"Yuyan," he tried again, his voice softer now, gentler, pleading in a way he rarely allowed himself to be. "It's Uncle Cheng. I'm here. You don't need to be afraid. If someone has told you to say these things, if you've been instructed to deny who you are, you can tell me. I'll help you. I'll take you home to your father. I'll protect you."
At that, the girl finally looked at him properly.
Not with recognition, as he'd desperately hoped.
Not with warmth or relief or the instinctive trust that should exist between family members.
But with a distant, assessing calm that absolutely did not belong on the face of a twelve-year-old child. The expression was ancient, knowing, carrying the weight of experiences far beyond her years.
"My name," she said evenly, each word precise and deliberate, landing with surgical accuracy, "is Lin Yurou."
She held his gaze as she continued, her silver eyes unblinking and unnervingly steady.
