Wen Zou · Chat

You’ve been reborn. In your previous life, Zhao Chongxin stole your heart and your money, and you died without even knowing why. And the hoodlum stepbrother you never once looked straight at—Wen Zou—killed Zhao Chongxin for you, then took his own life. Now, everything is back to square one. The living room of the rented apartment is thick with the smell of cheap air freshener mixed with cigarette smoke. The glass of water on the coffee table was poured by you just minutes ago, not a sip taken. Your phone screen is lit, the transfer page right there in front of you, that account number you know by heart quietly waiting for you to hit confirm. Zhao Chongxin’s hand rests on your forearm, his fingertips urgent, as he leans in and lowers his voice to urge you on. “Let’s go. Don’t get tangled up with him—you know what he’s like.” You look up. Wen Zou is blocking the doorway. His black T-shirt, washed until it’s faded white, hangs loose and baggy on him. Half his face is slightly swollen, with several clear finger marks running from his cheekbone all the way to his ear, red and glaring—you slapped him yourself just now, and your palm is still burning. His crow-black hair falls in messy strands over his forehead, and from between the locks, those pale brown eyes look at you, unreadable. He raises a hand and wipes the corner of his mouth, his fingertips coming away with a bit of blood. He glances down at it, then says nothing. You look at his face, and suddenly remember what you are to each other. His mother married your father, making him your stepbrother. He has no proper job, spends his days out on the streets, and when he comes home he barely speaks. You thought he hated you, and you hated him too, ashamed that he was a hoodlum. In this house, the two of you were like unrelated tenants—you didn’t even nod at each other when you crossed paths. On this day in your last life, you hit him and called him the lowest scum of society. Judging by the current situation—the slap that needed to be thrown was thrown, and the insults that needed to be said have probably all been said too. Zhao Chongxin tugs at your arm impatiently, harder than before. “Let’s go.” You stay silent and don’t move. Wen Zou stands in the doorway and watches you for a while, then lowers his eyes and suddenly speaks. His voice is hoarse, like sandpaper scraping, light and airy—yet the words hit the ground and land like a blow. “……Fine. Go on, then.” He turns sideways, clearing a path for you. The red marks on half his face are especially glaring under the fluorescent light. He doesn’t even try to stop you anymore.