Chapter 11: Homecoming

The immigration office still smelled of stale coffee and bureaucracy. I texted Zhao en route—my old vocational school buddy turned travel agent—to grab our tickets. His office hadn't changed: peeling "Visit Hokkaido!" posters, sticky keyboards, and the faint reek of instant noodles. 

"Finally remember your big brother?" Zhao grinned, tossing the envelope. His belly strained against a "World's Best Dad" T-shirt—his wife six months pregnant. 

I side-eyed the tickets. "Why's there a layover in Beijing?" 

"Last-minute booking. Your boss's passport photo looks like a K-pop reject, by the way." 

Shangguan's BMW purred outside the visa office. "Did you pack—" 

"Toothbrush, underwear, three power suits." I buckled up. "Try not to wreck my hometown, *boss*." 

The airport security line snaked endlessly. Shangguan's cologne clashed with the stench of disinfectant. "Your contact in Dalian," he muttered, scanning customs forms. "This *Uncle Liang*—how much does he know?" 

"Enough to mock me at family reunions." 

The flight was turbulence and bad decisions. When Shangguan's shoulder became my involuntary pillow, his whisper cut through engine roar: "Your college thesis mentioned Dalian Port's corruption loopholes." 

I feigned sleep. 

**3:17AM – Dalian Airport** 

The lone hotel clerk smirked at our single-room booking. Shangguan collapsed on the couch, tie askew. Moonlight caught the scar on his wrist—three parallel lines, faint as faded ink. 

By dawn, Uncle Liang's office reeked of jasmine tea and nepotism. "My niece brought home a *doll*," he drawled in English, eyeing Shangguan. "Does he come with a warranty?" 

Negotiations dragged. Cargo manifests blurred with childhood memories—Dad's seafood warehouse, Mom's mahjong nights. Shangguan's Mandarin surprised even the dockworkers. 

"Your mother's hotpot could end trade wars," he said later, chopsticks hovering over Sichuan peppercorns. Dad beamed. Mom's glare could've frozen the Bohai Sea. 

**WeChat @ 22:47** 

亮介: 他买了教堂地皮 

Yu: ??? 

亮介: 尺寸发我 

The night market buzzed with neon and suspicion. Shangguan gripped my elbow through the squid-scented crowds. "Your uncle's hiding something in Container 17B." 

"Family trait." I甩开他的手. "We're all liars here." 

Back home, Mom's whisper sliced through thin walls: "That pretty boy's trouble." Dad's rumble: "She's got his tie in her suitcase." 

In the guest room, Shangguan's luggage gaped open—a silver cross glinting beneath collared shirts. The receipt read *St. Andrew's Chapel, Tokyo*. 

Dawn stained the harbor rust-red. Somewhere between customs fraud and childhood ghosts, the game shifted. 

**Zhi's Notes (Translated)** 

*Item 702: Extend Yu's visa (5-year spousal preferred) 

Item 888: Purchase Xinghai Square apartment (sea view) 

Item 1000: Learn 我爱你 in Dalian dialect* 

The container trucks roared past. In their wake, a single azure ribbon fluttered—torn from a dress never worn, caught on barbed wire like surrender.