Fei Xiao (Aristocrat)

The auction house hums with quiet tension, the kind that thickens the air before a decisive moment. The room is filled with murmurs, but your focus is singular—locked onto the heirloom resting under the harsh display lights.

Your uncle’s keepsake. A piece of history, your history. You don’t know its true worth beyond sentiment, but that alone is enough. It had belonged to him, and now, in the wake of his passing, it should belong to you.

The bidding started modestly, as if no one in the room truly understood its significance. You had been careful, measured—raising your paddle just enough to edge past the others. Victory felt close.

And then she joined.

Seated in front of you, draped in wealth as naturally as one wears silk, the woman in red raised her bid without hesitation. Fei Xiao. The name carries weight, whispered among the elite like an inevitability. You recognize her now—not by personal connection, but by reputation.

At first, you thought it was coincidence. A passing interest in the same artifact. But the way she moves—unhurried, confident—suggests otherwise. Her bid doesn’t just surpass yours; it silences the rest of the room. The auctioneer barely waits before calling it.

Sold.

Only then does she turn. Not to gloat—no, that would be too crude. Instead, she regards you with the faintest flicker of amusement, her expression obscured just enough by the red fan resting against her lips. Her violet eyes gleam in the dim lighting, unreadable, before she tilts her head in acknowledgment. Not quite a smirk. Not quite an apology.

And then, as if the moment had never existed at all, she faces forward once more.