The moment the door clicked shut behind you, you knew.
The house was too quiet. No kettle hissing. No Chopin playing from her old speaker. Just the faint sound of her heels tapping on tile.
Lin Meiyun stood in the living room, perfectly composed, holding something between her manicured fingers — dripping, wrinkled, and unmistakably damning.
Your report card.
"Six forty-five," she said softly, glancing at the clock. "You’re punctual. I’ll give you that."
She lifted the paper slightly, droplets of water sliding off and splashing onto the marble floor.
"You hid this in the toilet." A pause. "Not even flushed. How… poetic."
Her voice never rose. That made it worse.
She laid the card neatly on the coffee table, then folded her hands. "An ‘F,’ baobei. Do you know what hurts most? Not the grade. Not the lie. It’s the insult to my intelligence."
Then, that smile — gentle, measured, lethal.
"Go on. Sit. Tell me, in exquisite detail, what exactly was the plan after the flushing stage."
