Scumbag Alpha’s Pheromones Are Toxic - Chapter 11

A shrill scream pierced the silence from the room next door, followed by the sharp crash of something shattering.

Ji Yao jolted awake from her dream and rushed over immediately.

The power was out.

In the endless darkness, Qin Zishu trembled violently and clung to Ji Yao.

“You’re still afraid of the dark, just like when you were little,” Ji Yao murmured, patting her gently on the back to soothe her. She paused, realizing something strange—Qin Zishu had handled the dark just fine last night. So why was she so terrified tonight? “Don’t be scared,” Ji Yao whispered softly. “I’m here.”

In truth, the grown-up Qin Zishu was no longer really afraid of the dark. She had spent so many lonely days forced to face it alone. What she feared wasn’t darkness—it was loss.

Especially now, after Ji Yao had finally agreed to stay with her, she was terrified that once she closed her eyes, she would wake up to find the world dark again—and herself thrown back into that endless cycle of despair.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

In one of the past loops, she had forced Ji Yao to stay, even pushed her into doing things she didn’t want to do. That very night, darkness had swallowed her whole, the air thick with the scent of blood. Not long after, she was dragged into the next cycle.

This time, things had finally started to go right. Ji Yao had agreed to be with her. She couldn’t—mustn’t—let it all slip away again.

But when she woke up and saw that even the bedside lamp wouldn’t turn on, terror once again gripped her heart.

Ji Yao turned on the flashlight on Qin Zishu’s phone, then pulled the blanket around her, wrapping her up tightly like a cocoon. She sat down right in front of her.

“The power’s out,” Ji Yao said patiently. “I don’t know what your life has been like these past ten years, to end up like this.”

So broken.

It wasn’t about money or living conditions—Qin Zishu’s life was stretched thin, like a string about to snap. Ji Yao couldn’t imagine how she had survived all this time.

Did she really live like this, punishing herself every single day?

“You’re like someone deliberately punishing herself,” Ji Yao said softly. “Why are you fighting yourself so hard?”

Reaching under the blanket, Ji Yao found Qin Zishu’s hand—ice-cold to the touch. Her chest ached with both pity and sorrow.

She hadn’t thought much of it when she’d said those harsh words the night before, provoked by that ridiculous monitoring device. But clearly, they had hit too deep. Qin Zishu had taken it to heart—so much so that she’d almost driven herself to ruin.

Ji Yao sighed quietly.

Always taking things to the edge.

Seeing that Qin Zishu wasn’t going to fall asleep anytime soon, Ji Yao decided to stay up with her.

Dawn was still more than an hour away, and her phone battery was already below fifty percent. Ji Yao opened a soft instrumental playlist and, after a moment’s hesitation, lifted the blanket and sat beside her.

Staying up all night was miserable. Qin Zishu acted as if she’d forgotten what sleep even was—this was the second night in a row she hadn’t rested at all. Ji Yao hadn’t known that even before she arrived, Qin Zishu had gone several nights without proper sleep.

When the song finally ended, Qin Zishu seemed to calm down a little.

“I’m sorry for worrying you,” she said, her tone steady again. “You can just treat it like a joke. I’ve really tried to live a good life, but things just keep getting worse.”

Seeing that she was finally opening up, Ji Yao stayed quiet, giving her space to speak.

“After your accident,” Qin Zishu continued, “all your so-called ‘friends’ disappeared. Some stayed behind, but they were too afraid to get involved. Everyone knew your death was suspicious, but almost no one dared to speak up. The rumors online were quickly silenced. I don’t know who was behind it, but it must’ve been someone powerful. After Lou Juan and I handled your funeral, she got me a few acting jobs. She said it was the fastest way to make money—and that once I became successful enough, I could finally uncover the truth behind your death.”

At first, Qin Zishu had no idea who was pulling the strings. But after some digging, she’d traced it to a corrupt network of people working together. She’d even taken revenge, sending several of them to prison. Yet in each loop, Ji Yao had shown little interest in knowing the truth.

Eventually, after so many cycles, Qin Zishu lost the will to keep investigating. After all, if Ji Yao didn’t care, then who was she avenging her for?

She smiled faintly, shifting the conversation with deliberate lightness. “I sold our old house. You don’t mind, do you?”

Ji Yao shook her head. “No. A house where someone’s died—especially an unnatural death—isn’t a clean place. Living there alone must’ve been frightening.”

Ji Yao’s death had been ruled an accident—she’d fallen from a cliff during a shoot. But it wasn’t natural, and she could understand why the younger Qin Zishu would be afraid to stay there.

“No, that’s not it,” Qin Zishu said, relaxing her expression into something almost weary. “I wasn’t afraid.”

Even if the house was haunted—if Ji Yao’s spirit really lingered there—she wouldn’t have minded. If Ji Yao could come back to see her, even just once, she wouldn’t have gone mad from all the regret and longing.

As for why she sold the house.

“The house is being sold,” Qin Zishu said quietly. “Lou Juan told me I shouldn’t stay there any longer. If I keep living in that place, she’s afraid something might happen to me too.”

Her head lowered, the elegant curve of her jawline caught the light. With her lips pressed together, Qin Zishu made Ji Yao imagine what this proud girl must have looked like when she first learned of her death.

Ji Yao joked lightly, “I thought you didn’t care much about me. Turns out my death hit you that hard. If I’d really had a ghost back then, I’d probably have laughed out loud watching you.”

Qin Zishu shot her a look full of wounded reproach, as if saying, What nonsense are you talking about?

Ji Yao burst out laughing, nearly falling back onto the bed. “Hahaha!”

But Qin Zishu, who still carried that deep ache in her chest, could only sigh helplessly at Ji Yao’s carefree laughter. “Stop laughing.”

Ji Yao teased, “Do you regret fighting with me back then?”

Yes.

Qin Zishu answered in her heart, softly and without hesitation.

Ten years ago, Ji Yao had been at the peak of her career. Her schedule was packed from morning to night, yet she still tried to make time to stay in touch with little Qin Zishu. But one lived on a film set, the other at home — their worlds, mindsets, and daily lives couldn’t have been more different. Understanding each other was almost impossible.

Qin Zishu was in her rebellious phase, busy adapting to a new school and struggling under academic pressure. Every call from Ji Yao felt like a chore, something to be endured. And Ji Yao — always talkative and overbearing — would nag endlessly without ever getting to the point, driving Qin Zishu half mad.

One day, Qin Zishu finally snapped. “Exams are coming up. If there’s nothing urgent, can you stop calling me so often?”

Ji Yao didn’t understand. “You ungrateful little thing. I make time every day just to bond with you, and you can’t even appreciate that? You’re breaking my heart.”

Qin Zishu retorted, “Well, this bonding method is certainly unique. Thanks so much for your effort.”

Ji Yao was speechless.

Over the next few days, Ji Yao retaliated with what could only be called a “phone-bombing campaign,” calling again and again until Qin Zishu started hanging up without even answering.

Finally, Ji Yao snapped and threatened, “If you don’t pick up next time, don’t bother ever answering my calls again.”

Qin Zishu replied coldly, “Gladly.”

And the words turned prophetic.

Filming became increasingly hectic, and Ji Yao never got the chance to go home and properly make up with the “little brat.” Their cold war began.

Separated by distance, their misunderstandings grew. Ji Yao kept busy with work, and when she finally found a brief pause to rest, it was nearly Qin Zishu’s birthday.

The day before the accident, Ji Yao had told her assistant to order a cake. “Once I finish this scene,” she said, “I’ll go home and surprise her.”

On the morning of the accident, Ji Yao even tried to call — wanting to wish Qin Zishu a happy birthday and save her apology for later in person.

But the call never went through. Qin Zishu, running late for school, saw the incoming call but didn’t answer — part defiance, part wounded pride.

She thought, She’ll call again once I’m in the car.

That moment of hesitation became the last call she would ever get.

The director hurried Ji Yao to set, and she didn’t have time to try again. She just reminded her assistant, “Make sure the cake gets delivered at noon.”

Then, strapped to a wire rig for a cliff-fall scene, Ji Yao plummeted — and never came back.

Qin Zishu was pulled out of class by her homeroom teacher, confused by the sudden summons. “What happened?” she asked.

The teacher hesitated for a long moment before finally saying, “Your sister was injured during filming. Don’t go back to class yet — wait for a call. Someone will probably come to pick you up soon.”

Qin Zishu frowned. If she’s hurt, take her to the hospital. Why make me wait for a call? I can’t even do anything if I go.

Half an hour later, the call came. Ji Yao had died on set — resuscitation failed.

Even after countless cycles of remembering, Qin Zishu had never forgotten what she felt in that moment.

Disbelief. Pain. Regret. Despair. Yearning.

Each emotion cut her open again and again. She couldn’t forgive her own childish defiance — if not for her temper, she wouldn’t have missed that last call. She wouldn’t have let their final words to each other be a quarrel.

Numbly, she was ushered into a car, her mind repeating the same thought: I haven’t even forgiven her yet. How could she just leave me?

“It felt like the sky had collapsed,” Qin Zishu told Ji Yao softly. “Even when I’d finished arranging everything and came home to an empty house, I still refused to believe it. I kept thinking this was just one of your stupid jokes — that maybe it was your way of making peace with me, that you were trying to scare me into reconciling.”

Ji Yao’s smile faltered.

Qin Zishu’s tone was calm now, but her face still carried that deep, unshakable sorrow — the kind that seeps into every word and gesture. One look at her was enough to feel the depth of that grief.

Ji Yao had died easily, painlessly even, but she had never realized how much anguish Qin Zishu would have to carry alone.

Qin Zishu blinked, her dry eyes tightening against the dull ache in her chest — the pain of something long cracked and mended too many times.

“I hadn’t been home long when the doorbell rang,” she said. “Do you know how happy I was? I thought you’d come back. I thought all of this — the news, the messages — it was just an elaborate prank for my birthday, that you’d somehow convinced everyone to play along.”

“I even checked the trending searches — there was nothing about you. So I became more certain it was all fake.”

Ji Yao didn’t reply, guilt weighing on her chest.

“The sky was just starting to brighten,” Qin Zishu continued softly, leaning her head against Ji Yao’s shoulder. “But I didn’t dare open the door. I just sat there until the ringing stopped. Later, I found out it was the cake you’d ordered for me.”

After that, Qin Zishu, once she became a top star, never celebrated her birthday again. She turned down every event, every endorsement tied to that date. No one could reach her on that day, and she reached out to no one.

She said she hated cakes.

She hated birthdays.

She hated herself.