A Letter from Keanu Reeves

Chen Wan had no appetite. His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he ignored it. Glancing briefly at his wristwatch, he was immediately picked on by Madam Cao Zhi, the main wife:
“Is it that the food doesn’t suit your taste, Ah Wan? You’ve gotten so thin.”

The others turned to look at him. Chen Wan wiped his hands with a napkin and replied, “Not at all. It’s just too hot lately, and I can’t eat much.”

Cao Zhi’s nephew, Cao Zhi, teased, seemingly without intention:
“Ah Wan has grown accustomed to grand banquets. How could he care for ordinary meals like this? Just the other day, a friend of mine was praising how sharp Ah Wan looked when he appeared in Central recently.”

The expressions around the table shifted subtly. After all, Zhao Shengge’s welcome banquet had been held in Central just two days ago.
The exclusive Hai Tower Restaurant, the only one of its kind in Haishi, had been fully booked for two whole days.

Chen Bingsheng questioned him sternly:
“What were you doing in Central?”

Unperturbed, Chen Wan calmly wiped his hands and lied without hesitation:
“Helping Zhuo Zhixuan park his car.”

Chen Bingsheng’s murky gaze lingered on him for a moment. Chen Wan turned his head to meet the stare with quiet composure.
With no choice but to believe him, Chen Bingsheng fell silent. Everyone knew the story of how Chen Wan had once accidentally saved a well-connected schoolmate while swimming as a child.

Uncle Liao Quan from the second branch chuckled and added:
“Ah Wan, you should really hold on tight to that connection. But don’t just climb up yourself; Chen family’s success is what truly helps you stand firm. Isn’t that right?”

Chen Wan said nothing, but Chen Bingsheng sneered:
“What can we expect from him? To them, he’s just an errand boy. Do you really think they’ll give him any real face?”

This humiliating remark, said openly at the table, brought quiet chuckles all around. Song Qingmiao was so angry her face flushed red, but Chen Wan showed no sign of embarrassment.
As unpleasant as the words were, Chen Bingsheng wasn’t entirely wrong in theory.

Chen Wan had always been self-aware. He never dared to be overly optimistic about whether that circle truly accepted him. The gulf created by differences in social standing and status was undeniable.
But even so, Chen Wan thought that anything was better than being here. At least, whether those young masters treated him as a friend or not, they still treated him like a person.

He nodded in agreement, neither humble nor arrogant, and said:
“Exactly. I’m just an errand boy who can’t say much.”

Not that he would do anything for the Chen family, nor would he leverage the connections he had in that circle for his own business.
This was a firm boundary he had drawn.

Chen Wan, from head to toe, inside and out, was a person full of contradictions and complexities. But this one principle of his was surprisingly pure.
He felt he must do everything to preserve that purity.

The others had been waiting for him to make a fool of himself, but seeing his indifferent attitude, they grew bored and shifted the topic to the marriage of the eldest daughter from the third branch.

The Chen household had strict rules and endless rituals. After dinner, Chen Bingsheng clasped his hands together in prayer and led the family in offering incense to the deities and ancestors, including statues of Mazu and Allah.

Chen Wan often wondered how such a haphazard mix of Eastern and Western religious practices hadn’t managed to offend both gods and spirits.
Kneeling among his peers and performing the repetitive acts of bowing and kowtowing, Chen Wan felt, for a moment, like he had been transported to some year in the late Qing dynasty.

As in previous years, Chen Bingsheng had invited a few feng shui masters to drive away ghosts and appease the gods. He had spent a fortune on talismans, hoping to revive Rongxin, a family business that had been rotten at its core for years.

The masters touched corners of walls and doorframes, then declared a favorable reading. The family, reassured, resumed their Mahjong games.
Guests came and went in waves, the sound of tiles clattering loudly as they called out wins. Even the deities on the altar, like Guanyin and Buddha, seemed likely to be disturbed by the noise.

The rosewood clock pointed to only 8 PM—there was still a long time before he could leave.

Chen Wan stepped into the side hall to get some fresh air. He never made work calls in the old mansion. Standing idly by the window, he watched the rain.

The typhoon signal No. 8 had been hoisted, bringing strong and erratic winds that lingered endlessly. The night rain pattered against the wide palm leaves, and petals of camellias lay scattered across the courtyard.

Though it wasn’t a weekend, a typhoon holiday meant many children were around—relatives of the Chen family or guests’ children—playing noisily in the main hall.

Bored, Chen Wan watched for a while before walking over to a girl with pigtails who stood stiffly against a wall in an awkward posture.
Shooing away the rowdy boys circling her like flies, he crouched down and asked:
“What are you doing?”

The girl, seemingly mixed-race with slightly curled hair and light-colored eyes, looked at him warily. Chen Wan gave her a faint smile.

Almost no one could resist Chen Wan’s smile, whether they were seven or seventeen. Shaking her head, the girl replied in English:
“I’m fine.”

Noticing no visible injuries on her, Chen Wan stood beside her, mimicking her posture against the wall.
This simple and seemingly pointless act unexpectedly won her trust. After a while, she turned her head and extended her hand with a serious expression:
“Hi, Judy.”

Chen Wan also reached out, shaking her hand formally:
“Hi, Chen Wan. Or, Keats.”

The girl seemed more intrigued by his Chinese name but struggled to pronounce it fluently:
“Chen… Wan? Which Wan?”

“Wan, as in ‘retain,’” he explained.

Judy blinked, clearly not understanding the term with her limited Chinese vocabulary.

Chen Wan reached into his pocket, pulled out a simple business card, and pointed to the characters. Judy studied it for a moment and pocketed it.

They stood side by side in silence for a while, watching the rain. Feeling thirsty, Chen Wan grabbed a mangosteen from a nearby altar and asked:
“Judy, want one?”

Judy hesitated before replying,
“I’m sorry, Chen Wan, but I can’t eat it.”

Her overly formal tone amused Chen Wan.
“Why?”

Judy looked embarrassed and explained,
“My dress is torn. I can’t leave the wall.”

Only then did Chen Wan notice the signs of damage along the hem of her dress, clearly cut with scissors. His smile faded as he softly asked:
“Did they do this?”

The boys, aged seven or eight, were at that age where even dogs might dislike their antics.

Judy remained silent, confirming his suspicion.

Chen Wan took off his shirt and handed it to her.
“Tie this around your waist for now,” he said.

Judy thanked him. Chen Wan then asked,
“Should I tell your mother?”

Judy’s mother was Mrs. Du Rui, who was currently playing cards in the living room.

Once the widow of the richest man in Haishi, the mistress of half of Qianwan Bay, and a socialite with numerous lovers, Mrs. Du Rui’s life had always been a topic of intrigue. Even Judy’s father’s identity had been a long-standing mystery in Haishi, the subject of endless gossip.

Mrs. Du Rui was immersed in a life of hedonistic indulgence and paid little attention to Judy. As a result, Judy declined, saying there was no need to inform her mother. Mrs. Du Rui would only scold her for losing her “ladylike manners.”

Chen Wan respected her wishes. His shirt was long enough for Judy to wear as a makeshift dress, making her look unexpectedly stylish.

He split a mangosteen in half and handed one piece to her. Judy ate with an air of delicate restraint.

It was the peak of mangosteen season. Freshly imported that very day by air from Vietnam, the fruit was plump and luscious, its translucent white flesh sweet and fragrant, like snowflakes melting into sugary nectar on the tongue.

After finishing the mangosteen, Chen Wan glanced at the fruit basket and asked, “Would you like another? Pineapple or cantaloupe?”

Now draped in his shirt, Judy moved more freely. She leaned forward slightly, peeking at the fruits, and said, “Cantaloupe.”

Chen Wan picked up a knife to slice it. Suddenly, a hand clapped him on the shoulder from behind.

Chen Wan reacted swiftly, sidestepping and turning to face the intruder, the knife in his hand instantly pointing at them. The person quickly withdrew their hand, raised both in a gesture of surrender, and grinned broadly.

“It’s me, Ah Wan.”

Chen Wan stepped forward to shield Judy, the knife unwavering in his hand. Without lowering it, he gestured with a faint, menacing motion, saying, “So what if it’s you? Step back.”

The moment the person stepped closer, the air filled with the sickly stench of decay. Chen Wan didn’t even need to turn around to recognize who it was—just the smell gave it away.

The visitor was Liao Quan, who maintained his unctuous smile and pointed at the knife in Chen Wan’s hand. “Put that down first. I just haven’t seen you in a while and wanted to chat.”

Chen Wan ignored him. Liao Quan tried again. “Family harmony is key to prosperity. If your brother-in-law sees this, he’ll scold you again.”

“Let him see, then.”

The stairway light cast shadows across Chen Wan’s face. When he wasn’t smiling, his demeanor had a certain coldness. Tilting his head slightly, he spoke in a slow, deliberate tone, “Do you really think you can send me back to Xiaolan Mountain again?”

Liao Quan’s smile faltered as he licked his teeth uneasily.

Xiaolan Mountain was Haishi’s infamous mental institution, housing patients with special backgrounds—disgraced politicians’ mistresses, illegitimate children, high-profile political detainees, and celebrities driven mad.

Chen Wan had spent three years there, starting at the age of nine.

The blade in Chen Wan’s hand moved closer, an inch away from Liao Quan’s forehead, as if to punctuate his words. “You can’t do it anymore. But I, on the other hand, can still cut your fingers again.”

The blade was so close that Liao Quan’s greedy, murky eyes finally showed a flicker of fear.

The incident from years ago lingered vividly in their memories. When Chen Wan had just been brought back from the Tang Lou in the outer districts at nine years old, Liao Quan locked him in a room during an afternoon nap.

He had tried to touch the boy’s feet and remove his white socks. But Chen Wan, ever vigilant and quick-witted, had stomped down hard on his wrist in retaliation.

Liao Quan had screamed in pain and slapped him, pulling his hair. Yet Chen Wan, despite his young age, was vicious and silent by nature. Without hesitation, he grabbed the scissors on the desk and slashed at Liao Quan’s fingers.

Chen Wan was never a delicate young master. He was a wild child from the Tang Lou, growing up in a survival-of-the-fittest environment. A savage stray dog, untamed and bristling with thorns, he drove the scissors into Liao Quan’s hand until it bled profusely.

When the Filipina maid heard blood-curdling screams from the hallway, Chen Wan had nearly impaled Liao Quan’s hand and was about to stab his face and eyes.

The incident caused an uproar. The family doctor who treated the wounds said there was a chance Liao Quan’s right hand might end up permanently disabled.

Second Madam Liao Liu kicked Chen Wan in the stomach in front of everyone and slapped Song Qingmiao, his mother, hard enough to echo through the room. Still unsatisfied, she wept and wailed, demanding justice for her brother. Liao Quan was, after all, the only male heir in the Liao family.

To everyone else, Chen Wan was a deranged, evil little monster. What kind of normal child would be so ruthless and nearly cause a death?

Chen Bixin had been furious, seeing Chen Wan as an uncontrollable demon child—a rebellious “Nezha,” unfilial and untamed. He forced the family doctor to administer sedatives and issued a psychiatric diagnosis, declaring him mentally unstable before locking him away in Xiaolan Mountain.

Returning to the present, Chen Wan pulled the knife back and resumed slicing the cantaloupe as if nothing had happened. He didn’t even glance at Liao Quan. “You know me. A barefoot man fears no one. I always mean what I say.”

Liao Quan had never gained the upper hand with Chen Wan, and now he had no chance at all.

Unwilling to give up, Liao Quan’s gaze lingered on Chen Wan’s sharp, striking profile. There was something both inviting and dangerous about Chen Wan—his soft exterior could disarm people, but the threat underneath was unmistakable.

Yet, in the end, Liao Quan was afraid. He backed away, eyeing Judy briefly before retreating two steps and leaving.

Chen Wan handed a slice of cantaloupe to Judy. “Are you scared?”

Judy, her lips glistening with juice, asked, “Scared of what?”

“Did I frighten you just now?”

He wondered if his actions—wielding the knife so fiercely—might have left a psychological scar on her. As he handed her the fruit, he smiled and wiped the juice from her hands with a napkin.

“No,” Judy replied, tilting her head to look at him. Perhaps influenced by her mother’s flirty behavior with her lovers, the young girl was oddly precocious.

Using English, she said, “Chen Wan, you’re a gentle gentleman.”

“…” Gentle gentleman? After threatening someone with a knife?

Judy’s gaze wandered to the fruit basket, and with childlike sincerity, she added, “Like the mangosteen, Keats.”

Mangosteen—hard on the outside, soft and pure on the inside.

“…” Chen Wan didn’t quite understand her whimsical imagination or childlike innocence. After a moment’s pause, he avoided giving her the knife directly and instead handed her a few fruit forks, telling her, “Keep these in your pocket for self-defense. And if you ever see that man again, go straight to where the adults are.”

Trusting him, Judy nodded obediently.

Author’s Note:
Chen Wan’s English name is Keats.

The little girl feels that he resembles a mangosteen—a tropical fruit. Once you crack it open, it’s like a soft, tender cat paw: sweet, gentle, and delicate inside.