Reply to Keats - Chap 69

69. Moonlight from Sixteen Years Ago
Night fell early, and the rain was easing. Zhao Shengge took a long-handled umbrella and walked through the central garden but didn’t enter the office building’s lobby.

He hadn’t waited long before Chen Wan came out of the building, speaking with a business partner. Dressed in a suit and overcoat, he was clearly discussing work, nodding occasionally, followed by two or three younger team members.

It was obvious that Chen Wan was about to say goodbye, but his young colleagues kept trailing after him with questions. Chen Wan answered each one patiently.

Almost at the moment the sensor doors opened, Chen Wan saw Zhao Shengge standing under the bauhinia tree. Fallen leaves rested on his shoulders. Their eyes met through the dim light and the curtain of rain, locking in silence.

A small smile lit Chen Wan’s eyes. He said goodbye to his colleagues and quickened his pace toward Zhao Shengge, shedding the composed elegance he’d maintained just moments earlier.

Zhao Shengge stepped forward, reached out, and firmly drew him under the umbrella.

Chen Wan touched his hand. Thankfully, it wasn’t very cold.

“Did I keep you waiting?” Lately, Kexiang had been making waves, and Chen Wan had been helping Ge Xi handle the division of Rongxin and other matters. Work had suddenly become much more hectic.

“No.” Zhao Shengge naturally placed a hand around his waist, holding him close as they walked.

Shielded from the wind and rain by Zhao Shengge and the umbrella, Chen Wan stepped into the car without so much as a drop on him.

From school to his working life, he’d rarely experienced being picked up or taken home. Watching Zhao Shengge start the car and warm up the engine, his heart swelled. He leaned over and kissed him.

Zhao Shengge let him kiss him for a few moments before gently pushing his shoulder back and handing him a paper bag. “Eat first.”

It was already past dinnertime. When it came to regular meals and rest, Chen Wan was strict with others but lenient with himself. Zhao Shengge usually didn’t interfere because he was a workaholic himself, but lately, Chen Wan had been going too far.

The paper bag was still warm. Chen Wan opened it and blinked. “How did you know?”

It was mango pomelo sago and fish balls from the place he occasionally ordered from. The pineapple bun had an extra-thick slice of ice-cold butter.

When he was young, still living in the Tang buildings on the outer ring road, there was a vendor who sold egg waffles with ice cream, red rice rolls, and pan-fried radish cakes by the roadside. Chen Wan didn’t have any money, so he would just stand nearby and watch. When the vendor was about to pack up, he’d see the pitiful boy and grill up the leftover scraps for him.

In winter, the steaming curry fish balls brought Chen Wan a deep sense of contentment.

It had been a long time since he’d eaten this kind of childhood snack. He had once dragged Zhuo Zhixuan to try it. Zhuo Zhixuan hadn’t put on airs and ended up eating three bowls of curry fish balls. Chen Wan, watching his meager pocket money dwindle, had held back from saying anything.

Chen Wan smiled, a trace of emotion in his expression. “I can’t believe you knew. I thought you’d never even seen this stuff.”

“…” Zhao Shengge turned the steering wheel halfway, reversing. “As much as you know about me, I know about you.”

Even if, right now, he still knew less than Chen Wan did, there would come a day when he would know more.

The two cars Zhao Shengge used most often these days, the radio station, the scent of the leather air freshener, the tea drink cushion… More than once, when Chen Wan opened the door, he had the illusion he was getting into his own car.

The pineapple bun melted on his tongue, sweeter than any he remembered from childhood.

After dinner, Zhao Shengge said, “Let’s go somewhere.”

Chen Wan didn’t ask where. He simply said, “Sure.”

Halfway through the drive, Chen Wan recognized the route. Zhao Shengge slowed down and turned to ask, “Do you mind?”

He had already checked with Monica, but if Chen Wan had shown even the slightest hint of resistance, Zhao Shengge would have turned the car around immediately.

Chen Wan had grown so resilient over the years that nothing here could touch him anymore—especially with Zhao Shengge by his side. So he answered calmly, “I don’t mind.”

Xiaolan Mountain hadn’t changed much in over a decade. Though it had been converted into a sanatorium, the pitch-dark hills, the short trees, the carefully trimmed lawns, and the white picket fences gave the place the appearance of a high-end, tranquil prison. The howling wind that tunneled through the mountain muffled countless hoarse cries and struggles.

Zhao Shengge must have notified someone ahead of time; they didn’t see a single soul along the way.

Ward 407.

Back then, the tomb that trapped Chen Wan had been this fifty-square-meter room, where a young boy was forced to take medication, receive injections, electroshock, and coercive treatments, day after day. His consciousness and soul had been torn apart piece by piece, turning him into something neither human nor ghost.

Chen Wan didn’t feel much of a ripple in his heart. He only looked at Zhao Shengge, puzzled, not understanding why they had come back to this place.

Zhao Shengge took his hand, tucked it into his own coat pocket, and opened the door.

The room looked nothing like what Chen Wan remembered. There was no hospital bed, no IV stand. It didn’t even resemble a ward anymore. The air carried an indescribable odor. If forced to describe it, Chen Wan could only think of blood and torn flesh.

The light was dim. He couldn’t see clearly and leaned closer to Zhao Shengge. Zhao Shengge held his hand tightly. When they stepped fully into the room, Chen Wan saw a body, its skin and flesh rotting, shackled to the wall.

If not for the finger Chen Wan had personally severed, he wouldn’t have even recognized this person as Liao Quan.

Everyone else thought Liao Quan had been taken by the Supervisory Commission. But here he was, locked away in the same room where Chen Wan had once been imprisoned, suffering the same abuse Chen Wan had endured. Tenfold. A hundredfold.

Liao Quan shouted angrily, “Zhao Shengge! What right do you have to imprison me? This is extrajudicial punishment—this is a crime!”

Zhao Shengge ignored him, looked at Chen Wan, and asked, “Are you afraid?”

Though Chen Wan had long operated at the edges of the law, seeing Zhao Shengge’s face half-shrouded in shadow was the first time he truly grasped just how absolute and unstoppable Zhao Shengge’s power was.

Chen Wan was lost in thought for a moment. Zhao Shengge’s grip on his hand tightened significantly, and Chen Wan quickly squeezed back, just as firmly.

“No.”

Liao Quan had only one eye left, and he looked at them holding hands with jealousy and hatred. He sneered, “So it’s for him. Zhao Shengge, turns out you’re just another lovesick fool.”

All that trouble to extract him from the police was just for Chen Wan.

The same Chen Wan he had obsessed over for years but never once gotten his hands on.

“Don’t be fooled by him. He’s using you. He’s just like his mother—a heartless whore, always clinging to powerful, wealthy men. People like him don’t have hearts. All they know is how to toy with your feelings.”

“You really like that kind of filthy trash? Do you even know what happened to him when he was a—”

Zhao Shengge casually grabbed an electric baton and shoved it into his mouth. The sharp, hoarse scream tore through the stillness of the night.

Zhao Shengge’s expression didn’t change. His hand applied force, the baton gouging into Liao Quan’s mouth like a burning stick, searing deep into his throat.

“I know. That’s why you’re here today.”

Liao Quan howled in agony. Zhao Shengge looked down at him with lowered eyes, watching for a while. Only then did he toss the electric baton aside and say in a low voice, “Because you got it wrong.”

“I’m the one pursuing him.”

Liao Quan’s eyes flew open in horror.

Zhao Shengge tilted his head slightly. “I begged him to be with me.”

Even Chen Wan’s eyes widened at that.

Blood gushed from Liao Quan’s mouth as he choked out muffled cries.

Zhao Shengge casually picked up a knife and handed it over. “Which hand did he touch you with?”

“The right one,” Chen Wan said easily, taking the knife. “But I already ruined one of his fingers back then.”

“I see.” Zhao Shengge appeared to consider it, then took the knife back, wrapping Chen Wan’s hand in his own. “Then leave it to someone else.”

The revenge had been exacted. There was no need for Chen Wan to dirty his hands again.

Liao Quan cursed out loud, screaming in jealousy and rage. Zhao Shengge gave a quiet “Shh,” as if silencing a stray dog barking in the street, and said coldly, “I’ll have someone send your right hand and tongue to your sister.”

Under Liao Quan’s terror-filled gaze, Zhao Shengge took Chen Wan’s hand and led him away.

“Chen Bingxin is in the next room,” Zhao Shengge said. “Do you want to see him?”

At the recent shareholders’ meeting, Chen Wan had personally ousted Chen Bingxin from the board and joined forces with several minor shareholders to strip Chen Yu and the rest of the Chen family’s eldest branch of their power.

In just a few days, the Chen household had fallen into disarray. The once-grand mansion reeked of decay, like a tomb that still breathed. You could’ve planted a gravestone at the gate and gone straight to incense and offerings.

Losing his power had been like losing his soul. Chen Bingxin suffered a cerebral hemorrhage and was conveniently transferred by Zhao Shengge to this so-called “sanatorium.”

Before Chen Wan could respond, Zhao Shengge said, “Forget it.” There was no need to see him.

He held Chen Wan’s hand tightly and led him out of the white building.

Unknowingly, they ended up in the very place where Chen Wan had first met Zhao Shengge. The moonlight tonight was the same as it had been sixteen years ago, yet somehow, it felt different.

Zhao Shengge had his head lowered, eyes on his phone. He was probably giving instructions on how to handle Liao Quan.

Chen Wan leaned in closer. Without even looking up, Zhao Shengge wrapped an arm around him with one hand and pulled him into his coat.

The falling leaves and the night wind from the valley never touched Chen Wan. He was well protected, only his eyes left exposed, shining especially bright in the dark.

After a long silence, Chen Wan said, “Zhao Shengge.”

Zhao Shengge sent his final message, put away his phone, and cupped the back of Chen Wan’s neck, lowering his gaze. “Hm?”

Chen Wan stepped back from the warmth of his coat, putting a little distance between them. “What he said… it’s not true.”

Zhao Shengge met his gaze.

Of course, he knew what Liao Quan had said wasn’t true. But whether it was or not didn’t matter. What mattered was that Zhao Shengge—master of the negotiating table and human nature—knew exactly what to say to cut the deepest.

No matter how vilely Liao Quan tried to portray Chen Wan, Zhao Shengge still loved him, still protected him, remained utterly devoted to him, and had his heart. And that truth would hurt Liao Quan more than anything else.

Seeing that Zhao Shengge didn’t respond, Chen Wan repeated, “What he said isn’t true.”

Zhao Shengge said, “Everything I said is true.”

Every single word.

Chen Wan opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.

Zhao Shengge continued, “But there’s one thing he probably wasn’t lying about.”

“Hm?”

Zhao Shengge stepped in closer, looking deeply into Chen Wan’s eyes. “You toyed with me.”

Chen Wan’s eyes widened.

Zhao Shengge laid out the charges: “You like me, but you never really thought about being with me.”

“You pursued me, but kept an exit plan—always ready to leave.”

“You said we were together, but you never imagined it lasting long.”

“…” Chen Wan rubbed the tip of his nose.