐̊̂́͘͜͝͝ṷ̶̧̠͉͈̜͚̒̂͗̂̈́͆̇̀̆̀̓͒̉̌̆̉̒͐͛̀̓͝͝ţ̸̧̩͎̜̜̰̞̳̳̰̖̮̼̰͍̲͍̗̯̩̗͑͋͊͊̓̀̅͂͝ ̴̼̻̯̘̀̈́͋̏̉̍̃̀̇̐̋̈́̽͐̀̚̕͝ͅṱ̴̢̲͍̼̮̹͙̅h̸̝̭͙͐͑́͋̀͒͗̿̋̾̉̚͠͝ͅe̸̡͖̤͖͖̲̠̠͔̪̖̘͓̺̫̺͋͗̎̔̕͝y̶̧̯̥͈̠̻͙͎̞̦̥̰͊́͆̿͊͂͠͝ ̷͈̈́̓͌͑͌d̵̮͔̣̭̜̋̈́͒̑̅̔͆̃̍͘͘ͅơ̴̧̛̛̭̜͉̳̪͚̬̊͗̃̈́̔̀̍͋̾͌̔͋̏͗̈́̀͘͘̚͝n̶̨̺͇̼̹̼̥̥͉̘͔̙͇̼̟̖̹̮̙̰̯̭̹̝͊’̵̡̨̛̭̤͇̩̻̠͚̙͚͇̗̜̖͉̒̀̆̈̊͋̑̎͒̓̔̾͐̊̅̆͘͠͠͝ͅt̶̢̛̻͉͖͈͓͔͇̳͓̥͇̗͓͍̲̜̮̝̹͚͎̾̌̾̓̅͆̈́̋̓̍̋̒̂̊͂͊͋̿͛̀̆̂͝ ̷̦̼͖̣̱͈̫̗͇̘̯͋͝ͅt̵̨̨̙͔̝̯̮̺̞̻͍͉̫͙̮̪̤̯̹͔̮̭̹͌̍̐͑̏̕͝r̸̡̧̗̫̬̘͙̺͇̱͎͇̝̠̹̯͚͆̊̈́̐͐͑͌̀̂̈́͆̏̈̀̒̊̄̚͘͠ų̶̛̛̰͓̠͙̫͎̭͈͛͛̈̎͋͛̓̌̐̅̀̄̚̚͠s̷̨̜̤̮͕̳̩͔̺̐͗̓͂̈̂ẗ̷̨̠̲͙̙͍̼̬͕̮̘̫͙̜͎́̀͛͊͆͋̒͌̅̆̾̕̕͘̚͜ͅ ̵̨͍̩̞̯͔͉̠̞̥̺͉͖͊͒͆̒̉̿̾̓͝͝͠y̴̢̹̝̲̭̼͈̗̻̰̞͔̫̘̅͝ỏ̴͎͔͇̳͈̝̹̪͙̟̟̘̭̺͔̞̟̘̣͇̈́́͘͜ũ̸̢̥̞̝̼̣̭̘̭̦͔͎͓̼̗̭͈͕̹̜̖̘̱̿͗̃̏͂͂͛̓́́̈́̑̌̄̈́̋̔͆͘̕̚͝͠.̵̡̬̱͚̩͉̠̙̼͛̃̆̄̃͂̑̄̋̄̓͗̋͗̊̋͗̓̎̂̊͝͝͠

The darkness engulfed him.

.

.

.

His vision plunged into absolute blackness.

.

.

.

.

.

When he finally rose again... Shang Chao was ‘gone’. A monster stood in his place.

A being that moved without thought.

A presence that screamed without voice.

A raw ache that ‘hurt’.

And hurt and hurt and hurt--

And!

Hurt!

A sound tore from his throat: part roar, part plea, all agony.

In the little sliver of lucidity he still held on to, one thought surfaced through the sludge:

‘A-Cheng...

Please...

Don’t.

Be.

Afraid.

Of.

Me...’

Then even that disappeared.

The creature turned toward the sound of the city -- toward noise, light, people -- and moved.

Toward ‘̵͍̩̳̥̟̒̃̂̑̀̏̚͝t̴̯̬̲͐̓̊̎͐̇̒͂ḩ̸̡̜͔̻̻̖̔̍̈́̅̊̕̚ê̸̮̍̊̚ͅm̵̲̮̃̏̇̓̎̕’̶̭̬̗͎͑̀.̵̜̗̙̱̝̐̑̊̆̅͆͠

— SNAP! —

Chapter Text

Chapter 17

The First Snow

“Shang Chao?”

Yang Cheng called out with a strained voice.

A sudden roar of wind cut through the silence before he could fully think. Yang Cheng jerked his head up. He saw rotating blades and spotlights. Several helicopters hovered above the ruined street, its searchlight directing onto the smoke, through the daylight dimmed by winter, onto the tar-covered figure in front him. Sirens flared across the district. Voices crackled through speakers. Cameras zoomed in from every angle.

‘E-Soul sighted! Engaged in combat!’

‘Unknown high-tier monster involved!’

Live news. People watching. Reporters shouting.

Everything was happening too fast.

The monster— Shang Chao— tensed.

T̵̼̙̿̚ô̸̜͑̇o̷̖̾̂̊ ̶̛̝̂͜b̷̢͌͜r̷̡̛͎̲̐i̴͇̒̇g̵͙̣̖̅̌h̷͚̲̞̀t̷̼̊̀.̶̻͋.̵̪͔̪͛̈́͌.̷͚̝̌̀͝ ̸̮͛t̶̫̰̥̄o̵̻͉̗̐̾̿ȍ̷̹ ̷̲̋͜l̶͎̄o̷̹̪̕ͅu̴̐̚ͅd̵̹̤̓.̷͈̍.̷̧̮̒̐ͅ.̵̧̆ ̴̢̡̠̅p̷̯̖̪̄̋l̶͎͐̈̕e̴̪͛͑͠a̸̘̮̤̎͐s̸̳̞̄͑e̸̟̽ ̵͓̀̊̚d̶͈̭̄̂̈́ͅo̸̖̿n̴̨̅’̵̘̩̇͒͘t̸͉̰͕̃ ̴̤͈̾̚͠l̷̡̗̭̋̅ọ̵̗̣̾̇͘ó̴̮̹̃̌k̷͎̰̀̈́͝ ̸͓͇́ä̸̲͔́t̴̹͑͌̊ ̴̬̝̠͗m̸̗̄̂͒ě̶̜͇̪́̈́.̶̗͈̏̐̅.̶̺̲̪̍͠.̴̼̄

The goo around him writhed violently, reacting to the harsh lights. His form twisted, trembling, as if each glare burned.

“No—wait—!” Yang Cheng reached out instinctively.

But the creature staggered back with a guttural sound that wasn’t a growl— more like pain. Fear… and also, maybe, recognition.

“Shang Chao!” Yang Cheng shouted, stepping forward.

But that made it worse.

The creature’s body snapped in panic like a cornered animal. And in the next heartbeat, he bolted. A blur of black liquid and distorted limbs shot down the ruined street, tearing through debris, leaving shattered asphalt in his wake.

“SHANG CHAO—!” Yang Cheng ran after him without a second thought.

“YANG CHENG!” Xia Qing called weakly behind him, but he didn’t stop.

He couldn’t.

Not when he finally understood. Not when he had almost killed him. Not when Shang Chao was out there, terrified, alone… and the entire city was turning its weapons toward him.

More helicopters converged. Hero squads deployed from the sky, from the side, from all directions, in streaks of color and power. Familiar faces, city defenders, rescue elites, even one or two low rank celebrities, arrived with practiced authority. News drones followed, broadcasting every second.

Through it all, Yang Cheng sprinted, legs burning, electricity sparking unevenly around him. Chasing the Shang Chao who once helped him achieve what he thought was impossible. Chasing the boy he once shared snack stashes with. Chasing the friend he didn’t realize he was losing. Chasing the monster the world now wanted dead.

A hero landed beside him.

“E-soul. We’re here for back-up—“

“NO— STOP! DON’T HURT HIM!!!”

The nearest hero leapt toward Shang Chao with shining shurikens, and… Yang Cheng  grabbed him mid-air, twisted his wrist, and slammed him into the ground so hard the impact cracked through the live broadcast.

The people watching the broadcast fell silent for half a second..

“Isn’t that E-Soul?!”

“What’s going on?”

“Why is he attacking another hero?”

“Is he defecting?!”

Another one sent by the commission appeared, one who had wings. Before the hero could even show an attack, Yang Cheng put force on his legs, jumped building to building, and leaped through the air with a flash of light to tackle the winged hero. Sending her crashing towards a billboard.

That’s when the chaos detonated.

The broadcast caught everything. The nation saw everything. And the comments were brutal:

“He’s.. he’s actually protecting that thing?!”

“E-Soul is? no way….”

“But this isn’t the first time right? He also got his title from attacking the old E-Soul.”

“And he doesn’t have proper affiliation with any company at all. Maybe he’s connected with the monster… It’s really suspicious.”

“Is it really a surprise? Didn’t he start off with zero trust value?”

“Can we really trust him?”

Yang Cheng felt it on his wrist. The numbers. His trust value.

29473590 —> 29473589 —> 29403472 —> 28312956 —> 23459158

A plummeting freefall.

Yang Cheng didn’t care.

Another hero charged, Yang Cheng intercepted, taking the blow with his shoulder, barely flinching. He shoved the attacker back hard enough to send him skidding.

“I said back off.” His voice was anything but heroic.

People at the scene froze. A woman dragged her child behind her. A vendor’s skewers clattered to the ground. Someone whispered, shaking:

“He looks… like a monster too.”

The heroes, baffled and furious, attacked at once. The crowd screamed. Helicopters zoomed in. Livestream comment bars scrolled so fast they blurred.

“E-Soul! Stand down!”

“You’re obstructing official protocol!”

“He’s defending the monster! Restrain him!”

“E-Soul, disengage immediately or face disciplinary action.”

Yang Cheng heard all of it. Even so, he continued following Shang Chao, shielding him as a projectile shot toward them. He took the strike without hesitation. This time, the impact nearly tore the air from his lungs, but he stayed upright — body trembling, electricity sparking wildly.

It was inevitable for Yang Cheng to struggle. A hero’s value is determined by trust. The moment he starts losing it, the more people doubt him, sees him as a villain — the  weaker he gets, and the more he’ll lose his ability to hold the other heroes back. Not to mention their increasing numbers. Soon enough, top heroes might start to appear too.

Shang Chao, tremor-ridden and barely conscious, halted.

Seeing this, Yang Chao gritted his teeth and took whatever was left of Shang Chao to run with him. He held the trembling mass with his hand, tar seeping onto his suit, burning through fabric… but he didn’t loosen his grip. The mass of black goo, surprisingly letting him.

Ȧ̵̡̧̨̹̠̖̩͈̝̖͙̮̳̠̀̃̉͌̄̀̂̂̈́̾̀̀̃͒͆̓̏͘͝-̸̢̛̗̗̤̤̯̱̳̯̫̟̝̠̘́̄͌̇̊̓̑͊̂̀̔͌̍̃͛̈́̈́̃̿͠C̷̢͔͖̱͙͚̦̈ẖ̴̨̢̧̢̛̦̠̠̺͓̌͐́͆̓̑̏̊̾̾̽̕͠ę̷̪̗̇̑̔̑͠n̸̛̘̰̔͊͆͌̈̓̈́̂̋̿̾͗̎͊́͌͠g̴͚͎̥̯̥̤̟͇͒͊̓̌́̈.̵̙͉̀̃͐̓͋͌̕.̴̨̢̧̮̯̥̻͎͖̥͕̦͔̬̣̱̗̾͛̊̎̇͌̾̐͐̀́͋͑̈́̈́̑̋͂̋̕̕.̵̨̨̛̙̰͈͎̮̺̮̟̲͉̯͎̪̀̽̀̆̔̃̄̈́͒̆͐̅͗͑͛̏͋̂̆̕?̴̡̨̨̹̠̟̗͍̣̥̝͎͍̠̗̮̰͔̻̀̆̐͠ ̷̢̬͎̺̘̄̒͗͊̈̄́̀̈́̈́̀̈͗̀͗͑̾Y̸̤̖̎o̵̥̙̜͚̗͓͈͇͕̩̔͛̎͐͑̑̆̏͛̋̈̉́̃̂͘̕͝͝ͅų̴͍̺̼̖͔̝̦͉̲̰͖̘̪̟̯̌̇̽̇̍̉̇͋͘ͅ’̶̦̗̬̹̰̫͔̺̮̒̔̄̎̄̂̕͜ŗ̷̡͚̳̰̲͎̥̤̬̣͓̠̳̝͎̘̺̮̲̳̉͜ḙ̷̭̳̍̾̅͜.̵̨̢̡̠̳̳̞̰̱̭̱͚̬̳͖̩͔̦̩̤̦̅̍͋̎̄̿̎̿̓̕.̴̡͙̖̮͙͕͚̻̦̰͚̤͍̪͎̀̔́̽̅͜.̵̩͇̻̒͐͗͛̀̌͐̌́̓̓ ̸̡̼̩̫̝̮̲̲̫̺̩͙̼͙̓̀͂͑̏̆̓̈́͆̅͝h̷͈̖͙̖͎͐ǫ̴̧̢͖̩͉̦͓̘̗̤̞̜̪̉̓̇͠ͅl̷̞͇̱͛͋̎d̵̫̝̯̼̙͚͖̙̻̫͕̞̲̈́̿͐́́͗̈́̂̚i̸̳͕͍̱̻̹̮̺̎͗̈́̎̐̃́̉̔̔̅͠n̵͕͎̯̿̀̀́̒̽̿̎̉̄́̒͌̂͝͝g̷̢̨̧̟̩̼̟̳͓̬̯̳̹̜̥͍̩̤̖̬̊̀̓͊́̆̇̒͗̽̀̽͂͒̚͜͜͠ ̵̢͚̺͙͎̦͈̲̦̥̭͉͆̊̈̄̎͛ͅͅm̷̡̙̣̖̻̮̟̭̝̟̗̟̓̂̋̏̽̒͂̿̄̃̆̏̅́̕͝͝͝ͅͅẻ̶͇͙̥͈̠̫̘͎͉͇̩̯̭͌̓̄̊̉̉̽͂͑͒̃̋͝?̸̧̦̗̲̟̈̓͋̆̒́͝͝

It was a losing battle before it even started. Yang Cheng would be outnumbered. Outranked. Outmatched. And he could feel his trust value dropping like an anchor dragging him to the bottom of the sea. He had nothing to gain from this. And everything to lose.

His trust value. His career. His title. Everything he spent so long clawing upward. He would lose it all. But…

Lose everything? Maybe he already had.

And maybe… this was all he had left.

Even if the whole world decided that boy wasn’t worth saving.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, breath uneven. “It’ll be fine…”

He didn’t even know if Shang Chao understood. He probably said it more to himself than him.

BANG!

Yang Cheng barely had time to register the sound. A faint ripple of air, like something tearing the wind apart—

Before something hit Shang Chao.

Hard.

A flash of purple streaked past, and Shang Chao’s tar-covered body was sent skidding across the concrete, carving a deep trench through the street.

Yang Cheng’s breath froze.

He hadn’t even seen the attack.

A figure landed lightly where Shang Chao had stood. His bare foot, walking through the cracked asphalt. His out-of-season Hawaiian shirt, donned open even during the cold winter, fluttering like dragon scales. A grin—wide, far too wide—split across the newcomer’s face.

Dragon Boy.

A monster wearing a hero license.

“Oh?” Dragon Boy tilted his head, eyes gleaming with manic interest. “Sorry. Was that thing with you, E-Soul? Hmm let me check.”

He casually looked at his phone.

“Yup. I got the right target. Hah. That old man finally gave me an interesting one.”

Yang Cheng didn’t even realize he’d moved until lightning exploded from his palm.

“GET AWAY FROM HIM!”

His punch shot forward, electricity bursting like a detonation.

Dragon Boy caught it with one hand.

One.

The air BOOMED with the impact shockwave, dust spiraling around them.

Dragon Boy’s lips curled.

“Ahhh~ this is fun.”

He shoved Yang Cheng back. Effortlessly.

Yang Cheng skidded, boots scraping, sparks scattering across the broken pavement.

Before he could regain balance, Dragon Boy was already in front of him. Fist raised, smile sharpened into something feral. Blow after blow rained down. Yang Cheng blocking, dodging, staggering, electricity flaring and crackling.

Dragon Boy laughed.

“Come on, E-Soul! This isn’t even WARMING UP! Did you lose that much trust?”

A final kick slammed Yang Cheng into a glass window, sending him crashing. Several shards embedding through his suit.

It hurt. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

Dragon Boy lifted a foot and aimed straight at his chest.

“Well? Any last—”

A shadow blurred.

CRASH.

Dragon Boy was hurled across the street, smashing through a wall.

Silence.

Shang Chao stood there, shaking, tar dripping heavily, yet unmistakably protective. A low, furious sound vibrated from him. He trembled… but he stood in front of Yang Cheng.

P̸̥̞̙̆̕r̸̡͛̌̈́̽ö̵̧͚̬́̓̈́ṯ̸̨̺̆̓̑͘e̶̢̝̬̟͋͆c̵͔̥̭̐t̶̢̰͖̦̃͌̄̂͠.̶̨̱͔͙̩͒̔͆͠ ̷̡̟̹̽̿̂̍͐M̶̢͕̆͐u̶͓̤̤͎͊̓͋ͅş̸̺̻̖͈̍t̸͇̪̞̏̎͜.̵̼͈͉̈̈̋.̸̰̼͚͎̖̄.̸̣̝̭̟͙̋̑̿ ̶̦̭̬̑͐͝p̵̹͔̻̘̈́̂̚r̷͉̿̽͐̉͝o̶̗͑́̏̈t̴͚̪̣̠͕̍́̕ề̶͇̭̟͖̂͆c̶̢̥̥̟̪̔͛̌t̶̻̄̂̌̚̚.̸̼͇̺̠̄̐̑̂.̷̢̠͒̾́̍.̴̛̭ͅ ̸̲̦̜̼̄͛h̵͈̀͑̑̎̇í̴͚̗͛͜m̵̱̯̋̄͐.̴͙́̓͘͝.̵̗́.̷͕͈͑

Yang Cheng swallowed hard.

“Shang… Chao…”

Dragon Boy didn’t move for a while.

But then… a laugh echoed from the crater he made in the wall.

He stepped out, wiping blood from his mouth. His smile widened, eyes dilating with pleasure.

“Ohhh… that’s BAD. It really hurt.”

He cracked his neck. Cracked his knuckles.

“But you see… when someone hits me that hard…” His voice distorted.

His aura surged as his skin started turning black. His tattoos glowed white, much more prominent, with a purple tint. The ground fractured in a widening spiderweb under his feet.

“I hit back twice as strong.”

He vanished with a blur.

“Let’s see you handle this.” A kick struck Shang Chao’s torso. A wet, thud echoed as his black, tar-covered body was sent crashing through a delivery truck, metal folding like paper.

But he didn’t stay down.

With a trembling roar, Shang Chao pulled himself out of the crushed vehicle. The black goo writhed violently, thickening, hardening around his limbs. He charged—faster, heavier—and slammed into Dragon Boy with a force that cratered the street.

Dragon Boy laughed breathlessly as he skidded back, cracks splitting the pavement beneath his boots. Talking between coughs. “Ohh, that’s… good. That’s GOOD! Come on, again!”

They collided. Crash after crash. Shockwaves rolling through buildings. Glass raining from shattered windows. The ground trembling under every exchange.

Shang Chao’s strikes were wild but brutal. Desperate but punishing. Enraged, monstrous, feral. It looked like he was winning.

But Dragon Boy…

Dragon Boy only got stronger.

Every time Shang Chao knocked him down, every time he dented a car with his body or was sent crashing through a wall, Dragon Boy rose smiling wider.

“My turn,” he chuckled, blood dripping down his chin.

Then a punch twice as heavy. A kick twice as fast. Each counter tearing chunks of tar from Shang Chao’s body. The longer the fight dragged on… the more obvious it became.

Shang Chao wasn’t regenerating fast enough. His movements slowed. His limbs trembled. The black ooze around him flickered like a dying flame.

Shang Chao roared. He flung away Dragon Boy once again.

But then..

Then he fell.

Hard.

The ground fractured beneath him. The tar around his body spasmed, then stilled, darkening. He didn’t get back up.

For the first time—

Silence.

Dragon Boy exhaled, rolling his shoulders after getting back up. “Finally. Almost thought it’s over for me.”

But he wasn’t the only one approaching.

Boots landed on concrete. Dozens. More heroes arrived—charging, shouting, elbowing each other aside for a chance at the ‘credit.’

“Stand back! This one’s worth a promotion.”

“No way, I saw him first.”

“Top-tier monster, if we take it down together—”

They surrounded Shang Chao’s unmoving form.

Meanwhile, one trembling hand reached out.

Yang Cheng tried to breathe as pain seared through every nerve. Glass shards were still embedded in his side. Deep cuts burning with dirt and smoke. Right wrist swollen. Blood dripping into his eyes. He tried to get up yet he kept collapsing. So instead, his palms skidded against the broken street, scraping against shards. Blood streaked behind him in thin lines.

He crawled.

One elbow forward.

Then the other.

Every shift of weight sent another lightning bolt of pain through his ribs. His breath hitched. His knees shook.

But he crawled.

Toward Shang Chao’s fallen body.

Toward where the heroes are preparing to strike on.

Toward the one person he refused to lose again.

“Shang Chao…” Yang Cheng whispered to himself, voice cracked. He dragged his legs forward, ignoring the way his muscles screamed. With another elbow, another skid of blood, another choking gasp.

He reached Shang Chao’s side, barely conscious — and collapsed over him.

Shaking arms wrapped around the tar-covered body. His own battered frame curled protectively. Yang Cheng didn’t care if he looked pathetic. He didn’t care if the nation was watching. He didn’t care if it cost him his title, his career, his value and..

His life.

He pressed his forehead to Shang Chao’s cold, unmoving shoulder.

“Don’t touch him…” Yang Cheng breathed, voice trembling. “…don’t you touch him.”

Dragon Boy continued stepping forward, cracking his neck. “Move, E-Soul. You’re in the way.”

Yang Cheng didn’t move.

He tightened his hold on Shang Chao instead. Blood dripped from his chin. His vision blurred, in a way he couldn’t tell if it’s the blood or the tears. The approaching footsteps of heroes sound muffled. His body trembled uncontrollably. Weak and exhausted.

But still, he shielded Shang Chao with everything he had left.

In that moment, Yang Cheng thought.

“…Shang Chao… you’re incredible.”

His hand tightened weakly in the black goo surrounding Shang Chao.

“Even now… even dying… you make me want to keep going.”

But his strength was slipping.

“If this is it… then it’s not the worst ending.”

A tiny, broken smile.

“You’re not alone anymore, Shang Chao.”

And with that, he shut his eyes.

Dragon Boy raised his fist. Smile sharp, eager, death hovering over his palm.

The other heroes raised their weapons too.

All at once. At the same time.

And the world held its breath.

SNAP.

The sound echoed.

A man stood in front of Yang Cheng.

No dramatic entrance. No blinding light. He simply is, as though the world remembers he was there all along.

White hair slicked neatly back. A clean, immaculate white business suit. A square-rimmed glasses with orange lenses. A simple tie pin shaped like an X. He looked like someone’s office coworker who stepped out for a coffee break.

He lifted two fingers, dusting an invisible speck from his sleeve with a sigh.

“Another overtime,” he murmured with a calm voice, “this sucks.”

A brief silence first, before the citizens watching recognized him.

“Wait isn’t that—“

“The one who won the 18th heroes tournament…”

“Guys, look it’s X!”

“It’s Hero X! I actually saw X with my own eyes!

The white-haired man only yawned.

It was Dragon Boy who spoke first, “I didn’t think you’d be lured out here! What an unexpected catch.”

“Looks like getting into the top ten won’t be all I’m doing tonight!” He laughed before preparing an attacking stance. “I might even reach the top!”

He propelled forward with a raised fist.

snap.

dragon boy’s body twisted sharply, folding at an angle a human shouldn’t bend. there was no blood nor scream. just the brittle sound of something paper-like crumpling.

“so noisy”, x threw him away. “go chill over there.”

[スプラッシュ]

SNAP.

GASP.

THE GROUND RIPPLED LIKE WET INK UNDER HIM WHEN DRAGON BOY ROSE. HE SUDDENLY FOUND HIMSELF, ALREADY ON THE FOUNTAIN WHERE HE WAS THROWN.

“DID YOU GUYS SEE THAT?” THE PEOPLE’S CHEERS COULD BE HEARD AT A DISTANCE. “HOW DID DRAGON BOY END UP IN THE FOUNTAIN?”

“AS EXPECTED OF X!”

“THAT’S GODLIKE!”

“HE’S SO HANDSOME”

TWO HEROES RUSH FORWARD.

A PYRO KINETIC LAUNCHES A WAVE OF FLAMES, WHILE AN ARMORED TANK CHARGES BESIDE HIM. THEY’RE COORDINATED, TRAINED, CONFIDENT—

Snap.

—flames flatten into a sheet of glowing red scribbles, floating uselessly. The tank hero’s armor crumples inward like clay pressed by a careless thumb. He drops, unharmed but immobilized.

More heroes approached—six, eight, ten. With a different goal now. To get an opportunity to fight the hero X and rise to fame.

They attacked all at once.

Light beams. Ice shards. Energy arcs. The street erupted—

Snap.

—and the scene fractures.

Some heroes shrink into chibi, others stretch tall and thin, others rendered in muted watercolor hues.

Attacks drift sideways, float upward, lose shape.

Snap.

They all dropped. Not dead. Not bleeding.

Simply… dismissed. Placed aside by a hand that rearranges reality the way someone organizes files.

Snap.

Then it grew quiet. As if everyone got teleported somewhere.

It ended with a snap.

X lifted his palm upright, expression unreadable, as if greeting the sky. A single snowflake drifted down. Silence followed with the first drop of snow.

Then he turned.

Behind him, Yang Cheng moved slightly. He sat up, barely, to see the monster, the tar, the twisted shape… dissolving. Slowly. Tenderly. As if the snow itself was washing it away. Beneath the melting black, a face emerged. Half-covered, half-visible.

Yang Cheng found himself unable to move, as if it were only right for him to stay frozen in place. Not because of the cold winter snow.

But because on the creature’s wrist, through the breaking tar, glimmered a number.

A familiar one.

A single digit.

0.

Just like his own once was.

He finally saw it, or what was left of Shang Chao after the ordeal. Seeing the sight in front of him with his own eyes made it real.

Confusion. Betrayal. A hint of realization.

It was all too much to process. And the guilt felt upon seeing it started to consume him. He shook, shoulders caving inward, electricity flickering dimly around him as if even his powers felt the weight of the truth. His vision blurred. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Shang Chao’s hand, still trembling, still coated in remnants of black, slowly lifted toward him. It was the same hand as before. The same hand that always reached for him, even when he never noticed. On its wrist still hung a badly crocheted bracelet, strings frayed, loops uneven, almost snapping apart.

Yang Cheng had made it. Sloppily. With a smile he never admitted.

That hand… that familiar, battered hand — rose to his cheek.

It brushed away his tears.

“Don’t cry… Yang Cheng…”

The voice was soft. Barely there. Weak.

Yet unmistakably his.

Shang Chao smiled. It was but a small smile. A tired smile. An almost apologetic smile.

“I’m here.”

They were words spoken so simply, so faintly, and yet so… tenderly.

“I’m still here…”

Shang Chao made a shaky exhale. A desperate attempt to stay conscious. A warmth flickering against the cold air.

He wanted to say more. He wanted to explain everything -- 

The basement.

The fear.

The running.

The darkness.

The video.

The hesitation.

The snow.

-- However, his thoughts were slipping akin to snowflakes melting on skin. Only one stayed long enough to form:

‘I’m sorry... I wanted to come home...’

His lips could only shape the smallest ghost of it.

Yang Cheng didn’t hear it. Instead, he only saw Shang Chao’s smile fade slowly. The way his breath grew shallower.

Yang Cheng felt like his own breath was being stolen too. In the very same way his heart was being ripped from his chest.

The bracelet tore apart. Along with it, his fingers slipped.

Shang Chao’s hand dropped.

And the snow kept falling.

❄︎

❄︎

❄︎

❄︎

❄︎

Chapter Text

Chapter 18

From Hero to Zero

This is the story of the world’s first evil dragon.

As the first hero before the establishment of the Commission, he once had everyone’s trust. Endless, uncountable trust. At last, he became a ‘god’ who was revered by many. He began to reshape the world according to his inner justice.

Until one day…

He killed a hero who defied his will.

And then another, and another…

He killed more and more heroes. In an instant, people’s Trust in him— turned into Fear. The dragon slayer ultimately became the evil dragon.

This is that which the Commission forbids discussion on.

The truth.

The first hero.

Zero.

That was years ago. The past. However, so long as trust exists, fear will too.

So ‘Zero’… never really perished.

[ January 1st 41AC ]

Snow fell in slow spirals, turning the ruins of the plaza white.

It was eerily silent. No reporters left, no civilians, no Hero Commission drones in sight. Only the cratered street, the fractured ground. Windows blown out. Street lamps bent into impossible angles. Concrete peeled like old paint. The world looked as if something enormous had passed through it, something that did not care about shape or mercy.

In the middle of the ruins, on the edge of a collapsed overpass, Yang Cheng sat alone.

Knees drawn up, elbows resting lazily on them. Head bowed. Electricity flickering off him like unstable lightning. A darker devouring shade, unlike the usual bright cyan light of E-Soul. A faint hum escaping him. Tuneless, quiet, almost like he had forgotten sound carried in the open air.

It was a lullaby.

A child’s lullaby.

The melody wavered briefly, as though some small part of him remembered a gentler voice from long ago, humming the same tune in a time when he still felt ‘safe’. But whatever memory it reached for slipped away before it could take shape.

♫ “...Please don’t take my sunshine away...” ♫

Snow gathered in his hair, unmoving, as if even the wind didn’t dare disturb him.

His trust value on his wrist glowed negative. It wasn’t supposed to be possible… but there it was. Yang Cheng stared at it for a long moment, then laughed softly under his breath. Something about the sound was wrong. It wasn’t bitter, nor was it crazed.

Just… tired.

Snow continued to fall. The world felt empty without the sirens. Without the frantic Hero Commission orders. Without the voice calling him A-Cheng.

Someone stepped into the silence. Quietly, as if respecting the emptiness. As if accustomed to walking through the aftermath of impossible battles.

Hero X.

He didn’t announce himself or flare his power. He simply appeared behind Yang Cheng, hands in his pockets, coat trailing in the snow.

For a while, neither spoke.

Yang Cheng didn’t even turn. He didn’t need to. Only one person in the world distorted space that gently.

X finally broke the silence.

“…You destroyed a great deal.”

The snow around them thickened, almost deliberately, muffling the world further. After another pause…

X asked quietly, “Do you regret it?”

Yang Cheng closed his eyes.

A drip of blood.

A hand reaching toward him.

A voice saying ‘I’m still here.’

A hand falling.

The memories flashed in broken pieces, out of order, disorienting.

He inhaled shakily.

“…Regret?” he echoed. “I don’t know what I’m allowed to regret anymore.”

X stepped beside him, not close enough to touch, but close enough to observe the devastation — and the boy at the center of it.

“The system has always been flawed,” X said, almost gently. “Heroes made by belief. Monsters made by fear. The Commission has always tried to control the narrative, but this—”

He gestured to the ruined horizon.

“This is what happens when they lose control.”

Yang Cheng’s shoulders shook with a quiet, uneven laugh.

“If you’re here,” he whispered, “I guess that means I’m the villain now?“

The question wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t sarcastic — It was genuine. It was a boy asking the only person left who might still tell him a truth he can’t see.

X took a long breath.

“You are,” he said slowly, “whatever the world decides you are.”

Yang Cheng expected that. So much he didn’t flinch. The remains of the city reflecting in his empty eyes.

“Then maybe they’re right,” he murmured. “Maybe I was always meant to become this.”

The wind carried his words away.

X’s expression remained unreadable, but his voice lowered, almost too soft for the snow to hear.

“And what do you believe, Yang Cheng?”

For the first time, Yang Cheng’s eyes — dim, unfocused, haunted — widened just a fraction.

As if remembering something. Someone. A voice. A promise.

But only for a heartbeat.

Then the emptiness slid back in place.

He didn’t answer.

X exhaled slowly, watching him with a look that was neither pity nor condemnation… but something more complicated.

A quiet assessment.

A silent warning.

A hint of fear.

Because even he, didn’t know whether Yang Cheng, sitting in the ruins, head bowed in snowfall, humming lullabies to ghosts—

—was the world’s destruction or the last thread holding it together.

And then..

X inhaled slowly, muttering the words.

“I’m sorry.”

SNAP.

A blinding fracture of light swallowed them both.

***

[ November 28th 37AC ]

The world was still buzzing about that incident. News screens across the city replayed the same shaky footage:

A black monster tearing through a shopping district. A young man attacking heroes. And, most mysterious of all, the sudden appearance of a white-haired man in a business suit who stopped reality with a snap of his fingers. The Hero X.

The black monster was still reported as ‘unidentified’.

E-Soul, currently not a hero but someone under interrogation, appeared pale and confused in every report.

Hero X’s identity was… well.

Every conspiracy forums talked about the topic.

But not everyone was panicking.

Somewhere far from the chaos, a cozy little bar hummed with soft jazz and clinking glasses. The atmosphere was warm, almost lazy. People who weren’t getting attacked by monsters or harassed by reporters were peacefully wasting their evening here.

The door chimed. A pink-haired girl wearing a cap two sizes too big, hands shoved awkwardly in her pockets, walked in. She looked around like she was expecting someone to tell her to leave.

The regulars stared.

Luo Li cleared her throat, “One drink please.”

The bartender raised a brow. A man wearing a yellow vest and sporting white hair—with a neat hairstyle that almost looked like it’s ironed—looked her up and down.

“Aren’t you a little too young to be drinking?” he asked, squinting as if that made her older.

The girl huffed. “I’m just here for a drink, old man.”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“With that hair, You look forty.”

He leaned back, scandalized. “I’m?! What kind of upbringing produces a goblin like you?”

She slapped her hand on the counter. “I am not a goblin!”

“Can goblins reach the counter?” He said as he turned around preparing a drink.

“You—!”

Before she could launch herself over the bar, the bartender slid a glass between them.

“Grape juice,” he said to the girl. “On the house. Before you burst a blood vessel.”

Her jaw dropped.

The yellow-vest man flashed a polite smile. “You can thank me. I saved you from getting kicked out.”

“You just insulted me,” she muttered, but still took the drink, sipping loudly in retaliation.

The man rolled his eyes and muttered something like, “Kids these days, no gratitude—”

“Alright, alright, break it up.”

A voice from the counter drifted over. A man in a red vest with a mole by his eye, sitting on a stool, leaned on the counter. He propped his head up on one hand, watching them with mild amusement. He looked like someone who had mastered the art of sighing at idiots.

“Hey,” the man said, pointing his thumb and addressing the white-haired man. “Say sorry.”

The white-haired man stiffened. “W–why me?! She started it!”

“She’s a kid.”

“She called me forty!”

“To be fair,” the man in a red vest said, sipping his drink, “you do give that impression.”

The yellow-vest man spluttered. “What is that supposed to mean?!”

“Exactly what I said.” Red-vest set his drink down and chuckled, “Go apologize.”

He stared at him like a disappointed companion.

Luo Li waited smugly.

The yellow-vest man grumbled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“…Sorry.”

“What was that?” she teased.

He glared. “I SAID SORRY.”

The bar quieted for a moment. Then red-vest man clapped him on the shoulder. “See? You can be nice.”

The yellow-vest man groaned. “I am nice!”

Luo Li smirked and swirled her grape juice like it was some kind of expensive wine. “Could’ve fooled me,” she muttered.

Yellow-vest’s mouth opened. “I meant like literal Ni—” He stopped himself so abruptly he choked on his own words.

Red-vest sighed deeply, lifting his drink. “Not anymore you are.”

A silent pause.

The words hit Nice like a physical blow. He stared down.

Down.

Like down, down.

Eyes glued to the countertop. Shoulders slumped. The man was two seconds from collapsing into a dramatic puddle of ego soup.

You might be wondering, “How did he get here?”

Well, he did not expect his entire career path to slam into a wall when Treeman’s CEO, Shang De, suddenly turned up dead.

Like really dead.

He even attended the funeral. Closed casket. Lots of crying. Some heroic dramatic rain. Very inconvenient.

The heir? Disappeared without a word. News stated he left the country. Perhaps they decided he’s too young to take over yet.

Afterward, Treeman’s leadership collapsed like wet cardboard, leaving Nice and Wreck technically employed… but also technically nobody’s problem.

Which was the problem.

Nice sat in Wreck’s apartment, staring into space like someone had unplugged him.

“So what now?” Wreck asked, munching chips.

Nice perked up. “Obviously, companies will come to me.”

“They haven’t.”

“They will.”

“They won’t.”

“Shut up,” Nice said politely.

So back to the question, how did a once-famous hero end up behind a bar counter, wearing a yellow vest, pouring grape juice for minors while nursing emotional damage?

Well.

It all started with him… saving people, signing autographs, looking good in a cape.

Over and over.

And over.

And over.

Because Nice, being Nice, could not, for the life of him, ‘ask’ hero companies for anything.

Not a meeting. Not a sponsorship. Not a job. Not even directions. The boy’s too used to being the one approached. So, naturally, he invented a terrible plan. Wreck got dragged into all of it. Against his will.

Attempt #1: The Mysterious, Lone Hero Act.

Nice dramatically appeared on rooftops. Stared into the distance. Brooded. Waited for scouts to approach him.

Wreck sat beside him, eating ice cream. “It’s midnight. And snowing heavily. No one can even see you.”

“I’m cultivating an aura.”

“You’re cultivating pneumonia.”

“And you’re eating ice cream at winter.”

Attempt #2: The ‘Just Happened to Be Nearby’ Strategy

Nice saved cats. Saved old ladies. Saved pigeons. Saved a kid’s balloon.

NO ONE IMPORTANT SAW HIM.

Wreck filmed the whole thing. “You look like a public service announcement.”

Nice adjusted his windswept hair. “I’m being approachable yet heroic.”

“You look unemployed.”

Attempt #3: The ‘Hero Resume’ Idea (But Like Scattered Randomly Near Hero Agencies So He Wouldn’t Need To Approach)

Nice wrote a resume.

Name: Nice

Experience: Nice

Skills: Being Nice

References: The deceased CEO

Wreck stared at it slowly. “…You can’t submit this.”

“Why not?”

“He’s dead. They will think you killed him.”

Nice gasped, horrified. “Wreck! Don’t manifest things like that!”

Wreck sipped his soda. “Not manifesting, I’m predicting.”

Attempt #4: The ‘Accidental’ Bar Strategy

Finally, Nice made a choice.

“I’ll work at a bar,” he declared.

Wreck blinked. “Why.”

“Staffs from hero agencies frequent bars.”

“So?”

“They’ll see me.”

“And?”

“They’ll notice.”

“And?”

“They will approach me.”

Wreck sighed. “You could simply apply. Normally.”

Nice stared at him with the calm dead eyes of a man incapable of doing that. “I. Don’t. Ask.”

Wreck rubbed his face. “Man, you’re impossible.”

“You’re coming too.”

“…Why?”

“You’re my moral support. And muscle. And PR.”

“I’m literally classified as a villain.”

“And that means you’re free.”

Yup. So this story leads to the bar. Where Nice, in a fit of desperation and pride, decided to ‘strategically place himself’ in a hotspot for hero managers.

Which was… here.

Luo Li’s confusion intensified—

“Wait. Nice? As in Nice the Hero? From Treeman?”

It took a while before Luo Li, after a couple of blinks processed and recognized the man before him. A hero. Which could also mean.. connection. So she suddenly had an idea.

“Then, you can help me become a hero—“

“Hey!” another bartender’s shout interrupted her, “Who put grape juice in the wine cooler?!”

Luo Li snapped her mouth shut.

Nice and Wreck simultaneously pointed at each other.

Chapter Text

Chapter 19

Fired, Fear, and Failed Opportunities

Nice was fired.

On his first day.

Not even Wreck got fired on his first day, and Wreck once accidentally blew up a cash register. (It was not entirely accidental, but Nice didn’t know that.)

The moment the bar owner yelled, “PACK YOUR THINGS!” Nice dramatically folded his apron like it was a fallen soldier.

Luo Li followed him out because…

a) she had nowhere else to go, and

b) opportunity (who wouldn’t want to affiliate themselves with a hero?)

But before she could even say something like, “Actually, Mister Nice—”

The air snapped.

A surge of dread rolled through the street like a plague. Civilians sprinted past them in pure terror, shoving each other to escape the narrow street leading toward the Shang estate.

“RUN!” someone screamed.

“They’re coming!”

“DON’T LET THEM TOUCH YOU!”

Luo Li grabbed the back of Nice’s vest as people stampeded by. “Wha— what’s going on?!”

And then they appeared.

Humans, but wrong. Black veins crawled over their skin like ink under glass. Purple aura seeped from their shadows, spreading across the pavement like spilled poison. Their eyes were empty. Like puppets whose strings had been severed and rewired.

Not monsters. Not undead. Humans twisted by Fear. The same phenomenon from Lucky Cyan’s orphanage. The same signature corruption.

Luo Li’s eyes widened. “Again?!”

Nice felt his heart ignite.

Not with fear.

No.

With—

“Opportunity.”

“This is it. This is my comeback scene. My recruitment moment.”

He stepped forward, ready to pose, hair fluttering dramatically—

But of course, life hated him.

Because something sparkled. Bright cyan flashed across the street. Music blasted from nowhere. A girl appeared from cyan smoke, zipping in on roller blades, spraying clover-shaped lights in her trail. Her long cyan hair whipped around her like a banner. A guitar strapped to her back that gleamed when it hit light.

And the public gasped.

“IT’S LUCKY CYAN!!”

“THE HERO IDOL!”

“She’s doing a street appearance?!”

“She’s glowing!!”

Cyan slammed her skates down, guitar up front, hands up, palms out, fingers forming an L. 

A strum.

Glittering light washed over the area in a shockwave of clover, softening the monsters’ aggression. The aura suppressed their wildness. Almost like a tranquilizing blessing.

Photographers had already appeared out of thin air. Reporters swarmed in like hungry pigeons. Nice watched as attention was ripped from him so aggressively his ego physically staggered.

He gritted his teeth. “I was literally about to jump in!”

Luo Li patted his arm. “Yeah but she sparkles.”

“I can sparkle if given the budget!”

Before they could argue further—

THUNK.

The sound rang like a divine announcement. A spear hit the pavement. A golden flash snapped across the entire block. And everything— froze.

Monsters locked mid-snarl. Debris suspended mid-air. Wind itself paused. Everyone in the radius went still, caught by a presence so overwhelming it suffocated thought.

A white-haired woman stepped forward. Long braid trailing behind her like a comet tail. Regal uniform embroidered with geometric gold lining. A golden mask that morphed into a crown. It showed her eyes, sharp like someone who didn’t ask for respect. She simply existed and the world complied.

Queen?

Queen.

Queen!

Of all heroes… it had to be Queen. And worse, this was her first public appearance since the 18th Heroes Tournament.

“The strange substance,” Lucky Cyan turned to her. “We can free everyone by hitting the strange substance.”

Queen nodded once. No dramatics. Just acknowledgement.

Click. Clack. 

Her heels struck the pavement with crisp finality. The whole street held its breath as she approached the epicenter.

Queen did not grandstand. She did not roar or pose. She simply breathed with authority. She raised one hand. The other held her golden spear etched with geometric lines.

“Lock on.”

The word rippled like a command to the world itself.

Queen pivoted.

A single clean motion. Precise, practiced, flawless. The spear sliced through the air, the golden trajectory curving unnaturally to seek every corruption point.

Shlrrrp.

The first orb shattered.

A sickening schlrrp—schlrrp—schlopp rippled from each orb, as if the slime inside was pulling apart under pressure. All across the street, the dark substance attached on the victims broke apart simultaneously, dissolving into harmless flecks of dust.

A second sound followed:

THUNK.

The dull end of her spear tapped the pavement firmly once again. An anchor to stop the world from collapsing. The victims, freed from the aura’s grip, gently slumped to the ground.

It was over.

Just like that.

For a heartbeat, the entire street was silent.

Then—

“QUEEENN!!”

The crowd detonated.

“Goddess! Please step on me!!”

Cameras snapped like a firing squad.

“Please look at the camera—wait, she’s looking— nope, nevermind…”

A reporter nearly dropped her mic.

“This is… this is history! Oh my god we’re live, HI MOM—”

Three vloggers started livestreaming at once.

“CHAT SHE DID THE HAND THING—SHE DID THE HAND THING—”

“BRO STOP PUSHING—THIS IS FOR MY SUBSCRIBERS—”

“Ma’am my cousin is your biggest fan, can you shout ‘Happy Birthday’?!”

“I’m your cousin— Shut up! No she isn’t! ”

Someone tried to form an orderly line and immediately got trampled by people begging for autographs.

A group of teenagers were already sobbing into each other. “I was ten meters away. Ten. Meters. Away. I felt the wind in her hair— ”

One guy openly prayed, “God, thank you for letting me live long enough to witness this.”

Lucky Cyan went to Queen’s side. Raising her hand for a high-five.

Queen’s expression softened by exactly 1%. Which, in Queen language, was the equivalent of a hug.

“You did well, Cyan.”

And then, perfectly in sync, the two slapped a high-five.

“Ahaha. It was mostly you though.” Lucky Cyan twirled, basking in the cameras.

Someone from the crowd shouted.

“AAHHH THAT SHOULD’VE BEEN ME!”

“Lucky Cyan or Queen?”

“I don’t know! Both!”

Queen raised a hand to silence the cheers, already turning toward the affected civilians as if she hadn’t just unraveled a city-level crisis in under five seconds. Behind Cyan, she managed to catch a glimpse of a man that stood out among the crowd.

It locked right onto Nice.

Nice’s soul shot out of his body in pure excitement. He flashed a shiny smile that could blind a small animal. A sparkle animation playing in his head.

And he unleashed…

THE SIGNATURE NICE POSE™

(two fingers pointed at her like he’s blessing her with charisma, plus a confident wink)

Inside his head:

“Right right right— Queen’s agency! DOS! If I just, if she just… if she acknowledges me, maybe—”

Queen blinked once, nodded politely, then turned away.

Just. Like. That.

Nice lowered his hand slowly. Very slowly. You could hear his dignity rolling down the gutter.

Luo Li whispered, “She ignored you.”

Nice whispered back, “She acknowledged my existence. That’s step one.”

Wreck, standing behind them with takeout, casually said, “She nodded at the trash can next to you.”

Nice’s soul left his body.

But Queen wasn’t even aware of the social carnage she had caused. Her heels clicked against the pavement as she walked straight toward the affected humans. She crouched beside one woman in a torn tuxedo. Her fingers brushed the collar, in which her eyes narrowed towards something.

A faint embroidered crest.

The Shang family crest.

Queen’s eyes sharpened. Her interest locked. Her attention tunneled. She looked around.

Every fallen, affected humans, wore the crest.

Even Lucky Cyan, who usually sparkled like a dazzling disco ball, felt the shift in atmosphere.

“Just... what happened after the CEO died,” Queen mumbled.

Lucky Cyan placed a hand on her hip. “The real question is, how did Fear even reach a private family district like this?”

Queen rose slowly. Her voice was firm but low. Something meant for heroes, not the cameras. “These attacks have gotten too frequent. This is the third case this year.”

Lucky Cyan frowned, spinning one roller blade idly. “If they want answers… shouldn’t they be looking into Treeman?”

Nice, who had been crouching behind Wreck in a desperate attempt to look casually heroic, sprang up. “Oh! Actually I, ehem… I previously worked for Treeman so I—”

Queen and Cyan walked past him. A clean, perfect, full ignore.

Nice’s confident smile twitched so violently it almost fell off his face. They didn’t spare him a glance. Not even a pity glance.

Instead, Queen murmured, “Mr. Shand is dead. His son is out of reach at the moment. The closest person with potential answers is E-Soul.”

Lucky Cyan brightened. “Right! The interrogation.”

“Detention,” Queen corrected, eyes looking forward. “He’s being watched closely. It won’t be long until the Commission questions him further.”

Nice sputtered. “Wh— E-Soul?? But I— I’m the one who’s affiliated—”

Luo Li tugged his vest. “She’s not listening.”

Wreck shrugged and took another bite of his noodles “Yeah. But hey, congrats.”

Nice looked at him with dead eyes. “For what.”

“You got ignored by Queen. That’s like… a rite of passage.”

Nice grumbled into his hands. The moment Queen walked away, reporters swarmed in like flies to a fresh carcass.

“Look! Over there! Someone’s posing!”

“Maybe he’s an eyewitness!”

“No, no, that’s definitely a background extra!”

Nice straightened. Finally. Someone noticed.

A reporter gasped. Pointed dramatically.

“OH MY GOD—!!!”

Nice smiled, ready to sign something.

“IT’S— IT’S—”

Everyone leaned in.

“It’s… uh…”

“What’s his name?”

“The guy who… delivers water bottles to heroes?”

“No I think I saw him from a ballet show..”

“Oh! The bartender!”

“The cosplay version of Nice?”

Nice froze.

“I AM NICE.”

A reporter blinked. Then whispered loudly:

“Poor thing. He’s doing the hero roleplay-for-confidence thing.”

“Should we clap?”

“Yeah, clap for him so he feels included.”

They clapped.

Nice died inside.

Meanwhile, Queen walked steadily, her braid swaying behind her as gold light gathered along her spear. Her expression was carved from steel.

“The Shang family… Fear appearing again…” she murmured. “Whatever is happening, Treeman’s collapse was only the beginning.”

Lucky Cyan shifted uncomfortably. “So… what now?”

Queen turned toward the distance, gaze fierce.

“We ready ourselves.”

✣ SNAP! ✣

The room was silent except for the soft scrape of paper against paper. Ghostblade moved like a shadow as he pinned another photograph onto the sprawling map that swallowed an entire wall.

Red string.

Street grids.

Polaroids with colors warm and vivid.

All of it connected to one name...

‘She’s eighteen. That means she’s a legal adult now.’

...Nuonuo.

It appeared to him that he really didn’t know anything about his daughter anymore. Not what she was thinking, nor what she wanted to do.

‘Her favorite clothes, food, hobbies... you don’t know a damn thing about her!’

Turns out there are some questions that can only be answered when they’re answered out loud.

‘Did you ever really care about her at all? Have you ever really understood her?’

His fingers hovered over her photograph, a rare softness flickering in his otherwise hollow gaze.

‘It’s fine. You’re already dead to her, anyway.’

(He didn’t speak.)

At that moment, he felt an urge to open his mouth, but he still couldn’t manage to say anything.

(He never did.)

His lips had been sealed by his believers. He had to make an even more detailed plan to know her, to ‘understand’ her.

(The lines on the board spoke for him instead: years of silent searching, tracking, remembering.)

A faint vibration buzzed from the table.

Ghostblade didn’t turn immediately. He traced one last path on the map -- the route she used to walk home -- before finally reaching for the mobile.

Yan Mo’s calm, velvet-smooth voice filled the dark. “Come to my office.” Devoid of explanation, unchanged in tone. The order dropped cleanly, leaving no room to question it.

Ghostblade’s hand lowered from the map.

Nuonuo’s photograph watched him from where it hung.

He moved.

The office was dim, lit only by the pale blue glow of a holographic screen. Ghostblade stood in the shadow behind Yan Mo -- motionless, breath so faint it barely disturbed the air.

Silence suited him.

‘Why doesn’t this kid talk?’

It always had.

‘He’s been like that since he was young. Maybe he’s got some kind of problem.’

His family wasn’t wrong about him. He does have a problem. He doesn’t know how to express emotions, because he ‘can’t’ even tell what emotions are. All he knew was what he ‘should’ do.

He lifted his head when Yan Mo spoke.

“Look closely.”

Ghostblade’s eyes shifted toward the holographic screen. Paused frames glowed in the dark:

Shang Chao at the interview site.

The trembling hand.

The smear of black under the sleeve.

Yang Cheng reaching.

The crowd laughing.

Security scrambling.

Ghostblade absorbed everything without blinking.

Yan Mo’s voice slipped into a calm, indulgent hum. “Fear is blooming in him.”

Another tap.

Yang Cheng’s outstretched hand froze mid-frame.

“And our beloved E-Soul...” A slow smile. “He is far too attached.”

Ghostblade, “...”

He knew what attachment did. He had learned it the hardest way.

A brief memory surfaced --

A tiny hand reaching toward him.

-- He buried it immediately. Now was not the time.

Yan Mo moved closer, citrus and cold metal lingering in the space. “You understand this. Attachment ruins heroes.”

The screen flicked again.

Shang De’s profile appeared.

“It’s time to tighten the strings.”

Status: Alive.

In the way.

“Shang De’s existence shields the boy.” Yan Mo murmured, brushing a thumb over the image. “He interferes with everything I’ve arranged. His choices have become... irritating.”

Ghostblade watched the image, expression unreadable, “...”

Yan Mo turned his back. “You will remove him.” It carried no drama and no cruelty, merely spoken with the same ease as noting the day’s weather.

Ghostblade didn’t nod. He simply went still, like a blade settling into its sheath, decision already made.

If Shang De was to die, it meant Shang De had already done something ‘wrong’.

Yan Mo dismissed the file into drifting particles. “No noise. No mess. Nothing that points back to me. Make it look...” His smile sharpened, “...like a tragedy.”

He stepped aside, giving Ghostblade a clear path to the door.

“Go.”

He left the room in absolute silence, his form melting into the shadows until nothing of him remained.

Drip.

.

Drip.

.

.

Drip.

.

.

.

“You did the right thing, you know.”

Drip.

A minute tremor tightened Ghostblade’s fingers on the hilt, small enough to pass unnoticed, subtle enough that no one would ever mistake it for ‘emotion’. Still, the words struck a place in him he never acknowledged.

“A child is safest when his father is gone. It makes him... reachable.”

For an instant, a pair of bright eyes surfaced in his mind -- wide, hopeful, far too warm for someone like him. He pushed the memory aside and bowed his head slightly.

If a father blocked the path -- blocked survival, the future, or the mission -- then eliminating him was nothing more than procedure. Shang De’s blood on the floor was logical.

Yet in that single, quiet beat of disloyal thought, Ghostblade found himself wishing he didn’t understand the sentence as well as he did.

‘Shang De knows that it’s not me who wants him killed, so I hope he won’t curse me in his death.’

✣ SNAP! ✣

Chapter Text

Chapter 20

Once a Fraud, Always a Fraud

Time did not begin for Yang Cheng in a single moment. It fractured with a sharp crack, like glass under pressure. His memories arranged themselves out of order, as if the universe shuffled its deck and told him to make sense of the cards himself.

He stood in the present now, the white room humming sterile light across his face, but shadows followed him. They always did. They moved the way guilt does, quietly, waiting for him to turn around.

He didn’t turn.

He never did.

The memory begun, as memories often do, with sound before image. A soft thud. A muffled laugh. The hollow clang of a metal locker door closing on small hands.

Yang Cheng, twelve, too thin, too quiet, kept his eyes shut because opening them only ever makes things worse. Someone’s knuckle dug into the number inked on his wrist, the one everyone whispers about.

“Look Yang Cheng has zero!!”

“Don’t trust him. People with numbers like that, just stay away.”

He didn’t fight back. He never did. If he resisted, they’d laugh harder. If he cried, they got louder. So he waited for the bell to ring and freed himself only when the hall is empty, adjusting his sleeves to hide the wrist he never asked for.

He walked home hungry, because he spent his lunch money on something else. The television bathed his small living room in static blue light. News anchors spoke in excited voices, but all he heard is the name, ‘E-Soul.’ 

The nation’s golden hero. The man who stood against all odds to save the world. A symbol of possibility, strength, hope.

Yang Cheng sat cross-legged on the floor, palms on his knees, breath held as E-Soul appeared mid-rescue, his suit shining through smoke like a knife of clarity. For a moment, the boy trapped in lockers is gone. For a moment, he believed something impossible:

“Maybe I can be good too.”

On the shelf behind him, cardboard figurines  of E-Soul stared down at him. Either crooked, cheap, secondhand. An E-Soul-shaped kite he randomly picked up, a bit torn but kept. CDs about shows dedicated to E-Soul. He bought most of them by saving lunch money, day after day, until the cashier started giving him sympathetic looks. But Yang Cheng didn’t care. They were his. Proof that he could hold something heroic.

Late at night, when the house is quiet, he practiced poses in the mirror. Hands raised like E-Soul, chin lifted just right. He whispered lines from interviews, mimicking cadence, memorizing hope. 

Highschool, on weekends, he volunteered at the school theater just to act in cardboard fight scenes, defeating fake villains with dramatic spins and cheap costumes.

One evening, while rehearsing alone, he leaped forward with a mock punch — and the cardboard villain suddenly shifted.

Cardboard became flesh. Fake smoke became real dust. Theatre lights became lightning strikes. And before he could retract his attacking fist, standing where the prop villain should be is—

E-Soul.

Yang Cheng froze. The world blurred as the memory and the present folded into each other.

The crowds cheered for him. The public called him a prodigy, a miracle, even the next symbol of justice. But in every cheer, he heard a sound only he recognized. The hollow echo of a locker shutting.

“Hey… don’t get too close to him.”

“That’s Yang Cheng, you can’t trust him…“

“So you locked him up?”

“Isn’t he too quiet inside— ack! teacher’s coming, let’s leave.”

One fact kept haunting him. 

(‘You hurt him. You hurt the only person you ever wanted to be proud of you.’)

He didn’t grow into a hero, he performed one. A fragile persona. A mask. A borrowed dream. He built his foundation on external validation instead of internal value. Fame doesn’t fill an empty cup, it just hides the hole.

So when that idol became a source of scandal and uncertainty, it infected Yang Cheng’s sense of self.

By which he questioned, “Did I do the right thing?”

His guilt followed him like a shadow. Because the media kept debating:

“Was the old E-Soul truly a villain?”

“Why is no one talking about it?”

“His silence already meant guilt, move on.”

“There’s still no solid evidence right?”

“Can we really… trust what’s shown in media?”

And Yang Cheng avoided the question every time. Avoided it when strangers asked. Avoided it when the agency pressed him for statements.

Xia Qing noticed despite her hectic schedule. The way he’d come to an abrupt halt when he saw an old poster of E-Soul half-peeled on a wall, the edges fluttering in the wind like an accusation. The way he’d turn silent when the topic is brought up.

She once approached the topic of the Old E-Soul, her voice quiet, her expression cautious. Yang Cheng deflected with a laugh -- too fast and too bright for it to be real. She didn’t push.

(She should have.) 

Shang Chao… he had a lot in mind back then. He was leaving. Preparing. His future was a quiet weight pressing on him every day. Forms to fill out, decisions to make, the guilt of not telling Yang Cheng yet tightening around his ribs. He was busy rehearsing goodbyes he never voiced, imagining conversations he never had.

So he didn’t really see it.

How Yang Cheng always turned away whenever something reminded him of the original E-Soul.

How Yang Cheng pretended not to hear when people compared them, when praise turned into questions.

Everyone saw E-Soul’s successor.

But no one saw Yang Cheng.

Not even Shang Chao.

But Yang Cheng did notice something.

Shang Chao drifting away. Little behaviors, fewer messages, shorter responses, an unfamiliar distance in his eyes.

And every time Shang Chao looked at him, Yang Cheng saw the reflection of that moment. His fist raised, lightning cracking, Old E-Soul bleeding on the ground (guilty of nothing but being in the wrong place at the wrong time).

Yang Cheng blinked, and suddenly it’s too late.

Smoke. Screaming. A monster tearing through the district. Yang Cheng reacted automatically. It’s what heroes do, isn’t it? They rush in. They don’t hesitate. They don’t freeze.

He charged. He striked. He didn’t even think.

Not until the monster almost collapsed because of him— and he saw his arms.

Shang Chao’s.

Reality split open, sharp and unforgiving.

So much for saying “I won’t hesitate anymore.” Yang Cheng, the boy who couldn’t fight back is suddenly the one who struck first.

Yang Cheng tried to reach out. Tried to explain. Tried to say “I didn’t know, I didn’t know, I didn’t know—”

But then, another wave of truth hit him.

Shang Chao’s trust value.

A hollow, familiar, ‘zero’.

The silence made him hear a faint, broken whisper, “Zero… he has zero?… always zero…”

He knew the words weren’t spoken aloud. They’re memories. His. Because he knew what it meant. What it felt like to live with zero trust on your wrist.

(It was the same number stamped on his own wrist when they shoved him into lockers. When they told others not to trust him. When he tried to mimic E-Soul just to feel ‘worth’ something.)

But Shang Chao had smiled. Had laughed. Had been admired by everyone.

Yang Cheng had assumed — selfishly, irresponsibly — that Shang Chao didn’t understand the pain. He thought Shang Chao was fine. It didn’t make sense. Invisible wounds don’t count if the person shines that brightly, right?

And now, seeing the number clearly exposed on Shang Chao’s wrist.

Yang Cheng felt something inside him tear.

He invalidated him. Dismissed him. Didn’t see him.

He didn’t want to see.

(He wasn’t fighting a monster. He was fighting the reflection of himself he always feared becoming.)

Before he knew it, authorities captured him, securing the scene, escorting him away as though he’s fragile, dangerous, or both. Papers rustled, radios crackled. Hands pulled Yang Cheng back, harsh and panicked.

He didn’t fight. 

He couldn’t even breathe. 

He wasn’t given time to think. Or apologize.

All he could do was watch Shang Chao’s consciousness slip away right in front of him before he could even manage a word. Without explanation. Without a chance for either of them to understand what happened.

They took Shang Chao away. Fast, efficient, from staffs of the Commission itself.

And they took him too.

A few cameras flashed. A few reporters shouted accusations that sliced through the smoke.

He’s detained. Interrogated. Left in a white room with cold steel tables and colder stares.

“Why did you shield the monster?”

“What were your intentions?”

“Were you aware of the Treeman Heir’s state?”

“Is there a pattern? Are you hiding something?”

Yang Cheng couldn’t answer. His mind lagged behind every question, replaying the scene like a skipping tape. Slow as always. In the end, he couldn’t provide a proper answer.

He was put on standby. Not cleared, not released. Locked in a holding unit while PR scrambles to craft a narrative.

A narrative that painted him as villain-adjacent, a danger, and a mistake. Someone they can pin silence on. Whose fall they can weaponize.

And the Hero Affairs Commission did nothing. For they also knew nothing.

They were the ones who publicized the concept of Fear — a controllable variable, a known threat, a system-friendly danger. But for a single person to cause that much destruction with it? Not to mention, a person named under Treeman Corporation, one of the four largest agencies below them.

Impossible. Unacceptable. Too destabilizing to admit. So they acted in the only way they knew how:

They protected the Treeman Heir’s identity. Hidden the truth. Buried Shang Chao’s name beneath emergency-level clearance. Because one shred of public doubt, one question aimed at the Commission’s ability to control both Fear and the hero agencies under them, would expose just how fragile their authority truly was.

One hero sacrificed was the easier option.

At least, that’s what they decided on.

Yang Cheng becomes the narrative’s gravitational center. The downfall, the anomaly, the convenient scapegoat.

It’s not because he was guilty. Not even because they understood.

But because they couldn’t afford to be wrong.

The hours stretched.

The memory dissolved, and white light returned in a blinding rush.

Yang Cheng blinked up at the sterile ceiling, metal on his tongue, wrists burning where the cuffs held him to the chair. A monitoring device lit up on the wall -- watching him, evaluating him, measuring how much of a ‘threat’ he was.

He sat on the narrow cot, staring at the faint reflection on the metallic wall. His hands trembled, not from fear, but from the crushing quiet.

No cheers. No mission briefings.

Just silence and guilt.

He thought of the boy he used to be, locked in a hallway locker, wrists aching, terrified of what his number meant.

He thought of Shang Chao, smiling as if nothing hurt.

He thought of how blind he was.

And the longer he sat there, the more something tightened in his chest, a knot pulling tighter and tighter until he felt like he couldn’t inhale at all.

He needed something.

A thought, or an anchor. Anything to keep him from drowning. And then it came, small but steady:

He needed to see Shang Chao.

Not because it’s allowed. But because without answers, without Shang Chao, his mind was fracturing. He wanted— no he must see him. He must understand. He must anchor himself before he collapses entirely.

But how? He stood with no plan in mind. He was never the type to plan anyway. He isn’t Shang Chao. 

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Footsteps moved outside the door: reporters, Commission staff, security.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Their muffled whispers seeped through the glass:

“Is he stable?”

“His Trust Value collapsed, how low did it fall?”

“If he snaps again...”

“The Commission can’t afford another incident -- Public Trust is hanging by a thread.”

Each word scraped against him like a dull blade.

Yang Cheng lowered his head. He tugged once against the cuffs. Then again, not enough to break them, he wasn’t trying to break them. He was trying to ‘breathe’. Grief sat heavier than the metal around his wrists.

Then... click!

“???”

The lights wavered! The lock on the door blinked: 

From red... 

.

To green...

.

.

Then to...

.

.

.

Darkness. 

A mechanical whir hummed through the room, low and deliberate. The power has been cut. Enough to muddle the guards, unsettle the system, make Yang Cheng believe escape was suddenly possible.

Yang Cheng moved.

He acted before thought, calculation, or hesitation could slow him. His Trust had collapsed (his strength should’ve been nothing but sparks). However, some powers don’t listen to numbers.

What little he had left surged wildly, unstable and bright, tearing through the chair as he hurled his full weight forward! The brittle lock cracked. Metal groaned. The frame buckled beneath him.

“E-Soul is trying to--”

“Stop him!”

“Don’t let him near anyone!”

A taser flared! Blue arcs snapping against his shoulder. It should’ve dropped any other hero.

Yang Cheng barely blinked.

Electricity couldn’t restrain someone built from it.

Red lights strobed across the walls as the emergency system activated. Doors rattled. Staff scrambled. Papers scattered in the air as someone hit the panic button!

Yang Cheng didn’t fight them, he just ‘ran’.

He ran like the frightened child who once hid his bruises beneath long sleeves. He ran like the teenager who saved coins to buy a cardboard hero figurine. He ran like a man who had already lost too much and couldn’t bear one more loss.

But this time, he didn’t run from guilt. Instead, he ran towards the one person he couldn’t afford to lose.

Just one desperate thought pulsed in his skull:

‘I need to see him. I need to know he’s alive!’

A guard lunged to grab him --

“!!!”

-- but the corridor lights cut out for a single, perfectly timed heartbeat.

Pitch black.

Then dim emergency glow.

The guard missed.

Yang Cheng broke past him and barreled through the last door. He didn’t even remember pushing it open.

Cold air slapped his face.

Snow drifted down across the containment courtyard, soft against the disorder behind him.

He was outside.

‘Free’.

The alarm shrieked behind him, drowned out by the ragged pull of his own breath.

He didn’t question how the power was cut. 

Huff.

He didn’t question why the final alarm ‘conveniently’ malfunctioned.

Huff.

He only whispered, raw and shivering:

“Shang Chao...” His voice quivered on the exhale. “I’m coming. Please... just be there...”

A TV mounted in the hallway flickered to life as Yang Cheng fled into the snow. Inside the detention wing, staff stopped mid-scream as the emergency broadcast overtook every screen in the facility.

[BREAKING NEWS: E-SOUL HAS ESCAPED DETENTION.]

The reporter’s voice shook with barely contained panic: “We repeat, E-Soul has broken out of Commission custody. Citizens are advised to stay calm and remain indoors. Fear levels across the city are rising at unprecedented speed. Officials are attempting to regain control--”

Another voice cut in, “If the Commission can’t detain one hero, what does that say about their stability?”

Another, “If he ran... does that mean he ‘really’ is guilty?”

Fear spread faster than snow.

In the silence that followed, a single number flashed across the broadcast:

[E-SOUL RANKING — DROPPED BELOW TOP TEN]

[E-SOUL TRUST INDEX: - - - - - UNREADABLE]

The crowds watching from their homes gasped. Unreadable wasn’t a blank slate, it was a ‘warning’. A volatility the system couldn’t measure.

A danger no one wanted to name.

***

In a room far from the city’s noise, where the walls were too white and the air too still, a lone monitor pulsed softly in the dark.

…beep.

…beep.

Nothing else moved. No footsteps, no voices, no urgency. Just the steady rise and fall of mechanical breath.

Then, almost too small to notice, too quiet to matter…

a finger twitched.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

Between Life and Chance

“You understand the weight of what you just did, yes? Allowing a detained hero to escape.”

Amidst the dim room, lit only by the harsh white of the interrogation lamps. Yan Mo stood before the trembling officer, hands folded neatly behind his back, his expression composed, almost gentle. But the scent of disinfectant clung to the air, unable to mask the tension. Papers were scattered on the floor from the chaotic escape, the alarm still faintly echoing down the hall. 

Yan Mo continued with a soft voice, “Imagine the citizens seeing this on the news. Their panic. Their fear. Their distrust.”

The officer under interrogation—young, barely past training—couldn’t meet his gaze. His whole body trembled as he stared at the table.

Yan Mo sighed in a way that suggested disappointment rather than anger.

“I hate this part. Truly. Violence isn’t something I encourage.” He placed a hand over his chest, as though burdened by the very idea. “But the damage has been done. And people ought to know the one responsible has been handled. Only then will their hearts be at ease, knowing matters are taken seriously.”

He picked up the officer’s service pistol and tested its weight with a casual flick of the wrist.

The officer choked on his breath. “P-please…”

Yan Mo crouched down and used the cold barrel of the pistol to lift the man’s chin. “Hmm? I didn’t quite catch that.”

A tear slipped free.

“Please.. I have a family..” The officer’s voice cracked.

Yan Mo’s expression melted into pity. Gentle. Sympathetic. Almost kind. “That’s terrible. Truly.”

He stepped back a little, regarding the officer with a contemplative look. “But if I spare you, I risk damaging my reputation with the Commission. Their trust is fragile.”

He reached into his coat and pulled out a silver coin. Simple and a bit worn on the edges.

“So how about… we decide with a game instead?”

The officer blinked in confusion. “A… game?”

Yan Mo nodded. “A game of odds. Heads or tails.” He flipped the coin between his fingers, letting the metal glint beneath the lamp. “The rules are simple. Make a guess. If you’re correct, I might let you go with only a light punishment. I’ll even secretly clear your release under MG.”

The officer stared at the coin like it was another weapon.

“…And if I guess wrong?”

Yan Mo made a small slicing gesture across his own neck. No smile. No humor. Just a matter of fact.

The officer swallowed hard. “A… fifty-fifty chance.”

“Exactly. Fair, isn’t it? If I must take a risk, it’s only natural you should too. Surely… you understand,” Yan Mo replied.

The officer’s fear cracked into anger. 

“This is… unfair!” His voice broke. “You’re toying with my life! Don’t you have any empathy? The citizens look up to you—“

Yan Mo tilted his head.

“And I’m supposed to empathize with someone who endangered those very citizens?”

The young man faltered. “I…”

Yan Mo twirled the coin. “Heads or tails. I don’t have all day.”

A long, breaking silence.

 “…H-heads.”

“Final answer?”

The officer’s breath shook. “T-tails. Wait—I mean—no, I—”

Yan Mo stifled a yawn, checking his watch.

“Heads… Heads. Please,” the officer said in a shaky tone.

The coin spun through the air — silver, bright, unfeeling. The metallic ring echoed sharply in the silent room.

clink.

It landed.

The officer cracked one eye open to peek.

It landed on ‘heads’.

Relief poured out of him in a shudder. He looked up at Yan Mo, breathless, hopeful.

“I guessed right—”

Bang.

His body slumped, a smear of red blooming. The bullet hit him between the eyes, blood spreading across the floor.

“Woah. You said you’d let him live if he guessed correctly. Why’d you shoot?”

A figure in a mohawk stepped out of the shadow behind Yan Mo. Dragon Boy stepped through the doorway with a sharp grin, feral eyes, having appeared without so much as a sound. 

Yan Mo calmly blew the smoke from the barrel.

“I said I might let him live. Not that I would.” 

He set the gun aside and without sparing a glance at Dragon Boy, “And fix your habit of appearing without being called.”

“Tch. I only came to see what the fuss was about.” Dragon Boy leaned against the wall. “Heard E-Soul escaped. Didn’t know you were playing executioner today.”

“Necessary clean-up,” Yan Mo said without pause as he picked up the silver coin.

Dragon Boy replied, “Since when did you take the Commission’s side?” A pause. “What’s more strange is—”

His grin widened. “—he managed to escape in the first place.” Along with a flicker of realization.

Yan Mo didn’t respond. He simply wiped the coin clean.

Dragon Boy’s laugh cracked through the air.

“Oh. You’re insane.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming, “That’s why I like you.”

“…You knew he’d try to escape, didn’t you?”

***

The hospital was quiet at night, wrapped in that winter stillness that made every sound feel too loud. Someone leaned on the balcony railing, the cold metal biting through the thin fabric of his patient clothes. He looked below him. The city spread out in muted blues and greys. Headlights drifting like distant stars, the hum of traffic softened by the wind.

Up here, it felt like the world had stopped.

Up here, he could almost pretend he wasn’t here at all.

He saw it over and over in his mind. The chaos he had unleashed. Xia Qing, bloodied and coughing, only because he had allowed it. Yang Cheng, who got injured after protecting the citizens from him, still managing to flail against impossible odds to protect him. Every strike he’d thrown, every time he had let fear spill uncontrolled, had hurt them. He remembered the sharp sting of Yang Cheng’s hands, holding him, as he ran away from heroes, the panic in Xia Qing’s eyes, the weight of their trust crumbling as he ran.

And beneath all of it, that old familiar whisper rose.

‘You messed up again.’

He had lived with that thought for so long it no longer shocked him. It settled beside him like an old friend, cold and patient. If he simply went inside that plane like planned. If he simply stopped being a problem… If he disappeared…

He didn’t hear the sliding door until it clicked shut behind someone.

“Shang Chao… don’t do anything stupid.”

He stiffened. Xia Qing’s voice, small but steady, carried through the cold.

He turned, startled. “Xia— when did you—”

“Yang Cheng won’t take it well,” she said, walking toward him, her steps slow, careful, like approaching a wounded animal that might bolt.

“I’m not—”

“I know.” Her certainty cut deeper than any accusation.

He looked at her, searching for what she meant, and found nothing but calm determination.

“You always… disappear when things get hard,” she said after a pause, her breath fogging the air. “Even before we… well, before we got close. I always felt like, you’re distant. From everyone.”

Shang Chao swallowed. “I’m not leaving,” he muttered.

Her lips twitched. “Feels like you are,” she said softly.

“Xia Qing, I’m not stupid. I’m not someone who’d off himself over simple inconveniences.”

Her brows lifted. Not in anger, but in ache.

“Simple? If you knew exactly what I meant, did you really think it’s that simple?” Her voice cracked just slightly. “I want to trust you. You know I do.”

“Don’t you?” he asked, quiet, almost defensive.

Xia Qing didn’t answer immediately. The wind answered for her, rising between them like a sigh.

“…I just wish you’d let yourself lean on someone sometimes.. even just for a little,” she finally said.

“I can’t.” He said immediately.  “It’s easier said than done. I’m used to it. I can deal with it. Like before. You two have your own share of problems.”

Xia Qing’s gaze softened. “Then if anything goes wrong…will you—“

“I always come back.” He looked back at the skyline.

“Chao, I don’t blame you for needing time alone.”

He didn’t reply . Silence pressed against his ribs.

“But during those times,” she said softly, “Yang Cheng would look at his phone every few seconds. He’d keep asking me if you contacted me too.. and Yang Cheng, he almost always hesitates before asking for anything.”

Shang Chao flinched, a small, involuntary thing. “I’m not trying to make him feel that way. Xia Qing, you understand—”

“I don’t.”

This time he turned to her fully.

Her eyes were shining, but not with tears. Rather, with frustration.

“What do you think I am, Shang Chao? Someone who can read minds?” She looked down. “I doubt myself too, you know. Every excuse I made for you whenever you disappeared… sometimes I wondered if any of them were even true.”

He opened his mouth, but the words wouldn’t form.

“You make it so hard to reach you.”

“I didn’t ask you to reach me.”

“But I want to.” She looked at him sincerely, her breath turning white between them. “Because no one deserves what you’ve been through.”

His eyes dropped.

His voice, when it came, was barely audible.  “You don’t need to know everything. Some things are better left unsaid.”

“I’m not forcing you,” Xia Qing said. “At least… I think that’s how I should be. But—”

In that fragile pause, something inside her cracked open, one she had never voiced, a quiet hurt that lived under her ribs, not unlike an old bruise.

A memory rose, unbidden: a narrow alley stretched before her -- concrete walls stained with age, cardboard boxes stacked crookedly against a rusted pipe. A tiny backpack lay on the ground, its front pocket slightly askew from the fall.

Her heart didn’t speed up or slow down. It simply ‘stopped’.

Sunlight fell in a thin strip across the spot where he should have been.

“Little Pomelo...?” Her voice barely made a sound.

“...”

Silence answered.

“...”

The low hum of an air conditioner pressed against her ears. The distant blur of city traffic drifted around her. The world refused to offer anything back.

She stepped forward on unsteady legs, calling his name again --

“...Little Pomelo?”

-- soft at first.

“Little Pomelo!”

Then louder, then finally loud enough that her throat burned.

“Little Pomelo!”

Her hands shook. Her knees weakened. Her vision swam as she fumbled with her phone, trying to dial emergency numbers she couldn’t even see clearly.

Panic closed around her like a fist. The alley seemed to narrow. Her world funneled into a single, horrifying truth:

‘He’s gone. He’s gone. He’s gone--’

The terror struck deep: the terror of losing someone small, gentle, innocent -- someone who needed her!

It had never fully left Xia Qing. It had ‘shaped’ her.

“Three.”

She blinked. “What?”

He still didn’t look at her.

“No… four. Maybe. Or was it five.”

Her breath hitched. “Shang Chao… what are you talking about?”

The winter wind swept past them. Cold, sharp, unforgiving, as Shang Chao finally said it:

“That’s how many times I considered doing it.”

The words fell softly, almost gently, and somehow that made them so much worse. The city’s cold glow washed over Shang Chao’s face as he spoke, pale against the open night. Xia Qing didn’t interrupt—not because she didn’t want to, but because she could feel it:

This was the first time he had ever said these things out loud.

The wind carried the quiet between them, but not even winter could numb the weight of his words. Shang Chao exhaled, long and slow. “Don’t look at me like that.” His voice was softer than before. “It’s… old news. Other people have it worse. I don’t even remember all of it clearly. Just pieces.”

He rested his elbows on the railing, eyes drifting down at the slow-moving lights far below.

“The first time?… I was a kid.” He huffed a small, distant laugh. “I think it was after I got locked in my room. I remember thinking, ‘Maybe if I disappeared, my father would finally look at me.’”

Xia Qing’s hands tightened at her sides.

“I got scared when I actually stepped onto the edge. So yeah.” A humorless smile tugged at his mouth. “Probably one of my stupid childish antics.”

The way he said “childish antics” made something twist painfully in her chest. Children weren’t supposed to think like that.

“The second…” He leaned back against the rail, tilting his head up so his breath rose into the cold night.

“One of my private teachers, she’s really strict by the way, scolded me for messing up a piece.” His fingers twitched unconsciously, as though remembering the keys beneath them. “I practiced hard. Not to impress her, no, mostly because I wanted to perform well. A lot of parents were going to attend. And Father… he said he’d come.”

A pause.

“He didn’t.”

Xia Qing didn’t need to ask. She already saw the scene—little Shang Chao standing backstage, clutching sheet music with trembling fingers, scanning the audience for a face that never arrived.

“Now that I think about it…” He chuckled, almost sounding fond, but the sound cracked. “It’s a shallow reason. But… I was a child. Sensitive, I guess.”

“Guess?” Xia Qing thought. “You were abandoned.”

“The third…” His voice softened with a different kind of heavy, nostalgic grief.

“One of Father’s staff accidentally threw out one of my inventions. It was really important to me.” His fingers curled slightly on the air, like gripping something raw. “I tried to tell him. ‘Tried.’ But he was busy. Always busy. And I didn’t want to bother him. Peace was… easier than being right. Easier than being acknowledged.”

He inhaled deeply.

“After that I didn’t feel like making anything for a while. I stayed in my room, lying there… not doing anything. I lost track of time. Eating felt like a chore. Sleeping was… easier. And high places…” His throat worked. “…became comforting.”

“I- I’m going to be honest. I don’t really know where it came from exactly. It sounds small when I say it like this.”

The wind rushed by, cold and sharp. Xia Qing instinctively stepped closer, like she could anchor him there with her presence.

“The fourth…” He let out a long breath, white in the air.

“I told myself to get it together. I forced myself to get up every day. I was old enough to feel guilty about feeling that way. None of it was big enough by itself. That’s the problem. I didn’t think I was allowed to feel anything.”

His voice grew quieter. Low and worn.

“I had everything. Wealth. Anything I asked for. I excelled in everything, and people praised me for it.”

He almost spat the word “praised.”

“Shang Chao you’re amazing! That invention is out of this world.”

“Ah. Of course. No surprise there, Shang Chao excels at everything.”

“It must be nice to be like you Shang Chao. Talented.. Known..”

“I wish I didn’t have to deal with problems like you… Shang Chao.”

He continued talking.

“I once thought I craved it, I mean I excelled for the sake of it, but I think… part of me also hated being praised. Praise without trust—”

He stopped mid-sentence. The words froze.

Xia Qing saw the moment he caught himself. Was it about trust?  He made it sound like trust wasn’t something he ever learned. But why?

He swallowed hard.

“—praise like that makes me feel out of reach. Like no one can really stand beside me. The more they praise me, the less I feel like I can fail, or be human, or hurt.”

His voice went faint.

“I don’t know if this even counts. I didn’t like praises. The noise of it. The pressure. But without it.. whenever the silence takes over, whenever my thoughts get too loud when I’m left with no distractions… I question my worth. I’d fall back into that spiral again. Without care. Just wanting to… disappear.”

Snow didn’t fall that night, but the silence between them felt like it might. Perhaps it was inevitable. For loneliness is often a byproduct of a gifted mind. A long moment settled between them. Cars moved like distant constellations below. The wind tugged at Shang Chao’s hair.

“Oh right, the fifth—”

He stopped.

Xia Qing stiffened. The distance in his eyes. The way he had looked at the edge earlier, before he heard her. Right now.. in this balcony.

Shang Chao’s lashes trembled. He looked away quickly.

“Ah. I miscounted. Haha.” He rubbed the back of his neck, forcing a thin smile.

“It’s just four.”

But the air changed.

Xia Qing hadn’t said anything.

Not a word.

Shang Chao finally looked at her… and froze.

Her face was wet. Red‑eyed. Silent tears falling like she’d been holding them for too long.

His breath stuttered.

“W–wait—hey, don’t—don’t cry,” he blurted out, hands hovering uselessly in the air before settling awkwardly over her shoulders. “It’s not— it’s not all that bad, okay?”

He squeezed her gently, as if trying to steady both of them at once. “I mean… I met you. And Yang Cheng.” He swallowed. “And my father…”

His voice cracked so quickly that even he seemed taken aback by it. He looked away.

“He probably needed the rest,” he tried to joke weakly. “He’s old enough to stop working anyway.”

A strained laugh.

“It’s not like we had a good relationship,” he went on, words tumbling out too fast. “I remember hating him. For a long time.”

He exhaled shakily, eyes unfocused, somewhere far beyond the room.

“Growing up, I thought… I thought I finally started to understand him. And then he—” He bit back the rest, pressing his lips together hard.

“He… he told me I didn’t have to do things alone.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Not when he’s still here.”

“Can you believe it? Him. Saying that.” He forced out a small laugh, wiping at his face as though he could trick himself into thinking nothing was there. “Seriously, I didn’t think old men like him could be that emotional. Look at him now. Leaving me with all that— all that talk. Seriously stupid. It’s not like I’m a kid. He’s always really…”

His breathing hitched. 

Xia Qing whispered, barely audible over the cold wind.

“Then Chao… why are you crying?”

His breath trembled. 

“Oh…”

A tear escaped… quiet, unplanned, almost disbelieving. He wiped it with the back of his hand as if it betrayed him. Sharp and irritated, like he could scold it into stopping.

But more kept falling.

He turned his face away from Xia Qing, shoulders rigid, voice cracking under the strain of pretending.

“I’m not— can you… can you not look right now?” he muttered, forcing a crooked laugh. “Ahh, there’s dust. Think something got in my eye…”

His voice wavered, the lie collapsing mid-sentence.

Xia Qing shook her head gently.

When she looked at Shang Chao now, she saw it reflected back at her: that same fragile, frightened child hiding behind a too-careful face.

She finally understood why Shang Chao ran, why he kept people at arm’s length, why he dreaded the idea of becoming a burden. His fear wasn’t strange at all -- it was ‘familiar’, for she had lived in that same world once -- a world where someone she loved had disappeared into fear.

Ever since that day, she promised herself she would never feel that kind of terror again, nor let anyone she cared about ever put her through it.

And so she opened her mouth. Softly.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay to cry, Shang Chao.”

Chapter Text

Chapter 22

Long Time No SEoul

[BREAKING NEWS: E-SOUL HAS ESCAPED DETENTION.]

The notification banner flashed across her phone, hitting her with the force of a slap.

Xia Qing gasped, momentarily feeling as though the clinical environment of the hospital room was spinning, the distant beeping, the muffled footsteps, even the sting in her bandaged arm faded beneath a single question: ‘Why did it come to this?’

She pushed herself upright too fast. Pain shot through her ribs (she barely felt it). Shang Chao was unconscious down the hall. Yang Cheng had been locked up like a criminal. And now... ‘escaped’. Her fingers tightened around the phone until the plastic creaked.

He ran, exactly as she knew he would. The worst part was that, she understood.

“Yang Cheng...” She whispered.

Her mind dragged her back to the moment she’d been trying not to revisit: a calm afternoon when Yang Cheng’s shoulders had finally lowered, his smile almost real. She had chosen that rare softness to approach the topic of the Old E-Soul gently. 

“Does it still bother you?” She asked, cautious, careful -- referring to the posters, the rumors, the legacy he never asked for.

Yang Cheng had laughed, fast, a little too bright, every bit of it rehearsed to hide the real answer.

Xia Qing had seen everything: the shift in his eyes, the tightening of his grip on the mug, the slight angle of his body (a small, unconscious retreat from a truth he didn’t want to touch). She could have pushed. She wanted to. However, the tremor in his smile made her afraid that one more question might shatter him. So she let the moment pass.

She told herself that was why she stayed quiet. It was only half true.

Because beneath the compassion was a quieter, pettier fear she’d never admit to herself. She was afraid that if she pressed too hard, he would do what he always did. He’d withdraw, dodge her gaze, slip out of reach. And she had only just managed to get this close towards him again. She didn’t want to lose that fragile, precious connection. Not when it felt like he’d vanish the moment she pushed the wrong door.

Xia Qing had learned one truth over the years: ‘It was always easy to leave her.’

People could walk away without hesitation. Her parents proved that. And she had survived, because she knew how to stand alone. She always had. But carrying yourself for so long…

It makes you wonder.

Would it be selfish to want even one connection?

Even one person who stays?

Even if the moment demands that you speak up, would you really risk losing them?

So she made a decision with a partially selfish thought.

She didn’t push. She told herself that giving him space was kindness. Now, with the breaking news flashing across every screen, she felt that choice like a bruise. She had mistaken his silence for ‘strength’. She thought he would come to her when he was ready.

She was wrong.

Regret tightened around her chest. If she had insisted... if she had asked again... if she had tried to reach him, would he be here? Would he still be safe?

Her vision blurred -- guilt, fear, and anger tangling in her chest. Yang Cheng was terrified. Shang Chao was hurt. They were unraveling in opposite directions and she... she had waited. She had hoped.

Despite this, hope wasn’t enough -- least of all for boys with storms stitched beneath their skin.

So this time, Xia Qing moved.

She didn’t hesitate. She didn’t have second thoughts. She moved because ‘not doing anything’ had already cost her once. And she already had an idea where to go.

“He’s not coming for me,” she thought, “He’s going straight to Shang Chao.”

Part of it hurt, that truth. Sharp as a knife. She had hoped, maybe even believed, that her presence mattered. That she could be the one to anchor him, to pull him back from whatever edge he was about to step over. But Yang Cheng… he was always about Shang Chao first. Always.

And part of her wished she didn’t understand.

Because sometimes, her mind dwells on a shameful thought:

“Maybe… maybe if one person wasn’t there, then maybe I could matter more.”

“Maybe he’d turn to me.”

The thought flickered. Ugly and human.  She hated herself for it the moment it existed.

Because it wasn’t the truth.

She liked Yang Cheng. She cared for him. But caring for him never meant hating Shang Chao. And realizing that she cared for both, made the fear hit harder when she reached the room and saw the empty hospital bed.

“What? Where is—”

For a second, she couldn’t move. Her lungs locked. Her hands turned cold. As her mind already imagined all the worst reasons he was taken away.

“Did something happen? Did the medics take him away? Yang Cheng doesn’t look like he’s here yet…”

Her eyes darted across the room in panic, scanning every shadow, every corner, and then she caught it.

A silhouette on the balcony.

For a fraction of a second, relief flared. He was here. He was safe. Maybe.

But the relief was already cracking, fragile and fleeting. Her thoughts spun out of control as the curtains moved and revealed him.

The scene felt too familiar. Shang Chao was there, leaning too close to the ledge, the wind tugging at him as if it wanted to claim him.

Her heart dropped straight through her stomach.

She didn’t understand why he was there in the first place. However, in that split second what she understood was something brutal:

Losing Yang Cheng was terrifying.

But losing Shang Chao, too, would ruin them both.

Her mouth moved before her mind could catch up. Words driven by the sharp sting of her previous inaction toward Yang Cheng.

“Shang Chao… don’t do anything stupid.”

She steadied her voice, though her hands shook behind the sliding door. As that terrifying thought of pushing someone away by bringing up something sensitive still haunted her. Every syllable felt fragile, every step toward him heavy with fear.

Still, she pressed on. Her heart hammered against her chest, nearly tasting the bitterness of hesitation. Carefully, deliberately, she spoke the only name she knew would matter to him.

“Yang Cheng won’t take it well.”

She didn’t speak of Yang Cheng because it was convenient. She spoke his name because she had to. Because she knew, painfully, that she wasn’t enough. She wasn’t enough to stop Shang Chao alone. She wasn’t enough to pull him back from the edge when the weight of his own thoughts pushed him forward. She never had been. She never could be.

In fact, she still remembered it clearly.

‘You’re... important to me, but not in the way I thought.’

He had tried to word it softly, but the implication was clear. Xia Qing had learned early how to read between the lines. To feel the weight of what was left unsaid. The spaces between intentions and reality. 

The memory cut sharper now than it ever had before. She had always been the third in their trio, the one observing from the sidelines, the one trying to keep balance when Yang Cheng and Shang Chao had a gravity she could never match. And that truth, buried deep, stung worse than the fear threatening to freeze her in place now.

If invoking Yang Cheng might anchor him, even if it was only enough to give her a chance to reach him safely, then it was the only choice she had.

She wouldn’t have expected it.

“That’s how many times I considered doing it.”

Shang Chao said casually, almost offhand, but the words landed like stones. Heavy, unavoidable, and… directed at her.

He was opening up. Shang Chao. That guy who rarely let anyone close, who always kept a careful distance, who built walls around himself like armor. And now, he was letting her see through them. Even just a bit.

She had always thought of herself as both empathetic and understanding. She had an idea but, only now did she realize how little she knew of what he had endured, the battles no one else could see. She never really thought she could cross that line. She never really thought much of… Shang Chao.

Despite all that, he trusted her enough to say it. Trusted her enough to let her in.

And that alone… was enough to make her cry.

After what felt like hours (though in reality it had only been minutes) they cried. Together, but separately, letting all the tension and fear and guilt spill out in ways words could not reach.

Shang Chao looked like he wanted to say something.

Xia Qing knew immediately what it was. She almost forgot to tell him… because it was all too much to process, all too overwhelming.

“Yang Cheng…” she began, her voice barely above a whisper.

Shang Chao’s eyes lifted, hesitant. “I was about to ask… where is he?”

Xia Qing didn’t answer. She simply raised her phone, the headlines glaring back at them:

[BREAKING NEWS: E-SOUL HAS ESCAPED DETENTION.]

Shang Chao’s eyes widened. “That… stupid. Why would he—”

Xia Qing couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at her lips. She tilted her phone slightly, letting him read the implication. “Why else?”

It hit him then. His ears flushed, the faintest red coloring the edges of his face.

“Ahh…” Shang Chao let out a long breath. “He’s really… one moment I fall unconscious, and the next he’s already getting himself into trouble.”

Xia Qing chuckled, the tension in her chest easing a little. “At least we don’t need to look. We both know where he’s going.”

Or so they thought.

They assumed he’d show up immediately. He’d burst through the hospital window, panic painted across his face, scolding and fretting until he tripped over his own words. Or maybe he’d walk in like a normal visitor, as if he wasn’t an escaped, wanted hero, scratching the back of his head with that sheepish, I’m not guilty I swear smile.

But he didn’t come.

Not that day. Not the next. Not even when Shang Chao managed to walk properly again.

Where was he?

They didn’t know.

The only presence they had of Yang Cheng was the news of his escape. The only proof Yang Cheng still existed was the headline:

[HERO FUGITIVE STILL AT LARGE.]

It’s been weeks. Shang Chao pretended to move on (he didn’t, he’s worried sick every night) … until the odd things started.

Little things. Trivial—if trivial things ever obeyed the laws of probability.

At first, Shang Chao assumed it was coincidence.

A malfunctioning elevator door about to close on him—then jamming open at the last second.

A falling sign that should’ve crushed his shoulder somehow… missed.

A reckless cyclist swerving in his direction, only for the bicycle’s tire to burst at the exact moment it would’ve hit him.

An unattended grocery cart moving downhill straight toward him until, just before impact, Shang Chao felt a hand push him back before he even processed danger. He blinked and no one was standing where he was.

Too convenient. Too precise. Too familiar.

That was when he realized. Shang Chao’s fingers tightened on the railing of a rooftop.

“…So that’s where you went,” he whispered to no one.

He didn’t run. He hid. Hovering protectively. Pathetically. Desperately. It was so Yang Cheng that Shang Chao almost laughed.

Somehow, he found it cute. The guy was avoiding him. Trying not to show face, probably because of what happened, but he was keeping watch anyway. Even now, even as a wanted hero, Yang Cheng still circled him like a guilty, wounded animal trying to guard something it no longer believed it could approach.

Shang Chao exhaled shakily.

He had to see him. He had to speak to him. He had to fix this.

But Yang Cheng wouldn’t come on his own.

So, Shang Chao did something reckless. Something only someone who once had zero trust would think to do.

He stood at the edge of an unfinished overpass, looking down, counting his heartbeats. Not seriously hurt himself, but make it look convincing enough. Enough to bait the one person who would never let him fall.

Wind ripped at his clothes. The world roared below. He closed his eyes.

“Yang Cheng,” he murmured, “Come on. I know you’re out there. I know you’re watching.”

He leaned forward just enough for instinct to do the rest.

Then he thought…

”Ah shit, maybe this is a bad idea.”

Too late. His feet already slipped when he opened his eyes.

And he suddenly couldn’t feel the ground.

But then…

Like a lightning snap—

A spark crackled in the air. A hand—familiar, trembling, too fast for human eyes—seized him by the collar and pulled him back from the drop. Smoke still clung to the figure when he felt the grip around him. Steady, warm, and unmistakably Yang Cheng’s.

Shang Chao’s feet hit the pavement again. He didn’t even have to turn. He already knew.

He smiled. One of those annoyingly confident ones he knew Yang Cheng hated. Probably.

“…I knew you’d come.”

Yang Cheng froze.

Shang Chao noticed it instantly. His helmet tilted slightly, as if startled. As if he really thought Shang Chao wouldn’t want him here. Or maybe that tiny shift, that held breath, was also that quiet anger Yang Cheng never said. Whatever it was it’s definitely him.

Shang Chao kept smiling as he raised both hands placatingly in surrender. “Okay, okay—if you want to punch me again, just… not too hard, yeah? I literally just got discharged.”

He thought, “Behind the helmet… he’s probably frowning. Trying not to cry. Or furious. Or both.”

Just like last time.

He’d imagined this moment a dozen times while stuck in that sterile hospital room. Yang Cheng standing over him, angry but here. Yang Cheng dragging him out of danger with that determined, stubborn gentleness. He’d probably yell at him for doing something reckless again. Or apologize. Or well… do Yang Cheng things.

So he closed his eyes. Braced for anger, shouting, trembling, or relief overflowing as frustration.

But nothing came.

When he took a peek…

Yang Cheng already turned around.

Walked away.

Without. A. Word.

Clean. Sharp. No hesitation. As if Shang Chao wasn’t even there.

Shang Chao’s smile faltered.

“…Huh?”

For a moment he just stood there, stupidly, watching Yang Cheng walk away like someone hit mute on the world.

It was fortunate that Shang Chao is quick to realize.

“Oh he’s really pissed. Because I didn’t tell him anything? Or because I baited him into this? Or—yeah—both.”

He’s definitely ignoring him to teach him a lesson. Which was understandable. On Yang Cheng’s case.

Shang Chao took a step after him, hand lifting out of instinct.

“Y-Yang Cheng—?”

Yang Cheng didn’t slow, didn’t snap back, didn’t acknowledge him at all.

That was the part that punched him.

The total lack of reaction.

And suddenly the scene felt familiar. He almost stopped. His hand hovering inches from Yang Cheng. Hesitation. Memories flared — argued words from before heated, shouted, and yet… unresolved.

‘Understand? You… Shang Chao? Understand me…’

Back then, Shang Chao couldn’t.

But this time… he felt like he had to. He told himself, he would face it properly. He reached out. Fingers closed around Yang Cheng’s wrist, firm but trembling.

“Hey… I’m sorry.”

Yang Cheng stopped, as though his brain needed an extra second to understand the action.

Shang Chao started, voice barely more than a breath, “About… not talking about going abroad. For leaving so suddenly… I know you’re angry—”

“I know about your trust value.”

Yang Cheng’s voice cut through him. Low, precise, a flat calm that carried weight far heavier than his tone suggested.

Shang Chao’s eyes widened.

His mind, sharp enough to predict outcomes with eerie precision, went blank. “He… knows? He saw? When? How?”

The hand gripping Yang Cheng’s wrist stiffened slightly, as if holding on suddenly demanded more than courage. A secret Shang Chao had carried so carefully, shoved into the shadows even from himself, had been uncovered.

Yang Cheng wasn’t angry. Not in the way Shang Chao had thought. Not harsh. Not blaming. Just… still, sharp, unnerving. He suddenly didn’t know what to do with this Yang Cheng.

Shang Chao swallowed, throat dry. Every instinct screamed to retreat, to explain, to hide what he had so meticulously guarded.

Yang Cheng continued, tone unchanged.

“I saw it back then. When whatever took over you dissolved. Before you lost consciousness.”

Shang Chao’s throat tightened. Words… any words refused to come out.

“I didn’t know,” Yang Cheng’s said softly. “I didn’t know you hated praises.”

Something in Shang Chao jolted… because —

“Yes. Yes, I knew it! My hunch was right! That’s exactly what I wanted to tease him about. That he overheard my talk with Xia Qing. That’s why he couldn’t show face. I should be laughing right now. I should say he’s terrible at eavesdropping. I should be making fun of him.”

But the atmosphere wasn’t right.

The tone wasn’t right.

Yang Cheng wasn’t right.

Before Shang Chao could speak—

“I’m the one who’s supposed to apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry.”

Yang Cheng said those words with no stutter. No hesitation.

Suddenly, Shang Chao felt something he couldn’t quite place his finger on. He’d never heard Yang Cheng speak vulnerable things so calmly. He felt like if he opened his mouth now, he’d stutter like him, not the genius everyone praised! So he stayed silent.

Yang Cheng went on.

“Shang Chao. As much as I admired how you always looked like you knew what to do. How you always excelled… you don’t always have to do that.”

Thump.

“You don’t have to be perfect. Or smile all the time. I would’ve still considered you as Shang Chao. It wouldn’t change anything between us.”

Badump.

“You don’t owe me explanations. Whatever you do from here on out… it’s okay. Whatever the world throws at you… I’ll protect you from it. No matter what.”

Silence.

Shang Chao couldn’t help it—he smiled. Because for a heartbeat, Yang Cheng finally felt like the real Yang Cheng.

He imagined him inside the helmet, cheeks burning, but face serious as he forced out those cringe lines.

“Yang Cheng… seriously, you—”

BOOOOOMMM!

He didn’t finish.

A crash echoed behind them. Heroes arrived. Lights flashing, boots slamming against concrete, shouts overlapping. Those ordered to capture Yang Cheng after his escape.

Yang Cheng’s voice didn’t change at all.

“Shang Chao. Are you with the Hero Affairs Commission?”

“Huh? No— well technically, they helped me so yes but—”

An attack shot toward them. Yang Cheng moved instinctively, shielding Shang Chao from debris, pulling him close as he leapt off the ground.

Shang Chao spoke, startled.

“Wait what? Why are they—”

Before he could finish, another burst of energy struck toward them.

And Yang Cheng moved.

No hesitation. No thought. Just raw instinct.

His arm wrapped around Shang Chao’s torso, pulling him close as he twisted, taking the brunt of the debris. Sparks scraped across his armor. The ground fractured under their feet as Yang Cheng pushed them out of the line of fire.

Shang Chao barely managed to catch his balance. “Yang Cheng—!”

Yang Cheng’s voice came out flat, eerily steady.

“So you made me show up for this.”

The words sliced through the air.

And through Shang Chao.

“What?! No no, of course not!” he blurted. “I didn’t know— they didn’t tell me anything!”

But Yang Cheng didn’t even turn his head. He didn’t acknowledge a single protest.

It hit Shang Chao like ice.

Yang Cheng didn’t believe him.

And suddenly, all those things Yang Cheng said earlier—

“You don’t have to be perfect.”

“You don’t owe me explanations.”

“I’ll protect you.”

—they shifted in meaning.

At first they sounded like warm, gentle comfort. But now they sounded like:

Resignation?

Distance?

or a goodbye disguised as devotion?

Because if Yang Cheng really believed Shang Chao had lured him from the start, with his current situation right now, then everything he said afterward wasn’t reassurance. 

It sounded more like a farewell.

Shang Chao’s heart lurched.

“Yang Cheng, wait! Listen to me—!”

He reached out, grabbing Yang Cheng’s forearm as they landed behind a pillar, but Yang Cheng shook him off. Not violently. Not angrily.

Rather, it’s as if Shang Chao’s touch no longer aligned with the image of him Yang Cheng carried.

Shang Chao felt something crack inside.

“He really thinks I set him up?”

“He thinks I used myself as bait… for the Commission.”

“He thinks I betrayed him…”

Another blow hit the ground nearby. Heroes closing in. But the only thing Shang Chao noticed was Yang Cheng’s posture:

He was rigid. Closed off. Silent. His earlier warmth had vanished. Buried under a cold, expressionless shell. A shell Shang Cheng had never seen on Yang Cheng before.

And the worst part?

He truly didn’t know.

He absolutely didn’t.

Yang Cheng didn’t say anything else. Not a single word about the chaos, the debris, or Shang Chao’s frantic protests. He simply straightened, shoulders rigid, helmet tilted slightly as if shielding more than his face.

Then, without looking back, he dropped a warning.

“Don’t trust the Commission.”

And just like that, he left Shang Chao behind, vanishing into the chaos, the other heroes chasing him for who knows how long. Shang Chao stood frozen, the echo of those words ringing louder than any siren.

***

The hospital felt half-dead at this hour, humming with machines that filled the hallway with an indifferent drone. Two policemen stood at each end of the corridor, half-awake, murmuring about the escaped ‘E-Soul’. Neither noticed the weak crackle of static drifting through the vents or the brief dip of the lights as they dimmed and steadied again.

Yang Cheng slipped between them, a shadow moving in perfect silence.

He stopped when he reached the door to Shang Chao’s room. His hand hovered over the knob, fingers trembling not from power but from everything he wasn’t ready to face.

(What if he was still unconscious? What if he looked worse? What if he woke up and remembered the fear in his eyes... and blamed him for it?)

He couldn’t bring himself to enter. Instead, he leaned close enough for the motion sensor to react. The lights inside the room brightened gently.

It was enough.

Through the narrow window, Yang Cheng saw him: awake, sitting upright, blanket pooled at his waist. Hair smooth and perfectly in place in the exact way Yang Cheng knew too well. He wasn’t speaking, crying, or angry. He was plainly ‘alive’.

A part of Yang Cheng collapsed and steadied in the same heartbeat.

He lifted one gloved hand and pressed his fingertips lightly to the glass -- barely a touch, barely a mark (a fragile trace of contact he could breathe through).

Inside, Shang Chao rubbed his eyes, reached for his water, then winced when his stitches pulled. He muttered something under his breath, soft and irritated, painfully familiar.

Normal. Excruciatingly normal.

(He hadn’t realized how terrified he’d been that he’d never hear that again.)

Yang Cheng almost smiled, a small, broken curve hidden beneath his helmet.

It disappeared just as quickly.

He told himself he shouldn’t be there. Shang Chao deserved people who didn’t lose control, who didn’t terrify him, who didn’t fail him when it mattered most.

(How could he? After almost killing him?)

When Shang Chao’s hand shifted toward the call button, Yang Cheng panicked! He stepped back immediately, retreating as quietly as a murmur dissipating into the dark.

A moment later, the door opened and a nurse entered the room.

Shang Chao looked up, tired and disoriented and alive.

Yang Cheng exhaled, shaky and uneven, as though the air had been trapped in his chest for hours. He backed into the fire exit, static trailing across the walls, then pushed upward until the night air hit him on the rooftop -- cold, sharp, and strangely grounding.

He stared at the city below, Shang Chao’s silhouette still imprinted behind his eyelids.

“Good,” He whispered, voice splintering on the last syllable, “that’s... good.”

Then he stepped back into the darkness -- the beginning of disappearing, of watching from the edges, of helping in ways that would never be seen.

And Shang Chao never knew he had been there.

The night held its secrets.

So did the next.

Not until the inconspicuous accidents began -- small interruptions, strange coincidences, subtle shifts the world bent around him in moments he should have been hurt.

The only way Yang Cheng knew how to stay close without ever being seen again.

Or so he thought.

Chapter Text

Chapter 23

The Investigation of Everything Except My Feelings

“I’ve changed my mind. I won’t go abroad. I want to take responsibility. For everything.”

Shang Chao spoke those words to the Commission with sincerity. He did want to make up for the damage he caused. So he said he’d take over Treeman and revive its former glory, as soon as possible.

But that’s just one reason.

The truth was simple.

He needed to understand Fear.

He needed to account for Yang Cheng’s innocence.

And most of all, he needed to uncover whatever happened to his father.

Shang Chao stood before the chaotic mess that used to be his bedroom wall. Now it was a shrine of red threads, paper scraps, and printed profiles. Like a constellation orbiting a single photograph at the center.

His father.