Have You Lied Enough? - Chapter 3

Being stared at was uncomfortable, especially when someone looked him up and down as if he were an object in a display case, to be priced and picked at will. The young man was looking at Fu Wansi just like that, with an added gesture.

He took the cigarette from his mouth and asked, “Want a smoke?” but naturally tucked his hand behind his back, keeping the smoke away from Fu Wansi.

“No thanks,” Fu Wansi replied, withdrawing his gaze. Because of this gesture, he added, “The clothes are too small. Don’t wear them like that here.”

Being too good-looking makes you too easy to notice.

“They don’t have my size,” Zuo Chi said, pressing the hand holding the cigarette against the back of his neck. A weariness showed in his eyes, making him seem a little pitiful. “I’m too tall.”

Fu Wansi wasn’t one to talk much or meddle in others’ affairs, so he didn’t respond. He didn’t act like one of those “good uncles” who offer comforting words to the pitiful child. Instead, he turned and walked away coldly and indifferently.

He missed the way the pitiful child looked at him with keen interest, his gaze trailing from the back of his neck down his spine all the way to his bare calves.

Later, Fu Wansi went to the Yitu Club two more times, but he never saw that boy again. Thinking they weren’t meant to be, he didn’t mention it to Cheng Bo.

Whenever Fu Wansi thought back to that moment, he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret.

He hadn’t even asked for the boy’s name. Zuo Chi wasn’t really his type, but there was something about him that he found inexplicably appealing.

Maybe it was his looks, or the way he looked so pitiful.

Someone else might have handed over their business card then and there, playing the “knight in shining armor” role; just a quick word to Cheng Bo and it would have been arranged.

But Fu Wansi couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was rather “blunt” by nature, a lazy streak running through everything he did. Like a great mountain lying on the ground, he simply waited for others to come to him.

Then again, Fu Wansi was also too proud. If Zuo Chi had taken the initiative to ask for his contact information back then, Fu Wansi probably would have lost interest. He had no interest in things that came too easily.

Nighttime was a magical hour for Fu Wansi, a man of letters. As darkness fell, his mind would wander, conjuring all sorts of fanciful thoughts.

It had been nearly two months, but today, out of nowhere, he suddenly remembered Uncle’s funeral.

Following this thread, memories twisted and coiled, plunging him from the brightly lit present into a hazy, faded past.

That year, Fu Wansi and Fu Wanchu were just five years old. Song Wen and Fu Xianyun had fought a highly publicized divorce battle, and the two tiny children were unceremoniously dumped on distant relatives living in the countryside.

Song Wen openly insulted Fu Xianyun in front of everyone, calling him a “motherless wretch with no conscience,” saying, “Your birth mother is dead, and you don’t even visit her grave! The woman who breastfed you lives in a mountain ravine, and you don’t care for her!”

While Fu Xianyun was heartless, Song Wen was equally ruthless, abandoning both the children and their financial support. He left after barely a word, unnerved by the genuine shock of the simple farming couple, who stood holding the two children, bewildered.

The two young children, unaware of the complexities, didn’t chase after their mother when she left. Instead, they simply called out “Grandma” with each breath.

Cheng Bo’s second uncle lived in the rear courtyard of Grandma’s house. Cheng Bo, a year older than the twins, had suddenly appeared when Fu Wansi was six, brought back by his second uncle.

The story went that there had been a car accident. The adults hadn’t survived, and no one claimed the child. At the time, the second uncle was working multiple jobs in the city; carpenter by day, building houses, and hospital janitor by night. Seeing the child alone and pitiful, his heart softened, and he brought the boy home.

With two sons of his own to raise, this decision led to a heated argument with his wife. But in the end, Cheng Bo remained.

The illiterate second uncle personally went to the police station, spending over half a year navigating the bureaucracy to complete the paperwork. He officially registered Cheng Bo in his household registry, formally adopting him as his son.

The kind-hearted second uncle became a regular destination for Fu Wansi and Fu Wanchu, who visited daily for meals. Whenever they returned home, they would always bring back a piece of candy to share.

The three of them would roll around in the mud together, shamelessly teaming up to bully Cheng Bo. But Cheng Bo, with his uncle’s same easygoing temperament, never held a grudge. He’d just grin and run to the front yard to play with them.

Those years were so happy they hardly seemed like Fu Wansi’s memories.

But heaven, it seemed, couldn’t bear to let anyone be truly happy. The tragedy struck silently, yet its impact was earth-shattering.

While his grandparents were working in the fields, a sudden downpour struck. As they crossed the river, a flash flood swept them away. Before Fu Wansi and his sister could even mourn them properly, Fu Xianyun brought them back to the city.

The day they returned, Cheng Bo clung to Fu Wansi’s pant leg, sobbing silently. Fu Wanchu remarked that he was crying as if someone in his family had died.

Cheng Bo didn’t argue, refusing to let go.

Fu Xianyun simply brought him along, tossed Uncle a wad of cash, and entrusted Cheng Bo to an acquaintance to raise, claiming he was providing the two boys with a study companion.

Years passed. The study companion amassed a considerable business empire, while the two biological sons pursued “unconventional” careers: one writing, the other painting. Though not born into a literary family, they’d contracted the affliction of artistic youths.

Fu Wansi had loved writing since childhood. Stubborn and taciturn, he preferred putting his thoughts on paper rather than speaking them aloud. His output grew from short poems to stories, eventually becoming a modest novel. When it came time to publish, others might have needed their grandfather’s intervention to get a book deal, but when the publisher realized he was the young master of the Fu family, they rushed to publish it themselves.

Those who didn’t understand Fu Wansi called him a “fraud,” while his supporters admired him for his status, essentially investing in his “brand.” They claimed his works were all pretentious and false, that he didn’t understand ordinary people or life, and that he was either writing carelessly or using ghostwriters.

They spoke with such conviction, unaware that Fu Wansi was so lazy he wouldn’t even open his mouth to accept money being fed to him.

One word to describe him: “arrogant.”

It’s a strange paradox. Despite being stubborn and infuriating, Fu Wansi’s writing is remarkably warm. The everyday warmth permeating his stories, even the tragedies, gives them a gentle, soothing quality.

An old reader once left a highly praised review: “Teacher Fu’s books are like a roaring fire in the stove. When you suddenly lift the lid, steam blasts you in the face from across the room, and even your eyes feel hot.”

After finishing his coffee, “Great Writer” Fu returned to his computer, typing a few lines before deleting them all.

Four months had passed, but the word on the page remained the same:

Prologue.

“Another round! Come on!” Zheng Yuzhe, tipsy and irritable, shouted at the distracted waiter in the corner. “Hey, pretty boy! Pour the drinks!”

The private room was spacious, seating over a dozen people, and waiters came and went, bringing out bottles of liquor.

Today was Young Master Zheng’s birthday, and the guests had been told to help themselves to the drinks.

The waiter, who had been called “pretty boy,” was still lost in thought when another server passing by yanked him out of his daze. “Zuo Chi!” he hissed. “Young Master Zheng wants you to pour his drink!”

Zuo Chi tilted his head, snapping out of his reverie. He took the bottle, walked stiffly over to Zheng Yuzhe, bowed, and poured half a glass, his smile devoid of warmth. “Your drink, sir.”

Zheng Yuzhe wasn’t into men. His own good looks had always attracted the attention of pretty gays, leaving him with a deep-seated aversion to handsome men.

Among the crowd, Zuo Chi was the most attractive. His slightly tight uniform accentuated the sensual curve of his back, and his youthful body, unmarked by smoke or alcohol, radiated vitality. His skin was flawless, and the corners of his lips carried a natural smile.

Zheng Yuzhe was thoroughly annoyed. He ordered Zuo Chi to pour the drink, then claimed he’d poured it wrong and sent him out to get a fresh bottle. When Zuo Chi returned, he demanded a different drink, spitting out curses the whole time. Finally, he splashed the entire glass in Zuo Chi’s face, calling him a “whore.”

Zuo Chi clicked his tongue inwardly, suddenly finding the whole situation pointless.

His smile remained unchanged as he calmly picked up another bottle of wine, bending down to ask Zheng Yuzhe if this was the one he wanted.

The young man’s smile was infuriatingly handsome. The more Zheng Yuzhe stared, the more his anger simmered. “No,” he snapped, “get lost and bring me a different one!”

“Yuzhe! Now that’s not right! Not inviting me to your birthday party?” Cheng Bo barged through the door, cleverly positioning himself between Zuo Chi and Zheng Yuzhe, blocking the bottle that was mere inches from Zheng Yuzhe’s head.

A bead of cold sweat trickled down President Cheng’s forehead. He didn’t dare imagine what would happen if Zuo Chi’s full force struck Zheng Yuzhe whether he’d even be able to stand up afterward.

While subtly signaling to the troublemaker, Cheng Bo loudly rallied the group upstairs, declaring Zheng Yuzhe’s snub a grave insult. He’d prepared the stage, and tonight would be a wild party no matter what.

Zuo Chi’s gaze swept across the back of Cheng Bo’s head. Too bad, he thought. I’m not here to beat anyone up today.

Once everyone had left, Zuo Chi lazily sank into the sofa. He pulled a short length of silver wire from his wrist and coiled it twice around his fingertip.

He was here to find someone.

As the night wore on, Cheng Bo personally escorted each guest to the door, arranging for drivers to take the inebriated men home.

When he returned to his office, the wall clock’s hour hand had just jumped to the “2” mark.

The usually locked office was unexpectedly occupied by a “waiter” sprawled on the sofa.

A wine-stained coat, carelessly tossed onto the desk, had knocked over a pricey sailing ship ornament, shattering the tens-of-thousands-yuan item across the floor.

The young man showed no restraint about sleeping in someone else’s territory. His upper body sank deeply into the dark gray sofa, his chest rising and falling steadily.

“What made you decide to come today?” Cheng Bo picked up the coat and hung it nearby, knowing the man was awake. He added helplessly, “Zheng Yuzhe has a terrible temper. Why did you go to his private room? I’m glad I arrived early…”

When he turned back, the bill was gone, and a pair of pitch-black eyes stared unblinkingly at him.

These eyes were unnaturally dark, devoid of any glint, and set against pale skin, they appeared especially sinister in the night.

Cheng Bo, lacking any literary sophistication, always thought to himself, “Ghost-like… gives me the creeps.”

This thought lasted less than two seconds. Zuo Chi smiled, and the ghostly aura vanished. His eyes curved downward at the corners, and the arc of his lips was strikingly beautiful.

He rolled onto his side, propping his head on his arm, and watched Cheng Bo with a voice still husky from sleep—a voice that sounded strangely sensual.

His attitude was worlds apart from his disheveled appearance.

He called Cheng Bo by name, tossed the ledger aside, and drawled lazily, “How’s the bookkeeping coming along?”

Cheng Bo understood immediately, half-jokingly replying, “How did you get in? I remember locking the door. Did you just come to check my books? I wouldn’t dare let you look. You would expose everything.”

This remark added a hint of ambiguity to the atmosphere, carrying a suggestive undertone that hinted at the unusual nature of their relationship.

Zuo Chi stared directly at him, his voice now smooth, the teasing lilt mocking Cheng Bo’s caution, implying he was being foolish.

“What do you think?”

“…I had someone take care of Zheng Yuzhe. Don’t get mad.” As Cheng Bo spoke, he removed his watch and casually draped his jacket nearby. His tightly fitted shirt accentuated his lean frame. “If people find out what I’ve been doing here, how can I ever show my face again?”

Despite his words, he made no move to lock the door.

It had been some time since Zuo Chi’s last visit. He wouldn’t spoil the mood now.

Zuo Chi wasn’t even listening to him. He’d been too busy with other matters and only managed to free up time today to review the surveillance footage.

Nearly two months had passed, and the incident had long been buried. He found nothing.

The day the other person left without a trace of lingering, Zuo Chi hadn’t paid much attention. But later, whenever he thought back to it, he always felt a twinge of regret…

Why didn’t I ask for his name back then?

“What was his name…” Zuo Chi muttered to himself, his words trailing off.

“What?” Cheng Bo, who had already walked past Zuo Chi, turned around and crouched down.

Zuo Chi stopped him. He wasn’t here for that today. He kicked Cheng Bo’s knee with the toe of his shoe and said, “I’m tired.”

“…You came here just to nap on the sofa?” Cheng Bo’s expression was caught between amusement and exasperation.

Zuo Chi didn’t look at him, yawning listlessly. “It’s time to sleep,” he mumbled, lowering his eyelids.

Cheng Bo sighed, still baffled by Zuo Chi’s visit.

He suggested taking Zuo Chi to a hotel for a proper bed, all while good-naturedly helping him redress the scattered fabric. But when he turned around, Zuo Chi had already vanished from the office.

He left without a sound.

What else could he be if not a ghost?

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