Professional Death Faker [Quick Transmigration] - Chapter 3

Shen Buqi turned off the last light in the villa.

Darkness crept in, swallowing the remote, luxurious estate.

This was a high-end residential zone developed specifically for clients who demanded total privacy. It wasn’t marked on any map. Security was airtight; infrared sensors and facial recognition systems operated in silence, and unregistered vehicles were barred from entry.

They needed to cross this stretch of torrential rain on foot.

Shen Buqi originally planned to just walk through it. With rain this heavy, the atmosphere was perfect; if he got soaked to the bone, he could net at least five performance points.

Unfortunately, Pei Shu had forced the team leader to emphasize it six times over the phone.

He must use an umbrella.

An umbrella.

Mu Chuan was not the type of character to be disobedient.

“Using an umbrella is good,” the System advised cautiously. 

“You’re so thin, and you’re sick.”

Shen Buqi pulled a large, pure black umbrella from the box in the foyer and popped it open. It was heavy, with a cold metal handle. As his fingers brushed the ribs of the umbrella, he let out a light, enigmatic hum: “Mhm…”

The System paused and went back to search the logs.

There were 963 records containing the keywords “Mu Chuan” and “Umbrella.”

Mu Chuan liked umbrellas; Mu Chuan before age seventeen did not.

The day he left the orphanage, he clutched a deep blue umbrella covered in star patterns as he hopped onto the orbital express to the Imperial Capital. Pressing his face against the window, he waved vigorously at the old director and the other children.

In university, whether it rained or not, he always carried that umbrella. Many classmates teased him for being childish, calling him “Star Umbrella.”

He never argued. With a smile in his eyes and his ears turning red, he would take out a small box of gold acrylic paint and, in his clumsy, rural-accented dialect, stutteringly ask his classmates to draw more stars on it.

There was a brief time in school when Mu Chuan was quite popular.

His classmates were a year or two older than him, and most had already undergone their secondary differentiation. They liked this clean, hardworking country Alpha. Someone would suddenly ruffle his hair, and even the bold Omegas would take the chance to give his cheek a playful squeeze when he wasn’t looking.

That life came to a screeching halt on a certain rainy day.

After dozens of hours of living in terror, the iron doors of his internship workshop were brutally kicked open. He was squatting on the floor repairing a machine; startled, he looked up and instinctively reached for that umbrella.

A pitch-black military boot crushed the old umbrella ribs.

He was dragged out by the police, locked into an electronic neck collar reserved for violent offenders, and his hands were bound. The umbrella was snapped and trampled into the mud, covered in black grease, before some foot kicked it into the gutter.

Surprised and strange looks followed him. Omegas retreated in a hurry, and Betas whispered in hushed tones.

The Alpha foreman, biting a half-rolled cigarette, winked knowingly and scoffed: “Quite the actor, isn’t he?”

Mu Chuan didn’t want an umbrella anymore.

But there was another exception; he got another umbrella in prison.

Pei Linya gave it to him.

It was an umbrella given as a reward pure white satin, silver ribs, light and easy to handle, with a very sharp tip.

The fabric seemed specially treated; rain would simply slide off, leaving no trace.

He won the reward because he had “reformed” well. He had memorized the slogans best, showed the most sincere attitude, and was the most thorough in extracting the pheromones from his own glands. His techniques for massage and injection were also perfected.

That umbrella once stabbed through a man’s stomach.

The umbrella remained clean.

Without a single trace.

Mu Chuan had been soaked in blood on his face, his body, his hands. That not-unfamiliar warm sensation was almost identical to the feeling of extracted gland fluid drenching his hands.

Fortunately, that bastard death-row inmate, who had over a dozen lives on his hands, didn’t actually die from the incident. In fact, due to the terrifying recovery speed of a B-class Alpha, he recovered even faster than Mu Chuan. Shortly after leaving the infirmary, he was healthily led to the gallows.

Such incidents weren’t rare in prison. Alphas were essentially caged beasts. The heavy offenders, eyes bloodshot, spent every day looking for new lambs, and every day a submissive prey would snap and carve out a bloody mist.

But truly, no one expected it to be Mu Chuan—the pathetic coward who acted like he wanted to live in a church, who thought of nothing but repentance, and who would apologize profusely if he so much as accidentally blocked someone’s path.

The lamb, Mu Chuan, clutching his white umbrella, was granted a solitary cell.

No one dared to barge in. No one dared to bully him. No one dared to bark orders at him to sweep, mop, or wipe tables anymore.

Mu Chuan stopped eating, too.

When Pei Linya visited that prison again, the seventeen-year-old Alpha was motionless. He didn’t respond to voices, instead kneeling in a curled position in the corner of his cell.

Like a paper crane soaked and ruined by rain, he was bloodlessly pale. His pupils were unfocused, his breathing faint. Dried blood still stained his face, his body, and the umbrella.

“We  didn’t do anything!”

The prison guard, terrified, explained to the young but powerful Beta Correctional Officer: “He insisted on calling that Omega! So we agreed! It actually went through this time, but they hung up after he said just a few words…”

Both Mu Chuan and the murderer had been injured. When he returned from the hospital, Mu Chuan’s reactions were just a bit slow, his speech labored, and his voice impossibly low.

He had managed to walk slowly to the guard and, in a raspy voice, repeated the request over and over.

“Please. let me call Pei Shu.”

The guard, fearing he might die, agreed. Perhaps even God took pity, as the call actually connected.

No one knew what was said. They only knew that Mu Chuan froze. Then, his eyelashes flickered weakly. His fingers whitened as he gripped the receiver. He stuttered a few words, and before thirty seconds had passed, the other side hung up.

After that, he became like this.

The guard explained everything to his superior in one panicked breath.

Pei Linya didn’t say a word. He walked to the corner of the cell.

He knelt down on one knee. His right hand, clad in a black half-palm glove, gently cupped the pale, cold face, staring into eyes that were as faint as grey mist.

Warm fingertips gently wiped the dried blood scabs from the pale cheekbones.

The green, soft, trembling-small-animal quality from his memory had vanished completely.

With a slight bit of force, Mu Chuan’s face was lifted. When Pei Linya touched those eyelashes, physiological moisture dampened his fingertips. Mu Chuan wouldn’t close his eyes; his pupils were as blurred as the mist over a frozen winter lake.

Pei Linya broke off a piece of a reward biscuit and fed it to Mu Chuan. Mu Chuan didn’t know how to chew or swallow; he just held it mechanically in his mouth. A few crumbs fell from his pale, cracked lips.

Pei Linya leaned in, his hand stopping near those bloodless lips. After a moment’s hesitation, he merely wiped away the crumbs. The youth’s lips were slightly parted, and the breath brushing his fingers was so faint it was barely perceptible.

Pei Linya looked at him quietly, eyes lowered.

“Aren’t you afraid of regretting this?”

Pei Linya sighed softly, uttering words no one understood. He leaned down and tried to gently take the umbrella away, but failed.

He waved the others out, closed the cell door, and sat on the floor with Mu Chuan.

Pei Linya knelt and gently stroked the pale cheek, using a handkerchief dipped in warm water to carefully wipe away the dried blood.

Then, he reached into the inner pocket of his uniform and pulled out a cheap, knock-off old phone.

It had a low-quality metal casing and had been meticulously repaired. The repairman’s hands were nimble and careful; they had fixed the leaking screen and even used solder to draw little flowers.

Pei Linya operated the phone. From the scratchy static of the speaker, an old children’s song from the orphanage began to play.

The old director’s rambling advice—eat well, use an umbrella when it rains—the sound of birds, flowing water, the wind, the chugging of farm machinery, and a chorus of children chirping “Brother Ah Chuan” and “Happy Birthday.”

The thin, pale shadow seemed to shudder weakly.

Pei Linya didn’t startle him. He simply adjusted the phone, bringing the speaker closer to Mu Chuan’s ear.

Pei Linya was the Chief Warden in charge of Alpha behavioral correction. After Mu Chuan entered prison, he continued to help him continue sending money and letters to the orphanage, synthesizing photos, lying, and covering up secrets.

“Ah Chuan,” he called him, mimicking the children.

“You want to live, don’t you?”

He took off his right glove and put it on Mu Chuan’s twisted, deformed hand. It was still warm. He held that hand gently, carefully, like bandaging the wing of a fragile, broken fledgling.

Eyelashes fluttered weakly; a tremor seeped out from some crack in his psyche.

“You still have an orphanage to support,” Pei Linya said. “They just got new windows this year.”

The children at the orphanage were full of joy, and the thing they looked forward to every day certainly wasn’t news of their Brother Ah Chuan’s death.

Mu Chuan’s breathing became erratic. His body began to shake—a violent tremor. A suppressed sob escaped his throat, and tea-colored eyes began to shed tears without warning.

The umbrella was gently taken away and discarded.

Pei Linya asked, “Do you want to know how they made cherry candy this year?”

He took a paper packet from his chest. The rustling sound of it opening successfully diverted Mu Chuan’s attention. His eyes moved slightly, unable to look away, fixed on the soft candy in Pei Linya’s hand.

Pei Linya fed him a small piece of candy.

After a few minutes, Mu Chuan reacted.

The way Mu Chuan ate was heart-wrenching—like a timid animal attracted by the translucent cherry candy, touching it cautiously, holding it gently in his mouth, biting it tiny bit by tiny bit.

He didn’t dare touch Pei Linya’s fingers, eating even more carefully. A bit of sugar stained his dry lips.

He held that small piece of candy as if it were a precious treasure.

Pei Linya asked, “Is it good?”

The youth was too easily startled; a faint flush immediately rose on his pale cheekbones. His eyelashes dropped in panic. After a moment of holding his breath, he pressed his lips together and nodded gently.

Pei Linya pretended not to see him secretly lick away the bit of sugar on his lip.

Pei Linya stayed and chatted with Mu Chuan all night.

He let Mu Chuan sleep on his lap, gently stroking the boy’s hair. He had someone bring warm water to wash away the tear tracks on that pale face. He let the curled-up, sleeping Mu Chuan clutch the hem of his clothes.

When he woke, the young Alpha’s face seemed to have a faint trace of color.

Mu Chuan woke up startled several times during the night.

Pei Linya didn’t leave. He stayed with him, holding his cramped, curled right hand.

“You still have your left hand.”

Pei Linya told him patiently, like coaxing a child lost in a nightmare: “Logistics positions don’t have such high requirements for disability. There are also drafting engineers and nesting engineers. None of them bar disabled individuals from employment.”

He spoke very slowly, pausing patiently on technical terms to ensure Mu Chuan could hear him clearly.

“Look at this.” He pulled out his own phone and opened several recruitment brochures, zooming in on the entry requirements. “Room and board included, piece-rate wages. Didn’t you know? Many mecha manufacturing plants in the capital are fully automated now.”

“Calibrating machines doesn’t require both hands.”

“When you get out, you can continue night school, keep studying, and get an adult diploma.”

He looked down at the tiny, fragmented glints of light beneath the eyelashes and smiled. Wiping away the tears that wouldn’t stop, he touched Mu Chuan’s hair: “You’re eighteen now, aren’t you?”

A small Alpha from the countryside with little worldly experience was actually very easy to coax.

All it took was a few soft words and a piece of candy.

Pei Linya saw Mu Chuan smile at him.

His tea-colored irises were still blurred by a layer of mist, but they were now able to reflect Pei Linya’s shadow.

The eighteen-year-old youth looked at him, clumsily and awkwardly trying to adjust his expression, a childish dimple appearing on his pale cheek.

No one could resist pulling someone into their arms at a time like this. Pei Linya didn’t consider it a mistake. He pulled his arms tight, protecting the fledgling that had leaned in to recognize its kin, and looked down at the chestnut-colored crown of his head.

Mu Chuan’s hair smelled like the low-quality detergent used in prison, but it was unexpectedly soft, like down feathers.

He couldn’t help but stroke that softness.

After a long while, the head leaning against his chest moved slightly and looked up.

“Can you”

Mu Chuan still struggled to speak. His voice was raspy and his pronunciation a bit muddled. He was too nervous and forgot to use official Mandarin, using the soft cadence of a southern rural dialect.

“I’ll do anything.”

“Cleaning, cooking, making the bed.”

Pei Linya frowned slightly.

Mu Chuan didn’t see his reaction.

The naturally submissive youth’s eyelashes trembled violently. His lips moved several times before he finally continued in the softest of voices: “Every day, I only need one hour to keep studying. I don’t want wages.”

Everyone in the prison knew Pei Linya wanted a personal orderly.

Mu Chuan’s head was buried very low. By the time he finished, his voice was a mere breath, and a blush of shame rose on his cheekbones.

It was as if asking this question was enough to make him utterly ashamed.

But Mu Chuan asked anyway.

With the last bit of strength he had to keep from sinking.

He clutched the hem of Pei Linya’s clothes, his knuckles white and trembling like a drowning man grasping for a final straw: “When. I get out, can I go with you?”

The record cut off there.

The System was engrossed: The virtual window flashed frantically.

And then!

Did Pei Linya agree or not?

“Ah.”

Shen Buqi held the heavy, ice-cold black umbrella, trying not to let it be blown away by the wind, hopping from one dry spot to another. “I don’t know.”

He fought tenaciously against the raging gale. The black umbrella was flipped inside out several times, and his pant legs and clothes flapped like kites. He hopped onto a stone with one foot.

System: 

“He went on a business trip,” Shen Buqi’s voice mixed with the howling wind. “It was quite sudden… he took an emergency call and said he had to leave immediately. He told me to take good care of myself and said he’d give me an answer when he returned. That trip lasted two months.”

The wind violently snatched the umbrella away.

Well, he couldn’t be blamed now. Shen Buqi was instantly soaked through. He waved a regretful goodbye to the umbrella, sighing about how fast the wind was and how heavy the rain was.

He had no raincoat to wear.

Pei Shu didn’t provide Mu Chuan with a raincoat.

Pei Shu was very bad at taking care of a spouse. He wanted to “correct” Mu Chuan’s compulsive behaviors—the constant hand-washing, the fear of light, the fear of water and rain, and the extreme aversion and physical revulsion toward that kind of thing. So he confiscated Mu Chuan’s raincoat.

Even though Shen Buqi had only been staying in character that day, because Mu Chuan didn’t want physical contact with an Omega, he had simply worn a raincoat to bed.

Shen Buqi felt Pei Shu was making a mountain out of a molehill.

The System didn’t have the memory to worry about Pei Shu for now; it still hadn’t figured out what Pei Linya was thinking. He had been so close to saving Mu Chuan, so close to reversing his displaced fate.

Instead, Mu Chuan was left in prison to be thoroughly brainwashed by the “Alpha Socialization Rules,” to have those ridiculous concepts planted in him, and to be trapped by Pei Shu’s side.

Under the discipline of the prison and the control of Pei Shu, he had become a submissive, empty shell.

The System couldn’t understand: [Couldn’t he have gone on that trip one day later??]

“No,” Shen Buqi explained patiently. “Pei Linya wasn’t there to save me.”

The System froze.

Pei Linya was there to prevent his “chess piece” from breaking.

Of course, Pei Linya wouldn’t take Mu Chuan away; that was never part of the plan—he couldn’t. Pei Linya had his own things to do, his own plans to execute, and Mu Chuan was a vital link in that chain.

A piece that could both balance and drive Pei Shu mad, an irreplaceable pawn.

A perfect knife to one day stab into Pei Shu.

Mu Chuan had to stay by Pei Shu’s side.

That was the most advantageous plan.

Later, when Mu Chuan married Pei Shu and saw Pei Linya attending the wedding, he was led over to serve tea and call him “Eldest Brother.” He had stood there in a daze for a long time.

…

The System also stayed in a daze for a long time, until it was jolted awake by the roar of a black business car tearing through the curtain of rain. It trespassed through the gates, speeding, its tires kicking up a wall of water as high as a person.

The System saw that Pei Linya’s tie was undone it was the middle of the night, after all his shirt wasn’t ironed smooth, and his blazer was tossed on the back seat.

The System asked: Does Pei Linya regret it?

“Mhm?” Shen Buqi was pulling out a small waterproof calculator to tally “Melodrama Points.” Hearing the voice, he immediately tucked it away. “Would he regret it?”

System: 

It felt like the Head of the Melodrama Department had orchestrated the whole thing.

But there was no evidence. Shen Buqi had followed the plot and characterization to the letter; everything he did and said was within the character’s bounds.

Just a little bit more.

Mu Chuan was just a little bit away from becoming a drafting engineer.

Pei Linya ripped off his seatbelt, pushed the door open, and strode toward Mu Chuan. He draped a raincoat over Mu Chuan’s head, looking down at the impossibly thin Alpha. He raised his hand to wipe away the rain, but he didn’t touch the hair.

His hand stopped in mid-air.

Shen Buqi took a step back.

The youth soaked by the rain had a skin tone that seemed transparent, as if he might vanish at any moment. He wasn’t like the boy from before, who would cry when sad or smile when coaxed.

He was very proper. According to what he was taught in prison, his back was straight, his thin legs together, and his hands folded over his abdomen. Rain flowed down his spine.

According to Chapter 7, Article 5 of the “Alpha Socialization Rules,” as Pei Shu’s legal spouse, he maintained proper distance between the sexes, politely and quickly pulling away from Pei Linya’s arm.

Pei Linya stood motionless in the rain, looking at the submissive, bowing youth. Mu Chuan had grown taller, but he was thinner thin like a crane turned into a perfect specimen.

Tea-colored eyes, like iced mint water or cold tea, were covered in a mist that couldn’t be touched.

“My husband. He isn’t feeling well.”

Mu Chuan’s voice was very soft, very restrained. With lowered eyelashes, he asked: “Brother Pei, could I trouble you to take me to the airport?”

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