Pretend to be crazy

As the car drifted around the bend, the tires screeched sharply against the pavement. The speed was maxed out, and the scenery blurred into streaks retreating at breakneck speed.

Any mistake in execution would give the player inside the car an experience so realistic that it could almost crush their skull in a simulated car crash.

In the final sprint, during a high-speed turn, Shen Yan followed closely behind Ruan Zhixian. His expression was unreadable as he maneuvered through the bend.

And just as he was about to overtake him, he released the brakes.

The sleek white race car shot off the cliff. As it plummeted, Shen Yan still had the presence of mind to admire.

Even the seawater outside the track is this realistic.

Impressive.

The car crashed into the water with a loud bang, and three seconds before the waves swallowed him whole, the results screen appeared.

Ruan Zhixian exited the game. Shen Yan: DNF (Did Not Finish).

Shen Yan took off his helmet and looked at him.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

The full-dive simulation game removed physical limitations, making mental strength and intelligence the key factors in victory once the mechanics were mastered.

In other words, anyone who could excel at the game was likely highly intelligent.

Shen Yan had chosen the hardest difficulty map.

A full 8,000-meter track, three laps, and the current record holder took nearly two minutes per lap.

Shen Yan crashed just 200 meters from the finish line—with a total time of five and a half minutes.

That was close to a professional-level performance.

Twice before, in the same section of the track, under the same conditions, he had handled it flawlessly.

So, crashing at such a critical moment carried a deeper meaning.

Was it a lapse in concentration, an operational mistake?

Or did he deliberately throw the match?

Judging by Ruan Zhixian’s reaction, he suspected he believed the latter.

Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been so angry that he quit the game outright—before even finishing the race.

And he certainly wouldn’t be looking at him with that expression.

Shen Yan mentally counted the seconds.

At exactly the third second of their stare-down, he turned his head away in feigned distress.

His go-to trick for making himself blush was recalling childhood embarrassments.

Like the time in eighth grade when he recorded a dramatic villain monologue mimicking an anime antagonist—only to accidentally send it to the family group chat.

Or the time he mistook a complete stranger for a close friend, held hands with them, and walked side by side for ten full minutes—only realizing the mistake when the bewildered stranger finally said they were getting tired.

Or…

The flush spread from his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

His eyelashes trembled slightly, his eyes reddening, looking as if he were about to cry at any moment.

The club’s shifting blue-purple lighting cast over him, adding a hazy, dreamlike quality to his fragile expression.

Ruan Zhixian stared at him for a while, a fleeting trace of confusion flickering across his face.

For the first time, he realized.

He couldn’t define Shen Yan.

And worse, he couldn’t easily tell whether his emotions were real or just another layer of deception.

As someone who had foreseen his own death while harboring a secret love, Ruan Zhixian knew—

The sorrow, fear, and lingering attachment reflected in Shen Yan’s expression were all… disturbingly perfect.

【Go ahead.】

Shen Yan closed his eyes.

Big bro.

You really know how to ship CPs.

Too bad we’re both straight. A kiss is already the limit.

It’s never gonna happen.

Ruan Zhixian lit a cigarette. Shen Yan, his voice hoarse, reached out and asked for one.

The scent of burning tobacco filled the air, white smoke curling upward in the silence.

Ruan Zhixian put out his cigarette, turned slightly, and leaned in close to Shen Yan—

Pressing a kiss to his temple.

“Want to go again?”