But it’s none of that. It’s worse.

It’s a Kakao message from his mom.

Are u having a good time in Suzhou??

U must already be sleeping (if not, go to bed right now!!! your body still growing), but your father and I miss u very much. He wanted to call u earlier, but you know how busy work has been for him... It’ll all be worth it when he wins the campaign.

Oh! We made some yummy fish today. Here is a pic.

There’s a somewhat blurry photo of a half-eaten grilled fish dish below, a pair of chopsticks lying casually beside the plate, and the hunched-over silhouette of a man in the background. Peter’s father, most likely.

My chest tightens, tightens until I can’t breathe. The back of my eyes burn.

But more messages are coming in.

It’s a new recipe, and your father says it’s very good. I’ll make some for u as soon as u get home (and your favorite black bean noodles too)

Take care, my son. Make sure you eat well and stay safe and wear a lot of warm clothes! I checked the weather and it says it’s going to be cold in Suzhou tomorrow. Remember your health matters more than “fashion”

Your father is scolding me for nagging you now, so I will stop here

We love you always. Give us a call when you can!

I turn the screen down, my stomach in knots.

I should throw Peter’s phone away. Now. Crush it and destroy all the evidence, make sure no one can track him or contact him, just like I was told to do. This is the last stage of our plan. Once I’m rid of his phone, I’ll be able to go back to my room and forget about this whole task for good. But—

God, his parents are going to be so worried. And they have every reason to be.

The worst part is that I’ve met his parents before. They’d volunteered to help out at the Global Community Day festival a year ago. His father had bragged to everyone who came within a five-foot radius of him about his genius, hardworking son, beaming so wide the entire time it must’ve hurt his face, and his mother, with her sharp tongue and small frame, the way she’d scolded Peter for not wearing a warm-enough jacket, had reminded me of Mama.

And if someone were to call Mama up in the middle of the night to tell her I’d disappeared in a city far away from home—

No.

Stop it.

It’s too late. I just have to get up. Move. Put as much distance between me and this place—this memory—as possible.

After who knows how long, I finally manage to pull myself back up into a standing position. My feet move obediently toward the stairs, in the same direction I came from. I take one step. Then another. Somehow, it’s more exhausting than climbing up a mountain.

I can’t stop thinking about Peter in that room.