Summary: A normal training day unravels in the most unexpected way when frustration collides with affection, and one sharp voice shakes the entire room back into place. What begins as a scolding turns into a war of pillows, paychecks, and pride, forcing the team to reckon with the quiet power they've underestimated—and the storm that follows when Rui makes a call no one asked him to make. By the time silence returns, lines have been redrawn, debts have been paid, and the team learns the hard way just how much weight one quiet girl in an oversized hoodie can carry.
Chapter Nineteen
The soft, rhythmic tapping of her keyboard filled the air with a gentle cadence, the kind of background sound that faded into the fabric of the room if one wasn't paying attention—but to those who knew her, who knew what it meant when she worked in silence, who knew what it meant when she chose to sit beside them again instead of locking herself away upstairs—it was a sound that wrapped around the team like a familiar hum, steady and comforting and unmistakably hers. Tong Yao sat at her desk, posture slightly slouched in a way that meant she was focused but not stressed, her hazel eyes narrowed on the screen in front of her as her fingers flew across the keys, and draped over her small frame—soft, oversized, worn in all the places that mattered—was his hoodie.
The one he'd told her to keep. The one she hadn't worn in over a week. The one she had silently folded and placed aside when the world had felt too loud and she had needed to disappear into herself, the one that had gathered dust waiting for her to reclaim it.
And now?
Now it was back where it belonged—wrapped around her body, sleeves too long, fabric bunched at her wrists, the red and black lining catching in the soft light as she absentmindedly tugged at the cuffs between thoughts.
Sicheng saw it. Noticed it immediately. And while he didn't smile— not quite —there was a sharp, unmistakable flicker of satisfaction that curled low in his chest and spread warm through his veins, a quiet, possessive kind of pleasure that didn't ask for attention but rooted itself firmly in place. He was training, headset on, focused—or at least, mostly—but he still kept her in his periphery, still watched the soft weight of the hoodie shift when she moved, still tracked the way her brows furrowed as she concentrated, still listened for the occasional sigh or click that told him she was present, she was engaged, she was here .
And that?
That was enough. Because she wasn't gone. She wasn't withdrawn. She wasn't hiding in her room or fading into the background or letting silence wrap itself around her like armor.
She was here.
Wearing his hoodie.
Typing at her desk.
Back where she belonged.
Da Bing, curled beside her in his bed near the foot of the desk, lifted his head occasionally to cast judgmental glances around the room, his massive tail flicking lazily every so often like he was personally overseeing the entire operation, as if to say I'm watching all of you, don't ruin this.
Everything was as it should be.
Mostly.
Except—
Coach Kwon was struggling.
His voice carried from the other side of the room, sharp with frustration but not yet angry, peppered with reminders and strategic suggestions that were promptly ignored or half-absorbed by the collection of idiots seated before him. Lao Mao and Pang were whispering under their breath, Yue was half-reclined in his chair again pretending to listen, Lao K was staring at the ceiling like it held the secrets of the universe, and even Ming, normally the voice of reason, was smothering a yawn behind his fist.
And Yao?
Still typing. Still focused. Still pretending not to hear any of it.
But Sicheng saw it—the way her fingers began to hesitate, the way her shoulders tensed with increasing frequency, the way she paused every few seconds to lift her head and shoot a subtle glance in the direction of the chaos, the way her brows began to pinch slightly as Kwon's voice rose another octave.
She was getting annoyed.
Visibly.
Adorably.
And then—
Finally—
She snapped.
Before anyone could stop her, before she could stop herself, before she even realized she had made the decision, she stood abruptly from her desk, chair sliding back with a scrape, and turned to face the room, arms rising, hands planting themselves firmly on her hips in the universal stance of a woman done playing nice. Her voice cut through the room like a whip, sharp and exasperated and just high-pitched enough to make Pang snort into his sleeve.
"Are you even listening to Coach Kwon?!"
The room froze.
Sicheng, half-expecting it, barely turned his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in amusement as he watched her begin to unravel.
Lao K, always the calm one, shrugged lazily. "We're listening."
"No, you're not !" she snapped, her foot stomping once, the oversized hoodie bouncing with the motion as she puffed up like an angry kitten trying to look like a lion. "If you were listening, you wouldn't be whispering, or yawning, or— or staring at the ceiling! " Her gaze zeroed in on Lao K with deadly accuracy.
Lao Mao, biting the inside of his cheek to avoid laughing, folded his arms. "Then tell us what he said."
Yao huffed, her face flushed, her fists clenching slightly at her sides. "He said you're not staying on track! He said you keep getting distracted! He said you're wasting everyone's time— my time—because I spend hours— hours —breaking down your matches, writing reports, making recommendations, and if you don't listen , then what is the point?! " Her voice cracked slightly at the end, half from emotion, half from the rising frustration she'd been holding in, and Sicheng, still watching with a thinly veiled smirk, exchanged a look with Lao K that said it all.
There she is.
Because they'd planned this.
Not maliciously.
Just strategically.
They'd let it get a little loud. Let Kwon's voice go ignored. Let the room get just messy enough to see if she'd still jump in. And she had. Not even realizing she'd stepped straight back into her role—not just as their analyst, but as their scolding, exasperated, far-too-invested little sister who couldn't stand to watch them waste their own potential.
"You're impossible! " she snapped, throwing her hands in the air, hoodie sleeves flapping dramatically.
Sicheng, finally giving in to the amusement that had been simmering under the surface, tilted his head and said smoothly, "And you're loud."
" You—! " Yao whipped toward him, outrage flaring in her expression. But she never got the chance to finish.
Because Lao Mao snorted.
Then Pang let out a wheeze.
And then—it was over.
The whole room dissolved into laughter.
Even Ming, calm and reserved as ever, offered a quiet, "She's back, huh?"
Lao K nodded, smirking. "Looks like it."
Pang, still grinning, leaned over and whispered, "Told you it wouldn't take much."
Rui, entering just in time to hear the tail end of her scolding, glanced around the room and, after a long moment, simply nodded once and muttered, "Good."
Yao, confused, still bristling, squinted suspiciously at all of them. "What? What's so funny?"
"Nothing," Sicheng replied, leaning back in his chair, fully relaxed now.
She crossed her arms. "It doesn't sound like nothing." But even then—even with her narrowed eyes and her puffed-up irritation—she didn't notice. Didn't see the way they were all leaning in a little more now, the way the room felt lighter, the way the tension from the past week had finally, finally cracked open. Didn't realize that she had wandered right back into the center of the group and stayed. Didn't realize that she had returned without needing to be asked.
And Sicheng, watching her from across the room, his expression softening just slightly as she continued to lecture them without realizing she was smiling again, finally let out a slow, satisfied breath.
Because everything was back where it should be.
And so was she.
The moment the first couch cushion flew across the room with reckless, furious determination, a single arc of rebellion caught in midair, time seemed to hold its breath—and then, all at once, the room exploded into chaos, beautiful and unrestrained and so very them .
Tong Yao, cheeks flushed with irritation and determination alike, lips pulled into a frown so small it was almost pout-like, stood amid the growing battlefield with an expression that could only be described as ruffled righteousness. Her entire posture bristled with energy, her arms moving quickly as she gathered every available pillow, every forgotten throw cushion, every soft weapon within reach, eyes narrowing as she assessed her targets like a strategist preparing for war. And then—without hesitation—she launched another one.
The first direct hit struck Yue square in the face.
He yelped, a sound of such genuine betrayal that it echoed across the room with theatrical flair as he reeled backward, tripped slightly over the coffee table leg, and promptly dove under it with the kind of speed and desperation usually reserved for emergency situations.
" UNPROVOKED ATTACK! " he bellowed from under the table, his voice rising in pitch as another cushion thudded to the floor just inches from his feet. " I REPEAT—AN UNPROVOKED ATTACK! "
Another cushion launched, whizzing past Pang and narrowly missing his bowl.
Lao Mao, already grinning from ear to ear, dodged the next one with a smooth shoulder lean, elbowing Lao K in the ribs. "She's going full offense. No survivors."
Lao K, chuckling deeply, ducked just enough to avoid another pillow as it zipped by. "She's got better aim than half the league."
Pang, catching one mid-flight with the ease of a man born to receive snacks or soft projectiles, smirked broadly. "At least she's got good form. That was a clean arc."
And Yao?
She was not amused. She huffed, a sharp sound pulled from the bottom of her chest, cheeks still puffed with indignation as she launched a final cushion with impressive force—this one aimed directly at Sicheng, who didn't so much as blink when it hit him square in the chest before tumbling to the floor.
He arched a brow, slowly, unimpressed. "Feel better now, Xiǎo Tùzǐ?"
Yao narrowed her eyes, arms still crossed, her body practically vibrating with leftover tension. And then—just as the others began to settle, just as they foolishly assumed the storm had passed—her gaze slid, sharp and full of sudden inspiration, to the hallway entrance.
Rui had just walked in.
Clipboard in hand. Glasses pushed up. Reading something intently.
Totally unaware.
And Yao?
Yao struck.
Like lightning.
She spun on her heel, expression instantly shifting from bristling warrior to wounded, delicate flower, her arms dropping slightly, her wide eyes lifting in perfect, betrayed innocence as she stepped directly into Rui's path and unleashed her most dangerous, most brutally effective weapon.
The pout.
The wounded, sulky, lip-pulled, wide-eyed pout that she had no idea how devastating it actually was—no idea that the moment she turned it loose, the entire room froze, no idea that she held the power to drop grown men to their knees with a single look .
But the others?
The others knew.
They watched it unfold in real-time, like a car crash they couldn't stop.
Lao Mao stiffened immediately. "No, no, not the pout."
Pang inhaled sharply, whispering, "Abort. ABORT."
Lao K stopped breathing.
Even Sicheng's fingers twitched slightly, his smirk faltering for just a second as he realized what was about to happen, what she was unknowingly about to unleash on them all.
But it was already too late.
Yao stepped closer, voice soft, hesitant, touched with just enough vulnerability to turn the blade. "Rui-ge… the boys weren't listening to Coach Kwon… and they're wasting all my hard work…"
The silence that followed was like the moment before a storm.
Rui's head lifted slowly. His eyes darkened. His clipboard lowered. And the entire team—every single one of them— knew . They had made a terrible mistake. "Is this true?" Rui's voice was calm. Deadly calm. The kind of calm that came with consequences.
Yue, from under the table, peeked out slowly. "Boys… we're done for."
Lao Mao straightened his spine like a man walking to his own execution.
Lao K looked upward, lips parting in a silent prayer to whatever higher power might still be listening.
Pang, traitorous to the very end, didn't even hesitate. "It was the Captain's fault."
Sicheng, unmoved, simply lifted his mug and sipped from it with calculated indifference.
Rui's eyes narrowed further.
And then—
The death sentence.
"Pay. Docked."
The room groaned in collective agony.
Yue collapsed onto the floor dramatically. "It wasn't supposed to end like this…"
Pang threw his head back. "We didn't even do anything!"
"Exactly, you didn't do anything. That's the problem." Rui called over his shoulder as he turned and walked away, already scribbling on his clipboard.
And just like that—he was gone. Leaving behind carnage. Defeated men. Groaning. Mourning their losses. And at the center of it all?
Tong Yao. Still slightly ruffled, arms crossed, hair a little tousled from the flurry of war, but victorious. Radiating unbothered satisfaction like a queen who had just conquered her kingdom with nothing more than a pout and well-timed accusations.
Sicheng, still lounging in his chair, watched her with quiet amusement, taking in the way she stood there with her brows still pinched and her mouth still slightly pursed, completely unaware that she had just orchestrated their demise with surgical precision.
And then—
He smirked.
Because damn.
His Xiǎo Tùzǐ had sharper teeth than anyone gave her credit for. And she had no idea just how powerful she really was.
The lesson, as it turned out, was not just learned quickly—it was absorbed like a hard slap to the face, like a cold bucket of water dumped over a man who'd thought he was untouchable, like a collective moment of brutal clarity shared between four grown men who had never once, in all their years of team bonding and e-sports wars and shared living chaos, realized just how terrifyingly effective their Data Analyst could be when pushed to her limit.
Because Tong Yao—shy, soft-spoken, politely awkward Tong Yao—was not the type to raise her voice, not the type to throw her weight around, not the type to lean into confrontation unless absolutely necessary. But apparently, when necessary? She had absolutely no mercy. Not when it came to wasted effort. And especially not when it came to paychecks . Because unlike Yue or Sicheng, who could afford the financial equivalent of a slap on the wrist, who had the kind of family resources and investment portfolios that could laugh off Rui's clipboard-induced doom, the rest of them—Ming, Lao K, Lao Mao, and Pang—were in a very different boat.
A very tight, very paycheck-dependent, very don't you dare dock my wages kind of boat.
Every single yuan mattered.
Every expense was calculated.
And now?
Now they had been mercilessly sliced across the financial throat, their gaming wallets drained without hesitation, their meager luxuries obliterated by a five-foot-tall girl in an oversized hoodie who had smiled at them two days ago and then financially executed them without blinking.
They had no recourse.
No protection.
No appeal.
Unless.
Unless they could appeal to her . Convince her to talk to Rui. Convince her to soften the blow. Convince her to be merciful. And truly— truly —how hard could that possibly be?
This was Yao.
Their girl.
Their sweet, considerate, easily flustered little analyst who panicked when someone asked her what she wanted to eat. Who used oversized mugs to hide her face. Who apologized when she caught someone yawning while she was explaining patch notes. How hard could it possibly be to get her to just… ask Rui to undo it?
They had no idea.
They approached her in formation—Ming at the lead, Lao K flanking to the right, Pang following close behind, and Lao Mao calmly prepared to deliver the final blow with his carefully rehearsed speech that he had written in his phone notes ten minutes prior.
Yao, seated at her desk in her corner of the training room, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands, her tea still warm beside her keyboard, looked up slowly as they surrounded her like a pack of large, tired men trying desperately not to look as desperate as they felt. They tried everything. Soft expressions. Pained smiles. Subtle sighs of suffering.
Ming opened with a gentle tone, casual. "Hey, Yao, can we talk for a sec?"
Yao blinked.
Listened.
Tilted her head.
And then—without hesitation, without drama, without even looking like she had to think about it—responded in the softest, most devastatingly sweet voice they had ever heard.
"No."
The air left the room.
Ming's mouth hung open mid-sentence. Lao Mao closed his eyes slowly and exhaled through his nose, speech forgotten. Lao K stared at her, eyebrows high, expression unreadable.
And Pang?
Pang physically recoiled. "Wha—what do you mean, no ?"
Yao blinked again, tilting her head like she didn't understand why that wasn't a sufficient answer. "No, I'm not talking to Rui-ge."
"You're not even going to hear us out?" Ming recovered first, leaning in a little as he tried to inject reason.
She nodded politely. "I already did. Yesterday. While you weren't listening to Coach Kwon."
Silence.
Pang opened his mouth again—tried to salvage it. "Technically, we—"
"Did you take my work seriously?" she asked, interrupting him gently, her voice still soft, but firm enough to snap every word off like a blade.
The silence that followed was painful.
Lao Mao muttered something under his breath in surrender. Lao K looked at the floor. Ming pinched the bridge of his nose like he was trying to breathe through the loss.
And Yue, ever the loudest, finally flailed a hand. "How are you this ruthless?!"
Yao shrugged, utterly unbothered, sipping her tea as if she hadn't just denied them financial salvation with a smile.
Lao Mao shook his head slowly. "She's learning from Cheng."
Ming stood, already defeated. "She's learned too well."
Lao K murmured, "Next time we bribe her first."
And Pang?
Pang just stared, horrified, the realization dawning like a terrible sunrise. "We created a monster."
Across the room, still leaned against the wall with his arms crossed and his eyes gleaming with open amusement, Sicheng took a long sip from his mug, his smirk cutting sharp against the rim as he watched the team dissolve under the weight of their own assumptions.
Because this?
This was the best thing he'd seen all week. His Xiǎo Tùzǐ didn't just have teeth. She had fangs. And they had no idea what they'd unleashed.
It was one of those rare, horrible moments when even the air in the room felt like it had turned against them, when every breath came with a bitter sting of disbelief and insult, when reality was so profoundly absurd that it bordered on betrayal—and Yue and Sicheng, normally smug, untouchable, flippantly invincible in the realm of all things financial, stood in the middle of the ZGDX base like statues carved from pure indignation, their phones still lit in their hands, matching expressions of stunned outrage frozen across their faces like synchronized suffering.
Because Rui— Rui —the clipboard-wielding, tea-drinking, smile-too-calm-to-trust manager they had foolishly underestimated, had done the unthinkable.
He had called Madam Lu.
And Madam Lu—who answered on the first ring, who always, always , picked up when it came to her son —had not hesitated, had not asked for context, had not paused to double-check if the financial equivalent of a tactical missile strike was necessary.
She had smiled, apparently. Smiled through the phone. Sweet. Warm. Lethal. And then— with the kind of detached efficiency that only a woman raised in boardrooms and armed with legacy-level banking access could wield —she had frozen everything .
Every account.
Every card.
Every investment holding that wasn't payroll-related.
Even Sicheng's .
Even the account belonging to the owner of the goddamn company.
And now?
Now they had one account left.
One.
The single payroll account where their ZGDX salaries were deposited like clockwork—clean, regulated, modest—and everything else, every trust fund, every family account, every expense tab tied to anything remotely indulgent or unnecessary had been locked so thoroughly that even the bank itself had called twice to make sure it wasn't fraud.
It wasn't fraud.
It was Madam Lu .
It was consequence .
It was a lesson carved into financial stone by the one woman alive who had never let power soften her edges, who had never believed her son was above discipline, who had been informed—by Rui, no less—that certain individuals had disrespected her favorite .
And her favorite?
Was Yao.
The softly spoken, tea-sipping, big-eyed chaos agent who had not even known her name was being used as the war banner for what had just become the most devastating economic takedown ZGDX had ever experienced.
Sicheng hadn't spoken for a full five minutes. He simply stood there, jaw locked, thumb frozen against the side of his phone, as if he could undo the damage by sheer force of will. And when he finally did speak, his voice came low and flat, dangerously close to stunned silence. "…I own this company."
Yue, still holding the card he'd tried to use to buy snacks earlier— tried , and failed, because the machine had beeped rudely and the clerk had looked at him like he was a broke university student instead of a multi-million-yuan-sponsored pro—let out a slow, pained exhale. "Not anymore, apparently."
The silence that followed was thick , a kind of communal grief that settled into the room with the weight of a funeral, as if they had all just realized that their lives were no longer theirs, that something far more powerful had been activated above their heads, and there would be no reprieve.
Then, finally, Pang—still recovering from his earlier financial slaughter at Yao's hands, still rubbing his temples like the headache of defeat hadn't left him—lifted his eyes, his voice low, solemn, utterly crushed beneath the weight of the moment as he whispered, almost reverently, "Xiǎo Jiějiě… actually won."
And that was the truth of it.
The brutal, undeniable, salt-in-the-wound truth. She hadn't done anything. She hadn't raised her voice. She hadn't called in a favor. She hadn't even known . All she had done was exist. Exist, and be fiercely, unquestioningly loved by a woman so terrifying that even Sicheng—the son , the heir , the goddamn CEO —couldn't override her authority once she had made her decision.
There had been no discussion.
No appeals.
No delays.
Just silence… and then absolute economic annihilation .
They were broke.
All of them.
Not just Ming or Lao K or Pang anymore. Not just the fools who thought they could pout their way out of pay dock. Now it was Yue , the bratty younger brother who was used to being untouchable. Now it was Sicheng , the Captain, the man who sat at the top of the pyramid, who had watched others suffer with cool detachment and assumed he'd never see the bottom himself. Now it was everyone . And as the room settled into that quiet, collective realization, as the full weight of their financial ruin descended upon them like the gentle hush of a final curtain, Yao—seated quietly at her desk, headphones in, sipping tea, completely unaware of the carnage that bore her name—tapped gently at her keyboard and hummed softly to herself.
Across the room, Sicheng closed his eyes for a long moment, drew in a sharp, slow breath, and exhaled through his teeth.
Because this?
This was Madam Lu's version of affection.
And the price of loving Yao?
Was bankruptcy.
Yao had woken up that morning with the rare kind of lightness in her chest that came only after something painful had finally begun to heal, the kind that came not from euphoria or sudden happiness but from quiet peace, the kind that settled softly in her bones and whispered that it was okay to let her shoulders drop, that it was okay to breathe, that she didn't have to brace herself for the next sharp edge of misunderstanding or misstep. It was the kind of mood that was fragile but radiant, something that glowed at the edges of her normally hesitant demeanor and softened her movements, and it clung to her as she dressed, as she brushed out her hair, as she made her way toward the stairs with the full, hesitant hope that maybe—just maybe—today would be simple. Calm. Maybe she'd even suggest, once training was done, that they go out together, do something as a team again, just for fun.
But that hope—like so many quiet things—shattered the moment her feet hit the last stair. She stopped mid-step, hand frozen on the railing, brows furrowed in growing confusion as her eyes took in the scene before her.
Because there, in the middle of the living room, was a group of six fully grown men who, under normal circumstances, were some of the most competitive, chaotic, and loudest people she had ever known—and now? Now they sat in absolute silence, their postures slumped, their expressions hollow, the atmosphere thick with the kind of grief typically reserved for canceled tournaments or catastrophic network crashes. It was an almost spiritual level of suffering, like their souls had collectively been dragged through something they were still trying to process, and even without understanding why, she felt her contentment drain like water slipping through a cracked glass.
At the center of the room, Sicheng sat with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the set of his jaw sharp, his phone held in one hand like it had betrayed him personally, his entire body language so tense, so thunderous, that it felt like the air around him had thickened, like a storm was hovering inches from his skin and dared anyone to get close.
"Are… are you all okay?" she asked softly, stepping cautiously into the room, her voice small but concerned.
No one moved.
No one looked up.
Sicheng didn't even blink.
Yue, slumped into the couch like a man who had seen too much too fast, let out a slow, soul-weary exhale and muttered, "No, Salt Maiden. No, we are not okay."
Her concern deepened. "Did… something happen?"
Another beat of silence.
Then Pang moved—barely—dragging a hand down his face like the act of explaining their downfall would cost him the last remnants of his will to live.
But it was Ming, still staring at his screen with dead eyes, who finally answered. "Rui told Madam Lu."
Yao blinked. "Told her what?"
Lao Mao groaned.
Lao K rubbed at his temples like the words themselves were giving him a migraine.
Yue, face still buried halfway into the couch, answered without lifting his head. "About the pay dock. About us not listening to Kwon. About you being upset. About everything ."
Her eyes widened. She tilted her head slightly, still not quite seeing where the connection had spiraled so dramatically. "O…kay?"
Yue twitched like the word physically hurt him.
Pang finally spoke again, voice quiet, resigned. "She froze our accounts, Yao."
Yao blinked. Then blinked again. Then just… stood there. Still. Mouth parted. Eyes blank. Her fingers twitched at her sides. And in that breath of quiet, that slow, dawning horror, she finally understood what they were trying to say. "Oh," she said faintly.
From the corner of the room, Rui—utterly unbothered, calmly flipping through a few documents—hummed in affirmation without even looking up. "Yes. Oh ."
Yao's heart dropped like a stone into her stomach. Because this hadn't been what she wanted. She hadn't meant for this. She hadn't asked for this. She just wanted them to take things seriously, to listen to Coach Kwon, to respect her work, to stop being such children during training—not to be financially crippled by a woman who could bankrupt global companies from her morning tea table. She turned toward Rui, wide-eyed, voice a soft whisper of disbelief. "Rui-ge… wasn't that… a bit excessive ?"
Rui finally looked up, expression perfectly calm. "They weren't listening. You were upset. I don't see the issue."
Her mouth opened, but no words came.
And then—
She said it.
In the softest, most uncertain voice, her brow furrowed with confusion, her lips forming the sentence without realizing its impact until it was far, far too late— "I… didn't know you had to run things by Aunt Lan before punishing someone."
The room exploded —not with noise, but with pure, visceral agony.
Yue made a sound that could only be described as a wail , flopping face-first into the cushions. "You have to be kidding me."
Ming, utterly destroyed, dragged a hand through his hair.
Lao Mao, muttering, said, "We never stood a chance."
Lao K just stared blankly ahead. "We were doomed from the start."
And Pang?
Pang, poor Pang, whose wallet had already been metaphorically—and now literally—emptied, stared at her with wide, stunned, horrified eyes. "Yao."
She flinched.
" Yao, do you realize what you've done?"
And she didn't. Not fully. Not really. She hadn't meant to. This wasn't her.
This was Rui.
This was Madam Lu.
But the realization— that it had been for her —that the full weight of their punishment had come as a result of her being upset… made her feel sick.
And then—
Sicheng, who had been silent this entire time, finally moved.
Not much.
Not loud.
But his voice—his voice —cut through the room like the sharpest knife, low and controlled and so dark that it sent a chill crawling down her spine.
" Xiǎo Tùzǐ. "
She turned to him slowly, already wincing, already guilty, already trying to find the words to explain that this hadn't been her intention.
And Sicheng?
Sicheng didn't look at her. Didn't lift his gaze from his phone. Didn't even breathe too deeply. He just said, voice smooth and dangerous and unmistakably final— " Fix it. "
And in that moment, for the first time in a very, very long time— Yao felt true pressure settle against her chest, heavy and unyielding, and knew without a doubt that if she didn't— If she so much as hesitated—
Lu Sicheng was going to march straight into his mother's office and start a war. And the terrifying part? He'd win . But nobody would survive it.
The living room had never been so still, so breathless, so quietly braced for impact, as it was in that moment—six fully grown men, all seated like children awaiting judgment day, their shoulders tight with the kind of tension that only came from the knowledge that they had done this to themselves, and their only salvation now rested in the hesitant fingers of a soft-spoken girl in a hoodie two sizes too big. Tong Yao, seated gingerly on the edge of the couch, still adjusting the sleeves of Sicheng's hoodie like the familiar fabric might offer her some last-minute strength, held her phone like it was something delicate and dangerous, her thumb hovering over the call button with the weight of six paychecks on her conscience.
And then—
With a soft inhale and a barely-audible exhale, she pressed it. The ringing echoed through the room like a countdown. Every eye was on her. Every breath held. No one moved. Not even Sicheng. And then, the call connected.
"Yao-Yao! My dear, good morning! Have you eaten yet?"
The warmth in Madam Lu's voice was so absurdly jarring, so violently at odds with the financial chaos she had left in her wake, that the entire room twitched as one—eyes wide, mouths parting in disbelief, several of them looking around as if to confirm that they were, in fact, hearing the same voice that had annihilated their bank accounts without flinching.
Yao, voice quiet, gentle, painfully hesitant, replied, "G-Good morning, Aunt Lan…"
And then—
Like flipping a switch, Madam Lu melted. The transformation was instant. The edge vanished from her voice, replaced with indulgent affection, the kind that dripped with warmth and long-standing fondness.
"Aiya, my dear, you sound shy. What is it? Tell Auntie, do you need something?"
Yao swallowed. Nodded, even though Madam Lu couldn't see it. Then—stealing a glance at the six miserable, pale-faced boys in front of her—she spoke, her voice delicate, guilty, and filled with the kind of hesitant, almost heart-breakingly sincere emotion that could turn steel to dust. "Um… I was wondering… if you would, please… release the boys' accounts?"
Silence.
A deep, long, terrifying silence.
Sicheng leaned forward, elbows on his knees, gaze sharp and unrelenting as he stared at the phone like he could hear his mother deciding their fates in real time.
And then—
A soft, amused chuckle.
"Yao-Yao, you are too kind."
Yao, still clutching the phone like it might vanish from her fingers, felt the panic creep up again and immediately pressed on, her voice cracking slightly as she rushed to make her case. "I—I think they've learned their lesson! I-I mean, I'm sure they won't mess around when it comes to work anymore. And really… i-it's been a long time since they've done something like this…" The boys watched her like she was summoning divine favor, like she was offering prayers at the altar of their salvation, because it wasn't just the words—it was the way she said them. It was the softness. The sincerity. The way her guilt bled into every syllable. The way her voice cracked at the edges, like she meant it. Like she didn't even know she had more power in that one conversation than all six of them combined. And then—like magic, like mercy, like a miracle whispered from heaven—
Madam Lu sighed. Long. Indulgent. Almost fond.
"Aiya, Yao-Yao, you are too soft-hearted. But if my Yao-Yao agrees that they have learned their lesson, then I will release their accounts."
The collective exhale that swept through the room was instantaneous .
Yue, sprawled over the arm of the couch like a collapsed skeleton, let out a reverent whisper. "She did it."
Lao Mao, who had been gripping the hem of his shirt in quiet anticipation, muttered, "I have never been so humbled in my life."
Pang, hand over his heart, stared at her like she'd just rescued him from death row. "You're our savior, Yao."
But then—
Before the wave of celebration could crest—
Madam Lu's voice returned.
"However—"
And just like that, every muscle in every body snapped taut again. The tone. That tone. It was the same one that had preceded their downfall.
"If they dare to mess around with training again—especially once the season officially starts—"
The pause was longer this time. Darker. And then, with the kind of sweetness that only made it worse:
"Let's just say… their punishments will be more direct next time."
Silence.
Crushing, all-consuming silence.
Even Yao twitched.
And the rest of the team?
They weren't breathing. Because what the hell did "more direct" mean? What was more direct than taking their money? They didn't know. And they weren't going to ask .
Yao, now visibly sweating, forced a high-pitched, nervous laugh. "O-Okay, Auntie Lan… I'll make sure they stay on track…"
"Good girl." Madam Lu said sweetly, pleased beyond measure, as if she hadn't just promised to destroy them all with a smile.
The call ended.
And the silence that followed was heavy with pure, unfiltered trauma.
Yao, lowering the phone with slow, trembling hands, turned to face them, her expression filled with equal parts guilt and disbelief.
Yue was the first to speak, his voice ragged. "Okay. Let's be very clear."
The rest nodded.
"We never piss off Rui again."
More nods.
"And we never— ever —under any circumstances, get on Madam Lu's bad side again."
Lao Mao, voice hoarse, muttered, "Agreed."
Ming nodded solemnly. "We'll be on our best behavior until the end of time."
Pang, still not entirely convinced this wasn't a nightmare, whispered, "I might never tease Rui again."
Lao K just rubbed his face. "I saw my life flash before my eyes."
And Sicheng?
Sicheng, who had suffered the indignity of being financially benched by his own mother, who had watched his control stripped away with a single phone call, who had endured the smug looks of his teammates without retaliation because he had nothing to retaliate with—just ran a hand down his face and muttered through clenched teeth, "Fucking ridiculous."
Yao, still visibly overwhelmed, tugged at her sleeves, ducking her head, her voice quiet, uncertain. "So… does this mean we're okay now?"
The boys looked at her. Then at each other. Then at their phones. Then back at her. And together—exhausted, humbled, and forever changed—they nodded.
"Yeah, Tiny Boss Bunny. We're okay."
The tension that had only just begun to dissolve, the sharp pressure that had started to loosen its grip on the room the moment Yao ended the call with Madam Lu and released them all from the financial chokehold that had nearly destroyed their will to live, came crashing back into the space like a second wave of a storm they hadn't prepared for. Because just as they were finally letting themselves breathe again, just as the boys were silently praising the universe for blessing them with Yao's mercy and the sheer divine power of her voice to calm the beast that was Sicheng's mother, Tong Yao—sweet, anxious, still fidgeting with her sleeves—lowered her gaze to the floor, her foot absently shuffling against the polished tile, her shoulders curling in like she was trying to make herself smaller. And then she whispered. "I… I really didn't know Rui-ge was going to Aunt Lan… I'm sorry."
The room went still.
Utterly, absolutely still.
Because that sentence—those words—spoken in the soft, apologetic tone of someone who genuinely believed she had somehow contributed to this hellish mess, landed like a boulder in the center of the team's already fragile calm. And just like that, any frustration, any lingering resentment, any simmering annoyance they might have still held about their near financial destruction evaporated beneath the weight of one unavoidable, inescapable truth.
They couldn't be mad at her. They couldn't stay mad at her. Not when she looked like that . Not when she was ducking her head, avoiding their eyes, folding into herself like she was already bracing for a punishment she didn't deserve. Not when she was the one who had saved them, who had thrown herself into the line of fire—again—for them. Not when all of this, every second of suffering, had been set into motion by someone else entirely.
Pang, exhaling hard through his nose, slumped back into the couch with a groan. "Oh, for lord's sake, Xiǎo Jiějiě, you don't have to apologize."
Ming, rubbing his temples like the weight of everyone else's idiocy was becoming physically painful, added in a low, resigned voice, "Yeah. If anyone should be apologizing, it's—"
And then—
Every head turned. Every gaze locked. The entire room, without a single word spoken, shifted its collective focus onto the one man responsible.
Rui.
Rui, who had gone still the moment Yao had spoken, who now stood completely frozen near the doorway, suddenly aware— painfully aware —that the full weight of blame had finally landed where it belonged. Because it wasn't just the others looking at him now.
It was Sicheng .
And Sicheng?
Sicheng was not okay.
Sicheng was not even close to okay. The air shifted again, low and suffocating, the way it always did before something violent happened in the weather—or in Sicheng's temper. A pressure that pressed down on everyone's lungs without touching them, a silence so sharp it could have drawn blood if someone dared to break it too soon. Because Lu Sicheng was sitting in that chair like a king surveying the aftermath of a battlefield, one leg crossed over the other, arms still folded across his chest, his phone resting loosely in his hand, and his eyes locked on Rui with a look that didn't need words.
It was a look .
The kind of look that made men nervous even when they weren't the target.
Cold.
Measured.
Unforgiving.
It was the look of a man who had just been stripped of his power by his own mother, in front of his own team, and had spent the entire morning stewing in that helplessness—only to find that the source, the origin of that call, had been standing right there the entire time, holding a clipboard and pretending like nothing was wrong.
And Rui?
Rui felt it .
Felt it in the way his pulse jumped, in the way sweat began to bead at the back of his neck, in the way his spine went ramrod straight as his body tried to instinctively prepare for the verbal lashing he knew was coming. Because he had docked their pay. Because he had overstepped. Because he had gone above the chain of command and called Madam Lu —and worse, he had made Yao feel guilty about the consequences.
And Lu Sicheng?
Lu Sicheng was not having it. He didn't raise his voice. Didn't move a muscle. But the message was crystal clear.
Fix. This. Now.
Rui, swallowing hard, lifted both hands in the air as a gesture of peace. "Okay. Alright. Maybe I went a little too far."
"A little?" Pang deadpanned, still sulking in the corner like a man who'd had his financial future stolen from him.
Lao Mao let out a huff. "We got financially obliterated , Rui."
"You could've just yelled at us like a normal manager," Lao K muttered, rubbing his forehead like he was still trying to mentally recover.
Ming, ever the calmest in the room, shook his head. "You should've kept it in-house."
And Yue?
Yue, dramatic as ever, still lounging like a casualty of war, whispered, "I saw my life flash before my eyes, Rui."
Rui glanced at all of them, then back at Yao—still sitting small, still clearly shaken, still believing this had somehow been her fault—and exhaled sharply before shifting his gaze to Sicheng. "Fine," he muttered. "I get it. I messed up."
Sicheng tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just enough to send a ripple of dread straight through Rui's chest. "That's it?" Those two words—calm, even, sharp as a blade—hit harder than any screaming ever could.
Because Rui knew exactly what that tone meant. If he didn't fix this— right now —he wasn't going to survive the week. So, swallowing what little pride he had left, Rui turned back to Yao. And in a moment of actual, genuine remorse—rare enough that it made several of the guys glance up in shock—he lowered his head slightly and said, "Yao, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have involved Madam Lu. That was… excessive."
Yao, still fidgeting with the cuffs of her sleeves, looked at him for a long, quiet moment before finally nodding. "O-Okay… just… please don't do it again."
Silence.
And then—
Sicheng looked away.
Just slightly.
And the entire room exhaled.
The pressure lifted—barely—but it was enough to breathe again, enough for everyone to believe they might just get through the rest of the day without dying.
But Rui?
Rui knew.
He was on probation now. He was going to be under surveillance for weeks . Because Lu Sicheng didn't forget things like this. Didn't let them slide. And from now on, Rui was going to think very carefully before touching his phone—especially if the name "Madam Lu" was involved. Because one wrong move? And he wasn't getting a warning next time. He was getting war .