Against the Algorithm

Chapter 33: The Lines We Draw Quietly

audience. While quiet hands prepare dinner and a home becomes something more than temporary, the lines between comfort, protection, and something deeper blur into something steady. And when morning comes, it doesn't need words to define what's changed. Only the silence that stays soft. And shared.

Notes:

Author's Note: People really do want to die.

Chapter Thirty-Three

It was well past midnight when the low, sharp chime of his private line cut through the silence of his office, the soft blue glow of the monitors illuminating the otherwise darkened space. Sicheng, hunched slightly over a digital strategy board, lifted his head slowly—amber eyes narrowing as he recognized the number.

He answered on the first ring, his voice cool, level, laced with that steel-edged calm he wore like armor.

"Report."

The voice on the other end was low, familiar, an old contact, the same man he had entrusted to watch over Yao before she'd even agreed to work for ZGDX. The one who had stopped a break-in before it became something far worse. The one he had quietly paid, generously, to stay in the background but always near. And now, after weeks of digging, he'd found the truth.

"It wasn't random," the man said quietly. "The break-in. The man who tried to force his way in... he was hired."

Sicheng's entire posture shifted—not dramatically, not violently, but with the lethal stillness of a predator about to strike. His jaw clenched, one hand curling slowly into a fist on the armrest of his chair. "By who."

The silence stretched.

Then—

"Her aunt and uncle. From the States."

The fury that coursed through his chest was immediate and consuming, but he didn't speak—not yet. He needed it all. Every detail. Every line of this betrayal that had slipped through Yao's past like poison.

"They paid the man to break in. Instructions were clear—don't kill her. Hurt her. Badly. Physically, emotionally. Make her vulnerable. Shatter her to the point that she'd have no choice but to call them. They were counting on it."

"And if she didn't?" Sicheng's voice was low now, almost a whisper. Deadly.

"They had the documents ready. Psych evaluations, witness accounts, everything falsified. If she was hurt badly enough—if she appeared mentally or emotionally unfit to care for herself—they would have filed for permanent guardianship. Had her declared incompetent."

Sicheng's other hand tightened around the edge of his desk, the wood creaking softly beneath the pressure. "Why?"

"The trust."

A beat.

Another.

And then, the man continued, his voice now laced with something that even he couldn't keep neutral—disgust.

"If guardianship had gone through, your mother would've been legally forced to release the trust fund to Yao's next of kin—those deemed fit to care for her. Her aunt. Her uncle. It would've all gone to them."

Sicheng stood. Slowly. Methodically. Every muscle in his body tight with restrained violence. But he still didn't speak. Because he wasn't done listening. "And the man?" he asked, his voice like frost on steel. "What was he instructed to do? How far?"