By the time he arrived at the airport, it wasn’t even 5 a.m.
Outside, the sky was still pitch-black. Now and then, a lone night-flight beacon flickered past, briefly cutting through the darkness.
The check-in hall was wide open and silent, filled with the quiet fatigue of travelers. Everyone wore the same half-asleep expression.
Economy class was already sold out, so Chen Zemian had no choice but to buy a business class ticket. It was a red-eye flight*, and still absurdly expensive.
*a flight that departs late at night and arrives the following morning
The VIP lounge was heavily air-conditioned. Wrapped in his down jacket, he could barely keep his eyes open. Clutching a cup of hot Americano, he cursed Lu Zhuonian over and over in his head.
His stomach really hurt—so much so that even drinking coffee to stay awake was a calculated risk. Icy drinks were out of the question; he could only stomach something hot.
Americano tasted awful to begin with. Hot Americano? The only real difference between that and traditional Chinese medicine was that coffee beans were even more bitter than herbs.
Chen Zemian tucked his chin deep into the collar of his coat. His round eyes began to droop, only to snap open again moments later. He looked around at the travelers rushing to catch their flights and, for the second time that morning, furiously cursed Lu Zhuonian in silence.
Sick? Fine, be sick. But pulling a disappearing act too? He better have a damn good reason. Otherwise—I swear—I’ll bash my head in and die in front of him!
He barely made it to boarding in one piece. Wearing an eye mask, Chen Zemian managed to catch a little broken sleep once he was finally on the plane.
It wasn’t until the taxi was halfway back to Shenting Huafu that Chen Zemian suddenly realized— he had no idea whether Lu Zhuonian was staying at Shenting Huafu or had gone back to the Lu family’s old house.
Whatever. Let him be wherever he wants.
Right now, all he wanted was to get home and sleep. He couldn’t push himself any further.
Any more of this and he really was going to drop dead.
When he finally got home and opened the door, the apartment was as cold and quiet as expected—Lu Zhuonian was nowhere to be found.
Chen Zemian trudged back to his bedroom, stripped off his clothes, and forced himself into a half-hearted shower.
Wrapped in a bath towel, he stood in front of the wardrobe, rummaging around for a long time—only to realize his pajamas were nowhere to be found.
Weird. Did the cleaning lady take them to wash?
Unable to find anything, he gave up and pulled on a random T-shirt.
But just as he approached the bed and was about to collapse into it, he discovered something else.
His pillow was missing.
Where’s my pillow?!!!
Something felt off.
Chen Zemian could sense it—vaguely at first—so he circled the villa again just to be sure.
No one was home, that much was clear. But the place didn’t look like it had been empty for three days.
Then, like a light switching on in his head, he remembered: Lu Zhuonian owned four units here.
If he wasn’t in this one… what about the other three?
Without a second thought, Chen Zemian threw on his fleece-lined sweatpants, wrapped himself in his down jacket, and headed out the door.
It had to be freezing outside, but at this point, he barely registered it.
Two of the remaining apartments were clearly unoccupied—he could see straight through the windows from the outside. But the third one…
Thick velvet curtains were drawn tightly across the glass.
Found you.
You think you can hide? My recon skills are sharper than you think.
My dad’s a Special OPs, remember?
Even at a unfamiliar winery, I could track you down through layers of obstacles—so finding you in a neighborhood I know like the back of my hand?
With practiced ease, Chen Zemian scaled the wall and climbed the window. In just a few swift moves, he found an unlocked bathroom window, removed the screen, and slipped inside.
The villa was lavishly decorated, all opulence and luxury—but unnaturally silent, like a grand old castle no one had lived in for years.
Given that Lu Zhuonian had suddenly switched residences and drawn such heavy curtains, Chen Zemian couldn’t help but wonder if something was wrong. What if this was one of his anxiety episodes? He didn’t want to startle him, so he lightened his footsteps, choosing to observe quietly and play it by ear.
The layout of this place was nearly identical to the one Lu Zhuonian usually lived in. Navigating it was second nature. Moving silently, Chen Zemian crept up the stairs and headed straight for the master bedroom.
The curtains there were drawn too, casting the room in a dim, murky twilight. Light from the hallway spilled through the half-open door, slicing the bedroom into two distinct halves—one lit, one dark.
Lu Zhuonian lay in the shadows, curled slightly on his side with his head resting on his arm, motionless.
The door was ajar. By all logic, he should have noticed someone approaching. But he didn’t even glance toward it. No movement, no flicker of recognition, not even the faintest change in expression.
His gaze was cast downward, eyes half-lidded and silent, fixed on the floor. What exactly was he looking at? There was a strange heaviness in his face—brooding, dark, withdrawn.
If not for the slow rise and fall of his chest, he could’ve passed for a life-sized sculpture—handsome and delicate—or perhaps some ghostly figure lurking in an abandoned castle, hidden from the sun by choice.
There was a faint scent in the air. Pomegranate blossoms, maybe? So light it was nearly imperceptible, like a fragrance left behind in a dream.
Chen Zemian wrinkled his nose and leaned forward, cautiously peering into the room, trying to figure out what Lu Zhuonian was staring at so intently.
There was nothing there.
Chen Zemian wasn’t afraid of ghosts. But this… this was seriously unsettling.
Lu Zhuonian didn’t react at all. It was as if he didn’t even exist—like he was an illusion frozen in place.
A chill crept up Chen Zemian’s spine, slow and crawling.
His mind wandered to something ridiculous, yet unnervingly plausible.
At first, he’d wondered if Lu Zhuonian had died. But now…
He was starting to wonder if maybe he was the one who’d died.
Wait. Am I the ghost? Is that why he can’t see me?
The thought of all those horror films he’d seen suddenly came rushing back—and startled, Chen Zemian jumped, the hair on his arms standing on end.
To test if Lu Zhuonian was really aware of him, he deliberately made a bit of noise.
Nothing.
Not even a twitch of the eyelid. Lu Zhuonian didn’t react at all.
At that point, Chen Zemian didn’t care whether this was some panic episode or something worse—because if Lu Zhuonian stayed unresponsive any longer, he was the one on the verge of a full-blown panic attack.
He crossed the room in quick steps, his voice low but urgent as he called out, “Lu Zhuonian? …Lu Zhuonian.”
Still no eye contact—but Lu Zhuonian’s lashes trembled ever so slightly.
Thank god. He could still hear.
Chen Zemian moved to the bedside and called again, a little closer this time. “Lu Zhuonian.”
Inside Lu Zhuonian’s mind, pain split through his skull like a crack of lightning. Sharp tinnitus screeched in his ears; bright spots pulsed and flickered across his vision.
In the chaos of overstimulation—disorderly, maddening—Chen Zemian’s figure appeared once more.
Hallucinations were born from craving. During a flare-up, the person he most longed to see would take shape in the chaos, the light bending until it twisted itself into their face.
This time, the onset had been brutal. Agitation and anxiety clung to him like a second skin. His mood swung wildly between manic highs and crashing lows, his sense of reality slipping through the cracks.
The need—the yearning—was stronger than it had ever been.
Maybe it was because he’d never had a consistent figure to fixate on before. Even though hallucinations and phantom sounds weren’t new to him during episodes, the light had never solidified into anything this specific.
But this time, he’d watched it happen with his own eyes—the swirling afterimages spinning and contorting until they formed Chen Zemian’s face.
He’d seen Chen Zemian. Again and again.
All of them fakes.
Twice, he’d been fooled.
The first time, he’d reached out—only for Chen Zemian to vanish the moment his fingers brushed the air.
The second time, the illusion had lasted longer. Long enough that he’d actually spoken to it, like a lunatic, trading a few words with someone who wasn’t even real.
The third time it happened, Lu Zhuonian no longer believed it.
From experience, he knew that if he ignored the hallucination, it would soon blur into those flashing lights and fade completely.
It would disappear—as long as he didn’t look.
He repeated the words to himself, over and over—
Chen Zemian is in Sanya.
There’s no way he could be here.
This is a hallucination. Don’t listen. Don’t look.
>Don’t believe.
Lu Zhuonian had long lost count of how many times he’d seen Chen Zemian’s face appear out of nowhere.
But he knew one thing: he couldn’t afford to look anymore—couldn’t afford to think.
Every time the hallucination returned, the stimulation was worse. His heart rate had spiked past 190 more than once. His mind flooded with relentless images of Chen Zemian, memories twisted by craving and obsession, disrupting his focus, unraveling his fragile self-control.
Desire and reason tore at him from opposite sides, threatening to rip him apart.
He craved violence. Longed for dominance. Needed possession and control. Every shameless, depraved thing he could possibly imagine doing to Chen Zemian—he craved it all.
And when lust came, reason always—always—took a step back.
Lu Zhuonian clung to the last shreds of restraint, desperately hoping the illusion would vanish like the others.
But fate, of course, had other plans.
This time, the version of Chen Zemian conjured up by his fevered mind was unusually persistent. Not only did it refuse to disappear—it kept calling his name.
And when he continued to ignore it, it had the audacity to reach out… and touch him.
Chen Zemian pressed a hand lightly to Lu Zhuonian’s shoulder, only to draw back in surprise.
His body was burning hot.
A high fever? That would explain a lot.
Without wasting another second, Chen Zemian turned and left the master bedroom, hurrying downstairs to find a thermometer.
Back in the room, Lu Zhuonian exhaled shakily.
Just as he felt a sliver of relief—that perhaps the hallucination had finally gone—another one appeared.
And this one was even worse.
It entered without a word, went straight to the bed, lifted the blanket, and slipped a hand down his collar.
Chen Zemian, of course, had remembered Lu Zhuonian’s obsessive cleanliness. So before he came back upstairs, he’d wiped both his hands and the thermometer with alcohol. His fingers were still cool to the touch—but the thermometer felt like ice.
The moment that sharp coldness met burning skin, Chen Zemian thought, Well… this is actually kind of cozy.
Lu Zhuonian, on the other hand, gave a faint shudder.
Every vein in his body split into two directions—half surging to his head, half flooding downward.
Chen Zemian tucked the thermometer into place and was just about to pull the blanket back over him. But as he lifted the comforter, something caught his eye.
A pillow.
His pillow.
He let out a low “Hey!” in surprise. “So this is where my pillow went. No wonder I couldn’t find it earlier.”
And just like that, he reached over to take it back.
That was when the motionless Lu Zhuonian finally moved.
Lu Zhuonian pressed one hand down on the pillow. His sharp, handsome brows knit together as he suddenly looked up, eyes cold and fierce, glaring straight at Chen Zemian.
Chen Zemian, however, showed not the slightest awareness that he was supposed to be caring for a sick person. Seeing Lu Zhuonian glaring at him, not only did he not let go—he even reached out to tug harder, trying to wrestle the pillow away.
He really liked that latex memory foam pillow.
And it wasn’t just some gimmick—it genuinely had memory. After sleeping on it for so long, the center had already taken the shape of his head. Every time he lay down, his skull fit into it perfectly.
Incredibly comfortable.
He’d even had mild insomnia his first two nights in Sanya because he didn’t have this pillow with him.
Still tugging, Chen Zemian said stubbornly, “Mine.”
Lu Zhuonian may have been sick, but he wasn’t weak. He held the pillow with one hand like a lounging predator, eyes cold, watching Chen Zemian fight for it without saying a word.
After struggling for a while and getting nowhere, Chen Zemian gave up pulling and instead tried prying Lu Zhuonian’s hand off.
Lu Zhuonian didn’t move. He just watched as Chen Zemian fussed over the pillow for five full minutes.
He’d already made up his mind. No matter how realistic this hallucination looked, he wasn’t going to speak to it again.
Talking to thin air was simply too humiliating.
As the Lu family’s heir, he could be ill—but he couldn’t go mad.
Another sharp ringing sound buzzed through his ears.
It was piercing, but ended quickly.
Right after the sound faded, Chen Zemian stopped fighting for the pillow—and reached his hand under Lu Zhuonian’s clothes.
Lu Zhuonian’s patience snapped. He grabbed his wrist in a firm grip.
Still unaware, Chen Zemian reached in further, searching for the thermometer.
Lu Zhuonian stared at him, voice suddenly low and icy. “You asked for this.”
Chen Zemian: “???”
Before he could even react, Lu Zhuonian pulled him down hard.
The world tilted.
Chen Zemian fell straight onto the bed, completely unprepared. His whole body slammed onto the mattress in a daze. A burst of white flooded his vision. For a moment, his mind went completely blank.
Then Lu Zhuonian sat up, reached behind him, and pressed a hand to the back of his neck—just as easily as he had pinned down the pillow earlier.
Chen Zemian’s consciousness returned slowly. His cheek was mashed into the quilt, and his nose caught a certain scent—something every man would instinctively recognize.
A burning hot palm was pressed to the most sensitive part of his neck. The feeling was hard to describe: strange, uncomfortable.
He felt like prey, pinned beneath the paw of some large feline. His body tensed, as if ready to flee, yet he didn’t even know what, exactly, he was trying to escape from.
Then Lu Zhuonian moved—just a little.
And his body pressed in against him from behind.
*****
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