Chapter 4
Compared to the previous days, Xie Zhang was abnormally normal today.
He made three dishes and a soup, setting the table for one.
And he filled two bowls of rice.
Unable to resist the temptation, Song Jingmo drifted towards the rice, drooling silently, mentally noting Xie Zhang’s unusual behavior.
For the ninety-ninth time, he wondered if his presence had transformed Xie Zhang from a grieving, normal person into a normal person pretending to be a mentally ill, abnormal person.
Lost in thought, the humanoid shadow, initially sitting properly on the chair opposite Xie Zhang, unconsciously twisted itself into an inky black braid.
Facing this bizarre sight, Xie Zhang calmly picked up his chopsticks and placed a piece of cola chicken wing into the opposite bowl.
Song Jingmo: “:|”
Song-shadow hugged himself helplessly.
Given that Xie Zhang’s shadow was under his control, his shadow was moving, it wasn’t Xie Zhang’s hallucination. Xie Zhang wasn’t crazy.
But a normal person wouldn’t serve food to their own shadow, would they?
Song-shadow, already frustrated by the sight and smell of the delicious food he couldn’t consume, felt even worse seeing Xie Zhang’s composure.
So, was Xie Zhang currently… sick, or not sick?
Xie Zhang ate his meal.
A bite of food, a bite of rice, a chopstick of meat, a chopstick of rice.
He ate slowly and methodically, like a programmed robot.
Xie Zhang’s appearance didn’t betray his IT background, nor did his habits suggest he worked in a cutting-edge field like game development. He kept a strict schedule, going to bed and waking up early, eating a balanced diet with no discernible preferences.
Song Jingmo used to tease him about this. He could predict the order of Xie Zhang’s chopsticks based on the first dish he picked up.
When they were together, Song Jingmo delighted in disrupting Xie Zhang’s rigid routine, dragging him out for burgers and fries, ordering either all-vegetarian or all-meat meals, just to see the flicker of confusion in Xie Zhang’s eyes.
Song Jingmo lay on the table, watching Xie Zhang eat.
Oh well, he wouldn’t correct him this time.
Eat well, live well.
Xie Zhang’s movements slowed. His grip on the chopsticks tightened for a moment, then loosened. His gaze fell heavily on the shadow sprawled across the table opposite him.
His beautiful phoenix eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t speak, didn’t eat, his eyes filling with a dark, unreadable emotion.
It was like a dog left behind, tied to a post, as its owner moved away without a backward glance, neither barking nor chasing.
Desolate, broken, and deeply aggrieved.
Momo… wasn’t like this.
Even in his hallucinations, Momo wasn’t quite Momo anymore.
Yes, Momo was gone.
Why was he still here?
Xie Zhang looked away from the shadow, lowering his gaze, lost in thought once more.
Song Jingmo’s heart ached. Worse, the energy he’d gained was fading, and the shadow began to slip from the table.
Remembering the previous times he’d felt the heat, Song-shadow had an idea. He tentatively picked up a chopstick, snatched a piece of bright green broccoli from Xie Zhang’s bowl, and then, quite unreasonably, piled all the cola chicken wings into Xie Zhang’s bowl.
Xie Zhang froze, looking at the levitating dish, then down at the heaping pile of chicken wings in his bowl. After a moment, he smiled, tears welling up in his eyes, and began to eat the sweet and savory chicken wings one by one.
He ignored the broccoli, silently finishing the rice mixed with chicken wing sauce, sweet to the point of being cloying.
Hit by another wave of heat, Song Jingmo rubbed his face.
That was close; he almost reverted back to a normal shadow.
But looking at Xie Zhang, Song Jingmo felt a pang of sadness and bitterness.
If he were his usual self, his round cat-like eyes would have drooped, and he would have rubbed Xie Zhang’s face, sternly telling him not to be so heartbreaking.
But he couldn’t touch Xie Zhang now, couldn’t cuddle him, couldn’t comfort him.
…But he could annoy him.
This man needed a little agitation. Anger was good for circulation, good for his spirit!
“Crash!”
In the kitchen, while Xie Zhang was turning to put the dishes in the dishwasher, the bowl on the counter was knocked to the floor by a black shadow tendril.
Xie Zhang calmly swept up the broken pieces.
His composure was unnervingly steady.
Seeing this, Song-shadow extended his tendrils towards the row of spice jars on the counter.
Surely this would make him angry!
As if sensing something, Xie Zhang paused mid-sweep, turning to look.
—He caught Song-shadow red-handed.
The red chili powder jar, pulled and nudged, teetered precariously on the edge of the counter. Song-shadow froze, his shadow tendril visibly recoiling.
Xie Zhang said nothing.
Emboldened, Song Jingmo, under Xie Zhang’s watchful gaze, gave the jar a final push.
“Crash! Smash!”
The jar shattered, scattering chili powder and sesame seeds across the floor.
The pungent, spicy smell filled the air.
Song-shadow folded his arms, defiantly staring at Xie Zhang.
Xie Zhang looked at the mess for a moment, then at the remaining spice jars, noticing that the chili powder jar had been the least full.
He set the broom aside, picked up the other spice jars with his long fingers, and lined them up neatly along the edge of the counter for Song-shadow. He asked softly, “Are there any more you want to play with?”
Song Jingmo’s shadow tendril twisted into a bristling question mark.
Wait—what?
Song Jingmo was completely thrown off by Xie Zhang’s reaction.
Which one of them was the abnormal one here?
Song-shadow didn’t move.
Neither did Xie Zhang.
Tentatively, Song-shadow nudged another spice jar.
“Crash!”
Pepper showered down onto the red chili powder.
Double the spice, double the stimulation.
Xie Zhang smiled.
Song Jingmo: “.”
The inky black shadow hugged itself again, curling into a ball inside a pot, pulling the lid over itself.
Logically, he was the ghost, but right now, Song Jingmo found Xie Zhang far more terrifying.
Seeing the shadow hiding in the pot, Xie Zhang continued cleaning.
He picked up the larger shards of the spice jar and tossed them into the trash, then meticulously swept up the spilled spices and remaining glass fragments, finally vacuuming the last remnants of the mess.
The Song-shadow in the pot peeked out through a crack in the lid.
Xie Zhang cleaned silently, methodically, patiently, and thoroughly.
But as he stood up, Song Jingmo caught the glint of tears in Xie Zhang’s reddened eyes.
Hit by another wave of heat, Song Jingmo retreated back into the pot, curling up dejectedly at the bottom.
Chili and black pepper were indeed too stimulating.
But Xie Zhang was too stoic, his emotions too tightly controlled. Even such pungent spices couldn’t make him cry.
But crying would be good.
Crying would make it better.
Seeing Xie Zhang about to leave the kitchen, Song Jingmo slid out of the pot, carefully replacing the lid.
As the shadow reached the kitchen doorway, Song Jingmo realized his actual owner hadn’t followed, so he obediently coiled up outside the door, peeking back at Xie Zhang with a shadow tendril.
The scene was bizarre yet endearing, imbued with an inexplicable vitality.
Xie Zhang rubbed his temples, his eyes dark and unreadable.
Shadows, hallucinations.
He wanted to see Momo, not his own shadow mimicking Momo’s personality and behavior.
Why, if it was his hallucination, wasn’t it completely fulfilling his desires?
“Buzz—”
Song Jingmo, his hearing sharp, heard the vibration of Xie Zhang’s phone.
Xie Zhang had plugged it in to charge before dinner. Now that it was on, it was probably exploding with notifications.
Xie Zhang left the kitchen.
Song-shadow scurried onto the bar, picked up the phone, glanced at the barrage of incoming messages, recoiled slightly, and placed the still-vibrating phone in Xie Zhang’s hand.
Xie Zhang looked at his phone, his expression unchanged, seemingly devoid of his usual drive and ambition.
Song Jingmo tugged on his sleeve, dragging him back to the study and seating him at the desk.
If he couldn’t cry, then he should work.
Earn money, build his empire!
Instead of spending all day thinking about him.
Song-shadow curled up beside a metal paperweight on Xie Zhang’s desk, quietly watching him, his face illuminated by the computer screen.
As he watched, Song Jingmo felt the familiar draining sensation return.
This time, he didn’t resist, letting the shadow slip from the desk, gradually returning to the shape of Xie Zhang’s outline on the study floor, motionless.
Xie Zhang’s fingers stilled on the keyboard.
He turned on the desk lamp.
In the lamplight, the shadow seemed closer, clearer.
As Xie Zhang typed, his shadow kissed the keyboard, as if curling around his fingers, gently nuzzling them.
Then, a faint sigh, almost inaudible.
Several hours later.
The sun had set, and darkness once again enveloped the land.
Song Jingmo, drifting off to sleep, was jolted awake by the familiar burning sensation. He opened his eyes blearily.
Missing me again?
Ignoring the game console and tablet by the bed, Song-shadow crawled onto the bed, smoothly sliding under the covers next to Xie Zhang, even extending a tendril to pat his chest.
Xie Zhang looked confused, his expression tense.
He hadn’t been able to sleep and just wanted to see Momo again.
It was normal. He hadn’t slept properly since Momo’s accident.
But he hadn’t expected the hallucination, triggered by his own actions, to ignore the game console and tablet Momo would have undoubtedly chosen, and instead lie down beside him, patting his chest as if to soothe him to sleep.
Song Jingmo couldn’t actually touch Xie Zhang. Maintaining this hovering, patting motion required intense concentration, draining his energy.
But he knew about Xie Zhang’s insomnia, so he persevered, hoping to coax him into even a few minutes of sleep.
After patting for a while, Song-shadow looked up and realized Xie Zhang was staring intently at him, neither sleeping nor speaking, his face tense, his lips pressed into a thin line.
What?
Go to sleep!
Song Jingmo had figured out the advantages of being a shadow. He didn’t just have two hands now!
With enough focus and energy, he could extend multiple shadow tendrils, like a tentacle monster from a manga.
One shadow tendril patted Xie Zhang, while another grabbed a nearby washcloth and placed it over Xie Zhang’s eyes, forcibly turning off the lights.
Too bad he couldn’t touch Xie Zhang.
Otherwise, he could have indulged in some… interspecies fantasies…
Fulfilling his previously unfulfilled, slightly perverse dreams.
Lost in thought, Song Jingmo giggled, occasionally letting out a suggestive slurp.
After all, no one could hear him, and no one could see his expression.
Song Jingmo had always been intensely private. In their circle, he was known as the talented, well-behaved “other people’s child.”
Even when Xie Zhang first met him, Song Jingmo had maintained his refined, pretty-boy image.
Even after they got together, though Xie Zhang discovered Song Jingmo’s love for video games and short videos, spending hours watching pet food reviews and silly videos, he still seemed somewhat detached from reality.
But these were just harmless little hobbies.
In Xie Zhang’s mind, to put it cheesily, Song Jingmo was a pure, perfect white lotus.
But now…
Xie Zhang’s expression grew increasingly strange.
He… thought he heard Momo laughing?
But why did Momo sound like… that?
Xie Zhang hesitated.
It sounded a bit… suggestive.
But it was Momo’s voice.
Xie Zhang’s fingers clenched the sheets.
But it seemed to be just a fleeting auditory hallucination. No matter how hard he strained to hear Song Jingmo’s voice again, he couldn’t.
A wave of profound loss washed over him.
He closed his eyes, conjuring up his lover’s image in his mind, hoping for a reunion embrace in his dreams.
Song Jingmo, lost in his own world of fantasy, noticed Xie Zhang’s breathing gradually deepen and even out. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Turning, he saw Xie Zhang’s fully charged tablet.
Song Jingmo rubbed his shadow tendrils together.
Well, it was charged, and Xie Zhang was asleep, and since he was already here… right?
He crept towards the tablet, his shadow tendril skillfully entering the passcode, turning off the sound, dimming the screen to its lowest setting, and then… opening Fruit Ninja.
Heh heh heh.
He wasn’t the same Song Jingmo anymore!
He was now Song, the tentacle-monster shadow!
In the quiet room, Xie Zhang, who should have been asleep, silently opened his eyes, his gaze clear.
The bedside lamp was off, the room dim, the tablet screen illuminating a round, inky black shape.
Waging war against the digital fruit, slashing and dicing with gusto.
But the shadow tendril draped over him, patting rhythmically, never left.
Xie Zhang’s expression softened.
He watched for a long time, a long-forgotten sense of peace and drowsiness washing over him.
Xie Zhang closed his eyes, finally falling asleep.
