Chi Zhan truly was innocent.
Just moments ago, upon uncovering the mystery of his “origins,” it was as if a dozen colorful, tangled balls of yarn had suddenly been dumped in front of him. Zhou Yanxing’s words only reminded him of questions he hadn’t thought to ask before, which was why he’d been momentarily distracted.
Zhou Yanxing, unaware of Chi Zhan’s inner turmoil, assumed he was thinking about Qi Song. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he was overcome with the urge to shut up those lips that kept spouting lies—and in fact, he acted on it.
“So? What’s your answer?”
Zhou Yanxing loosened his hold just a little, locking eyes with him. His voice was taut, hoarse with tension.
President Zhou, ever composed even in negotiations worth billions, now stood here so on edge that all his tactics had gone out the window.
Chi Zhan’s expression froze. He didn’t answer for a long while. Zhou Yanxing, thinking he already knew what the silence meant, found even his breathing growing heavy.
A speechless stillness settled thickly between them.
“…If it’s just for one day…then okay.”
“What?” Zhou Yanxing murmured. “Say that again?”
“I said—” Before he could finish, he felt Zhou Yanxing’s arm tighten around his waist. The man hugged him firmly, eyes never leaving his. His voice dropped low and steady, “Say it again.”
“If you didn’t hear it clearly, then pretend I never said it…”
There was no way Chi Zhan was going to repeat himself.
“No. Way.” Zhou Yanxing enunciated every word. His expression shifted—where moments ago there had been forlorn vulnerability, now it was filled with softness, delight, and the kind of possessiveness that never let go once it claimed something.
Chi Zhan had almost never seen Zhou Yanxing wear that kind of look. But it lasted only a second before Zhou hid it again. He asked instead, “So can I use my boyfriend privileges now?”
“…?”
He didn’t know what those so-called privileges entailed, but his instincts screamed they weren’t anything good. He refused on reflex.
“No. You should—should go. Leave.”
The joy radiating off Zhou Yanxing was practically tangible, like spun sugar. He leaned in, clearly tempted to kiss Chi Zhan again—only to be interrupted by the creak of the bathroom door. Chi Zhan quickly blocked him.
“No! Someone’s coming! And remember,” Chi Zhan emphasized, “It’s just one day. That’s what you said.”
Zhou Yanxing looked visibly disappointed, but Chi Zhan gave him a nudge.
“President Zhou, you should go. I’ve still got things to do…”
“No one’s going to come in right now,” Zhou said, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Wait—were you just lying to me again?”
“…Why would I?” Chi Zhan had no idea how deeply his pattern of deception had scarred Zhou Yanxing’s psyche. He just assumed the man was upset about the one-day limit and said gently, “Everything I said is true.”
“It better be.” Zhou Yanxing gave a light snort. “Otherwise I’ll kiss you until you confess.”
“……”
Zhou Yanxing finally left.
Chi Zhan didn’t know why, but his face had started burning. He ended up washing it again, then once he’d calmed down, returned to the questions he hadn’t had a chance to think through earlier.
The reason he’d agreed to Zhou Yanxing’s proposal was also to test something.
How much of what the system told him was true—and how much was a lie? Was it really impossible for him to act as a player anymore?
From interacting with players daily, Chi Zhan could see that they could log off anytime. They were also allowed to romance all four male leads simultaneously. There was no restriction forcing them to pursue just one target.
But Chi Zhan clearly didn’t have permission to log off.
If he were a player, love interests developing feelings for him would be expected. The only oddity was that their favorability levels with him were abnormally high—and only with him.
So how had he gone from player to NPC? What had happened to him in that other world?
And the so-called “world collapse” the system had mentioned—what exactly was it, and what had caused it?
The only one who could answer these questions now was the main system.
But Chi Zhan didn’t have the clearance to access it. His only path was through the system’s relay.
Meanwhile, Zhou Yanxing returned to his seat practically glowing with happiness, his smile wide and unmistakable. Even Cen Chi, who’d seen a lot, couldn’t help but ask curiously, “Something good happen?”
Zhou Yanxing shot him a look and said, “Chi Zhan is now my boyfriend. I suggest you keep your distance. He’s spoken for. If you keep staring at him like that, don’t blame me for forgetting we’re friends.”
Cen Chi froze, then shook his head with a small laugh.
“It’s not April Fools’ Day. You might want to dial back the jokes.”
“Who says I’m joking?” Zhou Yanxing did his best to suppress the urge to brag, but his whole face was practically lit up. He was so happy that even his longtime rival didn’t seem quite so annoying anymore. In fact, he even felt a bit of pity. “I’m giving you some advice, man. There are plenty of fish in the sea. You’ll find someone who’s right for you. But that person isn’t Chi Zhan.”
Cen Chi studied him and asked slowly, “You’re serious?”
“Of course. Just now—Chi Zhan became my boyfriend.” Zhou Yanxing tried his hardest to keep the corners of his lips from curling up. “And I don’t mean some fake boyfriend situation. I mean the real deal—Boy. Friend.”
“That’s impossible.” Cen Chi’s fingers twitched imperceptibly. He said softly, “Given his identity, there’s no way he’d accept anyone…”
If his theory was right—if Chi Zhan’s role was to assist players—then Zhou Yanxing should’ve been the least likely person he’d ever choose.
There’s no way Ah-Zhan would agree to this.
And yet Zhou Yanxing didn’t look like he was lying.
He had no reason to fake it—unless…
“…Was what I said earlier too much?” Cen Chi asked, with a trace of remorse. “Sorry. I didn’t think you had such deep resentment toward Qi Song. But reality is cruel. You’ll have to accept it sooner or later. Living in a fantasy isn’t healthy. Maybe… you should consider seeing a therapist.”
