“On one hand, it’s his rational mind rejecting this… on the other, it’s due to Qi Ji’s own physiology. Many people who take this kind of drug develop a psychological aversion, but their rational mind alone is never strong enough to resist the effects. So that part of it doesn’t have much impact.”
“The reason Qi Ji’s reaction is so extreme is mainly his physical constitution. He’s far too sensitive. If this aphrodisiac were used on anyone else, the response wouldn’t be nearly as severe. Some people, if exposed repeatedly, can even develop a tolerance, and the drug will fail to produce its intended effect. But Qi Ji is the opposite extreme.”
“His body is inherently hypersensitive, and the long-term overdose has amplified this sensitivity infinitely. It ultimately manifests as something akin to pain from harm. It acts as a kind of anti-overindulgence mechanism. Once his desire crosses a certain line, an alert goes off, pulling his rational mind back and keeping him in a state of resistance.”
“So, Second Young Master, his… vomiting reaction isn’t directed at you. It’s purely an instinctive self-protection. You can rest assured on that front.”
The voice beside him never stopped, gradually becoming clearer. Even as every word became distinct, Qi Ji’s foggy thoughts made it difficult to grasp the full meaning.
“For more detailed information, we’ll have to wait for lab results. But generally, the drug bs991 has two main effects. The first affects the body: it involves adrenaline, sex hormones, and so on. In short, it’s an aphrodisiac effect, similar to ordinary stimulants.”
“The second, and more significant, effect influences the user’s emotions and mental state. This is more complex. Based on the chemical components, three effects can be confirmed.”
“First, it amplifies desire. This works in tandem with hormonal stimulation, lowering cognitive activity so the user focuses solely on fulfilling their most urgent craving.”
“Second, it erodes specific brain neural regions. This is why Qi Ji’s visual recognition and object identification were impaired—he couldn’t recognize you. According to pharmaceutical data, this effect is intentional. Most users of the bs series drugs cannot remember who they were with once the effect wears off.”
“Third, be991 stimulates hippocampal memory cells. Working with internal hormones, it ensures the user retains vivid recollections of sexual responses during the drug’s effect. Memory takes time to update; some may even become long-term memories. As a result, even after the drug fades, the user requires similar stimulation to achieve pleasure.”
“This third effect is tricky… Everyone’s intensity, style, and preferences differ. The user will remember every detail of the experience. Without corrective treatment, they’ll rely on the same method for a long time to achieve pleasure.”
“To simplify: if the user only used their hands while under the drug, they might only be able to climax that way afterward. Other methods won’t work.”
“Second Young Master… when you helped Qi Ji…”
“Shh.”
“…?”
A sudden silence fell. The air was thick and awkward.
But the tension quickly dissolved.
“He’s awake.”
The voice drew closer, until it was right beside him. Even with his eyes still closed, Qi Ji felt the shadow cast by the figure standing near him.
He woke to the faint scent of strawberry, soft and sweet. Opening his eyes, the world was blurry; his eyelids felt sore and heavy. Squinting, he made out warm yellow light, a comforting kind of glow.
From a distance came a knock.
“Brother Mingzhen! There’s a new report here… huh? Why is your office so dark? Did the lights break? Everything looks yellow.”
“Shh! Go outside, talk outside…”
Footsteps hurried away. A faint door click cut off the sound, and the room returned to quiet.
Close by, a low, magnetic voice spoke.
“Awake?”
Qi Ji slowly turned his head, barely making out a blurred figure. He blinked hard, eyes still hazy.
“Still can’t see clearly?”
The voice was patient.
Qi Ji tried to respond, moving his lips, but no sound came out.
His face seemed covered by a mask, the tip of his nose and mouth hidden. The faint strawberry scent likely came from the mask.
Even masked, his breathing was unimpeded. Surprisingly, his nose and throat felt comfortably moist, not parched as they normally would be upon waking.
The only real effect was muffling his voice. What little he could have said was almost inaudible.
Even so, the figure seemed to understand. The voice softened, magnetic and calm, offering reassurance.
“It’s okay. Just temporary. Once you’ve rested, it’ll come back.”
Qi Ji blinked, eyelids heavy and sore.
Though initially wary, exhaustion had overtaken him. Comforted by this voice, he felt like a weary traveler finally back in bed, slipping into sleep again.
“Want something to eat? Are you hungry?”
He wanted to shake his head but was too weak. Even that simple motion was hard. Slowly, he closed his eyes again.
“Still want to sleep?”
Mm.
Qi Ji answered silently.
Sleep swept over him. Before fully drifting off, he thought, This voice… is so nice. I wonder if I could record it, use it later to inspire work.
But before he could ponder the speaker’s identity, his consciousness was pulled into slumber.
Before fully losing awareness, he heard the last words:
“Sleep well. Sweet dreams.”
Perhaps it was true—he slept deeply. No pleasant dreams came, but the restorative sleep worked wonders on his body. He drifted in and out of rest for a long while, easing much of the pain.
Still, some things could not be fixed with sleep alone.
When he woke again, Qi Ji was still in a dim, yellow-hued environment. He had briefly stirred awake a few times earlier, noticing that he’d been moved, but whether it was because he slept deeply or the ride had been smooth, he hadn’t felt any discomfort.
This time, the familiar, pleasant voice was still there beside him—but now it was accompanied by a jumble of other sounds: people talking, machines whirring, and occasional questions about how he was feeling.
At first, Qi Ji tried to respond patiently, but soon the dizziness and headache made speaking difficult, and he gave up. He only replied when addressed by that one particularly deep, calm male voice.
Time passed in long stretches filled with trivial noises, so long that Qi Ji himself lost track of how many times he had dozed off. Shadows flitted around him; they moved, but carried no hint of malice or threat, so he paid them no mind.
He was given cool liquids to drink and had needles inserted into his arms. Whenever he resisted, the same patient male voice soothed him, coaxing him into compliance. Eventually, Qi Ji reluctantly stopped fighting.
Days passed. His waking hours gradually lengthened, and the voice would ask what he wanted, what he wished to do. After some thought, Qi Ji said he wanted paper and a pen.
Even with his dulled senses, he immediately noticed the sudden, unusual quiet around him. It seemed no one had expected that answer.
But it was precisely what Qi Ji had decided after careful consideration. To his relief, it wasn’t long before paper and a pen appeared beside him.
With these, he finally found something to occupy himself during his waking hours instead of simply waiting for the low, soothing voice and expending most of his energy in conversation.
Drawing proved more suitable than anything else. It required little effort and kept his mind occupied. Qi Ji had been painting for nearly fifteen years; his brush was like an extension of his eyes and fingers. Even when uncomfortable, painting had long been a way for him to release tension.
He had developed this habit very early.
Qi Ji had learned to draw from his father. When young, his father had been a painter, sporting the slightly long hair popular at the time, large gold-rimmed glasses, and a scholarly aura—the epitome of a young intellectual.
But many artists struggled to make a living, even twenty years ago. So Qi Ji’s father put away his paints and easel and, together with Qi Ji’s mother—then also a teacher—ventured into business.
Their travels took them far from home, physically distant, and financial constraints meant visits were rare. Qi Ji was only a year old and was left in the care of his grandmother. When she passed away a few years later, he was sent to live with his aunt and uncle.
Both parents had been teachers with secure jobs. Going into business seemed imprudent or reckless to many. Once they left, gossip spread quickly among the remaining family members.
Qi Ji bore the brunt. At school, classmates formed groups to pick on him. Though frail, he refused to be bullied and often fought back, returning home with bruises and scratches.
His keen observational skills in martial arts later were partly shaped by those early experiences, facing multiple opponents at once.
But fighting as a child wasn’t seen as obedient or proper. Qi Ji’s aunt and uncle, already disapproving of his parents leaving to do business, saw his injuries as troublemaking and disliked him even more.
During a rare New Year reunion, his parents returned, and his aunt complained to his father about Qi Ji’s behavior, claiming he was unruly, constantly fighting, and frequently reprimanded by teachers.
Qi Ji was there when she spoke. Some people insisted on scolding children directly. He wanted to explain, but his aunt waved her arms, talking so forcefully he had no chance to speak.
When she finally finished, she forbade him from responding and told him to reflect on his behavior—how could it possibly honor his parents’ hard work?
That dinner remained, in Qi Ji’s memory, one of the tasteless family meals. That night, returning to his room, his father followed.
Qi Ji expected a scolding. The explanation he had prepared disappeared. His lips felt glued shut, and his chest tightened, making it hard to breathe. He felt both wronged and guilty.
But unexpectedly, his father didn’t scold him.
Instead, he brought out the brushes he had once used and sat down at the table to teach young Qi Ji to draw. He told him that painting could cultivate one’s mind and bring joy.
Qi Ji didn’t fully understand terms like “cultivate the mind.” He just liked spending long stretches of time with his parents, whom he seldom saw. Painting allowed him to do that, so he loved it.
The reunion was brief. After the New Year, his parents left again, but the brushes stayed with him, continuing in his hands.
From that point on, painting filled most of Qi Ji’s childhood and laid a solid foundation for his later self-taught design skills.
Now, though his body was still unwell, painting remained something he could manage. It also helped him relieve the drowsiness and irritability of the past days.
The day he received paper and pens, Qi Ji drew in one stretch for hours. He didn’t know where all the various tools, paints, and sheets had come from—some brands and implements were unfamiliar even to him—but judging by feel, they seemed convenient and pleasant to use.
Though he wasn’t sure of their source, Qi Ji thanked the strange man who often tidied up his scattered artwork and brought him water and paper.
He truly owed the man his gratitude. Once, paint had smudged at the corner of his lips, and Qi Ji hadn’t realized it. He almost licked it off, but the man noticed, carefully cleaned it for him, and spent a long while making sure it was gone.
The next morning, after Qi Ji had expressed his thanks, he found his bed completely surrounded by paper, pens, and art supplies.
He was also led to an adjacent room, accessible directly from his bedroom. He had been there before. Originally, it had been white, spacious, and empty—a resting room with only a few tea tables and cushions.
But now, when he was brought there again, the room had been completely transformed. The wide space had been visually divided into several zones through color and decoration, each dedicated to art and design. Even the walls had become expansive canvases, free for him to draw on.
For any artist in need of inspiration, this room was a dream come true.
Qi Ji was no exception. He loved the room—and, by extension, he found himself liking the kind, attentive stranger with the pleasant voice who always brought him things.
Thus, Qi Ji settled into a life focused on drawing, interrupted only by occasional checks and repetitive questioning.
He had thought this rhythm could last longer, helping him burn away the inexplicable heat building in his body and restoring some normalcy. But as time passed, things did not progress as he had hoped.
The drug’s effects accumulated until they could no longer be suppressed by willpower. Eventually, even holding a brush to distract himself became ineffective. His drawings grew increasingly hasty; the colors became so intense they seemed almost painful to the eyes.
He desperately needed something cold—physically cold—the only way left to cool himself. Qi Ji spent more and more time in cold water, lingering until every trace of heat had left him before emerging from the icy water.
But even bathing in cold water was not smooth. Someone would always disturb him. The water sometimes inexplicably turned warm. Sometimes, after finally cooling himself and dozing in the water, he would inexplicably wake on the bed, burning hot again.
Day by day, Qi Ji felt worse. His waking hours were almost entirely consumed by this burning, dizzying haze. Eventually, he could no longer draw at all. The only small relief came from waiting for that deep male voice to appear—to talk to him, and slowly lull him back to sleep.
But Qi Ji could not claim the voice for himself. He had overheard others addressing it as “Young Master,” “Boss,” or “Sir”—respectful titles, each suggesting the speaker was busy and important.
Since he was one, Qi Ji had learned not to let his own emotions disrupt those close to him.
Yet despite understanding this rationally, his heart still ached.
He longed for a voice that belonged solely to him, that could stay with him a little longer.
Perhaps then he wouldn’t feel so miserable.
This torment worsened his already fragile sleep. Only after being soothed by that male voice could he manage a few hours of rest. But any sound in the middle of the night—wind rustling, the soft brushing of the bedding—could wake him.
It was in such a moment that Qi Ji opened his eyes and saw, on the pillow beside him, a familiar flat, wide bracelet.
It was the bracelet he had worn on his right hand, long lost. He had thought of it constantly, and a few days ago, he even drew it in a picture of a family of four, each person wearing one, all smiling.
Qi Ji became instantly awake.
Beside the bracelet was the hand of the person who had just placed it there, still lingering before pulling back.
It was just like that night years ago, when a too-tight bracelet had troubled him, and his father had made a new one for him, leaving it by his pillow as a gift.
Qi Ji hadn’t dared to hope he would see him again. Not even in his dreams.
He practically leapt out of bed. The physical torment of the past days made even turning his head difficult, let alone such a sudden movement. But seeing that familiar bracelet, it was as if he had been instantly healed. He jumped straight into the man’s arms.
“Dad!”
Qi Ji clutched the strong, reliable chest—the one he had always imagined could shield him forever—and called out over and over.
“Da-Dad… Dad… I missed you so much…”
Like a wanderer lost in the desert finally finding a spring, Qi Ji clung to him greedily, soaking in his warmth. He had walked so far for so long, and now, near despair, he saw the wide-open, intact door of home.
“I haven’t seen you in so long, Dad! Why did you take so long? Didn’t you miss me?”
He asked questions only a child could, the ones he had every right to ask, but gradually his confidence faltered. His voice softened.
“Dad, I’m sorry. I didn’t do well, I wasn’t sensible… I’ll change. Please don’t leave me.”
Qi Ji tried to restrain himself but could not, crying uncontrollably, repeating the same pleas over and over.
“Don’t leave me… Dad, don’t leave me…”
The person holding him seemed stiff at first, taking a long moment to react, then slowly lifted his hands, cautiously embracing Qi Ji’s trembling, thin back.
Tears fell, hitting the neck and shoulders, soaking the surrounding skin. Only then did Qi Ji realize he was crying. He fumbled to pull away, clumsily wiping his face and apologizing.
“I’m sorry… you don’t like me crying, do you? Mom said boys shouldn’t cry… I’m sorry, Dad. I won’t cry anymore. I won’t, I promise…”
As he spoke, tears still streamed from his eyes. He desperately wiped them away, trying to prove the truth of his words.
He was terrified of being abandoned again. Like a drowning person clutching the last straw, Qi Ji struggled, waiting for a response that could save him—or the crushing despair of total loss.
“Don’t leave me, Dad… I won’t cry. I’ll behave…”
His voice, choked with sobs, repeated the promises. His hands, once gripping tightly, withdrew cautiously, while he wiped the tears from his face and tried to dab the water stains from the man’s shoulders with his sleeve.
Finally, a gentle hand pulled his flailing left hand aside. Qi Ji’s back was embraced and softly patted.
“It’s alright.”
Qi Ji finally heard him speak. The voice was slightly lower than he remembered but quickly returned to its familiar tone.
“If you need to cry, just cry. It’s okay. I’m here with you.”
Qi Ji sniffled, cautiously reaching out to hug that broad, strong shoulder once more.
“Really… Dad?” he whispered.
“I… if I cry, you still won’t dislike me?”
“Really.”
The man repeated it patiently, soothing Qi Ji, who was as skittish as a startled bird.
“I’ve always liked you.”
Qi Ji didn’t speak. He buried his face in the crook of the man’s neck and held him tightly in silence.
A long while passed. The neck was streaked with tears, which ran down the defined lines of the collarbone. Only then did Qi Ji manage to speak again, choked with sobs.
“Dad.”
He whispered, his voice wet with crying, small and fragile, like a tiny abandoned kitten.
His words were like little cat claws, scratching at the heart, sharp yet aching.
“I feel… so awful…”
“Where does it hurt?”
The man coaxed him, drawing out all the pain and discomfort Qi Ji had been holding inside.
“I’m so hot… always hot… and my body hurts.”
Qi Ji sobbed quietly, finally finding a place to pour out all his grievances.
“Am I… almost at my limit, Dad? Can I… stay with you all the time? I don’t want…”
“Shh.”
The last words were cut off, intercepted by the man’s voice.
“It’s okay. You just have a little cold and a mild fever. Once the fever breaks and the cold is gone, your body will recover. Don’t worry.”
Qi Ji clutched the corner of his clothes, whispering, “Really?”
Startled and insecure, he needed repeated reassurance for every word from his father. Yet each question was asked so cautiously, as if he feared asking too much would make him unwelcome.
“Really. I promise.”
The man’s patience was extraordinary, soothing the sensitive, anxious boy in his arms over and over.
“You’ll be well again very soon.”
Finally, when Qi Ji had cried until his eyes were too sore to open, the man spoke in a softer, consulting tone.
“Do your eyes hurt? Should we sleep for a while first?”
Qi Ji reached to rub his eyes, but the man gently guided his hand away. A wet wipe was at the bedside. Using the soft, moist cloth, he slowly wiped the tears from Qi Ji’s eyelashes and reddened eye area.
Qi Ji obediently tilted his head back and waited. When he was done, the man asked again, “Do you want to sleep now?”
Qi Ji hesitated, his fingers still clutching the corner of the man’s clothes.
Seeing his concern, the man whispered, “I’m not going anywhere.”
Qi Ji whispered, “Will I still see you when I wake up?”
“Yes.” The man answered firmly, without a second’s hesitation.
“You’ll see me as soon as you open your eyes.”
Qi Ji sniffled. “I want to see you.”
The man reached out again, using the wet wipe to dab at Qi Ji’s red nose.
His voice had a kind of comforting magic. “I’m right here with you. I’m not going anywhere. You’ll definitely see me.”
Finally, Qi Ji obediently lay back down.
The room remained unlit, except for a small bedside lamp that sensed movement and cast a gentle, soft glow, making it perfect for drifting into sleep.
Qi Ji lay in a cloud-like soft quilt, his hand loosely holding a finger of the person beside him.
The man adjusted the quilt, covering Qi Ji’s hand.
Even with his eyes nearly closed, Qi Ji still murmured in a slurred voice, “Dad… goodnight.”
“Goodnight, baby.”
A large, warm hand rested on the soft quilt, gently patting with the tenderest rhythm.
“Sweet dreams.”