Professional Death Faker [Quick Transmigration] - Chapter 2

Shen Buqi took off his headphones and slowly stood up.

The headphone cord had pressed a thin red mark into his pale ear. He walked with a light, almost soundless tread, moving like a marionette suddenly hoisted by invisible strings. The loose hem of his shirt swayed slightly with every step.

Mu Chuan was startlingly thin, a fact that became even more apparent once he was on his feet. His shoulder blades protruded beneath the fabric of his shirt in a sickly, skeletal silhouette.

A few strands of his soft, slightly long hair fell against the back of his neck. His black leather collar was old and frayed at the edges, making his skin look so white it resembled a funeral portrait.

He pressed one hand lightly against his stomach, causing the fabric of his shirt to crinkle a habitual gesture for Mu Chuan.

Mu Chuan suffered from a mild eating disorder.

Of course, compared to the dozens of pages of corrective therapy records in his medical file and the looming threat of full-body cancer metastasis, such a minor ailment was hardly worth mentioning.

He reached for his old trench coat.

The System jolted awake, bouncing out of its paper rocking chair to chase after him. [Where are you going? Are you going out?

Outside, the sky was pitch black, and the rain was still pouring.

Mu Chuan was terrified of the rain.

Large droplets pelted the windowpane, the wind howled with savage fury, and lightning cracked across the sky.

As the downpour intensified, Mu Chuan’s ribs rose and fell with his ragged breathing. His wrist bones looked sharp enough to puncture his paper-thin skin.

In the dim light, his face was so pale it was almost translucent. His lips were bloodless, and his eyelashes trembled along with the stray hairs plastered to his temples by cold sweat. His deep-set collarbones were slick with moisture.

“Ah, it’s alright,” Shen Buqi replied. His voice was as soft as a song. His eyes curved slightly as he stroked the System with a fingertip, as if petting a small rabbit.

He pulled a few tissues from the box. The sound of the paper tearing was so loud in the quiet room that the faint blue veins on the inside of his wrist seemed to throb beneath his skin.

Shen Buqi patiently wiped away the cold sweat. The delicate veins at his temples pulsed rhythmically. By the time he had wiped his eyelids, forehead, and the bridge of his nose, the small bundle of tissue was soaked through.

“Pei Shu isn’t doing well…” Shen Buqi tossed the tissue aside. “Speaking like that means his heat is about to start.”

After all, that summit was a very prestigious event.

It was not the kind of place where one would frequently and inappropriately ramble on about a shameful, “backcountry” Alpha kept at home.

Pei Shu was far too dignified for such a lapse, unless his heat had suddenly arrived and his glands were spinning out of control. Pei Shu’s heat cycles were a chaotic mess a direct consequence of their eight-year marriage. After all, in those eight years, Mu Chuan had never actually experienced a real rut.

Even though Shen Buqi had been filled with “remorse” and had diligently studied various ABO materials to perfect his acting, let’s be honest.

Some things simply can’t be faked.

Acting alone couldn’t fix everything.

Pei Shu had been driven to the brink by this repression. His heat cycles had become completely irregular, striking without warning, always sudden, messy, and overwhelming.

A heat cycle that received no response turned Pei Shu into a desperate, cornered animal.

Whenever they were on the bedroom bed, Pei Shu would death-grip his clothes, his eyes bloodshot and his breathing heavy. Mu Chuan would unbutton his collar, mimic that ragged breathing, and lean in, carefully angling his body to ensure Pei Shu didn’t accidentally rip his hair out.

The thick, cloying, yet cold scent of rose-honey pheromones—which smelled faintly of disinfectant would drench the sealed bedroom like a torrential storm.

In that suffocating downpour, Pei Shu would leave deep red finger marks in the hollow of his collarbone. He would grab Mu Chuan’s jaw, forcing him to look up into those bloodshot eyes. Pei Shu would snarl his name: “Ah Chuan…”

“Look at me. Look at me,” Pei Shu’s voice would be as raspy as a viper’s hiss. The bulging veins at his temples looked just as lethal. “Where’s your mouth?”

“Are you a mute? Do you not know how to use it?” Pei Shu would violently smash the pheromone syringe out of his hand. “Bite me!”

“I told you to bite me! Bite me, damn it!”

Pei Shu would suddenly bite his own wrist. He would pull Mu Chuan close, letting the blood drip onto the white shirt, watching it bloom across the fabric. “Is it really that hard?!”

In those moments, Pei Shu was a madman, bearing no resemblance to the polite, elegant gentleman the world saw.

Shen Buqi felt very sorry for him.

Filled with guilt, he would pull that body into his arms, his own arms hovering slightly, light as air, barely touching Pei Shu’s expensive clothes.

Pei Shu would tear at the wounds on his own wrists until the bone was visible, as if he couldn’t feel the pain. He would squeeze the Alpha’s submissive neck, his bloodied fingers prying open Shen Buqi’s teeth.

“You’re an Alpha! Do I seriously have to teach you how to bite someone?!”

Blood would splatter onto Shen Buqi’s thin eyelids.

The System shivered as it reviewed the work logs, tucking itself further into the tissue box. Do you have to go?

“Yes,” Shen Buqi said. He was currently testing the water. His fingers quickly flushed red in the steaming hot flow. Holding a snow-white towel, he answered cheerfully and gently, “I have to.”

He had to.

Mu Chuan had made mistakes.

He had been to prison and underwent two months of “behavioral correction.”

During those two months, he had curled up in the corner of a cell filled with violent Alpha sex offenders. Holding the hand that his cellmates had crushed under their boots, he apologized, repented, and swore he would never do it again.

He wanted to know if Pei Shu was safe. Every day, he begged the guards to let him contact Pei Shu. Most of the time, his pleas were ignored. Of the only three times he got through, one was a hang-up, and the other two were just busy signals.

He heard that Pei Shu had nearly died because of him.

He tried to commit suicide and was placed in solitary confinement. He went to the chapel every day to repent, voluntarily soaking thorns in saltwater until he felt a modicum of relief.

He heard from a priest that kneeling and transcribing the Bible for others could earn him “holy water.” So, he did it every day. For every chapter he finished, he saved a small bottle of holy water, using it to try and wash his hands and his soul clean.

That constant cleaning became an unbreakable habit. Even now, if Pei Shu wasn’t watching him, he felt compelled to wash his hands with disinfectant dozens of times a day.

He could never do that again—it was filthy, sinful, and unforgivable.

He didn’t dare.

He knew he had to change, to be a new person, to stop being a rutting beast.

The current Mu Chuan was “fixed.” He was well-behaved. Following the lessons he learned in prison, he would kneel by the bed, holding his breath as he massaged the agonizing Pei Shu, wiped his sweat, and injected him with purified pheromones.

“Don’t worry.” Whenever he spoke, his voice would stutter with shame. He would keep his eyes down, a faint flush creeping onto his pale ears. “I’ve disinfected everything.”

These pheromones were extracted for him by the Lower-Grade Alpha Care Center.

Mu Chuan’s pheromone concentration was too weak. If he relied on his glands alone, he could drain himself dry and still never satisfy an S-rank Omega.

So, the center kindly helped them. As long as he extracted his gland fluid at home every day and handed it over to the collection staff, the center would purify, compress, and seal it into injectable vials for free.

“The injections… the injections will work.”

He would stumble through the dogmas he had memorized in prison, trying to soothe the collapsing Pei Shu, repeating the words he said thousands of times a day: “There is… there is nothing you can’t live without. Just breathe. You won’t die… it’s just the pheromones lying to you…”

His collar would be gripped by those blood-stained fingers, the over-washed fabric tearing easily. Buttons would pop off, bouncing across the mirror-like floor tiles before settling into silence.

He would look down into Pei Shu’s bloodshot eyes, hesitate for a long time, and then—suppressing the urge to vomit quickly touch the other man’s forehead.

A dry, dutiful touch.

His lips would merely brush against Pei Shu’s hair before retreating in haste, as if he could barely suppress a visceral wave of nausea.

Mu Chuan would press his lips thin and swallow.

“Do… do we have to do this?” he would ask gently. “We could be… cleaner…”

For some reason, Pei Shu’s face would contort for a fleeting second.

It wasn’t an expression Mu Chuan understood.

In the next second, those bloodshot eyes would snap close. Pei Shu would lunge like a rabid snake, his fingers darting for the glasses on Mu Chuan’s nose. Mu Chuan would reflexively turn his head to avoid him, and then, without hesitation, he would shove Pei Shu back his hands raised as if to prove his innocence.

The movement was so fast that the only thing left in the aftermath was the frozen, absurd look of shock on Pei Shu’s face.

That was everything that had happened during their last heat cycle.

The System asked cautiously: And… and then what?

That was it?

“Ah, I pushed too hard,” Shen Buqi recalled. “When he fell off the bed, I heard a ‘crack.'”

The System: […]

“A fractured tailbone. We spent the night at the hospital.”

“His team doctor yelled at me for half an hour.”

Unfortunately, the very next day was the global live finals for Galactic Empire: Conquest. With a dark expression and a mouthful of painkillers, Pei Shu had to play five full matches while practically standing in a horse stance.

The System: […………]

Sigh.

Shen Buqi wiped his glasses with an air of apology.

These were the last remaining relics from Mu Chuan’s university days—a very cheap pair of glasses.

The frames were old; one of the temples had been re-welded by Mu Chuan himself, the joint smoothed down perfectly. The edges of the metal frames were dull from wear, yet the lenses were polished until they were spotless.

Pei Shu had bought him many new pairs of glasses, all incredibly expensive, wanting to replace this “god-awful ugly old thing.”

So, Mu Chuan only wore them in secret when Pei Shu wasn’t looking.

As Shen Buqi put the glasses on, he maintained Mu Chuan’s habit of never truly using his eyes. He rarely looked people in the face. His fringe hung messily over the frames, hiding most of his features, and his right hand was tucked back against his chest.

He had suffered, too. His right hand had been left with a permanent disability during those two months.

His ring finger and pinky couldn’t straighten, a scar ran across his palm, and his grip strength was less than ten percent of what it used to be.

So, being able to shove Pei Shu off the bed was actually quite a heroic feat.

“Look.” Shen Buqi opened a hidden album and shared it with the System. “I was originally a mechanical maintenance major. They don’t take anyone with a Level 4 disability or higher…”

Mu Chuan was the only orphan from his shelter to get into the Imperial Academy. He had been so anxious to succeed, studying like a madman, getting in at sixteen to study mecha maintenance.

To a “backcountry” Alpha like him, mecha maintenance was the dream. He had heard that if you were willing to suffer and work yourself to death, you could make a fortune.

Well, he had a fortune now anyway.

Shen Buqi looked in the mirror and gave his stubborn head a comforting pat.

He softly hummed a song from the orphanage, “The Little Pillow’s Drift,” as he washed his hands. He brushed back his fringe slightly, revealing a pair of light amber eyes.

In Mu Chuan’s mind, he wasn’t handsome.

He was average worse than average, even. Pei Shu always told him he was a “transparent” nobody who would vanish the moment he stepped into a crowd.

Mu Chuan thought Pei Shu was right. His skin was too pale, he was too thin, and his Adam’s apple was barely visible. It was as if his secondary Alpha development had just been a passing thought; he lacked the broad shoulders, solid muscle, and aggressive, sharp features of a typical Alpha.

At twenty-five, wearing that oversized shirt, he still looked like an underdeveloped student.

Mu Chuan rarely looked in mirrors. The man in the reflection was too pathetic. He didn’t dare look. Even if he caught a glimpse by accident, he would immediately look away, a strange, stabbing pain blooming in his chest.

His heartbeat would thud against his ribs, making him feel as though he had committed a sacrilege by looking at something he was never meant to see.

…But now, Shen Buqi was dressing up.

The System watched in shock as he fiddled with hair wax.

His fingers were long, pale, and incredibly nimble. He mindlessly hummed a tuneless version of the song while working the wax through his hair, effortlessly styling his fringe into soft, airy layers. He used a hot towel on his face, and suddenly, his complexion looked healthier.

Shen Buqi gave his fringe a light puff. The person in the mirror suddenly looked miraculously vibrant.

He adjusted his collar. He left the top two buttons undone, revealing pale collarbones that looked as though they hadn’t seen the sun in an eternity.

The biggest change was in his eyes—hesitant, shimmering, and shifting like liquid light amber. The System was caught off guard; its camera crashed directly into the gaze, and its data spiraled into a mess.

The System: [???]

It was like seeing a ghost.

Shen Buqi used two fingers to pick up a brand-new pair of gold-rimmed glasses that Pei Shu had bought. With a light flick under the lamp, the frames settled perfectly onto the bridge of his nose.

He wiped the steam from the mirror with slow, deliberate movements. His scarred wrist turned with a fluid grace, unhindered by pain, moving with a strange, rhythmic beauty.

Holding a bundle of tissue, his long fingers traced a clean, clear arc through the mist, revealing Mu Chuan’s face.

Shen Buqi used the tissue to dab at the slightly reddened corners of the man’s eyes in the reflection.

The phone on the counter had been buzzing for quite some time.

The screen was a frantic mess of urgent messages, missed calls, and new notifications.

They were all from Pei Shu’s team.

Shen Buqi knew Pei Shu well. The only reason the man would lose control and say those things in public was because his heat had flared up unexpectedly. Now, no one could handle the e-sports god who had locked himself in his room. The entire team was in a panic, and their only option was to call the “useless” Alpha they all despised.

The phone buzzed again. It had caught on a patch of water on the edge of the sink and was spinning, about to fall to the floor, when a hand deftly caught it.

Right now, it was the time Pei Shu had designated for Mu Chuan’s evening nap.

He had thirty seconds left before he was “allowed” to wake up.

Shen Buqi leaned against the tiles, his fingers moving nimbly. He folded a tissue into a beautiful, intricate Forget-Me-Not. He carefully smoothed the pleated petals and presented it to the System.

The System, which had been frantic for him to answer the phone, was suddenly flustered, its data blushing. For… for me?

The red warning boxes on the screen turned into little pink bubbles.

Shen Buqi smiled and put on a single earpiece.

“Okay… I understand. Yes.”

In the mirror, the lean man held the phone, his head slightly bowed. With one hand, he traced small flowers in the remaining mist on the mirror. His fringe cast fine shadows across the gold frames of his glasses. “Mm.”

His fingers were beautiful—long, with clear knuckles. The cool white of his skin showed faint blue veins, and his fingertips were tinged with a soft pink.

His fingers unconsciously traced the edge of the sink.

“The purified pheromones are at home,” he said softly, as if coaxing a child. “I’ll bring them over.”

The person on the other end continued to bark instructions and reminders.

Shen Buqi answered patiently, his eyes downcast. At this angle, his light amber pupils looked slightly grey the exact same tone he used when giving training sessions to the employees in the Melodrama Department. “I know. I’ll catch the next flight.”

“I’ll take a taxi. I know I have to pay the driver. Yes, if it rains, I’ll use an umbrella.”

The voice on the other end droned on. Shen Buqi muted the call and set the phone aside. He continued to use the hot towel on his face, trying to bring some color back to his greyish lips.

He was terrifyingly thin, but fortunately, his face hadn’t lost its shape.

His features sat somewhere between a boy and a young man—his brow was clear and handsome, his light-colored eyes were like water. When he lowered his lashes, his profile looked soft, as if he were a moment frozen in time.

But in truth, no one would mistake him for a teenager. That lingering, weary, quiet pallor was like an old photograph or a book with frayed edges; it didn’t belong to a young man who believed the world was full of endless possibilities.

He grabbed a worn overcoat and threw it on. His fingertips peeked out from the sleeves. His overly thin body took shape within the heavy wool fabric.

The System was busy calling a taxi for him.

The rain tonight was too heavy, and Pei Shu’s villa was too remote. No matter how much they increased the fare, no driver was willing to take the job.

The System grew anxious: What do we do? Should we call Pei Shu again?

“Ah, we still have three hours.”

Shen Buqi leaned against the dim light of the foyer. The phone spun lightly in his hand. The night wind, carrying the scent of rain, seeped through the door, ruffling his hair and revealing his slightly curved eyes. “No need.”

He checked the time. “We’ll make it.”

There was plenty of time.

He opened his contacts and found the person listed as “Number One”—Pei Linyia.

Pei Shu’s half-brother and mortal enemy. A Beta Correction Supervisor. The man who had personally pulled a physically broken, starving Mu Chuan out of prison.

The man who had ended Mu Chuan’s sentence early.

The man who had secretly helped Mu Chuan send money and letters to the orphanage, forging photos to create a beautiful fairy tale about “Brother Chuan making it big and earning lots of money in the capital.”

Mu Chuan loved those fake photos. In them, he wore grease-stained coveralls or a crisp, tailored shirt. He looked tall and handsome, a man who had grown up well, standing in front of sun-drenched skyscrapers.

The newly renovated orphanage was plastered with his photos. The orphans tried to copy his poses, seeing him as their ultimate role model.

Pei Linyia kept his secrets.

The price Mu Chuan paid was simply to spend time chatting with Pei Linyia whenever Pei Shu was away at training camp.

“Brother Pei is a good man. He can help me,” Shen Buqi whispered. His soft voice melted into the howling wind and the pitter-patter of the rain.

He mindlessly hummed a tuneless old nursery rhyme.

He screenshotted the flight info and Pei Shu’s situation and sent them over.

The System dithered. The cold light of the phone hit Shen Buqi’s downcast lashes. Within his curved, light-colored eyes, a reply quickly popped up: Send me the address. Twenty minutes.

Shen Buqi provided his own background music: “He said that whenever I have an emergency, I can call him.”

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