Drunk On The Night Breeze - Chapter 7

Chapter 7

The moment the words left his mouth, Ruan Lingfeng realized he had lost his cool again.

Even though Tao Zhi’s remark was ridiculously absurd, Ruan Lingfeng felt his impulsive retort was unprofessional. He comforted himself: Tao Zhi was only nineteen, while he was eight years older. Why get worked up over a kid?

Moreover, this was his “Client Father.”

Seeing Tao Zhi about to storm off again, Ruan Lingfeng prepared to say something to smooth things over and avoid another sour parting. However, as Tao Zhi walked out, he spat out a few words: “Suit yourself. Follow me if you want.”

To Tao Zhi, saying this was a concession made for the sake of work. To Ruan Lingfeng, it sounded like a high-and-mighty superior granting a meager reward.

In modern slang, he was a bit too “Alpha-splaining.”

He was young and essentially good-hearted, but Ruan Lingfeng wondered where he had picked up such bad habits. Or perhaps he hadn’t outgrown his “middle school syndrome” yet—thinking he was the irresistible CEO protagonist of an idol drama, possessing boundless charm, where everyone who met him had an ulterior motive, and any favor he granted was a monumental exception for which others should be eternally grateful.

A long string of ellipses scrolled through Ruan Lingfeng’s mind.

But on second thought, it wasn’t wrong to say he had an “ulterior motive.” He was indeed after the high pay, Tao Zhi’s fame, and the hope that planning this tour would add a brilliant stroke to his portfolio. It would allow him to walk more confidently in the industry and attract more “normal” or “abnormal” clients to torture him with money.

So, Ruan Lingfeng smiled again. “Ah, thank you, Little Teacher Tao.”

“Little Teacher Tao,” who hadn’t been angry just a second ago, stopped dead in his tracks. His brows locked tight, and his voice spiked with sudden fury: “Don’t call me that!”

.Alright, Teacher Tao.” Ruan Lingfeng speculated that the word “Little” must have triggered him.

Tao Zhi paused, then added: “Just use my name.”

“Alright, Tao Zhi.”

Once Tao Zhi agreed to let him shadow him, Ruan Lingfeng showed up at the workspace the next day with his laptop in tow. He had cleared the schedule with the manager, Chen Ping. Honestly, compared to the popular singers, actors, and idols Ruan Lingfeng had followed before, Tao Zhi’s workload wasn’t that heavy.

Actually, it wasn’t that the workload was light, but rather that other rising stars usually crammed their schedules with variety show recordings and photoshoots to maximize exposure, spinning like tops. Ruan Lingfeng had seen it all.

Tao Zhi’s schedule, however, was much more monotonous. For several days, he would sleep until he woke up naturally in the morning. In the afternoon, he’d go to the rehearsal room to practice singing or sit in front of a synthesizer twisting knobs to create strange sounds until midnight. When not practicing, he’d curl up on the rehearsal room sofa with an iPad and watch movies quietly. His list included everything: recent popcorn blockbusters and hours-long, obscure art films.

Every day, he also set aside time for the gym. After all, performing a two-hour concert requires immense physical stamina. Tao Zhi seemed very experienced with the equipment; he clearly exercised regularly. Ruan Lingfeng watched him perform preacher curls; his biceps bulged—beautiful and firm without being overly exaggerated. It was quite a sight to behold.

Aside from that, Ruan Lingfeng only followed Tao Zhi to one magazine shoot. To his surprise, Tao Zhi didn’t talk much on set. Ruan Lingfeng had expected him to be opinionated, but Tao Zhi simply did whatever the photographer asked, letting people pose him as they pleased.

Later, Ruan Lingfeng asked him: “Why are you so obedient with them?”

Tao Zhi frowned. “What do you mean, ‘obedient’?”

Ruan Lingfeng clarified: “You usually have so many ideas. Why did you listen to everything the photographer said?”

“What do you mean ‘I listened to everything’? Get your facts straight first. The photographer is taking photos; the photos are his work. I am just the material he uses to complete his work. Generally speaking, the material should listen to the creator. Is there a problem with that?” As he spoke, Tao Zhi seemed to realize why Ruan Lingfeng was asking, and his anger spiked. “You think I have too many ideas? When I’m making music or planning a show, those are my works. Is it strange that I have a lot of opinions about my own things?”

That night, Ruan Lingfeng returned home and opened his self-made file on Tao Zhi. He looked at the “Personality/Behavior” column where he had written “Attention-seeker, mysteriously confident, easily triggered, emotionally unstable,” and added a note:

“Not a purely extroverted personality. The desire for the spotlight is mostly limited to his own work. He is relatively indifferent and impatient toward things he isn’t interested in.”

Because he spent so much time observing Tao Zhi lately, Ruan Lingfeng struggled to handle all his tasks, even with his laptop constantly by his side. When he got home, he could rarely relax; he had to catch up on the work he had missed.

Due to the nature of his job, Ruan Lingfeng had a flexible schedule and a senior position. Aside from key events, he could arrange his own hours. It sounded like freedom, but in reality, it meant being on call 24/7, ready to work anywhere.

While he was busy, his phone rang. It was a call from Ruan Xinyu.

Initially, Xinyu gave some token concern about his work and asked about Tao Zhi. After learning that Tao Zhi’s image hadn’t truly collapsed—and hearing her brother admit that Tao Zhi was “alright”—she could once again be a peaceful fan.

Ruan Lingfeng knew she hadn’t called just for gossip. If that were the case, a quick WeChat message would have sufficed.

So he asked, “What’s up? Out of allowance?”

His sister was still in high school, and her pocket money mostly came from him.

“Not really…” Xinyu denied. “Though if you want to give more, I won’t complain.”

“If it’s not money, then why did you call?”

There was a long hesitation on the other end before she said: “Mom asked when you’re coming home for dinner.”

Ruan Lingfeng paused. He had expected this, but he still replied noncommittally: “In a while. I’m busy lately.”

“I knew you’d say that. I’m tired of making up excuses for you every time,” Xinyu said. “The Mid-Autumn Festival is coming up soon. Why don’t you come back then? Bring… what’s-his-name, bring Xu Mao with you.”

Ruan Lingfeng didn’t answer whether he’d go home, but he addressed the second half of her sentence: “…We broke up.”

“Again?!” Xinyu was only surprised for a second before sounding unfazed. “Fine. Bring a new brother-in-law next time.”

Ruan Lingfeng sounded disinterested. “We’ll see.”

After a few more words, he hung up.

It wasn’t just that he didn’t want to go home; when he said he was busy, it wasn’t entirely an excuse. His weekdays were packed, and while holidays should have offered a breather, he wanted to use that precious time effectively.

He wanted to move during the holiday.

Lately, he had spent his spare time browsing rental apps and had visited a few apartments, finally settling on a one-bedroom unit he liked.

He wanted to move for two reasons. First, his current lease was almost up, and he wanted to be closer to the office.

Second, and more importantly, Xu Mao knew his address. Since they broke up, Xu Mao had come by several times—initially using the excuse of “forgetting things,” and later not even bothering with excuses, just saying he wanted to see Ruan Lingfeng again.

Even after the incident in the parking lot and the police station, Xu Mao was persistent.

It was becoming an unbearable nuisance.

Ruan Lingfeng uncomfortably recalled Tao Zhi saying his taste in men was terrible.

As unpleasant as it was to hear, Ruan Lingfeng knew Tao Zhi was right.

Since his first relationship in university, he had gone through several boyfriends, all of whom were Alphas with decent backgrounds. Because of his “Pheromone Deficiency,” people couldn’t smell him, yet every Alpha who approached him claimed they were “spiritually attracted” to each other.

Ruan Lingfeng didn’t believe in “soulmates.” He believed these people wanted to date him simply because his “conditions” were acceptable—the probability of an adult finding true love is microscopic; most people just choose based on matching criteria.

However, the beginning of every relationship was indeed quite nice. They weren’t exactly “soul-deep” confidants, but they shared hobbies, watched shows together, cooked dinner, and occasionally shared shallow views on social injustices. There were staged romances, sweet words on holidays, and gifts.

But this beauty usually revealed its fragile, true face once the relationship moved to the next level.

The turning point usually occurred after physical intimacy. To be honest, Ruan Lingfeng didn’t have much of a physiological drive, but he knew dating involved enjoying those moments of “bliss” with a partner, so he didn’t resist. However, during the process, he always displayed “disappointing” traits.

He had no pheromone scent, so he naturally couldn’t drive an Alpha wild. Furthermore, his perception was flawed; he couldn’t feel much pleasure during intimacy. He couldn’t even fake it, treating every encounter like a routine chore.

Combined with various trivial frictions, those who had claimed to be attracted to his “soul” eventually drifted away.

Inevitably, they would part ways. Some were subtle, saying “we’re just not compatible after spending time together.” Others were absolute bastards. Ruan Lingfeng had once seen a vulgar comment in an ex’s chat log, saying he was “worse than a Beta—at least a Beta knows how to enjoy it when they’re supposed to.”

This made Ruan Lingfeng feel that dating was quite meaningless. Poets always used the most tender words to describe love as the brightest treasure in ordinary life. Ruan Lingfeng didn’t know if he just hadn’t met “True Love,” or if love was actually just something vulgar—merely a biological instinctual attraction between Alphas and Omegas. When an Omega is “defective,” they are destined never to meet true love.

When faced with Xu Mao’s intense pursuit, he had considered that history might repeat itself.

But he still held onto a tiny hope: What if, this time, the person truly loves me?

Now he knew. There were no “what ifs.”

Dating was indeed meaningless. He wouldn’t do it again.

After the call with Xinyu, Ruan Lingfeng tried to dive back into work. He had just finished organizing a file when another call came in.

The name on the screen surprised him: “Tao Zhi.”

Surely this guy didn’t have another sudden idea in the middle of the night that he had to discuss? This had happened several times recently. Ruan Lingfeng’s observation that Tao Zhi had “too many ideas” was well-founded. During the day, Tao Zhi would occasionally pull Ruan Lingfeng into mini-meetings, overturning several setlists or debating which sound team to hire.

Ruan Lingfeng was tired. He felt that unless it was a dire emergency, it could wait until they met tomorrow.

Still, he answered.

On the other end, Tao Zhi’s tone was as imperious as ever, as if his words were absolute commands.

Tao Zhi said: “Come down for late-night snacks. I’ve already driven near your house.”

Ruan Lingfeng’s first reaction was: “Did you dial the wrong number?”

Tao Zhi became impatient again: “I didn’t. I’m calling you. Get down here now, don’t make me wait.”