Why couldn’t it be his mother? Blood relations, at certain moments, do not equate to family affection.

Luo Ren remained silent for a while. Back then, there was a sense of vengeful satisfaction, but thinking about it now, he felt nothing—neither hatred nor love.

Indifference would be a more fitting description.

Mu Dai mistook his silence for sadness and sighed comfortingly: “Sometimes, that’s just how it is. I’m not much better off than you. You know that Hong Yi adopted me—my mother abandoned me at an orphanage.”

Luo Ren looked at Mu Dai with surprise. He certainly knew that Mu Dai had been adopted by Huo Zihong, but he had always assumed that Mu Dai had been too young to remember being sent to the orphanage.

Yet she remembered.

“I don’t even remember her face anymore. I just remember her holding my hand as we walked. She wore black leather high heels with the heel cap nearly falling off, making her walk with an unsteady wobble. I kept staring at her feet, afraid she might trip. Then she led me to a large entrance, gave me a peach, told me to sit, said she needed to take care of something, and told me not to wander off.”

Mu Dai sighed deeply and lay back down.

Later, Huo Zihong had asked her about it, but she couldn’t recall. A child’s attention is peculiar, remembering only certain details, like those nearly broken high heels, and that… peach.

It was a honey peach, red and soft, with a fragrant aroma. It had been washed clean. She held it in her hands, reluctant to eat it, occasionally bringing it to her nose to smell, then swallowing hard.

She didn’t eat it, wanting to wait for her mother to return and take the first bite. That way, her mother would think she was well-behaved and love her more.

Why did she think that way back then?

She sat on the stone pedestal at the orphanage entrance, cradling the peach, from sunset until dusk fell. The orphanage aunties came out time and again, but she refused to go inside.

Later, the administrator came out and coaxed her: “We’re friends of your mother. She wants you to spend the night here.”

Being clever, she asked: “If you’re my mother’s friend, do you know her name?”

…

In the end, she went inside. Every day, she clutched that peach like a treasure, allowing no one to touch it. She kept it in her bed at night and carried it even to the bathroom, terrified someone might steal it.

Eventually, the peach rotted. She thought it had fallen ill, so she gave it a pillow, covered it with a blanket, and imitated her mother’s bedtime routine by gently patting the blanket, pretending to be a doctor, saying: “Take this medicine and you’ll get better.”

But the peach still decayed. She carried it, her hands sticky with juice, and tiptoed to throw it in the trash bin.

She didn’t cry—not a single tear. Yet afterward, she developed an allergic reaction to peaches.

Later, she could tell others about it in a casual tone, as if sharing a secret that “I only tell my friends.”

The young Mu Dai must have been adorable. Who could bear to abandon such a doll-like daughter?

Luo Ren sighed softly.

Mu Dai asked him: “What happened after? When your family didn’t accept you, did Luo Wenmiao help you?”

Luo Ren laughed heartily. How could that be possible? Back then, he was proud and filled with resentment. How could he have gone back to Pin Ting like a defeated rooster, seeking Luo Wenmiao’s protection once or twice? He was already an adult.

“I did something that in retrospect seems dramatic but felt satisfying at the time. After hanging up the phone, I tore up my passport in front of my friends and said, ‘That’s it, I’m not going back.'”

Meeting Mu Dai’s surprised gaze, Luo Ren gave her a firm answer: “Really. I lived in Southeast Asia for four years, mostly in the Philippines.”

Mu Dai stuttered: “That… that must have been difficult for you?”

Without a passport or proper identification, how could one find suitable work? He must have lived like an illegal immigrant, doing what she’d seen on TV—washing dishes, scrubbing plates, and other physical labor that locals refused to do.

Wait—she recalled bar patrons discussing how the adult entertainment industry was thriving in Southeast Asia, regardless of gender. Luo Ren couldn’t have…

Mu Dai was startled by her thoughts. No, to banish this absurd idea from her mind, she had to ask clearly: “What did you do there?”

This time, Luo Ren’s silence lasted longer than any before.

Just as Mu Dai was about to lose patience, he slowly spoke.

“I was employed by a local armed private militia—a type of mercenary force.”

Mercenary? She’d heard of them, but usually associated them with Iraq or Middle Eastern battlefields. To Mu Dai, it seemed like another world entirely.

Luo Ren smiled slightly: “You probably don’t know, but the Philippines has a unique situation.”

Indeed, it was different. The Philippine government had conflicted with anti-government armed groups for 40 years, with over 150,000 people killed in various violent incidents. Kidnappings, armed conflicts, and extremist events occurred frequently, especially in the southern regions, where wealthy overseas Chinese and foreign tourists were targeted. There were indications that, due to police corruption, many kidnappings involved police participation, causing civilians to distrust authorities and seek alternative channels when incidents occurred.

Armed private militias emerged as a result. Compared to kidnapper groups demanding tens of millions of US dollars, these militias charged fees that were substantial but relatively more reasonable. They directly confronted certain kidnapper groups, with firefights sometimes resembling small-scale wars.

Mercenary recruitment primarily targeted foreign retired special forces, but wasn’t limited to them. It was also open to civilians or desperados. Anyone who passed the rigorous training could join the brigade.

Mu Dai was stunned for a long time, quietly sorting through the timeline: “So later, you returned because Pin Ting’s family had problems?”

Luo Ren shook his head: “Before Pin Ting’s family had problems. I offended someone there and couldn’t stay.”

Offended someone? Who?

The evening’s dejection and earlier depression seemed trivial compared to Luo Ren’s story.

In the darkness, Luo Ren seemed to come from another world. Mu Dai unconsciously shrank back a little.

Luo Ren laughed, his voice filled with self-mockery and melancholy: “Sometimes, carrying secrets allows us to get closer, but once revealed, I suddenly feel the distance between us has grown.”

He closed his eyes: “It’s late, let’s sleep.”

The next morning, Mu Dai was awakened by voices. She was momentarily confused when she opened her eyes, then remembered she was sleeping at Luo Ren’s place.

She quickly pushed open the wardrobe. Luo Ren wasn’t there, and the air mattress had already been folded away. Next to the wardrobe was a pair of her calfskin boots.

Not the pair that had been thrown away—these must have been brought from the bar that morning. As she put them on, Mu Dai felt a wave of disappointment.

A long night together in the same room, with mutual attraction—one would think their relationship should have progressed. Yet why did she even feel that the distance between her and Luo Ren had suddenly grown?

Lost in thought, she walked downstairs. Her calfskin boots hit the stairs with heavier steps than usual.

Yi Wansan was surprisingly there, sitting by the small fish pond, playing cat’s cradle with Pin Ting.

That idle man! Shouldn’t he be busy at the bar? Mu Dai approached with furrowed brows, but before she could speak, Yi Wansan took the initiative: “Little boss lady, Luo Ren called and asked me to bring your boots.”

He added: “Uncle Zheng just went out to buy groceries and asked me to keep Pin Ting company.”

His explanation was reasonable and thorough, leaving Mu Dai with no excuse to nitpick. She replied with a simple “Oh” and looked around: “Where’s Luo Ren?”

Yi Wansan shook his head: “Haven’t seen him.”

He was so focused on talking to Mu Dai that he neglected Pin Ting, who glared at Mu Dai unhappily and tugged at Yi Wansan’s arm: “Brother Xiaodao, hurry up!”

Bro…Brother Xiaodao?

Startled, Mu Dai stared at Yi Wansan: “She calls you Brother Xiaodao?”

Yi Wansan looked helpless: “Who knows why she suddenly started calling me that a few days ago. I was startled, too. But Uncle Zheng told me not to mind it. You know, we can’t really… reason with her.”

He lowered his voice toward the end, aware that Pin Ting might not fully understand but still mindful of her feelings.

Why is he still talking to this woman? Is Brother Xiaodao going to play cat’s cradle with her or not? Pin Ting was angry. She threw down the string and stood up abruptly. The red ball of yarn that had been resting on her knee rolled away, unraveling a long red thread across the ground.

A strange feeling rose from the depths of Mu Dai’s heart, but she couldn’t identify why. As she reached the door, she thoughtfully looked back.

Yi Wansan was comforting Pin Ting while bending down to pick up the yarn ball, winding it up again.

She didn’t see Luo Ren again that day, not even in the evening. Mu Dai found herself repeatedly glancing at the table where Luo Ren usually sat.

Tonight, a solidly built man occupied it, sipping coffee with loud slurps like a hippopotamus drinking water, audible from a distance.

During a break, Mu Dai went to check the customer feedback book. Luo Ren’s handwriting was strong and beautiful.

—This server provided enthusiastic service and deserves praise.

She wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. Wistfully, she wondered how someone like Luo Ren could have the patience to play along with her antics.

Zhang Shu approached and said, “Luo Ren told me about what happened last night.”

Mu Dai responded with a simple “Mm.”

“Were they from her family?”

“Yes.”

Zhang Shu seemed nervous: “You… didn’t do anything, did you?”

Mu Dai looked at Zhang Shu with a smile that even she felt was desolate: “What could I dare to do, Uncle Zhang? I’m already grateful they didn’t flay me alive.”

Zhang Shu appeared somewhat awkward: “What happened back then wasn’t your fault.”

Mu Dai laughed almost hysterically: “You’re wrong. You think it was my fault, Hong Yi thinks it was my responsibility. Otherwise, why would we have moved? Otherwise, why would your first reaction be ‘you didn’t do anything, did you?’ You’re afraid I might hurt someone. You think I’m already guilty, and if I dare to act against them, I’d be even more guilty.”

She spoke urgently, her chest heaving. Zhang Shu awkwardly kept sighing. During the standoff, Yi Wansan poked his head over curiously: “What are you discussing?”

Mu Dai’s nose stung slightly. She untied her apron and threw it on the bar counter: “I feel suffocated. I’m going for a walk.”

Suffocated.

She had felt that way ever since then. By the Small Merchant River, Luo Ren had told her about the five ancient punishments, one of which was called “mo,” also known as facial tattooing. The crime committed would be blatantly displayed on one’s face, like a defaced doorway, causing people to point and whisper for a lifetime.

They say what’s past is past, but she felt that the past never truly passes.

Unconsciously, she had walked to the alley behind Luo Ren’s residence.

All the lights on the second floor were on. Ivy densely covered half the wall, surrounding the carved wooden lattice windows. She didn’t see Luo Ren but caught glimpses of Pin Ting’s busy figure passing by the window several times.

Recalling Pin Ting’s impatient “Brother Xiaodao,” Mu Dai couldn’t help but smile. After standing there a while longer, she turned to leave. Just as she took her first step, her body suddenly shuddered. She turned back in disbelief.

She finally understood why Pin Ting had been pacing by the window.

Pin Ting was pulling threads—one, two, three.