Becoming the Yandere Omega's Fluffy Pet - Chapter 52 

Chapter 52

Two days later during lunch break, Liu Ran habitually opened her tablet to find a show to watch while eating. She happened to remember the shredded copy of the art house film contract and searched for The Glass Sea Has No Echo.

After watching the opening, she felt something was missing. She rewound and watched it again, discovering that the film’s production, creation, and distribution made no mention of Ming’s Pictures under Ming’s Entertainment. Wasn’t this a movie produced by the Ming Group?

Curious, Liu Ran searched on her phone. The producer was a film company with little reputation in the industry. Similarly, the movie hadn’t made much of a splash; most reviews described it as “boring.”

But she had definitely heard of this movie somewhere.

When you specifically try to remember something, you often can’t; but when you’re about to forget it, it suddenly surges into your mind.

As she went downstairs to drive after work, a flash of inspiration hit her: the last film her mother directed before she passed away seemed to be called The Glass Sea Has No Echo.

Her mother had announced this news at the dinner table back then. It was said that the production company was very powerful and the production team was very reliable. She could hardly believe such a movie would be entrusted to her to direct.

It was just that her mother passed away shortly after filming began. At the time, she was busy handling her mother’s funeral and her other mother’s illness. She hadn’t inquired further about what eventually happened to the unfinished film—whether someone else took over directing or if it simply wasn’t filmed anymore.

If that was truly the case, then the party her mother cooperated with back then was very likely the Ming Group.

Sadness and excitement intertwined. Sadness for her mother’s death, and excitement that perhaps she and Ming Siyu had a small intersection long ago by destiny.

During dinner, Liu Ran brought up The Glass Sea Has No Echo as if casually. Lately, she had been thinking about finding a suitable time to confess her biggest secret to Ming Siyu; perhaps the movie her mother once collaborated on with Ming’s Pictures was a good opportunity.

Ming Siyu had been angry yesterday, and Liu Ran wasn’t sure if that anger was directed at Ming Siwei or the contract itself, so she tested Ming Siyu’s attitude first.

Ming Siyu’s originally relaxed expression instantly turned serious: “Did you look at that material yesterday?”

The reaction was quite significant.

Liu Ran spoke slowly: “I caught a glimpse when photocopying. What’s wrong with that movie?”

Her heart slowly sank.

Ming Siyu’s reaction gave her a gut feeling… this wouldn’t be a good thing.

Ming Siyu tapped her bowl with her chopsticks. Without explaining the reason, she only said in a heavy voice: “Stay out of the conglomerate’s business. Don’t mention that movie again; it’s bad luck (unlucky).”

Hearing this, Liu Ran was startled, nearly dropping the bowl in her hand.

Bad luck?

How could it be such a word?

Since Ming Siyu had put it that way, no matter how much Liu Ran lacked situational awareness, she wouldn’t take the initiative to bring it up again.

But a barb was planted in her heart from then on. Liu Ran regretted that she hadn’t read the whole contract at the time; she wanted to know if her mother Shen Yunhe’s name was actually under the production side.

For the first time, she wanted to confess her past—the time before she accepted the genetic modification to Ming Siyu. She had just started a beginning, and it stalled right there.

Next time, Liu Ran thought. Now might not be the best time yet.

With things on her mind, Liu Ran had a bit of trouble sleeping that night. Ming Siyu leaned over from behind and hugged her, stroking her head while hazy with sleep: “Go to sleep.”

Being stroked gently on the head over and over felt like returning to childhood, being patted on the back to be coaxed to sleep. Smelling the pleasant fragrance on Ming Siyu, Liu Ran drifted off into a muddled sleep.

Liu Ran found an opportunity to visit the Huaici Nursing Home again. Bai Yu’s condition hadn’t improved, but it hadn’t worsened either. It was cold in winter, so Liu Ran carried her onto a wheelchair and pushed her to the balcony to soak in the sun for a while.

Under Bai Yu’s bed, there were some of Shen Yunhe’s belongings. Most items had been destroyed in the fire back then, so not many remained. Liu Ran rummaged through the box and found some contract documents related to Shen Yunhe’s work. Sure enough, there was a contract with Ming’s Pictures, which seemed to be the same one Ming Siwei had given her to photocopy.

The producer of The Glass Sea Has No Echo was Chenxi Studio, and Shen Yunhe served as the director. When Shen Yunhe first had her accident, colleagues from the studio came to help, but after a short while, there was no more news, and they never contacted her again.

Since it was produced by Ming’s Pictures, why was it later changed to another company? Was the project sold as a package? And for what reason was it sold?

Because Shen Yunhe passed away?

Liu Ran felt this reason didn’t quite hold water. Shen Yunhe wasn’t a major director, and this film wasn’t necessarily exclusive to her; the film industry never lacks talented directors. Even if Shen Yunhe passed away, according to the usual operating logic of Ming’s Pictures, they should have replaced the director and continued filming instead of hastily transferring the script.

Auntie Chen washed a pear for Liu Ran to eat. She asked casually: “What are these?”

“My mother’s belongings.”

Auntie Chen had known Bai Yu was widowed since she first moved in. So she said: “Miss your mother?”

Liu Ran nodded, forcing a smile for Auntie Chen: “She passed away too suddenly…”

Auntie Chen’s professional habit kicked in. “What exactly was the accident your mother died from back then? Is it convenient to tell me?”

Liu Ran first looked at Bai Yu. In her current state, Bai Yu likely couldn’t hear outside sounds, or even if she did, she couldn’t process them. Shen Yunhe’s death was an inescapable shadow for Liu Ran. Her understanding of the death came entirely from reports by the police and fire department.

Although she always felt that the cause of death accidentally taking psychiatric medication and alcohol at the same time leading to respiratory paralysis, which then triggered the fire sounded somewhat absurd (such a careless mistake shouldn’t happen to Shen Yunhe), the final report said so, and there were causes of death even more ridiculous than that.

The blow brought by Shen Yunhe’s death was too great and too sudden. Liu Ran had a relatively severe stress response; seeing flames from a roadside barbecue stall would make her uncontrollably gasp for breath, as if someone were strangling her. It took a while for the situation to improve. Due to a self-protection mechanism, her body actively faded the memories related to Shen Yunhe’s death.

So, regarding many details, Liu Ran was a bit vague.

She simply told Auntie Chen the parts she could remember. After hearing it, Auntie Chen was thoughtful. “It was indeed a bit sudden. Did your mother have any abnormal reactions before she died?”

Speaking of this, Liu Ran felt very ashamed. During that period, she was abroad participating in a summer camp. She spoke on the phone with Shen Yunhe and Bai Yu on average once every two days, and she hadn’t detected anything wrong at all from the calls. She often regretted it; if she hadn’t participated in the summer camp and had stayed home properly, at least she could have reminded Shen Yunhe not to take medication after drinking.

Auntie Chen said enthusiastically: “I have friends in the public security, procuratorate, and courts. If needed, I can help you inquire about the situation back then.”

Liu Ran also wanted to supplement her memories from that time, so she first thanked Auntie Chen. However, she also knew that the reason Auntie Chen moved into the nursing home with the long-term comatose Bai Yu was that she didn’t want too much contact with people, so she said in advance that if it was troublesome to ask, then forget it.

During the holiday, Ming Siyu took Liu Ran to play golf. She taught Liu Ran hand-on-hand, which involved inevitable physical contact, making Liu Ran break into a sweat in the middle of winter. The caddy stood by, looking at their nose and heart; after a game, Liu Ran’s face was as red as a fried tomato.

The more Ming Siyu teased her with such mischief, the more Liu Ran couldn’t help but fix her gaze on Ming Siyu.

After the game, while eating at the golf course restaurant, Liu Ran went to change her clothes, leaving her phone on the dining table.

There weren’t many people in the restaurant. Soothing and melodious pure music was playing. Ming Siyu drank her tea comfortably, looking at the endless lawn outside the window. In winter, the lawn was slightly yellow, which actually had a bit more of a desolate beauty than in spring and summer.

The phone Liu Ran left on the table suddenly vibrated.

Ming Siyu glanced at it; someone was adding Liu Ran as a friend. She casually took the phone and pressed in her own birthday to unlock it.

Liu Ran had been very obedient and had never changed her lock screen password. Initially, using her birthday to unlock Liu Ran’s phone felt just convenient to Ming Siyu, but unlocking it now carried a special meaning. Ming Siyu really liked the sound effect of the screen unlocking after entering the password.

After seeing the content of the friend request note clearly, Ming Siyu wanted to smash the phone on the spot.

It just so happened that Liu Ran came out after changing her clothes. As she walked closer, she saw Ming Siyu holding her phone with a face full of interrogation. Liu Ran didn’t like her relatively private things like her phone being looked through casually by others, but the person was Ming Siyu; she endured it and had never flared up.

“What’s wrong?”

Ming Siyu threw the phone onto the table. The phone collided with the tabletop with a clatter. “See for yourself.”

While thinking there shouldn’t be anything in the phone that Ming Siyu couldn’t see, Liu Ran picked up the phone to look. It was Zhu Xinghan, who had somehow gotten hold of her WeChat ID and was applying to add her as a friend. After the message, she even added three pink hearts.

Fire flashed in Ming Siyu’s eyes as she said coldly: “Accept the request.”

Ming Siyu’s tone was wrong. Liu Ran herself didn’t want to get too close to Zhu Xinghan anyway, so she put the phone aside. “We’re not from the same school; there’s no need to add her.”

“Maybe she has something for you.” Ming Siyu was a bit cynical. “Calling you ‘Ranran’ so affectionately. I’ve already agreed to let you add her; what are you being so hesitant for?”

“What she calls me is her business; I can’t control it.”

“Don’t say you don’t know she’s interested in you.”

Liu Ran truly felt that Ming Siyu was making a big deal out of nothing and being unreasonable. Her tone couldn’t help but grow heavier: “Even if she does like me, I don’t like her, and I haven’t added her. You’ve always known my phone password and check it anytime, anywhere. When I add people from the company, you never say anything. I’ve also added a few classmates at school, and you agreed to them all. Why such a big reaction as soon as it comes to Zhu Xinghan?”

For a moment, Ming Siyu actually felt Liu Ran was right.

Although she had only met Zhu Xinghan once, when she saw the name in the friend request note, she had to think for a while before remembering the female student whose voice trembled from the cold while wrapped in a down jacket in the freezing wind.

Since she chose to let Liu Ran out, it was inevitable to come into contact with all sorts of people, and Ming Siyu had prepared for this long ago.

But the way Zhu Xinghan looked at Liu Ran—those burning, joyful eyes—made it impossible for her to ignore.

He Qiange always said she didn’t understand feelings. But even if one hasn’t eaten pork, hasn’t one seen a pig run? If the way Zhu Xinghan looked at Liu Ran was “innocent,” she would eat the table on the spot.

On second thought, why should she pay so much attention to a student who hadn’t even graduated? She never used to be like this.

She often tended to lose emotional control when facing Liu Ran. This wasn’t a good sign, making Ming Siyu a bit irritable.

“In any case, stay away from her.”

“President Ming,” Liu Ran had a sudden thought, “were you just jealous?”

“Jealous?” Ming Siyu sneered. “You think too highly of yourself. What makes you worth my jealousy?”

Liu Ran lowered her eyes and stopped talking.

Anyway, she was almost used to it. When Ming Siyu was happy, she would coax her and stroke her fur, saying sweet words that were easy to misunderstand and fantasize about. When she was unhappy, she only cared about speaking her mind to feel good, and the most unpleasant words could come out of her mouth.

Liu Ran actually really wanted Ming Siyu to give a clear definition to their relationship. They met every day, had sex frequently, and occasionally slept in each other’s arms—what exactly was their relationship.

But her intuition told her that if she asked, the answer would only slap her in the face. It was better to continue living in this muddled, ambiguous way.

Taking advantage of the free time during the holiday, Liu Ran finally found out what was on the second floor of Ming Siyu’s house.

Behind the doors that weren’t often opened, one was Ming Siyu’s personal painting studio. Ming Siyu painted oil paintings, though she hadn’t picked up a brush in a long time. There were dozens of her previous works in the studio. Another room was used for the collection Ming Siyu had gathered; she had collected many works by a foreign artist whose style was also somewhat similar—absurdity within realism.

For example, a businessman in a suit with several nearly transparent octopus tentacles wrapped around his neck, stepping on ancient bronze clocks that were large in the foreground and small in the background, which looked inexplicably oppressive.

No wonder she had once smelled a faint scent of paint.

Liu Ran drew a new anime-style portrait for Ming Siyu. She had Ming Siyu put on an apron to prevent paint from staining her clothes, holding a brush and pretending to paint on a canvas, while she drew a scene of Ming Siyu painting.

After finishing, she took it to the easel to show Ming Siyu, and discovered that Ming Siyu’s new canvas had gained a few patches of base color and lines. It could be roughly seen that she was painting Liu Ran holding a drawing board with her head down, drawing.

Ming Siyu had a bit of paint on her hand and was wiping it unhurriedly with a wet tissue. “You are painting the ‘me’ in your eyes, and I am painting the ‘you’ in mine.”

However, neither had finished. One wasn’t colored, and the other wasn’t detailed. They agreed to find time to finish the unpainted parts, but who knew that right up until school started, they never found long stretches of free time again.

Liu Ran had never agreed to Zhu Xinghan’s friend request, and later Zhu Xinghan didn’t try to contact her again. Liu Ran thought they wouldn’t meet again, but on the first day of school, Zhu Xinghan appeared directly under the Business School building.

Because Zhu Xinghan had often come to find Liu Ran at the end of last semester, some classmates recognized her. What was a bit awkward was that supposedly during the break, a classmate from their department had confessed to Zhu Xinghan and been rejected. This resulted in classmates coming for class at the same time whispering and looking at the two of them as soon as Liu Ran appeared.

Zhu Xinghan came forward holding a cup of hot milk tea, her eyes shining with expectation: “Liu Ran…”

There was still a while before class. Liu Ran walked awkwardly toward the landscaped pavilion next to the college, and sure enough, Zhu Xinghan followed.

“Senior,” Zhu Xinghan was a senior; whether in terms of age or grade, they could no longer be considered classmates. “I think I’ve made myself clear enough. I have no plans to make friends right now.”

“You are Shen Liuran, right?” Zhu Xinghan said excitedly. “When high school first started, the teacher asked for self-introductions. You said your name meant the pomegranate flowers in summer burning like fire; you were born in a season when pomegranate flowers were like fire, so your family gave you such a name. Eyes don’t lie…”

For a moment, Liu Ran was also dazed.

Zhu Xinghan continued: “I have family working as agents in this field. During the break, I asked her to help me inquire. There is no one like you among the artists Ming’s Entertainment is preparing for debut, and you are not in a romantic relationship with that woman either. During the years you disappeared, I actually always tried to contact you, but you probably changed your number, so I could never reach you. I… missed you very much.”

As she spoke, Zhu Xinghan choked up.

Liu Ran’s heart also couldn’t stop feeling sour. She thought she had long been forgotten by her past, but it turned out someone still remembered her.

“Did you encounter difficulties these years, which is why you disappeared for so long and changed your name?” Zhu Xinghan’s voice trembled. “You might not be able to understand how excited I was to see you again.”

Zhu Xinghan had a crush on Liu Ran in high school. But high school work was heavy, and the school forbade puppy love. Liuran was indeed too young back then, so Zhu Xinghan thought about confessing after the college entrance exams ended.

Unexpectedly, in the summer after the exams, Liu Ran vanished, as if she had evaporated on the spot. Because of this, Zhu Xinghan was depressed for a period, even thinking that Liu Ran was deliberately avoiding her. Later, whenever she thought of that unrequited crush that ended before it began, she was always melancholy.

That day behind the stage, as the light flashed across the faces of the audience, the face in her memory appeared before her. Zhu Xinghan thought she was hallucinating.

She wouldn’t be mistaken. It was impossible for her to be mistaken.

Liu Ran almost couldn’t keep up the act.

But she still lacked the courage to face the past. Even more so, she lacked the courage to reveal the fact that she had become a “hybrid human” to her former classmate.

“You truly have the wrong person. Please don’t come looking for me again; it’s very troubling for me.”

Zhu Xinghan said while crying: “Then pretend I never said what I just said, alright? Just treat me as an ordinary student from the neighboring school who wants to know you and be your friend.”

The school bell rang, and Liu Ran fled. “I should go to class.”

“Wait a second.” Zhu Xinghan chased after her persistently, placing the milk tea in her hand into the water cup slot on the side of Liu Ran’s backpack. “This cup of rice dew is a limited-edition hit. I woke up very early to queue and buy it. Please, don’t throw it away.”

After saying that, she turned and ran away in short steps.

Liu Ran turned in a circle on the spot, frustrated.

She liked drinking rice dew in high school; Zhu Xinghan actually still remembered it now.

The rice dew sat in her bag for a whole class. When she changed classrooms after class, she happened to meet Jian Huaici, so Liu Ran gave the rice dew to Jian Huaici to drink.

Later, Zhu Xinghan still came to find her from time to time, but she no longer mentioned the past to her. Liu Ran couldn’t think of a solution either. She couldn’t bring herself to be fierce and scold Zhu Xinghan to drive her away, so she just avoided her as much as possible. It was difficult enough for her to hurt someone she disliked, let alone hurt someone who liked her.

Life went on peacefully for over a week.

A phone call from Auntie Chen broke this peace.

The call came to Liu Ran’s backup phone. Liu Ran’s first reaction was that something had happened to Bai Yu, and her heart jumped to her throat. But Auntie Chen said it wasn’t Bai Yu, but the accidental death of Shen Yunhe mentioned last time.

Auntie Chen’s tone was hesitant: “Xiao Liu, Auntie found out some things, but it’s very likely they’re wrong or rumors, without any substantial evidence. Just hear it out; don’t take it entirely as truth.”

Since Bai Yu was fine, Liu Ran’s heart settled back into her chest. But hearing Auntie Chen speak like this, her throat involuntarily tightened.

“Auntie Chen, please tell me.”

Auntie Chen recounted the story.

There were two main causes of Shen Yunhe’s death: one was respiratory paralysis caused by taking psychiatric medication and alcohol at the same time. If she had been treated in time, there was over a ninety percent probability she could have been saved, but no one was home at the time to take her to the hospital. The second was death from inhaling toxic gases like carbon monoxide produced by the fire.

Liu Ran knew these as well, so she wasn’t surprised.

But what Auntie Chen said next caught her off guard.

Before she died, Shen Yunhe had been accused of participating in money laundering. However, just as the investigation began, obvious insufficient evidence was found, and it soon came to nothing. Shortly after, Shen Yunhe died in the accidental fire, and the matter was never mentioned again.

Cold sweat poured from Liu Ran’s hands; she could almost not hold the phone.

She murmured: “I’ve never heard of this…”

Auntie Chen comforted her: “It’s perfectly normal for parents not to tell their children about such things, and it was a definitive failure of the accusation; your mother was innocent.”

Liu Ran immediately thought of the script that was sold midway through filming.

She found it hard not to link her mother being accused of money laundering with the crew of The Glass Sea Has No Echo.

What about Bai Yu? Bai Yu hadn’t suffered the major blow and fallen into a long-term coma back then; did she know about Shen Yunhe being accused?

Liu Ran knew that given Shen Yunhe’s character, she would absolutely not participate in such illegal activities. No matter how much she needed money at the time, she would hold her bottom line.

She suddenly began to wonder: was it that Shen Yunhe first had an accident and then left the crew, or did she first leave the crew and then have the accident? All along, she had naturally assumed it was the former—Shen Yunhe died accidentally as the director, and then the script was sold to another film company to be re-filmed.

“Xiao Liu,” Auntie Chen’s voice was gentle yet strong, “Auntie told you just because I wanted you to know more things related to your mother. It wasn’t intended to lead you to suspicion; don’t overthink it.”

Liu Ran said “Okay” three times in a row. “Thank you, Auntie Chen.”

She hung up the phone, looking lost.

In just a few minutes, she had already constructed a scenario in her mind: the crew of The Glass Sea Has No Echo was suspected of money laundering, and related personnel were suspected of participating, undergoing accusation and investigation. The guilty were convicted, and the innocent were released.

And the crew must have been found with ironclad evidence of money laundering; those who should be caught were caught. A crew with such a stain certainly couldn’t continue filming. To recover a bit of the loss, the script was sold at a low price to another company to be re-filmed.

Some years ago, the crackdown wasn’t as strict; there was more than one case of using bad dramas to wash money. Even now that the crackdown is strict, there are still people finding ways to do it secretly.

Liu Ran then thought she was overthinking. The Ming Group had always operated well, and tens or hundreds of millions weren’t considered big money in Ming Siyu’s eyes; it wasn’t worth breaking the law for that bit of money.

Furthermore, the suspected crew wasn’t necessarily The Glass Sea Has No Echo. Shen Yunhe had been in many crews; there was no telling which one it was. Or perhaps it had nothing to do with a crew; she might have been accidentally involved in something else.

At this moment, her other phone rang.

It was Ming Siyu. While silencing and hiding her backup phone, Liu Ran answered the call.

Before pressing the answer button, she first took a deep breath.

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