Chapter 7: The Trump Card

The ears would not retract.

Yan Zhuo sat on the sofa, his face expressionless as he struggled for a long time. His ears merely twitched twice, as if mocking him, showing no sign of disappearing.

He lowered his eyes slightly, looking at the remaining self-heating porridge. When he touched the container, it was still warm; Qu Yan had only eaten a little.

Qu Yan ate slowly, like a young beast feeding, and his stomach was small, so he was full after only a few bites. As Yan Zhuo recalled the way Qu Yan had looked while eating, a flush of red quietly crept up the ears hidden beneath his messy hair.

Feeling as if he were committing a misdeed, his tail—draped over the sofa—curled up. Yan Zhuo’s heart hammered against his ribs. After his hand hung in mid-air for two seconds, he finally gripped the plastic spoon still stuck in the porridge.

The seafood porridge was half-congealed, making a thick, sticky sound as he stirred it. The sound was faint, yet strangely captivating, tickling his eardrums. He slowly lowered his head, then paused.

A wolf’s hearing is impeccable. The sound of water in the bathroom drowned out the frantic beating of his heart. Qu Yan was bathing; water might be sliding down his neck, tracing his chest and waist, then winding its way downward...

Yan Zhuo’s mouth went dry, and tiny beads of sweat broke out on the tip of his nose. He dared not pursue his thoughts further, terrified of exposing his own baseness. Qu Yan had trusted him despite his monstrous appearance, yet he was hiding greedily in the dim corner of the bedroom, his heart burning with an unquenchable desire.

As if scalded, he abruptly dropped the spoon, which had already taken on the warmth of his hand, and stood up. His tail flicked from side to side in agitation; he had to find something to do.

The hallway carpet, left in chaos from before, had become dry and stiff after being completely soaked in blood. Yan Zhuo’s mind was a mess, but his hands moved without hesitation. He gathered the scattered blood clots, wrapped them in the carpet, and threw them out.

To prevent zombies from tracking the scent, he disposed of them far away. Upon returning, he carried several wooden boards and boarded up the broken window in the living room. Once finished, he felt a sense of calm return and headed back to the bedroom.

Qu Yan had not yet emerged from the bathroom, and the self-heating porridge sat there in plain sight, as if waiting to lure him in.

His hand, hanging by his side, clenched silently. Yan Zhuo stared at the porridge, ultimately succumbing to the temptation.

The plastic spoon before him was ordinary, yet it had intimately touched Qu Yan’s lips and tongue. This realization made Yan Zhuo’s breath hot once more. Unable to resist, he leaned down and scooped up a mouthful of porridge with lightning speed, swallowing it instantly without even chewing.

The sound of wheelchair wheels pressing against the floorboards caused Yan Zhuo to release his grip in a panic. The spoon fell back into the porridge as he stood up, locking eyes with Qu Yan, who had just stepped out of the bathroom.

"There is a guest room on the second floor; you can pick any room to sleep in," Qu Yan said while pushing his wheelchair forward.

His washed hair was still wet, and with his movements, a disobedient droplet of water slid down his neck, stumbling all the way until it vanished beneath the black pajamas covering his chest.

He only revealed a small patch of his collarbone, the boundary between black and white starkly defined. Realizing his gaze was too direct, Yan Zhuo lowered his eyes in a flurry.

Qu Yan wiped his hair with a towel, his gaze lingering for a moment before landing on the self-heating porridge, which had clearly been disturbed. His movements paused involuntarily.

He looked at Yan Zhuo with a strange expression.

"Isn't there still plenty of food? You don't have to eat my leftovers."

He had noticed!

Yan Zhuo’s heart jumped to his throat, choking him into silence, yet he felt a secret sense of relief. In the end, he only managed an "um."

They were separated by only half a step. He could feel the mist radiating from Qu Yan—a cool sensation, like a forest after spring rain, instantly extinguishing the heat within him. "Did you take a cold shower?"

Qu Yan nodded, his tone casual. "There’s no hot water."

The apartment's electrical system was faulty; it was a miracle that the water wasn't cut off yet, so a cold shower was no big deal.

Yan Zhuo bit his lip. "You’ll get sick. I’ll boil some hot water next time."

Hearing this, Qu Yan looked up at him but said nothing.

His pajama pants were not long. As he sat in the wheelchair, a section of his lower leg was exposed. The skin was pale, marked by chaotic, abrupt scars.

It was like a layer of dust covering a piece of fine jade, causing Yan Zhuo’s heart to ache. He spoke instinctively: "Does it hurt?"

This was the second time he had asked this. Qu Yan’s heart remained as still as a stagnant well, though the corners of his mouth curled slightly. "It healed a long time ago."

The wounds had closed long ago; it was just that his legs were ruined.

Intuition told Yan Zhuo that this matter was not as trivial as Qu Yan’s tone suggested, but he knew he shouldn't keep asking.

"The guest room might be damp. Take a blanket with you," Qu Yan said. As his hair began to dry, he folded the towel, reached out, and pulled a quilt from the bed. "I’ve used it, but I hope you don't mind."

As his cheek brushed against the soft quilt, Yan Zhuo’s voice sounded muffled. "Okay."

Footsteps sounded behind him, followed by the opening of a door. Qu Yan heard Yan Zhuo say, "Goodnight."

He looked back to see half of Yan Zhuo’s face hidden in the dark hallway. He lifted his lips and replied with the same, "Goodnight."

The candle burned to its end and flickered out with a soft puff, plunging the bedroom into total darkness. The remaining candles were in a bag in the corner, but Qu Yan didn't want to get them. He turned on his phone, which had only a sliver of battery left. By the inorganic light of the screen, he could clearly see the scars on his lower legs.

His exposed calves were pale and weak. The once-frightening wounds had healed, leaving behind scars that resembled ugly, coiled grubs, easily capable of stirring pity in others.

The pajamas he was wearing were ones he had found in the closet; they weren't his usual ones. The pants were neither long nor short, just enough to expose the scars—he had intentionally let Yan Zhuo see them.

Yan Zhuo was too simple; his emotions were almost entirely on his face. He was still the same student who hadn't yet left campus, just like ten years ago, while Qu Yan had long since mastered the essential skill of calculating the human heart.

This moment was no exception. Yan Zhuo seemed to harbor a secret fondness for him, and Qu Yan did not resent it; he viewed it as an opportunity to be exploited.

Calculating others was nothing to be ashamed of.

Qu Yan felt a sense of pleasure, a smile inevitably forming on his face. He crawled into bed in the dark and touched his numb calves, masking all emotion on his face.

The curtains had a gap in them. Qu Yan didn't like the dark, so he found the sight of the misty moon outside rather agreeable.

Moonlight crept in through the gap in the curtains. He raised a hand, and his sleeve slid down. His wrist was thin—slender, but not frail. He turned his wrist in the moonlight, as if performing a graceful dance.

From his slender fingertips, a vibrant green vine slowly emerged, extending inch by inch like a child newly arrived in the world, filled with curiosity.

Qu Yan rested half his face against the pillow, his fingertips turning, and the vine dancing along with them.

One more trump card, he thought. In the silence, he hummed a soft tune, his tone filled with delight.