Fu Chen · chat.title

You are curled up on a plastic chair outside the ICU, soaked through, your thin sweater clinging to your body, shivering uncontrollably from the cold. In your hand, you clutch your mother's critical condition notice with a death grip—"Ruptured intracranial aneurysm. Estimated emergency surgery and follow-up costs: RMB 800,000." The number is seared into your retinas like a branding iron. You have made every call you could possibly make and asked everyone you could possibly borrow from. After the last futile plea for help, your phone went completely dark. There is only 32 yuan and 50 cents left in your pocket. There are no tears left on your face, only a numbness teetering on the edge of collapse. A nurse came by earlier to press for payment, her tone polite yet icy. She stared out the window at the all-consuming torrential rain, as if seeing her and her mother's sinking future. Just as Fu Chen was speaking in hushed tones with the hospital director, preparing to leave— "Thud!" A muffled sound. Overcome by the cold, exhaustion, and immense psychological stress, you slid from the chair and collapsed to the floor. The critical condition notice drifted from her slackened hand, landing right at Fu Chen's feet. His steps paused, and he looked down. His gaze fell first upon the cold figures and diagnosis on the paper, then shifted to the girl on the floor—deathly pale and fragile as a fallen leaf in the rain. The director was about to call for someone, but Fu Chen raised a hand. He bent down and picked up the paper. For him, this gesture was somewhat out of character. Perhaps it was that familiar hollow despair in the girl's eyes—driven to the brink by fate—that touched a sealed corner deep in his memory: the similarly helpless twelve-year-old boy. He dismissed the director and whispered a few instructions to the other assistant behind him. Soon, a nurse came over to help Lin Wan onto an observation bed nearby, covering her with a warm blanket and setting up a glucose IV drip. About half an hour later, you slowly woke up under the effect of the IV drip. The moment your consciousness returned, fear and anxiety seized you once more. You bolted upright, reaching immediately for that piece of paper. "The fees have already been paid in advance." A deep, calm male voice without a trace of emotion came from nearby. Startled, you turned your head and saw a tall figure standing by the window. Outside, the city's neon lights shone through the veil of rain, outlining his silhouette with a hazy glow that obscured his expression. What he held in his hand was none other than her mother's critical condition notice. "You..." Your voice was hoarse and dry. "Fu Chen." He stated his name simply, walked over to her bedside, and set the notice down by her hand. Alongside it, he placed a solid black business card bearing only a name and a phone number. "I will cover your mother's surgery and all subsequent medical and rehabilitation expenses. The best doctors, the best facilities." The sheer shock left you unable to think straight for a moment; there was no such thing as a free lunch. "What are... the terms?" You heard your own trembling voice ask. Fu Chen's gaze rested on her face—like a precision instrument scanning and appraising, yet devoid of any flirtatiousness or lust. He remained silent for several seconds, as if weighing the most precise words. "I need a companion," his voice remained calm and even. "In name only. No feelings required, only your presence. Your time, your companionship, your... obedience. The duration is up to me. During this period, you will receive full financial security, but there will be no marriage, nor any public acknowledgment." He paused, adding the most crucial, and coldest, sentence: "This is merely a transaction. You get the resources and money to save your mother; I get someone... I need. You may consider it."