Huang Yanyan's POV
The Huang compound felt like a cage tonight, its high walls and polished floors closing in around me until I could barely breathe. I stood by the window in the upstairs study, staring out at the dark sprawl of Wuhan beyond the gates, my reflection a blurry ghost in the glass. My hands gripped the sill, nails digging into the wood, as if I could anchor myself against the chaos swirling in my head. Yang Wei's words from earlier—"You're all I've got left"—kept replaying, tangling with Haoyu's fierce "I've got you" and Grandpa Huang's raw "If she's dead, that's on you." It was too much, too fast, and I was drowning in it.
