Silent Weights

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...[The Cheng Estate]...

The night air in Shanghai was thick, humming with neon and unsaid things. Lian Cheng sat quietly in the backseat of the sleek black car, chin resting against his knuckles. His brows were drawn, the silver medal in his bag a dead weight.

The gates to the Cheng estate parted silently. No grandeur. Just clean efficiency—like everything his father liked. The house stood before him: a massive, angular structure of steel, glass, and stone. No warmth. No memories. A showroom pretending to be a home.

He stepped inside.

The house swallowed him in silence. Cool, crisp air hummed against polished marble. Footsteps echoed too loud in the vast hallway. Somewhere, the staff cleared plates from a dinner he wasn’t invited to.

He dropped his bag by the stairs.

The kitchen lights were on.

And there he was.

Lian Bo, standing by the marble island with a half-full glass of scotch. His suit jacket was draped over a chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His presence filled the space—clean, measured, impossible to ignore.

“You’re back late,” he said without turning.

Lian crossed the room to the fridge. “Championship went longer.”

A pause.

“I saw the broadcast,” Lian Bo said. He sipped.

Nothing more.

Lian shut the fridge harder than necessary.

He took a bottle of water and leaned against the counter, facing away.

“It was close,” he offered.

“Hmm,” his father responded, an indifferent sound buried in a mouthful of ice.

Another silence bloomed between them.

“You did fine,” Lian Bo said finally, voice like a hallway with no doors.

Fine.

The word grated.

Lian took a long drink of water. “Zi Han won.”

“Of course he did.” A quiet chuckle. “He always does.”

Lian’s grip tightened around the bottle.

His father wasn’t mocking. Not openly. Just stating facts, like numbers on a spreadsheet.

“It’s not a surprise,” Lian Bo continued. “That boy’s been groomed for this kind of thing since he could walk.”

Lian didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His jaw ached from holding it shut.

“You’ve got the talent,” his father added. “You just lack… focus.”

The bottle creaked in his hand.

“Maybe if you trained instead of reacting all the time, you’d be further ahead,” Lian Bo said mildly. He looked at him then—brief, detached. “It’s always been your problem.”

Lian stared at the opposite wall.

He felt everything rising in his chest—anger, shame, exhaustion—but none of it showed. Only the slight tremble in his wrist betrayed him.

He finished the water and left the bottle on the counter. His father didn’t comment.

On his way out, he paused at the doorway.

“You missed the last championship, remember?”

His voice was casual. Too casual.

Lian Bo didn’t even look up. “I had a summit. Investors flew in from Berlin.”

Lian gave a dry, humorless smile.

“Right,” he said.

He didn’t wait for a reply.

Upstairs, he shut his door quietly, locked it. The room was spotless—clean lines, high-end furniture, blackout curtains drawn against the night. A boy could scream in this room and nothing would change.

He stood by the window, looking out at the skyline.

He hated the quiet.

He hated the way Zi Han’s victory felt like a bruise he couldn’t reach.

He hated that when his father looked at him, he always saw something almost good enough.

Lian pressed his forehead to the glass and let out a shaky breath.

He wasn’t sure who he was angrier at—his father, Zi Han… or himself.

...⊹₊...

...[Liu Penthouse]...

The Liu penthouse hung high over the city like a fortress in the sky, glittered above Shanghai like a crown on a corpse.

All glass and silence and control.

Zi Han sat at the grand piano, not playing—just pressing one low key again and again, letting it echo until the silence swallowed it.

He could still hear the cheers. Still taste the gold.

Still feel nothing.

The door clicked open behind him.

He didn’t turn. He didn’t need to.

Liu Lan entered like a gust of air-conditioned power—black pantsuit crisp, hair pulled into a sleek knot, diamond pin stabbing the collar like punctuation.

“I reviewed the championship footage,” she said without preamble. “Your stride broke at the turn.”

Zi Han blinked slowly at the keys.

“I still won.”

She circled the room. “Winning isn’t the same as perfection. Don’t confuse the two.”

Perfection.

Even when gold hung around his neck, it didn’t shine enough for her.

His jaw clenched.

You’ll always be half a second behind me."

He had said that to Lian like a weapon, but the blade had turned in his own hands somewhere along the way.

“You’ve been distracted,” she continued. “Less precision. Poorer focus. Why?”

He didn’t answer.

What could he say?

That his heart stumbled every time Lian looked at him like war and worship in one breath?

She placed a thin folder on the piano. “You’re slipping in Chemistry.”

“I’m tired,” he said quietly.

She didn’t blink. “Tired is for the mediocre.”

He stared at her—this woman who built empires and expected him to be one.

“You are the future of NeuSys,” she said calmly, approaching his side. “That means control. ComposuRe. Focus.”

He gave a dry laugh, barely audible.

“You want a machine. Not a son.”

She didn't flinch. “A machine wouldn’t waste potential.”

Zi Han looked at her then—really looked.

Flawless. Unshaken. And utterly unreachable.

She had mourned his father for three weeks. Then resumed board meetings.

He had cried alone in the bathroom for three years.

“Is there anything else?” he asked.

Her gaze held his like a contract.

“Don’t let whatever this is,” she gestured vaguely—to the piano, to him—“get in the way of your goals.”

He nodded once, tight. It was either that or scream.

When she left, she didn’t look back.

The door clicked shut.

Alone, Zi Han stared at his reflection in the piano lid. He slammed both hands onto the keys—noise crashing into order—The discordant crash vibrated through the floor.

But the house didn’t flinch.

No one came running.

No one ever did.

He stared out at the skyline, neon washing over his face.

He had won.

And still—it wasn’t enough.

Victory tasted like nothing.

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