Chi Zhan thought Zhou Yanxing was angry because of what he’d said at the end, and he was just about to smooth things over—explain that he’d only been joking—when Zhou Yanxing let out a cold snort.
“No matter what, I should be more expensive than that male streamer… Start at one million. Throw money at me.”
Chi Zhan silently thought to himself: President Zhou, aren’t you a bit too pricey?
A million… Even if he sold himself, he wouldn’t be able to afford it.
“Well? Buying or not?” Zhou Yanxing was clearly displeased at Chi Zhan’s silence. “You’re dying to buy that male streamer, huh…”
“Buy, buy, buy. No matter the price, I’ll buy. But he has a name, alright? Please don’t call him that in front of him. And he’s not even a full-time streamer.” He let out a small sigh. “Why are you so fixated on him?”
A thought popped into Chi Zhan’s mind—wild and unbelievable.
Could Zhou Yanxing be… jealous?
Zhou Yanxing frowned at the way Chi Zhan’s gaze flitted evasively.
“Who are you thinking about again?”
His eyes locked onto the pale, bare skin of Chi Zhan’s neck.
Chi Zhan was always clean and well-kept. Every day, he looked fresh and immaculate. Though he only ever wore those same plain white shirts, never changing styles, the way the fabric was tucked at the waist only emphasized how narrow and slender it was. His skin, still warm from a recent hot shower, carried a subtle pink hue.
Maybe he had rushed over before his hair was fully dry. The damp tips had soaked through the collar of his shirt, darkening the fabric in spreading water stains—like a drop of ink blooming in clear water.
Zhou Yanxing had the urge to stain him.
Chi Zhan carried a faint fragrance—likely the lingering scent of his shampoo and body wash—a clean citrus note, like a freshly peeled orange.
With him this close, Zhou Yanxing found himself wanting to bite him. His gaze was scorching. And Chi Zhan, being a man himself, naturally understood what that look meant.
Zhou Yanxing had never looked at him like this before.
Maybe it was the alcohol dulling his self-restraint, or maybe it was something else entirely, but Chi Zhan could feel his heart sinking fast.
“President Zhou, there’s actually something I haven’t told you.”
Chi Zhan spoke seriously, voice steady. He wasn’t sure this was the right time, but if he didn’t say it now, he might never get the chance.
“I have a boyfriend. So what we’re doing right now…”
It’s inappropriate.
Before he could finish, Zhou Yanxing suddenly dipped his head—and buried it against Chi Zhan’s neck, biting him.
Thankfully, he didn’t actually sink his teeth in. It was more of an agitated graze, his teeth pressing and scraping restlessly against Chi Zhan’s skin, while the tip of his tongue delicately licked the same spot. Chi Zhan froze—but Zhou Yanxing quickly quieted down again, saying nothing, just holding on with his teeth and letting his breathing slowly even out.
“Liar…”
He muttered it as he fell asleep, slumped over Chi Zhan like that.
Was Zhou Yanxing a wolf in his past life… or a dog? Why did he like biting people so much?
Chi Zhan groaned inwardly, clutching his neck as he struggled to push him off. Zhou Yanxing was heavy, and after all that, Chi Zhan was going to need another shower.
The grand President Zhou had basically thrown a tantrum and stormed out, talked a mile a minute, and before Chi Zhan could even respond, he’d knocked out cold. The rejection Chi Zhan had finally mustered the courage to say—who knows if Zhou Yanxing even heard it.
Secretary Chi sighed deeply. Still, even now, they were technically superior and subordinate. He couldn’t just leave the man there.
So he diligently stripped off Zhou Yanxing’s clothes and pants, tucked him under the covers, and by the time everything was done, half an hour had passed. Back in his own room, Chi Zhan stood before the mirror, inspecting himself closely.
There was a visible bite mark near the top of his neck. It hadn’t broken the skin, but it was red and swollen. And the placement—too high for a turtleneck to cover. Utterly inconvenient.
He let out another long sigh.
How much bitterness and frustration had the mighty President Zhou bottled up, never spoken aloud? Tonight, he’d unleashed it all at once.
Chi Zhan hadn’t expected him to be so upset over Qi Song.
…Come to think of it, he hadn’t even made it that obvious. Besides, he was just a fan. And maybe a little face-blindly attracted to good looks.
After blow-drying his hair again, Chi Zhan scrolled through his WeChat Moments feed.
By chance, he came across Seven’s latest post.
It was a photo of Milk rolling around on the floor.
The caption read: No one’s fighting for attention—he’s happy.
Chi Zhan chuckled and gave it a like.
Fresh from the shower, he wasn’t the least bit sleepy. Just then, Tao Ran messaged him, inviting him to play a game.
Chi Zhan logged in. Just as he was about to open a room, he noticed a friend’s avatar light up on his friend list.
Song Guang.
He was online.
That name—like a pebble thrown into the still water of Chi Zhan’s life—had stirred everything up. At first glance, it was just another bland username, yet it carried some inexplicable gravity.
Chi Zhan felt a mess inside. He wanted to ask the System. He racked his brain, trying to remember anything about this person—but nothing came. Not a trace.
It was as if they had vanished into thin air.
He stared at the name for a long time. Song Guang’s match history and profile info were both hidden, completely inaccessible. No additional clues.
Chi Zhan had assumed the player would be queuing up, but their status remained simply: online. Not in a match.
Tao Ran: I’ve started a room.
Chi Zhan: One sec.
He clicked the invite button.
If they accepted… maybe he could ask about the account?
But jumping into questions out of the blue would seem suspicious—like he was trying to steal the account.
Yet he truly couldn’t remember anything. Or maybe… maybe this was an old account used by his “previous incarnation”?
To prevent resource waste in the game, the System did have an [Identity Transfer] function. For example, if a previous NPC no longer held the same post, they might be reassigned—or recalled to the System Space for updates. Their former identity and data would then be handed over to the new NPC inheriting the role.
This ensured smooth information continuity, without disrupting game balance.
Take Chi Zhan for instance—as the primary support NPC assigned to Zhou Yanxing, his role was irreplaceable. While other supporting NPCs might occasionally appear around Zhou Yanxing, none held a higher rank than Chi Zhan.
