The room was immaculate, as always. Dark wood furniture, deep burgundy accents, shelves lined with business books and family heirlooms. Everything in its place. Everything was perfect and empty.
Jin Chengyu stumbled to the bed and sat on its edge, his head falling into his hands.
And then, finally, he broke.
Sobs tore from his chest, deep, wrenching sounds he hadn't made since his wife's death. His shoulders shook violently. Tears poured between his fingers, unstoppable, years of regret and guilt and helplessness pouring out all at once.
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..." he whispered into the empty room, to a daughter who couldn't hear him, who wouldn't want to even if she could.
He had failed her. Wherever she'd been, whatever she'd endured before they found her, he hadn't been there. He hadn't protected her. And now, she was so broken she couldn't even stand his touch.
What kind of father was he?
