Ever since the library had been flooded by sprinklers some time ago, no one bothered visiting anymore. Water pooled in uneven dips on the floor, and the once-pristine space was now abandoned. Mo Zimu sat in front of a computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard.

As Ivan approached the doorway, a composed and spirited young man came into view. Sunlight filtered through the damaged stained-glass windows of the library, casting soft hues across the room and catching in his jet-black hair, giving him an almost ethereal glow, as if he wore a halo of light.

For a long moment, Ivan simply watched him in quiet admiration before stepping inside. Mo Zimu, lost in his task at the computer, suddenly pressed a key, and the screen went blank. He turned around and, upon seeing Ivan’s towering figure, his eyes widened in surprise. His body tensed as if caught between the instinct to stay and the urge to run, yet he remained rooted to the spot.

Ivan chuckled. “You’re sharp, but I already saw what you were doing! I have to admit, you really are a tech whiz. You actually managed to connect to the outside.”

Mo Zimu smiled faintly, his mind racing to figure out Ivan’s intentions. Before he could respond, Ivan’s lips curled into a sly grin. “Tell me, can you find porn?”

“Hmm?”

“AV films…” Ivan clarified impatiently.

Mo Zimu hesitated for a moment before saying, “Do you want to watch Basic Instinct?”

“Fuck, you think I’m some virgin chick? Get me something with bigger tits, something actually worth jerking off to.”

Mo Zimu lowered his gaze. With a tap on the keyboard, the screen came back to life. He searched for a bit before asking, “How about this one?”

Ivan glanced at the screen and scoffed, “Shit, can’t you find someone with bigger tits?”

Mo Zimu took a deep breath, scrolling through one image after another. As Ivan watched, he noticed the tips of Mo Zimu’s elegant ears gradually turning red.

Mo Zimu suppressed his discomfort and asked, “This one?”

Ivan tore his gaze away from him and looked at the screen. It was none other than Jenna Jameson, the U.S most famous big-titted porn star. He muttered a curse under his breath, “Old woman,” but still sat down.

Mo Zimu stepped aside, grabbed a random book from the desk, and flipped through it absentmindedly.

Before long, the empty library was filled with moans. Mm… ahh… I want… The sounds drifted through the dust-laden bookshelves and hovered above Mo Zimu’s head.

Ivan let out a long breath. Mo Zimu, noticing the obvious tent in his pants, turned away and silently cursed, “Pervert.”

And just like that, one watching, one listening, they made it through the entire porn.

Ivan stood up and stretched. “Turns out being good with computers isn’t totally useless. From now on, whenever I call you, you come. Got it?”

Mo Zimu answered calmly, “Got it.”

Ivan studied him for a moment, but Mo Zimu never met his gaze. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small crucifix-shaped emblem, barely half the size of his palm.

“Here, kid. Since you’re at least good for something, it’d be a shame if you died too soon. When you go for the Hunter Night, wear this on your wrist. Don’t lose it. And make sure you return it to me.”

Mo Zimu took it, noting how finely crafted it was, except for the fierce-looking serpent coiled around it.

“Thanks,” he said.

Ivan raised an eyebrow at his reaction. No excitement, no curiosity, no anger. Just a simple thanks. He chuckled, then turned and left.

Back at the cell, Mo Zimu found Jude still looking terrified. Tom shot him a knowing glance, while Tommy sat on his bed, steadily sharpening what looked like the broken handle of a spoon or fork against a fist-sized river stone, grinding the jagged edge into a sharp, lethal point.

All four of them were silently waiting for Hunter Night to arrive.

Mo Zimu leaned against the wall with his eyes closed, hands resting on his knees. Aside from the monotonous sound of Tommy sharpening metal, only the sound of his own breathing filled the air, steady in and out.

Tom, unable to suppress his nerves, forced a smile, “Ever thought about what you want for breakfast tomorrow? I could get someone to bring us something.”

What do I want for breakfast…

---

“Mom, what do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” a younger Seven asked, standing by the doorway.

“Steamed buns, how about that, Seven?” his mother replied lazily, poking her head out from under the blankets.

“You’re so troublesome…” Seven smiled with a hint of helplessness.

To him, she was the greatest pianist in the world. But to others, she was just a struggling street performer, often out of work. Despite their meager income, she stubbornly insisted on sending him to a prestigious private school and hiring a personal music tutor for him. Because of this, they were often left hungry, barely able to afford three meals a day.

Li Mo was a headstrong woman who lived life on her own terms. She would lounge around lazily, smoking, and say, “Seven, why do you always think so much? Worry about life when you can’t live it anymore!”

When she was in a good mood, any day could be a holiday. She would make dumplings, clean the house, and fill Seven with an inexplicable sense of hope for life.

She would cup his face with deep affection and say, “Seven, you know you’re amazing. One day, you’ll succeed. You’ll be the most famous musician, performing solo concerts in Vienna’s grand music halls. You’ll achieve greatness and captivate everyone. The entire upper class will bow before you, willing to give everything they have just for a chance to speak with you…”

Whenever she said this, Seven knew the first part was about him, but the latter part had already drifted into her own fantasies.

Although he had little interest in her grand, almost theatrical dreams, he didn’t mind as long as it made her happy. These moments of joy were rare.

More often, she was melancholic, unhappy, and heavily dependent on alcohol. Her frequent intoxication caused her to miss performances, which was the main reason she was often unemployed.

Seven did everything he could to take care of her, as long as it kept her from suffering or attempting to jump off a building in a drunken haze.

He let her cling to the illusion that her son was still attending a prestigious private school, studying alongside children from the wealthiest neighborhoods.

But little did she know, his son had been out of school for nearly a year.

Their home never had extra clothes or food.

One day, Seven flipped through the small metal box where they kept money. Inside, there was only a little over forty pence left, not enough even to buy a bag of flour, let alone any meat.

Quietly, he put on his coat, grabbed his violin case, and headed to the streets of London to busk, as he often did, near the subway entrances.

“What a beautiful little boy,” some would say as they passed. Seven always knew his appearance was an advantage. If a woman happened to walk by, he would glance up at just the right moment and make eye contact. Her hand, almost instinctively, would drop a pound note instead of mere pennies.

This way, he could at least cover their meals for the next few days. Rent, however, was always a looming problem, but that was something to worry about later.

That day, though, his luck seemed particularly bad. A sports car stopped abruptly on the nearby road, and a teenage boy, accompanied by three tall bodyguards, stepped out.

They didn’t seem to care about the fact that parking wasn’t allowed there and casually left the expensive car in the middle of the road before heading toward Seven.

The boy, with his pale blond hair and an air of superiority, was surrounded by his entourage like the center of a constellation. He smirked and said, “Look who it is! Isn’t this my classmate?”

The moment Seven saw them, he quickly began packing up his violin case, intending to leave, but they surrounded him before he could.

The blond boy’s smirk grew colder. “Isn’t this the famous Seven who wouldn’t play a single note for me even if I gave him a million pounds?”

Seven tried to move past them, but the boy blocked his way again. “What’s this? You’ll play for mere pennies now?”

He casually pulled out a leather wallet from his pocket, extracting several fifty-pound notes and waving them in front of Seven. “Play something for me.”

Seven hesitated for a moment. Under the boy’s mocking gaze, he opened his violin case, took out the instrument, and asked, “What would you like to hear, sir?”

The blond boy sneered. “Play your best rendition of Paganini’s Caprices.”

Seven picked up his bow and strings, pausing briefly before he began to play. He quickly became lost in the music, his fingers bringing Paganini’s high-level techniques to lif

As he effortlessly performed intricate melodies on a single string, the blond boy’s eyes involuntarily narrowed, a look of awe taking over his expression.

Many passersby stopped to listen, but they were soon frightened off by the intimidating bodyguards.

When the performance ended, the blond boy was silent for a moment. Then he waved his hand, scattering the money into the air.

Seven bowed slightly, reached down, and began picking up the bills, when suddenly the hard sole of an expensive leather shoe crushed his fingers. Caught off guard, he let out a cry of pain.

The blond boy bent down and whispered in his ear, “Don’t let me see you begging in your school uniform again.”

As the boy lifted his foot, Seven cradled his injured fingers, collapsing to his knees. The boy walked away, his steps full of swagger.

Enduring the pain, he gathered the scattered money and placed it into his violin case.

He then headed home.

When he arrived at their run-down apartment building, he was startled to see his mother standing in the doorway, wrapped in a shawl.

Surprised, he quickly smiled and asked, “Mom, what are you doing outside?”

“I woke up and found you were gone. Where did you go, Seven?” his mother asked, her tone calm, which made Seven breathe a sigh of relief.

He smiled and said, “My classmates were hosting a small music party.”

“They finally invited you this time?”

“Yes, Mom.” He gently took her arm as they headed upstairs and added, “The weather’s chilly. Don’t wait outside next time.”

As they climbed the stairs together, his mother suddenly said, “Seven, go study in Vienna.”

Those were the last words his mother ever said to him.

The next day, Seven made steamed buns and, as usual, left the house. He had found a job at a nearby internet café, which allowed him to pretend he was going to school with his bag every day.

The owner, a Chinese man, liked the smart, low-maintenance boy who worked hard despite earning a small salary.

For Seven, finding a job that didn’t fuss about his age felt like a blessing. What made it even better was that the owner was skilled with computers and often taught him a few tricks, especially for solving technical issues that could arise at the café.

Seven cherished his current life, especially today. Though his hand was injured, the few hundred pounds he had earned the night before had not only resolved the rent issue but also left him with extra money. He desperately needed it to buy clothes, as his once-expensive school uniform had become too short from his rapid growth spurt.

His mood was light as he worked, and he spent the day at the café feeling uncharacteristically cheerful.

After helping a customer fix a minor issue, he straightened up and suddenly heard the owner calling him, “Seven, come here!”

He walked over to the counter. The owner held a phone in his hand, hesitated briefly, and said, “Seven, your mother was in a car accident…” He quickly scribbled down an address and handed it to Seven. “She’s at this hospital… hurry!”

Seven grabbed the paper and ran as fast as he could, but by the time he arrived at the hospital, Li Mo had already left him forever.

Nearby, a bald middle-aged man rambled on, repeatedly insisting that it wasn’t his fault. “She ran into my car. I didn’t hit her.” His voice was distant, muffled, as if coming from another world. Seven heard him but couldn’t process the words.

He stood there, stunned, his legs trembling as a cold numbness spread through him. Since childhood, he had always been obedient, following every rule without question. His mother had often threatened to give him away if he misbehaved, and the fear of that threat had always lingered, a constant shadow over him. But no amount of obedience had ever prepared him for this.

Despite all his efforts to be the son she wanted, she still abandoned him. This time in the harshest way possible.

All his confidence, all his courage, seemed to evaporate as he stood there, frozen, staring blankly at Li Mo’s body, now covered by a white sheet. It was painfully clean, a stark and indifferent shroud that separated her from him forever.

The driver involved was an unlucky man, an ordinary middle-class worker who had simply borrowed his boss’s BMW sports car.

As he passed by, Li Mo suddenly stepped into his path. When she was found, she was holding a Vienna school application form. Given her background as a pianist, and perhaps out of respect for the arts, the court ultimately ruled her death an accident rather than a deliberate suicide.

Out of guilt, the bald driver not only covered a substantial portion of the compensation but also went out of his way to contact a distant relative in Vienna.

That relative, Merlin, later became Seven’s guardian and helped him gain admission to a school there.

For the past four years, Seven had been paying back the driver for the money he had initially covered out of guilt. Every time he made a payment, he thought of that night, wondering if Li Mo had quietly followed him and finally discovered the harsh truth of their lives.

A simple morning that began with choosing breakfast had seemed like the start of a happy life, a life where ordinary moments were taken for granted. But Seven had never been afforded that privilege.

---

Now, as Tom asked what he wanted for breakfast, Mo Zimu simply replied, “No preference, thank you,” before slipping into a dreamless sleep.