The yard before the Li estate is quiet, but it is the quiet of held breath. The stone tiles are still wet from the morning's washing. A servant hurries past with a basket of river reeds, head bowed.

Y/n stands at the threshold of the eastern courtyard, where the lotus pond catches the dying light. Behind them, the door to Nezha's chamber is ajar, creaking softly on its wooden hinge.

Inside, a figure sits cross-legged on the floor, back straight, coiled red ribbon loose around his shoulders. Nezha does not turn. His voice is low, frayed at the edges, as if he has not slept in a long time.