When Yang Jianzhen woke up, the AC was still running, set to 26°C on sleep mode. This was the first time in a month he’d slept with the AC on—or rather, he hadn’t turned it on; the person who had taken him in had.
Starting the afternoon before, that strange man, Ming Zhifei, had finally agreed to share a bed with him. Right now, Ming Zhifei was gone. Yang Jianzhen pricked up his ears but heard no movement outside. He checked the clock; it was already past nine in the morning.
The night before last, Typhoon No. 18—which had seemed menacing but ultimately swerved hundreds of kilometers away—had brought nothing but stifling heat to Qianhai City. Ming Zhifei said it was too hot and suggested that instead of leaving windows open, they should close up and turn on the AC. They tried it; it worked, but it smelled of dust. When Yang Jianzhen suggested taking it apart to clean it before use, Ming Zhifei had only looked at him with a face of pure confusion.
Living on plain noodles with a pinch of salt or soy sauce, starving himself into hypoglycemia, wearing clothes that were ill-fitting and riddled with holes he didn’t even notice, peering through glasses that weren’t just devoid of aesthetic but were arguably hideous, and sporting a buzz cut likely butchered at a roadside quick-cut shop—it was a miracle a man with near-zero life skills had survived into his thirties.
Yes, Yang Jianzhen had asked yesterday. Ming Zhifei said he was thirty-six. Because he had been dressed so much like a middle-aged salaryman during their first meeting—collapsed on the ground with a face as pale as gold leaf and those strange, ugly glasses—Yang Jianzhen had misjudged him, assuming he was in his late forties or fifties.
That overpowering first impression had delayed Yang Jianzhen’s correction of his age until he moved in and saw Ming Zhifei without the glasses.
The face beneath them—from the bone structure to the features, the skin texture to the complexion—was exceptional. It was, frankly, a top-tier beauty. Without those hideous clothes, even in simple pajamas, he looked like a completely different person. Yang Jianzhen had seen countless people; he had been the owner of an entertainment streaming company, specializing in discovering and packaging influencers. He admitted he had completely misread this one. But, aside from a few niche “ugly-chic” influencers, he had truly never seen someone with such natural gifts work so hard to make themselves look dowdy and pathetic.
During his days as a liquor salesman in the nightlife scene, Yang Jianzhen faced all sorts of people every night—men, women, old, and young. He had long ago honed an eye for reading people; he could detect a guest’s hidden intentions in a single glance and react instantly. If not for this knack for “reading the room,” no matter how good-looking he was, he never could have achieved the highest sales volume or become a top-tier host who didn’t even participate in “after-hours” activities.
Back then, the nightlife scene still had an “after-hours”—if a guest wanted to continue bonding with a salesperson after the main shift, they would pay for one-on-one time. The shop took the fee and gave the salesperson a commission, so owners went to great lengths to encourage staff to work the second half. Most salespeople also collected extra tips during these sessions.
If you wanted to make the big bucks, it was nearly impossible to avoid the after-hours work. But after Yang Jianzhen completed his first after-hours service following his probationary period, that guest told his boss she would be a regular, she would support his business, and while she could accept others booking him for the first half, he was forbidden from going to the second half with anyone else.
Because this client had some status, even the club owners were wary of her and reluctantly agreed. Yang Jianzhen thought to himself: Serving a crowd is serving, serving one person is serving. He knew that since he had stepped into this industry, he was destined to walk this dark path to the end.
From that perspective, he was actually grateful to her. At least her power shielded him, ensuring that his younger self didn’t have to endure even more tragic things.
She was beautiful, fashionable, and five or six years older than him. She was draped in luxury from head to toe and seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of money. She said her father kept so much cash at home that if she didn’t find a place to squander it, it would never get used; her core mission in life was to spend.
After saying this, she would blow smoke in his face with feigned maturity and say, “Stay with me, and there will be only benefits. Just be at peace and be my good little dog.”
For some reason, these memories of that lady surfaced as Yang Jianzhen climbed out of bed. He had an excellent memory; he hadn’t forgotten her face, her tone, her habits, or the reason they eventually broke up.
For a Yang Jianzhen in his early twenties, once he had escaped his initial predicament, he couldn’t remain trapped in a small nightclub. Naturally, he couldn’t—as she hoped—get married at twenty-one and be kept in a house forever as a “house husband,” living only to please someone else with his talent for wagging his tail and reading moods.
It was a shortcut, but it wasn’t the destination. Besides, having to watch someone’s expressions, hide his own preferences, and speak only what others wanted to hear—with every word calculated—was a way of life he had to endure at work. Doing it at home as well felt like a constant suppression of his soul.
To be blunt, that lady had genuinely fallen for him during their business dealings. But from her position of power, she never realized that his gentleness, his submissiveness, and his charm were all an act. He could fake it for a few years, but could he fake it for a lifetime?
Playing the victim when weak was simply one of his survival skills. If not for that, this strange “big brother” would never have let a virtual stranger with a mountain of trouble stay in his home.
When his ex-girlfriend proposed marriage, she told him her parents didn’t approve, but she’d find a way to force them. Yang Jianzhen told her his background was too poor, their status was too far apart, and marrying her would ruin her. She demanded his obedience as usual, telling him not to talk nonsense; she had her ways to deceive her parents, and if she lied and said she was pregnant, what could they do?
But Yang Jianzhen secretly made sure her parents found out exactly what he did for a living. After that, she was forcibly taken away by them. Not only was her funding cut off, but she was locked in a house in the city where her father worked, guarded by several bodyguards. As for him, her father sent men to give him a severe warning: never try to find their daughter again.
Having saved a large sum of money, Yang Jianzhen took the opportunity to quit the nightlife scene. Some time later, he heard her father had been arrested. After a period of silence, he saw from her updated social media posts that she had married a wealthy businessman much older than herself and seemed to be doing quite well.
Yang Jianzhen limped to the bathroom on his crutch and habitually looked in the mirror to check his appearance. The bruising on his face had gone down and was starting to fade. The ointments Ming Zhifei bought from the pharmacy were effective; every day, Ming Zhifei would carefully disinfect his injuries for him before applying the medicine.
Ming Zhifei treated his wounds with great seriousness and caution—far more caution than he showed toward the man himself. Yang Jianzhen couldn’t help but notice that Ming Zhifei wasn’t a man of carnal desires. Or rather, he was the type who would never step foot in a nightclub. The man helped him likely because of the wounds, not because of any sexual attraction.
His gaze always seemed to be fixed on something unreachable. While Yang Jianzhen knew this man could be moved by a pathetic sight, he couldn’t see through the habitually silent Ming Zhifei as clearly as he could others.
It was because Ming Zhifei didn’t seem to want anything. Yang Jianzhen could usually discover a person’s inner intent instantly—the desire to be comforted, to be hugged, to be praised for their looks, taste, or ability, the need for others to submit to them or echo their words.
He could observe and conclude in seconds; it was why his repeat customer rate was explosive even without working after-hours. Humans have weaknesses; they have things they want. As long as they want something, he could use it.
But Ming Zhifei truly had nothing. He was like a pool of stagnant water, or a mirror; he stubbornly sealed himself away and showed no desires. When Yang Jianzhen looked at him, it was like being reflected in a dim mirror—he could only see his own needs, not the other man’s.
Even though he had won praise with his cooking, Yang Jianzhen believed that if he left, Ming Zhifei would go right back to eating those things that barely sustained “living” without a hint of regret.
His only crack appeared the afternoon before last. When Yang Jianzhen woke from his nap, he found the man in tears.
Countless people had cried and bared their souls to him. He considered his past work less about selling liquor, drinking, and entertaining, and more like part-time therapy.
He could always dig out someone’s most secret emotions and the stories they were most reluctant to tell. In those moments, he would react perfectly—using the right hug, the right comfort, gentle words, and a cold, calm heart to soothe them. He would then use those emotions to manipulate them into becoming loyal, lifelong customers.
But that day, he found it difficult to use those formulaic routines on Ming Zhifei. From the moment he met him, he realized that for some reason, it was hard to treat him like a client. Or rather, the tactics didn’t work as smoothly as usual. He had almost instinctively interacted with Ming Zhifei using his true self from their very first meeting, which he found incredible.
After leaving the clubs, he and a friend he’d met there started a tiny streaming company. At first, they did individual live streams. When group streaming began to emerge, he predicted it would be a massive money-maker and started seeking investment to operate group streams.
At that time, due to certain factors, offline entertainment venues were being suppressed, and online interactive entertainment was exploding. He caught the wave and made a fortune right at the start. He wasn’t bragging to Ming Zhifei; by the third year, his company’s turnover was indeed in the tens of millions. As the owner and largest shareholder, his personal take-home pay was substantial.
Tired of having to please people 24/7, Yang Jianzhen didn’t plan to become an influencer himself. Instead, he focused on cultivating newcomers—from overseeing their vocal and dance training to teaching them how to interact with fans and what scripts to use to make people willing to spend money repeatedly.
He taught almost every newcomer personally and even wrote a training manual for the company. Because not every newcomer was quick-witted, he poured immense effort into them. By the peak of the market last year, his company had five group-streaming teams broadcasting simultaneously, two of which were near-top tier. The whole company, including artists and staff, numbered seventy or eighty people. Everything looked perfect.