The morning was misty. Fog clung to the narrow streets of the slum like a memory that refused tofade. Yuxi kept her head low as she passed by stalls and carts, her mind already racing withstrategies.
She had to prepare for the Liang family's arrival. But fate had other plans.
A low cry from behind the abandoned warehouse made her pause. She turned sharply.
Behind the dumpster, three boys were laughing cruelly, kicking someone curled on the ground.
"Get up, rich boy. You think your suit scares us?" one jeered.
The boy didn't respond. He was young-maybe thirteen or fourteen-but his face was swollen, his armbleeding. He had the look of someone who refused to beg.
Before she realized it, Yuxi had already grabbed a steel rod and stormed forward.
"Get away from him!" she shouted.
The boys turned, startled. She didn't hesitate. Her rod swung with the fury of someone who'dalready died once.
They scattered like rats.
Panting, Yuxi knelt beside him. He looked up, dazed.
"Why..." he began hoarsely.
"Because no one helped me when I needed it," she replied simply, tearing the hem of her old shirt tobandage his arm.
His eyes met hers-dark, intelligent, strangely mature for someone his age.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Yuxi. Liang Yuxi."
He blinked. "Huo Zeyan."
A name she would later see on news broadcasts, magazine covers, and financial empires.
That night, she gave him her leftover steamed bun and they shared a quiet moment under therusted tin roof.
"You saved me," he said softly.
"No," she corrected, "I saved myself through you."
He frowned, puzzled. She smiled sadly. Even now, she was still learning how to protect her heart.