"Sis," I said slowly, each word deliberate, "if I came here looking for a woman… why are you the one who showed up?"
Her face froze, her grip on my collar loosening. For the first time, I saw something flicker in her eyes—fear, maybe, or shame. She opened her mouth, then closed it, her breath hitching.
"I—I came to find you," she stammered, her voice wavering, the lie thin as paper. "You ran away, and Dad and Mom were worried."
I didn't buy a word. Dad was probably cursing me to hell, Xu Li secretly thrilled I was gone. And how, exactly, did Fu Xiaoya "find" this random inn?
"I should call and ask why the 'massage girl' still isn't here," I said, reaching for the phone. "What does she even look like?"
Before my finger hit redial, she lunged, arms wrapping me in a panicked tackle. She yanked the line from the wall, nearly flattening me in the process. Her face was pale now, her composure shattered.
"Zhou Yan, d-don't be stupid," she said, still bluffing. "Turn back while you can."
Turn back? To what? A home that hated me? I stared into her jittery eyes and forced the question out. "Sis… why are you doing this kind of work?"
"Nonsense!" she snapped, but her voice trembled.
"Just admit it. Eight hundred an hour. How much do you get?" My contempt slipped through, sharp and bitter.
Crack!
Another slap, hard enough to spark white flashes behind my eyes. My head rang, but I didn't flinch this time.
"What I do is none of your business!" she shouted. "Get out. Just looking at you makes me sick!"
Leave? And sleep on the street? Because she said so? Why was I always the punching bag? Why did I always swallow it?
Years of humiliation ignited at once. My vision went red, my chest felt like it would burst. I snapped.
With a cold snort, I pulled the wad of cash from my pocket and flung it at her. Then I grabbed her, shoving her backward onto the bed.
"What are you doing?!" she screamed, kicking and punching, fear wide in her eyes, her scent sharp and dizzying.
"I paid!" I shouted, my voice raw. "You owe me. That's fair!"
"No! I'm your sister—you're insane!"
"You made me insane!"
I pinned her wrists, my face lowering toward hers, toward those red lips—
"No…" Her cry tore out, raw and broken. Tears welled and spilled down her cheeks.
She was crying.
The first time I'd seen her break.
My anger cracked. Strength drained from my hands. She shoved me off and slapped me—hard—then stood, shaking, straightening her clothes. "Zhou Yan, you're an animal!"
"I'm sorry," I muttered, collapsing onto the mattress, shame flooding me. "I lost it." I waved weakly at the scattered bills. "Just take the eight hundred. Say the job's done."
She froze, studying me, searching for a bluff. After a long moment, she sighed, dug a slim cigarette case from her bag, lit one, and sat down. Smoke curled around her face, softening its edges. My pulse kicked. She looked… beautiful.
"Xiao Yan, please," she said quietly, her voice almost gentle. "Don't tell Dad or Mom."
Xiao Yan? No insults, no sneer. A name—soft, almost kind. I could hardly believe it. She was asking me.
"Sis, I won't," I said. "Besides… I don't have a home anymore."
The word home hit like a hammer. My eyes burned, tears threatening to spill.
"Go back," she said, exhaling smoke. "Hang in there. Take the college entrance exam."
Gaokao. My one ticket out.
"If I go back, will they even let me stay?" I pictured Dad, drunk and violent, Xu Li calculating behind her eyes. Fear crawled up my spine.
"Tell them you were out with me," she said, weary. "I'll stop messing with you. After that? You're on your own." She shrugged, the fight gone from her.
Something warm broke open in my chest. I worried for her now. "How will you explain this to the guy who sent you?"
"I'll give him 250 as a cut," she said with a crooked smile. "I just wanted money for a motorcycle. They wouldn't buy it. This was fast."
"Don't keep doing it," I said, my voice soft but firm. "You'll regret it."
"Stop calling me 'sis' like we're close. Gross." She stood, jerking her head toward the door. "Come on. Let's go home."
I didn't argue. I dressed, gathered the money, and followed her out. She'd come by bicycle, the back seat narrow. I kept sliding, and she told me to hold her waist. So I did, my hands tentative, the first real closeness between us. It left me lightheaded.
The night wind softened, the empty streets stretching like a painting unrolling in the dark. Her hair whipped back, tickling my face, her warm scent filling the air. I caught myself smiling, wishing the ride could last forever.
Back home, Dad snored like thunder in the first-floor bedroom, drunk and oblivious. Xu Li lounged on the sofa, watching late-night TV. She glanced at us, her eyes narrowing, but said nothing. I could almost feel her disappointment.
Later, Fu Xiaoya burst into my room, tossed the photo album onto my bed, and left without a word. So she had taken it. But she hadn't destroyed it. Why?
It didn't matter. I hugged the album to my chest, tears rising. Photos of Mom, my little sister, the warmth we used to have.
Days passed quietly. The temperature between us thawed. Fu Xiaoya stopped spitting insults; sometimes she just rolled her eyes. Once or twice, when she came home late, she brought me takeout. Maybe things were turning.
But life, like weather, changes without warning.
One afternoon, I opened the door and froze. Fu Xiaoya was on her knees, her face swollen, hair wild. Xu Li—always the picture of composed gentleness—was raining slaps down on her daughter. Crack, crack, crack—each blow fiercer than the last, her eyes bloodshot, feral.
Dad sat nearby, smoking, his jaw clenched, face dark as a storm.
"You slut! You filthy little whore!" Xu Li screamed. "So young and already selling yourself!"
I understood instantly. Someone had exposed her.
For any parent… unforgivable.
"Stop hitting her!" I yelled, rushing between them. Xu Li's open hand crashed into my back, pain exploding down my spine. Then she broke, sobbing into her hands. Dad threw an arm around her, murmuring to calm her, pulling her close.
I shielded Fu Xiaoya. She didn't thank me. Her eyes burned with hatred.
She spat blood to the side. "Pah. Don't pretend to play hero, you lying piece of trash. Broke your word. I hate you. Just wait."
She thought I'd told.
"Sis, it wasn't me," I said, desperate.
Her glare didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes—doubt, maybe, or resignation. She pushed past me, staggering to her room, the door slamming behind her.
I stood there, the weight of her accusation heavy on my shoulders. I hadn't betrayed her, but someone had. And now, the fragile truce we'd built was crumbling, the shadows of our broken home closing in once more.
I clutched the photo album tighter, the only anchor I had left, and wondered how much longer I could keep fighting the darkness.