Against the Algorithm

Chapter 53: Keys to the Quiet

"Apparently," Sicheng said, following her with dry amusement, "you do."

She turned to him, eyes wide, incredulous. "I hate driving."

"I know."

"I get anxious just thinking about merging onto the freeway."

"I've seen it."

"I almost hyperventilated the first time I used a roundabout."

Sicheng nodded. "Which makes this," he gestured toward the collection, "the most ironic inheritance in modern history."

She groaned softly and turned in a slow circle. "What am I even supposed to do with all this?"

"Catalog it. Lock it down. Maybe let Yue sit in one for his birthday if he promises not to touch the ignition."

Yao snorted despite herself. "He's going to pass out if he sees this."

"That's why he's not in here with us yet."

She paused in front of a sleek white Porsche, her reflection staring back at her in the polished body. Her voice was softer now. "This doesn't feel real."

Sicheng didn't respond right away. He just stepped up behind her, slid his arm gently around her waist, and let his chin rest lightly against the side of her head as they stood there in the quiet. "Doesn't need to feel real today," he said after a long moment. "Just needs to feel yours." And strangely enough... it did. Not because she wanted it. But because she hadn't asked for any of it—and still, it was given to her. Not for luxury. Not for power. But for the same reason the house was left untouched. For the same reason the jasmine oil still lingered on the sheets. Because someone had loved her enough to leave pieces of themselves behind—waiting for her to grow strong enough to return.

Yao continued to stare at the absurdity surrounding her—row upon row of vehicles that looked like they belonged in a museum rather than a garage. The low hum of motion-sensitive lights shifted across polished chrome and matte steel, and the only thing louder than the silence in her ears was the echo of her own disbelief. Beside her, Sicheng was suspiciously quiet. Which, in her experience, was always the warning sign. "...What," she asked without looking at him, voice wary. "What is that face."

Sicheng didn't answer right away. He had turned slightly, hands still in his pockets, his gaze locked on a single vehicle two rows over. His eyes, dark amber under the ceiling lights, gleamed faintly with something sharp. Something distinctly entertained.

Yao followed his line of sight—straight to a gleaming, deep blue coupe tucked between two classics like a crown jewel trying to keep a low profile.

"That," he said at last, tone smooth but already smug beneath the surface, "is one of only three Azure Frost BMS 97s ever made. Commission-only prototypes. My father has been trying to find even a whisper of one for the last two decades."

Yao blinked, then looked at him fully. "So?"

"So," he drawled, "all three are in your garage." He paused for full effect. "I want to see him pout."

"...What?"

"I want to see him sulk," Sicheng continued, his voice taking on that deadly calm that always preceded bloodshed—or playful revenge. "Beg, if we're lucky."

"Cheng-ge —"

"Maybe offer to trade national secrets for a test drive."

Yao groaned. "You're evil."

"I've waited my entire life for this opportunity."

"You are not dragging your father into this garage just to emotionally torment him with something I inherited and don't even want."