“These octopus balls are amazing—try one!” Wu Lü skewered one with a bamboo stick and passed it over the driver’s seat to Pei Jingchen.
Pei Jingchen wasn’t fussy. Eating in the car was no big deal—as long as it made him happy, he didn’t mind. Octopus balls? Sure. Even stinky tofu or snail noodles? No problem.
He embodied the down-to-earth version of a tycoon, utterly approachable.
Pei Jingchen didn’t mind his million-dollar Koenigsegg smelling like octopus balls, but he himself never ate or drank while driving. Roads come in millions, but safety comes first. As a model student, Pei Jingchen adhered to strict standards everywhere, disciplining himself rigorously.
Wu Lü regretted not sharing the treat, shifting his hips forward and craning his neck to chat with Pei Jingchen.
Sitting in the backseat is just so inconvenient!
Wu Lü mentioned wanting to try the Koenigsegg’s passenger seat—it must feel different from a taxi. Pei Jingchen retorted, “You’d be more realistic to covet the driver’s seat. Forget about the passenger seat.”
Wu Lu exclaimed, “Damn it!” He stuffed another squid ball into his mouth, chewing while glancing at the sticker on the passenger dashboard. Written in bold red marker were five striking characters: Su Qingci’s Seat.
Very good. Very assertive.
Though Wu Lü had only met Su Qingci once, his “Nüwa masterpiece” appearance had left a deep impression. An artist’s elegant aura was undeniably captivating. Combined with his slender frame, serene melancholy, and an air of fragile vulnerability, he radiated a haunting beauty.
Wu Lü wasn’t alone—many had been utterly charmed by Su Qingci’s “delicate flower needing protection” appearance. He thought to himself: Even if the young master is extreme and crazy, he’s not here now. What’s the harm in letting his childhood friend sit in the passenger seat? Is there surveillance in the car?
Despite his grumbling, Wu Lü decided it was best to speak less, ask less, and keep quiet when appropriate.
As they neared their destination, Wu Lü told Pei Jingchen to drop him off up front. Just as he was about to exit, Pei Jingchen asked, “Has your mother’s stomach condition improved?”
Wu Lü replied, “Still the same. She gets pain every few days.”
Pei Jingchen asked without batting an eye, “What does she eat when her stomach flares up? I mean for regular meals.”
Wu Lü: “Soft, easily digestible things—noodle soups and such.”
Pei Jingchen inquired: “What about congee?”
“Congee doesn’t work. It triggers acid reflux.” Wu Lü paused before realizing, “Is your stomach bothering you? Jingchen, health is the foundation of everything. You really need to take it easy!”
Pei Jingchen offered no clarification. After parting ways with Wu Lü, he drove past a fresh produce supermarket, went inside, and bought a bag of sliced noodles. He also picked out a few heads of baby bok choy and tomatoes. At checkout, he glanced at the shelves lined with various brands of condoms but didn’t take any.
He and Su Qingci had never used them.
Their first night together had been absurdly chaotic—there’d been no time to worry about such things.
Once they’d started, the rest had followed naturally. He’d considered protection, only to have Su Qingci wrap his arms around his neck and tease, “A box costs dozens. Every penny counts.”
In bed, Su Qingci insisted on complete intimacy—even the “ultra-thin” barrier was unacceptable.
Pei Jingchen’s thoughts drifted aimlessly as he zoned out. By the time he snapped back to reality, they were already at the front door, his lips still slightly parched.
Winter dryness was nothing unusual.
Opening the door, the living room was dark—he must be upstairs in his studio.
Su Qingci had no friends, no social life. Unless necessary, he rarely left the house, essentially living as a recluse.
Pei Jingchen closed the door and switched on the lights.
The apartment featured a light luxury decor, dominated by warm tones—he preferred vibrant colors. Though this clashed completely with Su Qingci’s tastes, he happily went along with him, even saying brighter hues were better, brighter, more like home.
Pei Jingchen took off his coat and hung it up.
Every time he came home, Su Qingci would greet him with the joyful enthusiasm of a cat that had been left alone too long and missed its owner dearly. Of course, this wasn’t always the case. On average, two out of ten times, either Su Qingci was sulking in a cold war or he was so absorbed in painting that he’d entered a state of complete immersion.
Pei Jingchen recalled the young master’s state of mind during their last meeting.
It seemed this time, the latter was the exception.
Su Qingci loved his craft. When it came to painting, he was utterly unpretentious—never complaining of hardship or fatigue. He would hole up for days on dangerous mountains and rugged peaks just to witness that fleeting, dazzling moment of divine inspiration. Often, when inspiration struck, he’d rise in the dead of night to toil away in his studio.
Pei Jingchen deeply acknowledged one thing: when Su Qingci sat on his easel stool, gloom couldn’t touch him—he radiated light.
Pei Jingchen changed into his loungewear, tied on an apron, and proceeded with seamless efficiency: washing vegetables, chopping ingredients, boiling water, cooking noodles, seasoning, plating, and serving—all done in one fluid motion.
Impressionist painters pursued the fleeting beauty of a moment—the feeling couldn’t be interrupted, or the painting would falter. Pei Jingchen merely knocked on the door of the second-floor studio, leaving behind, “Dinner’s ready—tomato and egg noodles.”
After finishing his own bowl, Pei Jingchen took a shower and headed to the study, drying his hair while reviewing documents sent by his assistant.
He’d been swamped lately, working day and night, even sacrificing rest for overtime. Lingyue was competing with three companies for the distribution rights to a game developed in South Korea. The entire Lingyue executive team was on high alert, and Pei Jingchen was equally determined to secure this project. After New Year’s, he’d have to make a personal trip to South Korea.
Rarely finishing work early, Pei Jingchen took off his glasses and went to bed.
The next morning, he woke up to find the noodles untouched.
Su Qingci could lose track of time when painting. Pei Jingchen discarded the noodles, made a bacon and egg sandwich that could withstand sitting out, and headed to work.
When he returned from work that evening, the sandwich lay untouched on the dining table, and the fresh milk hadn’t shifted even a millimeter.
Pei Jingchen finally sensed something was wrong. He went to the studio and found the door ajar, not fully closed. He called out twice, but there was no answer. Su Qingci wasn’t home.
The next morning, Su Qingci hadn’t returned. That evening, still no word.
Pei Jingchen wasn’t worried.
Su Qingci had a history of this. The childish tactic of “disappearing without reason to make you panic and search for him, thereby proving you still care” wasn’t new. Just another one of the young master’s twisted schemes.
What was commendable was that this time, Su Qingci had lasted the longest. In the past, he couldn’t hold out for more than 24 hours before either calling him to vent his anger or obediently returning home, pretending nothing had happened for the sake of saving face.
Three days had passed—unprecedented. Was Su Qingci preparing some grand move?
Pei Jingchen thought, better cut my losses while Su Qingci is still charging up. Otherwise, three whole days of silence? He’d definitely make me pay dearly for it.
With that in mind, Pei Jingchen, adhering to the principle that a gentleman doesn’t stand under a crumbling wall, proactively sent Su Qingci a WeChat message: [?]
No need for words—a single question mark sufficed.
Two minutes passed. Five minutes passed.
Su Qingci didn’t reply instantly, as if he’d been waiting for his message.
An hour passed. The chat window still held only Pei Jingchen’s solitary “?”.