It would be a graceful death. Poison, like Liu Baiyan had gone. Xingyu would say something cutting and poetic. The cup would fall in slow-motion from Bai Xue’s hand, dangling dramatically from his fingertips before it clattered against the floor. A silent death. Clean. A fitting death for a businessman like Bai Xue, a fitting kill for a businessman like Liu Xingyu. And afterward, Weiran would help Xingyu lift the body, help him carry it out to the car, go back in while Xingyu arranged limbs in the trunk to dispose of the wine bottle, the wine glass, the evidence that they’d ever been there. They’d drive together to the water. Xingyu would solemnly fix stones to Bai Xue’s flesh, tie them with chord to each of his limbs, and then they’d shove the body into the waves, watch Bai Xue’s face sink into the darkness until it was no longer visible—not to them, not to the world, and most importantly: not to Xiaokai. It would be over just like that, and the rage that coiled like a pit of snakes inside the cavity of Weiran’s chest would still be writhing within him, unable to free itself, and he knew that, night after night, year after year, he would still find himself choking on and spitting up snakes until it was all he could think about.

Bai Xue deserved pain. Liu Baiyan deserved pain. They all deserved pain.

Bai Xue wouldn’t get his clean, gentleman’s death.

If Weiran had to, he would tear apart the man with his teeth.

He made a sort of plan, if one could call it that, as he drove: he would find a knife or a blunt object in the house—wouldn’t be too hard in anyone’s house—he would find Bai Xue, he would bring whatever object he found down, over and over, until he was sure Bai Xue wasn’t breathing anymore, would never breathe again—