By the time the car stopped outside the villa, Sheng Linyou was half-conscious.
Yin Xigui helped him up to the bedroom on the second floor and used a warm towel to wipe the cuts on his face and wrists.
Lying on the bed, Sheng Linyou still clutched his fingers. His nails pressed into the spaces between Yin Xigui’s fingers; the grip was not hard, but it was tight, as though he feared Yin Xigui would leave the moment he turned away.
“Don’t go.” Sheng Linyou’s voice was hoarse, barely more than breath.
Yin Xigui looked down at his pale lips and the dried streak of blood at his temple. He brushed aside the black hair fallen across Sheng Linyou’s forehead, his thumb grazing the small scab beside his brow.
Even at the edge of sleep, Sheng Linyou frowned, but his fingers would not let go.
Yin Xigui crouched quietly beside the bed and watched him for a long time.
The warm bedside lamp softened Sheng Linyou’s profile. The injuries only made the lines of his face look sharper—and more fragile.
Yin Xigui bent down and placed a very light kiss between his brows, letting his lips rest against the warm skin for two seconds.
Then, with extreme care, he slowly eased his fingers free from Sheng Linyou’s palm.
Sheng Linyou’s brow drew tight, then relaxed. His hand curled once in the empty air before slowly falling onto the sheet.
Yin Xigui rose and gently shut the bedroom door.
When he left the villa, dawn had not yet fully broken. The black cars were still waiting outside, their people still there. At the sight of him, they all straightened.
The middle-aged man at their head was named Zhou Ling. He stepped forward and asked quietly, “Young Master, what do we do next?”
Standing in the morning fog, Yin Xigui did not answer at once.
He lowered his head and slowly fastened the buttons at his cuffs, letting his fingertips linger on each one as though pressing something firmly into place.
A thin wash of gray light rose over the distant treetops, sketching the villa behind him in a dark outline.
“The old residence,” he said. “Now.”
Zhou Ling paused but did not ask further questions. He turned to make the arrangements. Once the cars started again, Yin Xigui sat by the rear window and watched the streets slide past.
Everything remained blurred in the morning mist. Buildings were only dull gray shapes, and the streetlamps had become fuzzy halos in the fog.
Yin Xigui withdrew his gaze from the light and slipped a hand into the inner pocket of his coat.
Something cold and hard pressed against his palm through the fabric.
He did not take it out again.
The gates of the Yin family’s old residence stood open.
When Yin Xigui’s convoy stopped, the two guards at the entrance instinctively moved forward. Once they recognized him, they retreated. Yin Xigui opened the car door, stepped out, and crossed the threshold without a moment’s hesitation.
There was no one in the living room.
He crossed the long corridor covered in dark-red carpet, his footsteps making almost no sound. Zhou Ling and the others followed two or three paces behind, their steps gathering into a steady, muffled vibration in the empty hall.
Yin Zhengsong was in the second-floor study.
When Yin Xigui pushed open the door, Yin Zhengsong was seated behind a broad desk reading documents. One window was partly open, and the morning wind stirred the pages on the desktop.
At the sound, he looked up. His brow furrowed when he saw Yin Xigui enter.
“Why are you here at this hour—”
He did not finish.
Zhou Ling had already shut the study door from outside. Only the two of them remained.
Yin Zhengsong’s gaze passed over Yin Xigui’s face and settled on the slight bulge in the right inner pocket of his coat, a faint hard angle visible beneath the cloth.
“What are you trying to do?” His voice dropped. His hand had risen from the desk to grip the armrest, though he had not yet stood.
Yin Xigui stopped two steps from the desk.
He looked at Yin Zhengsong. The face that resembled his own in several ways now held an unfamiliar kind of familiarity in his eyes.
“Dad.”
His voice was low and unhurried. “You left me outside for all those years and made me grow up and survive by myself. I do not blame you. You let Yin Ou and Yin Rui bully me as they pleased. I do not blame you. You used a marriage alliance as a bargaining chip and pushed me out. I do not blame you.”
Yin Zhengsong’s fingers tightened around the armrest, his knuckles whitening.
“But you let people hurt him.”
At last, a ripple entered Yin Xigui’s voice. It was thin, like a current moving beneath ice for one instant before the surface smoothed again. “You let Yin Rui hurt Sheng Linyou.”
Yin Zhengsong’s lips parted, perhaps to say something like, A lower-tier citizen is worth this much to you?
But Yin Xigui gave him no chance.
“What you have done.” Yin Xigui drew the object from his inner pocket and placed it on the desk. Metal struck wood with a heavy sound.
It was a gun: black, with a worn patch on the grip that showed it had been used many times. “Everything you made Yin Rui do. Everything you allowed him to do. I have evidence. From this moment onward, the Yin family no longer needs you.”
Yin Zhengsong shot to his feet, the chair legs scraping harshly against the floor.
He stared at the gun, then at Yin Xigui. In seconds, the shock on his face became a disbelief rising from somewhere deep within him.
“You—”
Yin Xigui picked up the gun. His movement was neither quick nor tense; it was almost calm.
He did not aim it at anyone. He simply held it at his side.
“I will take over every Yin family business. I will sit firmly in your place.” Yin Xigui met his eyes. “You may retire. Go to the southern villa. Someone will take care of you. Do not come back.”
Yin Zhengsong’s breathing quickened for several beats. He stared at Yin Xigui’s expressionless face for a long time, the iron-blue color draining from his face to ash-gray.
Finally, bracing himself on the desk, he slowly sat back down. An old, indistinct laugh rolled from his throat, growing lower until it disappeared into the wind.
Yin Xigui turned and walked out. As the door closed behind him, he put the gun back into his coat pocket.
At the end of the corridor, Yin Rui was striding toward him.
He had clearly only just received the news. His tie was crooked, and traces remained on his face from when Yin Xigui’s people had stormed his territory several hours earlier.
When he saw Yin Xigui emerge from the study, his steps checked for an instant. Then he rushed forward faster.
“Yin Xigui! You—”
Yin Xigui did not stop. He walked toward Yin Rui at the same measured pace.
Just as they were about to pass, Yin Rui reached for his shoulder. Yin Xigui slipped aside and drove his elbow into the vulnerable place beneath Yin Rui’s arm. Yin Rui’s breath caught; his whole body folded over.
Yin Xigui turned behind him and looked down at Yin Rui, who was half-kneeling on the carpet and struggling to breathe.
“You investigated me for two years. You wanted to swallow up what was mine.” His voice was quiet, yet every word carried clearly through the empty corridor. “Now come and take it. Can you take it?”
One hand pressed to his ribs, Yin Rui looked up at him. Shock, resentment, and a belated clarity surged in his eyes.
Yin Xigui did not look at him again. He turned toward the stairs as Zhou Ling’s people stepped forward to restrain Yin Rui. He never looked back.
Halfway down the stairs, he stopped.
Morning light was pouring through the immense floor-to-ceiling window in the downstairs living room, spilling across the dark-red carpet.
Yin Xigui stood in that patch of light for a few seconds. His pink hair fell over his shoulders, its edges softened to gold by the dawn.
Then he continued downstairs.
By the time he walked out through the old residence’s gates, it was fully light. He stood on the stone steps and watched the city skyline slowly sharpen in the morning sun.
The wind lifted and released loose strands of his hair. He narrowed his eyes at the distance, his gaze very calm.
Zhou Ling came up behind him and reported in a low voice, “The old residence is under control. Yin Rui has been taken away and placed under guard. People have also been sent for Yin Ou. As you ordered, the rest of the family has not been disturbed.”
Yin Xigui gave a quiet sound of acknowledgment.
“Young Master—” Zhou Ling paused. “It is time to call you Head of the Yin family.”
Yin Xigui did not answer. He turned down the steps and headed for the car at the curb.
Once in the rear seat, he looked out the window. The old residence’s iron gates slowly closed behind him, their edges catching a long line of light in the morning sun.
“Back to the villa,” he said.
As the car pulled away, he looked down at his hand. A shallow cut marked one knuckle. He did not know when it had happened; it had stopped bleeding long ago.
He turned his hand over and looked at his palm, then closed his eyes against the seat.
Sunlight came through the window, glowing red and warm behind his eyelids.
Sheng Linyou was still asleep in that upstairs bedroom at the villa.
The red marks from the restraints had not faded from his wrists. The cut at the corner of his mouth had still not finished scabbing over.
Yin Xigui thought of those injuries.
He remembered the look Sheng Linyou had given him when he lifted his head beneath the dim warehouse lights.
Yin Xigui rested his hand on his knee and slowly curled his fingertips inward.