Chapter 32

“—Maybe I’m just getting old and can’t keep up with the times anymore. I don’t get it. What’s so funny about this trashy show?”

Guan Ning had just finished talking with Lin Jie in the kitchen and stepped out into the living room. He noticed the young girl sitting there giggling like an idiot and shot a critical glance at the TV screen.

His gaze drifted over the top edge of his reading glasses. On the screen, Shen Li was watching a movie—or more accurately, performing a simple glance back over his shoulder. Yet that alone had the girl’s mouth curving up, her lips nearly touching her ears.

The footage was as dull as watching security camera feeds!

No, even reviewing surveillance tapes for suspects was more interesting than this.

Shen Li had merely turned his head. What was so hilarious about that?

Guan Ning, naturally, had no clue that over eighty percent of a fujoshi’s joy stemmed from her boundless imagination.

And so, when Geng Qiuqiu was suddenly called out, she froze stiff, words catching in her throat as she struggled to come up with a defense.

“I…”

Lin Jie let out a chuckle. “Can’t she just have naturally smiling lips? Director Guan, don’t scare the poor girl.”

“Tch, scare her? What a timid little thing,” Guan Ning grumbled. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a red envelope—printed with a Dragon Year prosperity design from last year. The crisp bills inside, though, were timeless. Clearly prepared in advance, he slapped it onto the table and slid it toward Geng Qiuqiu.

“Here. Since it’s funded by Shen Li, his master ought to chip in a little too.”

Geng Qiuqiu stared at the red envelope, squirming uncomfortably. “No, no, I can’t take your money. Even if it’s Uncle Shen’s, I’ll pay him back later.”

“Then pay him back for me too,” Guan Ning said grandly, taking a swig of tea. “You have no idea. That good-for-nothing ex-husband of Shen Li’s ran into me this time. Who knows what crap he’ll have Shen Li send over as a gift? I’ll give you this money now—consider it me settling the favor with Shen Li’s ex. Hey, now we’re even! If you insist on repaying, just give it straight to Shen Li.”

Before his words even settled, Lin Jie burst into laughter. “Qiuqiu, just take it from Grandpa. Down the line, you can just focus on spoiling my master.”

Geng Qiuqiu blinked in confusion, still not piecing it together.

Uncle Shen wasn’t divorced from the Great Film Emperor? Would the Great Film Emperor still send supplements to Grandpa?

Once divorced, weren’t they two separate families? Their money wouldn’t mix anymore, right?

Why was Grandpa settling a favor through Uncle Shen instead of directly with the gift-giver?

Geng Qiuqiu’s mind swam with question marks, but in the end, she bowed repeatedly and finally accepted the red envelope.

Once Grandpa Guan left, Geng Qiuqiu snapped a couple of photos of the red envelope and fired off a message to Shen Li, reporting the windfall right away. She relayed Grandpa Guan’s whole spiel about “bombing her with cash” and “settling favors,” getting it about ninety percent right.

Of course, she couldn’t help slipping in a subtle hint that Grandpa Guan wasn’t exactly rooting for them to get back together.

After sending it all off, Geng Qiuqiu swiped away her chat with Uncle Shen and checked the messages from her fellow CP buddies.

Her pupils shrank in shock!

The freshly minted “Xing Li Zhi Jian” super topic community on Weibo had been utterly wrecked within hours by solo stans and CP antis.

Even their group chats had been bombarded with organized add requests, blowing up several of them.

As a newbie moderator, Geng Qiuqiu had never dealt with chaos like this. She took screenshots from multiple groups and, in a panic, forwarded them en masse to the other top moderators.

She must have hit group send by mistake, accidentally selecting Shen Li too. By the time she noticed, the messages had been out for over two minutes!

Ah—!

Prairie dog scream.gif

(Too scared to yell out loud.)

With trembling fingers, Geng Qiuqiu stared hopelessly at the “99+” forwarded messages she’d accidentally mass-sent to Shen Li. She double-checked every one, confirming they were all utterly inappropriate for his eyes.

Some screenshots were viciously insulting. Others were terrifying threats. There was even doxxing aimed at one of the moderators.

This was a disaster.

Geng Qiuqiu agonized for three full minutes before firing off a barrage of apologies and kneeling emojis. She explained over and over that she’d sent it to the wrong person, then anxiously awaited 11:30 PM—hoping to call Uncle Shen the instant he could use his phone and give him a heads-up.

But…

When 11:30 finally rolled around, Geng Qiuqiu dialed immediately.

Busy signal.

The line was engaged!

She waited two more minutes and tried again. It picked up after three rings, and Shen Li’s warm, steady voice greeted her. “Why aren’t you asleep yet? It’s so late.”

Geng Qiuqiu choked up. Uncle Shen clearly hadn’t checked yet. She was about to speak—

But Shen Li paused, then said flatly, “My master’s always been like that. Don’t take it to heart. He’s opposed to me and Qian Xingzhi for longer than a day or two. It’s fine.”

Ah…

Uncle Shen had seen it?

“Th-then the stuff I sent by mistake below…”

“Yeah, that’s fine too. I forwarded it to Qian Xingzhi. His fans—I’ll let him figure out how to handle it,” Shen Li replied calmly. “But the doxxing is serious cyberbullying. I’ll loop in some colleagues from internet crimes later and have them take a look. You can ask your doxxed friend if they want to file a report themselves.”

Shen Li’s voice remained even, unhurried—like a deep, still lake.

No ripples, yet it carried a reassuring strength, as if time itself slowed in his presence.

By the end of his words, the anxiety that had plagued Geng Qiuqiu all evening smoothed out in an instant.

What she’d seen as world-ending crises now felt trivial, mere footnotes as Shen Li had put it.

“Anything else, Qiuqiu?” Shen Li prompted when she stayed silent too long.

Her voice quivered, thick with shame over her immaturity. “N-no, that’s it. Thank you, Uncle Shen.”

“Get some sleep. Don’t overthink it.”

Shen Li didn’t press further on the group chats’ implications, just urged her to bed.

Geng Qiuqiu curled her toes in embarrassment, apologizing and thanking him several more times before sheepishly hanging up—though Shen Li still didn’t grasp what she was so sorry for.

It wasn’t like she’d posted those curses wishing harm on families or the vile, unreadable trash.

Shen Li glanced at his phone a few more times, opened Weibo, and sure enough, spotted the red “99+” badge on countless private messages. He found it faintly amusing.

Three million followers didn’t come free; they came with unwanted freebies.

But issues like this were easy to fix.

One-tap clear. Then toggle “Block all private messages” and “Block all new follows.”

Shen Li didn’t even check the hot search trends before closing Weibo.

He made a few calls to the school teachers to check in on arrangements, followed up on the village streetlight project, left notes for colleagues, and finally headed to the bathroom to wash up.

He’d barely started brushing his teeth when Qian Xingzhi’s WeChat call came through.

“Hello.”

Qian Xingzhi’s voice was hoarse, unmistakably rough.

Shen Li paused mid-brush, his brows furrowing. “…Didn’t take your medicine? You sound awful.”

“It’s fine,” Qian Xingzhi rasped, coughing lightly before shifting topics with a hint of urgency. “Did you check Weibo just now?”

“…Yeah.”

“Turn off private messages in the settings.”

“Already did.”

“Good. Stay off it for the next few days while I sort it out.” Qian Xingzhi’s voice carried a thread of weariness.

Shen Li’s eyes sharpened. “—How long? And how exactly do you plan to handle it?”

“Max two days. Don’t worry about the details.”

Shen Li wiped his face and chin dry, hands braced on the sink, listening to Qian Xingzhi pull the phone away to cough…

His brows knitted deeper as he circled back to the original issue. “Did you actually take your medicine or not?”

The moment the words left him, Qian Xingzhi’s coughing stopped.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump…

Only the mosquito-like pounding of heartbeats remained.

After a long moment—or perhaps not so long—

Shen Li heard Qian Xingzhi’s fully hoarse voice pause in that infuriating way, countering with a question—as if he couldn’t speak without one now. “—If I say no, are you gonna deliver it yourself?”

Shen Li’s gaze darkened.

Qian Xingzhi pressed on in that gravelly tone. “Fine then. My address right now is—”

The words cut off abruptly.

Shen Li closed his eyes. Qian Xingzhi fell silent too.

Twenty years.

Qian Xingzhi had sent him medicine countless times. And Shen Li knew full well that what he’d given Qian Xingzhi…

Was just one bowl of dumplings, delivered by proxy on a New Year’s Eve when duty kept him from coming home.

“…Well? Why’d you stop talking?”

Shen Li’s voice stayed level, prodding like he was pressing a suspect for more confession—flat and relentless.

A beat passed.

Then Qian Xingzhi replied, “Forget it. I don’t really want you coming anyway.”

He didn’t want him to come.

Not that he feared giving the address only to end up waiting for nothing.

“You’re overthinking,” Shen Li said bluntly, ever honest. “I’ll order you some medicine delivery. Address.”

…

Five minutes later, under the guise of taking a shower, Shen Li ended the call.

He stared at the delivery app on his phone for half a minute…

Then changed clothes and grabbed his room key.