The car sped through the neon-lit streets, the silence inside thick with unspoken fear. Lao Chen's knuckles were white on the steering wheel.
Yichen broke the quiet, his voice grim and certain. "It's clear now. Someone is trying to kill you. Last night wasn't an accident. That was a hit. Tonight was another."
Zhiyuan stared out the window, the city lights blurring. He felt a cold weight settle in his stomach. "I know," he said quietly. "I have... many business rivals. People who want the Liang Group to fail."
Yichen shook his head. "Business rivals hire lawyers and hackers. They start price wars. They don't send teams of professional fighters disguised as waiters to stab you in a garage." He turned to look at Zhiyuan, his expression serious. "That was personal. And bold. It's impossible for a normal outsider to move that openly. It has to be someone with power. And someone close. Someone who knows your schedule, who can predict where you'll be."
Someone close. The words hung in the air. Images flashed in Zhiyuan's mind: Uncle Shuren's bitter eyes, Uncle Zhaoxi's cowardly back, Aunt Ruifen's perfect, smiling face. Even his own family felt like a gallery of suspects.
A wave of crushing exhaustion, deeper than any all-nighter at the office, washed over him. It was the fatigue of constant performance, of suspicion, of now knowing his life was literally on the line. He slumped back against the seat, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.
"I'm so tired," he breathed out, the words heavy and raw. His breathing became short, tight in his chest. "Lao Chen. Stop the car. Please."
Lao Chen glanced nervously in the rearview mirror. "Young Master, I don't think it's safe to stop here. We should get home."
"Stop the car," Zhiyuan repeated, his voice strained.
Yichen studied him for a long moment. He saw the tremor in the hands, the pallor under the city lights. It wasn't a tactical request; it was a human one. He gave Lao Chen a small, firm nod. "Do it. Find a quiet spot. I'll watch."
Reluctantly, Lao Chen pulled the sleek sedan over onto the shoulder of a quieter, tree-lined avenue. The bustling city felt miles away.
Zhiyuan pushed the door open and stepped out into the cool night air. He took a few shaky steps away from the car, leaning against a lamppost. With trembling fingers, he pulled a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. It took three tries to get it lit. He took a deep, dragging inhale, the smoke filling his lungs, and for a moment, the world narrowed to that single, burning point of calm.
Lao Chen also got out, standing nervously by the hood, his eyes constantly scanning the empty road and dark trees.
Yichen leaned against the side of the car, giving Zhiyuan space but keeping him in sight. He could see the tension slowly leaving the CEO's shoulders with each exhale of smoke. He decided to try and lift the suffocating mood.
"You know," Yichen began, his voice deliberately light, "for a CEO, you have terrible taste in hiding spots. This is classic 'first-to-die-in-a-horror-movie' behavior."
Zhiyuan didn't respond, just took another drag.
"Also, that suit is too nice for leaning on dirty poles. Nainai will scold me for letting you get it dirty."
Zhiyuan shot him a glare over his shoulder, but said nothing.
"And the smoking! So bad for you. What if you get a cough? Who will run your empire? Me? I'd be terrible at it. I'd probably just rename all the ships after pretty girls I know."
A sudden, unexpected snort of laughter escaped Zhiyuan. It was choked and brief, and he hurriedly tried to hide it by turning his head and pretending to cough into his fist.
But Yichen saw it. A tiny victory. He grinned, pushing off the car. "Ha! I made you laugh! Admit it! The great, untouchable Liang Zhiyuan actually chuckled at my joke!"
"Shut up," Zhiyuan muttered, but there was no real heat in it.
Yichen walked closer, still smiling. "Come on, just a little smile? For your hardworking, life-saving bodyguard? I'll even let you call me Bao Bei if you smile."
That was it. The combination of stress, relief, and sheer, overwhelming annoyance hit its peak. Without thinking, Zhiyuan turned and, in a move that was utterly undignified and completely instinctive, he kicked Yichen squarely in the shin. Not hard enough to break anything, but with enough frustrated force to hurt.
"OW! Aiyo!" Yichen yelped, hopping back on one foot, his playful grin replaced by a grimace of real pain. He clutched his leg. "What was that for?!"
"For being unbearably annoying," Zhiyuan stated, a genuine, smug smirk finally touching his lips. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, crushed it under his shoe, and without another word, got back into the car, sliding across the seat.
From outside, he heard Yichen groaning. Then, as Lao Chen hurried back to the driver's seat, Zhiyuan heard his bodyguard mutter under his breath, a stream of low, pained, but unmistakably fluent words.
"Cazzo... che diavolo... mi hai preso l'osso..."
Zhiyuan froze. His smirk vanished. He knew that language. He'd heard it in boardrooms in Milan, during negotiations for Italian shipping contracts.
Italian.
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing as he watched Yichen limp dramatically back to the car, still muttering Italian curses. The trained fighter. The mysterious past. The connection to Meilin. And now, fluent, colloquial Italian.
Just who the hell are you, Chen Yichen? The question was no longer just about a bodyguard. It was a key, he felt, to the entire deadly puzzle closing in around him.
Meanwhile, in a sleek, dark penthouse overlooking the city, the air was thick with rage and failure.
Guo Lian, the man with the sharp eyes and a temper to match, backhanded the waiter who had fled the garage. The man stumbled against a glass table.
"Useless!" Guo Lian snarled. "Three of you! Against one bodyguard! You had him cornered!"
"We... we didn't know he was that good, Lian-ge," the waiter stammered, wiping blood from his lip. "He moved like a professional. He broke Lao Wang's ribs with one kick!"
"Excuses!" Guo Lian raised his hand to strike again.
"Enough."
A calm, quiet voice came from the deep shadows of the room's corner. A man sat in a high-backed chair, his face obscured by the darkness, only the faint glow of a cigar tip visible. "Hitting him won't change what happened."
Guo Lian lowered his hand, but his glare didn't soften. He turned towards the shadowy figure, his posture shifting to one of tense deference.
"The plan was solid," the man in the shadows continued, his voice smooth and unhurried. "The location, the timing. But you didn't account for a new variable. Instead of wasting your energy on punishing incompetence..." The cigar tip glowed brighter as he took a puff. "...you should use it to find out who that variable is. Who is this person protecting Liang Zhiyuan? Where did he come from? Who does he work for? Find that out. Then we can remove him."
Guo Lian took a deep, frustrated breath, then nodded. "Understood." He shot a final, venomous look at the cowering waiter before turning and striding out of the penthouse, his mind already turning to networks of informants and digital trails.
Back at Zhiyuan's mansion, the atmosphere was one of quiet, simmering frustration. In his study, Zhiyuan was on the phone with the head of his security team, his voice tight.
"No, I don't care about their privacy! They tried to kill me! Get the CCTV footage from that restaurant's garage. All of it. I want their faces, I want their license plates if they had cars, I want to know where they came from and where they disappeared to!" He listened, his expression growing darker. "What do you mean, the cameras 'malfunctioned' for that exact fifteen-minute window? That's not a malfunction, that's a cover-up!"
He slammed the phone down, running a hand through his hair. The walls of his modern, safe house felt like they were closing in.
The door opened softly. Zhao Meilin entered, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of ginger tea. Her face was lined with deep worry.
"Young Master, you should drink this. It will calm your nerves." She set the cup down gently in front of him.
"I don't want to be calm, Meilin. I want answers," he said, but he took the cup, the warmth seeping into his hands.
"You should stop going out for a while," she said, her voice firm with maternal concern. "No more dinners, no more public events. It is better to stay here, in this house, where it is safe, until this... this enemy is discovered."
Zhiyuan clenched his jaw. The idea of hiding felt like a defeat. It also felt like a cage. This was the moment. He looked up at her.
"Meilin, about Yichen—"
As if saying his name summoned him, the study door, which Meilin had left slightly ajar, was pushed open. Chen Yichen strolled in, looking completely at ease. He had changed into simple black sweatpants and a t-shirt.
"Nainai! That smells amazing. Is there any for your hardworking, shin-injured grandson?" he asked, grinning and heading straight for the teapot on the tray.
Meilin's worry instantly transformed into scolding fury. She turned and swatted at his arm as he reached for the pot.
"You! Aiyo! Who told you to come in here? Can't you see the Young Master is working? And what is this 'shin-injured' nonsense? Did you get into a fight? I told you to protect, not to start street brawls!"
Yichen danced back, avoiding another swat. "It wasn't a brawl! It was a highly skilled defensive maneuver! And I was protecting! Very effectively, I might add! He's safe, isn't he?"
"Safe and now with a head full of worries because of your loud mouth and your... your showing off!" Meilin scolded, chasing him in a small circle around the sofa. "And stand up straight! What kind of posture is that for a guard?"
Zhiyuan watched the familiar, chaotic dance between them the genuine exasperation, the underlying care. It was the dynamic of a real family, not the stiff, distant relationships he had with his blood relatives. It proved Yichen's story was true in spirit, if not in every detail.
But as he sipped the ginger tea, the questions remained, louder than Meilin's scolding. Who is trying to kill him? And who, exactly, was this annoyingly capable, Italian-cursing grandson he had suddenly inherited?
The next evening, the sprawling Liang Family Mansion was lit up, hosting a rare and tense "family unity" dinner. Everyone was there, summoned by the uncles and aunts under the guise of concern after the "terrible accidents." Zhiyuan sat through it, feeling like a specimen under glass.
His kind aunt, Liang Xinyi, the university teacher, had also been invited, likely as a neutral, calming presence. She sat quietly, observing everyone with her intelligent, gentle eyes.
Throughout the long, elaborate meal, the Aunt Ruifen did not stop her subtle interrogation. She smiled sweetly over her bowl of shark fin soup.
"Zhiyuan, darling, we are all so relieved you're safe. But this new bodyguard... Chen Yichen, was it? He seems so... young. And where did you find him? His background must be impeccable for such a sensitive role."
Zhiyuan took a slow sip of wine. "His background is fine, Auntie. Meilin vouches for him. He's a distant relative of hers."
Ruifen's smile tightened. "A maid's relative, protecting the CEO of Liang Group? That seems... unconventional. Perhaps we should have the board's security committee vet him properly."
Zhiyuan set his glass down with a soft clink. "That won't be necessary. I've already vetted him. With my brain." He met her gaze squarely. "It's a capable tool. I suggest you trust it."
A flicker of irritation, quickly masked, passed over Ruifen's face. She clenched her jaw subtly, the only sign that his blunt reply had struck a nerve. "Of course, dear. We just worry."
After the interminable dinner, the family began to drift from the dining hall towards the main living room for tea and brandy. Zhiyuan lingered near the grand piano in the hallway. From his pocket, he took a small, discreet plastic container. He tapped out a single white pill into his palm.
He was about to take it with a sip of water when a soft voice spoke beside him.
"Zhiyuan? What medicine are you taking?"
It was Aunt Xinyi. She had approached quietly, her expression one of genuine, scholarly curiosity rather than nosy suspicion.
Zhiyuan hesitated, then showed her the pill. "Just something for anxiety. The... the therapist recommended it. To be taken after meals." It was a half-truth. The pill was for stress, but the root of the prescription was far more complex.
Xinyi took the container gently, her frown one of concentration. She read the chemical name on the label aloud softly. "Huh?" She shook her head slightly. "I am not familiar with this specific one. The name is complex." She looked up at him, her eyes kind but concerned. "These medications... they can have strong effects. Are you sure it's right for you?"
"It helps me sleep," Zhiyuan said, a simple explanation.
Xinyi continued to study the label, her teacher's mind engaged. "I will look into this compound when I get home. But for now..." She lowered her voice, handing the container back. "From what I know of such things, I would suggest you be very careful. Perhaps even stop taking it until you are absolutely certain of its purpose and side effects. Your body is under enough strain."
She was about to say more, to ask perhaps what was really causing such anxiety, when they were interrupted.
"Zhiyuan! Aunt Xinyi! What are you two conspiring about in the corner?" Uncle Zhaoxi called out with forced joviality, leading the others into the living room. "Come, come! The tea is getting cold!"
The moment was broken. Xinyi gave Zhiyuan one last, meaningful look of concern before offering a polite smile to the group. "Just discussing modern medicine. It's a fascinating field."
Zhiyuan pocketed the pill container, his mind now whirring with a new layer of unease. His kind aunt's warning was clear. In a family where everyone had an agenda, her concern felt real. But it also highlighted the invisible target on his back one that even followed him into the chemistry of his own medication. He didn't take the pill. He slipped the container back into his pocket, deciding that for tonight, at least, he would face the wolves in his living room with nothing but his own wits, foggy as they might be.
The atmosphere in the opulent living room was deceptively cheerful. Someone probably Cousin Yuxin, trying to lighten the mood had suggested playing "Who's the Undercover," a word-association party game where one player has a different word and must blend in.
Zhiyuan played along, his mind only half-present. His word was "CEO." The circle began.
Uncle Shuren went first, stroking his chin. "Hmm. Powerful."
Aunt Ruifen smiled."Responsibility."
Cousin Qiming mumbled,"Suit."
Uncle Zhaoxi chuckled nervously."Money!"
Aunt Xinyi said thoughtfully,"Legacy."
It was Zhiyuan's turn.He said the first thing that came to mind, the weight of his title. "Lonely."
There was an awkward pause.A few people shifted in their seats.
Yichen,who was standing watch by the door, raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The game continued, getting more heated as people accused each other.
"You said'money,' Zhaoxi! That's too obvious! Are you the undercover?" Shuren accused.
"Me?You said 'powerful'! That's just as bad!" Zhaoxi fired back.
Ruifen smoothly intervened."Now, now. Let's think. 'Lonely' was an interesting choice, Zhiyuan. Very... emotional for a CEO."
The accusations flew back and forth. In the heat of the debate, trying to deflect suspicion, Uncle Zhaoxi got flustered. He pointed a finger at Aunt Xinyi.
"Xinyi!You're always so calm, so quiet! You're hiding something! Your word has to do with inheritance, doesn't it? Like... like taking over!"
Aunt Xinyi remained serene. "My word is about what is passed down, Zhaoxi. Not necessarily taken."
But Zhaoxi, digging his own grave, blurted out, "Passed down, taken, what's the difference if the previous one is gone? It's all about the seat being empty!"
The room froze for a second. The game was forgotten.
In that instant, looking at Zhaoxi's flushed, panicked face, then at Ruifen's sharp, calculating eyes, and Shuren's bitter nod, a horrifying puzzle piece clicked into place in Zhiyuan's mind.
The previous one is gone. The seat being empty.
They were talking about a game word. But the subtext was screaming.
His father's "accident." The convenient vacuum of power. The sudden, unseemly scramble among his siblings. The "accidents" now happening to him.
The heated, silly game of "Who's the Undercover" had just revealed a terrifying truth. The word wasn't just "BOSS." The real game being played in his family was "Who's the Killer."
And someone in this very room, under this very roof of family unity, had played it for real twenty years ago. And they were still playing. He was just the new target.
Zhiyuan felt the blood drain from his face. He stared around the circle at the laughing, arguing, pretending faces of his family.
The undercover in the game was still hidden. But the murderer in the room was now, to him, painfully obvious. It was in their eyes, in their slips of the tongue, in the history they all shared.
He said nothing. He just leaned back, a cold, calculated mask settling over his shock. The game continued around him, but he was no longer playing their party game. He was now playing a different one entirely. A game of survival.