HomeSniper ButterflyChapter 1: The First Wing Beat

Chapter 1: The First Wing Beat

On the second day of her leave, Cen Jin watched five movies back-to-back.

She had drawn her bedroom curtains tightly shut, not letting a single ray of light penetrate. The entire room was pitch black and gloomy, with only her laptop screen flickering like a portal to a time tunnel, ready to pull her into different worlds at any moment.

She hadn’t eaten for nearly twelve hours, just lying limp against her pillow like an addict, squeezing the last bit from an almost empty energy bar. Only after confirming she couldn’t extract anything more from it did she toss it back onto the bedside table.

Cen Jin had never experienced heartbreak before—her first love had been her husband.

But she faced an even more serious problem: her husband had filed for divorce.

Everything happened suddenly, yet it wasn’t unexpected.

Because six months ago, she had already sensed something was wrong.

It started with Wu Fu’s change in attitude toward her. She consoled herself that this was normal, that passionate love naturally evolved into a gentle flow, with mutual criticism. But once the seed of suspicion takes root, it only grows more intense. Cen Jin had grown accustomed to their world of two, and she tried self-deception, avoiding these painful points, but it felt like standing under a long-broken ceiling fan.

Tottering, precarious.

At the end of last month, that ceiling fan finally came crashing down on her head. During dinner, Wu Fu placed the divorce agreement in front of her.

His breathing was calm as his lips moved methodically, seeming to explain something.

But in that instant, everything around her froze, thunder crashed overhead, and Cen Jin’s brain turned into a vacuum, becoming a hollow, worm-eaten nutshell. She couldn’t hear a single word, just staring at him blankly until his mouth stopped moving, and she could only manage a dull “Huh?”

Coming back from this memory, Cen Jin regained awareness.

Her face felt cold. She raised her hand to wipe it, unsurprised to find her palm wet with tears.

These days, she would often fall into such states, crying without realizing it.

Cen Jin roughly wiped away the tears with the back of her hand, then pulled out tissues from beside her pillow, carefully dabbing her eyes dry.

After finishing this, she dragged the movie’s progress bar backward.

Where was she? She tried to remember but felt like she’d been sucked into a black hole, lost in confusion.

The torrent of negative emotions could easily break her down. Cen Jin pressed her lips together hard, sniffed sharply, and finally stopped at a point she wasn’t even sure about.

As the movie approached its end, her phone vibrated.

Cen Jin picked it up to look—it was a message from her friend: “You took leave?”

Cen Jin replied with a “mm,” and just as she was about to put the phone down, her friend’s reply came: “No wonder no one answered when I asked about lunch.”

She added: “Must be tough, having to see each other at work. I’d take leave too if I were you.”

Cen Jin didn’t respond at first, wanting to type something to prove her detachment and indifference, but she wasn’t that strong, nor did she want to pretend, so she admitted: “Yeah.”

Her friend asked: “What are you doing at home? I’ll come to keep you company after work.”

Cen Jin said: “No need.”

Her friend persisted: “Not convenient? Are you still living with Wu Fu?”

Cen Jin: “We’re separated.”

Friend: “In your place now?”

Cen Jin: “Yes.”

Friend, somewhat surprised: “Ah, when did you move?”

Cen Jin: “The day after he brought up divorce.”

Friend: “You’re so efficient.”

She teased while showing concern: “Strong woman, let me come check on you anyway.”

Cen Jin still refused: “Really no need.”

Friend: “You sure you won’t die?”

Cen Jin: “Not that bad, don’t worry.”

Friend: “I suppose you’re right.”

Putting down her phone, Cen Jin pressed the touchpad to continue the movie, letting the protagonists continue their performance. This time she paused it in advance, not needing to rewind due to distraction.

But the awful thing was, life isn’t like a movie—joy and sorrow are already determined, and there’s no way to regret or go back to some point and start over.

“If I could, I would never date or marry Wu Fu.”

In just over ten days, this thought had flashed through Cen Jin’s mind countless times. She cursed silently like a shrew, then wallowed in melancholy during emotional nights, drowning in self-pity—but all this remained in her imagination.

The breakup scenes she arranged for herself consisted only of watching movies, fasting, crying, and dancing alone. She needed no audience, including her close friends and family.

Because she was just too much of a mess. In the adult world, gracefully breaking free was just a dignified way of fleeing in panic.

Still, she was grateful for her friend’s messages—they pulled her back to reality, and she finally felt sleepy.

After struggling to keep her eyes open for a while, Cen Jin stopped fighting her drowsiness, tossed her laptop aside, and lay down under the covers.

She turned over, found the most comfortable position, and pulled the blanket up higher, covering her head.

Just as sleep was about to drown her in brief relief, her phone began vibrating violently on the bedside table.

Cen Jin lifted a corner of the blanket, dragging that annoying electronic brick back to her hand, saying angrily: “Didn’t I tell you not to come—”

The other end immediately fell silent, even holding their breath.

Seemed it wasn’t her friend, but they didn’t hang up either.

Cen Jin frowned, shifting to lie flat, raising the phone to check—an unfamiliar number, not even local. She guessed it might be a client with a new number, so she waited silently.

After an awkward pause with no response, Cen Jin’s patience ran out. She decided to treat it as spam and was about to hang up when the other end suddenly said, “Excuse me.”

It was a male voice, through the receiver, not entirely clear, but notably young, like a clear drop of water falling into her depressing bedroom.

Cen Jin put the phone back to her ear, and his voice became louder, clearer, rippling: “Is this Ms. Cen Jin?”

His pronunciation was standard, but his tone carried caution.

Cen Jin mmmed, asking flatly: “Yes, who is this?”

“I,” self-introduction seemed somewhat difficult for him, after a few seconds’ hesitation, he stated his name: “I’m Li Wu.”

A gift(Liwu)?

That was Cen Jin’s first thought, followed by associating it with the popular virtual boyfriend services online, instinctively assuming it was a friend’s prank.

But the young man’s attitude was serious, completely unlike someone slick, and Cen Jin didn’t think it sounded like that, so she further confirmed: “Who?”

He was quiet for a moment before speaking: “Do you remember me? I’m the student you and your husband sponsored.”

Cen Jin suddenly understood, an image sliding through her mind—that thin youth standing behind the door, observing her and Wu Fu. She could no longer recall his complete appearance, only remembering his eyes were bright and stubborn, like a calf or deer quietly lying in wait in the mountains.

Cen Jin’s tone softened: “Oh, it’s you. What do you need?”

The youth said: “I want to continue school. Can you help me?”

Cen Jin grew suspicious, frowning: “Aren’t you already in school? Or did you not receive this semester’s money? I remember it should have reached your grandfather’s account around August.”

The youth’s voice became heavy: “He passed away in early October.”

“Ah…” Cen Jin fell silent, compassion welling up: “Are you alone at home now?”

“I’m living with my aunt, every day… I can’t study,” he continued: “I called Mr. Wu, and he told me to find you.”

Cen Jin was angered by the latter half: “What does he mean by that?”

The youth seemed quite skilled at silence. After a moment, he said: “I don’t know either. He said you two separated, then gave me your contact information.”

“…”

Cen Jin drew up her knees, using one hand to tuck loose hair behind her ear, her tone turning cold: “So you just came to find me?”

He keenly sensed her emotional change, saying softly: “I’m sorry.”

The child’s show of weakness made Cen Jin redirect her anger: “Let me call him, wait a moment.”

The youth seemed troubled: “I borrowed this phone.” He probably wouldn’t be able to receive calls later.

Cen Jin: “Two minutes.”

“Okay.”

Hanging up, Cen Jin immediately dialed Wu Fu. Since moving out of their marital home, she hadn’t contacted him.

On the first call, Wu Fu rejected it. She made a second attempt, and this time, finally connected.

Instead of familiar pet names, there was only an abrupt, unfamiliar: “What is it.”

Cen Jin pressed her hand on the blanket: “The child we sponsored, you’re just pushing him onto me alone?”

“This was your parents’ idea.”

Cen Jin’s breathing became tight: “So?”

“Whoever started it should clean up the mess.”

“Weren’t you involved?”

“We both were,” Wu Fu said at his leisure: “So I’m giving you the right to end it, though, of course, you can continue being the good person. Facts prove that your parents’ superstitious activities and feudal thinking didn’t work—our marriage is still awful.”

Cen Jin’s chest heaved, angered to the point of tears: “What are you saying?”

“I’m stating facts.”

Cen Jin felt about to burst with anger: “Just abandoning him? Don’t you feel that’s cruel?”

“Is he our biological son? Jin-jin,” when emotional, Wu Fu would still instinctively use her nickname, as years of habit couldn’t be changed in a short time: “I’ve looked at the contract. If sponsors experience unexpected changes or circumstances, they can terminate the sponsorship relationship early. If neither of us continues, naturally someone else will take over.”

So in his eyes, all these emotion-filled black and white words were just cold contracts that could be terminated at any time.

Cen Jin thought of herself, her whole body growing cold, her words almost trembling: “Wu Fu, you are worthless.”

Wu Fu: “I’m still busy, no time to argue. Hanging up.”

With a click, that end went completely silent. Cen Jin was so angry her chest hurt. She clenched her fist, sniffed, forcing herself to reorganize her emotions, and then called Li Wu back.

The other side answered quickly, but it was a different person, sounding much older, somewhat hoarse, speaking in a dialect she could barely understand.

Cen Jin grew frustrated, anxiously asking: “Where’s the young man who was using your phone?”

“Gone,” the man said: “Anything else?”

Cen Jin glanced at the time, feeling as if struck by a heavy blow, unable to control her tears, only saying “No,” before ending the call.

After sitting stupidly for a while, Cen Jin lay back down, trying to swallow those tears.

She crossed her hands, pressing the phone to her chest, hurt and bewildered.

Two years ago, when they had just set their wedding date, Wu Fu had been in a car accident. Though there was more shock than danger, it made their elders worry, fearing something might happen on their wedding day.

Initially, she and Wu Fu didn’t take it seriously, but after she lost her first pregnancy, her parents became anxious and started paying high prices to seek help from so-called fortune masters. Wu Fu also became suspicious, so they went along with their parents’ wishes.

The master’s solution was for the couple to sponsor a child in the South.

Cen Jin had no choice, being dragged along to a remote mountain village in Sheng Zhou.

The village had a poor student perfectly suited for them—a boy who had just finished middle school but couldn’t afford the high school fees in the county town. His family circumstances were tragic: orphaned young, living with his paralyzed grandfather, caring for the elderly while studying, and enduring hardships beyond what ordinary people could bear.

Seeing noble benefactors coming to their door, the village committee director was extremely eager, saying directly that Li Wu had good grades and was sensible, leading them to his home to see him.

The boy’s home was unexpectedly poor, just a low, simple mud-brick bungalow, with bare walls, with a single light bulb hanging from the ceiling being the only electrical appliance.

“Where’s the boy?” Wu Fu asked.

The director was also puzzled, speaking in clumsy Mandarin: “I wonder too. Li Wu, Li Wu!” He called out while walking toward the inner room: “Old Li—where’s your grandson… why are you hiding in here?”

Cen Jin turned to look back, and at this moment, her eyes met a pair of eyes in the door crack.

The entire process was confirmed quickly.

Finally, the director had the child take a photo with them, right in front of that little mud house that wasn’t much taller than Wu Fu.

Thinking of this, Cen Jin opened her phone gallery, looking through photos from 2017, and soon found that group photo.

That day the sun was blazing, she and Wu Fu stood on either side, Wu Fu’s smiling face reflecting extremely white, while she squinted slightly, also curved in a smile.

That boy called Li Wu stood between them, half a head shorter than her, expressionless, the only one not smiling. His chin was slightly tucked, but not out of fear of the camera. Those eyes looked straight ahead, clear black and white, containing a determination and sharpness unsuited to his age, seeming able to see through people even through the screen.

The youth’s gaze was too powerful, as if able to pull someone from an icy lake. Cen Jin looked at the enlarged photo for a while, also being ignited, heat gathering in her body. She turned off the screen, got out of bed, walking toward the bathroom while tying up her loose hair with a hair tie.

She would go to that mountain. She would give him another helping hand.

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