"Your house is surprisingly big, Kai-chan!"

Rinka pushed my wheelchair into the courtyard, surrounded by a picket fence, and looked up at our two-story home with mild awe.

For just the two of us, yeah, the place is kind of spacious. Sometimes when Zhao Zhao and Haitang tire themselves out playing, they just crash here. No problem.

"Looks like a villa, but it’s really just a fancy farmhouse, you know?"

Now that I think about it, this is her first time visiting. Too bad Dad already got off work and came home—no way to invite her in for tea.

"Sorry, Rinka. My dad’s already back."

"Oh, it’s fine! I should be heading home for dinner anyway!"

I’ve mentioned my dad’s situation to her plenty of times, so she didn’t pry further.

"I’ll come by properly another day. Thanks for everything today."

After she left, I parked the wheelchair by the entryway, then grabbed my crutch and hopped into the living room.

The lights were on from the kitchen to the living room, and there were a few half-eaten dishes on the dining table—looked like Wu Qinglan had already gone home. My dad sat alone on the living room couch, deep in thought. He hadn’t even taken off his suit. His slicked-back, greasy elite corporate slave hairstyle was still intact.

"Sorry I’m late, Dad. Something came up."

"Hold on, son. Don’t rush to eat yet. Come here—I need to talk to you."

I was heading to the kitchen, but I pivoted on my cane and plopped down on the sofa instead.

"What’s up?"

"Last night... I had a dream about Ying—about your mother."

I froze. He must’ve mistaken seeing my clone last night for a dream. I didn’t dare say anything—if he realized it wasn’t a dream, I’d be in serious trouble.

"It was strange... but I dreamt she was taking care of you."

All you saw was me knocking over a basin! How does that turn into "she was caring for you" in your head?

"What kind of person was my mom?"

He hardly ever brings her up, so I figured I should strike while the iron’s hot—see if I could dig up anything useful.

He seemed willing, but the moment he started recalling that woman who hurt him so deeply, he stiffened up like a frozen mannequin. His eyes glazed over, he couldn’t form coherent words, and he started trembling like crazy.

No doubt that Mom’s the root of all his emotional trauma. Just remembering her nearly sent him into a system crash. Took him a few minutes to reboot.

"You okay? If it’s too much, forget it."

If he crashed now, there’s no way I could haul him back to bed.

"Wait here a second."

Apparently remembering something, Dad bolted upstairs. When he came back down, he had a small white booklet in hand. He trembled as he tossed it at me without even checking if I caught it, then bolted back upstairs like a new recruit who just tossed his first grenade.

"It’s our photo album from the years we spent together. Take a look if you want."

The album was palm-sized, just one photo per page. Even so, it wasn’t full.

When I opened it, I also nearly crashed myself.

Dad always said I looked just like Mom. I never took it seriously—most kids look like their parents to some extent.

But after seeing the photos... he wasn’t exaggerating. I really did look exactly like her. The only differences were the length of our hair and a slight difference in aura. She had a small braid at the back of her head.

Even identical twins shouldn’t look this alike. It’s like Dad’s genes had zero presence in me—wait, am I actually a clone!?

Unlike me, Mom had a strong presence. Her smile was calm and confident, like she could handle anything that came her way.

One photo showed her cooking, tasting something in the kitchen with a serious look on her face. She looked every bit the newlywed wife preparing dinner for her husband.

Her cooking probably wasn’t bad. Usually in a couple, if one can cook, the other’s a kitchen disaster. After over a decade of culinary rehab, Dad’s cooking only barely reached "edible."

Which makes me think—he and Wu Qinglan really aren’t compatible. Put those two in the same kitchen and it’d be a warzone. Maybe I should go find Mom again…

Another thing I noticed: Mom had high combat prowess.

There were photos of her kicking a sandbag, smacking around punks with a wooden sword, and even squaring off with Mama Zhao—the former queen of the urban village.

Those pictures were taken ages ago. They looked about my age—seventeen or eighteen. And honestly, it looked less like a fight and more like sparring between friends. That probably explains Mama Zhao’s bizarre fondness for me, which was passed down from Mom’s generation.

It took me a minute to even realize that was Zhao Zhao’s mom. Time really is a ruthless butcher’s knife—once the queen of the ring, now just a chubby middle-aged auntie.

Which means Mom would be a middle-aged auntie by now too...

Fishing by the river, shopping at the market, napping on the grass... All these bits of her life, things I never knew, were laid out like a fire sale.

People from that generation dressed conservatively, and Mom was no exception. High collars, long sleeves, everything loose-fitting. Made it really hard to get a sense of her figure—don’t get me wrong, I’m just trying to gauge if my female form looks just like hers!

The last photo in the album was Mom on a hospital bed, cradling a red-faced newborn. Her smile radiated pure happiness.

No doubt about it—that baby was me. So why did she disappear? Was there some reason she had to leave? And what happened to Dad to make him the way he is now?

There were no more photos after that.

I had a clearer picture of who she was now, but the real questions remained unanswered.

After dinner, I took the album upstairs with me and knocked on Dad’s door.

"I finished looking. Where should I put the album—on the bookshelf?"

"No, keep it with you for now."

Sitting at his desk, Dad didn’t even turn around. Looked like he was buried in work again—classic avoidance strategy.

Just like an ostrich burying its head in the sand.

Back in my room, I locked the door and tossed the album onto the bookshelf. Then I activated the bookmark again.

It’s not like I’m obsessed with my huge assets or anything—but with how inconvenient it is to move around in my real body, this bookmark is just too useful.

I fetched some hot water, stripped my real body down to just underwear, and started wiping it down with a damp towel. Strangely enough, even though it’s my body, I still got all flustered and embarrassed. If this scene keeps going like this, we’re one step away from full-on doujinshi territory.

…

"Ha! Ha! Ha!"

A girl’s sharp, rhythmic cries rang out.

Don’t get the wrong idea. That wasn’t me making those sounds.

I quietly pulled aside the curtain and peeked out at the source—next door, in the Zhu family’s yard.

By the garden light, a young girl in a martial arts uniform was standing in a horse stance, throwing punches with sharp "ha!" shouts. Her serious expression was actually pretty adorable.

I glanced at the clock on my nightstand—8:30 PM. Most girls her age should be tucked in bed cuddling a teddy bear. But no, not her. She’s the heir to a yakuza family. Of course she’s out here training to survive in that world.

Maybe she sensed my gaze—she suddenly stopped and snapped her head toward me. I was half a second too slow closing the curtain, and for an instant, our eyes met.

Sharp as a hawk. Her dad’s not gonna come gouge my eyes out, is he?