What followed was no longer up to him.

Power and status were of no use; severe hypothermia after falling into the water could take a life.

Passengers were strapped into life jackets and evacuated, transferred to nearby rescue vessels that would ferry them to the nearest shore.

Luo Jun finally stopped a crewman in charge of coordinating the rescue and described Luo Zhi’s situation as clearly as he could.

“…You’re saying there’s still someone in the water?” The man paused. “Your younger brother? You saw him go overboard?”

The man stared at Luo Jun in surprise. “Why didn’t you say so earlier?!”

Pricked by the man’s gaze, Luo Jun frowned instinctively, then fell silent at the follow‑up question.

Why didn’t he say so earlier?

In a sea rescue where every second counts—where each delay could cost a life—he had watched his brother fall into the icy water and only now was speaking up…

The crewman’s complicated expression clearly held more than words; the way he looked at Luo Jun was almost rudely direct.

For the first time, Luo Jun found himself suspected in a way that was nearly insulting, and he felt a nameless anger he couldn’t justify. “Things were too chaotic.”

It wasn’t the explanation he meant to give. He’d only said the first sentence—and then, for some reason, the rest jammed in his throat.

…Things were too chaotic; he had simply forgotten there was such a person.

Life and death had been tugging too hard and fast. Luo Jun hadn’t had the bandwidth to think beyond the immediate; he had failed to think of Luo Zhi in time.

Besides, the lifeboat had only had room for one more.

The lifeboat could take just one more person, and Luo Jun hadn’t even weighed who that spot should go to.

He hadn’t, in that moment, thought of anything concerning Luo Zhi at all.

…

Luo Jun hadn’t known he could say such a thing.

Whether from severe loss of body heat or some other reason, any attempt at a defense felt impossibly heavy, lodged in his chest, not even stirring enough air to engage his vocal cords.

He stood in silence.

The crewman shook his head, baffled, and didn’t waste time on him. He radioed the rescue team to search and recover, then went on transferring other people from the lifeboat to steadier ships.

Luo Jun was urged off the lifeboat as well. He and Jian Huaiyi boarded a vessel and were settled in a slightly sheltered spot on deck.

His phone’s water resistance earned its keep: as soon as he powered it on, messages and calls flooded in.

There was a “safe” text from Luo Cheng—she was on another ship. There were calls and messages from his father: his parents were fine, quickly escorted onto a small safety ferry.

Mrs. Luo had been quite frightened, but with Luo Chengxiu by her side, she had calmed; she was only muttering “Jian Huaiyi” over and over.

The rescue was tense but orderly; everything was settling into a methodical rhythm.

The overwhelming blankness that disaster brings was slowly ebbing away.

Luo Jun replied to a few messages, confirming that he and Jian Huaiyi were safe as well, then set the phone to silent and put it aside.

The suffocating pressure of the shipwreck ended as abruptly as it began.

If not for the clothes on his body—soaked, freezing, miserably uncomfortable—one could almost be fooled into thinking the danger had truly passed and ordinary life had resumed.

…

On ordinary days, it was always the same: handling work and social calls; when free, family gatherings. Most of the time it was very calm—so calm it bred no waves.

And so, too many things became habit in that day‑after‑day calm.

In that habit, Luo Jun genuinely disliked Luo Zhi.

Arrogant and rebellious, Luo Zhi defied their father and drove their mother to the brink; he targeted and bullied Jian Huaiyi; recently he’d even unsettled their little sister. He had never done anything that benefited anyone else.

Yet this troublemaker who made no one’s life peaceful was—of all things—bound to them by blood, impossible to cast off.

Of course Luo Jun had never thought of making Luo Zhi disappear like this. He hadn’t wanted him dead—though many times, in rage, a neighboring thought had crossed his mind.

If only there were no Luo Zhi.

Without Luo Zhi, everything would go smoothly; the family’s life would be steadier, happier.

That “if only there were no Luo Zhi” had become its own habit, popping up whenever he was irritated or furious—and whenever Luo Zhi was involved.

Because of Luo Zhi, everything became a mess, impossible to set right.

If only Luo Zhi would stop entangling them, go far away, and never trouble them again—then these bad things wouldn’t keep happening.

Not just him; perhaps every member of the Luo family had long cultivated this habit.

No one questions habit without cause—unless that habit extends into a completely different scenario and finally yields a severe consequence that perhaps cannot be corrected.

Luo Jun had only just realized that his aversion to Luo Zhi had grown strong enough that, at the very brink of life and death, he had instinctively erased Luo Zhi’s existence.

That, absent moral constraint, he could, with an easy conscience, let slip: “It was too chaotic to worry about whether he lived or died.”

Footsteps approached; Jian Huaiyi came over holding a bowl.

He looked heavy‑hearted too. Sitting opposite, he set the rationed ginger soup in front of Luo Jun. “Big brother… this is my fault.”

“I blacked out when I hit the water,” Jian said softly, eyes lowered. “When I woke up, I was alone. I didn’t see Little Zhi. I should have gone to look for him…”

He’d said it plainly enough. Luo Jun stared at the ginger soup, voice low. “How could it be your fault?”

“It’s not on you,” Luo Jun shook his head. “You drink it.”

He didn’t take the bowl. The reddish‑brown surface reflected nothing, rippling slightly with the ship’s motion.

A fall that steep, straight into the water, could easily cause a brief fainting spell. Jian and Luo Zhi had probably been separated by the current right then.

There was no fault to find.

Jian could barely keep himself safe; Luo Jun had only pulled him aboard at the last moment. How could he have done more?

Luo Jun laid his hands on a heater. As feeling returned to his numbed skin, a prickling, ant‑bite itch and sting crept in.

…And Luo Zhi?

It seemed only now did Luo Jun finally begin to think about this.

He’d rescued Jian because he heard Jian’s cry for help.

People are most attuned to familiar voices. Despite the chaos, Luo Jun had followed that voice, found Jian, and hauled him into the lifeboat.

Why hadn’t Luo Zhi called out? Had he also blacked out from the impact? Or was he so drunk he was barely conscious and didn’t realize the danger?

Why had Luo Zhi been drinking?

Jian had been holding a wineglass—was he the one who gave Luo Zhi the drink?

Why had he been drinking with Luo Zhi by the rail, such a dangerous spot?

And why would Luo Zhi drink what he handed him?

…There had been countless earlier situations where these questions could have been asked, but there had never seemed any need.

Luo Jun’s work kept him busy; he didn’t have the leisure to put things down and empathize with a brother who did nothing but cause trouble.

It was far simpler to pronounce a conclusion and sentence.

After all, Luo Zhi’s record was full of misdeeds. His nature didn’t change; his stunts and tactics were always the same few. Even if you unraveled every detail, the conclusion wouldn’t differ.

…

Only this time, there was nothing they could do until the rescue ship reached port.

Perhaps because there was truly nothing to do, those flickers of doubt finally slipped out, unbidden.

“Huaiyi,” Luo Jun began slowly, “earlier—”

He paused a few seconds, weighing or choosing the question, then asked, “Why did you go to see Luo Zhi earlier?”

Jian was dividing the ginger soup into paper cups. He paused, looked up at Luo Jun.

Luo Jun frowned. “Inconvenient to say?”

“…Not exactly.” Jian forced a stiff smile. “Big brother, I didn’t think you’d ask me that.”

“I’m not suspicious of you,” Luo Jun said, shaking his head. “It was a casual question.”

“Really?” Jian’s laugh was dry.

Luo Jun’s brow furrowed tighter.

It had been casual; why such a strong reaction? He started to deny it—then his own thoughts sank slightly.

…Truly no suspicion at all?

Was he questioning Jian’s behavior merely because a business partner had a hazy memory and misremembered the person who’d delivered the tie clip as Luo Zhi?

Jian was his assistant and partner. They handled the company together. Many eyes coveted Jian’s position; attempts to sow discord were common.

To waver over a few words and fret over an outsider, Luo Jun himself felt absurd.

The ship jolted; Jian’s ginger soup sloshed, spilling most of it.

He hissed at the cold, set the bowl down, grabbed a napkin, and wiped the mess dry.

He balled the soaked napkin, kneaded it a few times, tossed it, and walked to the rail.

Luo Jun followed. “I’m sorry.”

“I shouldn’t have thought that,” Luo Jun said. “If you don’t want to say, I can pretend I never asked.”

Jian turned and looked at him carefully for a long moment, then chuckled.

Luo Jun’s gaze fixed on him. “What’s funny?”

Jian thought a beat. “Things don’t look great for me.”

“Our positions by the rail were obvious. We weren’t having a pleasant chat; I was looking for a chance to push him over.”

Jian simply turned fully to face him. “Luo Cheng is young—she might not catch it. But you, big brother, should have that discernment.”

Luo Jun’s eyes tightened, reflexive.

His expression hardened; a question rose to his lips—What nonsense are you saying?—but another voice grew instead, for no clear reason.

A voice he’d ignored for so long he’d nearly forgotten it existed.

…Had he truly never realized that not all of their clashes were Luo Zhi one‑sidedly targeting Jian?

If he lacked even that level of discernment, Luo Jun had no business sparring in business and tallying profit and loss.

“Luo Zhi didn’t drink either. I poured it down him. I only chatted about Ren Chenbai’s mother—Luo Cheng mentioned it; I overheard and got curious, so I asked him.”

“After a few questions, he went quiet—stood there without moving, like something was wrong with his head.”

Jian’s words came quickly, matter‑of‑fact in one breath. “I realized it was the perfect moment. I poured him a drink, planned to shove him over and make it look like he slipped drunk. But it was a spur‑of‑the‑moment thing; I wasn’t prepared, and you happened to catch us…”

“…Huaiyi.”

Luo Jun’s voice deepened; a chill rose along his spine. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

Jian only smiled at him. “Isn’t that what you were thinking?”

Luo Jun couldn’t speak.

…Of course he had thought it.

Had he not, he wouldn’t have asked.

But in the end, he’d swallowed every doubt and smothered that inner voice.

Because… if he acknowledged the strangeness of Jian and Luo Zhi’s postures, the cascade of thoughts that followed was too neat.

So neat it might be the coldest truth.

Luo Jun’s right hand clenched slowly at his side.

He couldn’t name the emotion knifing through him.

Was there shock and guilt for having misjudged Luo Zhi? Perhaps—but it was thin, swallowed in an instant.

More than that, it was the fury of being deceived by the person he trusted most—and the shame of having misread him, as if mocked.

He hadn’t been this angry in a long time—seething, breath tinged with blood. He yanked Jian up by the collar; his chest heaved, tendons standing out faintly on his hand.

“Why?” he rasped.

After years as his assistant, Jian knew well which “why” he meant.

Luo Jun didn’t care why Jian would do that to Luo Zhi.

Maybe he would later—when it was no longer immediate, when he could afford a little pity; maybe he’d care for Luo Zhi, offer some consolatory compensation.

Or when some truths inevitably surfaced, when the prettified past was peeled back and he learned what had really happened… then perhaps Luo Jun would be so regretful he’d want to jump off a building.

But at least now, Luo Jun wasn’t thinking of Luo Zhi, nor was he angry for Luo Zhi’s sake.

He was an acutely self‑centered, supremely arrogant man; his own dignity and never‑wrongness mattered most. Prove him wrong, and you might as well flay him.

The Luo family seemed all cut from that cloth. Who knew what genetic mutation had produced a misfit like Luo Zhi.

“Even if I didn’t admit it, you’d find out,” Jian said. “Suspicion is like that—once born, it can’t be scrubbed clean.”

Dark‑eyed, Luo Jun stared at him. “I might not have looked into it.”

So many times, when Jian and Luo Zhi clashed, he hadn’t investigated at all before condemning Luo Zhi.

Having chosen Jian as his assistant, he would not easily doubt him—even if Jian’s explanations had holes; even if Luo Zhi was his blood brother…

“What if Luo Zhi died in this wreck?” Jian asked.

At that word, Luo Jun’s gaze shuddered. “What did you say?”

…How could Luo Zhi die?

He was hard to kill; he’d survived so much. How could falling into the sea kill him?

The rescue had been timely, professional. No one would be left behind.

Surely some lifeboat had pulled him aboard; with no family or friends around to confirm his identity, they simply hadn’t contacted them yet…

“Big brother, Luo Zhi couldn’t move at all.” Jian’s voice was gentle. “Before he fell, he was already an empty shell.”

Luo Jun’s arm froze in midair.

His breathing roughened, tinged with iron, tipping toward a near‑pant.

“I know the sort of person you are,” Jian went on. “What you can’t accept isn’t ‘Luo Zhi is dead,’ it’s ‘Luo Zhi died because of your mistake.’”

Whatever anyone else had done, it was because Luo Jun hadn’t thought of him in time that it had ended like this.

Even though they’d been together when the ship listed, he hadn’t spared Luo Zhi a thought—not even enough to ask a crewman to hail other lifeboats to search. Perhaps that might have been in time.

“Your family is fascinating,” Jian said with a small laugh. “Just like you don’t really care about Mrs. Luo. What you care about is whether her worsening condition has anything to do with you.”

Those are not the same.

A new gloom seeped into Luo Jun’s eyes; at the same time, the ravenous fury dulled.

It was not a good change. The darkness in his gaze deepened; it was as if someone slowly peeled him down and glazed him in cold, clammy night dew.

“What’s the difference?” he asked.

“A big one.” Jian coughed twice, his collar too tight, then continued as if nothing had happened.

“If you cared about Luo Zhi, you’d go mad searching for him… you’d hire a fleet. You’d know it was futile and ridiculous, but you’d drag the seabed for a month, and finally clutch a skeleton—who knows whose—and weep over it.”

At that, Jian even smiled, not without malice. “Big brother, you might very well do that someday.”

He had never used this tone with any Luo but Luo Zhi. In front of the Luo father and son, he was always the most obedient. He knew what they wanted to hear.

Thus, from childhood, he could easily harvest all of Luo Zhi’s goodwill and filial devotion; whatever he said, they believed.

As for that tie clip back then—Jian himself had never expected to fool Luo Jun. Luo Zhi, with Ren Chenbai’s mother as a bridge, could meet the founder of a multinational, charm him into smiles, and, for Luo Zhi’s sake, toss an eight‑figure deal to the untested Luo Jun.

What did Jian have? Only a half‑mad Mrs. Luo, flinching like a startled bird from nightly accusations and guilt, forcing him to be the perfect shadow of the Luo family’s second young master.

He learned to imitate well. He desperately wanted to be Luo Zhi.

How could the Luo family have a person like Luo Zhi—so clean and fervent, like a ball of fire?

Meant to blaze so bright as to hurt the eyes, yet for the sake of approaching family, he smothered his own heat, turning warm and gentle, pressing close.

Later, that fire cooled in the Luo family’s hands, until only residual warmth remained; then even that faded, drowned in the bottomless, icy sea.

“If you were that kind of person, I wouldn’t need to fight him for you. I wouldn’t need to fight him for any of you.”

Jian paused, then continued. “But you’re not. You’re too afraid of the conclusion ‘you caused Luo Zhi’s death,’ so you have to overturn it.”

That was the Luo family’s way.

What kind of family blames a seven‑year‑old for losing himself and his sister? Who turns that into a crime and punishes Luo Zhi for so many years?

They blamed Luo Zhi to absolve themselves.

To absolve themselves for failing to protect Luo Cheng; for neglect that drove Mrs. Luo into instability.

As long as they declared it all Luo Zhi’s fault, they could be carefree.

“You’ll investigate. You’ll dig up every suspicious detail, suspect every suspicious person. Eventually you’ll find me, and then you’ll hate me.”

Luo Jun’s so‑called trust had always been rooted in his refusal to admit he’d chosen the wrong person.

He never doubted Jian, always took his side against Luo Zhi—because he refused to admit he might have picked the wrong assistant, refused to admit that the brother he recognized was a snake in the farmer’s bosom.

But that partiality and trust, when Luo Jun desperately needed someone to bear responsibility for Luo Zhi’s death, would prove fragile.

“You’ll hate me for killing Luo Zhi.”

“Then your whole family will hate me—you’ll want me dead; you’ll gather evidence and send me to prison. Then, in front of Luo Zhi’s grave, you’ll sigh, shed a couple of tears, and go on with your lives.”

“Just like when you tacitly decided to dump all the blame for getting lost onto Luo Zhi…”

Jian didn’t finish.

Luo Jun slapped him hard. Jian grunted and folded backward; blood welled at the corner of his mouth.

Luo Jun flung him away and said coldly, “You and him—the same?”

Jian, face swelling on one side, still forced a crooked smile. “Of course not.”

Furious as he was, Luo Jun didn’t deny any of it.

It was one of his rare virtues—the heir apparent hadn’t learned to lie shamelessly. He hadn’t wallowed in mud long enough to master blanket denial.

He couldn’t refute Jian because, with “Luo Zhi died in the wreck” as the premise, everything that followed would unfold just so—and even Luo Jun had to admit it.

So he could only hit Jian for the shameless comparison.

“Of course not,” Jian said. “Big brother, I’m not as kind as he is.”

He had to survive; to keep being the Luo family’s false young master; to get everything he wanted.

He wouldn’t be a scapegoat, wouldn’t let the Luo family step on him and continue their self‑deception.

Jian turned his face and wiped the blood from his lips on his shoulder. “So I’ve decided I’ll tell everyone… you were about to hit Luo Zhi, I stepped in, and amid the shoving, an accident happened.”

—From Luo Cheng’s vantage, that’s even what it looked like.

She’d been tucked behind Luo Jun; to her, it was Jian restraining a big brother about to lay hands on Luo Zhi.

As for what followed—it was chaos. Who could say?

“The ship listed, and you pushed us over.”

“Luo Zhi lost consciousness as soon as he hit the water. I couldn’t hold him. I watched him sink.”

“I screamed for you to save him, but you only pulled me up. You didn’t call for rescue in time, because the lifeboat only had room for one more…”

Jian met Luo Jun’s stunned disbelief.

“You’re an adopted son,” Luo Jun said hoarsely. After all that silence, his only rebuttal lacked all force. “Father won’t believe you.”

Jian smiled.

He knew he’d won his gamble. By twist of fate, Luo Jun had no way to produce evidence to clear himself—besides, what weight did blood and adoption carry in the Luo family? Wasn’t Luo Zhi their biological son?

Jian found it all rather ironic.

With all his scheming and stomach for dirty work, he had snatched only so much from Luo Zhi’s hands.

“Fair point,” Jian nodded. “Then let’s add one more scene… big brother.”

Luo Jun’s brow knit without a sound.

A deep foreboding rose in him. He didn’t know what Jian would do; cold spread from the pit of his stomach nonetheless.

“What are you doing!” Someone nearby noticed the commotion and hurried over. “Is this really the time to fight? Do you know what’s going on? Everything’s chaos already…”

Several figures rushed up, boots thudding on the deck.

“Have you thought about what days Luo Zhi will face?” Jian asked.

He grabbed Luo Jun’s arm, yanked it back onto himself, and shoved hard. His own balance broke; he reeled backward.

Startled, Luo Jun lunged to grab him, but the intervening crew pinned him—twisting his arms behind him and slamming him to the gritty deck.

…

The scene was too familiar. Luo Jun’s arm was wrenched, pain threatening to dislocate his shoulder. His heart plunged.

He remembered when Luo Zhi had fought Jian.

He had understood what Luo Zhi was angry about: he hadn’t wanted them to celebrate Jian’s birthday—because it had originally been his.

Luo Jun had struggled to see the problem. It was only a birthday; he and their father never made a habit of it. Jian’s party was for networking; it meant nothing more.

Luo Jun had thought he’d forget it quickly. Work kept him too busy to coddle a wayward brother who stirred up trouble everywhere.

But with the same scene now playing out on him—shoved into Luo Zhi’s vantage, cold sweat popping with the near‑dislocation—memory sprang back unbidden.

…

Pinned by the Luo family’s bodyguards, Luo Zhi couldn’t move. Luo Jun had walked over, crushed out his cigarette in front of him, and asked whether he meant to ruin their family.

Luo Zhi had only watched the cigarette, watched the last ember dim.

Then he’d raised his eyes.

Half the sky was lit by gaudy fireworks. Luo Zhi, seated in the other half’s still darkness, had looked up at him and smiled.

“Big brother, I’m twenty‑three.”

“You forgot to wish me a happy birthday.”