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Apology (2/2)

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He remembered standing in the school corridor, watching Zhou Qizhao—whom he hated to the bone—walk toward him. He had lost all reason then, letting instinct drive his body. All he wanted was to fight him with everything he had.

It had been reckless and irrational.

In the class WeChat group, only Feng Chengwen and a few others still tried to defend him weakly. Everyone else either stayed silent or sided with Zhou Qizhao, calling for a joint petition to the principal to have him expelled.

Some went further, expressing fear for their own safety, suggesting the police be called directly. Su Zesui was already over eighteen; he should be held criminally responsible.

Both sides rallied supporters quickly, with the so-called righteous voices drowning out Feng Chengwen’s few messages in an overwhelming tide.

They were determined to drive this “troublemaker” not only out of No.1 High School, but out of the world altogether.

“What are you looking at?” The man appeared at his side, taking the phone from his hands. “The doctor said you need to rest now.”

“Brother… I… I got into trouble again.” Su Zesui felt as if struck by lightning. His voice trembled, and his body instinctively curled into a protective ball. “They’re going to take me away… will we… will we never see each other again? It’s all my fault… all my fault…”

Gu Yilan paused for a moment, then stepped in front of Su Zesui, cupped the boy’s face, and said earnestly, “Suisui, don’t blame yourself. You’re only eighteen—your passionate life is just beginning. What happened isn’t that serious, and it’s definitely not a disaster. I’ll help you handle it.”

“B-but…” Su Zesui shook his head, panic-stricken.

Gu Yilan raised a finger to gently press against the boy’s lips. “Before, I was powerless and couldn’t help you, letting you struggle alone. Now… will you give me another chance? I only need three days.”

Gu Yilan clearly understood a bit of psychology. In just a few words, he completely reframed the situation: it no longer seemed like Su Zesui had caused trouble, but rather that he was generously being given a chance to make things right.

The anxiety in Su Zesui’s chest slowly eased, wrapped gently in a soft, comforting warmth.

With that, how could Su Zesui possibly say “no”?

“You just came down from a high fever—does your head still feel dizzy?” Gu Yilan touched the boy’s forehead. “It’s a little cool. Don’t look at your phone too much. Get some proper rest, okay?”

Su Zesui threw his phone onto the bedside table and, trembling, spread his arms. “Brother, hold me while I sleep.”

“So the no-hugging challenge is finally over?” Gu Yilan bent down and hugged the boy, kissing his forehead. “Good. Your brother has been looking forward to this day for a long time.”

. . . . .

Three days later, at an upscale restaurant, two sides were seated across from each other at a table, preparing for a civil reconciliation.

On one side sat Gu Yilan, Su Zesui, and Su Mingyu, who had rushed back from out of town after learning about his younger brother.

On the other side were Zhou Qizhao—his head still wrapped in bandages, reluctantly attending—and his parents.

It was unclear what Gu Yilan had said to them, but unlike the aggressive reception Su Zesui had expected, Zhou Qizhao’s parents were surprisingly cordial, smiling warmly, expressing concern, asking if there had been a misunderstanding with Zhou Qizhao, and urging everyone to get along in the future.

Zhou Qizhao, however, sat next to them with a pale face, lips almost white, eyes full of hatred locked onto Su Zesui, as if he wanted to grind him between clenched teeth. Clearly, he had been dragged there by his parents.

“Your family hasn’t settled things internally yet?” Gu Yilan glanced at the scowling Zhou Qizhao and raised an eyebrow. “So, you’re not willing to reconcile?”

“Of course not,” Father Zhou said, secretly frustrated, tapping Zhou Qizhao’s leg to signal him to wipe that sullen expression off his face.

“Alright. Since you’re willing to reconcile, then show some sincerity.” Gu Yilan crossed his arms, leaned back in his chair, and calmly swept his gaze over the three people opposite him. “Apologize to Our Suisui, and I’ll agree to the reconciliation.”

Zhou Qizhao’s family: ???

Even Su Mingyu, who had flown back to A City, all fired up to back his younger brother, felt a little uneasy and coughed. Making the victim apologize to the aggressor in order to achieve a civil settlement… it was completely upside down.

“If you don’t want to, I won’t force you.”

Seeing Gu Yilan start to stand, Father Zhou quickly grabbed the back of Zhou Qizhao’s collar, hoisted his son—who had just left the hospital—not letting him escape the apology.

Relying on his family’s money, Zhou Qizhao had been the little gang leader since childhood. Small favors had made classmates cater to him, he had walked through school like a king; post a few photos online, and fans would fawn over him, calling him “Young Master.”

Now, faced with someone richer and more powerful using the same tactic to pressure him, Zhou Qizhao felt utterly trapped.

His face turned red and purple with rage, lips twitching, teeth grinding. Only after his father pinched his leg again did he mumble through clenched teeth, “I’m… sorry…”

Gu Yilan raised an eyebrow again, clearly unimpressed by his half-hearted apology.

“What’s wrong with you, child? How did we raise you? Are you going to embarrass us like this in public?” Mother Zhou hurriedly scolded him, trying to salvage her dignity at the dining table.

Father Zhou sighed, rubbing his hands together to smooth things over. “Children don’t know any better. Please forgive him. Hurry up, everyone’s waiting for you at the table! Don’t make me go back and give you a beating.”

Zhou Qizhao trembled all over. He had always considered himself a favored son, never before had anyone put him down like this.

And yet here he was, utterly humiliated in front of outsiders, by the very parents who financially supported him. His shame had nowhere to go, and now he was forced to endure it all over again.

Pale-faced, trembling, Zhou Qizhao bowed to Su Zesui. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I shouldn’t have walked toward you like that. It’s all my fault! I apologize—please forgive me.”

Immediately, Father and Mother Zhou both flashed obsequious smiles at Gu Yilan, silently asking if he was satisfied now. Their groveling had reached its peak.

Gu Yilan merely let out a faint, enigmatic chuckle, saying nothing. This made the couple break out in nervous sweat, hastily scolding their son a few more times before finally letting him sit, hoping to salvage some dignity.

The meal left some happy and some disheartened.

Su Zesui was delighted, eating all the dishes Mr. Gu had served him, and even finishing two bowls of rice.

“Good boy, I picked all the dishes you like. Eat more.” Gu Yilan served him a piece of sweet and sour spare ribs, smiling softly as if no one else were present.

When it was time to leave, Father Zhou insisted on paying the bill, bowing repeatedly in apology before dragging his son out.

Once the outsiders had gone, Su Zesui tugged at Gu Yilan’s sleeve, leaning close to whisper into his ear. “Brother, why are they like that?”

Gu Yilan smiled and whispered back, “We caught them in a bind. To avoid the whole family, and all the accountants, going to jail, they had no choice but to bow.”

“But… don’t you dislike all this corporate scheming?” Su Zesui asked, fidgeting with his fingers, feeling a twinge of guilt.

He remembered that in another parallel universe, Mr. Gu often expressed his dislike for his studies and his father’s business. He didn’t want to force Gu Yilan to do something unpleasant because of his own problems.

“I don’t dislike it. I just find it boring. Being forced to study boring things makes me irritable,” Gu Yilan said. “But if scheming can help you, then it’s interesting. I’m even tempted to take classes to learn more.”

Su Zesui laughed, his previously gloomy mood instantly brightening.

Su Mingyu, standing nearby, rolled his eyes. “Just indulge him. I have urgent matters to attend to and need to leave. Next time there’s a situation where you need someone to back you up, contact me.”

Su Zesui waved frantically as his big brother left, until he disappeared through the doorway.

“You’ve been wronged, Suisui,” Gu Yilan said, looking at him. “Being forced to reconcile with people like that… but there will be many more opportunities. They have too many flaws, and I won’t let them off easily. You can watch and see how I handle them.”

“N-no, I wasn’t wronged,” Su Zesui waved his hand again. After a few seconds, he lowered it, his ears slightly red as he added, “Thank you, Brother.”

When he first saw the messages in the class group, it felt like falling into an abyss. Catastrophic thoughts swirled in his mind, leaving him regretful and anxious.

At that moment, he no longer hoped for anything. As long as he didn’t go to jail and could be with Gu Yilan for a long, long time, he would accept anything.

But unexpectedly, Gu Yilan took the entire mess upon himself, sparing Su Zesui any worry, and delivered a far better result than he had anticipated. And yet, he still felt a bit wronged.

Across two worlds, Su Zesui had only ever thought in terms of “one,” while Gu Yilan always wanted to give him three, four, or even more.

After getting into Gu Yilan’s speeding sports car, he hopped excitedly into the master bedroom. After showering, Su Zesui suddenly remembered something, climbed onto the soft, large bed, and poked Gu Yilan’s shoulder as he studied some papers. “Brother, I have a gift for you.”

Gu Yilan put down the tablet in his hand and smiled at him. “Hmm?”

“There’s… a box with my diary in it. The one I kept while in the hospital.” Su Zesui added quickly, fearing Gu Yilan might find it boring, “It also contains the letters you once wrote me. Do you remember them? Do you… want them?”

The day before moving into Mr. Gu’s house, he had discovered a small locked box in his room.

The wooden box was old and worn, completely out of place compared to the lavish lifestyle he had in this world.

Curious, he wanted to open it but couldn’t figure out the combination.

Now he realized that box was a product of the crossover between two parallel universes. Bound closely to him, it had traveled through time and space with him.

The combination was the date of the Frost Descent—10/23.

That was the day he first learned about the financial aid program for impoverished students and submitted his application. It was the first real intersection with Gu Yilan.

“I remember,” Gu Yilan said honestly, looking into the boy’s eyes. “But I still want it.”

The anticipation in his dark eyes was genuine. Su Zesui happily pinched his fingers. “Then… I’ll contact Big Brother, and we’ll get it in a couple of days.”

“I’ll contact him. You rest.” Gu Yilan picked up his phone.

The reconciliation papers at the police station weren’t out yet, and Gu Yilan knew the rumors in the class and grade groups hadn’t stopped.

These past few days, he had used every method to comfort the boy during his most vulnerable period, making sure Su Zesui didn’t check WeChat.

Gu Yilan unlocked his phone and opened WeChat. He hadn’t even had a chance to send a message to Su Mingyu when a new message from him popped up on the chat screen—

[Su Mingyu: Take Su Zesui’s phone away, right now. Don’t let him see anything online!! I seriously can’t deal with this.]

A vague sense of foreboding crept into Gu Yilan’s mind.

[11th Dimension: What’s wrong?]

[Su Mingyu: Damn shameless bastards, one thing in front of others and another behind their back, gave them face (image)(image)(image)]

Even the usually composed Su Mingyu had unexpectedly cursed. Gu Yilan opened the screenshots he sent and saw that almost all of them were social media comments targeting Su Zesui by name, filled with vile insults.

Gu Yilan paused for a moment, immediately exited WeChat, and opened the account Su Zesui had created for streaming on social media. He scrolled quickly through the page, reading the curses and abuse, and soon understood what had happened.

On this social media platform, Zhou Qizhao also had an account. Through flaunting wealth and subtle bragging, he had amassed a large following and could be considered a minor internet celebrity.

Just ten minutes ago, he had posted a video. Bandaged, pale, and tearful, he recounted the injustices he had suffered and begged netizens to stand up for him.

He deleted all his previous flaunting-of-wealth videos and reinvented himself as an innocent, ordinary victim. He explained how he had been beaten by classmates for no reason and, because the other students’ families were powerful, had been forced to “stay silent.”

On top of that, he provided various pieces of “evidence,” such as medical records from his recent hospital visit for stitches and screenshots of classmates’ messages in the class chat.

By dodging the real issue and focusing on himself, he quickly enraged justice-minded netizens and swayed public opinion, completely overwhelming Su Zesui’s comment section—

[Ugh, disgusting. Never thought you were this kind of person. Turning my follow into a block. Liking you is now a cybercrime.]

[Hey, are you there? Oh, turns out you died of a fever. Rest in peace (candle)(candle)]

[I felt something was off when you suddenly went viral. Looks like pure hype. Who goes from liberal arts to physics competitions in a few months? Think before setting up your persona…]

[I’ve disliked his fake white-lily act from the moment he became popular.]

[+1]

[+10086]

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Taw’s Note: The real definition of seeking death 🤷

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Apology (1/2)

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Su Zesui had crossed into a parallel universe because his particles were strongly correlated with Gu Yilan’s.

According to the principles of strong quantum entanglement, as Su Zesui regained his memories, Gu Yilan might also recall things from the other universe.

Gu Yilan, who had studied this field for years, already knew this—but he hadn’t expected that the boy’s intense fixation on him would mean that, in addition to recalling his own past, he would also see parts of the boy’s experiences:

The obsession with deciphering his letters, repeated struggles in the psychiatric ward, resilience in standing back up from the mud, and constant late-night sobbing.

When Su Zesui regained his memories, Gu Yilan was sitting in a conference room at University A, nervously twirling a black pen.

In an instant, his eyes reddened, fingers clenched into fists. After a few seconds of silence, he suddenly stood up, ignoring the astonished stares of everyone in the room, and strode out without a word.

His heart pounded as he closed the door, staring at the wall as white as a hospital sheet. His breath momentarily stopped, and before he could guard himself, the emotions brought by the memories surged in, blacking out his vision and pulling him deep inside.

He stood still, dazed, unsure how long he had been frozen, before finally regaining some clarity and returning to the present.

Gritting his teeth, Gu Yilan shook his head slightly, calming himself, then took out his phone. He first called Su Zesui’s driver, instructing him to keep a close watch on the school gates.

Next, he called Su Zesui’s homeroom teacher and the principal who had secretly arranged a counselor.

Both said they were on their way to the classroom and hadn’t reached him yet.

Unable to wait, Gu Yilan suppressed his surging emotions, gripped his car keys, and sped toward A City No. 1 High School.

Along the way, the driver reported that the school’s surveillance showed Su Zesui had run toward the west side of the school about twenty minutes earlier.

Gu Yilan immediately turned the car around, contacting his assistant via Bluetooth to check all cameras on the west side of the school while pressing the accelerator toward the villa.

As expected, just as he had anticipated, inside the massive gilded cage in the master bedroom, he saw the boy’s body curled up and trembling, his pupils unfocused—clearly in a far worse state than he himself had been when he first stepped out of the conference room.

Fortunately, Su Zesui trusted him deeply. At the sound of his call, the boy fell straight into his arms.

But his body was shockingly cold—such a stark contrast to the burning heat of just a few days ago, as if he had been doused again and again with buckets of icy water.

Gu Yilan’s eyes burned red. He couldn’t stop himself from tightening his embrace, trying to share some warmth with the boy.

Su Zesui was his only light across both worlds.

In that parallel universe, weary of schemes and power struggles, he had been on the verge of giving up when Su Zesui’s letters arrived—pages filled with youthful breath, revealing a pure world he had never known.

There, although the boy sometimes showed a little temper or kept small secrets, there was none of the ruthless, profit-driven cruelty of the financial world. It was like a clear spring—a simple, genuine world.

Back then, friends warned him that charity was nothing more than an investment, and to truly care meant certain failure.

But he didn’t care about “losses.” He gave Su Zesui far more than he had planned to. Even when he himself was trapped, what weighed most on his mind was still the boy.

In the midst of suffering relentless retaliation, he was still making arrangements for Su Zesui—securing future financial aid for him, and writing letters that could conceal the truth. But he was still a step too late. Before he could completely deal with the scum who had bullied Su Zesui, he himself perished in the flames.

Otherwise, Su Zesui wouldn’t have suffered everything that followed…

Later, the time and space shifted.

In this universe’s Speedsters Club, for the first time across both worlds, he met Su Zesui in the flesh.

He had always kept others at arm’s length, cold and distant to everyone. At that moment, he was also frustrated, preparing to delete his ID. Logically, even if a brawl broke out in the club, he would have finished the formalities with an expressionless face, then driven away without a second glance.

But when he saw the boy trembling from some creep’s harassment, his jaw clenched, and before he realized it, he had kicked Ro (the creep’s name) flying across the room.

He wasn’t someone who liked meddling, nor did he understand why he’d acted like a hero.

His body had moved before his mind caught up.

So the only explanation was—“instinct.”

Even without memories, even across time and space, his body still instinctively wanted to protect him…

“Don’t… don’t cry.” Su Zesui raised his hand to wipe away his tears, but before he could, the man suddenly lowered his head and captured his lips.

Holding him close, Gu Yilan gently pressed him down onto the soft bed, deepening the kiss as he explored his warm, yielding mouth.

At the seam of their lips, tears slipped silently from one of them, adding a faint saltiness to the tender exchange.

They clung to each other, tongues entwined, sharing breath and heartbeat. Even when they parted briefly for air, they reunited almost instantly—as if even a second apart was unbearable.

In that moment, surrounded by memories surging in waves, words felt pale and powerless. Only the most primal, pure form of touch could convey what lay in their hearts.

No one knew how long it lasted. Only when lips went numb and tongues dry did they finally, reluctantly, part.

“You… you knew all along.” Su Zesui lowered his head, gripping Gu Yilan’s long, bony fingers.

That solid, burning warmth—the proof he was real—was the only thing that eased the fear of losing him forever.

He had said something similar before.

Back then, sitting hopelessly on the sofa, staring blankly at four prewritten letters on the table, he had told Uncle Butler, “Young Master Gu knew. He knew he would die soon.”

But now, when he said “you knew,” he meant Gu Yilan had long known that the version of him in another world was already dead.

Moreover, he had experienced similar emotions multiple times in both worlds.

Like when he learned Mr. Gu had died in a car crash in the original world, and when here he discovered Gu Yilan’s severe self-destructive tendencies. His first reaction was always the same: Impossible.

Because to him, Mr. Gu was unshakable, indestructible. How could he possibly fall?

In that sense, the two of them—across two worlds—were truly the same person.

Gu Yilan lowered his head, kissed the pale, delicate fingers clutching his hand, and whispered hoarsely: “I wasn’t sure. Theoretically, the me in that world shouldn’t have existed. But I didn’t want to burden you with unnecessary pain, so I never voiced the suspicion. I wasn’t trying to keep it from you on purpose.”

No matter which world he was in, Gu Yilan always chose to bear the weight silently on his own, shielding him from the wind and rain, letting him live in peace. Only when the man was gone could he catch a glimpse of the storm raging outside.

“You… why are you always so good to me?” Su Zesui threw his arms around him again, choking out between sobs, “Thank you… really, thank you.”

“It’s me who should thank you.” Gu Yilan lowered his dark eyes and embraced the boy in return. “Without you, no matter which world I’m in, I wouldn’t survive. To be precise, you’re not only my God—you’re also my savior.”

——I can’t even imagine how dark a world without you would be.

Carried away by emotion, Su Zesui’s eyes reddened again. He shifted the conversation toward the other universe. “Mr. Gu, I miss you so much. Every day, I miss you. I want to hear your voice, I want to see you…”

Gu Yilan held the boy so tightly his knuckles turned white. His emotions surged, but all that came out in his husky voice was: “I want to see you too.”

Tears welled up in Su Zesui’s eyes as he confessed, “I’m sorry. The bank card you gave me—I spent more than half of it while I was in the hospital. Later I tried to work part-time to pay it back, but I didn’t manage to make it up before… before…”

That dark period when Su Zesui was hospitalized had always been a thorn in Gu Yilan’s heart.

Only after learning what had happened did he truly understand the reason behind the boy’s intense PTSD toward hospitals.

Gu Yilan gently patted the boy’s thin back and softly reassured him: “In this world, there are tens of billions in that card. Spend it however you want. You don’t need to pay me back.”

But Su Zesui, still trapped in his memories, couldn’t pull himself out. He sobbed once more and said, “Mr. Gu, I won the gold medal.

I’m not smart. At first, the problems that others solved at a glance, I had to practice over and over again.

But later, the kinds of impossibly difficult competition questions others couldn’t touch—I could solve them all.

Mr. Gu, I lived just like you told me to. I lived as a strong and independent person.”

Gu Yilan ruffled his messy hair. “I know. Our Suisui is a physics genius who switched from liberal arts to science. In just a year and a half you won the CPhO gold medal, and at only seventeen you joined a research team.”

Maybe it was all the pouring out of words that soothed the cracks in his heart, or maybe it was the man’s feigned lighthearted comfort finally working, but Su Zesui gradually calmed down. He raised his gaze and fixed it on the man before him—the man he had longed for in both worlds.

Their eyes were red, veiled with tears, and they looked at each other for a few seconds before breaking into silent smiles at the same time.

One of them had switched from liberal arts to science, throwing himself into problems and experiments day and night, earning early fame and admiration for his almost obsessive passion for physics.

The other had, from an early age, forged ahead into a field of quantum research that might never yield results, yet never once wavered in his determination, earning respect for his unshakable resolve.

But in truth, one was chasing the fantastical dream of surpassing the speed of light and traveling through time and space; the other, bound by a childhood “promise of God,” was willing only to live in the void of research here and now.

They were magical and nihilistic all at once—yet for the sake of each other, they were willing to endure countless trials and obstacles to reach the very peak of their fields.

Their gazes met again, tears shimmering like ripples in their eyes.

Before long, they couldn’t help themselves and embraced once more, kissing deeply. Su Zesui’s once-cold body gradually grew warm.

Until a knock came at the door.

Gu Yilan brushed the boy’s swollen lips and, once Su Zesui had caught his breath, whispered, “The psychologist is here. Will you let him see you?”

Su Zesui flinched instinctively. After a few seconds of hesitation, he gave a reluctant nod.

At Gu Yilan’s request, the psychologist focused on examining Su Zesui’s severe social anxiety.

After offering him some comfort and suggestions, the doctor left the master bedroom and spoke in greater detail outside with the man waiting by the door—about the boy’s current psychological state and possible treatments.

Su Zesui’s extreme social phobia, in essence, was another form of PTSD—a lingering complication of his past “persecutory delusions,” only this time triggered by strangers.

According to the evaluation just now, the boy had likely regained most of his memories and was now in a transitional stage of returning to normal life.

At this stage, his mind was as delicate and fragile as a freshly peeled egg, in desperate need of care. Any negative stimulus could trigger a far worse retreat into isolation…

While the doctor spoke outside, his voice too muffled to make out, Su Zesui sat inside not knowing what to do. His phone buzzed non-stop in his pocket, so he finally pulled it out.

Opening his messages, he saw group chats tagging him, heatedly discussing how he had suddenly lashed out in public, sending Zhou Qizhao to the hospital.

His mind had been consumed by memories, and he’d forgotten all about it—until now. A shiver ran down his body as the realization struck.

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Suisui (2/2)

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A week later, the psychiatry department of a hospital received a new patient through the ER: a boy only fifteen years old.

He was thin, his head wrapped in bandages, yet his delicate features still showed through. His skin was pale, his lashes dark as crow feathers against his cheeks—he looked like the model student who always obeyed teachers and parents.

But now, that “good child” was strapped down with the strictest restraints, every joint immobilized so tightly he couldn’t even twitch.

On the chart beside him, the department head had written:

Name: Su Zesui
Age: 15
Diagnosis: Severe tendencies toward self-harm and violence, accompanied by paranoid delusions
Recommendation: 24-hour third-level restraint

Zhou Qizhao and the others, who had also been badly injured, received some punishment. But since they were minors and had family connections, it amounted only to a few weeks’ suspension before they were allowed back at school.

Upon learning that Su Zesui was suffering from such a severe mental illness, the homeroom teacher—who had long neglected his duty of care—felt very guilty and submitted a request to the school, organizing both a school-wide fundraiser and a public fundraiser for the boy.

The stark contrast between the boy’s angelic face and his terrifying psychiatric diagnosis caught public attention. Overnight, he went viral online. Donations poured in from well-meaning strangers, and caring citizens even visited the hospital to see the boy they had never met.

Some kindhearted young women, unable to bear the sight of him convulsing and struggling in his restraints, asked the nurses if they could loosen them just a little. But the nurses, holding sedatives at the ready, could only shake their heads.

Just as the department head had noted: though Su Zesui looked innocent, he was deeply self-destructive, violent, and paranoid—and getting worse.

Even the flood of compassion and support pouring in could not stop his descent into darkness.

Whenever he was freed, he would smash the flowers and fruit baskets donated by well-wishers, seize whatever sharp object he could reach, and lash out like a man possessed—attacking the doctors, nurses, or volunteers who tried to help him, then turning the violence on himself.

Gradually, the storm of online charity faded. People’s fleeting sympathy shifted to newer headlines.

And as Su Zesui’s illness showed no sign of gratitude or improvement, even the philanthropists who had once taken his case to heart grew disheartened. One by one, their warm intentions cooled. They stopped visiting, stopped raising money.

Psychiatric care was expensive—especially the constant supervision he required. Luckily, doctors later discovered a bank card at Su Zesui’s home, holding a balance of 500,000 yuan.

From then on, his treatment costs came out of that card.

Strapped to the bed, Su Zesui stared blankly at the white ceiling. Once, he had endured breakdown after breakdown and still dragged himself to work, just to keep that card untouched. Now, it was being drained again and again, yet he showed no reaction.

He was like a puppet with its spring wound down completely—stabbed, scratched, hurt, yet no longer capable of responding to the world at all.

Even the nurses, who had seen countless cases, whispered among themselves that perhaps there was no saving him.

For patients whose illness stemmed from deep emotional wounds, “love” was supposed to be the most powerful cure.

But all the love, care, and kindness lavished on this boy had not healed him. It had only made him worse.

So now, when the ward was silent and empty, when human kindness had proven fleeting, when money dwindled and his condition spiraled ever downward—how could this boy possibly find his own way out of the dark?

In the cold, lonely room, the tulips on the table—symbols of rebirth and love—slowly withered. No one came with flowers anymore.

On the hospital bed, the boy’s pale, delicate body was covered in scars. It was as if he had been abandoned by the entire world, including himself.

Even though they thought this was the case, the nurses still tried to make the boy’s days a little more comfortable.

When Su Zesui’s condition was stable, they would take him for quiet walks in the empty garden. When he lay staring at the ceiling in boredom all day, they would bring him science magazines that wouldn’t stir up his emotions.

Su Zesui had no idea how long he’d actually stayed in the hospital.

He had undergone several sessions of MECT treatment and forgotten many things.

But he remembered being wheeled through the transparent corridor toward the treatment room—the green leaves outside, the swirling snowflakes, the distant crowds—and himself, alone, shivering under a blanket as he awaited the procedure.

He remembered the carefree childhood moments with his big brother, who always taught him to love life. He remembered every letter and every voice recording from Mr. Gu—each word filled with unconditional, selfless affection.

The treatment managed to temporarily erase his urges to hurt himself or others.

But the side effects left him drowsy, plagued by stomach cramps, with no appetite for food, and restless whether awake or asleep.

He thought: if Mr. Gu could see him this weak, he would surely be disappointed. And if he ever saw Mr. Gu again in the afterlife, he would have to apologize properly.

Those days of treatment steeped in despair and pain left deep scars on his mind.

For a long time afterward, just the sight of a hospital sign or the sharp smell of disinfectant made him tremble and gag—a mix of fear and revulsion.

He lived through both physical and mental torment. His fingernails left crescent marks in the bedboard; his lower lip was often bitten until it bled.

Afraid of forgetting his big brother and Mr. Gu, he began keeping a diary whenever his mind was clear, recording happy memories he didn’t want to lose, and writing down every word Mr. Gu had ever said to him.

But the nurses always urged him to go outside, telling him the world was vast, and when the sun rose, it was time to go out and feel its warmth.

Clutching his diary, eyes downcast, he would doodle and mutter to himself that his sky would never brighten again. Hearing this, the nurses would no longer push him, only stroke his hair with quiet pity.

Su Zesui thought that when the money in his bank card was gone, that would be the time to go join his big brother and Mr. Gu.

But turning points always come when least expected.

That day, the nurse kept talking about how beautiful the winter sun was. Sunlight streamed in through the window, spreading across the snow-white floor of the ward, as if it really could bring a faint trace of hope.

Recently, Su Zesui had been doing better. His mood was still low, but he continued to endure the painful treatments.

That day the nurse rewarded him with a science magazine, the title instantly catching his eye—

[Beyond the Speed of Light: Traveling Through Time and Space.]

“Do you have regrets? Do you want to change the past? Is there someone you longed to meet but never could? Board a faster-than-light ship, and travel through time and space with me.”

In that instant, Su Zesui’s fingers froze. In his mind appeared a letter from long ago, the one where Mr. Gu had told him his name and written: “…Perhaps, only through an extremely rare coincidence will we meet.”

And now, it felt as though that “extremely rare coincidence” had finally come to him.

Light was shining into his world.

Despite knowing nothing about high school physics, Su Zesui carefully read the book page by page. It took him a long time, but for once, he got through it without an episode.

The next day, in his diary, he drew a silly, smiling sun and, for the first time since entering the hospital, showed a genuine smile as he told the nurse: “Maybe… the sky really is bright now. I want to go outside.”

The head nurse had no idea what had happened. All she knew was that the boy who used to break down for most of the day, who by all their experience should have had no hope of recovery, was suddenly improving at an astonishing pace.

And in just one month, he passed the psychological evaluation and was discharged.

But Su Zesui had not truly recovered.

Eager to leave, desperate to cling to this lifeline, he concealed many of his mental struggles.

His urges to harm himself or others were mostly gone, but a constant paranoia still weighed on his mind.

To appear “normal,” he forced himself to suppress it with sheer willpower. But the unscientific treatment only twisted the illness further—into severe social anxiety.

He became afraid of people, afraid of socializing. Whenever he tried to speak, his heart would race and his words would stumble. Whenever he was in a crowd, he trembled and broke into a cold sweat.

Still, he was no longer “mentally ill.” He could return to school.

Against everyone’s objections, he switched from liberal arts to science, choosing physics competitions. At the “old age” of 15, he studied day and night, abandoning everything but academics.

It was as if his entire life hung on this single thread—physics competitions.

He had only one goal: to build a faster-than-light ship, travel through time, and bring his big brother and Mr. Gu back to life.

Meanwhile, in a parallel universe—

At age 11, Gu Yilan, driven by a vague “promise of God,” used self-harm as a weapon to resist his parents’ attempts to drag him away from physics and force him into finance abroad. He succeeded in keeping his eligibility for the CPhO exam.

Time flew by. To everyone’s astonishment, in just a year and a half, the hopelessly underestimated Su Zesui fought his way through the school-level, preliminary, and semifinal rounds, winning gold in the finals, earning special admission, and securing a guaranteed place at university.

He was hailed as a genius in physics—the prodigy who switched from liberal arts to science and still won gold. But no one knew that every moment of his life was being burned away by relentless study.

Failure in academics, for him, would mean the withering of his very life.

Yet the higher he advanced, the clearer the flaws in that old popular science magazine became.

It was true that faster-than-light travel implied time could run backward.

But from the standpoint of special relativity, time dilation, quantum field theory, the propagation speed of gravitational waves, and countless other branches of physics, one thing was clear: humanity could never break the speed of light.

That popular science magazine was just using selective storytelling to catch the attention of people outside the field of physics.

But Su Zesui didn’t care.

That goal was the only reason he lived, so he never once questioned whether it was even possible.

At sixteen, he was admitted to university on recommendation. At seventeen, he secured a place as an exchange student abroad, and by submitting his research proposals, he obtained access to a cutting-edge quantum accelerator.

He abandoned all painful social contact, spent sleepless nights buried in the lab, and shut out every distraction around him. In his eyes, there was nothing but the screen in front of him, the experimental apparatus, and that elusive point of breakthrough that might or might not exist.

At last, after countless trials, he turned his focus toward research on Hilbert space.

But just as he glimpsed a ray of light, fate struck him cruelly again—

He ran into Zhou Qizhao at school.

Since Su Zesui’s hospitalization, he’d had no contact with Zhou Qizhao.

First, Zhou Qizhao became a little wary of the boy’s sick and manic, savage demeanor, losing the enjoyment he once got from bullying him.

Second, their school campus was very large with separate buildings for liberal arts and sciences. After Su Zesui was held back a year and switched to the science, the two of them rarely ran into each other at school.

Now, enemies faced each other again, and the air bristled with hostility.

Su Zesui’s eyes burned red as he looked at the person who had once pushed him into hell. His fists clenched, but his body betrayed him, trembling under the weight of his severe social anxiety. He wanted to run, to collapse.

Life was unfair. Years had passed, and this man who had committed such cruelty had not only escaped retribution but was thriving.

Zhou Qizhao stood before him in head-to-toe designer clothing. Despite his abysmal grades, he was enrolled at a prestigious overseas university. Clearly, his family’s business had multiplied in scale and wealth, elevating them into another class entirely.

Seeing him, Zhou Qizhao mocked a few words, then cast a glance at the physics building behind him, casually remarking that the professor in charge of that lab was a business associate of his uncle. For an undergraduate exchange student like Su Zesui to be working there was, he suggested, “rather inappropriate.”

When Su Zesui remained silent, Zhou Qizhao lifted his chin arrogantly and, abandoning subtlety, told him outright: if he knelt and apologized for the incident that once caused him to be suspended, he might be magnanimous enough to forgive and forget.

Su Zesui’s whole body shook with rage. He ground his teeth but of course refused.

Zhou Qizhao sneered and walked away.

A few days later, Su Zesui was summoned by his foreign professor who had brought him into the research group.

The professor merely asked why he spent such long hours in the lab every day—no hint of revoking his access yet.

However, when it came to research, Su Zesui was extremely stubborn.

The “normal person facade” he had put on was uncontrollably peeling away bit by bit. The mental illnesses he had suppressed at the bottom of his heart began to grow wildly again, consuming his sanity.

Now, facing a situation that wasn’t even confirmed to be unfavorable, his illness had already relapsed. His eyes were bloodshot as he dove into a stubborn obsession, abandoning everything in a relentless pursuit to make Zhou Qizhao pay with his life.

He prepared everything meticulously. Under the guise of an apology, he lured Zhou Qizhao into the physics lab and detonated the particle accelerator, letting its high radiation blast through both their bodies.

To die together.

What he never imagined was that, in a parallel universe where time flowed differently, another physics genius—Gu Yilan, now a PhD student—had pushed humanity’s understanding of string theory to its very edge. Through experimentation, he had opened a wormhole in AdS space, unlocking a “door” to parallel worlds.

High energy, strong entanglement, and the wormhole gateway—the conditions aligned. By sheer accident, Su Zesui was pulled across into that parallel universe.

On a night of freezing winter, Su Zesui died.

And when he opened his eyes again, it was to blazing summer sunlight outside the window.

He sat there in a daze, as if every day after a MECT treatment, sitting on the hospital bed, his mind was completely blank—like he had just arrived in this world for the first time.

Although he had lost most of his memories, his severe social anxiety still clung to him like a ghost, a lingering reminder of everything he had once endured.

He trembled, terrified, resisting everything unfamiliar, desperate to run—and so he actually slipped out the door under the thin white blanket.

Soon after, the blanket above his head was pulled away. He saw his big brother—who was supposed to have died of cancer.

The big brother before him looked normal, healthy, very much alive—not a cold, black-and-white photo hanging on the wall. Su Zesui froze in place, unable to look away.

He held back his tears, choked on his sobs, and embraced his big brother.

Two days later, after being discharged from the hospital, he was forced to permanently delete his ID from the Speedsters club due to a racing accident.

There, with his cap pulled low, he accidentally bumped into a tall, slender man. Though he couldn’t see the man’s face, he instinctively became captivated by the man’s pleasant voice.

The man then helped him fend off the person who had been harassing him and, in a deep, magnetic tone, guided him through the account deletion process.

Finally, he saw the name on the man’s member ID: Gu Yilan.

A beautiful name, one he couldn’t forget.

. . . . .

. . . . .

“Suisui.” The man’s unique voice woke Su Zesui from his heavy memories.

Su Zesui’s breathing hitched, and his pupils slowly focused. He saw Gu Yilan squatting outside the tall, gilded cage, his eyes red. He held his arms open toward him, his voice very soft, as if he were coaxing him, “Be good, come out.”

Su Zesui hesitated for only half a second before putting down the plush toy he was clutching and stepping into the warmth of Gu Yilan’s embrace.

At that moment, sunlight streamed through the thick blackout curtains into the master bedroom. And he finally stepped out of the cage that had trapped him for so many years, kissing the world that loved him.

They held each other tightly, breathing together, hearts gradually syncing, as if trying to merge their bodies into one.

The embrace, which he hadn’t experienced in a long time because he had been deliberately training himself to be strong, brought him a sense of warmth and security greater than before, like a reward for the brave boy he had become.

In his memories, Su Zesui had broken down too many times, cried too many tears—enough to drain several lifetimes.

But this time, he didn’t cry. He rested his chin on the man’s shoulder and whispered, “Mr. Gu… I really have been trying to be stronger.”

“I know,” Gu Yilan’s voice was hoarse and deep, as if weighed down by too many condensed emotions, causing it to tremble slightly. “I already know everything.”

The man held him tightly, though his arms quivered slightly.

Su Zesui didn’t shed tears, yet he felt hot drops trickle onto his neck, warming his cold body.

He kissed the man’s cheek and awkwardly comforted him: “Don’t be sad. I’m okay. Really, I’m okay.”

“My Suisui,” Gu Yilan said, his eyes red. He held him and stood up, with hot tears falling and his voice hoarse, “from now on, everything will be safe and sound.”

---

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Suisui (1/2)

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Gu Yilan always said that the arrangement of thought particles in parallel worlds is identical, so people in both worlds are, at their core, the same person.

This idea is purely theoretical and logically sound, giving a feeling of “I don’t fully understand it, but it makes sense.”

But intuitively, it’s hard to accept: two people with different ways of thinking and life experiences could actually be the same person. It’s abstract, almost philosophical.

Moreover, Su Zesui had always assumed that Mr. Gu in the original world didn’t like him, so he avoided dwelling on whether this concept was right or wrong.

It wasn’t until now that he truly believed that Mr. Gu in both worlds was indeed the same person.

Their personalities were simply too alike: always reporting good news but never bad, preferring to quietly bear burdens alone. People around them only saw the cold exterior, never the subtle protection hidden beneath.

And the truth had long left clues. Su Zesui had just never noticed—

Previously, Gu Yilan had said that if he somehow traveled back, he would find a way to reach the original world to find him.

This contradicts the core of what he had always believed: if, on a macroscopic scale of time and space, the two are the same person, what does it even mean to “travel” back?

Rewind to the day of their first kiss, the day that sealed their bond.

Gu Yilan said that only with a quantum connection could one travel through time and space. The fact that he was able to establish such a quantum connection with the version of himself in this world suggested that “Mr. Gu” might no longer exist in the original world.

When Su Zesui had pressed him, asking if he was also a traveler, Gu Yilan had only replied vaguely with “maybe,” and then changed the subject.

Everything had already been foreshadowed.

. . . . .

In the original world, he had chased Mr. Gu to his city without hesitation, seeking a definite answer, trying to see if there was still a chance to change things.

Mr. Gu was the last light in the darkness of his life, and he had humbled himself to the bone. Facing “abandonment,” he had no pride to say “I don’t care”—he just tried every way to hold on.

On the plane, he had been rehearsing his words.

He didn’t know what Mr. Gu looked like. Upon entering the vast villa, he instinctively wanted to look up, mentally scanning each person inside, comparing them to the image he had imagined.

But the villa was empty. Not even a housekeeper in sight. There was no one to scrutinize.

The butler led him to the study on the second floor.

As he tried to infer Mr. Gu’s personality from the study’s decor, the butler took a few letters out of a small wooden box and handed them to him.

Each envelope was numbered in the top right corner—four letters in total.

The butler told him to keep them, saying they were left by Mr. Gu for him.

Nervous and awkward, Su Zesui opened the letter marked “1.”

Inside, it was Mr. Gu’s familiar handwriting. The salutation addressed him, so it was clearly meant for him. But the content was unfamiliar.

The theme of the letter was “happiness.” Its purpose was to comfort him, to tell him that the future still held many joys and that he should live happily.

The problem was, in their recent letters, Su Zesui had expressed a subdued but determined attitude, promising to be strong and strive forward.

This first letter seemed entirely out of context, as if responding to messages he hadn’t actually sent.

Even then, Su Zesui felt a vague unease. Something bad seemed poised to happen uncontrollably.

He didn’t open the remaining three letters but looked at the butler in confusion.

“That’s how it is, child. These are the last letters—meant for you,” the butler sighed, speaking with a depth that young Su Zesui didn’t understand.

After a few seconds of thought, he still asked where Mr. Gu had gone.

The butler was silent for a long time, then suddenly asked if he normally watched the news.

Su Zesui said no, and the butler told him to check social news from City A from two weeks ago.

The butler’s deep eye sockets, high cheekbones, and the fine lines at the corners of his eyes had all grown more pronounced since a month ago. Each step he took was heavy, full of exhaustion and weariness.

Unable to wait to return home to check the news, and unwilling to disturb the already drained butler, Su Zesui, who rarely spoke to anyone, used a translation app on his phone and stepped into the street to ask the hurried foreign pedestrians how to bypass the firewall.

In this foreign land, snow covered the streets, and neon lights outlined trees, snowmen, stars, and Santa Claus. Store windows were filled with Christmas decorations, festive gifts, and sweet treats.

The cheerful strains of <Jingle Bells> floated through the air, creating a light and joyful atmosphere.

Su Zesui realized it was Christmas—the day families gathered, shared roast turkey, and awaited gifts from Santa.

But he had no time to enjoy the holiday mood. He quickly figured out how to bypass the firewall and ran back to the villa.

The butler had given him the villa keys, giving him a place to rest, but seemed to have forgotten to arrange a room for him.

Su Zesui sat tensely on the living room sofa, clutching his phone. He found the local news channel for City A, fingers trembling, heart pounding.

Since the butler hadn’t told him the exact date, he started from eighteen days ago, forgetting even to eat dinner, watching for a full eight hours.

Up until the news report fourteen days ago—

“According to our station’s reporter, on December 11th, Gu Yilan, the only son of prominent local businessman Gu Hongfang, tragically died in a racing accident last night at the age of just 20.

Gu Hongfang stated that he plans to move all of his enterprises in Country M back to City A, creating numerous jobs in honor of his late son.

The accident occurred on a private racetrack in the suburbs of Country M. The exact cause is still under investigation.

Eyewitnesses said that during the incident, Gu Yilan’s car went out of control, veered off the track, and crashed into the guardrail. Although he was rushed to the hospital, the injuries were too severe, and doctors were unable to save him…”

Fifteen hours on a plane, two and a half hours by car—Su Zesui hadn’t slept a wink, too anxious and preoccupied with how he might plead his case.

After arriving in the city where Mr. Gu was studying abroad, he spent three hours being turned away by strangers, and eight hours staring unblinking at his phone screen.

In other words, he had gone nearly thirty hours without rest.

His head felt as if it had been filled with lead. Each thought dragged like a heavy chain, pulling him deeper into exhaustion.

Only when the cold female anchor’s voice moved on to the next piece of news did he jolt violently, his vision blurring as it finally sank in—this wasn’t a dream, not an illusion. It was real.

If Mr. Gu hadn’t told him his name… if it hadn’t been reported by a major local news station… Su Zesui might still have been able to fool himself into believing there was hope, that things weren’t as bad as they seemed.

As he sat there in a daze, the villa’s front door clicked open, letting in a breath of icy wind and snow.

Su Zesui’s numb heart spasmed, as if shocked back to life.

He held his breath and turned toward the door.

But it wasn’t the person he longed to see.

It was only the butler.

The older man stepped inside slowly, closing the heavy door behind him to shut out the howling wind and the distant sound of Christmas carols. He switched on the lights in the pitch-dark living room.

Curled up, hugging himself tightly, Su Zesui felt as if he’d been locked inside a frozen cavern.

He had thought that as long as the other didn’t hate him, as long as he kept climbing step by step, they would one day meet again at the summit. He never imagined the ending would be eternal separation by life and death.

Right now, his heart felt no pain. Not a single tear fell. It was as if his body hadn’t realized it should grieve.

But having once lived through the death of his big brother, he knew what this meant. His brain simply hadn’t caught up yet. In a few days, the grief would surge in like a tidal wave, multiplied a thousandfold, and swallow him whole.

And this time, no one would come to save him.

When the butler gently patted his shoulder, Su Zesui parted his dry, cracked lips and stared blankly at the stack of letters on the table. “He… he already knew.”

Only then did he realize his voice was so hoarse it was nearly burning.

The butler paused, then said softly, “Yes. But he didn’t expect it to come so soon. He had planned to write many more letters, to put everything in order. That way, no matter what you asked, there would be answers. The replies might come slowly, but at least they’d carry you through until graduation—until you were an adult, able to bear it all. But… fate had other plans.”

Seeing the butler’s grief-stricken expression, Su Zesui gave up his last sliver of hope. He didn’t even ask if it might have been faked. His trembling voice only managed: “Why… why did all that happen?”

The butler sighed. “It was never safe here. Young Master Gu was pursuing a master’s degree in finance, but he resisted his parents’ attempts to force him into inheriting the family business. At first, he threw himself into reckless self-destruction, deliberately giving his rivals and competitors leverage over him. He got hurt—many times.

But he even seemed… to enjoy it. I often saw him cutting himself with a knife…

It wasn’t until he met you that he began to find a reason to keep living.

Lately, he’d been laying out plans, constantly on edge, always armed, sleeping with a gun under his pillow, surviving on three or four hours of rest a day. He fought desperately to turn the tide, but it left him covered in wounds.

Still, the damage from before was too great. There were too many holes to patch. Inevitably, he couldn’t hold it all together. During a negotiation with his peers, someone sabotaged his car… and then… well…

There are still piles of documents on his desk, so many things he never got the chance to finish.”

The butler covered his face, while Su Zesui sat frozen on the sofa, murmuring, “He… he never told me any of this.”

In their letters, Mr. Gu had mentioned disliking his studies and had hinted that he didn’t want to inherit the family business. But he’d always spoken of it in a casual, almost helpless way, as if he were simply venting his frustrations.

So Su Zesui had never realized that the man who unconditionally brought him light was himself living in complete darkness.

And it was precisely because he feared that darkness would consume Su Zesui too, that he kept gently but firmly pushing him away.

To him, Mr. Gu had always been larger than life, capable of anything. Sure, he had little troubles now and then, but he was still the most remarkable person in the world.

That was why it was so hard to believe—his mind simply refused to accept—that he was really gone.

“Let’s go, child.” The butler, tears finally spent, patted his shoulder again. “I just spoke with a real estate agent. In a few days this villa will be auctioned off. Let’s go back together.”

Su Zesui clutched the four letters on the table, his head heavy and foggy, and nodded blankly.

Before leaving, the butler handed him a bank card with half a million inside—Mr. Gu’s provision for him until college graduation. He hoped Su Zesui would grow independent afterward and be able to stand on his own.

Su Zesui accepted the card and flew back with the butler. Yet he never spent a single cent of that money, nor did he open the remaining letters.

He didn’t dare to. He didn’t want to.

In his heart, as long as he didn’t know what was in those last three letters, there was still infinite possibility between him and Mr. Gu. It was as if Mr. Gu were still alive, and he could keep wondering, keep hoping, about what the man would write next.

But once he opened them, everything Mr. Gu had left behind in this world would be sealed forever.

And after that, there would be no hope left for tomorrow.

He picked up his recorder and, over and over, whispered messages: “Mr. Gu, I miss you so much. When can we see each other again? Please… please…”

But those recordings, like the WeChat messages he once sent to his big brother, would never, ever receive a reply.

In the days that followed, when the delayed wave of grief finally hit with nowhere to go, his personality grew increasingly unstable and extreme.

He carried Mr. Gu’s letters everywhere, even forcing himself to forget what they said, pretending he had traveled back in time, writing letters that mirrored the ones he’d sent before—only to open Mr. Gu’s replies again, full of expectant joy.

Like that, he performed the same play again and again.

Even in that state of mind, he still dragged himself out at night to do part-time work, just to cover his most basic living expenses. All so that the five hundred thousand left by Mr. Gu could remain untouched.

A few days later, his homeroom teacher finally tracked him down, dragged him back to school after his unexplained absence, and scolded him in front of the class.

But Su Zesui didn’t care.

There was nothing left in this world that mattered to him—except the stack of letters in his backpack. They were the only proof that Mr. Gu had once been in his life.

But things always manage to get worse.

After school, unable to endure another day of restless, needle-pricked hours, Su Zesui rushed home, desperate to return to his “performance.”

Yet the moment he stepped onto the road home, Zhou Qizhao and his gang blocked his way again.

In the empty alley, they sneered and hurled venomous words: asking if the man surnamed Gu was finally dead, whether his body was still intact, whether anyone would protect him anymore.

Then they burst out laughing.

When someone leaves this world, the traces they leave behind don’t vanish immediately. Instead, they hide like Easter eggs in forgotten corners, waiting for those once close to them to stumble upon them—sometimes with joy, sometimes in grief.

It was only then that Su Zesui realized: before, these people hadn’t spared him out of fear he’d go to the police, nor out of conscience.

It was because the one person he had wanted to shield from the truth had been secretly protecting him all along, solving everything in the shadows, never exposing him, never letting him know.

Weighed down by his lingering depression, his frail body couldn’t withstand much. Within moments, he was beaten to the ground.

They grabbed his backpack, felt something off in its weight, unzipped it, and began carelessly crumpling the letters he always handled with such care.

Zhou Qizhao glanced through them, then tore them up with a sneer. “What era is this? And this is how that dead man communicated with you?

If you ask me, you’re a jinx. You jinxed your brother, then your sponsor. Everyone around you ends up ruined because of you. At this rate, shouldn’t we be keeping our distance from you too? Hahaha!”

Never had Su Zesui felt such despair and rage. It was as if his heart had turned into a bomb, pounding louder and louder, ready to blow the entire world apart.

Shouting “Give them back!”, he staggered to his feet and, for the first time, fought back against the bullying, reaching out to snatch his letters.

But he was no match for them. Seeing him resist, they beat him even harder. Not only did they rip up his letters, they poured water over them again and again, until every last word was washed away.

Su Zesui remembered every single character from all the letters he had read, but no matter how perfectly he copied them, the handwriting was no longer Mr. Gu’s; it was no longer something Mr. Gu had given him.

All the more so, because among those letters were three he treasured so deeply that he had never once opened them.

…And now, even the last traces the other had left behind in this world were gone.

That thought completely shattered Su Zesui’s spirit.

As if oblivious to the pain in his body, he stood up against the hail of fists and suddenly lunged at Zhou Qizhao, the ringleader.

Like a madman, his timid and obedient facade crumbled. He fought with every ounce of desperation, his teeth sinking into Zhou Qizhao’s neck, his nails raking across his skin, as though he wanted to tear him apart, drag him into hell, and perish together.

Even if his injuries would be ten times worse than Zhou Qizhao’s, he would never let him go.

In the end, as they stared at the boy lying in a pool of blood, a few terrified that they had killed someone hurriedly called 120 for emergency help.

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Memories (2/2)

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But only a week later, the butler returned.

The butler was responsible for handling Mr. Gu’s affairs in the country, so flying back and forth between the two countries was a routine task.

This time, on his return, he also brought two cards for the young boy.

One was Su Zesui’s sponsorship card, through which Mr. Gu would transfer money to him every month on the first and fifteenth. The other was a medical sub-card to cover all future medical expenses for his big brother.

Along with the cards, the butler handed him a letter.

Inside, simply written on the paper, were the words: “You are doing well. Be strong.”

The strokes of these few characters were bold and powerful, a bit messy yet stylish in its own way, with an air of boldness and recklessness. The impression it gave was… perhaps Mr. Gu wasn’t that old.

Holding the letter, Su Zesui felt a warm current quietly flow through his heart.

When he was very young, a fortune teller had told him that he was fated to encounter petty villains, and the only way to avoid it was to become a monk. So, for a long time after suffering from school bullying, he had been saddened, thinking his fate was simply unlucky.

He never imagined that now he would meet someone so kind. He felt truly fortunate.

For the first time in a long while, he had the urge to express himself. He picked up his pen and wrote at length, handing the letters to the butler before he flew back.

Later, as domestic affairs increased, the butler began traveling more frequently between the two countries, and Su Zesui often corresponded with Mr. Gu.

Su Zesui always treasured the first letter Mr. Gu had sent him, in which he had written that Su Zesui was “doing well” and “be strong.”

Sensitive and insecure, Su Zesui feared that if he didn’t live up to Mr. Gu’s expectations, all the care and support he received would be withdrawn.

So in every letter afterward, he made an effort to present himself as “good” and “strong,” writing about his diligent studies, hard work, and anticipation for a reply. He never mentioned the bullying, the isolation, or the hatred he experienced.

It seemed that his flawless disguise worked—Mr. Gu continued to treat him very well. And as their exchanges grew more frequent, their bond deepened.

Mr. Gu sent him many study supplies, including a computer and a tablet, forbidding him to work, and even arranged the best doctor in the province for his big brother. He encouraged Su Zesui to ask for anything else he might need.

Sometimes, Mr. Gu would even share stories about life abroad, saying that being able to study peacefully was in itself a kind of luck.

A few simple words carried so much meaning, clearly reflecting Mr. Gu’s excellent education, fulfilling all of Su Zesui’s fantasies of a highly knowledgeable person.

They remained simple pen pals. Their conversations stayed on the surface, with neither side attempting to truly delve deeper.

That is, until one day during gym class, when Zhou Qizhao threatened Su Zesui, making him stand on the basketball court. Supposedly, it was for learning basketball, but in reality, the ball kept hitting him hard.

When a ball flew toward his face, Su Zesui instinctively raised his hand to block it. He heard a “crack” in his finger, followed by pain so sharp he couldn’t even straighten his back.

The students playing basketball, seeing him kneel clutching his hand, were not the least bit sympathetic. Instead, they mocked him: “Just as useless as your sickly brother. Hey, why so quiet? When’s your brother gonna die?”

That day should have been when Su Zesui wrote to Mr. Gu. But that evening, sitting at the low tea table, his fingers shook uncontrollably as he held the pen, and the words he wrote were crooked and uneven.

The ball had fractured his finger.

Recalling all the cruel curses spoken to him earlier, Su Zesui could no longer hold back, and tears soaked the paper as he sobbed.

He was deeply upset, his mental threshold lowered, yet he still tried to confide in Mr. Gu, using those ugly, crooked letters to minimize the pain.

As soon as the letter was sent, though, Su Zesui regretted it. He spent his days anxious, fearing Mr. Gu would see his weakness and stop caring for him.

Fortunately, Mr. Gu didn’t seem to take it to heart. He didn’t question why he had been bullied or insist that he stop worrying in order to remain “strong” and deserving of support…

He even, for the first time, had the butler give him a voice recorder. Pressing “play,” Mr. Gu’s mysterious voice came through, telling him:

“Don’t worry. Go have your finger checked with the butler. If it’s inconvenient to write, you can use the recorder to communicate in the future.”

His low, magnetic voice was neither rushed nor dull, like a breeze carrying depth of emotion, and sounded barely over twenty. It was the most beautiful voice Su Zesui had ever heard, and he couldn’t help listening over and over.

Su Zesui felt that their relationship had taken a step forward.

Perhaps he had finally survived the trials set by fate. The day after his checkup, for reasons unknown—whether they feared he might report them or had a sudden pang of conscience—Zhou Qizhao and his group avoided him. There was a certain caution in their eyes, and they never bothered him again.

Since that frost-laden day, life gradually improved.

His big brother received treatment from the best medical experts, and Su Zesui could focus on his studies. He could chat with Mr. Gu via the voice recorder and pour out his thoughts across pages of letters, each word heartfelt—emotions he had never expressed before.

Every day was joyful.

But as time passed, Su Zesui began to sense something unusual.

Mr. Gu became increasingly open with him, sharing deeply personal matters: the monotony of his studies, the burdens of inheriting family responsibilities, the tedium of life in a distant land. It seemed there was nothing he wouldn’t discuss.

He was exceedingly generous, sending far more than a typical sponsorship, treating Su Zesui not as a needy student but as someone worthy of genuine support.

Yet, Mr. Gu never offered him a foreign phone number to communicate more conveniently. He never revealed his real name or appearance…

It was as if their souls were infinitely close, but their bodies were separated by an invisible barrier.

Intimate, yet miles apart. They could not see or touch each other; that barrier could not be crossed.

The feeling was strange and unsettling. Su Zesui could not understand why, and felt too embarrassed to ask.

A month later, his big brother’s condition worsened beyond help. Even the best medical care at home or abroad could not save him. One cold winter night, he passed away, leaving the world forever.

Upon receiving the news, Su Zesui did not break down in tears. Not a single drop fell. Everything felt unreal. He even instinctively ran home after school, intending to cook for his big brother.

Only when he reached the kitchen and saw the dust-covered stove did he stop abruptly, slowly realizing… his big brother was gone.

Helplessly sitting on the floor, he opened WeChat and sent a message to his big brother: telling him how much he missed him, asking where he was. But there was no reply—never again.

In this state, his nerves dulled by pain, he lost his usual sensitivity and asked Mr. Gu more private questions: his name, his phone number, even his overseas address.

He was like an abandoned child, spiritually famished, desperately drawing security from anyone who showed him kindness.

It took a long time for Mr. Gu to reply. The letter contained nothing about a phone number or address—only these words:

“A galaxy of stars, locked beyond the night.
This is the meaning given to my name by my family elders.
I once thought it was a hopeless dream, forever out of reach. Later, I realized that only after experiencing darkness can one see the light. I hope it can give you a little more strength.
As for meeting, the time hasn’t come yet. Perhaps, only through an extremely rare coincidence will we meet.
—Gu Yilan”

Su Zesui didn’t understand what “an extremely rare coincidence” meant, and he refused to dismiss it as a vague excuse. He chose to believe Mr. Gu had his reasons.

The encouragement gave him strength again. He resolved to emerge from the shadow of his big brother’s death.

Silently, he vowed to endure the darkness, to see the light, to climb upward, and to become a brave adult like Mr. Gu. Then he would find him—the one of only two people in the world who had ever truly cared for him.

But even before the gaping wounds in his heart had fully healed, Mr. Gu stopped replying. No letters came, no voice recordings exchanged. It was as if he had vanished from the world, leaving no trace.

The butler, exhausted from constantly traveling between countries, seemed distracted and evasive, leaving obvious gaps in his explanations.

Su Zesui panicked. The last thread holding his heart together snapped. The carefully structured days of recovery and growth fell into chaos. He dared not consider whether Mr. Gu had grown tired of him or if he had been abandoned for being inadequate.

He resented himself for improving too slowly, for failing to keep pace with the speed of Mr. Gu’s possible disinterest. He resented the cruel hand of fate that had placed them so far apart in social class, leaving their bond suspended on a single, invisible thread.

After extracting from the butler the name of the city where Mr. Gu lived abroad, he obtained a visa, bought a ticket with his own savings, and rushed to the vast, foreign metropolis, alone and unable to understand the language.

Snow blanketed the city. In a thin coat, he clutched his fingers nervously, and the reluctant butler led him into the house.

At that moment, looking at the empty study, Su Zesui—who had been on edge the entire way—suddenly felt his heart stop and finally understood why everything had happened.

Why do his conversations with Mr. Gu always stop just short of a deeper connection? Why does he feel as if an invisible hand gently pushes him away every time he tries to take their relationship a step further?

Human neurons transmit signals at an extremely fast speed, requiring almost no time at all. In other words, recovering memories is just a matter of an instant.

Yet the weight of those memories can take a lifetime to process.

As the flood of recollections descended upon him along the timeline, Su Zesui slowly felt the emotions tied to each experience.

Earlier memories had brought sorrow and joy, highs and lows—but his heart had long since become numb, passively absorbing them without reaction.

It wasn’t until this fragment of a memory—which had been foreshadowed long ago while he was playing games with his classmates—pieced itself into his complete recollection that Su Zesui suddenly clutched the stuffed toy in his hand, his eyes wide, his breathing becoming incredibly shallow as if someone had choked him.

No wonder… no wonder every time this matter was mentioned, the Gu Yilan of this world always hesitated to speak, never saying more than a brief apology.

It turned out that the truth of the matter was something he could never have imagined.

---

Taw’s Note: Suisui ah… QAQ

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Memories (1/2)

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Su Zesui felt as if he had fallen into an ice cellar—blood from head to toe turned cold. The high fever that had lingered for days suddenly vanished, but it didn’t make him feel any better.

His eyes were bloodshot, veiled with a thin mist of hatred. In his hands, the fire extinguisher swung mercilessly, each blow landing heavily on Zhou Qizhao, as if he were about to kill.

The contrast with his usual obedient, well-behaved demeanor was striking.

Zhou Qizhao had already taken an extremely hard hit from Su Zesui. With only Feng Chengwen and the others pulling him back and no one restraining Su Zesui, he misstepped and was struck again on the forehead. His whole body went limp, collapsing to the ground.

Zhou Qizhao was completely down.

Between gasps for breath, the suppressed memories seized the opportunity, flooding Su Zesui’s consciousness like a rising tide. His soul struggled, unwilling to accept it just yet.

Su Zesui clutched his head, the corners of his eyes so red they seemed on the verge of bleeding. The fire extinguisher slipped from his trembling fingers and clattered onto the floor.

Then, he suddenly bolted, running toward the outside.

The turn of events came too suddenly—no more than two minutes had passed—and the surrounding classmates were all frozen in shock, unable to react.

A few seconds later, someone rushed toward the teacher’s office, others went to check on Zhou Qizhao, and a few pulled out their phones to call 911. The scene was utter chaos.

The instigator, Su Zesui, had slipped away from some hallway and was nowhere to be seen. No one dared to chase him.

It happened to be the registration period at City No. 1 High School. The school gates were still wide open, and the drowsy guard didn’t notice a blood-stained boy running against the flow of people.

In truth, Su Zesui had no strength left. Days of high fever had drained every ounce of his energy. After hitting Zhou Qizhao, his body was trembling from overload.

Yet he kept running on unsteady legs.

——Keep busy. If the body is busy enough, the brain won’t have a chance to think.

The surrounding environment still wasn’t safe, and he couldn’t face those memories yet. They were too heavy, too numerous, requiring a long, stable period of time before they could be confronted.

“Beep—”

A shrill honk cut through the air. Su Zesui realized he had run straight into the middle of the street, and the traffic light ahead was glaring red.

Cars screeched to a halt to avoid him. Horns blared, each one hammering against his eardrums like the last straw on a broken camel’s back.

Su Zesui collapsed to his knees, clutching his head and sobbing.

He couldn’t quite remember what happened next.

Faintly, he seemed to recall a kind driver getting out of the car, asking if he was okay and whether he needed to go to the hospital.

Then, without any resistance, he got into the car. The vehicle drove on, turning several times along the way.

The driver’s chatter filled his ears, but he seemed lost in a daze, repeating over and over like a madman, “Go home… go home…”

After many turns, through some unknown means, he passed the guard at the gate. Somehow, he had made it home.

He didn’t even have the energy to say “thank you.” He ran to the familiar master bedroom, drew the translucent curtains tightly, and crawled into the semi-enclosed, large golden-wire cage.

Clutching a fluffy stuffed animal tightly, he closed his eyes. Two icy, sorrowful tears finally streamed down his face.

As his body relaxed, the memories he had forcibly suppressed for so long sprang back like a coiled spring, ready to invade every nerve and drag him into the depths of emotion.

This time, Su Zesui didn’t resist.

. . . . .

The story began on a day between autumn and winter. The fallen leaves were yellow and brittle; the cold wind bit at anyone it touched, leaving a sense of pointless desolation.

At the time, Su Zesui was just fifteen and had entered the first year of high school. Academic pressure was high. Although it was supposed to be a bright, promising time, the usually obedient boy resisted school.

He had chosen the liberal arts track and performed only averagely. He had little presence in class and, being shy and inarticulate, hadn’t made any friends since the semester began.

But he was used to being alone, so this didn’t make him dislike school.

Everything stemmed from a single incident.

He had accidentally caught two male classmates kissing and groping each other in the corner of the stairwell—clearly very close.

In his previous world, homosexuality was still widely unaccepted. If their parents found out, it could have caused a major scene at school. In other words, he had stumbled upon a scandal—or even a secret the two could use as leverage.

Soon after, he became the target of relentless retaliation.

The two came from well-off families, had their own clique in class, and were far too proud to plead with him to keep quiet. So they resorted to more extreme measures to make him “shut up.”

They verbally abused him, attacked him, sneered at him, called him worthless, and claimed it was a privilege to even see them. With no one to support him, Su Zesui didn’t resist. They grew bolder, sometimes laying hands on him.

The worst incident was when they lured him to an unmonitored gym and poured a whole thermos of boiling water on his arm, leaving a scar that would never fade.

Su Zesui remembered the person who had led the bullying: someone from a wealthy family, arrogant and overbearing. He was the one who messed around at the corner of the stairwell, called him trash, and threw boiling water at him.

That person was Zhou Qizhao.

Afterward, bruises and scars often appeared on Su Zesui’s body. Years of psychological abuse made him even more introverted and extreme. He would tremble at the slightest sound.

Classmates treated his jumpy reactions as if he were mentally handicapped, gradually ostracizing him. He, in turn, became even more fearful of revealing the secret underground relationship, worried it would provoke even worse retaliation.

As if misfortune weren’t enough, right after his arm burn, doctors informed him that his big brother’s cancer had worsened, urgently needing surgery fees. Whether by borrowing or fundraising, the money had to be gathered quickly—or his big brother would die.

Su Zesui curled up in a corner of his room, crying alone for a long time.

He had been orphaned since childhood and lived with his big brother in this shabby little house. He remembered that although they were poor back then, their life had still been happy.

Every first day of the month, his big brother would buy a single flower from the florist and tell him, “Love life as you love this flower.”

Later, his big brother was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and a shadow of despair fell over his life…

After crying, Su Zesui had to force himself to ignore the aching in his chest and go outside to take on odd jobs, even though he was still a minor.

During that time, he endured both psychological and physical torment during the day, and at night dragged his numb body around like a wind-up puppet running out of energy, working odd jobs to earn money.

No matter how painful or uncomfortable it was, he refused to buy even a small ointment for himself, afraid that spending the money might mean his big brother wouldn’t get the care he needed.

He didn’t tell his big brother what he was going through, worried that it would make him upset or worsen his condition.

He didn’t want to go to school anymore; he wanted to drop out and work to earn more money.

Later, Su Mingyu noticed his brother’s unusual behavior. He bought him some ointment and gave him chocolate with a smile, encouraging him to get along with his classmates.

Although the results weren’t ideal at first, the real turning point came a month later.

He remembered that day—it was a rare sunny day in late autumn.

Su Zesui hadn’t seen such bright sunlight in a long time. His gaze drifted out the window, his long lashes lowered, his eyes fixed in a daze, enjoying this rare moment of peace in his otherwise dark life.

Only in class did he feel safe—not surrounded by a crowd, not fearing the sudden fists or slaps that could fall on him at any moment.

The homeroom teacher spoke passionately at the front of the class, while students below were doing homework, whispering, or hiding behind books to fool around—almost no one was really listening.

The teacher was talking about a charity program. Apparently, a benefactor would sponsor impoverished students at their school, and anyone in need could apply.

A few days later, Su Zesui, who didn’t expect much, submitted the registration form for the program—and to his surprise, he received a response very quickly.

It happened on a frosty, cold day. He rubbed his hands together, carrying his old backpack from elementary school, and ran home.

Today, no one blocked him. He wanted to cook quickly, deliver it to his big brother in the hospital, and then head to a small, rundown restaurant in the alley to work an odd job.

Just as he reached his front door, he saw a kindly-looking stranger.

The stranger smiled gently and introduced himself as a butler sent to check on him. He told Su Zesui not to be nervous and to speak honestly.

The butler looked around his humble home and asked a few questions. After confirming that the information Su Zesui had provided was true, he told him that “Mr. Gu” was willing to sponsor him through college.

At that time, Su Zesui had already lost much interest in school. After hesitating for a long time, just as the butler was about to leave, he cautiously asked if the sponsorship could be used to treat his big brother’s illness instead. He promised he would repay it in full later.

Hearing this, the butler frowned, troubled.

The boy standing before him wore old clothes, was thin from long-term malnutrition, yet his appearance was striking, especially his eyes—clear and bright, like stars in the sky. He didn’t know proper etiquette, but he was impossible to scold harshly.

Seeing the butler hesitate, saying only that he would have to ask Mr. Gu, Su Zesui understood—that was a polite refusal.

But for his big brother, even the slightest hope was worth fighting for.

Since Mr. Gu was abroad and Su Zesui couldn’t access foreign social media, he carefully wrote a long, neat letter explaining his family’s situation, promising to repay the favor in full with interest once he earned money in the future.

After the butler left, Su Zesui immediately regretted writing such a long letter—surely Mr. Gu was busy and wouldn’t have time to read it. He also regretted promising to pay later—it sounded like an empty promise. He should have said he would start working and repaying immediately…

At just fifteen, his sensitivity and thoughtfulness were remarkable.

---

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Safe and Sound (2/2)

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After this scare, Su Zesui cherished every moment in this world even more, facing his moderate fever head-on, actively building his resilience, and living each day earnestly.

He didn’t go live again, but that night, as his fever slightly receded, he sent a reassuring message to his followers.

“Tomorrow I have to go register at school.” Sitting cross-legged on the bed with an ice pack on his head, Su Zesui checked his schedule on his phone.

“If there’s a special situation, you can take leave. I’ll have someone help you register,” Gu Yilan said, taking the thermometer the boy handed him to check his temperature.

The moderate fever didn’t stop Su Zesui from moving, but it was stubborn. No matter the medicine, ice packs, or rest, each morning his temperature read exactly the same.

And tomorrow he had an unavoidable academic conference, so he might not be able to wait for him at the school entrance.

“It’s okay, just a little dizzy. I can handle it.”

Seeing Gu Yilan frown in thought, Su Zesui reassured him, “Don’t worry. Maybe in a few days, it’ll go down on its own, like before.”

For some reason, seeing the boy’s optimism gave Gu Yilan a bad premonition.

It was as if some fated, ferocious beast was approaching them. They couldn’t see it, but they could hear the crunch of dry leaves under its steps.

The calm they displayed now was only a mask, forced to comfort each other despite their worries.

All words of reassurance felt hollow. Gu Yilan could only say, “The driver will wait for you at the gate. I’ll pick you up at noon after school. If you feel unwell, call me.”

Su Zesui nodded. “I’m fine. I was just thinking—registration only takes a few hours. Tomorrow afternoon I’ll go live! I want to chat with them; they keep asking about us every day.”

His tone betrayed his excitement, clearly buoyed by the overwhelmingly positive energy from online attention.

Gu Yilan raised an eyebrow. “What about me? Should I appear on camera?”

Su Zesui looked at him and laughed, “They’ve already dug up a lot of your photos. They know what you look like.”

The boy rarely went online and lacked awareness of privacy issues. He only saw the praise and didn’t realize that this could be problematic.

Gu Yilan, used to being discussed online, didn’t care. He even teased, “Hmm? But they probably don’t have any pictures of me kissing you. I’ll show them that someday.”

Su Zesui rubbed his flushed cheeks, puffed them out, and muttered, “Even hotter now.”

Smiling, Gu Yilan changed the topic. “Tomorrow’s time is for your fans. The day after, I’ll take you to see houses. I’ve picked out the neighborhood and layouts—see if you like any style. We’ll move soon.”

“Wow.” Su Zesui clapped his hands.

Although this villa held most of his memories with Mr. Gu, it had always been overshadowed by the presence of Mr. Gu’s parents.

Once they moved out, Gu Yilan could finally break free from the chains of the past and start a brand-new chapter of life with him.

Everything seemed full of promise, as if a beautiful life was just around the corner.

Determined as ever, after finishing dinner, Su Zesui—despite his fevered, overloaded brain—still opened his phone, eager to review the registration process for tomorrow.

His old WeChat had not only small friend groups but also class groups without teachers.

Since registration was tomorrow, the class groups, silent all summer, suddenly came alive—chatting, joking, boasting, discussing gossip about neighboring classes, and asking questions about tomorrow’s procedures.

Su Zesui had forgotten the registration steps and planned to secretly take notes from his well-informed classmates.

But unexpectedly, the class monitor mentioned him directly:

[Class Monitor: Recently Su Zesui, are you sick lately? Is it convenient for you to come to sign up tomorrow? Your health comes first, don’t overexert yourself. It’s also not a problem to have a parent come for the registration.]

Su Zesui felt a little flattered. He long-pressed to quote the message, treating it as polite small talk, and after repeatedly editing and choosing his words carefully, he finally replied:

[Su Zesui: It’s okay. I’ve been feeling fine lately and can go. Thank you for your concern (love)(love)]

After sending it, his heart raced, and his head felt foggy. He stared at the screen, planning to rest once this brief social interaction was over.

But just two or three seconds later, another message bumped his reply to the top:

[Zhou Qizhao: Did everyone hear? The top student from the other class got a girl pregnant over the summer, and her parents went straight to his. Now he has to take responsibility.]

This explosive gossip caused an uproar—“OMG!” “No way!” “I knew he wasn’t a good student”—and Su Zesui’s message was buried.

The name “Zhou Qizhao” made him uneasy for no reason, yet he didn’t leave the chat.

It wasn’t until he saw the class monitor reply below, laughing, “Haha, the class committee from their class even discussed it with me yesterday—told me not to spread it,” that Su Zesui realized his message would get no further responses.

It was normal—he had only sent a statement, answering a question and politely thanking someone. There was nothing more to respond to, he reasoned.

But being sick made him unusually sensitive. Seeing his lonely, solitary message at the top, he couldn’t help but recall the cold treatment he had once endured.

Before, no matter what he said, classmates would look at him with disdain, never offering a kind response. No matter how he tried to please them—even giving chocolate he treasured—it never changed the feeling of being ignored.

It was like chasing a bus that would never arrive.

“Oh, you’ve been staring at your phone for ten minutes, more than you’re looking at your brother. So sad.”

Hearing this, Su Zesui looked up and saw Gu Yilan smiling at him, though his words sounded concerned. The man’s calm black eyes reflected only him.

It was as if… every small movement of his could tug at the other’s heartstrings.

Su Zesui turned off his phone, trying to resist the urge to throw himself into his arms. Staring at him, flustered, he said, “Then… I’ll watch you.”

Gu Yilan lay down beside him. “Brother’s tired. You lie down and watch me. Let’s see who falls asleep first.”

Believing him, Su Zesui obediently lay down, their eyes meeting, his body warmed by the man’s heat. Within minutes, he was exhausted and asleep.

He slept straight through until the next morning.

Gu Yilan checked his temperature.

It had risen by 0.1°C compared to the previous days—a stark contrast to the prior extreme stability. Given this, it would be safest to observe him at home.

Yet Su Zesui insisted on going to school.

Unable to convince him otherwise, Gu Yilan drove him there himself and had the driver park another car at the school entrance to handle any emergencies.

At the entrance of A City No. 1 High School, the boy wore no mask, hat, or sunglasses. But the thin layer of sweat on his forehead revealed both his moderate fever and inner anxiety.

“Want a hug?” Gu Yilan opened his arms. Seeing him hesitate, he added, “Brother’s scared. I want to hug you.”

Su Zesui’s heart pounded like a drum, heavy and suffocating. Yet the man’s embrace would have been the perfect remedy, restoring his sense of safety and courage.

Still, he held firm. “Brother, don’t be scared. You can’t hug.”

Gu Yilan reluctantly lowered his arms. “Call me if anything happens. Registration ends at 11 AM—I’ll come get you then.”

“It’ll be fine. The jade you gave me will protect me. Bye bye!”

“Mm.” Gu Yilan waved like any parent sending a child off to school, watching the boy walk away. “Brother and your fans will wait for you at noon.”

Considering the boy’s mental state, Gu Yilan had already contacted Su Zesui’s homeroom teacher, explaining the situation and asking for care.

He even messaged the principal—a friend he had added but never spoken to—requesting a school counselor to discreetly ensure Su Zesui’s safety without alarming him.

Gu Yilan, a highly regarded alumnus in the principal’s eyes, combined with the attention Su Zesui had recently brought to the school, made the principal promise to handle it carefully.

With all this in place, nothing should go wrong.

Faced with unfamiliar classmates and teachers, Su Zesui was extremely nervous.

Along the way, he kept fidgeting with his fingers, afraid to look up. He felt like his body temperature had risen again—his head felt heavier, his heartbeat irregular, and a vague sense of unease crept over him.

Fortunately, when he followed the previously saved map of the school’s classroom layout and reached his own floor, he spotted Feng Chengwen and the others.

Feng Chengwen and his friends weren’t fond of gossip and rarely chatted in the group, so they hadn’t seen the message he posted there yesterday; otherwise, they might have warmed him up a bit.

However, they were all avid gamers. Yesterday, before their consoles were confiscated, they had played all night, and now each of them had dark circles under their eyes.

“Hey, man, are you feeling better?” Feng Chengwen asked, noticing the boy’s unusually high temperature as he approached. “I’ll help you carry your books later, though I guess you don’t really need them much anymore.”

The school was crowded, with people streaming past, and Su Zesui’s palms grew slightly sweaty. Still, he politely whispered, “Much better. Thanks.”

“No need to be so formal, we’re all friends.”

Feng Chengwen yawned. Through his blurry eyes, he noticed Su Zesui suddenly lift his head sharply, staring straight ahead as if he’d seen something unbelievable.

He instinctively followed his gaze.

Remembering that Gu Yilan had mentioned Su Zesui had amnesia, Yuan Mingcheng kindly reminded him, “That’s Zhou Qizhao.”

“D-don’t shake so violently,” Feng Chengwen said, flustered. “I told you about him before, remember? He’s the idiot I refused when he wanted us to go out. He was your previous deskmate—you didn’t like him either.”

Seeming to sense their unhidden stares, Zhou Qizhao paused and then walked toward them.

Though Feng Chengwen didn’t want to deal with him, he glanced at Su Zesui and finally saw the trembling stop. He let out a sigh of relief. “Relax. If he invites you to hang out, I’ll help you refuse again.”

The boy standing beside him said nothing.

Zhou Qizhao reached them and stopped about half a meter away. Before he could even speak, Su Zesui moved suddenly, without warning.

He grabbed a fire extinguisher from the nearby transparent box and raised it high, swinging it hard at Zhou Qizhao.

“Whoa!” Everyone around froze in shock.

Despite being sick and expected to be weak, Su Zesui hit with surprising force, smashing Zhou Qizhao’s head on the first strike.

Blood gushed out, dripping onto the school’s pristine white floor.

But Zhou Qizhao wasn’t someone to be trifled with. He struck quickly and accurately, trying to grab the boy’s neck. Blinded by the blood, he lost his aim. His fingers only caught the strap of the fire extinguisher.

In pain, he gritted his teeth and yanked hard. The smooth, green jade instantly flew off, crashing against the wall and shattering into pieces.

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Taw’s Note: shick shack shock 😱😱😱

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Safe and Sound (1/2)

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Su Zesui was sick, running a high fever of 39.8°C.

His head was dizzy, his thoughts muddled, and he barely had any awareness, letting the man tend to him however he wished. It wasn’t until an ice pack was pressed to his forehead that he slowly regained some clarity.

The first thing he did upon regaining a fraction of his senses was to weakly shake the man’s arm and insist, “Int—interview.”

“The time’s already passed.” Gu Yilan glanced at the phone; it was already 9:10 AM. “Just rest.”

“I’m doomed… wuwuwu.” Su Zesui scrunched up his little face in frustration.

He felt guilty—he had missed the interview with A City’s local TV station, such a major media outlet, and disappointed the fans who had booked spots for the interview, which had reached over 100,000 reservations.

“You’re not doomed.” Gu Yilan listened as the boy muttered to himself. “The TV staff all understand, and your viewers care about you. Once you feel a bit better, you can check your phone yourself.”

Hearing this, Su Zesui tried to push himself up with his weak, aching arms. “I—I want to see it now.”

Gu Yilan propped him up with a pillow, took his phone, and pulled up his social media account.

His phone had no passcode. Half an hour earlier, Gu Yilan had posted a public note in the voice of “big brother,” explaining that Su Zesui had unexpectedly fallen ill and couldn’t attend the interview.

The man, who usually disliked explaining or clarifying things, this time even thoughtfully took a photo of the thermometer. With both image and text, it was very persuasive.

In just half an hour, thousands of comments had already flooded in:

[Take care, Baby Suisui, health comes first. Everything else can wait (hug)(hug)]

[Rest well. No live streams until you’re fully recovered.]

[High fever relief tips: wipe with warm water, cold compress, proper ventilation, stay hydrated, take medication, rest enough, wear light clothing, seek medical attention if needed…]

Even though his brain felt like it was full of mush and moving it even slightly caused a splitting headache, Su Zesui still scrolled through every single comment.

Thousands of comments—none critical, not a single one expressing disappointment. Everyone was considerate of his feelings and concerned for his health, reminding him to rest.

Su Zesui sniffled, his heart tender with emotion. For the first time, he actively engaged with others without being forced, replying to a few comments and posting a pinned message: [Thank you all, I’m feeling much better.]

Yet, when his gaze fell on Gu Yilan in the couple’s outfit they had picked together, a small frown appeared.

Noticing the unwavering look directed at him, Gu Yilan returned with a fresh ice pack and said, “Finished checking? Lie down and rest a bit; the doctor will be here soon.”

Obediently, Su Zesui lay back, staring at the pristine white ceiling and waiting quietly as the man replaced the ice pack. Then, in a soft voice, he said, “Going public… no more.”

Gu Yilan paused mid-motion. “There will be plenty of other chances.”

Perhaps because of the illness, Su Zesui sounded pessimistic. “But this chance is gone.”

Seeing Gu Yilan lean down, as if to comfort him with a gentle hug, Su Zesui weakly raised his hand and pushed the man’s shoulder. “N—no hugging yet.”

Gu Yilan chuckled, “You’re so delirious with fever, and you still remember?”

Su Zesui, confused by his own words, repeated, “No hugging… no hugging.”

A man’s embrace always had a magical effect. Every time, pressing against his strong muscles, feeling his powerful heartbeat, Su Zesui felt fully present—untouched by the outside chaos, sorrow, or pain.

He could rely on him at any moment. Any touch, any spark of warmth, would be accepted unconditionally.

But for the sake of the people who loved him, and the ones he loved, he had to cultivate strength now.

Unsure if his refusal had hurt the man, Gu Yilan turned to step away.

Su Zesui, dizzy and fevered, half-closed his eyes, and weakly parted his lips, wanting to explain, to comfort. But within seconds, Gu Yilan returned.

Then, the man grasped his hand and slipped a silver ring onto his ring finger. The icy coolness against his fevered skin was soothing.

Using the last of his strength, Su Zesui slightly lifted his hand and saw the diamond ring glinting in the natural light—clearly a wedding band.

Instinctively, he looked at the same finger on Gu Yilan’s hand and saw the matching ring, accentuated by the man’s long, elegant fingers. Even more beautiful.

Su Zesui couldn’t help but softly exclaim, “Wow.”

Gu Yilan held his scorching hand, picked up the phone on the pillow, and took a photo of their hands with the rings, then returned the phone to him with a teasing smile. “A new chance has come quickly.”

Su Zesui turned slightly, looking at the photo on the phone, understanding that Gu Yilan had handed him the choice again.

To post or not to post—it was entirely up to him.

Su Zesui made a decision in a second, came up with the caption in three seconds, posted both the image and text in five seconds, and then put down his phone, completely drained, lying limply on the bed.

With all worries resolved, the tension in his heart eased, and he could truly rest.

The boy’s phone lay unlocked by his pillow, every detail displayed plainly, visible in Gu Yilan’s gaze—

[Actually, me and Brother Gu Yilan (picture)]

. . . . .

The private doctor soon arrived at the master bedroom, carrying a medical kit. After a thorough examination, however, he looked increasingly perplexed.

“It doesn’t seem like a viral infection, nor heatstroke. The immune system checks out fine…” the doctor said. “Strange. We still can’t figure out the cause of the fever. I’ll prescribe some antipyretics first and see if they help.”

Gu Yilan nodded slightly and followed the doctor out of the room.

On the large bed, Su Zesui lazily opened his heavy, tired eyes. His throat was parched, and his head throbbed.

He looked at his hands lying weakly at his sides, curling his pale fingers slightly, sensing something slipping away through the gaps between them.

Since the cause of his illness couldn’t be determined for now, the doctor could only prescribe routine fever medicine—but it barely helped.

Over the following days, Su Zesui’s condition showed no improvement. The high fever persisted, and he remained awake only briefly each day.

The posts he had shared on social media gained some traction again. Though the biggest wave of attention had passed, many followers still checked in daily, asking about his condition.

Unfortunately, Su Zesui didn’t have the energy to go online or respond to those who cared about him.

The doctor came by several times a day, even organizing a panel of experts specifically to study Su Zesui’s condition and treatment—but nothing worked.

The fever felt like a natural disaster: origin unknown, no weaknesses to exploit. Even the seasoned doctors were helpless.

One day, after the doctors had collected blood samples and left, Su Zesui weakly called, “Brother…”

Hearing him, Gu Yilan sat on the edge of the bed, running his hand through the boy’s black hair. “Don’t worry,” he comforted. “I’ve arranged for specialists abroad. You won’t have to suffer for much longer.”

Su Zesui managed a faint smile. His voice was barely audible. “Brother… I want to tell you something.”

He could feel that something was wrong. His body and mind were deteriorating, without reason, without cause.

Such a supernatural occurrence would be abnormal for anyone—except him.

Half of his soul belonged to another world, for he was a traveler from another world.

Everything that made him uncomfortable now seemed like a warning, signaling that something terrible was about to happen.

Su Zesui could sense the presence of that event.

——Could it be… that he was about to travel back?

“Hm? What is it?” Gu Yilan leaned slightly closer.

Su Zesui curved his eyes slightly and, touching the ring on his ring finger, whispered a secret he had kept for days: “Actually… our relationship in the other world wasn’t good at all.”

Gu Yilan was silent for a moment, then said hoarsely, “I guessed as much.”

“You didn’t like me,” Su Zesui continued softly. “I flew over to see you, but you didn’t want to meet me.”

Gu Yilan’s lips parted, as if to say something, but in the end he only said, “…I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Su Zesui said weakly, his words punctuated with shallow breaths. “Do parallel worlds have misaligned timelines? I remember, in my previous world, no one bullied me until high school. But here… I was already bullied in middle school.”

“If the connection is strong…” Gu Yilan lowered his gaze. “…it’s possible.”

Su Zesui tried to smile. “That’s good. In this world, you like me. Maybe being rejected in the previous world wasn’t the end. You might still like me in the end. You said it yourself—we’re the same person.”

“What do you mean?” Gu Yilan frowned, sensing something amiss.

“Nothing really… It’s just… I think I’m going to travel back.”

Gu Yilan replied without hesitation, “Impossible.”

Su Zesui, already drowsy, wanted to sleep but still asked, following the man’s lead, “Why?”

“Time travel requires a ‘door’ and a high-energy ‘key’ to open it. Neither condition is met here, so it’s impossible.”

“What if the other-world version of you has already figured out the ‘door’?” Su Zesui asked. “My whole body is burning… um, with biomass energy.”

“Trust me, Suisui,” Gu Yilan said. “No conditions are met. The other-world me can’t create the door, and your biomass energy is far from the required high energy.”

Exhausted, Su Zesui could barely keep his eyes open. He had no energy to argue further and said instead, “I trust you, Brother… Let’s skip the hug for now… we can later…”

His voice grew fainter, and by the last word, he had drifted back into the void of sleep.

Su Zesui didn’t know if Gu Yilan was merely comforting him.

But even if there was only a small chance of staying in this world, he wanted to persevere, desensitize himself, and become stronger—preparing for a possibly brighter future.

If, in the end, he still couldn’t escape his fate of traveling, then… he could at least share one last embrace before leaving.

Su Zesui slept until the afternoon sun began to set.

For someone sick like him, day and night had lost all meaning. But no matter when he woke, Gu Yilan was always by his side.

That evening, just as he opened his eyes and was about to sit up for a drink, he felt something heavy hang around his neck.

Instinctively, he looked down.

It was a jade pendant of pure green, smooth and polished like creamy jade. The craftsmanship was exquisite, with a natural luster, as if some ancient power flowed within. Its value was immediately obvious.

“Peace Jade.” Seeing the boy staring at the jade pendant, Gu Yilan fed him some water while explaining, “It can protect you. Stay in this world, safe, healthy, and lucky.”

Su Zesui gulped down the water from the man’s hand before asking, “Do… you actually believe in these superstitions?”

“For you, I do,” Gu Yilan replied.

Su Zesui caressed the smooth, warm jade, reluctant to let it go. “Then… I believe too.”

Gu Yilan brushed the boy’s striking black hair from his forehead. “You won’t travel back. And even if some accident really did happen, I’d find a way to come for you. Will you trust me one more time?”

Looking at the doctors about to enter the room, Su Zesui obediently lay back down, preparing for another checkup. He murmured weakly, “Of course.”

The panel of specialists had finalized their diagnosis and arranged a special medication for him.

The medicine was potent, with noticeable side effects. Not long after starting the IV, the boy, who had just woken up, began to feel drowsy again.

Holding the jade in his hand, savoring its cool, comforting touch, he slowly closed his eyes, whispering, “I wish we could never be apart…”

The prolonged high fever, like some cruel joke from heaven, finally subsided that night, dropping to a moderate fever.

It happened so suddenly that the multiple courses of medicine prepared by the specialists hadn’t even been used.

They couldn’t explain why; it was attributed to a combination of the special medication, the jade, and the boy’s positive mindset.

---

---

Internet Celebrity

---

With Gu Yilan’s help, Su Zesui opened a social media account.

Since this was no small matter, Gu Yilan informed Su Mingyu, as well as No. 1 High School in City A—the producers of the physics competition documentary—about the boy’s upcoming live stream where he would chat with fans.

Although the results of the school’s internal physics competition had not yet been publicly announced, the competition committee at No. 1 High had already released the scores internally. As expected, Su Zesui had achieved an outstanding result and secured his place in the next round without suspense.

News that the dark horse, Su Zesui, had become a rising star online—and was even planning to live stream—was welcomed enthusiastically by the school leaders.

After all, the purpose of producing the documentary had been to boost the reputation of City A No. 1 High’s physics competition program and attract more talented applicants.

Su Zesui’s popularity was, without a doubt, the most cost-effective way to maximize the school’s benefits.

As the boy’s online following grew, naturally improving the school’s reputation as well, the principal personally called him to express the school’s care and gratitude. He even asked, on behalf of the school, if Su Zesui might give his alma mater a casual mention during the stream.

Hearing the repeated thanks and praise from the other end of the line, Su Zesui—who had only intended to use streaming as a way to desensitize himself—felt a little embarrassed. “N-no need to thank me.”

The principal, noticing his lack of arrogance compared to most competition students, was pleased and wanted to give him more confidence. He specially brought over Mr. Jiang, the head of the competition program, to congratulate Su Zesui on qualifying for the preliminaries.

Team Leader Jiang, who usually cared about nothing but academics, had also reviewed Su Zesui’s test results. For the first time, he sincerely apologized for his earlier prejudice against the boy and encouraged him to do well in the upcoming CPhO.

He even offered to personally tutor Su Zesui for free if he ever struggled with difficult problems.

Meanwhile, after being informed by Gu Yilan, Su Mingyu also called Su Zesui and chatted with him for over half an hour. He rambled on, saying how proud the whole family was of him, reminding him not to get nervous when chatting with fans, not to feel pressured, and that simply being able to talk naturally would already be a huge victory.

Breaking through the clouds to see the moon, things finally seemed to be moving in a good direction.

In the living room, everything was ready. Sitting in front of the setup, Su Zesui, who was about to start his first livestream, couldn’t stop his palms from sweating. “Sc—scared.”

Gu Yilan adjusted the equipment for him, angling the camera to capture only from the base of his pale, slender neck downward. “I’ll be right here beside you. If at any point it’s too much, just dive into my arms. Don’t worry about anything else.”

There were still ten minutes before the broadcast went live, and the closer the time drew, the more violently Su Zesui trembled. His stomach even started to ache from sheer nerves.

“You’re now the face of our school’s physics competition team,” Gu Yilan said. “Even the local TV station has reached out to me, hoping to set up a formal interview. I didn’t give them an answer—after this livestream, you can decide for yourself, alright?”

Successfully distracted, Su Zesui whispered, “I—I’m not a genius. I just relied on what I studied before to get through the school competition. Isn’t that… kind of unfair?”

“How’s that unfair? You studied and earned that knowledge yourself, didn’t you?” Gu Yilan raised a brow. “And if you’re talking about interview rights—they’re only interviewing you because you passed the competition. But the truth is, you’re far more remarkable than they think. You’re a time traveler. Honestly, they’re the ones getting a bargain.”

Su Zesui laughed at that. And when he thought about it more carefully, he realized Mr. Gu’s words weren’t just hollow comfort—they actually made a lot of sense. The reassurance went straight to his heart.

Thus, the most nerve-racking ten minutes passed in laughter.

Sitting just outside the frame, Gu Yilan prepared to hit the button and start the stream. Right before going live, he reminded gently, “Pick out the comments you like, read and respond to them. There’s no time limit. The moment you feel uncomfortable, we shut it off.”

Su Zesui clenched his fists and gave a solemn nod.

Once he was sure the boy was ready, Gu Yilan pressed “Start.”

In addition to hiring three professional moderators, he also gave himself admin privileges in the livestream room—ready to delete, report, and ban any trolls in one clean sweep.

But to his surprise, the first wave of comments had a very… peculiar tone—

[Finally live! Been waiting for this 🌹🌹🌹]
[Fair-skinned and clean-cut, you can tell at a glance that he’s a well-behaved child with a good upbringing ❤️❤️]
[Congrats on making the competition shortlist—you’re the pride of City A!]

It has the vibe of an old person using a computer.

Staring at the last comment that floated across the screen, Gu Yilan’s eyes darkened.

The fact that Su Zesui had passed the school-level competition had never been made public. Only a handful of insiders knew…

After a few minutes, seeing that the boy was still shy but handling it well, Gu Yilan stood, waved his phone to signal he needed to make a call, and headed toward the dining room. His expression had gone serious as he dialed Su Mingyu.

“Hello? Make it quick, I want to watch Suisui’s livestream,” Su Mingyu said impatiently right off the bat.

“Was it you who told people he passed the competition?” Gu Yilan asked.

“Huh? That’s supposed to be a secret?” Su Mingyu was genuinely puzzled.

“…Not exactly.” Gu Yilan sighed.

But before he could finish, the other side hurriedly cut him off: “Then it’s fine, then it’s fine. I just told my parents. They’re ridiculously proud—haven’t been this excited in years. Not only do they go on about it every day in the family group chat, but at work and among friends too, they keep saying, ‘Did you know my son made it into the national physics competition?’ It’s so embarrassing.”

Gu Yilan frowned. “Still, that doesn’t mean you should buy bot traffic. What he needs right now is genuine encouragement. If he finds out the praise is fake, it’ll only crush him further.”

“…What bots?”

There was a pause on the line, as if Su Mingyu had just pulled up the livestream chat. A few seconds later, his voice came back, low and furious: “Those are my aunts and uncles! Gu. Yi. Lan!!”

Gu Yilan: …

Expressionless, he hung up.

A few seconds later, his phone buzzed with a WeChat message from Su Mingyu. He glanced at it—

[Su Mingyu: Oh, right, forgot to say—my mom asked me to apologize on her behalf. She watched the livestream and realized she’d misunderstood you before. She says you raised Suisui really well. You’re a good man 👍👍]

The corner of Gu Yilan’s lips curved as he typed a reply one-handed while walking back.

[11th Dimension: Mm. In time, we’ll hold a proper wedding.]

Back in the living room, the boy sat cross-legged on the fluffy rug, eyes curved with a bright smile, his face glowing with color. Compared with the withdrawn, silent figure from yesterday, it was like night and day.

Gu Yilan glanced at the rolling comments.

In this fragmented internet age—an age that loves creating idols—public opinion is powerful, like a rushing current sweeping most people along with it.

And for a boy whose mental state had been so fragile, this overwhelmingly positive tide was exactly what he needed.

In the livestream chat, comments flooded in—some praised Su Zesui as a “pillar of the nation’s future,” others marveled at his looks, saying he had both intelligence and beauty, while a few dug up the fact that he was the Su family’s young master and gushed endlessly about his gentle, well-mannered personality.

All of it worked as positive psychological reinforcement for the boy. It had to be said—the psychologist’s advice was truly precise and effective.

Compliments poured in like waves, most of them repetitive. Su Zesui could read several in a single second, like wading through an ocean of practice problems. Very quickly, he grew desensitized.

Since he wasn’t showing his face, his psychological defenses were lowered even further, and gradually he was able to read the comments out loud and chat with strangers across the screen—

“So amazing! I want to become someone like you one day… Thank you, I’m really not that amazing.”

“Please share tips on how to prepare for the physics competition… For improving grades, you just need to study hard, um, and also have a good teacher.”

“Really like the streamer, already sent you a private message. He’s very nice, but his family isn’t that well-off. He said even his house doesn’t have a door…”

Su Zesui rarely went online and didn’t understand internet slang. He read that last comment word for word, then frowned, earnestly trying to figure out what it meant.

But just then, a large hand holding a glass cup suddenly entered the frame, interrupting his thoughts.

Gu Yilan, face cold, blocked and banned the commenter while asking, “You’ve been talking this long—thirsty? Want some water?”

The moment he spoke, the chat exploded:

[WHO IS HE WHO IS HE WHO IS HE?!]
[Is someone else hiding in the streamer’s house??]
[Hand fetish heaven!!]
[Voice fetish heaven!!]

Gu Yilan glanced at the screen, satisfied, and sat down beside Su Zesui, waiting for him to introduce him.

After a sip of warm water to soothe his throat, Su Zesui had already forgotten the confusing comment. With the screen full of messages he couldn’t ignore, he stole a glance at the man off-camera and said softly, “He’s… my brother.”

Gu Yilan’s voice carried a hint of laughter as he replied, “Mm. Good boy.”

The people squatting in the live stream room—A University’s Physics PhD lab members, Gong Chuang, Ji Yuxing and Su Zesui’s classmates Feng Chengwen, Tong Jing, Yuan Mingcheng: …

——Thank you. We’ve all fallen into this trap before.

And Su Mingyu, who had pushed aside his work just to watch his younger brother’s livestream: ……

——Gu Yilan, you bastard. Enjoying yourself, aren’t you?

With the man’s sudden appearance, the entire vibe of the comments shifted—CP shippers and fangirls swarmed in, squeezing out half of the bots and still expanding.

“Want to see the brother… uhh.” Su Zesui glanced at the matching couple outfit he and Gu Yilan were wearing, suddenly conflicted.

Seeing him struggle to answer, Gu Yilan helped out: “That’s paid content.”

Even if he didn’t fully understand, Su Zesui instinctively nodded quickly and echoed, “Pa-paid content.”

The chat instantly descended into chaos.

Amused, Gu Yilan pulled up his phone and showed Su Zesui the messages with the local TV producer. “Interview in two days. I’ll appear with you as family. Do you want to go?”

Seeing the chat explode with “Yes,” “Of course!” and “I ship it!!”, Gu Yilan reminded him, “It’ll be on camera.”

The screen froze for a second, then erupted again with comments like, “Thomas does a 360-degree turn¹.”

Not wanting to disappoint anyone—especially the people who liked him—and because he himself had long wanted to go public with Mr. Gu, Su Zesui nodded. “O-okay!”

. . . . .

Human emotions are the most changeable thing in the world. After days of gloom, just a few words of praise could turn everything bright again.

Su Zesui streamed for much longer than expected. After answering nearly all of the friendly questions, he finally waved to the viewers and ended the broadcast.

The online world turned out to be far kinder than he’d imagined. There really were people willing to offer unconditional warmth and affection to a stranger.

Gu Yilan pulled him into a hug. “You did great, little internet celebrity.”

The new nickname made Su Zesui’s cheeks flush. Resting his chin on the man’s shoulder, he murmured childishly, “I’m really happy now… much happier than before.”

Gu Yilan rubbed the back of his head. “Forget the past if it makes you unhappy.”

“Mm-hmm.” Su Zesui nodded slightly, then suddenly remembered something. He wriggled free of Gu Yilan’s arms, puffing his cheeks. “To get stronger faster, you’re not allowed to hug me anymore.”

“…Why?”

“I don’t want to mess up the interview again and be accused of… acting high-and-mighty. Yeah, that. And also… other reasons. Anyway, I need to get stronger quickly.”

One day, he might suddenly remember everything from before. When that day came, he needed to be mentally strong enough to withstand it.

And now, he truly believed he could. He felt certain he’d be able to face it with strength.

Gu Yilan knew the boy had already emerged from his low period. His words reflected a positive, proactive mindset and a desire to solve problems.

He curved his lips into a smile. “Alright, you go out and explore without worry. I’ll have your back—handling logistics, managing your account, contacting journalists, even picking out the clothes for your interview day…”

“Interview day…” Su Zesui hesitated, but the joy in his eyes couldn’t be hidden. “Do we… have to wear matching outfits?”

Gu Yilan raised an eyebrow. “Why not? So many people are after my Suisui, I’m about to lose my mind.”

His voice was cool and detached, yet he spoke with an extreme, almost dramatic tone. Su Zesui, easily amused, couldn’t help but let out a small laugh.

In much better spirits, Su Zesui was no longer haunted by PTSD and could now anticipate events a few days in advance. He reminded Su Zesui, “You still haven’t given me the reward from playing games that day yet.”

Gu Yilan said, “The interview in a couple of days will also have a reward. But for now, it’s all on hold—you’re not feeling well right now and need a few days to recover. Don’t worry, your brother is in great health. If you save up a little more, your brother can make up all the pending rewards in just one night.”

Understanding this, Su Zesui blushed so hard he could barely speak, stammering, “Y-you… you’re amazing.”

. . . . .

Over the next two days, Su Zesui would take out his phone to livestream whenever he had time, as part of his desensitization.

The internet flood came fast and fierce, capable of gathering massive attention on a single person in a short time.

Su Zesui happened to hit that peak period. No matter when he went live, the chat would fill with people affectionately calling him “baby,” praising his talents, and cheering him on.

Occasional negative comments were swiftly removed by high-paid moderators and 24-hour review systems, never reaching Su Zesui’s eyes.

These days, cryptic “insider” messages rarely appeared, and Gu Yilan no longer suddenly appeared on camera, avoiding unnecessary chaos.

When someone typed, “Why isn’t big brother talking?” other viewers kindly reminded them, “Check the local A City channel on August 25th at 10:30 AM, and you’ll see the streamer and big brother in person.”

In just a few days, it felt like they had already become a family.

“Mm-hm.” Su Zesui looked at the chat, now accustomed to speaking to the screen, though still not smoothly. “Big brother and I picked out some nice clothes. You all can come see.”

Lately, besides livestreaming for desensitization, he had been diligently memorizing the interview script Gu Yilan had prepared for him.

Their interview was scheduled for 9:00 AM on August 25th. Accounting for breakfast, travel, and prep time, they needed to wake up at 7:30 AM.

The night before the interview, Gu Yilan leaned against the headboard and said, “After tomorrow’s interview, you won’t be a little internet celebrity anymore—you’ll be a little star.”

Su Zesui, adjusting a string of long alarms on his phone without lifting his head, mumbled, “I’m my brother’s wife.”

Gu Yilan smiled silently.

On the bedside table nearest him lay two exquisite rings, custom-made and sparkling. He planned to give them to Su Zesui during the interview, setting the wedding date in front of all of A City—

No matter the past, he would love him unwaveringly.

Perhaps from nerves, the boy tossed and turned that night, sweat forming as he worried.

Gu Yilan pulled him into his arms, kissed his forehead, and only then did Su Zesui relax and drift into a drowsy sleep.

The next morning, Su Zesui’s 6:30 alarm went off first. Gu Yilan reached over his body and turned it off.

At 6:35, another alarm sounded.

With a hint of exasperation, Gu Yilan looked at the flushed, sleeping boy, got out of bed, and turned off the ten or so alarms set between 6:00 and 7:20.

Su Zesui hadn’t slept well the night before, and Gu Yilan wanted him to rest a little longer. So it wasn’t until 7:30 that he gently woke him.

The boy let out a lazy “Mm,” flipped onto his back facing the ceiling, and promptly fell asleep again.

Gu Yilan leaned over and whispered, “Time to wake up, brother’s wife.”

But hearing the words so close, Su Zesui showed no sign of waking, not even a murmured response. His little face, perhaps from the heat or being covered by the quilt, had become even more flushed.

Gu Yilan felt something was wrong. Placing his hand on Su Zesui’s forehead, he immediately found it burning hot.

---

1. Original text: 弹幕空白一秒，又刷上了“托马斯回旋三百六十度翻转想”。I don’t know who Thomas is or why he was suddenly mentioned here, help 😵‍💫 ↩︎

---

---

Children’s Song (2/2)

---

With the help of medication, Su Zesui was finally able to pull himself out of the nightmare of his emotions. His mind was no longer clouded, nor was he plagued by the same recurring nightmares.

Time itself was a powerful force.

Soaking for so long in the same cold emotion, one gradually becomes numb, experiencing a detached, faint kind of sorrow. Sometimes it feels like nothing could get worse; other times, one can’t help but resent why such things had to happen at all.

It was a kind of low-grade suffering in a state of full awareness.

But Su Zesui was still instinctively running away from reality.

Again and again, memories tore at him. He began showing signs of PTSD, dreading the parts of his memory that still slept inside him, terrified that they might suddenly explode with yet another blow.

At the same time, he was afraid that if he were to regain all of his memories, it would also cause Mr. Gu to remember the terrible things that happened in the other parallel world.

Even though he knew that day was bound to come.

Being awake meant the risk of being asked about his memories, so after silently finishing his dinner in bed, Su Zesui hurriedly lay back down, pretending to fall asleep again.

But he had already slept too much in the past few days. Without the grip of that emotional abyss pulling him under, he found himself unable to sleep at all.

The master bedroom’s orange-yellow ceiling light was dim—not glaring, but casting a soft haze that invited drowsiness.

His head heavy with fatigue, Su Zesui cracked his eyes open just enough to glimpse Mr. Gu sitting at his side, reading research on a tablet.

——How long could he keep hiding like this?

Su Zesui didn’t know.

After pacing that winter street so many times and having cold water poured over him again and again, he had lost the courage to talk to this world’s Gu Yilan.

Besides, he didn’t know what to say—or what he could say.

Lying too long in one position made his body ache. He wanted to shift, but was afraid of being caught pretending to sleep. Mustering all his acting skills, he parted his lips to feign a sleepy yawn, then smoothly rolled over onto his side.

Just as he finished turning, ready to drift off into more restless thoughts, the mattress beside him dipped slightly.

Now lying with his back toward Gu Yilan, Su Zesui could only sense the man move, unable to tell what he was doing. He clenched his eyes shut, held his breath, and prayed silently—

Don’t notice me.

Only when he heard the faint clink of a glass being set down on the nightstand did Su Zesui’s body finally relax.

So Mr. Gu had only leaned over to grab some water.

With his back turned, Su Zesui dared to open his eyes wide under the orange glow of the lamp, letting his gaze wander around the master bedroom.

Facing his bed was a tall wooden bookcase and Mr. Gu’s work area. From where he lay, he could also glimpse part of the golden cage.

Since moving into the master bedroom, Su Zesui rarely crawled into the cage to curl up with the stuffed toys anymore. Yet staring at its half-hidden frame, he suddenly felt a faint urge to squeeze inside again.

But he didn’t move, and instead let his eyes roam idly elsewhere—

On the cabinet, his competition prep books lay mixed together with Mr. Gu’s research papers, stacked carelessly side by side, as if reflecting the way their lives had slowly begun to intertwine.

If one looked closely, a handmade bookmark peeked out from between the pages of a certain book.

Aside from that, the desk and cabinet were dotted with souvenirs from the aquarium—little trinkets, charms, and even preserved flower boxes with ocean themes, decorating the otherwise cold and plain room.

Su Zesui lowered his eyes sadly.

If only all of this were just a nightmare. He longed to go back to that carefree day at the aquarium with Mr. Gu, happy and unburdened, with nothing to fear.

The master bedroom was the place he lived in every day; every item inside was already etched into his memory. Under the dim light, the space felt dull, and the vast emptiness of it gave him no sense of security.

Uneasy and unsettled, he soon fell back on his usual trick: feigning drowsiness, he shifted again, this time turning to face Gu Yilan.

Perhaps because he had tossed and turned too much, the moment he moved he felt the mattress dip again, the man leaning over toward him.

Warm breath brushed past his ear, making it clear just how close they were. Su Zesui’s heartbeat pounded like a drum; he didn’t dare move a muscle.

Fortunately, Gu Yilan only raised his hand to check his forehead, confirming there was no fever, then skillfully tucked the thin blanket back over him. He made no further move.

Su Zesui let out a tiny sigh of relief. After pretending to sleep for a while, he half-squinted his eyes, sneaking glances at Gu Yilan, who was absorbed in his reading.

——Was Mr. Gu in his original world also this devoted to study? Were they really the same person? Then why would one despise him while the other cared for him? Was it simply because this Mr. Gu hadn’t yet come to truly know him? Given time, would he end up making the same choice as the other one?

His mind, sluggish from too much sleep, refused to quiet down, spilling out thoughts one after another.

Before long, though, Gu Yilan set his tablet aside and switched off the light. It looked like he was ready to sleep.

It was probably still early, but after days of caring for him, Mr. Gu had been short on rest. Maybe he was finally catching up.

With the other man asleep, Su Zesui no longer had to worry about his act being exposed.

He shut his eyes and wrinkled his nose slightly. He couldn’t tell whether he felt disappointed or relieved, but his body obediently kept up the pretense of sleep.

He felt the man lower his pillow, then gently lie down beside him. A moment later… a hand slipped around his back, pulling him into an embrace.

The distance between them closed in an instant. Su Zesui could even hear the other person’s heartbeat, and the pressure of pretending to be asleep intensified. However, with his extensive acting experience, he felt he could hold on until the other person fell asleep.

Instead, the next second he heard a low voice whisper right by his ear: “Can’t sleep? Want me to sing you a song?”

Caught, Su Zesui pressed his lips together in embarrassment. He opened his eyes, brain scrambling for excuses—until he finally realized what the man actually meant.

“S–sing…”

He looked at Gu Yilan, who was raising an eyebrow at him without a trace of suspicion or judgment. Only then did he breathe easier and nod. “O-okay.”

To his surprise, Gu Yilan didn’t set any conditions, didn’t warn him in advance—he simply parted his lips and began singing a children’s song.

His voice was deep, slightly husky, like the low strings of a cello plucking out each note of the simple melody. It made Su Zesui feel as if he had gone back to childhood, sheltered by a strong big brother, wrapped in a world where every day felt safe.

Suddenly, Su Zesui understood why, despite his severe social anxiety, he hadn’t feared Gu Yilan when they first met—why he had even been drawn in by his voice.

Because in his original world, he had always longed for the man’s recordings, waiting and imagining. Over time, he had placed a heavy filter of fondness over that voice.

“Learned it from a friend back in kindergarten,” Gu Yilan explained.

Su Zesui clapped softly in appreciation. “I-it sounded really nice.”

The lighthearted tune, along with Gu Yilan’s relaxed tone, pulled him back into reality.

After that first crack in the ice, chatting about other things with him suddenly didn’t feel so impossible.

Gu Yilan watched him quietly, not pressing any further. But guilt gnawed at Su Zesui. He worried the man would think he was being too fragile and troublesome—cared for so attentively for so long, yet still unwilling to give an explanation.

So, he decided to bring it up himself, choosing the short pain over the long one. “I… I don’t want to recover my memories anymore.”

Gu Yilan didn’t ask what he had remembered. He only said, “Then don’t think about it.”

Seeing him so supportive, Su Zesui hesitated, then nervously asked, “Is there… is there any way I could never remember again?”

Gu Yilan froze for a moment, then asked gently, “Is it really that painful?”

He had been holding it in alone, but the moment someone showed him care, his bottled-up grievances spilled out.

His nose stung, and he lowered his gaze, nodding very slowly.

Gu Yilan thought for a while before saying, “If you focus more on things in this world, maybe you’ll forget the past completely.”

The man chose his words with restraint and precision, and Su Zesui also knew that unless he never came into contact with anything new for the rest of his life, he would always have his memories of the other parallel world triggered by various unexpected events.

It was only a matter of time.

But looking at the man before him—the one who cared for him, who liked him—Su Zesui suddenly felt a sense of release. Since the end would come sooner or later, why not focus on living well in the present? As long as he could be with Mr. Gu, that was enough.

Seeing no sign of distress on his face, Gu Yilan added, “Because of the documentary at No. 1 High, you’ve gained a lot of admirers online. Do you want to chat with them sometime?”

Su Zesui’s eyes widened in shock. “They… like me?”

“Mm.” Gu Yilan never trusted hearsay. Only after spending a long time looking through social media himself did he give the boy a clear answer. “A lot of people praise you, give you likes, even make videos about you.”

Su Zesui parted his soft lips in disbelief, feeling as though his heart were being wrapped in a warm embrace. A few seconds later, he realized—that was what it felt like to be loved, to be liked.

But because of the intrusions of his past memories, his mental state had once again spiraled downward these past few days. He wished he could lock himself away in a gilded cage and never face the world that had hurt him so many times.

Even online, even through a screen, he was terrified. Honestly, he admitted, “I… I don’t dare… to chat.”

——What if, once they got to know him—his real, timid self—they ended up hating him too?

“Actually, just the thought of you talking with others makes me uncomfortable,” Gu Yilan said quietly, without lecturing. “I didn’t want you to. But now… I want to encourage you to try.”

The words sounded so familiar that Su Zesui’s heartbeat skipped a beat, then suddenly quickened.

“I’m willing to fight my own demons and become a normal person,” Gu Yilan said, meeting his eyes. “What about you? Are you willing to take a step forward too?”

Su Zesui realized—Gu Yilan was echoing the exact words he himself had said over ten days ago, when the man was in the midst of an episode.

Back then, he had confessed that he was scared of an upcoming interview and had wanted to refuse. But in the end, he promised to try, to push past his social anxiety. And then he asked Mr. Gu if he would also be brave—if he would hand over all his folding knives and trust him to keep them safe.

He never imagined that Mr. Gu would remember, let alone turn those same words back to him.

It turned out that he wasn’t the only one who learned from Mr. Gu’s way of speaking. He too had said things worth remembering—words good enough to be acknowledged, even borrowed.

“I… I’m willing too.”

Su Zesui wrapped his arms around the man. The heavy shadow of inferiority that had clung to him began to lift, replaced instead by warmth, gratitude, and—perhaps for the very first time in his life—a budding sense of self-worth.

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