Huo Linhua · Chat

Huo Linhua leaned back into the leather sofa. The cigar between his fingers had burned to its end, and a long stretch of grayish-white ash hung precariously before finally succumbing to its weight and crashing onto his expensive, hand-tailored suit trousers. He didn't bother with it, merely tilting his head back, letting the stagnant air of the dim study envelop him. At forty-two, Huo Linhua was already the absolute ruler of the city's underground order. But the pinnacle of power was often accompanied by nauseating bloodshed and calculation. The phone on the desk remained silent, no new messages popping up. He glanced at the screen, a flicker of irritation mixed with a trace of imperceptible disappointment crossing his eyes. No call had come from the nursing home, which meant 你 had spent another lifeless day in that sterile white ward. No shouting, no resistance, and none of the old ways where, even after a cold war, she would stubbornly find an excuse to poke at him despite her prickly pride. "Stubborn and foul-tempered," Huo Linhua cursed under his breath, his voice sounding exceptionally raspy in the empty study. He picked up the half-glass of whiskey with ice and downed it in one go. The pungent liquid rolled down his throat, yet it couldn't extinguish the nameless fire in his heart. What was so hard about softening up? Was saying one kind word to him really harder than giving up her life? He admitted that the method of locking her in the nursing home was disgraceful, even brutal. But at the time, surrounded by enemies on all sides, it was the most effective way he could think of to isolate her from the center of the storm. Lately, the waters of the underworld had been too murky. That old man Lei Wanyuan, relying on his status as a veteran left behind by Huo's maternal grandfather, was acting out his seniority and making constant secret moves, showing signs of uniting other factions to stage a coup. Although Zheng Fei and Liang潤生 were capable, their subordinates' hands weren't clean, and they could easily be caught in a trap if they weren't careful. A-Hao was loyal, but he was just an errand boy and couldn't hold down the fort. Everyone's eyes were fixed on Huo Linhua's weakness. And his only weakness, from beginning to end, was 你. The outside world thought Master Huo had changed his tastes in middle age, becoming obsessed with a little starlet named Zhou Susu, pampering her lawlessly and even letting her bully the legitimate wife. When 你 couldn't take it and struck back, he acted out a "fury for the sake of a beauty," casting his first wife into the "cold palace." He played this scene so convincingly that even old foxes like Lei Wanyuan believed it. Once the news of Zhou Susu's pregnancy was leaked, all the hidden arrows originally aimed at Song Yu turned toward that flamboyant little starlet. Only Huo Linhua knew what a ridiculous joke it was. When 你 was twenty-five, she miscarried because she was kidnapped by his enemies, and the doctors declared it would be difficult for her to conceive again. Looking at the lifeless Song Yu on the hospital bed, he had gone behind everyone's back and gotten a vasectomy. He didn't care whose seed was in Zhou Susu's belly. He only needed a live target, a billboard to attract all the fire. Keeping Zhou Susu around was purely to keep 你 safe. But he couldn't explain it to her. For one, there were too many eyes in the underworld; any slight movement would ruin everything. For another... he had truly had enough of the way she looked at her these past two years—with a gaze as lofty and cold as if she were looking at a pile of non-recyclable trash. She was an educated woman with pride in her bones, while he, Huo Linhua, no matter how expensive a suit he wore, still bled the blood of a stray dog from the black streets when his skin was torn open. "If we don't meet, we don't meet. Out of sight, out of mind," Huo Linhua sneered, slamming the glass onto the desk. Without him around to upset her, she might even live a few years longer in that nursing home. The alcohol and the extreme exhaustion from handling gang affairs for days finally surged up. Leaning against the sofa, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his breathing gradually becoming heavy and even. He closed his eyes and fell asleep. ... Pain. A pain that pierced the heart and carved the bones. When Huo Linhua regained consciousness, he was woken by pain. This wasn't the headache of a hangover or the psychosomatic migraine of a high-ranking official, but a physical, agonizing pain of flesh torn by blunt instruments and bones struck by heavy blows. He gasped sharply, but it immediately pulled at his chest, triggering a violent fit of coughing. Every cough was accompanied by the thick taste of blood rising in his throat. This wasn't right. He forced his eyes open. What met his sight wasn't the luxurious crystal chandelier of his multi-million dollar penthouse, but a dim, narrow alley flickering with the light of a malfunctioning neon sign. Rainwater, mixed with the characteristic stench of city sewers and the fresh scent of blood on his body, rushed into his nostrils. The cold rain hit his face, making him shiver violently. He tried to push himself up, but his palm pressed into a pile of wet, slimy trash, including half a rotten apple. "Fuck..." he squeezed out a word through his teeth, his voice so raspy it felt unfamiliar even to him. This voice was too young, lacking the excessive seasoning of years, tobacco, and alcohol, carrying a raw edge of greenness and ferocity that hadn't yet faded. He looked down and, by the faint glow of the streetlamp at the alley's entrance, saw his own hands. What kind of hands were these? The knuckles were distinct but covered in purple bruises and fresh abrasions. Most importantly, these hands lacked the terrifying scar that ran across his entire backhand—the one he got at thirty while shielding A-Hao from a blade. He violently pulled open his soaked, cheap jacket. His chest and abdomen were covered in footprints and the swelling from club strikes. He reached back to touch his left arm—the sleeve tattoo of a coiled black dragon was still there, but the colors were vivid, clearly having been inked not long ago. The Guanyin tattoo on his back throbbed with pain; he had just gone for a touch-up yesterday. Huo Linhua froze. He sat like a rigid statue in the stinking pile of trash. After his brain experienced a brief crash, a memory so distant it had been almost deliberately buried poured out like a floodgate opening. Nineteen. This was the year he was nineteen. The night his biological father and stepmother, on the grounds of "disgracing the family and being unrepentant," conspired to swallow the last of his mother's assets. They then instructed his stepbrother to call a group of thugs to beat him half to death and throw him into the trash of this old street like a dead dog. The Huo family's foundation was originally plundered by his father from his mother's estate. They feared him because the old-timers in the underworld still respected his mother's memory; they loathed him because his existence was ironclad proof of his father's parasitic nature. Thus, after squeezing every last bit of utility out of him, they couldn't wait to erase him. The forty-two-year-old underworld boss, after a brief moment of shock, quickly accepted this absurd reality. He had fought his way through the underworld for so many years; what bizarre things hadn't he seen? Whether this was a near-death hallucination or some supernatural reset, since he was in this body now, he had to survive. He tried to work his brain, thinking about the next move. At this time, Zheng Fei and Liang Runsheng were still lackeys in other factions, A-Hao should still be an apprentice in some repair shop, and that old man Lei Wanyuan was in his prime, holding great power and would never take the current him seriously. He had to heal his wounds first, then take back what belonged to him with interest. Huo Linhua's vengeful nature hadn't changed a bit, even after twenty-three years. Just as he was calculating his revenge plan in his mind, a faint sound interrupted his thoughts. "Squeak—squeak—" It was the sound of a bicycle chain lacking oil, sounding exceptionally clear in the silent and cold rainy night alley. Huo Linhua's muscles tensed instantly. Like a lone wolf sensing danger, his eyes became cold and cruel. Was it his stepbrother's gang returning to finish the job? Enduring the pain as if his ribs were snapping, he silently felt around for a broken beer bottle. His fingers gripped the sharp glass edge tightly, oblivious to the blood from his cut palm. If that person dared to approach, he would drive the glass shards into their carotid artery even if it cost him his life. The sound of wheels rolling through a puddle stopped less than three meters away from him. There was no shouting, no sound of clubs cutting through the air, only a faint, somewhat hesitant sound of footsteps. Huo Linhua held his breath and slightly raised his head, looking out through the wet black hair plastered to his forehead by blood and rain. The dim yellow streetlamp struggled to pierce the rain, casting a hazy glow in the alley. In that glow stood a semi-old lady's bicycle. And standing next to the bicycle wasn't a thug with a machete, but a girl wearing a light-colored school uniform jacket. The girl held a transparent plastic umbrella, rain dripping from the ribs. She leaned over slightly, holding a small flashlight. The beam swept through the dark alley, finally landing on the blood-covered Huo Linhua lying at the edge of the trash pile. The flashlight's glare flickered in Huo Linhua's eyes. He squinted his unswollen eye, following the beam of light as his gaze slowly moved downward. Then, he saw a pair of white dance shoes. Those shoes were very clean; there wasn't a single stain on the white canvas, and even the laces were tied neatly. In this trash-filled alley where sewage flowed and rats scurried, those pure white dance shoes looked so out of place, like an angel's feather accidentally fallen into a mud pit. The moment Huo Linhua saw those white dance shoes, his heart felt as though it were being squeezed by an invisible giant hand, skipping a beat violently. Slowly, almost mechanically, he moved his gaze upward. Past those slender, straight calves shaped by dance practice, over the oversized school jacket, and finally, fixed on that face. It was the seventeen-year-old 你.