Chapter Two: The Rising Mist

Ye Mian couldn't make sense of it.

Back in school, her teacher had said that someone like him, even if he were to commit a crime, would be a high-IQ criminal—difficult to catch, skilled at evading the law. Yet he had simply surrendered, almost suicidally, without the slightest intention of fleeing.

Unfortunately, before she could figure out the reason, she died in the line of duty—caught in the crossfire while responding to a call.

Lost in thought, Ye Mian didn't notice the long streak of lightning that split the sky, snapping her back to reality.

She glanced at the two lucky bamboos by the door, still beaded with raindrops on their fresh green leaves.

Her feelings were tangled and complicated.

Jiang Chen hadn't come to accuse her; instead, he had brought her lucky bamboo. If it had been someone else who got injured, they would have made a scene long ago. But Jiang Chen hadn't scolded her; he had tolerated her rudeness. How could someone like him become a murderer?

She couldn't understand.

But she knew Jiang Chen was hurt, wounded by the bamboo on her windowsill that had been blown down by the wind.

The injury... looked rather frightening.

Unable to sit still, her conscience simply wouldn’t let her ignore it. In a rush, she rummaged through the medicine box for disinfectant, cotton, bandages, and ointment, grabbed her oil-paper umbrella, and stepped out into the rain.

…

Summer rains were always abundant, and the downpour washed the streets clean.

That year, the drainage system in the old district was still far from perfect; water pooled ankle-deep along the roads.

Holding her oil-paper umbrella, Ye Mian waded carefully through the alley, making her way toward Jiang Chen’s house as she remembered it.

She passed a small shop, rounded a large banyan tree, and finally came to the little building tucked away in her memory.

As she drew near the door, she saw Jiang Chen standing in the courtyard.

He was half-turned away, holding a strip of white cloth in his left hand, gripping one end with his teeth as he deftly wrapped it around the wound on his palm.

He hadn't changed his clothes yet, just washed his face hastily.

It was obvious he had no intention of tending to the gash on his brow, letting the rainwater seep through the cut unchecked.

At that moment, another person emerged from the house—a woman with a cigarette pinched between her fingers and permed hair, about thirty-something. She wore a tight yellow floral dress and bright red lipstick, strikingly vibrant and full of allure in this dreary era.

She glanced at him, caught sight of the smudge of pink lip gloss on his clean shirt, and chuckled, “Well, well. The model student is learning to flirt with girls like the street punks, is he?”

Jiang Chen ignored her, his gaze shifting instead to the small oil-paper umbrella hesitating just outside the right side of the gate—its owner wanting to come closer but seemingly held back.

A fleeting, barely concealed smile flashed across his otherwise austere features.

The woman followed his gaze, understanding dawning in her eyes. A mocking look spread across her face as she guessed, “Is that little Ye Mian? You really are your dead father’s son, aren’t you? If there’s one thing you inherited, it’s an eye for women. So, did you get that injury protecting her? Did she kiss you in gratitude?”

Ye Mian, outside the door, blinked in confusion. What nonsense was this woman spouting?

But since it was a private conversation, she couldn’t just barge in to defend herself, so she listened anxiously.

Jiang Chen finally spoke, turning to look at the woman, his tone flat, “Dong Yulian.”

She was momentarily stunned. Since moving into the Jiang household, this stepson had always called her “Aunt” or avoided addressing her at all. This was the first time he’d used her full name.

She opened her mouth to retort, but when she saw Jiang Chen clearly, the words died on her lips.

He stood there, head tilted, blood staining his hand. His eyes were cold and sharp as blades.

For the first time, Dong Yulian felt fear under his chilling gaze. A cornered dog might jump a wall, but this boy had never been a docile dog.

He was tall, and beneath his façade, exuded a barely suppressed ferocity.

Dong Yulian took a step back. “Hmph, why the anger? I didn’t say anything wrong, did I? I’m heading out. There’s no money left at home—figure out dinner yourself.”

With that, she opened her umbrella and left, her slender heels clicking against the ground, the sound echoing through the old district’s lanes.

Ye Mian had no idea why tension had suddenly flared inside, but she definitely didn’t want to run into the woman. She quickly ducked aside, clutching the wooden handle of her umbrella.

From her angle, she could hear a shrill, mocking voice from a second-floor window—someone deliberately raising their volume for all to hear, “Who knows what’s going on with that woman from the Jiang family? She’s a stepmother now, yet she still goes around hooking up with men. What kind of example is that?”

Someone else argued, “Enough, why meddle? She’s not his real mother. She has no obligation to look after that boy from the Chi family, does she? His father abandoned them both, and she’s already doing enough by letting them stay.”

“That’s nonsense!” a woman retorted, pounding her chopping board. “If there’s no obligation, then why live in their house? She doesn’t care about the boy anyway—always sneaking men in while he’s at school. The child even got scolded for trying to defend her. If he hadn’t turned out decent, who knows where he’d be now? She’s nothing but a vixen, doesn’t even feed the boy. He’s so hungry he might as well be digging through the trash. Who knows if she’s rotten to the core, taking it out on an orphan?”

Her words rang even louder than the earlier mockery, echoing through the poorly insulated walls of the old building.

The word “orphan” rang out with biting emphasis, carrying far.

Ye Mian couldn’t help but glance toward the northern building.

Against the misty rain, he stood alone beneath the eaves, listening in silence.

This was Jiang Chen...

Even if he would go astray later, he was still a ruthless self-made figure, powerful enough that even the mayor had to show him respect.

And yet, this was the life he led?

The wind stung her eyes, bringing a faint ache.

…

The rain showed no sign of stopping. Jiang Chen heard quick footsteps in the yard.

He looked up slowly, meeting the complicated gaze of the girl—the faint red at the corners of her eyes.

After eavesdropping for so long, she had finally come in.

That was what he thought.

Ye Mian’s long hair was loosely twisted into a bun, her simple dress fitting her slender figure. All her clothes were of the latest style, enough to make her shine in the old district during her youth.

She walked the short distance especially slowly.

She raised her head, and the first thing she did was apologize. Her voice, soft and sincere, “Jiang Chen, I came to apologize. I’m sorry—my lucky bamboo wasn’t placed properly and it fell on you.”

Ye Mian hesitated, wondering if she should add, “I’m sorry you were misunderstood by your stepmother because of me.”

But that seemed inappropriate, as if she were admitting to eavesdropping.

Before the boy could reply, she handed him the small basket in her hand. “Here’s some gauze and ointment. You should treat your wound—getting caught in the rain could make it worse.”

Now that she was close, she could smell the faint scent of blood on him and felt even more guilty.

Jiang Chen’s gaze was deep and unwavering. He took the basket without a word, squeezing ointment onto his fingertip with meticulous precision.

As he looked down, he noticed Ye Mian standing in the rain and paused.

His thin lips parted, his voice as cool and clear as running water. “Come in and get out of the rain.”