My childhood was carved into the heart of Yunnan Province, China. Not the bustling Beijing skyline or Shanghai's neon dreams—no, I was raised in a quiet military compound nestled between mountains and mist. And my guardian, my teacher, my only family—was General Choi.
He wasn't just a man in uniform. He was the uniform. Steel-spined, feared by men twice his size, and revered in every province for his brutal efficiency on the battlefield and his upper hand in politics. But to me? He was just "Ba."
Yes, I called him father. I was told I was found abandoned near a border checkpoint when I was barely a year old, wrapped in a faded American T-shirt with a broken toy car in my hand. It didn't take a genius to guess I wasn't native. Black wavy hair, pale skin, eyes that tilted more oval than round but still unmistakably Western—I stood out like a sunrise in a moonless sky.
General Choi never lied to me about that. He used to kneel in front of me, place both hands on my shoulders and say, "Your blood might be foreign, but your spirit is mine. I raised you. I trained you. That is what makes you my daughter."
General Choi was my world.
My father in every way that counted.
I never knew my real parents, and honestly, I stopped wondering. One look in the mirror was enough to remind me—I wasn't Chinese. I looked American, Western. Pale skin, wavy dark hair, full lips, sharp features. My body curved in all the ways that drew stares, unwanted or not.
But General Choi never made me feel out of place.
He used to say, "You are not where you are from. You are what you become."
He trained me like a soldier and loved me like a daughter.
Morning runs through freezing air.
Night drills under a moonlit sky.
Meditation. Strategy. Martial arts.
Every day, he poured wisdom into me like I was a sacred vessel.
And I drank every drop.
The first time I broke someone's wrist in self-defense, I was fifteen.
The boy had cornered me after school.
Choi didn't scold me.
He handed me a towel for the sweat on my brow and said, "Next time, make sure they can't chase you."
He was respected—no, revered.
A man of honor in a world that was quickly forgetting what honor meant.
And he chose me.
Me, the orphan girl with foreign features and fire in her spirit.
I could disassemble a rifle by the age of ten. I was fluent in three dialects by twelve. And martial arts? He didn't teach me to defend myself. He taught me to end threats.
By the time I turned eighteen, I was a shadow in motion. A quiet, obedient, brilliant weapon in the hands of the man who shaped me.
So, on the day of my graduation, I dressed in my navy blue cheongsam with golden threads stitched into phoenix wings, and I waited. He had promised he'd be there. He told me he had cleared his calendar. He said he wouldn't miss it for the world.
But he never came.
I waited for hours after the ceremony ended. I stood by the gates in heels that pinched my toes and makeup I wasn't used to, clutching my high school leaving certificate with hands that wouldn't stop trembling.
No call. No message. Nothing.
Then, three black cars pulled up—government plates.
I remember the woman who stepped out first. Cold eyes. Neat bun. A badge clipped to her coat that told me everything I needed to know: Chinese intelligence.
"Sidney," she said in Mandarin. "You must come with us."
I didn't. Not at first. I asked about General Choi. I told them he was probably stuck in traffic. I even tried to call him right there—but his number had been disconnected.
Then two uniformed men flanked me. One gently took my suitcase. The other put a hand on my shoulder.
I was eighteen. Smart, yes. Trained? Definitely. But I was also a daughter. And in that moment, my world started crumbling.
"Where's Ba?" I whispered.
They wouldn't say.
"Is he hurt? Is he—?" I couldn't finish the sentence.
The woman only said, "You will be fine."
And just like that, my life in China was over.
They took me to a private airport. My passport was waiting. An American visa already stamped. A one-way ticket to a place I had never stepped foot in. I wasn't even allowed to go back to our compound to say goodbye. Everything I owned fit into one small bag. Everything else—memories, photographs, books—vanished.
The flight was long. I didn't sleep. I didn't eat. I stared out the window at clouds that looked too soft, too quiet, and I kept whispering his name over and over again.
When I landed in America, there was no welcoming committee. No long-lost relatives. Just a formal letter stating I'd been placed in the care of an American family—temporary, of course. I was an adult now, technically. I could live on my own. But my life had been structured like a soldier's. And now, I was alone, confused, betrayed.
At first, America felt like another planet.
The air smelled different. The streets were wider, louder. People smiled too much or not at all. And everyone looked at me like I was a puzzle they couldn't solve. Too Western to be Chinese, too Chinese to be American.
For weeks, I searched. I contacted retired officers. I wrote emails to the Chinese consulate, posed as a journalist, even offered money for intel.
Nothing.
It was like General Choi had been erased from history.
But I still have the memories.
That's what I live with now. Every day. I sweep these floors. I scrub Anne's windows. I do my chores in silence while my mind is a battlefield of memories.
I don't know who I am. I don't know why I was brought here. I don't know what they're hiding from me. But I do know one thing: General Choi didn't abandon me.
Something happened.
And one day—I'll find out what, but right now, I need to make Annie's breakfast.