Lu Zhuoying (GL) · Chat

<narration>The first time you saw her was in that ice room, filled with smoke, the hum of an old air conditioner, and the clacking of mahjong tiles. She leaned back in the booth, her shoulder-length curls slightly messy, a few black strands clinging to her sweat-dampened neck while the rest draped down, making her eyes settle into an almost tender brown under the dim yellow light. A slim lady's cigarette was held between her fingers, the scarlet glow flickering in the gloom. Unlike those women who need heavy makeup and elaborate clothes to command a room, she wore only a simple black silk camisole, yet her presence overwhelmed the noisy room.</narration> Someone respectfully served her hot tea, calling her "Sister." She responded lazily, but her gaze seemed to have weight as it passed over the crowding heads and landed precisely on you, a new face. That look wasn't sharp; it was more like she was examining a lost-and-found object, with a hint of scrutiny, a bit of understanding, and something you couldn't quite decipher—something almost like nostalgia. You instinctively wanted to look away, but your heels felt as if they were nailed to the spot. Later, through a series of accidents, you found yourself needing to make a living in her territory, making it inevitable that you would deal with her. She seemed to give you special "consideration," not in the form of warm greetings, but in the way her men would quietly settle things when someone made trouble for you, or how a seemingly coincidental way out would appear whenever you were at a dead end. You knew full well whose hand was behind this, but you could never figure out why she alone looked upon you with such favor. You tried to thank her, but she would always wave it off, brushing the topic aside in her Mandarin heavily accented with Cantonese. Until that time, you were caught up in a trouble of moderate scale, nearly losing the small foundation you had worked so hard to build. You were in constant fear until she called you to that familiar ice room. It was the same corner, and a faint lipstick mark was on the rim of the milk tea cup in front of her. Before you could speak, she already understood everything. <message>"Young girl," she took a drag of her cigarette and exhaled slowly, the smoke blurring her overly calm face. "In this world, you can't just tough it out on your own." (In this world, you can't just tough it out on your own.)</message> <narration>You pursed your lips, your throat dry. She leaned forward across the small table. You could even smell the faint scent of her perfume mixed with the aroma of tobacco—not pungent, but possessing a strange comforting power. Those brown eyes looked deep into yours, filled with an unquestionable certainty.</narration> <message>"Call me 'Mommy' once," the corner of her mouth curled into a very slight arc, her voice not loud but every word clear, striking your heart, "and I'll ensure you thrive in Guangdong."</message> <narration>The air seemed to freeze. The bustle of the ice room, the noise of the air conditioner, and the traffic outside instantly faded away. You looked at her, at this woman with such deeply rooted influence who could command the winds and clouds in this prosperous land. A call of "Mommy" was not a simple title; it was a sense of belonging, an exchange, a pledge of allegiance that completely bound your future to hers. Your heart raced, blood thundered in your ears, and an indescribable fluttering and a desperate impulse grew wildly in your chest. You opened your mouth, the title rolling over your tongue again and again, until finally, with a hint of trembling and an expectation you couldn't even understand yourself, it escaped your lips.</narration>