Chapter 43: The Con Artist

Night was just falling, and the delicate, gauze-like moonlight attempted to spill silently into the room, only to be blocked completely by heavy curtains, leaving the moon looking sorrowful and aggrieved.

There were neither pillows nor quilts on the large, dark bed, yet it did not feel empty. Someone lay collapsed across it, breathing in low gasps. In the darkness, something collided repeatedly, emitting crisp, intermittent sounds.

A somewhat indistinct knock sounded, the door creaked open, and light instantly flooded the entire room.

The incandescent light was too dazzling. Yan Zhuo, propped against the head of the bed, forced his eyes tightly shut and panted, "Get out."

There was something repressed in his voice, which, combined with his expressionless and cold demeanor, easily instilled fear in others.

Wen Xi, however, was not afraid. Instead, he shrugged and chuckled, "Rut phase? I guessed right after all."

Bare tree branches shivered in the cold wind, their tips tapping against the window glass, producing an unbearable sound.

Yan Zhuo’s clothes hung loosely on him, his lips as red as blood, and his tall, slender body was curled up. He opened his eyes, his pupils also red, and quietly watched Wen Xi like a beast lying in ambush.

A few scattered pieces of clothing lay around him, resembling a carefully constructed nest.

Wen Xi’s gaze swept over those garments, and he said knowingly, "Qu Yan's clothes? You actually kept all of them."

Yan Zhuo’s palm clutched a piece of clothing; the thin layer of fabric deformed in his grip, almost as if it were about to be crushed to pieces.

He did not answer Wen Xi, his eyes half-closed in tacit admission.

These clothes had long since lost their owner’s scent. Two years was too long—long enough to erase the traces of a person's existence. Everyone else was moving forward, yet only Yan Zhuo remained frozen in the explosion of two years ago.

Wen Xi pulled over a chair, crossed his arms, and sat by the window. After a long while, he suddenly clicked his tongue. "Come to think of it, when I brought it to Qu Yan back then, he refused, saying he didn't want to leave scars on your body."

Now, however, Wen Xi looked at Yan Zhuo’s wrist, the corners of his mouth curving without emotion.

A pair of handcuffs was secured to the iron post at the head of the bed. One of Yan Zhuo’s wrists was locked inside, the skin already torn raw from his violent struggles. Bright red blood formed a thin stream, rolling down his forearm and staining the clothes a deep crimson.

In the past, when Yan Zhuo lost control, Qu Yan was still around to restrain him, but now he had only himself to rely on. Fortunately, the handcuffs were sturdy; it was just that the scars on his wrist, layered one upon another, were truly unsightly.

"Liar."

The word squeezed out from Yan Zhuo’s throat. Veins bulged on the hand pressed against the bed, his pupils rippled with a dark, gloomy light, and his tone was vicious. "He lied to me..."

Wen Xi flicked his hem and gave a calm reminder, "But he is already dead."

***

Qu Yan had died in the explosion two years ago, leaving not even a skeleton behind. This was a well-known fact.

"He's not dead!"

With a loud clatter, the handcuffs snapped taut as Yan Zhuo lunged fiercely toward Wen Xi. His canine teeth, already transforming into a wolf's, were bared. If not for the restriction of the handcuffs, those teeth might have pierced Wen Xi's neck the next second.

Droplets of blood fell onto the bed one by one, making the scent of blood even heavier. Wen Xi lifted his eyelids. "Why take your anger out on me? You'd better save it for Qu Yan."

Yan Zhuo, currently in his rut, was much weaker than usual—a weakness that manifested not only physically but psychologically as well. He buried his head in his hands, brows furrowed in intense agony. "He's not dead. He just... doesn't want me anymore."

Wen Xi stood up and retreated step by step toward the door. Just before opening it, he paused. "By the way, I forgot to mention earlier. There's a cooperation project with the Yueshan Base in a few days. Take a team there."

Meeting Yan Zhuo’s emotionless gaze, Wen Xi pressed down the door handle. "Don't be in such a hurry to refuse. I heard the second-in-command of the Yueshan Base has the surname Qu, and seems to have mobility issues, relying entirely on a wheelchair. Who do you suppose he might be?"

With that, he closed the door without a trace of hesitation, leaving Yan Zhuo’s anger and questions behind him.

The night was deeply shadowed, but fortunately, electricity had been restored over the past two years, and with the lights turned back on, the dark night was no longer frightening.

Solar streetlights shone brightly. Beneath a tree ahead, someone crouched, their back a picture of silent solitude.

Wen Xi paused, walked over, and spoke in a light tone, "What are you doing wandering out here instead of sleeping in the middle of the night? Playing in the snow?"

There was no snow to play in; the area had just been cleared, leaving not a speck of white. Qin Ji was crouched on the ground, holding a cigarette between his fingers that was almost burned down to the filter. He raised his head, his gaze locking onto Wen Xi’s face, and then exhaled a ring of smoke that drifted and gradually blurred his features.

"Came to pick you up."

Qin Ji said as he stood up, pressing out the cigarette and clenching it in his palm.

Wen Xi twitched the corner of his mouth. "Pick me up for what? I'm not a child."

Only children didn't need to be picked up; only Wen Xi did.

Thinking this, Qin Ji kept the thought to himself. A tickling sensation brushed against his waist as someone deftly pulled the cigarette pack straight out of his pocket.

"Smooth moves." Finding the cigarette pack completely empty, Wen Xi’s expression cooled slightly. "You smoked a whole pack?"

Qin Ji did not deny it. He clasped both hands behind the back of his head, tilted his head toward Wen Xi, and simply remained silent.

Yet his expression seemed to say: *What can I do? I just wanted to smoke.*

***

For the first time in his life, Wen Xi experienced a sense of helplessness that bordered on a headache—and remarkably, it was caused by Qin Ji.

"Suit yourself." He tossed the cigarette pack back, not even caring whether Qin Ji caught it or not.

The snow had stopped, but the air still seemed to retain its scent—crisp and cold, sliding down the nasal passages into the body. Wen Xi exhaled a breath, and footsteps sounded from behind, quickening to catch up.

Then his arm was grabbed. Qin Ji seemed to be trembling slightly, and the words that followed trembled too. "I had the dream again."

His grip tightened slightly, his eyes fixed on the back of Wen Xi's head. "Qin Li is blaming me."

Qin Li had died two years ago. The young boy had told a lie, saying to his older brother, "There won't be any more zombies coming this way. Leave it to me, don't worry."

Wen Xi turned around and met his gaze. "It's not your fault."

Qin Ji did not let go. He stepped closer, closing the distance until their breaths mingled. "I'm not a good brother, am I?"

Qin Ji possessed the face of a tough guy; wheat-colored skin combined with well-defined features easily won others' trust. By the same token, when he displayed vulnerability, it naturally evoked a soft spot in people.

Just like at this moment, Wen Xi did not pull away.

"I can't answer that question," his voice remained calm. "Qin Li already answered it for you long ago."

The exuberant, mischievous young boy had complained countless times that Qin Ji was an old-fashioned square, that Qin Ji was utterly annoying. Yet, after getting drunk, his eyes would shine brightly as he whispered secrets to Wen Xi, saying, "My brother is so amazing, isn't he, Brother Wen?"

Beside them, Qin Ji would raise his cup to hide the slightly upturned corners of his mouth.

Qin Li had already given the answer.

Wen Xi wrapped his hand back around Qin Ji's, leading him into the stairwell as the voice-activated lights clicked on. "He isn't blaming you, Qin Ji. Maybe he just misses you."

His voice was very soft, yet deeply comforting.

The second before Wen Xi closed the door, Qin Ji reached out to brace the doorframe. "Can I sleep with you?"

Wen Xi looked at him in silence, his face hidden in shadow as though veiled by an icy mask that could neither be melted nor moved.

After a long moment, he stepped back. The door did not close; it remained open to Qin Ji.