{√}My Womb||YiZhan||

"Load my luggage into the car."

Prince Zhuo Cheng's voice cut through the morning air with the precision of a blade—clean, final, accustomed to immediate obedience. He gestured toward one of his guards, a flick of the wrist that contained entire histories of command.

"Yes, Your Highness." The guard responded with a bow so deep it spoke of training drilled into muscle memory, of hierarchies so ancient they had become nature itself. He retrieved the leather bags and exited with measured steps, each footfall a testament to the architecture of power.

Zhuo Cheng surveyed the penthouse with calculated precision. His dark eyes swept across every corner—the Italian leather sofa with its hand-stitched seams, the side table bearing a Qing dynasty vase that had belonged to three generations of queens, the silk-draped bed where he had spent his final night within walls that had contained his entire existence. Nothing escaped his scrutiny. He was a man who despised oversight, who considered even the smallest forgotten item a personal failure, who measured his worth by the completeness of his possessions.

The soft click of heels announced his mother's entrance before she spoke. Queen Zhuo Lee paused at the threshold, observing her son as he conducted his inspection with the intensity of a general preparing for campaign. Though she had borne three children, Zhuo Cheng had always demanded the most vigilance—a truth that settled upon her heart this morning with particular heaviness, as if she already foresaw the distance that would grow between them.

"Where have you placed the remainder of your luggage?" she inquired, noting the absence of his traveling cases, the spaces where his presence had been.

"The guards have secured everything in the car, Mother." Zhuo Cheng turned, executing a nod flawless in its formality, its distance. "I am prepared to depart."

The Queen approached her firstborn, her Chanel suit whispering against marble with the sound of water over stone. She reached up to straighten his collar—a gesture she had performed since his childhood, though he now stood a full head taller, though the collar needed no adjustment, though they both understood this was not about the collar at all.

"My son," she began, her voice soft yet carrying the gravity of her station, the weight of a mother's final opportunity, "you must exercise utmost caution once you reach your destination. The Chong Community is not the palace. Its people are not courtiers who will bow to your every whim." She held his gaze, willing him to truly hear, to understand what she could not speak aloud. "Make wise decisions. Should you encounter challenges beyond your management, do not let pride prevent you from seeking your father's counsel—either through message or in person."

Her advice flowed from deep understanding, from twenty-four years of watching this child become this man. She knew her son intimately—his arrogance, his pride, his troubling capacity for casual cruelty. Prince Zhuo Cheng possessed a demeanor that shifted between charm and menace without warning, a selfishness that placed his desires above all other considerations, a belief that the world existed to be shaped by his will.

He was the type of royal who took what he wanted and asked permission only as an afterthought, if at all.

She had watched him throughout his twenty-four years as he leveraged his princely status to attain every object of his desire, employing wealth as both sword and shield, punishment and reward. He would achieve his aims—of this, his mother had no doubt. Her fear lay in how he would achieve them, particularly now, as he prepared to descend upon the Chong Community, where he would hold absolute authority over villagers with no recourse against his power, no protection from his whims.

Chongqing sprawled across the eastern valley like a patchwork quilt of concrete, bamboo groves, and clustered dwellings that seemed to grow organically from the earth itself. Though substantial in size, the village lacked true autonomy, its governance flowing from the benevolent but overburdened King Zhuo, who ruled from the distant capital with wisdom if not omnipresence. Two distinct communities composed the region: the Chong, where factory workers and laborers scraped existence from reluctant soil and collapsing industries, and the Lonq, whose merchants and small business owners enjoyed marginally better fortunes through trade and skilled labor.

The Chong people had long whispered of neglect. Their complaints had eventually reached the king's ears—tales of unresolved disputes, of families struggling against cycles of poverty, of young men who could find no path to prosperity despite willingness to work. In response, King Zhuo had ordered the construction of an administrative compound within the Chong Community itself, and more significantly, had appointed his eldest son to oversee their welfare personally.

Today marked the beginning of that mandate. Prince Zhuo Cheng would govern the Chong people directly, reporting their conditions and needs to the throne. It was, his mother reflected, either a gesture of genuine concern from a king who wished to understand his poorest subjects, or a test of his son's character—perhaps both. Perhaps neither.

"Govern them with honesty," the Queen continued, drawing her son into an embrace that smelled of jasmine and maternal love, of all the things she could not protect him from. "And keep your true nature concealed from them, my son."

Zhuo Cheng tilted his head, that considering gesture she knew too well. He rolled his eyes skyward in mock contemplation, then smiled—that charming, dangerous smile that had opened every door, won every negotiation, destroyed every obstacle throughout his life.

"On second thought..." He paused deliberately, savoring her tension. "I won't, Mother."

The Queen closed her eyes briefly, offering a silent prayer to whatever powers might listen. She could only hope—desperately, futilely—that he was jesting, that some remnant of the boy who had once brought her wildflowers still lived beneath the armor of the man.

"May the Lord protect you," she blessed him, falling into step beside him as they walked toward the elevator that would carry them to the garage. The morning sun painted the penthouse windows in gold, and staff bowed as they passed, their eyes averted from the royal procession, from the intimate moment of departure they had no right to witness.

"Amen," Zhuo Cheng murmured, turning once more to embrace his mother. For a fleeting moment, he was simply her son again—the boy who had laughed with unguarded joy, who had wept without shame, who had not yet learned that power was the only protection against vulnerability. Then the moment passed, and the prince returned, his mask descending like a curtain.

A guard opened the door of the magnificent vehicle—the black Maybach that would soon cause such commotion in the Chong Community, that would become symbol and weapon both. Zhuo Cheng settled into leather seats that breathed wealth, and with a command to the driver, the engine purred to life, carrying him toward the distant valley, toward whatever destiny awaited, whatever destruction he might sow.

---

The Chong Community sprawled before the approaching car like a living tapestry of struggle and endurance, of lives lived close to the asphalt and closer to despair. Concrete homes clustered together as if for warmth against the world's indifference, their tin roofs patched with whatever materials poverty could afford—plastic sheeting, corrugated cardboard, prayers. Factory smokestacks coughed white plumes into the gray sky, each puff representing hours of labor that would never translate into security. The air carried the scent of exhaust, cooking oil, and the distant clang of machinery, the sounds and smells of existence stripped to its essentials.

Here, prosperity meant three meals a day. Here, a man who could feed his family consistently commanded respect bordering on reverence. Here, beauty was both currency and curse, blessing and burden, depending on who possessed it and who desired it.

Xiao Juan was precisely such a man—though "prosperity" wore thin upon him, stretched taut over bones of greed that showed through his skin. His two children ate thrice daily, true, but the price of their sustenance came due in other currencies, in debts not recorded on paper. Particularly for his firstborn son, Xiao Zhan, whose beauty had become the family's most valuable asset and most dangerous vulnerability.

Xiao Zhan possessed the kind of beauty that stopped conversations mid-sentence, that made strangers forget their errands, that stirred in observers both wonder and want. His features seemed carved by an artist who had spent years perfecting a single masterpiece—large luminous eyes that held the warmth of autumn honey and the depth of mountain pools, high cheekbones that caught light like porcelain and shadow like sculpture, lips curved into a perpetual softness that invited both trust and desire. He moved with unconscious grace, unaware of his effect, which only magnified it.

Suitors arrived at the Xiao household with the regularity of seasons, each bearing gifts and proposals, each carrying hope like a fragile lantern against the darkness of their own circumstances. They came from neighboring villages, from the Lonq Community, from as far as their meager means could carry them, drawn by rumors of a beauty that exceeded description.

Zhan refused them all. Gently, consistently, without exception or explanation.

Some suitors, driven by desperation that bordered on madness, had learned of Xiao Juan's weakness—his greed, his gambling debts, his willingness to trade anything for coin. They approached the father directly, pressing thick envelopes into his greedy palms, believing they could purchase what Zhan would not grant freely, what no amount of money could truly buy.

Xiao Juan accepted every offering with both hands, his smile widening with each transaction, his eyes calculating value while his mouth promised nothing.

When Zhan rejected these purchased suitors—as he always did, as he always would—they returned to reclaim their investment. Xiao Juan's response never varied, delivered with the certainty of a man who had memorized his own righteousness: "Did I request money from you? You offered it willingly, hoping to marry my son. He has declined, and the money now belongs to me. No refunds."

He delivered this speech with theatrical indignation, as if the suitors had insulted his honor by implying commerce in matters of family. The suitors, knowing further argument meant only wasted breath and additional humiliation, eventually stopped trying. They left Xiao Juan's courtyard cursing him under their breaths—a greedy old man who traded his children's futures for cash, who sold beauty without possessing it, who would die alone despite his accumulated wealth.

On this particular morning, Xiao Zhan stood at the crossroads where two cracked asphalt paths met, one leading toward the Lonq Community, the other deeper into Chong lands. He waited with the particular patience of young love, of anticipation that makes time elastic, his eyes scanning the tree line where his boyfriend had disappeared moments before.

Wang Yibo was attending to nature's call behind a derelict factory wall—a necessity of their long walk that Zhan bore with amused tolerance, with the easy acceptance of bodily functions that came from genuine intimacy. While he waited, Zhan's gaze drifted to the main road, where dust rose in the distance, heralding some approaching vehicle, some interruption of the morning's peace.

The car that emerged from the dust cloud stole his breath.

It was magnificent—lower and sleeker than any vehicle Xiao Zhan had ever seen in his nineteen years of life, longer than his imagination had previously contained. Polished black paint gleamed like liquid obsidian, catching sunlight and throwing it back in brilliant shards that danced across the pitted asphalt. Chrome trim flashed at the windows and grille, catching light and holding it like treasure, and the wheels that carried it were not the battered steel rims Zhan knew, but alloy sculptures with spokes that seemed to spin even when stationary, their finish speaking of bloodlines and wealth beyond calculation.

"Oh!" The exclamation escaped Zhan before he could contain it, before he could remember that such displays of wonder might be considered provincial, unsophisticated. "Look at that car! I must ride in that car someday. When I become rich—when I finally become rich in this lifetime—I will buy one exactly like it!" His voice rose with each declaration, pure, unguarded wonder animating his features, transforming him from beautiful to radiant. "It's exquisite! It's beautiful!"

The car passed him in a rush of wind and thunder, of displacement and perfume, disappearing around the bend with the finality of a dream upon waking. Still Zhan stared after it, his heart pounding with an aspiration that felt both impossible and absolutely necessary, both ridiculous and essential to his continued existence.

"I'm finished." Wang Yibo emerged from behind the wall, adjusting his clothing, his expression content and unaware.

"Baby!" Zhan grabbed his arm without looking away from the empty road, as if the car might reappear if he maintained sufficient hope. "Did you see that car? The one that just passed by?"

Wang Yibo followed his boyfriend's pointing finger, squinting at empty road and drifting dust, at the absence of what Zhan had witnessed. "What car?"

"A car as long as a boat!" Zhan spread his arms wide, demonstrating with his entire body the magnitude of what he had witnessed, trying to compress wonder into gesture. "As long as that!"

"Really?" Yibo's tone carried the first shadow of doubt, the beginning of something darker that he would not yet acknowledge.

"Yes! It was so impressive, Yibo. When we become rich—when you become rich, baby—you'll buy me that car. Promise me you'll buy it."

"But I can't see any car." Yibo's brow furrowed, genuine confusion mixing with something that coiled in his chest like an unwelcome guest, like shame wearing the mask of skepticism.

"Oh, my goodness!" Zhan continued, oblivious to the shift in his boyfriend's expression, too absorbed in his own wonder to notice the gathering storm. "That car was absolutely stunning. So beautiful! Baby, we simply must experience riding in that car together!"

Wang Yibo swallowed against the lump forming in his throat, against the constriction of class and poverty that suddenly seemed to choke him. He glanced down at his own clothing—patched jeans, a t-shirt faded from too many washes, sneakers held together with hope and glue and the stubborn refusal to surrender. He thought of his mother waiting at home, of the meager portion of rice that would constitute their dinner, of the coins he had hoped to earn today but likely wouldn't, of the gap between Zhan's dreams and his reality that suddenly seemed unbridgeable as oceans.

"Which car are you referring to?" he managed, keeping his voice light, keeping the desperation from showing. "Are you certain you saw a car just now?" He took Zhan's hand, guiding them along the path toward the village center, trying to restore normalcy through motion.

"The largest thing I've ever seen in my entire life!" Zhan chattered on, painting pictures with his hands as they walked, constructing castles from air. "It was like something from a movie! I've never—"

The car reappeared.

It rounded the bend ahead of them, returning from whatever errand had taken it beyond the village, and this time Wang Yibo saw it with his own eyes. The sight struck him like a physical blow—the impossible length, the gleaming finish, the sheer wealth embodied in every polished surface, matching exactly Zhan's breathless description, confirming that his boyfriend had not exaggerated, had not imagined, had simply seen what Yibo could not yet comprehend.

"That's it, baby!" Zhan jumped up and down, tugging at Yibo's sleeve like an excited child, like someone who had not yet learned that some desires were dangerous. "That's the car! We absolutely must drive that car through this village once you've made enough money!"

Wang Yibo's throat constricted. He stared at the magnificent vehicle, at the driver in his fine uniform, at the tinted windows that hinted at climate-controlled luxury within, and felt the vast distance between this world and his own, between Zhan's dreams and his capabilities. He struggled daily to put food on his mother's table. He couldn't afford a bicycle—could barely afford the patches on his own shoes. And Xiao Zhan was talking about buying this.

Where did Zhan imagine the money would come from? What world did he inhabit, where such dreams seemed possible? What did it mean that Zhan assumed Yibo would one day be capable of such purchase, such display, such wealth?

Zhan continued bouncing beside him, utterly absorbed in the passing wonder, when the car suddenly halted.

The engine purred, then fell silent. The driver sat motionless behind the wheel, awaiting command. And then, with terrible slowness, with the inevitability of judgment, the rear door opened.

Xiao Zhan's hand jerked away from Yibo's as though burned, as though the touch itself had become dangerous. His eyes widened to impossible proportions, his face draining of color until he resembled nothing so much as a startled ghost, a spirit who had seen something that belonged to the realm of the dead.

"Jesus!" The shriek escaped him, raw and terrified, the sound of prey recognizing predator. Without another thought, without a single glance back at his bewildered boyfriend, Xiao Zhan ran.

"ZhanZhan!" Wang Yibo called after him, his voice cracking with confusion, with sudden fear. "Baby, come back!"

Zhan vanished around a corner, swallowed by the warren of village paths, leaving Yibo alone in the road with the stopped car and whoever—whatever—emerged from it.

Flight tempted him. Every instinct screamed at Yibo to follow his boyfriend, to disappear into the same maze of alleys and escape whatever trouble approached, whatever danger had made Zhan flee. But his feet refused to move, rooted to the asphalt by something between curiosity and dread, between the need to understand and the fear of what understanding might cost.

The figure who descended from the car moved with the unconscious grace of one who had never known want, never known doubt, never known a moment when the world did not arrange itself according to his desires. His suit was tailored, charcoal gray, with a watch that marked his status in numbers Yibo couldn't read. His hair was styled with product that cost more than Yibo's monthly earnings. His face—handsome, yes, but cold, arranged in features that seemed to have forgotten how to express genuine warmth—surveyed the world with the particular disdain of those who had always owned it, who could not imagine ownership being questioned.

Wang Yibo bowed his head. It was not a choice; his body performed the gesture before his mind could intervene, some deep survival instinct recognizing danger and responding appropriately, acknowledging power before consciousness could refuse.

"Young man." The voice matched the face—cold, commanding, accustomed to immediate obedience, to the world rearranging itself upon his words. The stranger's gaze swept over Yibo's patched clothing with undisguised contempt, with the assessment of a merchant examining livestock. "What is your name?"

"Wang Yibo." The words emerged steady despite the tremor in his heart, despite the recognition that something significant was happening, something that would mark his life before and after.

"Do you reside in the forest?"

Yibo's jaw dropped. He stared at the speaker, searching his memory for any previous encounter, any reason for such insult, such immediate diminishment. Finding none, he could only shake his head mutely, the gesture itself a form of submission he would later resent.

"No, sir." He bowed his head again, deeper this time, hoping deference would protect him, knowing even as he did so that protection was not being offered, only demanded.

"Let me introduce myself properly." The stranger's lips curved into something that was not quite a smile, that contained no warmth, only the performance of courtesy. "I am Prince Zhuo Cheng, son of King Zhuo." He paused, allowing the words to land like stones in still water, like the first drops of a flood. "I have been dispatched to this village to oversee the welfare of its inhabitants. You will address me appropriately."

Wang Yibo's eyes widened. The king's son. Standing before him on this cracked road, in this forgotten corner of the kingdom, speaking to him as if he mattered, as if his response had consequence. The impossibility of it pressed against his understanding like a wave against a seawall, threatening to breach, to drown, to transform everything.

"Greetings, Your Highness." He bowed a third time, his body aching with the effort of maintaining composure, of performing submission while something in his chest began to burn. "This humble one is Wang Yibo, son of the late Wang Zhao."

"Ah." Zhuo Cheng's eyes narrowed with interest, with calculation, with the assessment of a collector examining a potential acquisition. "And the beauty I saw you with—the one who fled so hastily. Who is he?"

Wang Yibo's heart clenched. The question was innocent in its wording, dangerous in its implication, in the attention it directed toward what Yibo had believed was his alone to protect. "His name is Xiao Zhan, Your Highness. Son of Xiao Juan."

"I see." The prince studied him for a long moment, his gaze traveling over Yibo's face with an expression that might have been curiosity, might have been dismissal, might have been the first notes of a melody Yibo would come to recognize as threat. "You may go."

He turned without waiting for acknowledgment, without another word, and reentered his magnificent car. The door closed behind him with a solid thunk of wealth and power, of worlds closing against those who did not belong. The driver started the engine, and the car moved forward, carrying Prince Zhuo Cheng away from Wang Yibo and toward whatever destiny awaited in the Chong Community, whatever destruction he might sow in fields already exhausted by poverty.

Yibo stood alone in the road, watching the car disappear. Dust settled around him like a curse, like a mantle, like the first layer of what would become burial.

Money truly belittles me, he thought, the words bitter on his tongue, acidic in his chest. Who the hell does he think he is?

The hatred took root in that moment—small as a seed, sharp as a blade, tender as new growth that would strengthen with time and nourishment. Wang Yibo had never hated anyone before. He had known poverty, known hunger, known the particular shame of watching his mother go without so that he could eat, known the exhaustion of labor that built nothing, owned nothing, changed nothing. But he had never known hatred.

He knew it now.

He turned and walked slowly toward the Xiao household, following the path his boyfriend had fled, carrying within him the first stirrings of something that would grow and twist and change everything, that would transform him from who he was into who he would become, that would make him capable of acts he could not yet imagine.

---

Xiao Zhan burst through his family's courtyard gate like a fox pursued by hounds, his chest heaving, his face slick with sweat that had nothing to do with exertion and everything to do with fear. He collapsed against the wall, gasping for air, his heart pounding so violently he feared it might escape his ribcage entirely, might leave him hollow, might reveal how little substance existed beneath his beauty.

Inside the courtyard, his younger brother Xiao Yubin looked up from his phone. At the sight of Zhan's disheveled state, Yubin's eyes widened with alarm, and he half-rose from his seat, instinctively preparing to flee. In their household, trouble arrived without warning, descended without explanation, and survival meant running first and asking questions later, if at all.

"Zhan-ge!" Yubin's voice cracked with concern, with the particular fear of a younger sibling who has learned to read disaster in postures. "What's wrong? What happened?"

Zhan waved his hands wildly, still struggling to catch his breath, still seeing the car door opening, still feeling the weight of attention that had made his skin crawl with premonition. "Look at what I've gotten myself into!" He pressed both palms to his chest, inhaling deeply, exhaling shakily, trying to calm the panic that had no source he could name, only intuition's scream. "I've landed in a huge problem, Yubin. You won't believe it."

He drew another ragged breath and began, the words tumbling out: "I was walking by the road—just walking, minding my own business—when I saw this enormous car. The most beautiful car I've ever seen. I pointed at it, Yubin. I just pointed at it because I liked it. And then..." He swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the gate as if expecting pursuit at any moment, as if the act of speaking might summon what he feared. "The owner got angry. He came out of the car and started chasing me. Chasing me, Yubin! I'm in such trouble!"

Yubin stared at his brother, the fear slowly draining from his expression, replaced by confusion, by the suspicion that Zhan's drama might exceed his actual danger. "Just like that? He chased you because you pointed at his car?"

"I don't know!" Zhan wailed, clutching his head with both hands, his distress genuine even if its source remained mysterious. His panic was nearly bringing tears to his eyes, genuine tears of genuine terror. "I don't know why he chased me! I just ran!"

The courtyard gate creaked open, and Wang Yibo stepped through, his expression a careful mask that hid the hatred still smoldering, still being born.

"Zhan." He crossed to where his boyfriend stood trembling, his voice gentle despite everything, despite the seed growing in his chest. "Why did you run like that?"

Zhan stared at him incredulously, as if the answer should be obvious, as if Yibo had not seen what he had seen. "Didn't you see that man? The one who came out of the car and started chasing me?"

Wang Yibo's composure cracked. Laughter burst from him—genuine, helpless, impossible to contain, the laughter of relief and recognition and the terrible knowledge that Zhan's fear had been unnecessary, that his own hatred had been born of misunderstanding, that the prince had not been chasing, only observing. "Zhan, no one was chasing you! The prince just wanted to ask who you were! You've truly astonished me."

"Prince?" Zhan's voice rose an octave, cracking on the single syllable.

"He's Prince Zhuo Cheng, the king's son. He's been sent here to oversee the village." Yibo's laughter subsided, but his eyes remained bright with amusement, with affection, with the love that would make everything that followed possible, that would make it tragedy. "He asked your name, that's all. No chasing. No danger."

Xiao Zhan processed this information slowly, his expression shifting from terror to embarrassment to outrage, the emotions playing across his features like weather across a landscape. "You mean..." He pointed toward the house, his finger trembling with the aftermath of adrenaline. "You mean I ran all the way here for nothing?"

"For nothing," Yibo confirmed, and laughed again, the sound clean and young and unaware of futures.

Zhan glared at him, then turned to his younger brother with sudden ferocity, with the need to redirect his embarrassment into action. "I'm going inside." He pointed at Yubin, his eyes narrowed with theatrical threat. "If anyone comes looking for me—anyone—I'm not here. You don't know me. I'm not around. Do you understand? Do you completely understand?"

Without waiting for acknowledgment, Xiao Zhan fled into the house, leaving his brother and his boyfriend in the courtyard with the morning sun and the dust settling and the world continuing its rotation.

Yubin stared after him, then turned to Wang Yibo with an expression of profound bemusement, of affectionate exasperation. "He just dashed off like a startled rabbit."

"Like a rabbit," Yibo agreed, and they both burst into laughter—the easy, affectionate laughter of those who loved Xiao Zhan despite his drama, perhaps because of it, perhaps because drama was the only defense against a world that offered so little protection.

Yibo's laughter faded first. He looked toward the house where his boyfriend had disappeared, then back toward the road where the prince's car had vanished, and felt the weight of the day settling onto his shoulders like a mantle he had not asked to wear, like a destiny he had not chosen.

He had laughed. He had comforted. He had hidden his true feelings behind a mask of amusement, of normalcy, of the belief that this day was simply another day, that the prince was simply another authority, that nothing fundamental had changed.

But deep inside, where no one could see, where he himself had not yet looked directly, the seed of hatred toward Prince Zhuo Cheng had already begun to sprout, sending roots into soil fertilized by shame and watered by the recognition that some desires could never be spoken, some angers could never be expressed, some wounds would never be acknowledged as wounds at all.

The car had passed. The prince had spoken. And nothing, Yibo would later understand, would ever be the same.