“Oh. You two are dating now.” The next morning, when Xiao Xiao found out, she didn’t look the least bit surprised. “Wasn’t that obvious?”
Fu Changxun: “…Huh?”
Why was everyone acting like they knew he and Dong Zi were already a thing? Even he didn’t know they were ‘already’ together.
Xiao Xiao gargled a mouthful of water, toothbrush still in her mouth, and mumbled, “Yeah, I mean, you guys had the whole second-chance reunion thing, then the smoldering spark reignites, firewood and flames, yada yada—”
“Xiao Xiao!” Fu Changxun cut her off, scandalized. “Where did you even learn that garbage?!”
Completely flustered, he stormed off like a parent too embarrassed to discuss dating with their kid.
Behind him, Xiao Xiao spat into the sink. “Pfft. Hoo—ptui.”
Back to brushing. Back to washing her face.
Her two gege had always been weirdos. She’d known that for a while now.
***
Dong Zi was already up, bustling in the kitchen. He brought out a plate of freshly prepared food and glanced up to find Fu Changxun looking a little flushed. Assuming he was still shy about last night’s kiss, Dong Zi sat beside him, concern in his voice.
“You okay?”
Fu Changxun turned his head, face calm. “I’m fine. Nothing happened. I just think… I may need to seriously reevaluate my approach to Xiao Xiao’s education.”
Ten-year-olds these days… When he was ten, he was still out playing in the dirt. Why were today’s kids all so precocious?
Dong Zi’s moment of romantic tenderness was immediately defeated by the brutal reality of “parenting challenges.”
And just like that, the two unofficial dads found themselves spiraling into an anxious discussion about the child’s upbringing and their own inadequacies.
***
Xiao Xiao finished brushing and came out for breakfast, blissfully unaware of the inner turmoil of her two guardians. As she chewed, she asked casually, “Can I call my teacher in a bit?”
Fu Changxun looked up. “Why?”
Cheeks puffed out with food, she mumbled, “I’ve been skipping school for two weeks. I didn’t even ask for leave.”
Both adults: “…Oh. Right.”
Their first day of parenting, and they’d already messed up. Totally forgot she had to attend school.
***
“Hi, is this Ms. Li? I’m Xu Xiao’s brother. We just got back from a long-term instance. Yes, just returned last night. What? Okay, I’ll ask her.”
Fu Changxun covered the phone and turned to Xiao Xiao. “Your teacher wants to know if you’d like to rest for another day.”
It was a fair question. Most people couldn’t handle the crash from the game to real life—especially after a high-stakes instance. It wasn’t uncommon to suffer mental stress or even trauma from the whiplash.
But Xiao Xiao shook her head. “I want to go. I’ve already missed too much. I’ll fall behind if I don’t catch up.”
Fu Changxun was moved.
So this was what people meant by “other people’s children.”
He’d been a good kid too, sure—never rebellious, always quiet—but not out of some pure love for learning. He just liked seeing his grandfather smile when he got good grades.
But Xiao Xiao wasn’t doing it to make anyone else happy.
She really loved studying. No exaggeration. Every tiny expression on her face was sincere—no signs of lying at all.
Fu Changxun nodded with deep satisfaction. “Alright. Finish breakfast, and your Dong-ge will take you.”
And Dong Zi, of course, couldn’t have been happier. He called in to request leave on the spot.
***
Boss: “You went back into the game again?! This frequency is insane. Are you even okay?”
Dong Zi: “I’m fine. Still alive. Pretty much know how to take care of myself now.”
Boss sighed. “Fine, but don’t forget about all the work piling up…”
***
After dropping Xiao Xiao off at school, Fu Changxun turned in the passenger seat. “Let’s stop by the clinic. I need to let my patients and their families know I’m not dead.”
His mental health clinic had been closed for over ten days. And no one had been able to reach him.
Many of his patients had assumed the worst—that he’d died in the game.
So when they arrived at the clinic, the first thing they saw outside the entrance was a whole row of chrysanthemums and funeral wreaths… and even a black-and-white photo of Dr. Fu Changxun—downloaded from the internet, and of course they’d chosen the ugliest possible ID picture. There it was, glaring at passersby like some kind of public shaming spectacle.
Fu Changxun stared blankly at the display: “…”
He said nothing, just unlocked the clinic and stepped inside, dialing his landlord.
“Hey, sis, you there?—Yeah, I’m still alive. No need to rent the place out yet.”
The landlord gasped, overcome with emotion. “You’ve been gone for over half a month! I thought… I really thought you weren’t coming back!”
“The instance ran long. Sorry. I’ll definitely let you know before I go into the next one.”
After reassuring her, Fu Changxun turned to clean up the impromptu mourning site.
Fresh flowers were transferred to vases. Funeral wreaths—well, he hauled them inside anyway, stuffing them into a corner. The black-and-white photo? Same treatment.
By the time he was done, he was exhausted.
He pulled out his phone and sent a group message to all his patients and their families:
[I’ve returned safely from the instance. Still alive. The clinic is open. If you need a session, you can come now.]
The replies came flooding in:
[Dr. Fu! You’re alive!]
[Waaahh I prayed so hard for this—thank God thank God can I come tonight? I’m scared of crowds during the day.]
[I’m coming right now!]
[Welcome back.]
The reply messages came flooding in, one after another. It wasn’t just concern for the doctor himself—they all carried their own heavy psychological burdens. A specialist like Fu Changxun was usually only available in major hospitals, and getting an appointment was notoriously difficult.
Left with no better option, many patients had turned to smaller clinics—and that’s how they’d found this hidden gem.
Dr. Fu wasn’t just highly qualified and a top university graduate—he was also handsome, with a gentle, comforting appearance that made people instinctively trust him. It made opening up easier.
Especially after the game descended and stress levels across society skyrocketed, skilled psychologists had become scarce. Naturally, they all wanted to see him.
It hadn’t even been ten minutes since Fu Changxun sent the group message when someone pushed open the clinic door.
“Doctor! Thank god you’re alive!”
The words were happy on the surface, but the tone carried a spark of aggression.
Fu Changxun took it in stride. “Have you been taking your meds? You look even more agitated than before.”
The patient’s voice got even louder. “Exactly! Right now I feel amazing, but in a bit I’ll crash, and I won’t want to move at all. If I’d hit my low earlier, I wouldn’t have even made it here today!”
“Mhm. Definitely a flare-up,” Fu Changxun said calmly. “I’ll write you another prescription. Hang tight—we’ll talk in a bit.”
The patient nodded and dashed off to the restroom, clearly in a rush when they came.
Dong Zi, piecing it together from the interaction, asked, “Is that… bipolar disorder?”
Fu Changxun nodded. “Yeah. It runs in the family. He was doing really well before, almost in full remission. But with all the anxiety since the game started, it’s relapsed.”
These types of chronic mental illnesses were notoriously difficult to treat. But not impossible.
He started by reading the patient a piece of prose, then shifted into casual conversation, chatting about everyday things.
This approach had always helped the patient relax before, but today it didn’t work. No matter what Fu Changxun tried, the man stayed on edge.
When asked why, the patient frowned and muttered, “Who’s that?”
He pointed straight at Dong Zi.
Dong Zi blinked: “?”
Fu Changxun cleared his throat and masked the awkwardness. “That’s my boyfriend. He didn’t want to leave me alone, so he tagged along. You can just pretend he’s not here.”
The patient looked skeptical, but ended up accepting the explanation.
Even after the man left, Dong Zi hadn’t realized he’d been frozen in the exact same position the entire time.
***
More patients came after that—some overly cheerful, some adorably shy—but all treated Dr. Fu with the same level of genuine respect.
After all, if there’s one person you never want to piss off, it’s your doctor. Otherwise, you might not even know how you died.
That included psychologists. If anything, they were even more mysterious and terrifying.
After one patient left, Dong Zi’s attention was briefly drawn by their neon green hair—but the next second, he pounced on Fu Changxun, who’d been working non-stop all day.
Still head down in his notes, Fu Changxun asked dryly, “Are you just going to stare at me the whole time I’m working?”
Dong Zi blinked back to reality. “Huh? Oh—sorry, sorry.”
“It’s fine. You can stare.” Fu Changxun gave a small smile. “You are my boyfriend now, after all.”
With that, he turned back to the desk and pressed the call bell. “Next patient, please.”
The patients all glanced curiously at Dong Zi.
“Dr. Fu, who’s that? Did you suddenly hire a new assistant or something?”
For the umpteenth time, Fu Changxun replied, “He’s not staff. He’s my boyfriend.”
Eventually, he started to get tired of explaining it.
So the next time someone asked, he simply slapped a piece of paper on Dong Zi’s forehead. Written in big bold characters:
“This is the doctor’s boyfriend. He’s a decent guy. His presence will not interfere with your treatment.”
That finally shut the questions down—though a few patients still looked visibly heartbroken.
One girl even burst into tears right then and there. “Nooo! Doctor, you’ve actually found someone?!”
She sobbed between hiccups. “If I’d just been a little bolder, maybe I could’ve been your girlfriend…”
Fu Changxun handed her a tissue and patiently waited for her to cry it out. Only then did he speak, gently:
“That wouldn’t have worked. I’ve only ever liked boys.”
The patient: “…”
That somehow made it even worse!
By the end of the day, Fu Changxun had seen over a dozen patients—including a few who’d already recovered but stopped by just to congratulate him.
At least now, word had gotten around that he was still alive.
***
Not long before school let out, they finally headed out to pick up Xiao Xiao.
Before leaving, Dong Zi glanced at his phone.
“Someone messaged—they said they want to come by for treatment tonight. What should I tell them?”
Fu Changxun had already replied: [That’s fine.]
He explained, “This patient has severe social anxiety. They wouldn’t speak at all at first. Now they can manage a few sentences with me, so I want to keep building on that. I’ll stay late tonight.”
Dong Zi hesitated. “I mean… this game we’re stuck in—it’s one where people are dying constantly. You really don’t need to push yourself so hard. Therapy and all…”
“You know,” Fu Changxun said quietly, “our current situation is like a swimming pool with a slow leak. At first, it seems manageable, but look at us now. People are becoming numb. We’re turning into walking corpses.”
He sighed. “I just want to make sure that the water in our ‘pool’ stays alive.”
If humanity ended up dulled to emotion, numb to suffering—then even if the game eventually ended, there would be no salvation. Only more damage. Endless harm.
And that was the kind of ending no one wanted to see.
