16.
In the middle of the night, I knocked on my brother's door.
Before I could knock a second time, it opened a crack. He was wearing a robe, collar loosely draped, a sliver of moonlight pooled in the hollow of his collarbone. When he saw it was me, he immediately tried to shut the door.
I blocked it with my elbow. "We need to talk."
"Go back to your room."
"It's about the Zhao family," I said quietly. "What do you know?"
His eyes flickered, and he released the door. I slipped inside and locked it behind me. Several documents were spread across his desk—the top one was a risk assessment report on the Zhao family's project, with a small question mark circled in red in the corner.
"Father didn't tell you?" He leaned against the desk. The hem of his robe shifted, revealing faint bruises on his knees—like the kind you'd get from kneeling on a hard surface too long. "Old Master Zhao has certain… proclivities. Last time, he nearly played an Omega to death."
My stomach turned. "So they sent you?"
"Who else?" He laughed lightly. "Someone in the family has to be expendable." His fingers absently rubbed the edge of the paper. "Alphas inherit. Omegas marry. Betas…" he said softly, "Betas are just right."
Moonlight slanted through the floor-to-ceiling window, bathing half his body in silver. My eyes were drawn to a photo frame on his nightstand—in it, he looked about sixteen or seventeen, standing in a room I didn't recognize. A man stood beside him, hand on his shoulder. My brother looked scared, shoulder tilted slightly away, as if he wanted to escape but didn't dare move. He was painfully thin, almost frail, eyes timidly staring into the camera—but even then, there was a startling beauty in his face, like a light too strong to be fully suppressed.
"What's this place?" I reached for the photo frame.
He slapped his hand down on mine. "Don't touch it."
We held still for a few seconds. His palm was cold and dry. Eventually, he let go and turned the frame face-down. "B City Sanatorium. I lived there until I was eighteen."
"And that man…?"
"The director."
"Why were you sent there?"
"Because I'm a Beta." He walked to the window and lit a cigarette, the flare briefly illuminating one side of his face. "When I differentiated at three, Father smashed half his study. Then they sent me away. They were eager to try again, and soon had you." He exhaled a plume of smoke. "You remember our family motto?"
I shook my head.
He smiled and wrote a few letters in the air with his cigarette: "Alphas rule, Omegas serve, Betas…" He crushed the cigarette on the windowsill. "Betas are worker ants."
My chest tightened. I'd heard those exact words countless times—at family gatherings, in the elders' offhand remarks, in Father's drunken lectures. I just never realized how these casual prejudices could carve someone up, day after day, like a dull blade.
"You're going to Singapore," he said suddenly, voice light as ash. "I'll handle the Zhao situation."
It was the first time he'd spoken to me like an older brother. I froze. "You're… worried about me?"
He turned and pressed the still-hot cigarette butt into my palm. Pain shot up my arm, but I didn't let go.
"Don't flatter yourself," he whispered, breath brushing against my bleeding hand. "I just don't want to clean up your mess."
Our noses were nearly touching. At this distance, I could count his eyelashes, see the tiny gold flecks in his irises. His pupils dilated slightly, like two deep, bottomless lakes.
In the end, I was the one who stepped back.
"I'll go to Singapore," I said, licking my cracked lips. "But on one condition."
He raised an eyebrow, waiting.
"When I come back," I looked straight at the mole on his collarbone, "you tell me everything that happened to you. All of it."
He laughed—this time, genuinely amused. "Why would I?"
"Because you just lied." I held up my bloody palm. "You do care."
His expression turned cold in an instant. He yanked the door open. "Get out."
The hallway light flicked on. I saw the tips of his ears were red. Just before I stepped out, I turned back and pinned him to the doorframe. He tensed, but didn't resist.
"Three months," I whispered in his ear. "Don't let anyone touch you."
His breath hitched for half a beat, then steadied. "And what position are you speaking from?"
I bit the tip of my tongue. The taste of blood filled my mouth. "As your brother."
He let out a low laugh, then pinched my waist hard. I gasped and let go. He shoved me out and slammed the door. Just before it closed, I heard him whisper:
"Come back soon."
17.
The air in Singapore felt like melted rubber—thick and clinging to the skin, suffocating.
I stood in the conference room of our branch office, watching the Marina Bay Sands light show flicker in the night outside. Across from me sat a slick-haired Beta manager, nervously pushing a document toward me.
"Master Chengyao," he said carefully, "are there any parts you'd like revised?"
The so-called "mess in need of fixing" had turned out to be barely worth mentioning. I'd cleaned house the day I landed—firing who needed to be fired, persuading those who could be persuaded, compensating where required. After a few rounds of decisive action, the staff quickly fell in line.
They stopped dumping all their problems on me, afraid I'd solve everything in two days and leave. So now they dragged out minor issues under the guise of "consulting the leader," clearly trying to stall me.
It was getting on my nerves.
In the first few days here, my brother and I had kept in touch. He'd send me his sketches, and I'd return photos of local buildings, shops, even my breakfast.
But today, there had been nothing. A blank silence like untouched snow.
A gnawing unease took root. I dismissed the manager and dialed the secure number for my brother's bodyguard back home.
The line picked up quickly, and all I heard was ragged breathing.
"M-Master…" the bodyguard stammered, voice trembling, "Young Master Cheran and the old master… had a dispute. He's been locked up…"
My mind exploded in a blinding roar. Rage surged like a tidal wave. I didn't even bother demanding why he waited until now to report—it was too late.
I hung up, barked orders for an immediate flight back, and cursed under my breath.
"Motherf—"
I buried my head in my hands, knuckles whitening from the pressure.
What the hell are they doing?