The Wolf's Confession

The dining room gleamed under the crystal chandelier, a space reserved only for occasions that mattered. Sunday dinner was sacred. The mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine, was laid with white porcelain plates rimmed in delicate blue — a pattern passed down from his grandmother in Shanghai. Jade chopsticks rested beside each plate. On the sideboard, a scroll hung with characters his mother had explained years ago: discipline, harmony, excellence. The roasted chicken sat centre stage on a blue and white serving dish, flanked by jasmine rice in a matching bowl and his mother’s signature stir-fry of bitter melon and ginger — the kind that took three hours to perfect but was presented as effortless. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

“So, how were your final exams?” His father folded his napkin with precision, the question landing the way it always did — casual on the surface, weighted underneath. His suit jacket hung on the chair behind him, tie loosened but still immaculate. Even at home, he maintained a certain formality.

“All A’s,” Marcus said. He’d rehearsed this moment the night before, guessing which conversation would surface first. His fingers found the chopsticks without thought — the ease of years, nothing left to chance.

His older brother gave him that particular smile, the one that meant well done, but expected, before turning back to his food. Then, under the table, a foot connected with Marcus’s shin — not hard, just enough to make him glare. His brother didn’t even glance up, fighting a smirk into his rice. Don’t let it go to your head, genius. Marcus kicked back and missed, catching the table leg instead, and had to turn a wince into a cough. His mother didn’t look up. She’d long since given up pretending not to notice.

For them, excellence wasn’t an achievement. It was the baseline.

“Cambridge is impressed,” his father continued. “They’re reviewing applications now. You should prepare for the interview.”

Marcus nodded, cutting his chicken into neat, even pieces. Across the table, his mother watched him the way she always did — not unkindly, but closely. She’d taught teenagers long enough to know when someone was performing for the room instead of sitting in it.

“Jamie called earlier,” she said, easing the subject sideways. “He’s coming by tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Jamie’s cousin is throwing something at his halls — a welcome-week thing for the older lot. Sophie’s meeting us there.”

His father made a small, non-committal sound — the one that meant parties were frivolous but tolerable, provided they served some purpose. Marcus had learned to translate his father’s silences years ago.

After dinner, he excused himself and retreated to his room. His phone buzzed with a message from Sophie:

don’t you dare bail on us tomorrow. you need to actually have a social life instead of being a robot.

He smiled despite himself. Sophie had a way of saying things that made him feel called out and understood in the same breath. Jamie’s followed a moment later, blunter:

party tomorrow mate. you’re coming. no excuses.

That night, Marcus lay in bed scrolling through his phone, already running through tomorrow’s scenarios. He’d go to the party, stay for an acceptable stretch of time, make surface-level conversation, then leave.

Simple. Controlled.