Chapter 51 Yiran
Yiran
The mattress Yiran had been sleeping on for the past few nights at the pub gave him a stiff back in the mornings, and it was
no different today. He stretched slowly, working out the kinks in his body, wondering why the dive bar was empty today. There
was normally at least one Hybrid hanging around, though he was mostly left in Yuki’s charge.
Without fail, his father would come to him each night, asking him to channel his magic. Yiran’s frustration grew as his efforts
sputtered and failed, and he had a sinking feeling his father was getting impatient too. It also felt like his father expected
him to fend for himself among the Hybrids. To earn a spot in the crew, the same way Noah had. Yiran wondered if he was flunking
the test.
The creak of stairs got his attention. He caught Henry just as he was putting on his jacket by the front door. He must’ve
been in the cellar before Yiran had woken.
“Hey, Henry.”
The Hybrid startled. “Did I wake you?”
“It’s okay. Have you seen Yuki? Is he with my father?”
“Not sure where that kid is, but it’s a big day for the boss,” Henry said absently as he gathered a bunch of packages from
the table.
“Where are you going?”
“To meet him at The Green Needle.”
There was a beat of silence as Henry’s hand froze over a package.
He slipped up. He wasn’t supposed to tell me. Yiran yawned loudly, acting as though he hadn’t noticed Henry’s carelessness and that the words The Green Needle meant nothing to him.
“Cool. Guess I’ll just hang around here until Yuki comes back.”
Henry smiled, looking relieved that Yiran hadn’t seemed to notice anything. “Sure, kid.”
“I’m going back to sleep. See ya.” Yiran shuffled to the back of the bar.
The front door closed, and he heard a click. Was that habit or had he been intentionally locked in? That voice of doubt returned. Why the hell are you here? They’re Hybrids. You know they’re up to no good.
Maybe it wasn’t a voice of doubt, but a voice of reason.
His gaze landed on the trapdoor. What exactly was in the cellar? He’d seen his father and several Hybrids going in and out
of it, and the door was usually kept locked. He got up and tugged at the lever. To his surprise, the door opened. Had Henry
forgotten to secure it?
Down the ladder, Yiran found a workspace with equipment he didn’t recognize and shelves that were sagging from the weight
of various devices. Some looked like the scanning device Henry had used on him; others Yiran wasn’t so sure about. As he turned
to leave, his foot kicked a ball of paper that had missed the trash bin. He didn’t know what compelled him to pick it up and
flatten it out.
Someone had written several locations in the city on the piece of paper. What did it mean? He threw another nervous glance
at the various devices and crumpled the paper, putting it back where it’d been. Carefully, he closed the trapdoor, making
sure there were no signs that he’d entered.
His mind went back to Henry’s slipup. Big day for the boss . . . To meet him at The Green Needle.
What day was it? Yiran had lost track. He checked his phone, and the dread in his stomach worsened.
He dashed to the back exit of the bar. It was locked too.
Cursing, he tried the windows. They were unlocked, but stuck because of the cold.
He slammed his shoulder into one until the hinge gave way and he could push it open and squeeze his way out.
Sprinting toward the main street as fast as he could, he hailed a cab, hoping desperately that his gut was wrong.
The Green Needle was the most esteemed teahouse in the city. It had retained its centuries-old architectural features and
traditional methods of brewing. Song Wei wasn’t a sentimental man, but if there was one thing he never failed to miss each
year, it was his tea ritual on the day of his wife’s death anniversary. For as long as Yiran could remember, his grandfather
would visit this teahouse at the same time each year to order his late wife’s favorite tea. It was a private custom Ash and
Yiran were not a part of.
It couldn’t be a coincidence that Song Liming was coming here today.
Big day for the boss . . . Was his father revealing that he was still alive? Or was something else about to happen?
Breathing heavily, Yiran staggered to the double doors at the entrance. Traffic had been a nightmare, and he’d jumped out
of his cab and run the last three blocks.
“Do you have a reservation, sir?” said the waitress at the front, looking dubiously at his disheveled state.
“I’m looking for Song Wei,” Yiran panted.
“I’m afraid Master Song has requested not to be disturbed,” the waitress replied awkwardly. She seemed uncertain about turning
a guest down. Maybe she was a new hire.
Yiran smiled sadly. “Oh, I know—he’s my grandfather. It’s my grandmother’s death anniversary, you see, and he asked me to
join him. Traffic was bad, and I’m late, so . . .” He shrugged helplessly. “I can show you my ID if you don’t believe me.”
“It’s okay, sir,” the waitress said, her expression full of sympathy. “Master Song’s in the Waterlily room, down by the second
corridor near the fountain.”
Light chatter from patrons floated in the air as Yiran passed the open spaces and public tables.
He tried to hurry, but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.
If he had misread the situation, it was best to be able to leave the teahouse quietly without his grandfather ever knowing he’d been here.
It didn’t take long to spot the fountain the waitress had mentioned. There wasn’t anyone around in this part of the teahouse,
where there were five private rooms. Yiran checked the small gold plaques on the wall until he found the right one. He hesitated
by the wooden sliding door. If he barged in and it was only his grandfather in there, then the confrontation he didn’t want
to have would happen. If his father was in there too, then what? He’d trusted his gut to come here, but now his instincts were failing him, and he was overthinking
as usual.
He was about to press his ear to the door when his anxiety spiked. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t ready to face his grandfather.
But just as he turned to leave, he heard a sharp hiss of pain.
There was a thud, like the sound of something striking the ground dully. Not a teacup or a teapot but something much larger—like
a body.
Yiran slid the door open.
His mind went blank as he gaped at the scene in front of him. The tea still steaming on the table, the open window and the
cold breeze that drifted in—
Song Wei was crumpled on the floor, his face ashen, a hand clutching his chest. He was shaking, his breaths shallow. Was he
having a heart attack?
A rush of clarity crashed into Yiran. “Zufu!”
He gripped his grandfather’s shoulders, dragging him toward the door in a panic. Yiran didn’t know what he was doing, but
he knew he had to get—“Help!” he shouted. Would anyone hear him?
Something grazed his cheek.
His grandfather was looking at him, his hand touching Yiran’s face, pushing against it as though he didn’t believe Yiran was
real and solid.
“Yiran? My boy, I’m sorry—” The old man’s eyes fluttered shut, and he went silent, his hand hitting the floor.
Yiran could feel the life leaving his grandfather, and he felt his own heart stop.
A flameless fire burst inside him.
Heat rushed through his veins as his vision went completely white. He couldn’t see anything. Couldn’t feel anything. Something
squeezed his chest, wringing his insides. He bent over his grandfather’s body, gasping in pain. The fuzzy edges of his vision
slowly sharpened. But something else was happening to him. His center, his core, it was—
He caught sight of someone standing at the end of the corridor.
Ash. Disbelief and horror twisted his features.
It wasn’t me, Yiran wanted to say. I didn’t do anything. But his insides were imploding, and he couldn’t speak. The flameless fire inside him barreled up, shooting out of him. He
raised his hand to the ceiling.
And the world turned red.