Tangled Threads of Tradition and Love

Chapter-17 🅿🅰🆁🆃2

⚠️VIEWERS DISCLAIMER: THE FOLLOWING FLASHBACKS IN THIS CHAPTER MAYBE UNSETTLING TO SOME VIEWERS. PLEASE DON'T READ IF YOU ARE UNCOMFORTABLE WITH TOPICS SUCH AS CHILD ABUSE

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Huan thought he'd have more control over his life by now, but control was a fleeting illusion, slipping through his grasp with every turn and twist in his life. As he entered the dormroom, a heavy silence greeted him. Akira was already asleep, lying peacefully under the covers, his soft breathing barely audible in the quiet space.

Huan set the case with his sword on the shelf next to his desk, the metallic clink echoing too loudly in his ears. Fatigue weighed down his limbs, but instead of collapsing into bed, he grabbed a fresh pair of clothes and a towel. He needed to wash off the grime of the night, and more than that,

he needed to feel clean.

The bathroom light flickered on, casting a pale glow over the small room as Huan stripped off his clothes, tossing them into the laundry corner. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and paused, his eyes lingering on the reflection staring back at him. His gaze drifted down to the scar, the jagged line that started at his collarbone and ran down to his last rib. It stood out against his pale skin, an ugly reminder of the pain he'd carried for years. There were others—countless marks and bruises from his past, some made by others, and some made by him—but this one... this one haunted him the most.

He hated it.

Huan stepped into the shower, the rush of hot water cascading over him, instantly warming his chilled skin. The steam swirled around him, but despite the heat, he couldn't shake the cold that seemed to have settled deep within his bones. He leaned his head against the cool tiles, letting the water stream down his back, but his mind wouldn't stop racing.

His fingers absently touched his lips, the ghost of the kiss with Xian still lingering there. He shuddered at the memory, the disgust and violation. What would it feel like, he wondered, to kiss someone he actually wanted to kiss? To feel the warmth and tenderness of lips pressed to his, not out of manipulation or force, but out of love? He thought of someone who truly cared for him, someone who saw him—scars and all—and loved him anyway.

A hollow laugh escaped him. Did someone like that even exist?

He hugged himself under the spray of the water, as if his own arms could offer the protection he so desperately sought. But the ache remained, gnawing at his Insides. His eyes fell on the reflection of the scar again, distorted on the slick surface of the metallic shower valve. That scar... he remembered how he'd gotten it, the sharp pain, the overwhelming fear, and the hatred that followed.

It was from his step-father.

The memory clawed its way back into his mind, unwelcomed and relentless. The pain had been unbearable, but worse than the physical wound had been the emotional one. The betrayal. The knowledge that no matter how much he fought back, no one would come to save him.

No one ever did.

The water ran down his face, mingling with the tears he hadn't realized had begun to fall. He stood there for what felt like hours, letting the hot water numb him, wishing it could wash away more than just the dirt on his skin. Wishing it could cleanse the memories, the scars, the pain.

But no amount of water could do that.

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