Peizhi’s smile, quiet and knowing, lingered as Gongze carried her through the winding, mud-slicked paths of the residential quarters. The rain had softened to a persistent drizzle, washing the grime off the corrugated iron roofs and leaving the air tasting of damp coal dust. Their small dwelling, a boxy structure like all the others, stood at the end of a row. It boasted a freshly swept, if uninspired, entrance. Gongze pushed open the door with his shoulder, a silent, powerful gesture, and stepped inside. The room was sparse, functional, smelling faintly of old timber and disinfectant. He set Peizhi down gently on a narrow cot in the corner, its mattress thin and lumpy. Her silk pajamas, still damp from the downpour, clung to her. She looked around, her gaze settling on the cot, then the single, scarred wooden table, then back to the cot. The ledger, the Ling family’s coiled viper of debt, was now Baoxia’s burden. Peizhi felt a lightness she hadn't known she was missing. Her eyes closed. Gongze, without a word, vanished into a back room, returning moments later with a thick, quilted blanket. He spread it over her with careful hands, the rough fabric a stark contrast to her silken attire. He then disappeared again, the sound of a scrubbing brush and running water indicating chores already underway. Peizhi, enveloped in the surprising warmth, drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep. Sunlight, pale and filtered through the grimy windowpanes, finally roused Peizhi. It was late morning. Outside, the clamor of the Quarters was in full swing. The rhythmic thwack of laundry bats against wet fabric, the shrill cries of children, the insistent clang of metal from the dry docks—all formed a cadence of unrelenting labor. Peizhi stretched languidly on her cot, the quilted blanket a surprisingly cozy cocoon. She could hear the hum of other wives, already three hours into their daily grind of scrubbing, cooking, and mending. For them, dawn was a signal for toil. For Peizhi, it was merely the pre-dawn quiet before her true waking hour. She slid a hand under the lumpy mattress, retrieving the small bundle of dried hawthorn berries Gongze had left for her. He always knew. A sharp rap on the door jolted the quiet air inside Peizhi’s room. Before she could call out, the door swung open, revealing a severe woman with a tightly pinned bun and eyes that could chip granite. This was Madam Rong, a notorious stickler for order, and, unbeknownst to Peizhi, an agent of Baoxia, tasked with ensuring Peizhi’s life was suitably miserable. Madam Rong’s gaze swept over the unmade cot, the discarded hawthorn berries, and finally, Peizhi, still in her silk pajamas, stretching like a contented cat. The woman’s lips thinned. “Foreman Gongze’s wife, I presume,” she clipped, her voice like grinding stones. “I am Madam Rong. I’ve been assigned to assist with household duties.” The last phrase came paired with a sharp curl of her lip. Peizhi, instead of bristling, simply smiled. She reached to the small bedside table where Gongze had left a handful of imported white rabbit candies, their wrappers crinkling softly. “Madam Rong, how lovely. You must be tired after such a long walk.” She held out a candy. “Gongze left these. He knows I like them.” Her voice was soft, laced with genuine warmth. “Would you mind very much, if you’re not too busy, fanning the room? It grows rather stuffy.” She gestured vaguely towards a plain hand-fan hanging on a nail. Madam Rong stared at the offered candy, then at Peizhi’s serene, expectant face. The severe lines around her mouth softened almost imperceptibly. No one had ever offered her a treat, much less acknowledged her weariness. She took the candy, her fingers brushing Peizhi’s. The wrapper felt unexpectedly delicate. She found herself picking up the fan. The steady whoosh of air began to fill the room, a gentle counterpoint to the distant hammer strikes from the docks. Just then, the door burst open again. A man in a crisp, if slightly too small, uniform stood framed in the doorway, his face red and his spectacles askew. “Madam Gongze!” he bellowed, his voice rattling the sparse furniture. “I am Section Chief Jin, from the Quarters Administration. We are conducting an impromptu inspection of this dwelling. Such a hardworking crew lead deserves to have his domestic affairs in impeccable order!” His thick lenses caught the glare as he took in Peizhi, still draped in silk, reclined on her cot. His gaze flicked to Madam Rong, fanning diligently, then back to Peizhi. “What is the meaning of this indolence? The other wives have been scrubbing since first light! This is a disgrace! A stain on Gongze’s reputation!” His voice rose with each accusation, spittle flying. Peizhi merely blinked, a slow, unconcerned movement. Section Chief Jin, however, was just winding up his tirade when a sudden shadow fell across the doorway. Gongze stood there, filling the frame, his shoulders broad and his face set in a familiar, unreadable mask. His dark irises fixed on Jin. A hush fell over the room, the fan’s gentle whoosh the only sound. Jin’s bluster died in his throat, his ruddy cheeks draining of color. He had expected an intimidated girl, not the towering crew chief blocking the midday glare. Gongze took a single, deliberate step into the room. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The room went entirely motionless under his glare. He walked past Jin as if the man were a ghost, moving straight to Peizhi’s cot. He picked up the quilted blanket, carefully adjusting it over her, his large hand resting for a moment on her silk-covered shoulder. It was a gesture of protection, of possession, so absolute it left no room for doubt or argument. Jin stammered, then backpedaled, bowing awkwardly. “My apologies, Brother Gongze! A misunderstanding! A misjudgment on my part! I shall… I shall take my leave!” He practically tripped over himself fleeing the room. Gongze watched him go, then turned his gaze to Madam Rong. The severity returned to his expression. Madam Rong flinched, her earlier softness vanishing. She had been caught fanning the ‘lazy’ wife, a clear dereliction of her spy duties. She fumbled with the fan, her hands trembling. As she attempted to put it back on its nail, a crumpled piece of paper, folded into a tight square, slipped from her apron pocket and fluttered silently to the wooden floor between them. It landed face up. Peizhi, with a sliver of curiosity, tilted her head slightly, her eyes scanning the neat script. It was a letter, addressed to Madam Rong, signed ‘B’. The words swam into focus: *…ensure the foreman is thoroughly discredited. Plant this evidence among his tools. The ledgers detailing the missing turbine parts must be found in his possession before the audit. Frame him for the embezzlement of industrial assets. Gongze must be ruined, and Peizhi will then have no choice but to return to me.*

The Velvet Anomaly