The heavy, suffocating silence of the dining room was broken only by the rhythmic clink of Ming Gu's silverware as he meticulously deboned a piece of fish for Ming Yu. The steam rising from the gourmet spread felt like a physical barrier, marking the boundary of a "perfect" family that Ming Ze was never meant to cross.
In his previous life, this was the moment where Ming Ze's throat would have tightened. He would have stood there, fingers twitching at his sides, wondering if he should apologize for being late or wait for someone—anyone—to pull out a chair. He had spent years starving for a seat at this table, only to be met with the cold, collective amnesia of the people who shared his blood.
But the Ming Ze who stood there now was no longer that starving boy.
He didn't look at the empty chair. He didn't look at the warm soup. Instead, he walked toward the kitchen counter, his movements fluid and leisurely, as if he were a guest in a hotel rather than a son in his own home.
"Ming Ze, I asked you a question," Ming Feng's voice dropped an octave, heavy with the authority of a patriarch. "Is this the etiquette the village life taught you? To ignore your father when he speaks?"
Ming Ze reached for a clean glass. The tap water hissed, a sharp, cold sound in the quiet room. He took a slow sip, the cool liquid grounding him, before finally turning his head. His eyes, cold and shimmering like deep lake water, met Ming Feng's gaze directly.
There was no anger in them. No hurt. Just a terrifying, hollow indifference.
"The etiquette I learned," Ming Ze said, his voice smooth and devoid of emotion, "is that if a meal is 'forgotten' for someone, that person is no longer a guest at the table. I'm just here for water."
Auntie Wang's hand, which was adjusting Ming Yu's napkin, paused mid-air. Her eyes flickered with a brief, sharp light.
"Young Master Ze," she said, her voice dripping with that familiar, saccharine regret. "I was just about to set a place for you. My memory truly is failing me in my old age. You shouldn't be so sensitive; I'm sure your father didn't mean to—"
"It's alright, Auntie Wang," Ming Ze interrupted, a small, thin smile playing on his lips. It was a beautiful smile, but it felt like a blade. "You've been 'forgetting' me for years. At your age, such a consistent habit isn't a memory lapse. It's a talent."
The silence that followed was even heavier than before.
Song Yuran's fork clattered against her porcelain plate. She looked at Ming Ze as if he had suddenly become a stranger. The "obedient, silent" son had just talked back. Not with a shout, but with a surgical, cold precision.
"Ming Ze!" Ming Gu finally looked up from his brother's plate. His eyes were like his father's—narrow and judgmental. "Auntie Wang has been with this family since before you were born. Show some respect."
"Respect is a currency, Brother," Ming Ze replied, leaning back against the counter, his brown shirt shifting to reveal a slender, dangerous grace. "I've spent all mine trying to buy a bit of warmth in this house. I've realized the exchange rate is too high. I'm officially bankrupt."
He set the glass down with a soft clink and turned on his heel. He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He didn't wait for Ming Yu to offer his "kind" leftovers. He walked out of the dining room, past the portraits of a family he no longer belonged to, and straight out the front door. Luckily, he always carry his bag with him.
'Even a bag is not safe in the house'. He mused.
The morning air outside was crisp, lacking the stifling scent of expensive sandalwood and unspoken resentment that filled the villa. Ming Ze adjusted the strap of his old laptop bag—the only thing in this world that truly belonged to him.
He walked down the long, winding driveway. In his past life, he would have waited at the bus stop for an hour to save a few yuan, hoping his frugality would earn Ming Feng's approval. Now, he didn't even look at the garage. He pulled out his phone and hailed a private car. The digital balance in his account—the payment from his first coding job—felt heavier and more real than the "Ming" surname ever had.
The driver pulled up a few minutes later, eyeing Ming Ze's striking, aristocratic face with confusion.
"Take me to the old district," Ming Ze said quietly. "The North Market."
The old district was a world away from the manicured lawns of the Mings. It was loud, crowded, and smelled of frying dough and engine oil. It was also where the best hidden gems were found—places that didn't care about "etiquette" or "status."
He found a small, cramped eatery tucked between a hardware store and a tailor. The plastic stools were mismatched, and the steam from the large pots at the entrance fogged up the windows.
"One bowl of beef noodles," Ming Ze said, sitting in a corner booth. "Extra spicy."
When the bowl arrived, the broth was dark and rich, topped with generous slices of brisket and bright green cilantro. It cost less than a single appetizer at the Ming's breakfast table, yet as Ming Ze took the first bite, the warmth spread through his chest in a way the Ming family's "complete" breakfast never could.
He opened his laptop while he ate. The screen reflected in his dark eyes as he scrolled through a new set of encrypted forums. He wasn't just looking for freelance work today; he was looking for a way to the Zheng family banquet.
In his past life, the Mings had let the rumors spread that he was a "country bumpkin." This time, he wouldn't be arriving as their charity case.
As he finished the last of the spicy soup, a notification popped up on his screen.
[Ghost]: The encryption you built for that logistics firm is top-tier. I have a client who needs a 'silent guardian' for a high-profile event this weekend. The pay is 200,000 Yuan. You interested?
Ming Ze wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, his expression unreadable. He looked at the reflection of himself in the dark laptop screen—the face his mother ignored and his brother feared.
He typed back a single word: "Details."
The "Villain" was no longer waiting for a seat at the table. He was building his own.