The Riddle

"Zixuan..."

The name drifted through the void, stretching and folding into itself like a whisper lost in time. The voice—soft at first, almost tender—called again, wrapping around her like a lingering echo of a dream half-remembered.

"Zixuan..."

Her pulse quickened. Where was it coming from? Or perhaps the better question was—where was she?

Everything was weightless, shapeless. She had no sense of her body, no distinction between herself and the darkness that surrounded her. Had she drowned? Was this what death felt like? Or was she trapped somewhere between?

The thought sent a sharp pang of fear through her chest. No. No, she was still here. Still thinking, still feeling. That had to mean something.

But then, something changed. The voice—no longer just a voice—was shifting. The soft, feminine tone that had called her name so gently began to distort, deepening, unraveling into something more familiar.

"Zixuan..."

The syllables stretched, slower this time, laced with something heavier, something deeper—a presence.

"Zixuan..."

Her breath hitched. No. It couldn't be.

She hadn't heard that voice in years. Hadn't allowed herself to.

"Bàba..."

The word slipped from her lips before she could stop it, raw and unguarded. Her father's voice was unmistakable, yet impossible. Her fingers twitched—when had she gotten fingers again? When had she even begun to feel the air pressing against her skin?

Shapes stirred in the distance, blurred outlines shifting in and out of focus. The darkness around her wasn't as empty as it seemed. Something was there. Someone.

The air grew thick, humming with a quiet static.

This wasn't real. It couldn't be.

And yet—

"Bàba..." she whispered again, the word breaking on her tongue like glass. And the shadows ahead of her—they moved and slowly turned into images she used to watch.

Yuchen Zhao sat at the head of the table, a picture of composed authority. Every movement he made was deliberate—the way he cut his steak with precise, practiced strokes, the way he held his wine glass with just the right amount of disdain, the way he barely looked up as he spoke, as though addressing anything less than the empire he had built was a waste of time.

Even as he ate, he exuded power, dining as if he were a monarch at a grand banquet rather than a father sharing a meal with his family.

Beside him, Dyadia Kim, the sole heir of the prestigious Kim family, maintained an air of quiet elegance. Unlike her husband's cold intensity, her presence was softer—calculated grace woven into every movement.

But beneath the veneer of warmth, Zixuan knew there was something steel-like about her mother. A woman raised to rule, not to yield.

To Yuchen's right, Wei Zhao sat with his back straight, his expression unreadable, though Zixuan knew the weight of responsibility he carried. The family legacy was already his to uphold—heir to their father's empire, the bridge between Zhao and Kim bloodlines, the one expected to never falter.

He had always been a loving brother, never unkind, but he was also unwavering when it came to family rules and tradition. He had no tolerance for deviation. No room for weakness.

And then there was her—sitting across from them, her hands clenched beneath the table, eyes squeezed shut as if that would make everything disappear.

"Honey, why are you closing your eyes?"

Her father's voice cut through the stillness, its smooth, low timbre unsettlingly distant despite the deafening silence in the room.

The long mahogany table stretched between them, an absurdly extravagant divide that made their family of four feel like strangers dining in separate worlds.

Then—

"Honey, why are you closing your eyes?"

Her mother's voice this time. The same words. The same tone.

Zixuan's breath caught in her throat.

She hadn't answered the first time. She hadn't even moved. And yet—they were asking again, as if reality itself was caught in a loop.

Everything was wrong.

She knew nothing had made sense since they stepped out of the arcade, but she hadn't expected the nightmare to bring back the dead.

The memory slammed into her like a freight train.

Sweat pooled at the base of her neck, her skin clammy, her breath coming in shallow, uneven gasps. Zixuan's fingers curled against the fabric of her dress as she forced herself to look at her father—at the man who shouldn't be here.

Yuchen Zhao's gaze was unreadable, piercing through her as if he already knew what she was thinking.

"Well, if you're not going to answer, then you better get up and head to school before you get late."

Her blood ran cold.

The same words.

The same tone.

The same moment—repeating.

Zixuan wasn't even able to react before it happened.

The door to the grand dining hall burst open. A group of men in black suits stormed in, their movements quick, practiced—like ghosts from the past, resurrected to replay their roles.

Gunfire erupted.

Wei was the first to move. He lunged, shielding her with his body just like he had before, his grip firm as he pushed her down. The sharp scent of gunpowder filled her lungs, the deafening bursts ringing in her ears.

Her father barely had time to rise.

The shots hit him.

One after another.

She saw it again, just as it had happened before—Yuchen Zhao collapsing onto the floor, his lifeless eyes locking onto hers.

She remembered the exact way his body landed. The dull thud. The stillness. The blood pooling around him, seeping into the intricate carvings of the mahogany floor.

But this time—

This time, something was different.

Because he was still looking at her.

Still breathing.

Still… smiling.

Then it hit her.

A slow, creeping realization slithered down her spine, cold as death.

Zixuan's breath caught in her throat as she turned her head, her movements painfully slow, as if any sudden action would shatter the fragile illusion around her.

Everyone—everyone—had stopped moving.

The men in black suits, mid-action, their guns still raised. The butlers and maids along the edges of the room, their hands hovering, trapped in the act of serving. Her mother, Dyadia, her lips parted as if about to scream, her expression eerily frozen.

And then there was Wei.

He was still pressed against her, his face just inches from hers, close enough that she could see every detail—the fine strands of his dark hair, the slight furrow of his brows, the faint scar on his chin from a childhood accident.

But his eyes—his eyes were wrong.

They were locked onto her, unwavering, unblinking.

And he was smiling.

A smile that didn't belong to him.

A smile that stretched just a little too wide.

A smile that mirrored the one on her father's face.

And then, all at once, they moved.

Not naturally. Not fluidly.

Like puppets.

Every single person in the room turned their heads toward her at the exact same time, their smiles widening in perfect unison.

A sharp, piercing cold washed over Zixuan as their voices overlapped, echoing through the cavernous dining hall like a twisted chorus.

"Look at what you did…"

Wei's lips moved first, but the voice that came out wasn't his—it was warped, layered, as if something else was speaking through him. Then Dyadia's voice followed, softer but just as wrong, and then—her father.

Despite lying motionless in a pool of his own blood, Yuchen Zhao's lips cracked open, dark crimson spilling from the corners of his mouth as he rasped the same words. His body convulsed as though some unseen force was still pulling the strings.

"Look at what you did!"

Zixuan stumbled back, her chair scraping against the polished marble floor.

Then—everyone spoke at once.

"LOOK AT WHAT YOU DID!"

The walls trembled. The chandelier above them flickered violently, casting jagged shadows that stretched unnaturally across the warped mahogany table. The frozen servants, the men in black suits, even the lifeless body of her father—all of them stared at her now, their expressions carved into grotesque, unnatural grins.

Zixuan's breath came in ragged gasps, her ears ringing from the sheer weight of their voices.

This wasn't real. It couldn't be real.

And yet—Wei moved.

His head tilted ever so slightly, his smile widening as his bloodless hand reached for her wrist.

"Six claimed, six you owe.

Choose who stays, or fate will sow."