Seven’s kiss was astonishingly fervent—so forceful, so charged with reckless abandon.
Their lips parted, but Qi Song didn’t pull away immediately. He lingered, his cheek brushing lightly against Chi Zhan’s neck—an intimate, tender gesture. Yet Chi Zhan sensed something unspoken, a wordless emotion he couldn’t quite name.
“What’s wrong?” Chi Zhan asked softly.
Qi Song returned to his seat and started the car. The streets were deserted, save for distant rumbles of thunder, cracking silver against the sky as if it might tear the heavens apart. The road was uneven, and a small stuffed cat toy nearly toppled from its perch. Chi Zhan steadied it and placed it back carefully.
“Something strange happened after we lost contact,” Qi Song began, his tone still gentle and measured. “You played games with my friends, but then—suddenly—they all forgot you. They forgot your name, forgot what you meant to me. It’s like only I remember,” he continued. “All traces of their interactions with you—the matches, the chats—were wiped clean. Even if your account still exists,” Qi Song said, “they just think it was a smurf account I used to trick them into games. Because you stopped logging in, I couldn’t explain otherwise.”
This—his revelation—hit like a bombshell. And yet Qi Song spoke of it as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Chi Zhan was momentarily stunned. His voice trembled when he finally spoke: “…Why?”
“I don’t know,” Qi Song replied simply, three stark words. He didn’t elaborate further on that period. For a long moment, neither of them spoke—until the car rolled to a stop, and they found themselves unexpectedly beneath Chi Zhan’s apartment.
What Qi Song didn’t say was that after Chi Zhan disappeared from the game, he himself also forgot “CHI.” Yet some stubborn instinct drove him to log into the Song Guang account, stare at the linked “couple” profile for hours… and remember nothing.
Who was “CHI”?
Why were they even marked as a couple?
It was as if his brain had been wiped blank—but delicate cracks were showing in that covering whiteness. Qi Song frantically rifled through his phone, finally uncovering a hidden folder with a single photo.
A boy—unfamiliar. And yet seeing him made Qi Song’s heart race.
Glimpsing the photo triggered a violent ache inside him, as though his mind were warring against some invisible force. It felt like lightning had shattered the fog obscuring his memories—and in that moment, everything flooded back.
Perhaps the only mistake that force had made was failing to search for that hidden folder.
Unable to find answers from anyone else, Qi Song realized something was deeply wrong. And true to his nature, he waited until he was absolutely certain before speaking.
…If he could completely forget Chi Zhan, he might never see him again.
So when he learned that “CHI” had logged in again—with no memory of him—Qi Song’s first thought was: he really doesn’t remember me.
His second: thank goodness you’re still here.
Even without memory, it doesn’t matter.
Everything could start anew.
But fate can be cruel.
Would tonight, after midnight, see him forget Chi Zhan all over again?
“Have you heard this before?” Qi Song asked suddenly. “Time is an illusion of thought.”
Chi Zhan blinked, momentarily puzzled, but a single word caught his attention: time.
He thought—he must have heard this before.
“Even if I lose my memory again, I will still love you—now, in the past, and in whatever future comes.”
Because love transcends all.
***
In the hallway of the apartment building, the lights flickered between bright and dim. Cen Chi ascended the steps and immediately noticed two figures standing guard beside Chi Zhan’s door.
“Why are you here?” Zhou Yanxing sneered at Cen Chi, though he looked unexpectedly disheveled. “Does Chi Zhan’s place get tourists now? Can all you randos skedaddle?”
Cen Chi had guessed Chi Zhan might have company—but two? He laughed wryly.
“Why aren’t you guys—going in?”
Well, that was obvious—
They don’t have keys!
Zhou Yanxing was seething. As Chi Zhan’s boyfriend, he didn’t even have a key. But maybe a storm had knocked out the local signal tower and power grid, because there was absolutely no reception. He fired off desperate messages, hoping Chi Zhan—or even his phone—would miraculously pick them up.
Chu Xingxiao shot a cold glance at Cen Chi, then turned his head away—clearly not interested in talking to either of them.
“The light on the second floor still needs fixing,” Chi Zhan said, stepping into the hallway. “Just a heads‑up… Doctor Cen? President Zhou? What’s everyone doing here?”
Zhou Yanxing snorted, deliberately angling his wounded arm so Chi Zhan would notice—blatantly demanding comfort. Chu Xingxiao, less dramatic, simply bounded over and shot a hostile look at Qi Song. “Gege, why are you back so late?”
Cen Chi remained calm.
“Ah Zhan, there isn’t much time left.”
Qi Song stared coldly at his three competitors.
Chi Zhan stood there speechless for a moment—didn’t know who to address first, or what to say.
“Don’t pay attention to those idiots. We need to act fast—tonight, absolutely…”
At that moment, Chi Zhan’s vision blurred and shimmered. The hallway faded; he collapsed, as though his body turned to smoke and drifted in midair. Phantom voices echoed in his ears.
“The patient’s consciousness is returning—administering higher dosage.”
“Drip… drip… drip…”
“Still not awake? We’re at normal levels now—he should be awakening.”
