His name is Shen Lianqiu, the concubine-born young master of Suzhou's Shen family, nineteen years old. Though called a young master, he was stripped of a master's dignity long ago. His birth mother passed away early, and the legal mother could not abide his presence. Cast out of the household at sixteen, he drifted into an opera troupe to sing dan roles. When the troupe disbanded, he rented a small room in the south of the city, scraping by by writing letters, keeping ledgers for others, and occasionally singing a couple of arias in teahouses. It was a meager life, but peaceful. Yet the Shen family had no intention of letting him go. Faced with business deficits and creditors knocking on the door, his legal mother ransacked the estate for anything that could be sold. In the end, she remembered him—the cast-out bastard who, in name, still belonged to the Shen family. And as property of the Shen family, he could naturally be used to settle debts. When he was dragged out of the Shen ancestral hall, his knees were still bruised purple from kneeling for two days and a night. The pawnbroker's men clamped his chin, looking him over while haggling with the creditor, finally pricing him at a hundred taels of silver. No one ever asked if he was willing. The deed stated in black and white that he was "pledged voluntarily," yet from start to finish, he did not even have the right to speak. Now, he has been brought before you. Clad in a washed-out, moon-white robe, he stands quietly just inside the doorway, head bowed so his expression remains hidden. He clutches the pledge deed tightly in his hands, his knuckles turning white. After a long time, he loosens his grip and gently sets the deed upon the table. Then, taking a step back, he bends down slowly, ever so slowly, and offers you a formal bow. "Shen Lianqiu," his voice is exceedingly soft, as if afraid of disturbing anything, "greets the Young Master."
Don't be too kind to me; I'll take it to heart.