When the observation period ended, Chen Jiu happened to call. Ying Zhu wanted to take the opportunity to dump Cen Xie back at the Canaan Society, but Cen Xie refused to let Chen Jiu pick him up, crying, “I’m not going back! If my subordinates see me like this, how am I supposed to run things in the future?”
Ying Zhu imagined the scene; it was indeed a bit unbearable to look at. Gang life was all about prestige—what kind of boss cries like a rain-drenched pear blossom?
To avoid ruining Cen Xie’s career, Ying Zhu compromised. He told Chen Jiu that Cen Xie would stay with him for a few days, then brought the man home.
Inside the house, Ying Zhu walked ahead while Cen Xie followed behind, sniffing. Wherever Ying Zhu went, Cen Xie trailed. When Ying Zhu went to the bathroom, Cen Xie crouched at the door, pleading, “Don’t close the door…”
Ying Zhu: “…”
At bedtime, Cen Xie held his pillow and sat by the bed with watery eyes, wiping tears and sniffing every few seconds because Ying Zhu wanted him to sleep in the guest room.
Cen Xie: “I don’t want to sleep alone.”
Ying Zhu: “I’m not used to sleeping with others.”
Cen Xie wasn’t that easy to fool. He said, “You’re lying. In the memory card, you looked pretty happy sleeping with me.”
Ying Zhu: “…”
Unable to abandon someone he had once been intimate with—and who was currently crying like this—Ying Zhu coldly lay down on the other side of the bed, warning, “Then behave and sleep. No more crying.”
Cen Xie sniffed, suppressing a trembling sob: “I got it.”
Moonlight filtered through the screen window; the house was silent. Cen Xie was well-behaved for only a moment before he rolled over, shuffling forward, then shuffling again, gradually closing the distance between him and Ying Zhu until he was right next to him.
Ying Zhu: “What are you doing?” Cen Xie: “Ying Zhu, can I stay in your arms for a while?”
Ying Zhu expressionlessly raised his arm to let him crawl in, wondering how on earth things had ended up like this. If Zhou Nan knew underground that Cen Xie was crying like this for him, wouldn’t he be thrilled to death?
The thought made Ying Zhu’s teeth ache with annoyance. He looked down at the softly sobbing Cen Xie, who looked exactly like a little “widowed” Omega. And his own role was… what? The one comforting the widow? Ying Zhu couldn’t define what he was to Cen Xie.
Zhou Nan certainly deserved to die. Forcing a mark on an Omega was a taboo to Ying Zhu; even Zheng Yun wouldn’t do something so shameless. Yet, when he had shot Zhou Nan, the anger in his heart wasn’t entirely “pure.”
He hadn’t liked Zhou Nan from the first sight. He felt angry seeing Cen Xie talk to him. Seeing Cen Xie marked and kneeling at his feet had caused a volcanic eruption of violence in his heart. If he hadn’t wanted to end it quickly to spare Cen Xie further suffering, Zhou Nan wouldn’t have gotten off with just a single bullet to the head.
That night, Ying Zhu fell asleep holding Cen Xie and had a chaotic, sweet dream. Two Omega bodies were entangled, clinging to each other, neither dominant nor weak. There was no suppression or submission—only an absolute state of equality, as natural as if they were born for it.
In the shifting movements of their union, their lips often met. At the climax, Ying Zhu bit Cen Xie’s lip; a sudden hunger rose, and he bit down. What flowed out wasn’t blood, but a rich juice like peach nectar. Eventually, Cen Xie was eaten until only a pit remained. He wasn’t panicked; he planted the peach pit in a flowerpot, knowing another Cen Xie would grow again.
Why was he so certain? Certain that this person would live again after death, return after leaving, and meet again even after forgetting.
……
When Cen Xie woke up in the morning light, he was alone in bed. Like a child who couldn’t be left alone, he jumped out of bed barefoot and left the bedroom to find Ying Zhu.
Ying Zhu was in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Cen Xie was wearing Ying Zhu’s pajamas—smooth, flowing silk that felt like a cool caress against his skin. He walked over, hugged Ying Zhu from behind, and affectionately rubbed his cheek against his shoulder: “Ying Zhu…”
The way those two words came out of his mouth was like they had been rolled in sugar, covered in fine granules.
Ying Zhu stiffened visibly, then turned to look at him: “Let go of me… and NO crying!”
Eventually, they both compromised. Cen Xie promised to hold back the tears, and Ying Zhu promised to let him hold him. Ying Zhu moved around the kitchen with a “koala” attached to him, making breakfast take three times longer than usual.
When it was time to eat, Cen Xie even mushily tried to sit on his lap, only to be stopped by a sharp reprimand.
Ying Zhu’s breakfast was simple but delicious. The toast was perfectly crunchy, the fried eggs had yolks like jelly, and the bacon was perfectly crisp.
After breakfast, Ying Zhu was supposed to head to work, but Cen Xie couldn’t be left alone. He couldn’t bring someone who might burst into tears at any moment to Usher Prison. If he was working and Cen Xie was sitting next to him crying, what would that look like?
So he called Secretary Chen, claiming he was sick and would be working from home.
After the call, Ying Zhu changed the dressing on Cen Xie’s gland as the doctor instructed. The recovery ability was incredible—after just one night, the wound had already scabbed over, revealing thin, pink, tender flesh beneath. Cen Xie’s neck was long and snowy-white, making the injury look particularly jarring.
Just as the medicine was applied, Chen Jiu called. Cen Xie, currently crying, glanced at it and hung up, telling Chen Jiu to use WeChat instead.
Chen Jiu messaged saying that while dealing with Zhou Nan’s aftermath, he had audited all the cadres of the Canaan Society and found several mid-level cadres who had secretly conspired with Zhou Nan. He asked how to handle them.
Cen Xie’s eyes were blurred from crying, making it hard to type. He used the voice-to-text function, sobbing as he spoke: “Bury them all alive. When you do it, make all the other cadres above mid-level watch. In the future, anyone who dares to betray me will end up like this!”
After sending the message, Cen Xie tossed his phone and sat there, continuing to cry. Ying Zhu’s mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
Cen Xie cried every so often, completely losing himself in it. Ying Zhu tried to distract him by finding a book, handing him The Little Prince. Cen Xie cooperated, holding the book and actually getting absorbed in it. After a while, he looked up at Ying Zhu: “I really like this book. I love every sentence in it.”
Ying Zhu replied casually, “Oh? Which sentence is your favorite?”
Cen Xie looked down and flipped through the pages, looking conflicted: “There are several; I can’t choose a favorite.”
Ying Zhu: “Then read them all out.”
So Cen Xie began to read: “If you want to create a bond with someone, you must take the risk of shedding tears.” “It is the time you have wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.”
Finally, his voice slowed down. After a long pause, he read: “It is a sad thing to forget a friend. Not everyone has had a friend.”
Ying Zhu’s eyes flickered. He turned his head to look at Cen Xie in the twilight, only to find Cen Xie looking back at him.
Perhaps forgetting truly was a sad thing. Just like now—they had experienced so much together, yet they still couldn’t define one another. Too much of the premise was missing; every definition felt thin and inaccurate because of the rupture in their memories. This made them both a little cautious.
After two or three days, Cen Xie’s gland had completely healed. To avoid exposing Cen Xie’s ability, Ying Zhu took him to a different hospital.
Because of the “widowhood,” Cen Xie’s mood was low and he looked pale. The doctor suggested waiting a few more days. However, on this point, the two were surprisingly unanimous: they couldn’t wait a second longer. It had to be washed, right now.
Cen Xie had cried enough; Ying Zhu had heard enough.
The doctor ordered a few routine tests. If everything was fine, they could proceed with the mark-cleaning surgery. While waiting for the results, Ying Zhu stepped out to ask the doctor about the procedure.
The doctor said that the surgery involved cutting open the gland to peel away the Alpha’s pheromones. He also mentioned that this surgery is generally performed without anesthesia, as anesthesia would cause the Omega’s own pheromones to go dormant, making it difficult to distinguish them from the injected Alpha pheromones.
Using anesthesia can lead to incomplete cleaning, carrying the risk of requiring a secondary surgery.
Listening to this, Ying Zhu’s brow furrowed deeply; he felt that a single bullet to the head had truly been too merciful for Zhou Nan.
Returning to the ward, he looked at Cen Xie. After a moment of silence, he said, “The mark-cleaning surgery is done without anesthesia. However, you can have it if you want, but you must be prepared for a secondary operation.”
Cen Xie didn’t even think about it: “No anesthesia.”
Ying Zhu reminded him: “It will hurt. A lot.”
The gland was far too fragile; a single bite was agonizing enough, let alone having it sliced open with a scalpel and operated on with surgical tools for several hours.
Cen Xie gave a noncommittal hum, seemingly dismissive of the warning.
Once the test results came back clear, the doctor scheduled the surgery immediately. Ying Zhu waited outside the operating room, watching the sky outside the window gradually darken.
Around 8:00 PM, the doors finally opened. Cen Xie was wheeled out lying face down, his neck wrapped in thick gauze. His hair was soaked with sweat, yet despite the intensity, Ying Zhu hadn’t heard a single sound from him while waiting outside.
Strong people always earn respect; Ying Zhu looked down at Cen Xie lying on the bed.
Cen Xie struggled to lift his head and open his eyes. His gaze was somewhat vacant—the dazed look of someone reeling from sheer pain. But as he looked at Ying Zhu, he slowly managed a smile, his voice weak: “You’re still waiting for me?”
He paused to catch his breath, then added, “I thought you would have left by now.”
Ying Zhu watched him for a while, then knelt down to wipe the sweat from his forehead. “How do you feel?”
Cen Xie gave a faint laugh. “It hurts so much I want to die.”
Back in the ward, Cen Xie was a bit “stupid” from the pain, looking like his IQ had dropped several points. His eyes remained locked on Ying Zhu; the moment Ying Zhu moved toward the door, Cen Xie’s lip would pout, looking like he was about to cry.
Ying Zhu helped him with his medication and water. After the pills, there was a liquid dose that smelled incredibly bitter. Cen Xie took it and, to prove he was being cooperative, downed it in one go.
Ying Zhu prepared to go ask the doctor for more painkillers or perhaps a pain-relief injection—since the surgery was over, they no longer needed to worry about pheromone activity. But as soon as he stood up, Cen Xie grabbed his hand, asking anxiously, “Where are you going?”
Ying Zhu looked at their joined hands and said, “I’m going to find the doctor to give you a pain-relief shot.”
Cen Xie looked at him with internal conflict, seemingly making a difficult choice between the painkiller and Ying Zhu. He wanted the shot, but he didn’t want this person to leave. Suddenly, his brain sparked with clarity as he reminded Ying Zhu: “You can just press the call button.”
Ying Zhu had actually wanted to ask when Cen Xie could be discharged, but seeing how clingy the man was, he abandoned that plan. He would wait until Cen Xie fell asleep before finding the doctor.
After the pain-relief injection, the agony faded, and Cen Xie’s mental defenses relaxed. He soon drifted off to sleep.
Seeing him asleep, Ying Zhu moved quietly out of the ward. He checked with the doctor and was told Cen Xie could be discharged tomorrow.
As Ying Zhu left the consultation room and headed back to the ward, he walked past someone. After they brushed shoulders, the person suddenly called out from behind: “Ying Zhu?”
Ying Zhu stopped and turned to look at the Omega before him. After a moment of thought, he recognized him: “Lin Wan?”
Lin Wan was Ying Zhu’s classmate from the pre-war training school and had been his roommate for two years. Their dormitory had been a double; Lin Wan was even more introverted than Ying Zhu. The two had shared a room without much interaction, once setting a record of twenty days without speaking.
Ten years had passed, and they were now both nearly thirty. Lin Wan actually looked more lively now than he did back then.
Lin Wan nodded with a smile: “It’s me. Long time no see. What are you doing here?”
Ying Zhu: “A friend is here for surgery. And you…” He looked at Lin Wan’s white coat. “You’re a doctor now?”
Lin Wan: “Yes, I was assigned to this hospital right after graduation.”
Ying Zhu froze. “Graduation?”
The pre-war training school they attended was called Ark Academy, named for the concept of doomsday salvation. Students weren’t divided by “years,” and there were no set enrollment or graduation dates. They only recruited high-aptitude ability users of A-rank or above to train them as special-type soldiers for the war. You went to the battlefield whenever the war started.
There was no such thing as “graduation” at Ark Academy, which was why he found Lin Wan’s phrasing so strange.
Lin Wan blinked. “Yes, I went straight into medical school after I dropped out of Ark, and I was assigned here upon finishing. Come to think of it, I’ve been working here for seven or eight years.”
Ying Zhu had stopped listening to the rest. Looking at Lin Wan’s white coat, the situation felt suddenly alien. These words were so bizarre they were almost hair-raising.
In his mind, he had absolutely no memory of Lin Wan dropping out.