Pretend to be crazy

Shen Yan slept soundly until after nine.

Sunlight streamed through the windows. This villa, located in an affluent neighborhood, was designed with humans in mind—plenty of natural light, lush greenery. Shen Yan turned his head to glance outside, dawdled in bed for a while, then slowly shuffled to the bathroom in his slippers.

Foam filled his mouth as he brushed his teeth. He took a sip of water, rinsed, and was about to check his terminal messages when he suddenly froze.

Facing the mirror, he opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue.

The young man in the reflection did the same. Right at the center of his tongue, close to the tip, there was a small circular ornament, about a third the size of a fingernail.

Shen Yan leaned against the sink, moving closer to the mirror. The ring had a glowing green number “3” in its center.

He retracted his tongue, reached a finger inside, and touched the ring. It was soft—almost imperceptible.

Scorch Kiss.

This thing was infamous.

Rumor had it that in District 8, a gang leader’s lover was stunningly beautiful and promiscuous, secretly seducing his subordinates. Soon, the entire gang—men, women, and everyone in between—was madly infatuated with the lover. It even led to internal conflict, with some wanting to kill the boss and take his place.

The gang leader wasn’t one to be trifled with. After brutally suppressing the chaos, he specifically commissioned the development of these rings to control his lover.

In reality, the ring was a poison injector with conditional activation. The leader permitted his lover to kiss others up to five times a day. The number in the ring indicated the remaining allowance.

If the fifth kiss happened, the injector activated. Both the wearer and the person they kissed would die.

The ring was ultimately useless—bad symbolism, too. Despite the leader’s aggressive marketing, no one wanted it. In the end, they were all recalled and destroyed.

Where the hell did Ruan Zhixian dig up this piece of junk?

What, was he treating himself like a gang boss now?

…Well, technically, that wasn’t entirely wrong.

Shen Yan expressionlessly brushed his teeth again—this time, scrubbing his tongue extra thoroughly.

He only stopped once his tongue was completely numb.

By logic, the activation condition should be kissing. But since Ruan Zhixian was skilled in mechanical modifications, if he could alter the number in the ring, he could certainly change the trigger conditions too.

A sealed-off space, three people deeply entangled with him—Shen Yan figured Ruan Zhixian wouldn’t target only him.

He was an expert at sowing discord, twisting truths, and manipulating information to fuel hatred between people.

The activation conditions for Scorch Kiss were probably tied to the other three.

Shen Yan mulled over this as he headed downstairs.

Blaze was nowhere to be seen. Falson and Warren sat across from each other, a half-eaten breakfast messily spread across the coffee table.

Hearing Shen Yan’s footsteps, both looked up.

Shen Yan studied their expressions closely.

Warren wasn’t one to hide his emotions. His gaze was cold, lips pressed into a straight line, muscles tense—clearly pissed off.

Falson, on the other hand, seemed no different than usual. He beamed at him, practically bouncing up from the couch to greet him.

That’s not good.

Falson was always honest when it came to “Mom.” Even when he played tricks, his intentions were obvious at a glance.

Not because he couldn’t hide things—but because he didn’t want to.

He needed to be loved as himself, not for some pretense.

Yet Warren had already been that successfully manipulated by Ruan Zhixian, while Falson was still gleefully clinging to him?

Something was definitely wrong.

Shen Yan acted as if nothing was amiss and tried to shake off his hand like usual.

His previously injured arm had already been repaired. When Shen Yan pulled away, Falson simply latched back on, more persistent than ever.

After a few rounds of this, Shen Yan gave up, resigned to carrying this human-shaped koala into the kitchen to cook.

Strictly speaking, Falson was actually a decent helper—quick with washing, chopping, and prepping ingredients.

Watching the perfectly uniform potato cubes on the cutting board, Shen Yan casually tossed them into the pan to fry.

As he did, he crooked a finger at Falson.

Falson leaned in.

Shen Yan, in one smooth motion, pressed a finger under his chin and lightly brushed his lips against his. “Good job.”

He didn’t linger to see Falson’s reaction.

Instead, he calmly grabbed the pan handle, plated the now crispy potatoes, then tossed the equally well-diced tomatoes in to stir-fry—tilting the pan to mix.

Falson stood frozen, hands covering his mouth, staring at him in stunned silence.

The only available apron was pink. No matter how much Shen Yan disliked it, he had no other choice. It wasn’t tied tightly, but his slender waist made the loosely fastened straps outline his figure. Below his waist was…

Falson’s face gradually turned red. He sneaked a glance at Warren, who was facing away from the kitchen, then moved closer. His hands slid along the apron’s straps, tracing them upward until he wrapped his arms around Shen Yan’s waist, clinging to his side.

Leaning in, he whispered into his ear, his breath warm against his skin:

“Shen Yan, it feels so good. I really like it. Kiss me again.”

The ticklish sensation of Falson’s breath made Shen Yan shrink away slightly. He closed the lid on the pot and called out from a distance: “Warren!”

Warren turned his head.

Under his icy gaze—and the glass in his grip nearly shattering—Falson let go and took two steps aside, raising his hands in an innocent smile.

Soon, the aroma of food filled the air. Shen Yan had prepared a four-person serving of tomato and beef rice stew. He sent Blaze a message to come down for breakfast.

Falson grinned and said, “He came down around eight, said he had a headache, and went back to sleep.”

Shen Yan nodded.

The three of them ate in silence. Shen Yan’s cooking wasn’t particularly exceptional, but with a dish that mostly required tossing ingredients together and seasoning appropriately, it was hard to mess up.

By the end of the meal, Warren—whose expression had been cold enough to freeze three Eskimos—looked significantly less frosty.

Shen Yan poked at a leftover potato with his spoon, then looked up at him.

“You have something to say to me?”

“Yes.” Warren stood up. “Come with me.”

Falson, as if already anticipating an interaction between them, remained seated and watched them head to the third floor.

Once they were gone, he pulled Shen Yan’s plate toward him and eagerly used his spoon to eat the remaining food.

Falson wasn’t someone who broke his own rules easily.

But for Shen Yan, he made an exception.

Shen Yan was the only one willing to kiss him voluntarily and cook for him like a mother would.

He ate the last grain of rice off the plate, then sat back, gazing at the pedestrians outside walking their dogs. A contented thought crossed his mind:

If Shen Yan was willing to keep kissing him like that, keep feeding him, then maybe—just maybe—he could make an exception and let him live.

He could put a collar on him, keep him kneeling at his feet, begging for scraps.

A mother who plays favorites isn’t a good mother. If “Mother” doesn’t love him, then “Mother” shouldn’t love anyone.

Shen Yan wasn’t a good mother.

The smile on his lips faded. He opened his terminal and couldn’t resist playing the anonymous video he had received once more.

The footage was dark, the camera angle strange—about waist-high, like it was recorded by a machine.

The door creaked open slightly.

Two people lay on the bed.

The camera approached, bringing the scene into clearer focus.

Blaze had his arms wrapped around Shen Yan.

Shen Yan was in deep sleep. When Blaze heard the door opening, he opened his eyes, glancing in the direction of the camera with no particular wariness. Instead, he simply pulled Shen Yan closer into his embrace.

Then, as if amused by something, he glanced at the camera and smirked.

Gently, he rested his chin in the crook of Shen Yan’s neck and murmured with a blank expression:

“Shen Yan, I don’t feel good.”

Shen Yan, still asleep, instinctively patted him in a half-hearted attempt at comfort. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Blaze: “It hurts.”

He guided Shen Yan’s hand to his face. The camera captured his tears slipping down.

When Shen Yan’s fingers brushed against the damp streaks, he sighed as if he had dealt with this many times before. Without even opening his eyes, he lazily turned his head and kissed Blaze on the cheek.

“Another nightmare?”

“Mm.” Blaze sounded genuinely remorseful. “Sorry for always waking you up.”

Shen Yan turned over, took his hand, and patted it, pulling him into an embrace.

“It’s fine. Go back to sleep.”

The video cut off abruptly.

Falson had watched it countless times. He knew it by heart. At any given second, he could perfectly describe Shen Yan’s expression and posture.

Ha.

Humming a tune, he washed the dishes and thought to himself:

When he cried, Shen Yan didn’t kiss him.

Meanwhile, Shen Yan was led into Warren’s bedroom.

As soon as they stepped inside, Warren shoved him onto the bed and locked the door behind him.

Shen Yan rolled once, landing steadily on his feet, and immediately sprinted for the bathroom.

Warren hadn’t expected such a smooth reaction and was half a step too slow. By the time he moved, Shen Yan had already locked the bathroom door.

Warren let out a cold chuckle and knocked, ever the gentleman.

“Shen Yan, I’ll give you ten seconds to open the door.”

“Ten, nine, eight…”

His deep voice counted down steadily, each number tolling like a funeral bell.

Shen Yan knew time was tight. He stuck his tongue out in the mirror—the number in the ring had decreased.

It was now yellow. 2.

Once it hits 1, it’ll probably turn red.

Listening to the countdown, he messed up his hair and rubbed his eyes hard, making them slightly red and teary.

The whole act took only two or three seconds.

He walked to the door, adjusting his expression while inwardly mocking Warren for pulling the classic overbearing CEO routine.

On the last second of the countdown, he lowered his head and opened the door.

Warren had been ready to kick the door down and almost hit him instead.

Shen Yan glanced up quickly, shrank back as if frightened, then hesitated—seeming to realize that backing away might only provoke Warren more.

So, instead, he forced a weak smile and tried to sound calm.

“Warren, you found out, didn’t you? How about we sit down and talk this through?”

Shen Yan planned to fish for information first—to figure out exactly how Ruan Zhixian had manipulated him. That way, he’d have an easier time dealing with Falson later.

Unfortunately, Warren wasn’t in the mood for negotiation.

He grabbed Shen Yan’s chin, his grip painfully tight.

Shen Yan clawed at his wrist, slipping into a more pitiful role, eyes glistening with tears.

“Hubby… it hurts…”

Warren let go, but pinned him against the wall instead, his expression cold and laced with mockery.

“The Deputy Director of the Rose Research Institute, such a bigshot, yet you’re willing to throw away your dignity just to seduce me?”

“Calling me ‘hubby’ so sweetly—is this part of your emotional research project?”

“Tell me, what exactly do you want from me?”

Shen Yan remained silent for a few seconds.

Then he clutched his chest.

Warren: “Don’t play the victim.”

Shen Yan took a deep breath.

“Not pretending.” He winced. “I got hit by a boomerang. It actually hurts.”