APR 14

The typhoon brought only a brief respite from the heat. Within two days, the temperature soared again, the weather abruptly turning dry and scorching.

In the afternoon, the horizon blazed with magnificent fiery clouds, the setting sun painting the ground in hues of golden red.

Inside the small cabin, Zhong Su sat at the table, deftly using scissors to cut through the bandages, their seams completely hidden.

He then grasped the end of the gauze, unwinding it layer by layer until it lay neatly in his palm, clean and dry. The skin on either side of the wound had closed completely, no longer stained with blood as it had been during previous dressing changes.

Chen Huan leaned closer to examine the wound, his fingertip lightly touching the newly scabbed-over scar. “There’s barely a mark,” he said. “It’s almost invisible.”

“I heal well,” Zhong Su replied, flexing his arm, his tone a mix of boasting and matter-of-factness. “My wounds never scar. You can’t envy that.”

Under normal circumstances, Chen Huan would have scoffed dismissively, retorting, “What’s so impressive about not scarring from a beating?”

But this time, he narrowed his eyes, studying the slightly pale skin with intense focus. Stroking his chin thoughtfully, he asked, “Really? Not even a trace? What if you repeatedly cut the same spot? There’d have to be some scarring then, right?”

His gaze seemed to say, I want to test this myself with a knife.

Zhong Su glanced at him sideways, as if looking at someone who had just been released from an asylum. “You can try,” he said. “If you dare to cut me, I guarantee your injuries won’t be any less severe than mine.”

“Ha, no thanks. You’re too clumsy. If you piss me off, things could get messy.” Chen Huan chuckled, regretfully withdrawing his hand. “It’s a shame, though. I think I could have made a really clean cut.”

Sometimes Zhong Su felt that Chen Huan’s way of thinking was like a piece of wire that had been bent and twisted hundreds of times—a convoluted mess completely out of sync with normal people.

Chen Huan cared only about himself. He did whatever amused him and discarded whatever bored him. When he acted, he showed no mercy; the pain, fear, or pleas of others never entered his calculations.

If Zhong Su’s personality had been even slightly weaker, Chen Huan would have devoured him whole, leaving not even a bone behind.

“Good. You should regret it,” Zhong Su said dismissively, tidying up the scissors and tossing the used gauze into the trash. “Do whatever you want to others, just leave me alone.”

“Let’s go,” Zhong Su said. “I need to buy some Fengyoujing and fish food. That idiot Fool doesn’t know how to eat rice. He’s practically starving to death.”

The weather had been so scorching lately that going outside during the day was unbearable. Only after sunset, when the sun dipped below the horizon, did a slight breeze stir and the temperature drop a little.

If they needed to buy anything, this brief window was their best chance.

Zhong Su and Chen Huan walked to Dingdang Store with practiced ease. Chen Huan pushed open the glass door, its ancient hinges groaning under the strain.

The elderly shopkeeper, who was stocking shelves, didn’t even turn around as he called out softly, “Easy there, young man! This door’s older than you are—it won’t survive another one of your rough openings!”

“Grandpa, it wasn’t me,” Zhang Yueran said, immediately standing up from behind the counter when she saw the two enter. She hastily swept a pile of snack wrappers into the trash, her cheeks flushed. Avoiding Zhong Su’s gaze, she added softly, “There… there are customers.”

The old man turned, recognized them, and froze awkwardly.

Zhang Liqin cleared his throat. “Ah, my old eyes are getting blurry. Can’t even see people clearly anymore. Young man, wait a moment—I’ll go get the gauze and bandages from the back.”

Zhong Su shook his head. “No need. We’re not buying those today. Do you have Fengyoujing and fish food?”

“Fengyoujing, yes,” the old man said, rubbing his hands together. “Fish feed… I don’t think we have any. Uh, how about some soybean powder for groundbait?”

Zhong Su wasn’t familiar with the differences between fish feeds. He glanced at Chen Huan, who showed no particular preference, and nodded. “Just a small bag will do. As long as it feeds the fish.”

He unconsciously scratched a fresh mosquito bite on his neck, leaving a small red mark that stood out against his pale skin.

Zhang Yueran, who had been discreetly watching him from the corner of her eye, noticed the mark and asked cautiously, “The mosquitoes on this island are really venomous. Did you get bitten, handsome?”

Zhong Su, not paying much attention, simply murmured, “Yeah.”

“Oh, poor thing!” the girl blurted out, then quickly backtracked, worried she’d been too forward. “I mean, I couldn’t sleep for days when I first came here because of the bites. Grandpa had to light two mosquito coils every night to keep them away.”

Her eyes suddenly lit up. “Wait, I’ll grab you some of those coils! They’ll definitely help!”

As soon as she said it, Zhang Yueran felt her idea was brilliant. It would solve the handsome man’s problem while giving her a natural way to strike up a conversation with him.

Overjoyed, she instinctively grabbed Zhong Su’s hand, her round, sparkling eyes looking up at him. “And Fengyoujing! I’ll pick the best one for you—I have experience!”

The girl’s small, soft hand rested lightly on the back of his hand. Zhong Su’s hand was long and slender, with distinct knuckles and pale skin through which clear blue veins showed—purely masculine. The contrast between soft and hard, warm and cold, made their joined hands seem both fitting and intimate.

Chen Huan’s eyelids flickered, a half-smile playing on his lips as he placed the bills on the counter. “Little sister, go get the Fengyoujing. And bring me three packs of cigarettes while you’re at it.”

Zhang Yueran felt an inexplicable fear of this dark-skinned young man. His lukewarm gaze made her instinctively release Zhong Su’s hand and shrink back, muttering a timid “Okay” as she hurried off to fetch the items.

Seeing the girl run off, Chen Huan pressed a hand against Zhong Su’s head and leaned down to whisper in his ear, his voice husky, “Handsome, don’t corrupt the little girl. Corrupt me instead. I’m not afraid of you being bad to me.”

Zhong Su’s scalp tingled, his body jolting. He lowered his voice to curse, “Corrupt you? Shut up or someone’s grandpa will chase you out with a broom.”

Zhong Su chuckled, shaking his head. “Besides, you’re bad enough on your own. You don’t need me to corrupt you.”

Soon, Zhang Yueran returned with mosquito coils and Fengyoujing, handing them to Zhong Su. “H-here’s everything.”

“Thanks,” Zhong Su replied.

Zhang Yueran watched them take the items and turn to leave, her gaze fixed on the scene. The taller young man’s arm draped casually across the handsome youth’s shoulder, forming an unconscious yet impenetrable barrier that shielded him from prying eyes.

Just before exiting, Chen Huan glanced back at Zhang Yueran, his gaze cold and sharp as an ice blade, conveying a clear warning: Don’t even think about my man.

Zhang Yueran froze under that piercing stare, rooted to the spot.

Beside her, Zhang Liqin gently nudged his dazed granddaughter. “What are you thinking about so intently, dear?” he asked, puzzled.

“I think… no, it’s nothing, Grandpa,” Zhang Yueran blurted, swallowing the rest of her sentence like a lump of ice. The coldness made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.

She didn’t dare voice her suspicion: that she had just been warned by the handsome yet terrifying young man with the scar across his eyebrow.

By the time they returned to the cabin, evening had fallen. Wisps of cooking smoke curled from every chimney, and the air carried the savory aroma of dinner being prepared.

During their time living together, they established a rotating cooking schedule, just like they had in Yan Port.

Today was Chen Huan’s turn to cook. He dutifully went into the kitchen and began preparing the meal. Soon, the sounds of washing and chopping vegetables filled the air.

Zhong Su, still concerned about the fish that had been starving for days, carried the soybean flour to the water tank in the corner of the courtyard. He tore a small opening in the bag and carefully poured about one-sixth of the flour into the water.

The soybean flour slowly dispersed, spreading like a pale yellow haze.

Zhong Su tapped the edge of the tank and called out, “Fool, dinner’s ready! I bought this special soybean flour just for you. Show some respect and eat a few bites.”

The grass carp at the bottom of the tank seemed to sense the food. It slowly swam up from its moss-covered corner, tentatively touching the floating particles with its lips before opening its mouth to swallow them.

“So you like this, huh? Not the sharpest fin in the tank, but your palate’s surprisingly refined,” Zhong Su chuckled, reaching out to tap the fish’s small head with his index finger.

The grass carp sank a little into the water, then floated back up, slowly chasing after the remaining food particles.