No one says ‘Uncle Lane’ without flinching. His name hangs like dust in that sunlit room—unseen, yet heavy. Xing’er’s defiance (‘He wouldn’t spare you a glance’) lands like a needle prick. The aprons, the brooms, the ripped sleeve… all symbols of hierarchy. This isn’t just a factory fight; it’s a ritual of exclusion. And Lucien? He didn’t speak—he *arrived*. The Price of Betrayal begins when loyalty is measured in thread counts. 🪡👀