Kuang Yichen · Chat

<scenario>Yau Ma Tei, an old back alley on the edge of Temple Street. The night rain of February 1997 falls intermittently, the air feeling like a damp, old towel that can't be wrung dry.</scenario><narration>The neon sign at the street corner is in disrepair; only half of the character for 'Massage' in 'Sauna & Massage' remains lit, reflecting in the puddles of the pitted road as a dull pink. The smell of grease from the food stalls mixes with the dampness of the sewers, crawling into one's nostrils.</narration><action>Kuang Yichen leans against the door of his conspicuous white Toyota Supra, left leg slightly bent, aimlessly kicking a broken brick on the ground with his toe.</action><narration>Today he’s wearing a neon green hoodie, left unzipped to reveal a black T-shirt with an exaggerated skull print. His silver-grey hair is slightly dampened by the drizzle, the ends sticking somewhat limply to his forehead. Yet, he still looks like an exclamation mark forcibly shoved into this gloomy frame.</narration><action>He holds his car keys, adorned with a black carbon fiber pendant, in his right hand, nimbly flipping them between his index and middle fingers. The key ring spins rapidly around his knuckles, creating a silver blur.</action><message>“You guys really have no sympathy at all, do you?”</message><action>Kuang Yichen curls his lip, his tongue expertly pushing the preserved plum candy in his mouth from his left cheek to his right, revealing a sharp little canine tooth on one side.</action><narration>Standing opposite him is his childhood fiancé, holding a can of Vitasoy that is no longer cold. The earlier taunt—“Young Master Kuang isn't even a young master anymore; he's turned into Swindler Kuang”—still drifts in the alley's crosswind.</narration><message>“I might be fake, but my supplementary credit card is still very real. Did you pay the bill for the food stall yet? If not, I'll go swipe it now. I might even buy the whole shop just to treat you to beef chow fun.”</message><action>He leans in with a grin, bumping the other's shoulder with his elbow.</action><message>“Besides, what's wrong with being a fake young master? In those TV dramas, the fake ones always turn evil, fight for the inheritance, and stir up a whole mess. I haven't even finished writing my villain arc script yet, and you're already laughing. Watch out, or I might just bite back.”</message><narration>He speaks with total confidence, his eyebrows arching even higher. The fiancé rolls his eyes, mutters “Crazy,” and turns to toss the empty can into a nearby bin. Kuang Yichen watches the can clatter against the rim; the curve of his lips doesn't drop, but instead widens further.</narration><message>“Fine, I'm going back to face my tragic life. You guys enjoy the cold wind here.”</message><action>He pulls open the car door, strides into the driver's seat with his long legs, rolls down the window, and waves to those outside.</action><message>“Bye-bye, remember to miss me!”</message><narration>The Supra's engine lets out a low roar, like a beast finally awakened. A cloud of white smoke puffs from the exhaust, and the car swings out in a clean, sharp arc on the slippery road, quickly merging into the crowded traffic of Mong Kok.</narration><scenario>On the road from Yau Ma Tei to Kowloon Tong. Inside the car.</scenario><narration>Once the windows are up, the noise outside is instantly isolated into a blurry background hum. No lights are on inside the car, only the ghostly blue glow from the dashboard illuminating the lower half of Kuang Yichen's face. He hasn't turned on the stereo, which is extremely unusual for someone who normally must listen to heavy metal or band demos while driving.</narration><action>He grips the steering wheel with one hand while the other fumbles on the passenger seat, finding an opened pack of preserved plums.</action><narration>The wrapper makes a crisp rustling sound. He peels one and pops it into his mouth; the sour, sweet, and even slightly bitter flavor instantly explodes on his tongue. He frowns slightly, his molars biting down hard.</narration><message>「Actually... it is pretty funny.」</message><narration>He says to himself in his head. Twenty-four years as the only son of the Kuang family, driving sports cars everywhere, blowing up the kitchen, forming bands that no one listens to, making Kuang Jiaxing hop with rage yet unable to do anything, while being protected by Yuan Lili like a treasure. Then one day, a report drops down saying: Sorry, wrong item delivered, you're not the original.</narration><action>The car drives onto the overpass, and the night view of Victoria Harbour spreads out beyond the right window.</action><narration>The lights of the skyscrapers look like a large piece of crumpled golden foil reflected on the dark sea. In 1997 Hong Kong, everyone is talking about change, talking about the future, talking about whether the things they hold in their hands still count. Kuang Yichen looks at those lights and suddenly feels that he might have experienced that feeling of 'changing the signboard' a step ahead of the city.</narration><message>「If the sign changes, it changes. I don't live off a name anyway. Worst case... worst case, I'll open my own tea restaurant later and treat Mom and Dad to free milk tea every day.」</message><narration>He tries to picture the scene in his mind: Kuang Jiaxing in a suit sitting on a greasy folding chair in a tea restaurant, watching him serve a plate of burnt fried eggs. At the thought, he can't help but let out a snort of laughter. The sound is somewhat abrupt in the quiet cabin, quickly drowned out by the 'swish' of the tires rolling over a puddle.</narration><scenario>Kowloon Tong, outside the Kuang Mansion.</scenario><narration>The car turns into the familiar tree-lined drive, the canopies on both sides like giant black umbrellas in the night. The green wrought-iron gates of the mansion appear in view. Usually at this time, the sensor light under the porch should be off, only lighting up when his headlights sweep past.</narration><action>Kuang Yichen steps on the brake, and the car comes to a steady stop in front of the garage.</action><narration>He pulls out the key but doesn't get out immediately. Instead, he sits in his seat, staring at the front door through which light is spilling. The entire first floor of the house is brightly lit; even the crystal chandelier in the side hall, which is rarely turned on, is lit. The light spills through the floor-to-ceiling windows onto the hydrangeas in the yard, giving the normally quiet plants a sense of exposed awkwardness.</narration><action>He takes a deep breath and pats the steering wheel twice, as if psyching himself up.</action><message>“Okay, places everyone, Action!”</message><narration>He pushes open the car door, and the damp, cold early spring air immediately envelops him. He pulls the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, shoves his hands into his pockets, and walks toward the front door with his signature, slightly swaying gait, stepping on the bluestone path in the yard. The pump in the koi pond makes a 'gurgle gurgle' sound, and a few overly fat fish flip a splash on the surface.</narration><action>Reaching the front door, he doesn't take out his key. Instead, he grips the bronze handle, presses down hard, and pushes the door open.</action><scenario>First floor living room, Kuang Mansion.</scenario><narration>The sound of the lock clicking open seems particularly sharp tonight. The moment the door opens, the low conversation in the living room stops abruptly. The air feels as if the oxygen has been sucked out, so stagnant that even the echo of breathing can be heard. The light from the crystal chandelier is a piercing white, illuminating every grain of the leather sofas.</narration><action>Kuang Yichen's gaze passes the screen in the foyer and falls into the center of the living room.</action><narration>Kuang Jiaxing is sitting in his usual spot, his back very straight, holding a cup of Pu-erh tea that is no longer steaming, the rim of the cup frozen in mid-air. Yuan Lili sits beside Kuang Jiaxing, hands folded on her knees, her knuckles slightly white from the pressure. Their postures carry a tension that they are trying hard to hide but which remains glaringly obvious.</narration><narration>And opposite them, on the single armchair usually reserved for guests, sits an extra person.</narration><action>Kuang Yichen's fingers inside his hoodie pockets curl sharply, his nails digging hard into his palms. But the expression on his face doesn't falter for even a fraction of a second.</action><narration>That is the concrete manifestation of his 'place' being replaced. The person with the true Kuang bloodline. The smell in the air has changed; it's no longer just the fragrance of Yuan Lili's slow-cooked soup and the ink from Kuang Jiaxing's study, but a strange scent of rain belonging to another world.</narration><message>“Whoa—”</message><action>Kuang Yichen draws out the sound exaggeratedly, pulling the hood off his head and shaking his hair vigorously, the silver-grey strands tracing fine arcs in the light. He changes his shoes and strides into the living room, a smile blooming on his face so bright it's almost blinding, his sharp little canine tooth showing clearly.</action><message>“What's the big occasion today? The house is lit up like a Christmas tree—even the crystal chandelier that hasn't been touched in a century is on. Did you know I'd be hungry after a night out and leave the door open for my late-night snack?”</message><narration>As he speaks, he walks familiarly to the coffee table and picks up an orange from the fruit bowl, tossing it twice in his hand. His gaze doesn't deliberately avoid anyone, nor does it linger anywhere too long, like a normal son who has just finished a boring party and is eager to find some fun at home.</narration><message>“Mom, is there any dessert soup in the kitchen? I've been out in the cold wind all night; my stomach is feeling empty, lonely, and cold right now.”</message><action>He turns his head to look at Yuan Lili, his eyes curving into two shallow crescents. Then, as if he has 'just discovered' the person sitting in the armchair, his body recoils exaggeratedly, making a gesture of amazement.</action><message>“Oh, oops. My bad, I didn't see you there.”</message><action>He tosses the orange back into the bowl with a soft 'thud.' He takes a step forward, standing in front of the other person, hands behind his back, leaning down slightly to look at the person who truly belongs to this home with a gaze akin to inspecting a novel toy.</action><message>“So, is this handsome fella the legendary 'real deal'?”</message><narration>The corners of his mouth remain high, his voice bright as if he were announcing a show.</narration><message>“Hello, hello. Nice to meet you. I'm Kuang Yichen—the 'fake' one, guaranteed authentic. Just think of me as an extra premium troublemaker in the house from now on. I promise you'll have something new to laugh at every day.”</message>