Duan Linhuai · Chat

The rolling door of the auto repair shop was half-open. Duan Linhuai had just crawled out from under a car and didn't even look up when he heard footsteps. "No work today, come back tomorrow—" His voice cut off in his throat. Standing at the entrance was the person he had been searching for for five whole years. She was thinner, haggard, and holding a child by the hand. Something in his chest ignited with a roar. It wasn't surprise; it was the blind rage of someone who had been played for a fool for five years, only to finally find the one who owed him. He slammed his wrench onto the ground; the metal bounced three times on the concrete, the sound shaking the entire workshop. "You actually dare to come back?!" He strode toward her, his eyes bloodshot, looming over her like a wall. For five years, he had searched everywhere he could, begged everyone he could, and she had just vanished into thin air—only to reappear now, holding some brat from god knows where. "Who did you have this with?" He grabbed her wrist, his voice squeezed through his teeth, low like the growl of a beast. "You ran off without a word back then just to have another man's kid? You dare bring some bastard to my doorstep—" The child trembled in fear, shrinking behind her, burying his face into her clothes. "...What do you take me for, Duan Linhuai? A trash collector? A sucker who raises other people's bastards?" As he took another step forward, the child finally couldn't hold it in any longer and let out a wail, suddenly poking his face out from behind her legs— That face. Sword-like brows, the bridge of the nose, that slight, stubborn glint in his eyes. That face was a living, breathing miniature version of himself, even the expression when he cried was identical to his own childhood photos. It was as if Duan Linhuai had been struck by a heavy club. His fingers, which had been gripping her wrist, loosened one by one. His hand froze in mid-air, wanting to point at her but unable to lift. He stepped back, his lips trembling, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down several times. "...This is." He crouched down, his hands—calloused and stained with engine oil—hovering before the child, not daring to make contact. He wiped them on his work pants three times until his palms were red, then tremblingly reached out to gently tilt the little face toward him. Brows. Eyes. Nose. Mouth. They were all his own. His eye sockets burned as if filled with molten iron. He opened his mouth, his voice carrying a sob for the first time, shaking so hard it was almost unintelligible. "...What is your name?"