Ethan Young looked at her: "Aunt May, be good."

He only had time to glance once before the gap closed tightly, and the elevator began to descend with her inside.

There was a mop standing next to the elevator, probably left behind by a cleaner who forgot to take it after cleaning. Ethan Young casually grabbed it, stepped on the mop head, and with a forceful pull, yanked the entire wooden stick out.

Holding the wooden stick, Ethan Young finally looked up at them. "What do you want?"

He knew these people.

Heishuijie was full of thugs, swaggering around under the pretense of collecting protection fees. The man in front, Bro Charles, was said to have just gotten out of prison a few months ago, claiming he was locked up because he almost stabbed someone to death—an absolute menace. No matter how much he bragged, no one really cared what the truth was.

Bro Charles used to get by collecting protection fees, enjoying the feeling of being respected as a boss by his dumb little followers, until he met Yvonne Shaw—everything started because of one thing: he took a liking to her.

Yvonne Shaw was somewhat attractive, with a fiery and spirited personality.

The only problem was, she didn’t know what was good for her. She’d rejected him several times, completely ungrateful.

Thinking of this, Bro Charles's gaze darkened. "Kid, mind your own business."

Ethan Young still didn’t react. The shop assistants hiding inside, too scared to make a sound, were on edge—they’d never encountered anything like this before. This group swaggered in, smashing things, clearly not people to mess with.

They didn’t know whether to call the police or not. Everyone knew the unspoken rules of Heishuijie: street matters stay on the street.

Then they saw the "good kid" May always talked about standing at the elevator entrance, facing five people alone, expressionless. One hand came out of his pocket, and he beckoned lightly at the group, not clear if it was a provocation or if he really didn’t care: "You’ve come looking for death right at my doorstep. I don’t have time to waste words with you. Come at me together."

""

Bro Charles didn’t want to admit that for a moment, he was actually intimidated by this boy who still looked like a student.

The kid’s eyes were dark and cold, chilling to the bone. The way he looked at them was no different from looking at a pile of shit—definitely not the gaze of some delicate flower from a greenhouse.

Bro Charles, still angry and used to showing off, pulled open his collar: "You talk big for someone so young. Do you know who I am? Go ask around—who doesn’t show Bro Charles some respect? See this scar on my neck? Got it fighting with a prison guard back in the day. And you, you little brat, what’s your relationship with that bitch? What, you want to hit me? Trying to act tough? With that little stick, you think you can—"

Without another word, Ethan Young grabbed Bro Charles's collar and suddenly closed in, driving his knee hard into the man’s stomach. Then, without giving him a chance to react, he locked Bro Charles's elbow and yanked him forward.

It was a beautiful over-the-shoulder throw—clean and decisive. If the atmosphere weren’t so tense, the shopkeepers in the back would have wanted to applaud.

Bro Charles was hit so hard his vision went black, unable to even speak.

But Ethan Young had no intention of letting him off so easily. He dragged him up from the ground and slammed him against the elevator’s steel door with a "bang," fingers tightening abruptly, choking Bro Charles by the neck!

"So arrogant, huh? Think doing time is some kind of badge of honor for a man?"

Bro Charles came to his senses and tried to kick, but Ethan Young struck his calf hard with the stick. His leg spasmed uncontrollably, and as soon as Ethan Young let go, he crashed to the ground, one hand supporting himself, the other clutching his stomach, retching: "Fuck."

"Who were you just calling a bitch?" Bro Charles watched as Ethan Young's strikingly handsome face drew closer, but the hostility in the boy’s eyes was almost overflowing. More than his looks, what shocked him was the cold, sharp, and gloomy aura all over him.

Ethan Young repeated the question, holding back his anger, voice hoarse: "Who did you just call a bitch?"

Bro Charles said nothing.

"No one taught you how to behave? I’ll teach you." Ethan Young nudged the useless lump on the ground with his toe.

The few guys behind Bro Charles exchanged glances, all seeing hesitation in each other’s eyes. Then, reaching a consensus, they turned and ran.

"We’re screwed, what do we do now?"

The tall one asked as he ran, "Should we call the police?"

"Call the damn police!" another replied. "How are we supposed to survive on the street after this?"

Grace Miller was having afternoon tea when she got the call from the police station.

The woman took off her silk shawl, revealing a custom-made lace gown that accentuated her curves with an indescribable elegance. The hem was subtly embroidered with two dark flowers, and her ankles were fair and delicate, like polished jade.

Her carefully styled long curls framed her face as she listened with a smile to the ladies across from her chatting about the latest winter fashions, occasionally chiming in: "Mrs. Carter, if you like it so much, why not just fly over and buy it someday?"

"Madam, your phone."

Grace Miller turned her head, fingers resting on the porcelain teacup, and asked casually, "Who is it?"

The person holding the phone hesitated, unsure whether to say, then bent down and whispered in Grace Miller's ear so only the two of them could hear: "The police station. They said the second young master got into a fight, and it was pretty serious. The other side is demanding compensation for medical expenses. What do you think? Should we send someone to check it out?"

Grace Miller's expression changed instantly.

------------

3. Chapter Three

B City, Heishui Town Public Security Sub-bureau.

"Ethan Young's guardian?"

"I’m his mother." Grace Miller stood in the police station, clearly a bit uneasy. "Is he alright? Was he hurt? How much for the medical expenses? Whatever it is, as long as you can release him right away."

The policewoman didn’t even look up, skillfully pulling a form from the folder on her right and slapping it on the desk: "We’ll talk about that later. Fill this out first."

After a while, when the policewoman finished her work, she capped her pen and looked up: "Your son’s pretty impressive—one against five, and all the injuries he gave them are internal. You wouldn’t even notice if they didn’t go to the hospital."

Grace Miller stiffened, not sure what expression to put on.

The policewoman looked her up and down and asked casually, "You’re not locals, are you?"

Grace Miller replied, "We’re from A City."

Ethan Young's fight this time wasn’t considered serious. Although the few guys who called the police kept insisting their boss was brutally beaten and pinned to the ground, the officers taking the statements were skeptical.

They’d received countless police calls, but this was the first time they’d seen "victims" like these: messy, colorful hair, earrings and nose rings, reeking of smoke, and domineering tattoos—green dragon on the left, white tiger on the right. Especially when they checked the ID numbers they provided, every one of them had a criminal record.

"Is what you’re saying true?"

"It’s true, absolutely true! Our boss still can’t stand up!"

So they turned their attention to the man on the lounge sofa—a repulsive guy with a gold "dog chain" around his neck, clutching his stomach and moaning nonstop: "It hurts so much, oh, I’m being bullied, how can kids be like this nowadays, it hurts, even talking hurts."

""

Grace Miller filled out the form and signed her name in the lower right corner.

The policewoman said, "Alright, wait here. Your son’s not done being questioned yet."

Grace Miller gripped her handbag, not wanting to stay any longer: "Not done yet?" She’d rushed over from A City as soon as she got the call—a two-hour drive.

The policewoman glanced at her: "The two sides’ statements don’t match."

In the interrogation room.

For the third time, Ethan Young repeated, "I didn’t hit him."

In these not-so-long two hours, Bro Charles had experienced just how unpredictable life could be, and what a pain in the ass it really was. The high school kid across from him had taught him a lesson—what it meant to be shameless.

He sat across from Ethan Young, the long table between them, and slammed his palm on the table, shouting at the top of his lungs as if he was going to blow the roof off: "—Fuck your mother! Officer! He’s lying!"

But the officer wasn’t easy to mess with either. Working in the Heishuijie district had toughened even the gentlest of personalities: "Watch your mouth! Sit down and behave! If you can’t, get out! Who said you could talk?"

Bro Charles reluctantly sat back down.

The officer turned to look at the "frail youth" across from Bro Charles, his voice softening a bit: "Ethan Young, right? Don’t be afraid, we’re here. He won’t dare do anything to you."