Words Are a Blade
“Stop.” Jin Siqiao’s face went cold and flat.
Wen Yiqian didn’t stop. He rested his chin in one hand, as though narrating something that had nothing to do with either of them, his voice moving at its own unhurried pace.
“Her father developed a gambling addiction. Her mother, worn down by years of despair, eventually began an affair with a younger, more attractive man.”
“The father found out. The abuse began. Unable to bear the shame and the pain of it, the mother took her own life.”
“The daughter was still young at the time. She believed her father’s violence had driven her mother to death, so she fled to her relatives and cut off all contact with him.”
“And when she left, she did something particularly cruel.”
He glanced at Jin Siqiao.
“Enough,” she said, her voice dropping to something controlled and sharp.
“It wasn’t until she grew up that she gradually learned the truth about why her mother had really died.”
He kept going.
“By then, her father was a broken man: mentally unstable, homeless, barely surviving. She couldn’t help feeling responsible. So she threw herself into making amends, however she could.”
“Shut up!” The control gave way, and Jin Siqiao’s voice came out raw and angry.
“So.” Wen Yiqian looked at her quietly, sounding faintly tired. “How was that? Funny enough?”
Jin Siqiao took a slow breath and pushed back against the images surfacing in her mind.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Me?” He propped his chin on his hand. “A detective who’s completely useless at actual deduction and only knows how to tell stories.”
“A detective.” She said it as though testing the word.
After a pause: “You’re very perceptive.”
Wen Yiqian made a short, dismissive sound and looked away.
“Whatever you say, I can’t abandon him.” Her voice came back earnest and steady. “He’s my father.”
The last word caught in her throat. Her nose stung.
“Alright, that’s enough of that.” Wen Yiqian’s voice cut in without ceremony.
He braced his hands on his thighs, stood, and walked over to where she was.
Jin Siqiao looked up at him, caught slightly off guard by the shift in his presence, her composure slipping for just a moment.
“You don’t seem to understand the situation.” His voice cooled as he spoke. “Your father is dangerous. Right now, he is capable of killing someone at any moment.”
“I watch him closely.” Jin Siqiao pushed back.
“Then how did he end up in my apartment?” Wen Yiqian said.
She had nothing to say to that and went quiet.
“You can keep cleaning up after him for the rest of your life. Very devoted of you.” The smile at his mouth was thin and cold. “But every day he’s free is another day someone else’s life is at risk.”
“Is this what you think being a good daughter looks like?”
“Or is this the only arrangement that lets you manage your guilt and put your legal skills to use at the same time? Gives you something to feel good about? A sense of purpose?”
“That’s not true.” Jin Siqiao’s face had gone tight and unhappy. “That’s not what this is.”
“You look like you’re moved by your own performance.” Wen Yiqian pressed on, without softening it. “Have you gotten so lost in the role that you can’t see it anymore?”
His voice shifted into something mimicking an internal monologue, dry and cutting.
“Look, everyone. My father is filthy, broken, out of his mind. I don’t mind at all. I take care of every disaster he causes. I am the most devoted daughter in the world. Truly, deeply moving.”
“If he ever stopped causing problems, I’d lose the chance to prove how filial and capable I am. I absolutely cannot let him be put somewhere safe.”
Jin Siqiao’s face went white, then flooded with color. Her chest rose and fell. She stopped holding it back and swung her hand at his face.
Wen Yiqian caught her wrist and stepped closer, holding her gaze without blinking.
“The truth is, in your heart, your father is a tool.” Each word came out flat and deliberate. “A way to ease guilt. A way to feel accomplished.”
He let it land before he finished: “Isn’t that right. Most devoted daughter in the world.”
“No. That’s not. I didn’t.” Jin Siqiao covered her mouth. Her knees buckled slowly and she sank down, and then the sobs came.
Her defenses had collapsed entirely, leaving something small and unguarded underneath.
This was the moment, objectively speaking, where a warm presence and a few quiet words would have left a lasting impression.
Wen Yiqian was not interested. He wandered back to his chair and dropped into it.
Within moments, the coldness behind his eyes dissolved of its own accord.
He noticed it: this exit from character had been remarkably smooth. No friction, no discomfort, no sense of being dragged from one self into another. It had moved like water finding its natural level.
Most previous performances had left him fighting to surface, the transition grinding and raw.
Is it the world itself correcting course? Wen Yiqian thought privately, with the wry awareness of a writer. Push too far in this kind of story and the whole thing gets pulled back.
He sat with that for a moment, mildly amused by it, then glanced over at Jin Siqiao still crouched nearby, shoulders shaking.
The amusement faded.
Words, when used the right way, were a weapon that left no visible wound. The people destroyed by rumor and public cruelty were proof enough of that. What he had just done had been the same thing at close range, aimed with precision.
He didn’t feel good about it.
But he was also a man who had never once in his life successfully comforted anyone, had no girlfriend, and had precious little experience with people at close quarters. He was genuinely at a loss.
Going over to pat her shoulder, the way people did in dramas, risked another misunderstanding he couldn’t afford.
Offering a tissue was impossible: he didn’t have any.
Going to find tissues would make him look like he was trying too hard.
He turned the problem over and got nowhere.
As it turned out, a weeping woman was considerably harder to handle than a knife-wielding psychopath.
Before he had arrived at any solution, Jin Siqiao had already pulled herself together.
She turned away, found tissues in her bag, dried her face, checked her reflection in a small mirror, and touched up what needed touching up. Then she turned back.
“Your words were harsh,” she said, her voice still slightly uneven. “But they made me see things I hadn’t let myself see. You were right. I was being selfish and obsessive. I won’t keep doing that.”
She gave a small bow. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”
Wen Yiqian started to wave a hand, reaching for something polite to say that might smooth over the edges of the last ten minutes.
She was already walking away before he got there, giving him no second glance.
He let out a long breath, settled back into his chair, and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
He watched her go.
There were still parts of the story he had held back.
(End of Chapter)