The gates were no longer white.
They were matte black now, modern and understated, the old crest removed without ceremony. Where the Cheng emblem once coiled in polished iron, there was only smooth metal — anonymous, functional.
Yiyai parked across the street.
She hadn’t planned to come.
The driver had taken a wrong turn after a late meeting, or perhaps she had given the instruction without fully admitting it to herself. The district had changed over the years — boutique cafés where quiet tea houses once stood, low-rise galleries replacing private clinics. Wealth had rotated, as it always did.
But the mansion remained.
Or what was left of it.
It had been renovated, then partially dismantled, then renovated again. The original façade was barely visible beneath layers of architectural
