The Devil's Temperature

Don't bite her

Jiang Wenjuan took Pei Chuan home, fetched a basin of water to wipe his face, and handed him a cup to rinse his mouth.

Pei Chuan remained quiet throughout. Jiang Wenjuan looked at his pale, delicate face, brushing a strand of black hair from his forehead: “Xiao Chuan, why did you bite Chen Hu?”

Pei Chuan lowered his eyelashes: “He took my biscuit.”

Jiang Wenjuan frowned.

She knew Pei Chuan was lying. Their family was among the most well-off in the neighborhood—other families might have cherished those cream-filled biscuits, but their home had not only biscuits, but chocolate too. Pei Chuan would never fight over a single biscuit.

Even without the boy saying more, her gaze fell on Pei Chuan’s legs, and tears instantly welled in her eyes. Deep down, Jiang Wenjuan understood the truth—it must have been because of his legs.

She hugged him gently, then forced a smile: “Mom will go cook. Dinner will be ready soon. Is there anything you’d like to eat, Xiao Chuan?”

Pei Chuan shook his head, his dark eyes watching Jiang Wenjuan’s busy figure with quiet obedience.

Pei Haobin returned home in the evening. He had been hunting a drug dealer lately, often working until midnight. The moment he stepped in, the atmosphere in the house stilled for a beat.

The Pei family owned a color television—placed in the living room, a rare luxury in 1996. Jiang Wenjuan and Pei Chuan had been watching a singing program; Jiang Wenjuan didn’t turn around, but it was Pei Haobin who spoke first: “I’m home.”

He glanced at his exhausted wife, then reached down to ruffle his son’s hair.

Pei Chuan looked up at his father, his clear eyes free of any resentment. A faint, almost imperceptible ache tugged at Pei Haobin’s heart.

Jiang Wenjuan blamed Pei Haobin for endangering Pei Chuan; the couple argued constantly.

Not long ago, there had been a night when both were swamped—Jiang Wenjuan had been the lead surgeon in an emergency operation, while Pei Haobin was also stuck at work. Each had assumed the other would pick up Pei Chuan, only to return home and realize neither had. That night, Jiang Wenjuan had sobbed hysterically until dawn.

Though Jiang Wenjuan and Pei Haobin had married after being introduced, their early years together had been sweet. The birth of Pei Chuan had brought that happiness to its peak—but after Pei Chuan lost his legs, Jiang Wenjuan couldn’t help but hate Pei Haobin.

She hated how his work had drawn retaliation that harmed their son, how criminals had severed the four-year-old’s legs.

The sight of Pei Chuan covered in blood that day had shattered Jiang Wenjuan’s heart, leaving her devastated.

Pei Haobin noticed no food had been left for him in the kitchen. He paused, then boiled himself a bowl of noodles. After eating, he sat with Pei Chuan, asking questions that the boy answered obediently—unusually well-behaved.

Jiang Wenjuan watched coldly. By nine o’clock that night, she wiped Pei Chuan’s face and told him to go to bed.

The boy’s hand tugged at the corner of her clothes.

“Mom,” he looked up, “I want to take a bath.”

“You haven’t been active, and it’s not that hot today—you’re not dirty. We’ll do it another day.”

Pei Chuan pressed his lips together: “I want to take a bath.”

He didn’t tell Jiang Wenjuan the real reason behind his fight with Chen Hu. Jiang Wenjuan frowned, but ultimately gave in and boiled water for him.

She undressed Pei Chuan, lowering the frail boy into a wooden tub.

Pei Chuan stared at his unsightly stumps, saying nothing.

Jiang Wenjuan saw them too—a pain she could barely bear. Yet she couldn’t let her young son bathe alone. She patiently washed him, dried his body, and led him to bed.

Before Pei Chuan fell asleep, Jiang Wenjuan still reminded him: “If you need to use the bathroom, don’t hold it in. Tell your teacher or me, okay?”

“I know,” he whispered. “Mom, can you tell me a story?”

Jiang Wenjuan had just smiled and agreed when someone knocked on the door: “Dr. Jiang! Is Dr. Jiang home?”

Pei Chuan watched his mother rush out—she never came back.

He never got to hear that story. His gaze shifted calmly to the other wall, where there had once been chalk marks to measure his height. Every year on his birthday, his parents would cheerfully mark how much he’d grown.

Later, Pei Haobin had wiped them away, tears streaming down his face, leaving only a faint, blurry smudge.

Pei Chuan stared at it for a long time before closing his eyes.

He knew—he would never grow as tall as his father.

August 3rd was Fang Minjun’s birthday. Teacher Xiao Zhao led the entire kindergarten in singing “Happy Birthday” to her.

Bei Yao sat among the children, clapping and singing. She glanced left and right, only to realize Pei Chuan wasn’t there—and neither was Chen Hu. Anxiety stirred in her chest: Why wasn’t Pei Chuan coming to kindergarten anymore?

When Bei Yao asked Teacher Xiao Zhao, the teacher replied: “Pei Chuan’s mom said he won’t be coming back. In September, she’ll send him straight to preschool instead.”

Bei Yao was stunned.

From her fragmented memories, she knew what preschool was—it was part of Yubo Primary School, far from the kindergarten and in a different direction.

Just like in her past life, Pei Chuan hadn’t finished kindergarten after all.

Teacher Xiao Zhao sighed. She pitied Pei Chuan, but she also understood he didn’t belong there anymore.

Every child in the kindergarten had seen Pei Chuan fight—his dark eyes, empty of all warmth, had held nothing but coldness toward the world. The madness in his eyes when he bit Chen Hu had terrified them all.

Little Bei Yao was heartbroken.

On the way home, as Zhao Zhilan held her hand, Bei Yao couldn’t stop thinking about it. That afternoon, Zhao Xiu knocked on their door, holding a small cake—no bigger than half a palm.

Zhao Xiu had high cheekbones and extremely thin eyebrows. She handed the cake to Zhao Zhilan the moment she stepped in, then pinched Bei Yao’s cheek lightly.

Bei Yao blinked her big eyes and called out softly: “Aunt Xiu.”

Zhao Xiu smiled: “Yaoyao’s cheeks are still so soft to the touch. Let Auntie check—heard you were sick earlier, but you haven’t lost any weight. Such a round little face—you look so blessed.”

Bei Yao glanced at her mother instinctively.

Zhao Zhilan’s face was dark ，but Zhao Xiu continued: “Alas, unlike my Minmin—she just won’t put on weight. Everyone says she looks like Chang Xue and will be beautiful when she grows up, but I think Yaoyao looks cuter right now.”

Zhao Zhilan forced a smile: “You’re too kind. Your Minmin is truly beautiful.”

Satisfied with the praise for Fang Minjun, Zhao Xiu left.

Chang Xue was a well-known Hong Kong actress that year, having starred in many films. Bei Yao had loved her comedy movies when she was in elementary school. In 1996, Chang Xue was known as the “Jade Lady”—and Fang Minjun, who shared seventy percent of her features, was dubbed the “Little Jade Lady.”

Bei Yao felt something was off, but her memories only went up to third grade—she couldn’t pinpoint what was wrong.

Dejectedly, she thought: I have so much baby fat. Fang Minjun really is slim and pretty.

Zhao Zhilan was even angrier. She herself was slightly plump and hated comments about her weight, yet Zhao Xiu always stabbed at her with veiled barbs. So what if her daughter looked like Chang Xue? She wasn’t the real Chang Xue! For a child, Bei Yao’s cute, innocent look was far better.

Bei Yao stood on tiptoe, reaching for the cake on the table. Zhao Zhilan stopped her: “You just had dinner. Cake will upset your stomach and make it hurt.”

It was a hard cream cake, also called a margarine cake. Zhao Zhilan would never have bought one herself—their family had elderly and young to support, and money was tight. For Bei Yao’s birthdays, they usually bought a pack of fruit candies and boiled a bowl of sweetened eggs.

Though Bei Yao was a little greedy, she shook her head, her eyes crinkling into crescent moons: “Split it into two. Mom has one, and one for Pei Chuan.”

She made a cutting gesture with her small hands. Zhao Zhilan froze for a long time, then nodded firmly: “Right—let’s take some to that child.”

Zhao Zhilan cut the cake. Looking at her daughter—still too short to reach the table, watching eagerly—her heart softened, and she couldn’t help but smile: “Mom doesn’t like cake. I’ll save yours for later. Come, let’s take Pei Chuan’s share to him first.”

They walked through the neighborhood’s shaded lanes, passing a few households that had planted vegetables in the small green plots in front of their homes.

Pei Chuan’s house was just across the way. Mother and daughter climbed the stairs from the other side and knocked on the door of the fourth floor.

Heavy footsteps approached. The next moment, Pei Haobin’s resolute face appeared. As a criminal police officer, he exuded an air of integrity. He studied them carefully—they looked familiar, like neighbors from the same compound—but he couldn’t recall their names, a hint of awkwardness crossing his face.

Zhao Zhilan smiled understandingly: “My surname is Zhao. Hello, Officer Pei. My daughter Yaoyao is Xiao Chuan’s classmate—we brought him some cake.”

Pei Haobin looked down, seeing a little girl with two bun hairstyles. Her big eyes were bright and watery, her skin fair, and her long, curly eyelashes made her look like a soft, cuddly doll.

The little doll was a bit shy. At Zhao Zhilan’s prompting, she called out in a tender voice: “Uncle.”

Even Pei Haobin, a man of few softnesses, felt his heart melt. He smiled kindly: “Xiao Chuan’s in his room, Yaoyao. Go see him. Ms. Zhao, won’t you come in for a seat? I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“No, no—we just came to drop off the cake. Officer Pei, don’t let us disturb you. Yaoyao will just give Xiao Chuan the cake and come right out.”

With her mother’s permission, Bei Yao carefully carried the cake and followed Pei Haobin to Pei Chuan’s room.

Pei Haobin pushed the door open. At the desk sat a little boy, sitting straight and writing diligently—preparing for preschool.

“Xiao Chuan, you have a visitor.”

Bei Yao looked at Pei Chuan nervously. His room was bigger than hers, simply decorated with everything neatly arranged—unlike her room, which her mother teasingly called a “kitten’s den.”

Pei Chuan turned around. Through his father’s tall figure, his dark eyes fell on the young girl.

She was holding a cake—no bigger than half an adult’s palm. When she saw him looking at her, she hesitated, unsure whether to smile, and approached him with a trace of timidity.

Holding the cake high with both hands, she said: “Pei Chuan, for you.”

He stared at her in silence.

This was a girl who didn’t give up easily.

The first time, she’d given him a paper airplane—he’d torn it up and hit her hand.

The second time, she’d brought him the most beautiful lotus flower of summer—he’d left it on the table.

This time, it was a cake—its cream decorations incomplete and lopsided.

She looked at him anxiously, her eyes clear and soft.

He remembered how small she was—over a year younger than him, sure to stay in kindergarten for another year. He, however, would start preschool next month. They might not see each other for a long, long time.

He reached out and took the cake she’d cherished so much, holding it carefully.

The little girl’s almond eyes lit up like crushed crystals. Her gaze told him: This lopsided cake was delicious, and at the very least, it was something she loved.

Pei Chuan still didn’t say a word to her—not even a “thank you.”

Yet Bei Yao was overjoyed. Her round little face flushed pink as she turned to follow Uncle Pei out.

Suddenly, a hand tugged at the back of her collar.

A gentle force pulled her back slightly.

Confused, she turned around, meeting the boy’s dark eyes as he looked down at her.

Bei Yao remembered how Pei Chuan had grabbed Chen Hu that day—dragging him over before biting him. Instinctively, she raised her arms to shield herself. Don’t bite me, she thought. If Pei Chuan didn’t like her, she’d never come back again. She was afraid of pain.

She was about to call for Uncle Pei when—

The silent boy slipped a handful of chocolates into her small pocket, then let go of her collar, gesturing that she could leave.

Bei Yao touched the slightly sharp edges of the candies in her pocket, then looked up at him again.

He still hadn’t said a single word to her. He turned back to his desk, picked up his pencil, and sat straight, resuming his writing—each stroke neat and forceful.

Author’s Note: Side Story —Zhao Xiu: Your Yaoyao is cute.Zhao Zhilan (gritting her teeth): No, your Minmin is far prettier.Zhao Xiu smiles triumphantly.

Years later.Zhao Xiu (internally): …I thought we agreed Minmin was the pretty one!