MG CH5

Young heirs like Zeng Zhanpeng were always chasing fun and excitement.

The shooting range hadn’t fully drained his energy, and on the way back to the city, he insisted on going somewhere for a drink.

Yan Zishu thought for a moment. Tianxin Road had a vibrant bar street, different in vibe from Lan Kwai Fong but equally dazzling, a favorite among young people with its diverse, colorful crowd and lively atmosphere.

So, he took them there.

For the past few days of entertaining, Yan Zishu had worn lighter suits, but a suit was still a suit. In this neon-lit, boozy scene, he left his jacket in the car, loosened his tie, and took it off to blend in.

His slender frame and lithe waist looked striking in a white dress shirt, especially with the top two buttons undone, lending a rare casual charm. His hair, though, remained impeccably slicked back, fixed in place with gel.

Zeng Zhanpeng, decked out in hip-hop gear with dyed yellow hair, teased, “William, have you ever worn jeans in your life?”

Yan Zishu quipped, “I did when I was a kid.”

Zhanpeng burst out laughing.

In front of outsiders, Yan Zishu could craft himself as someone with a sense of humor.

But about the jeans, he was actually telling the truth.

They found a quieter lounge bar and took a booth. To meet the minimum spend, they ordered several drinks.

Yet, when it came to drinking, only Zeng Zhanpeng’s glass had alcohol.

“Hey, what’s with you two? Am I supposed to tackle this whole table of drinks alone?” Zhanpeng protested.

Fu Jinchi explained for Yan Zishu, “Don’t you know how strict the mainland is? No driving after drinking, or you’re off to jail and out of a job. So, our driver here can’t touch a drop.”

“Are you serious? Then what’s your excuse for not drinking?” Zhanpeng shot at Fu Jinchi.

“Me? I’ll drive later,” Fu Jinchi said with a grin. “So, Zishu, you’re free to drink.”

Yan Zishu blinked. “That’s not right. I should drive.”

Fu Jinchi swirled his glass of orange juice. “With me, you take a break when you can. Zhanpeng, get him drinking.”

Zhanpeng eagerly shoved an apple martini into Yan Zishu’s hand and clinked glasses.

Seeing this, Yan Zishu didn’t protest further and took a sip.

Fu Jinchi quickly warned, “Don’t chug it. There’s vodka in there.”

Yan Zishu smiled faintly. “Don’t worry, I can handle my liquor.”

Fu Jinchi raised an eyebrow. “My apologies, a hidden talent.”

That night, Yan Zishu lost track of how many drinks he had.

He regretted boasting about his tolerance. Because of it, Zhanpeng mischievously ordered him several Long Island Iced Teas.

Despite the name, it was no tea—a cocktail of vodka, tequila, rum, and gin, with only triple sec to cut the potency. The sweet-and-sour flavor masked the alcohol, making it dangerously easy to drink like juice.

The night breeze hit him as they stepped outside, and Yan Zishu’s steps felt a bit unsteady.

Zeng Zhanpeng, who’d been eager to see Yan Zishu’s drunken charm, hadn’t held back himself either.

Fu Jinchi supported a wobbling Zhanpeng to the car.

Yan Zishu offered to help, but Fu Jinchi waved him off gallantly. “Forget it. You’re barely steady yourself. I’ve got this.”

After dropping Zhanpeng at the hotel, escorting him upstairs, and handing him over to his family, Fu Jinchi returned.

Yan Zishu was leaning against the passenger seat, showing faint signs of intoxication. Coupled with chronic exhaustion, he looked slightly haggard.

He tiredly removed his glasses, revealing a black teardrop mole at the corner of his left eye, adding a touch of allure.

Fu Jinchi buckled his seatbelt. “Alright, your turn. Where do you live?”

Yan Zishu paused, lost in thought, and didn’t answer.

“Really drunk?”

“No, I’m fine.”

Sharing his home address felt like a visceral loss of security.

He was fighting that weightless sensation.

His sluggish mind finally recalled the option of taking a taxi, but it was too late to mention now.

He gave Fu Jinchi the address, then smiled. “It’s rare for once that I’m not the one driving someone else.”

He warned himself to stay silent—loose lips sink ships—but alcohol was eagerly loosening his tongue, urging him to say more, just one more sentence.

No wonder they say drunken words reveal the truth.

“Hm, I think you’re like… what’s it called, a self-sacrificing personality,” Fu Jinchi said on the drive. “Always giving, uncomfortable with receiving. Is that it? I’ve been curious—don’t you ever get tired?”

Yan Zishu pinched himself, quelling the urge to spill, and fell silent.

How could anyone not get tired?

When he didn’t respond, Fu Jinchi kept up his solo act. “I know some people are disciplined. But the ‘id’—isn’t that all about pleasure and rest? Even the most disciplined suppress their instincts because their ‘superego’ is too strong. Zishu, when I called you ironclad earlier, it wasn’t entirely a joke. You’re like someone without instincts.”

“Mr. Fu discussing philosophy with me at this hour?”

“Psychology, actually. But we can talk philosophy if you want. Desire drives human behavior. So, Zishu, what fuels your relentless work? Wealth? Status? Respect? Or… love?”

If Yan Zishu truly loved Fu Weishan, he’d be on high alert against Fu Jinchi’s probing.

But he didn’t. In this world, Fu Jinchi and Fu Weishan were no different to him.

Protagonist or antagonist, they were all passersby he’d eventually part ways with.

Unfazed, he gazed out the window, slowly closing his eyes.

Before his consciousness faded, he vaguely heard Fu Jinchi chuckle. “What kind of family raises someone like you?”

Sometimes, a brief nap feels like an epic dream. That’s how it was for Yan Zishu.

Perhaps triggered by the jeans comment, Fu Jinchi’s subtle probing, or the alcohol’s fermentation, he dreamed of his childhood and adolescence.

In his original world, his real past: his parents were intellectuals, both university professors. Affluent, cultured, he excelled academically, a model of all-around development—a picture-perfect family to outsiders.

But behind closed doors, it was a different world.

His mother was exacting and strict. The house had to be spotless—no water stains on the coffee table, no clutter on the floor. After cooking, the stove had to be pristine, the kitchen free of grease.

Her expectations for her son were sky-high. Wanting him to succeed was normal, but she went too far.

His early memories were fragmented, some clearer than others.

Like being taught a problem twice and still not getting it, or carelessly misreading an exam question. His mother would lash him with a hanger, voice icy: “Why would you make such a basic mistake? Your father and I are both scholars. Is there something wrong with your intelligence?”

His father sometimes intervened. But later, unable to endure his wife’s rigidity, he had an affair with a student, divorced, and left with nothing. From then on, his mother’s inner demons grew, and her punishments escalated.

There’s a saying about being made to kneel on a washboard as punishment. Few have actually done it, but Yan Zishu was one.

He knelt on a wooden washboard, brand-new, with sharp edges, bruising his knees purple and blue, the pain excruciating, barely able to stay upright. In front of him was a full-length mirror, so he could see his shameful state.

His mother beat him with hangers, feather dusters, anything at hand: “Why aren’t you the best? Why only second place? Why not first? Can’t you make me proud? What face do I have left to live?”

Or she’d drag him by the hair to the mirror: “Look! Look at yourself! Don’t you look just like your deadbeat father? Inferior genes, no wonder you’re both trash!”

The child in the mirror was disheveled, bewildered, forbidden to cry, as his mother insisted “family shame stays hidden.”

Her piercing gaze taught him to lie to outsiders—his leg bruises were from tripping, his body marks from falling.

The house often discarded warped hangers.

It took Yan Zishu years to suppress his fear of full-length mirrors and the urge to smash everything.

Yet, when she was kind, she pinned endless hopes on him.

Every morning at six, he had to rise, reciting lengthy English passages or obscure classical texts—anything to avoid wasting life in bed. No summer or winter breaks. No TV, no games; all entertainment was sinful.

Especially after learning her ex-husband had a son with his new partner, she demanded Yan Zishu outshine him in every way.

Everything had to be perfect: only the top two universities would do, nothing less. His job had to be elite, high-paying, prestigious. When he didn’t pursue academia like her, entering a university faculty, she was bitterly disappointed.

Beatings, scolding, hysteria.

When he was 24, his mother was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at a psychiatric hospital.

But some things had happened. Some things couldn’t be undone. Some were violently etched into his bones.

No one’s childhood can be redone.

After graduating, Yan Zishu worked himself to the bone, rising fast, exhausting himself. He earned plenty but left a will to donate everything after his death, keeping nothing. Fu Weishan mentioned desire—he didn’t even know what his own was.

It clicked: he wasn’t instinctless. He just didn’t know how to live normally.

Groggily opening his eyes, Yan Zishu recalled that after his sudden death in his original world, he’d likely left his mother nothing. His notarized will ordered all his possessions destroyed. He came and went unburdened.

Fu Jinchi said, “Awake? Good, we’re almost at your place. You were talking in your sleep. Nightmare?”

Yan Zishu froze. “What did I say?”

Fu Jinchi smiled. “Something like ‘I’m sorry, I won’t do it again.’ But I could’ve misheard.”