Chapter 9 #2
“Aren’t your parents rich?” I asked.
Xiao Wu puffed out his cheeks like a blowfish, rolling his eyes as if I’d asked the dumbest question imaginable. “Not like yours.”
“Well, rich is rich. What’s the difference?”
“Oh,” he tutted quickly, his tongue flicking against his teeth in a rhythm that sounded like a tiny drumbeat. “Silly, silly child,” he said, wagging a finger at me. “My lineage has power. Power no money can buy. And that,” he added with exaggerated drama, “makes us very, very, very, very, very…”
“Influential?” I finished for him.
“You got it, kid.”
“So, should I bow to you then?” I teased, trying to sound serious, though the corners of my lips betrayed me.
I couldn’t help but wonder—what kind of power did he mean?
The magical kind, like in the cartoons we used to sneak-watch at night?
Or the kind that made grown men shake when they heard your name?
Maybe, if I stayed quiet long enough, he’d tell me.
“Nah,” he said, grinning. “You’re alright. We’re brothers.”
He raised his fist, and I met it with mine—a small thump that somehow sealed something bigger than a promise. Then he finally sat upright, leaning his head against the cool glass window, watching the traffic crawl past.
I tried to recall what the museum director—Mr. Xia, that was his name—had said during the tour.
The man had gone on and on about each object, his voice a steady hum that made my eyelids feel heavy.
But I really had tried to remember. It wasn’t just for me—it was because Mom would definitely ask later. She always did.
After all, my parents had donated the money that made the new collection possible. Or “invested,” as my father liked to correct people.
“Maybe Mr. Xia wasn’t bowing,” I said, pretending to think hard. “Maybe he just had a sore neck.”
“Dude.” He snorted. “Just admit you didn’t notice a single thing.”
“I did,” I insisted. “I was studying the artifacts the nice old man was showing us.”
He laughed and kicked me lightly in the shin. “You’re such a nerd.”
I shook my head, frowning even though a smile tugged at my lips. “No, I’m not. And you know that.”
Little Wu always used words I’d only ever heard on TV—dude, bro, cool. He made everything sound like an American movie. Being called a nerd wasn’t even an insult here. Not in China. But still… it didn’t feel like something I wanted to be.
“How much did your parents give them?” he asked suddenly.
I shrugged. “I don’t remember. Why do you care?”
My friend groaned dramatically and began tugging at his outfit like it was trying to strangle him. The bow tie went first, then the suit jacket. “I can’t breathe in this thing!”
“Stop it,” I hissed. “You can’t just take your clothes off in here!”
“Give me your shirt,” he demanded, half laughing, half serious.
“No way,” I shot back, clutching my own collar like he might actually grab me. “Just because you hate what you’re wearing doesn’t mean I have to undress!”
Now I really wished Ayi were here. He wouldn’t dare act up in front of her. One look, one snap of her fingers, and he’d sit up straight like a soldier. That was her superpower—invisible but absolute.
Ignoring me completely, Xiao Wu reached down to the footwell and grabbed my backpack. “What’s this?” he muttered, rummaging until he pulled out a neatly folded white polo shirt.
“Probably for tennis,” I said, rolling my eyes. “How would I know? Ayi packs everything.”
He slipped it on over his undershirt, buttoning it halfway. “Do I look better in this?”
“Yes,” I admitted, “unless you plan to wear it with the bow tie.”
He laughed. “Blame Auntie Five. She picked the stupid outfit.”
Before I could answer, the vehicle jerked forward violently—brakes screeching, tires biting into the asphalt. My whole body lunged ahead, seatbelt locking against my chest. Xiao Wu slammed into the back of the front seat with a grunt.
The driver started muttering under his breath, words tumbling out too fast to understand—half in Mandarin, half in prayer. “Oh no, no, no, this cannot be happening… please, don’t let this be real…”
We were stopped behind another car—two, maybe three—boxed in by black sedans that seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Then they appeared.
Two men in dark suits, sunglasses glinting even though the sky had turned gray. They walked fast, too fast, their faces blank, movements precise.
They yanked at the car handles, one on each side.
“Hoi mun! Hoi mun!” One shouted in Cantonese.
“Kai men!” the other echoed—open the door.
My pulse pounded so hard I could hear it in my ears.
“Don’t you dare,” Xiao Wu growled, his voice dropping into something deep, strange—nothing like his usual joking tone. “I’ll f—” his curse cut off as the man nearest the window raised something metallic.
A gun.
“Wo jiao ni…” the man started in Mandarin, then switched back to Cantonese, voice cold, emotionless. “Hoi mun.” Open the door.
Click.
The sound of the car lock releasing was louder than thunder.
The right-side door flew open first, then mine. A gust of city air rushed in, thick with exhaust and something acrid, like burning rubber.
A hand grabbed my arm—rough, unyielding. I didn’t even have time to scream before I was yanked out of the door.
My legs wouldn’t move. My mind couldn’t process what was happening. Everything felt far away—the sound of Xiao Wu shouting, the driver pleading, the men barking orders.
They dragged me toward a black van parked just behind. The sliding door opened with a hollow clang, and before I could think, I was shoved inside—landing hard on my side next to Xiao Wu.
He was swearing, switching languages so fast it made my head spin—English, Cantonese, Mandarin, over and over, a tangled blur of fury and fear.
Then a hand—large and fast—came straight for me. A flash of skin, a sharp pain. And then, nothing.
“FUCK!” The word tore out of me, rough and raw. My throat burned as if something had dragged sandpaper down it. Agony ripped through my skull, a blinding throb that pulsed behind my eyes.
“God—” I forced my lids open, but light stabbed through them, punishing me for even trying. Another wave of pain slammed through my temples.
“Damn it!”
My voice echoed back at me, flat and muffled. That was the first thing I noticed—it wasn’t the back of the van anymore. The air was still, sterile. Too clean. Then came the faint hum of an air-conditioning unit above, blowing cold air across my damp skin, sending a shiver snaking down my spine.
Where was Xiao Wu?
The thought snapped me upright—well, I tried to. My body protested, every muscle stiff as I’d been frozen in place for hours. The van, the screams, the struggle—they all rushed back in flashes. But no…
It wasn’t a dream.
It was a memory.
Dannie Wu.
Little Wu.
Xiao Wu.
My stomach churned. No, that couldn’t be right. That couldn’t be him.
I shook my head, too fast. The space spun, and the punishment came quick—a cluster of needle pricks behind my eyes, drilling into my skull.
“Shit…” I gritted my teeth and tried to breathe through it.
I forced my mind to replay everything. What happened after the van stopped? Who were those men? Was Auntie Five really behind this like my mother said? It didn’t make sense. Why would she take her own nephew?
No… it wasn’t her. Couldn’t be.
Those men—they weren’t from Shanghai. Their Mandarin was wrong. Stiff, offbeat. Their tones carried a harsh rhythm, words clipped and colored with something else. A thick accent. Hong Kong, maybe. I didn’t know then. I couldn’t have. But now… now I could hear it clearly in my head.
So they didn’t come for me?
All this time, I’d believed that I was the target. That my name, my blood, my mother—that was the reason. But maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe I was just… collateral.
My vision began to adjust to the darkness. The faint glow of a single bulb flickered above, yellow and weak, like it was gasping for life. I tried to rub my face, but my right arm jerked and stopped short.
A coarse, biting pressure dug into my wrist.
Some kind of bindings.
I yanked again—nothing. My other arm—same thing.
“Shit…” I breathed out, quieter this time, not from pain but from realization.
I was tied down.
The panic came in a slow, creeping wave, climbing up my chest until it pressed against my throat. My breaths came shallow and uneven as I tugged harder, the ties cutting deeper into my skin.
How long had I been out? Hours? Days?
And then my vision cleared enough for me to see the place around me.
My blood ran cold.
“No—no, no…”
I knew this place. Every inch of it. The padded walls. The way the light never reached the corners. The faint chemical smell that clung to the air—bleach, fear, and madness all mixed together.
It was a chamber modeled after the padded cell in the psychiatric ward.
A room built to keep my mother contained.
Except now, I was the one inside.
The irony clawed at my chest. My mother used to scream about these walls, how they swallowed sound, how no one could hear her cries no matter how loud she begged. Now I knew she wasn’t lying. My screams barely bounced back to me, smothered by the soft, suffocating walls.
I tested the ties again.
Tight.
No slack.
My options were pathetic: keep fighting until my skin tore or wait for someone to walk through that door.
Someone would come.
I didn’t know how my mother had gotten out—or who had helped her—but one thing was painfully clear.
I’d underestimated her.
And if she was behind this… then maybe this wasn’t just revenge.
Maybe this was her way of proving she’d won.
What was her role in my kidnapping?