For the first few days, the boy didn't speak.
He lingered near Ziyan like a second shadow—never in the way, never far. He refused offers of food and water, never asked questions, never volunteered help. Just watched. Eyes sharp, shoulders taut, always ready to bolt.
When the others spoke, he flinched at loud voices, his gaze flickering to exits. Ziyan noticed how his hand twitched toward his waist, where a blade might once have hung. But near her, he loosened—only slightly. He still slept curled against the wall like a hunted animal, but his eyes no longer opened at every footstep.
He was not theirs. Not yet.
Ziyan offered gentle smiles. Shuye, ever hopeful, left bits of roasted yam nearby. Feiyan muttered that he was just a street rat waiting to steal silver. Lianhua said nothing, but her calculating gaze lingered on the boy longer than the rest.
It wasn't until the fourth morning that he moved with intent.
Without a word, he helped stack crates. Then he lifted a broken stool, examined the splintered leg, and fixed it using cord and discarded planks. When Shuye handed him a broom, the boy took it and began sweeping—but it was clear he had never done it before. His motions were jerky, too fast, as if he were attacking dust instead of cleaning it.
"You're not at war with the floor," Ziyan said with a quiet laugh. She stepped beside him, corrected his grip, and slowed his pace. "You don't have to be perfect. Just try."
He said nothing, but the next day, he was sweeping before sunrise.
Still silent. Still watching. But slowly... he was present.
It was Feiyan who insisted he needed a bath. "You smell like a dying dog and look like soot wrapped in hair," she declared.
To everyone's surprise, the boy didn't resist. Shuye led him to the courtyard pump, where cold water awaited. The boy scrubbed himself in silence, slowly stripping away layers of grime, ash, and something heavier—shame, perhaps.
What emerged was someone they didn't expect.
His skin, pale but healthy, bore the light scars of training. His arms were lean but wiry. His face, once hidden under dirt, was striking—sharp cheekbones, high nose, long dark lashes over watchful ash-grey eyes.
Feiyan gave a low whistle. "We've been housing a prince."
He shrank from the attention, wrapping a towel tightly around his shoulders. But Ziyan didn't tease. She only smiled and said, "You look like someone becoming himself."
That night, for the first time, he sat with them during dinner. He didn't speak. But he listened. And he stayed.
The Hollow Reed teahouse was gaining attention—though not all of it was good.
Their tea was praised. Osmanthus and hawthorn blends. Their food was simple but warming—rice cakes, steamed buns, Feiyan's dumplings that burned just slightly on one side. Rumors spread quickly: this new teahouse didn't charge nobles more, didn't turn away servants, and didn't play by the unspoken rules of the Eastern Capital.
Which made them enemies.
One afternoon, a silk merchant arrived with his thugs. They claimed to be "collecting tribute" for the local food guild—really, extortion wrapped in polite phrases.
Ziyan stood behind the counter, her expression calm. "We've paid all dues," she said.
The man leaned in. "You paid the Ministry. Not us. That's not how this street works."
One of the thugs stepped forward, shoving Shuye hard into a stack of teacups. Feiyan moved instantly, hand to her dagger—but froze when the boy stepped forward.
Silent. Unassuming.
Then he moved.
It wasn't flashy. No wild strikes or drawn blades. Just quiet precision. A sidestep, a twist, a sharp jab to the attacker's wrist. The thug's weapon clattered to the ground before he even realized what had happened.
The boy stared him down with a flat, unreadable expression.
The thug backed off. "Tch. Not worth it," he muttered. They fled without another word.
When it was over, no one spoke for a while.
Feiyan blinked. "Did we just see a ghost punch someone?"
Shuye grinned. "No... we saw a shadow."
That night, after the shop had closed, they gathered by candlelight.
"You helped today," Ziyan said softly. "Not just with your fists. You helped us protect what we're building."
The boy didn't answer.
"You don't talk much," Feiyan added. "But you're not nothing. You're someone."
He looked down at the tea in his hands. "Names get you found."
"Sometimes," Ziyan said, "names also help you be seen."
He hesitated.
Ziyan continued, "You've lived in shadows. But today, you stood in front of danger. That matters."
She reached into the folds of her robe and brought out a paper slip—handwritten, folded carefully. "This is a name. If you want it."
He took it and opened it.
"Li Qiang."
"Li," she said, "for my name. To show you're part of something now. And Qiang... it means strong. Not just in body. But in will. In spirit. You survived what many couldn't. You deserve a name that honors that."
He stared at the paper. Then whispered it under his breath.
"Li Qiang…"
Ziyan smiled. "Do you like it?"
He nodded once. "Yes."
Feiyan raised her cup. "To Li Qiang. The quiet shadow of the Hollow Reed."
Shuye added, "Our ghost who punches nobles."
Even Lianhua allowed a tiny smile. "A name to be earned."
Ziyan said nothing more.
She didn't need to.
Because in the flicker of the lantern's glow, she saw it—just a sliver of it—but real.
A smile.
And for the first time, the boy—Li Qiang—was no longer just a shadow.
He was theirs.