His lips moved slightly, but no sound came out. Only the line between his brows—which had never creased before—suddenly sank into a deep furrow.
A faint rustling sound came from inside the door… the sound of a child climbing down from the bed, walking in slippers, followed by the noise of something being pushed aside.
Then came the sound of the lock turning.
“Click.”
The door opened.
A small head peeked out from the crack.
A boy, looking about three or four, or maybe four or five years old—it was hard to tell because his face held none of the innocence or fear typical of his age.
He wore pink-blue noise-canceling headphones, his left sleeve rolled up to his elbow, his right hand holding a bright yellow toy water gun aimed directly at Lu Sihan’s forehead.
His eyes were large and dark, the pupils like two black grapes freshly plucked from water—moist, clear, and utterly pure.
But the moment those eyes met Lu Sihan’s, everyone watching the livestream noticed…
They were identical eyes.
The same shape, the same curve, even the slightly double-folded eyelids and the tiny mole at the corner of the eye—so small you’d miss it if you didn’t look closely.
The comments went completely wild.
“This child’s eyes are exactly the same as Lu Sihan’s, exactly the same, exactly the same!!”
“Ahhhhhhhh so the rumors from five years ago were true!!”
“A domineering CEO chasing his wife into a crematorium, plus a cute baby?? What kind of heavenly plot is this ahhhh”
“The child is already this big??? So Shen Luning ran away with the child for a full five years??”
“I take back what I said earlier about Lu Sihan—this guy is really pitiful”
“Wait, he didn’t even know he had a child??”
The boy tilted his head, sizing up Lu Sihan for two seconds.
Then, he looked Lu Sihan over from head to toe…
The kneeling posture, the bleeding neck, the side profile outlined by the streetlight, and those eyes identical to his own.
Assessment complete.
The boy’s expression shifted from “Who are you?” to “Oh, it’s you,” and then to “Is that all?”
“Uncle,” the boy spoke up, his voice not loud but clear, like beads rolling across a jade plate, “if you keep poking your neck with that thing, I’ll squirt you with this.”
He shook the water gun in his hand.
“My mom said that if you break someone else’s things, you have to pay for them. If you break your own neck, my mom will have to spend money calling an ambulance for you. She just paid eight thousand for Grandma Wang’s cat’s hospital bill last month. She’s really poor right now, so don’t make things worse for her.”
Comments:
“This kid is the epitome of clarity.”
“Five years old and already worried about his mom’s medical insurance balance.”
“Is Shen Luning raising her son like a husband??”
“Lu Sihan: My son is calling me wasteful??”
Lu Sihan knelt on the ground, staring at the little bean sprout holding the water gun in front of him, feeling as if he’d been punched right in the center of his heart.
His lips trembled, his eyelashes trembled, even his knees on the ground trembled.
He stretched out the hand not holding the knife toward the child, fingers spread, fingertips slightly curled.
He wanted to touch the child.
No, he wanted to hold him.
He wanted to hold this small, milk-scented child who shared his eyes tightly, desperately, with all his strength in his arms.
But he didn’t dare.
His hand hovered ten centimeters from the boy’s shoulder, unable to advance or retreat, just hanging there.
The boy glanced down at that hand.
Bony, slender, with calloused fingertips—the hand of a thirty-year-old man.
At this moment, it was trembling, like the last leaf clinging to a branch in autumn.
The boy shifted his gaze from the hand to Lu Sihan’s face.
He stared for a moment.
Then, he did something no one expected. He turned around and ran back into the house.
The sound of slippers pattering across the living room, skirting the sofa, and pushing open the slightly ajar bedroom door echoed crisply, piercingly loud enough for the entire building to hear: “Mom! Come out here!”
Silence fell inside the room for two seconds.
No sound at all.
The boy persisted relentlessly: “Mom! Stop pretending to sleep! I know you’re awake! You were just scrolling through that Taobao thing earlier—the light from your phone was shining on the ceiling!”
“…”
“Mom! The uncle outside looks like the person in the photo by your bed! The one you stare at for a few seconds every night before sleeping! But his neck is bleeding. Do you want to come out and take a look? Mom? Mom, stop hiding under the blanket—I can hear you sighing… Mom!!”
Finally, there was movement inside the room.
The mattress springs creaked.
Then came the rustling of fabric.
Followed by the sound of slippers stepping on the floor, one step at a time, unhurried and steady.
The footsteps stopped behind the door.
The door was pushed open from the inside.
Shen Luning stood in the doorway.
She wore a crumpled white T-shirt, its collar drooping to her collarbone, revealing a slender shoulder line.
Her hair was loosely tied back, with several stray strands falling on either side of her cheeks.
Her face was bare of makeup, the dark circles under her eyes as heavy as if smudged with charcoal gray. Her lips were dry, peeling slightly.
She looked down at the man kneeling at the door.
Lu Sihan raised his head.
Their gazes collided once again, after five years, three months, and seventeen days.
The streetlight cast a dim yellow glow on half of Shen Luning’s face from the side.
She didn’t move, didn’t speak, showed no expression—as if she were looking at a delivery person who had come to the wrong door.
That calmness, the kind more terrifying than hatred, more cruel than indifference—a complete, utter calmness.
At that moment, Lu Sihan’s tears fell.
Without a sound, without warning, just a single tear rolled from his right eye, slid down the bridge of his nose, and clung to his lips, salty.
He shifted forward on his knees.
His knees crushed over sunflower seed shells and cigarette butts, over the smiling face of a candidate on a flyer, inching a little closer to her amidst the mess.
“I’m sick,” he spoke, his voice so shattered it could barely be pieced together. “You knew it five years ago. I’m sick, and the illness is called Shen Luning.”
He tilted his head back, the wound on his neck from the knife’s edge still oozing blood, mingling with the ink of an old tattoo.
“This time, will you cure me?”
Shen Luning looked at him.
Three seconds, five seconds, ten seconds…
The bodyguards at the alley entrance collectively held their breath, the barrage of comments vanished, and even the wind seemed to have stilled.
Shen Luning withdrew her gaze from him and glanced down at the son by her feet, who was looking up with an expression that seemed to say, “Mom, say something already.”
Then, she turned her eyes back to Lu Sihan.
“Lu Sihan.”
She enunciated each of the three words clearly.
“Are you out of your mind?”
“Yes,” he answered swiftly.
“If you’re sick, go see a doctor.”
Shen Luning took a step back, her hand resting on the doorknob, ready to close the door.
“Exit the Sixth Hospital, turn right onto the overpass, take the second exit, follow the main road for three kilometers, and register at the psychiatry department. Don’t come to me—I’m not a doctor.”