Her lie was far too obvious, as if she hadn’t even bothered to draft it beforehand, yet on that face of hers, it was remarkably easy to be beguiling.
Ji Zechen’s expression tightened as he looked at her, deliberately stating, “No.”
Shu Qianzhi responded with silence, waiting for him to continue.
“You can’t cook. Even dogs wouldn’t eat what you make.” Ji Zechen crossed his legs differently, a teasing smile curling at his lips, actually beginning to anticipate her reply.
Shu Qianzhi: …
Rumors! Blatant rumors!
Her face was filled with sheer indignation. She let out an angry “hmph” and retorted, “But Brother ate it. Brother isn’t even as good as a dog.”
With that, she stomped her foot, hopped down from the slightly tall chair, and strode away with quick, light steps.
Ji Zechen: …
She’s angry already?
The sweet taste of the congee still lingered on his lips. He pressed them together, glanced in the direction Shu Qianzhi had left, and unconsciously scooped another spoonful of congee into his mouth.
So quick to anger. It seemed this person wasn’t just a crybaby but also a tantrum-thrower.
Ji Zechen let out a soft scoff, but in the end, he finished every last drop of the “dog-wouldn’t-eat” congee. Only, the space beside him felt empty, too quiet, as if something was missing.
Later, when he walked back to the hall alone, he realized the tantrum-thrower had been waiting for him there all along.
Her face still showed traces of faint anger, her cheeks puffed out, very much like an irritated pufferfish.
“Even though Brother is being awful, I still have something to say to you.” Shu Qianzhi met Ji Zechen’s gaze fearlessly, putting on a haughty expression.
Ji Zechen didn’t speak, merely pausing to stare at her.
Shu Qianzhi seemed reluctant, her expression slightly awkward as she spoke, “Goodnight, Brother.”
After saying this, she immediately turned around and trudged back to her bedroom with heavy, dragging steps, as if sulking with herself.
Ji Zechen: …
His eyes narrowed slightly, showing little expression. Soon after, he withdrew his gaze and went straight up to the second floor, returning to his own area.
The study was filled with bright, cold white light, illuminating everything starkly. Ji Zechen leaned back in his chair, casually picking up a magazine to flip through.
After a short while, he tossed the magazine aside. The man walked to the window and gazed into the distance, his dark pupils profound and concealing danger.
Suddenly remembering something, he picked up his phone and opened the messages.
Finally, he retrieved that text from the spam folder.
[“Brother, you’ve worked hard today… when are you coming back? Ze Xi is waiting to cook something delicious for you—”]
Attached was a photo—a selfie of her. Sunlight bathed her, her smile radiant and gentle, seeming capable of dispelling all gloom and filling everything around with color.
This was clearly a side of her he had never seen before.
Ji Zechen’s slender fingers touched the screen, and as if guided by some unseen force, he saved the picture.
The next moment, the phone, like the magazine, was pitifully tossed aside and ignored.
…
That night, Shu Qianzhi quickly fell asleep, but she dreamed—a dream of the end of her previous life.
In the pouring rain, Ji Zechen stood before her grave holding flowers, remaining there for a full day and night without uttering a word, his expression unchanging throughout.
At that moment, she stood face to face with him. From the instant he appeared, her mental state gradually shifted from disbelief to tear-streaked devastation.
She wanted to ask why he had come here, why he had to do this, but he couldn’t see her, much less hear her voice.
All she could do was stand in the pouring rain, pounding her transparent heart again and again in agony and tears, consumed by regret. Though it didn’t physically exist, her heart ached so intensely she could barely breathe.
Even in a dream, this powerlessness felt profoundly real.
The scene shifted abruptly to the moment when Ji Zechen ended his life for her sake. She stood beside him, weeping and screaming while shaking her head frantically, desperate to stop his actions. But her hands merely passed through his body—she couldn’t hold him back. All she could do was watch helplessly as he clutched her photograph, his life fading with each passing second.
Unconsciously, her tears had soaked the pillow.
The curtains swayed gently in the breeze seeping through the door crack, causing moonlit patterns to flicker across the room. Shu Qianzhi jolted awake abruptly, sitting up in bed and staring blankly at her surroundings.
Only after confirming everything around her was real did she exhale a weary sigh, raising a hand to wipe the tear stains from the corners of her eyes.
Her previous life had undoubtedly been a nightmare, but fortunately, she had been reborn. At this point in time, Ji Zechen probably didn’t even like her yet, giving her ample opportunity to make up for the regrets of her past life.
The sensation of suddenly regaining what was lost made her cherish those around her even more. Almost without thinking, she immediately sent Ji Zechen a text message:
【Brother, I had a nightmare. It was terrifying.】
Upstairs on the second floor, Ji Zechen stared at the message for a long time before coldly pressing the back button without replying, as if it meant nothing to him.
As the lights gradually dimmed, two people on different floors of the same location lay awake with their own heavy thoughts.
This was a night of complete sleeplessness.