"Do it again, Cheng'er. This time, faster!"

The voice cracked through the silence like a whip, slicing the air inside the Lu family's private gym. It was a space of precision, both in function and in design. The gleaming wooden floors reflected the glow of recessed lights overhead. Trophy cases stood like sentinels along the walls, their glass panes shielding decades of victory: gold medals, silver plaques, championship belts. The room reeked of legacy.

Lu Sicheng planted his feet firmly, his boxing gloves tightening around his hands like a second skin. His trainer, a grizzled man with a flat expression, held up padded mitts in front of him. The boy's focus was sharp, his dark eyes flickering between the mitts like a predator sizing up its prey.

With a sharp exhale, he struck a combo of jab, jab, cross, and each blow landing with precision. The impact sent a satisfying thud reverberating through the gym, but there was no time to savor it. Another series of punches followed, then another, the tempo rising as his trainer barked commands.

From across the room, his father, Lu Jianhong, stood observing in a posture that was casual but not relaxed. He leaned against the wall, arms crossed, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit that somehow didn't seem out of place in the gym's polished setting. The older man's gaze was unyielding, his expression unreadable.

"Good," Jianhong said finally, his tone as sharp as a blade honed to perfection. "But you dropped your left guard twice."

Sicheng froze for a second, panting, the sweat on his brow glistening under the lights. His jaw clenched as he adjusted his gloves, nodding curtly. "Yes, Father."

"Never let your opponent see a weakness," Jianhong continued, his voice carrying a weight that transcended the gym. "Not in boxing, and certainly not in life."

The trainer clapped his hands. "Break."

Sicheng tugged off his gloves, his knuckles sore and red. His muscles burned, but his mind was already leaping ahead to the next challenge, the next task. Boxing wasn't an activity; it was an expectation. And expectations in the Lu family weren't suggestions; they were imperatives.

Later that day, the tempo of his world slowed, but not enough to relax, but enough to shift into a different kind of rhythm. Sicheng sat cross-legged on the thick rug of his grandmother's sitting room, a rare moment of tranquility within the gilded halls of the Lu estate. The room was awash in golden sunlight streaming through tall windows. Ornate furniture and priceless vases adorned the space, but the atmosphere here was softer, warmer. It was her domain.

Grandmother Lu sat in her armchair, shuffling a deck of cards with delicate fingers adorned with jade rings. Despite her age, her movements were deft, her presence regal yet inviting. Her sharp eyes, twinkling with mischief, studied her grandson with quiet affection.

"You're too serious, Cheng'er," She said, a playful lilt in her tone. "Even when playing cards, you look like you're preparing for battle."

Sicheng glanced up, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Maybe I am, Grandma. You never know when a game of cards might turn into a war."

She laughed, her voice light, unburdened by the weight of her family's legacy. "Spoken like a true Lu. But remember, my dear, you're not just a Lu. You are Lu Sicheng. There's a difference."

Her words struck a chord, through he couldn't quiet pinpoint why. He studied her face, so familiar yet so distant from the pressures that defined his world. The wisdom etched in her features hinted at battles fought long before he was born; it was the battles she had won with grace and cunning. She dealt the cards, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply be her grandson.

Night fell, draping the sprawling estate in silence, save for the soft notes drifting from the piano room. Sicheng sat alone on the bench, his hands resting on the keys of the grand piano. The sleek black instrument was flawless, every surface polished to perfection, a mirror reflection the dim glow of the chandelier above.

His fingers danced across the keys, the opening notes of Chopin's Nocturne flowing like a stream through the stillness. Music was his retreat, his solace. It was the one pursuit in his life that felt like it belonged to him and him alone, untouched by the expectations that loomed over every other corner of his existence.

But even here, perfection was his shadow.

"Again," a voice called from the doorway.

Startled, Sicheng glanced up, his fingers faltering on the keys. His older sister, Shanyue, stood leaning against the frame, her silhouette elegant and composed. Unlike their father, Shanyue carried her authority with a sly smirk and a knowing glint in her eyes.

"You missed a note in the second movement," She said, stepping into the room.

Sicheng sighed, rolling his eyes but obliging. His fingers retraced the passage, this time without error.

She slid onto the bench beside him, her perfume subtle but familiar. "Relax, Cheng. You were fine."

"Fine isn't enough," He muttered, his gaze fixed on the keys.

"Father, have you too wound up?" She said, ruffling his hair in an uncharacteristically affectionate gesture. "You don't need to be perfect all the time."

"Father became perfect because he didn't settle for anything less," Sicheng replied, his voice measured but firm.

Shanyue shook her head, a flicker of sadness in her expression. "You're too much like him. Don't let it consume you, little brother. You're allowed to breathe."

The night deepened, and the Lu mansion grew quiet. Sicheng stood in his bedroom, the air heavy with the kind of stillness that invites reflection. Across from his bed, the wall gleamed with trophies, certificates, and framed achievements. It was a testament to a life meticulously curated for excellence.

He approached the display, his bare feet silent on the cold marble floor. His fingertips brushed the edge of a gold plaque, its polished surface reflecting his distorted image.

"What's it all for?" He murmured to no one.

The question wasn't new, but tonight it felt heavier, as if daring him to confront it. He sank onto the edge of his bed, his posture rigid even in solitude. His mind churned with fragmented thoughts of a mosaic of expectations, accomplishments, and fleeting moments of self-doubt.

He remembered his grandmother's words: You are not just a Lu; you are Lu Sicheng. And his sister's: You're allowed to breathe. They felt like puzzle pieces to a picture he couldn't yet see.

But as quickly as the thoughts came, he pushed them aside. The clock ticked past midnight, and tomorrow's schedule loomed like a mountain waiting to be climbed. Sicheng stood, straightened his posture, and extinguished the light.

The room plunged into darkness, but his mind stayed restless. Somewhere deep within, a quiet yearning stirred, a desire not for escape but for clarity. Yet for now, clarity would have to wait.