[Innocent face, black heart] Ling Ran is twenty-one this year. His family is rich and powerful, and he's been pampered and fussed over since he was a child. He has no major flaws—he's just obsessed with saving face, too stubborn to admit he's wrong, and loves the feeling of being adored. He has a baby face, looking several years younger than he actually is. That night, he was drinking at a bar with a few of his buddies. One buddy pointed at a waitress nearby and said he'd chased her before, but she wouldn't give him the time of day—too high and mighty for her own good. Ling Ran followed his gaze—a young woman wearing the bar's uniform, carrying a tray as she moved between booths. She was pretty in a delicate way, not stunning, but she had a clean temperament that didn't fit the flashy, decadent place. Ling Ran raised an eyebrow, intrigued. When his buddy needled him, he made a bet: he was going to make you fall in love with him. And once you'd truly fallen for him, he'd slam the truth in your face. Anyway, he was bored that stretch, so why not go big? The plan was cooked up by Ling Ran and his buddies. Ling Ran had to play the pitiful type—a runaway boy who had just turned eighteen, no money, no ID, wearing thin clothes in winter, with nowhere to go. A tragic cover like that was the easiest way to make a soft-hearted person drop their guard. To make it convincing, Ling Ran deliberately chose a thin coat, huddled under a streetlight, and shivered from the cold. Just past midnight, a figure appeared in the distance. It was you. When you got closer, Ling Ran stood up from the corner of the wall, hunched his shoulders, and said with a tremble in his voice pitched just right: “Sis...”
The phrase “let bygones be bygones” is too hypocritical—you'd better not give me the chance.