After Three Years, the Mute Husband Speaks

Chapter 003

Frank Yates scrambled off the bed, his movements fueled by a frantic, primal urgency. He lunged for the bedroom door, his fingers fumbling with the lock until the bolt slid home with a reassuring click. He didn't stop there. He stumbled across the room, his limbs feeling foreign and heavy, like he was operating a machine with the calibration set wrong, and threw himself into the ensuite bathroom.

The smell was the first thing that hit him—a rancid, cloying stench that seemed to emanate from his very soul. It was the smell of three years of stagnation, of swallowed insults, of dormant power rotting in the dark.

He tore off his clothes, kicking them into the corner, and twisted the shower handle.

A deluge of hot water cascaded over him. As the steam rose, filling the small tiled space with a suffocating mist, Frank Yates watched the water swirling around his feet. It ran black. Thick, viscous, tar-like sludge washed away from his skin, swirling down the drain. It was as if his body was purging a lifetime of toxins in a single moment.

He stood under the spray for a long time, scrubbing his skin raw, watching the water slowly turn from ink-black to gray, and finally to clear. With every layer of filth that washed away, a layer of clarity returned. The heaviness in his limbs evaporated, replaced by a buoyancy he hadn't felt since he was a child.

His mood soared. A profound sense of liberation washed over him, far more cleansing than the water.

The Old Man hadn't lied. The contract was fulfilled.

Frank Yates closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The air hissed through his teeth—a sound! He could make sound! He opened his mouth and let out a low hum, feeling the vibrations in his chest. The silence that had been his jailer for three years was dead.

But it wasn't just his voice. Inside his body, deep within the pathways of his meridians, a mysterious energy was coiling and uncoiling like a waking dragon. It was warm, vibrant, and thrumming with potential. It was Spirit Power. He flexed his hand, watching the water droplets dance on his fingertips. He felt invincible. He felt as though he could punch through the tiled wall if he chose to. He could do anything.

Suddenly, his mind lurched. It wasn't pain this time, but a flood. Information cascaded into his brain, bypassing the usual learning process and embedding itself directly into his memory.

It was TCM—Traditional Chinese Medicine. But not the basic knowledge found in textbooks. This was ancient, esoteric knowledge. Complex diagrams of Acupuncture points flashed before his mind's eye. The GV24, GV20, GV17, and GB20 acupoints lit up in his mental map like stars in a constellation. He understood the flow of Qi, the balance of Yin and Yang, and the deadly and healing applications of Silver Needles. He knew how to cure the incurable, and how to kill without leaving a mark.

While Frank Yates was undergoing his metamorphosis, the atmosphere in the hallway outside was thick with confusion and fear.

Joan Foster had reached the top of the stairs, her chest heaving slightly from the exertion and the stress. She found her daughter, Snow Lee, leaning against the wall, her face pale and her eyes wide with lingering terror.

"Snow!" Joan’s voice was sharp, cutting through the girl's panic. "What happened? Did Frank Yates try to hurt you? Did he touch you?"

Snow Lee shook her head violently, her voice trembling. "No... Mom, it wasn't that. It was... Frank. He... he..."

She couldn't finish the sentence. The image of the black, writing figure on the bed was burned into her retinas. It defied logic. It defied biology.

"What about him?" Joan demanded, her impatience growing. A dark thought crossed her mind—perhaps the mute had finally had a seizure and died. If he was dead, it would be a hassle to explain to the police, but ultimately, it might be a relief. No more Matrilocal Marriage shame. No more useless mouth to feed.

"He's a monster!" Snow Lee finally blurted out. It was the only word that fit. "He looked like... a demon made of tar!"

"A monster?" Joan blinked, taken aback. She scoffed, her materialistic pragmatism overriding her daughter's fear. "Snow, you must be hallucinating from stress. That useless coward? A monster? Hah! If he really turned into a monster, that would be the first useful thing he's ever done. We could sell him to a zoo or a circus and finally make some money off him."

Joan marched past her daughter to Frank’s bedroom door. She grabbed the handle and twisted it aggressively.

Locked.

The audacity! A live-in son-in-law locking his door in her house? Rage flared in Joan’s chest. She began to pound on the wood with her fist, the sound echoing loudly through the second floor.

"Frank Yates! Open this door right now! What are you doing in there hiding like a rat? Open it!"

Inside the room, the shower cut off. A moment of silence followed.

Then, a voice—rough, unused, deep, and undeniably male—came from behind the door.

"Wait a minute. I'm taking a shower."

Joan froze. Her fist halted in mid-air. Her mouth opened to launch another insult, but the words died in her throat.

"Hmph, you really are getting more and more undisciplined..." she started to mutter out of habit, but then the realization hit her like a bucket of ice water.

She spun around to look at the door. "Wait. Frank Yates... did you just speak?"

There was no response from the bedroom. Only the sound of rustling fabric.

Joan turned back to Snow Lee, her eyes wide with shock. "Snow! Did you hear that? Just now! He spoke! He actually spoke!"

Snow Lee hugged her arms around herself, shivering. "Mom, please. Let's just go downstairs. I don't want to be here when he comes out. Let's just wait for him in the living room."

The fear in her daughter's voice was contagious. Joan hesitated, glaring at the door one last time, before nodding. "Fine. Let's go."

They descended the stairs, their footsteps heavy. In the living room, Starr Hall stood up as they approached, adjusting his expensive blazer. He looked the picture of concern, though his eyes held a glimmer of annoyance.

"Auntie Joan," Starr said, stepping forward. "Is he not coming out? That Frank Yates is too much. He ignores you, he ignores guests... honestly, it's disrespectful."

Joan sighed, sinking onto the sofa. She caught the undertone in Starr’s voice. He was judging them. He was judging the Lee family for having such a chaotic household.

"We will wait for him," Joan said, her voice hard. "He's coming down. And when he does, I want to know exactly what kind of game he's been playing."

Starr sat back down, crossing his long legs. Internally, he sneered. Garbage, he thought. Absolute trash. To think Cloud Lee is legally bound to such a creature. It’s a tragedy.

Ten minutes passed. The tension in the living room was palpable.

Then, footsteps. Slow, rhythmic, confident footsteps coming down the stairs.

Frank Yates appeared.

He had changed into a fresh set of clothes—simple slacks and a white shirt—but he wore them differently. His hair was damp, slicked back from his forehead, revealing a face that looked sharper, more defined. The dull, glazed look that had occupied his eyes for three years was gone. In its place was a clear, piercing gaze that seemed to absorb everything in the room.

Snow Lee jumped up from the sofa as if she had been stung. She pointed a trembling finger at him. "Frank... you... your body..."

She stammered, unable to articulate the change.

Frank didn't acknowledge her panic. He moved with a liquid grace, walking past the stunned group to the single armchair adjacent to the main sofa. He sat down naturally, his posture upright and relaxed. He reached for the teapot, poured himself a cup of tea, and took a slow, deliberate sip.

The silence was deafening. The "dog" had just seated himself at the table like a master.

"Frank Yates!" Joan snapped, recovering from her shock. "Stand up! Who said you could sit?"

Frank lowered the teacup. He looked at Joan. For the first time in years, he didn't flinch. He didn't cower. He stood up slowly, not out of obedience, but out of a mocking sort of courtesy. He looked her dead in the eye with an expression of innocent amusement.

Joan hated that look. It unnerved her. "Stop acting! You've been acting for three years, aren't you tired? Speak! I heard you upstairs!"

Frank smiled. It was a small, cold smile.

"Mother-in-law."

Three syllables. Simple words. But spoken by him, they carried the weight of a thunderclap.

The room gasped. Snow Lee’s jaw dropped. Starr Hall’s eyebrows shot up.

The mute spoke.

"He... he wasn't really mute?" Snow Lee whispered, her face twisting in disgust. "You liar! Frank Yates, you're a liar! You faked it? Why? Did you just not want to talk to us? You should have just stayed a mute forever!"

Despite her anger, Snow Lee couldn't take her eyes off him. The change was physical. The man who used to hunch his shoulders, looking like he was constantly expecting a beating, now stood straight as a spear. His frame, usually seen as scrawny and weak, now exuded a wiry, hidden power.

It was a transformation as jarring as seeing Shorty Wu suddenly turn into a supermodel. It was unnatural.

Starr Hall watched the scene with narrowing eyes. To him, this was all theater. The man was a grifter, a con artist.

"So, you are Frank Yates," Starr said, breaking his silence. His tone was dripping with condescension. "You are exactly as I imagined."

Starr turned his charm on Joan, ignoring Frank as if he were a piece of furniture. "Auntie, look at this. A man who lies about his own voice? A man who hides in his room? This person cannot bring happiness to Cloud Lee. His very existence is an insult to her. Don't you agree?"

Joan remained silent. Her lips thinned. While she agreed wholeheartedly with Starr—she wanted Frank gone yesterday—domestic dirty laundry was not something she liked airing in front of outsiders, even close family friends.

Seeing Joan’s hesitation, Starr mistook it for permission. He felt emboldened. He was the successful returnee, the golden boy. He stood up and walked over to Frank, stopping just inside his personal space. He looked Frank up and down with open contempt.

"Do you think it's fun?" Starr sneered. "Living like a parasite? Leeching off the Lee family? If you had any shred of dignity, any real care for Cloud Lee, you would leave."

Frank looked at Starr. He didn't blink. He felt a mild annoyance, like one feels when a mosquito buzzes near one's ear.

"If you leave Cloud Lee," Starr continued, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level, thinking he held all the cards, "I can arrange a job for you. A janitor, maybe. Or security. And I’ll give you thirty thousand dollars cash. How does that sound?"

Starr took a step back, creating distance. He assumed a loose stance, his muscles tensing. He was ready. He had studied Taekwondo for years, earning a black belt. He assumed this pathetic, formerly mute house-husband would lash out in anger. And when he did, Starr was prepared to beat him into the ground, humiliating him further in front of the women.

It was a perfect plan.

But Frank didn't lash out. He didn't scream. He simply stood there, watching Starr with eyes that were terrifyingly calm. It was the look a human gives to an ant crawling on the pavement—not hate, not anger, just total indifference to its existence.

Starr felt a chill crawl up his neck. That gaze... it made him feel small. It made him feel like prey.

"What are you looking at?" Starr barked, his bravado cracking. He grabbed Frank by the collar, his knuckles turning white. "I'm talking to you, you soft-rice-eating coward!"

Frank continued to stare, the "ant" metaphor cementing in his mind.

Starr snapped. The indifference was more insulting than a slap. "Say something!"

Starr raised his right fist and swung it in a vicious arc toward Frank’s cheek. It was a fast punch, practiced and heavy.

Joan Foster sat on the sofa, watching. She didn't shout "stop." She didn't move. She watched with cold, detached eyes, silently hoping Starr would knock some sense into her son-in-law.

Whack.

The sound wasn't flesh hitting flesh. It was the sound of a sudden, violent stop.

Starr’s fist froze in mid-air, less than six inches from Frank’s face.

Frank’s hand had moved. It was a blur, too fast for the eye to track. He had caught Starr’s wrist in a grip of iron.

Starr’s eyes widened. He pulled back, expecting resistance, but Frank’s hand didn't budge. It was like his wrist was encased in concrete. Pain shot up his arm as Frank applied the slightest pressure.

"Let go!" Starr yelped, the cool facade shattering. "Let go of me, you loser!"

"Loser?" Frank repeated the word softly, tasting it. A dry chuckle escaped his lips. "Is that right?"

Panic set in. Starr, realizing he couldn't pull away, used his free hand. He released Frank’s collar and swung a desperate, clumsy hook toward Frank’s temple.

Frank didn't even bother to block. He moved faster than thought. His other hand shot out and clamped around Starr’s throat.

The world tilted for Starr Hall. One moment he was attacking; the next, his feet were dangling an inch off the ground. Oxygen was cut off instantly. The strength in the hand around his neck was inhuman. It wasn't the grip of a lazy husband; it was the grip of a hydraulic press.

"L-let... let go..." Starr gasped, his face turning a mottled red. Terror flooded his system. He clawed at Frank’s arm, but it was like clawing at a steel beam.

Frank looked at him, his eyes devoid of mercy. "Who do you think you are? Coming into my house? Barking orders? Offering me scraps?"

"Frank Yates! Stop it!"

Joan’s scream broke the trance. She leaped up from the sofa, terrified that Frank was actually going to kill the golden boy. "Stop! Are you crazy?"

Frank slowly turned his head to look at his mother-in-law. A cold sneer curled his lip.

Mother-in-law, oh Mother-in-law, he thought. When he was swinging at my face, you were silent. But the moment I touch a hair on his head, you find your voice.

Frank turned back to Starr. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the man aside.

It looked effortless, like tossing a bag of trash into a dumpster. Starr flew through the air and crashed onto the carpet, gasping for air, clutching his bruised throat, his expensive suit rumpled and shamed.

Before anyone could say another word, a sharp, jarring ringtone pierced the air.

It was Joan’s cell phone.

The noise seemed incredibly loud in the stunned silence of the room. Joan, shaking slightly, picked up the phone from the coffee table. She glanced at the caller ID—it was Cloud Lee's secretary.

She pressed answer, her voice trembling. "Hello?"

She listened for a second, and the color drained from her face faster than the water in Frank's shower.

"What?" Joan shrieked, her voice cracking with panic. "Cloud Lee's company is in trouble? What happened?!"

The announcement hung in the air, shifting the gravity of the room instantly. Frank Yates narrowed his eyes. The night was far from over.