Hua Rong balanced a tray full of pastries as she made her way to Counter Seven. Just as she placed the last plate down, her eyes flickered toward Table Five—and there he was again.
He always came—every single day.
Always sitting at that same table, where he had the perfect view of The Brew Haven, the counter where coffee and drinks were prepared. But more than anything, it gave him a clear line of sight to Hua Yuxi—her mother.
Hua Rong hated the way his gaze lingered, the way his eyes narrowed whenever her mother moved to set a table nearby. She hated him.
The man was in his late forties, his receding hair slicked back with too much gel as if he were trying to mask the years catching up to him. His white teeth flashed whenever he smirked, and the way he leaned back in his chair, legs stretched out lazily, made it seem like he owned the place.
Her hands tightened around the empty tray, but she turned away, heading back toward the counter to take another order.
"Hua Rong, how many times have I told you not to come straight here after the institution?" her mother chided, running a gentle hand over her face, brushing away stray strands of hair.
"But I don't want you coming home late," Hua Rong argued, grabbing the next order slip. "That's why I'm helping you."
She knew her mother was beautiful—everyone did. But seeing him ogling her like that, laughing with his friends as if he had every right to, made her blood boil.
She picked up a knife, placing it on a plate with unnecessary force. Should I stab him with this?
Hua Rong wanted to ask if her mother was uncomfortable, but she already knew the answer. Hua Yuxi would never admit it, even if she was. She was too composed for that—too strong.
"Hey, little girl!"
She stopped in her tracks.
That man.
"Is she your mother?" he asked, his beady eyes gleaming as he tilted his head toward Hua Yuxi, his grin widening.
Hua Rong forced a smile, though she felt sick to her stomach. "Yeah."
He chuckled, elbowing his friend. "You're just as pretty as her."
"Thank you, Uncle," she replied, her voice dripping with artificial politeness before walking away.
Her fingers curled into fists as she reached the counter.
I think I should kill him.
.....
The night had settled over the café like a thick, suffocating blanket. Most of the staff had already left, their laughter and tired footsteps fading into the distance. The tables had been wiped down, chairs stacked neatly, and the scent of freshly brewed coffee still lingered in the air.
Hua Rong stood behind the counter, adjusting the straps of her backpack as her gaze locked onto him—the man who came every night.
Finally, after what felt like hours, he decided to leave. He strolled toward the door, laughing with his friends, his voice carrying through the empty café like an echo that refused to die.
Hua Rong forced herself to stay calm.
"Mama, I'm leaving," she called, keeping her voice steady.
Her mother, still wiping down the last of the tables, looked up. "But didn't you say you'd leave with me?"
"I have homework to do," she lied smoothly. Before her mother could ask anything else, she turned and slipped outside, letting the door swing shut behind her.
The cool night air did little to soothe the fire building inside her.
She kept her head low, stepping into the narrow alleyway beside the café. The streetlights flickered, casting broken pools of light over the cracked pavement. Garbage bins lined the walls, the scent of damp paper and leftover oil thick in the air. She moved swiftly, her breath slow, calculated—watching, waiting.
The man and his friend walked ahead, their laughter slicing through the quiet.
"Isn't that woman pretty?"
Hua Rong came to a halt.
"Yeah," his friend agreed, chuckling. "Even I was thinking that."
Her right palm slid over her left forearm, fingers tightening.
"Should I make a move?"
Her nails dug into her skin.
"Yeah, you should. She's a single woman. A little money, and she'll agree."
A violent tremor ran through her.
Breathe. Stay focused.
Her heart pounded against her ribs, her vision tunneling. Every muscle in her body screamed to lash out—to storm forward and drive her fist into his face until his words shattered like glass. But she knew- Not yet.
Instead, she reached for her phone, her fingers trembling as she lifted it.
The camera focused.
Her pulse thundered.
Click.
The sound cut through the night like a gunshot.
Too loud.
Both men froze.
"Who's there?" the man snapped, his head jerking toward the alley.
Hua Rong didn't think. She ran.
Her feet barely touched the ground, the cold air burning her lungs. Behind her, their footsteps pounded against the pavement. She could hear them—too close.
Faster.
She tore through the alley, pushing forward, the sharp scent of oil and damp bricks rushing past her. The narrow space opened into a wide street, neon lights flickering from nearby signs. Cars rumbled in the distance, the faint murmur of late-night conversations filling the air.
She didn't stop.
Only when she was sure she had lost them did she stumble into the shadows of an old storefront, pressing herself against the cold brick. Her breath came in sharp, uneven gasps.
Her fingers clenched around her phone.
She had the proof.
And she was going to make them pay.