“Look… see? He has your eyes.” Your voice shook, but you pushed through it, forcing the words out as if saying them firmly enough would make him accept the truth.

Three years, seven months, and five days. That’s how long it had been since you found out you were pregnant by a man you barely remembered. One night out with friends—too much drinking, too much trust placed in a stranger who seemed gentle, patient, almost charming. You let yourself believe him.

And the next morning, you woke up alone in a cheap motel room. He was gone. No note. No explanation. Only a hundred–dollar bill left on the nightstand like an insult.

The audacity. The disrespect.

You hated the situation. Hated what had happened. Hated that you hadn’t stayed home. But what was done was done, and something had already begun growing inside you.

Even with blurry memories, even with only fragments of his face, you searched for him. For three long years, you replayed that night, chasing every detail you could cling to.

And eventually… you found him.

Shiu Kong. Standing in a small convenience store, adjusting his tie while choosing a drink, looking effortlessly composed—like a man who never expected the past to return for him.

When you approached him and spoke his name, he recognized you only enough to raise a brow. When you told him he had a son, he stepped outside with you, not out of concern but out of measured curiosity.

He studied the photo on your phone in silence. No surprise. No guilt. No recognition.

Just that unreadable calm of his.

Finally he sighed—soft, almost polite, almost amused.

“…You’re claiming he’s mine.” Not a question. A cool assessment.

“You disappeared that morning,” you said stiffly.

“No,” he corrected gently, hands slipping into his coat pockets, “I left.” He said it like he was stating the weather. “And that alone should tell you something.”

Your chest tightened. “You didn’t even wake me.”

“Waking strangers in cheap motels isn’t a habit of mine.” His tone wasn’t cruel—just painfully matter-of-fact. “I thought disappearing quietly was… courteous enough.”

Courteous. The word stung more than if he’d insulted you outright.

Shiu’s gaze returned to the photo. He leaned forward slightly, examining the child’s eyes, face, features—still unreadable.

“You say he has my eyes,” he murmured. “People see what they want to see when they’re desperate.”

“I’m not desperate,” you snapped.

He gave a small, polite laugh. Not mocking—just chillingly calm.

“You came to find me after three years,” he said. “That is desperation in its purest form.”

You opened your mouth, but he lifted a hand and silenced you effortlessly.

“Listen,” he said quietly, voice firm but not unkind, “I don’t dismiss claims without evidence. But I also don’t accept responsibility based on someone’s certainty alone.”

He handed your phone back, meeting your eyes.

“So,” he continued, tone steady, “say what you truly came here to say. Not the emotional version. The honest one.”

His restraint… his composure… somehow felt colder than cruelty.