THE WEIGHT HE CARRIES

Xiao Zhan returned home long after midnight.

The room was small—just one bedroom, one narrow window, and walls stained by years of damp air.

A single light flickered as he closed the door quietly, careful not to wake the neighbors. His shoes were worn thin at the soles;

He lined them neatly by the wall out of habit, even though no one ever came to visit.

He loosened the tie in his long hair, letting it fall over his shoulders as exhaustion finally reached his bones.

“Mom,”

He whispered.

His mother lay on the bed, breathing unevenly, her face pale against the pillow. Tubes were gone now—the hospital charged too much—but the sickness remained, clinging to her like a shadow that never left.

“I’m back,”

Xiao Zhan said softly as he sat beside her.

Her eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then warm when they found him.

“You worked late again.”

“It was busy,”

He lied gently.

He wiped her forehead with a damp cloth, movements practiced, careful. This was the part of his day that mattered—the only place where he was not invisible. Even when his hands shook from fatigue, he never let her see.

“I brought soup,”

he said, pulling a small container from his bag. “It’s still warm.”

She smiled faintly. “You shouldn’t spend so much.”

Xiao Zhan looked down.

“I’m fine.”

He always said that.

After she fell asleep again, he sat on the floor with his back against the bed, knees pulled to his chest. The room was quiet except for the distant hum of the city and his mother’s fragile breathing.

Only then did the image return to him.

The feeling from earlier that evening.

That strange moment outside the restaurant—when he had stepped out with the bucket of water and felt, inexplicably, as if someone were watching him. He had looked up, unsettled, but seen nothing out of place. Just the street. Just passing strangers.

Still, his chest tightened.

He shook his head, brushing the thought away.

You’re just tired, he told himself.

Betas didn’t attract attention.

Betas weren’t chosen.

Betas survived quietly.

He lay down beside the bed, curling into himself on the thin mattress. Tomorrow would be the same: early hospital visit, then the restaurant, then another night counting bills that were never enough.

Outside, high above the streets, the palace lights burned without flicker.

And in one of its upper floors, King Wang Yibo stood before a screen filled with information—maps, funding reports, city aid programs.

He stopped scrolling.

His gaze lingered on a single entry.

Small food establishment — East District.

Low income. Staff overworked.

The King said nothing.

He did not smile.

He did not justify the interest.

He only stared, long and thoughtful, the image of a slim boy with long hair and quiet eyes carved deeply into his mind.

In a kingdom of millions, he had seen one.

And that was enough for him.