Chapter 6: The Plot Changes

When Quan Heng woke up, Wen Congrong was already gone from the rental apartment.

He sat up and pressed his fingers to his aching temples.

He hadn’t slept well at all. It was nearly dawn before he managed to doze off. In the shallows of sleep, he’d heard Wen Congrong moving around.

Wen Congrong had been careful not to make much noise. First, he went to the bathroom. Then he went into the kitchen to boil water and open the fridge. It sounded as if he’d put something into the steamer…

As Quan Heng listened to the soft rustles and faint scrapes, he drifted off.

He hadn’t expected to actually fall asleep on the floor. Sitting there, he took a moment to collect himself, then got up.

On his way past the dirty clothes and the ill-fitting slippers at the edge of his bedding, he picked up his clothes and dropped them in the trash. He didn’t even glance at the slippers as he walked straight into the bathroom.

A new toothbrush, a disposable cup, and a face towel had been set out on the counter.

They hadn’t been there the night before. Wen Congrong must have gone downstairs to buy them early in the morning.

Quan Heng picked up the paper cup and examined it for a moment.

Wen Congrong’s intention was obvious. He’d bought disposable things so that once Quan Heng left, he could throw them away.

Quan Heng smiled and filled the cup with water.

When he finished brushing his teeth and washing his face, he deliberately squeezed the cup between his fingers until it crumpled.

Then he tossed it in the trash, along with the face towel, which had already started to pill after one use.

Good job, Host! The system cheered him on. That’s the villain’s spirit! We use the protagonist’s things, waste them, then use more of his things!

Quan Heng murmured in acknowledgment. As he headed for the kitchen, he asked, You said I died too early to meet the protagonist, and that threw his life off course.

That’s right, Host.

What went wrong? Quan Heng was curious.

The only parts of Wen Congrong’s story the system had told him were the major turning points in his life.

The earliest was when Wen Congrong had just turned eighteen. His family went bankrupt, his parents died in a car accident, and he was left with a debt of over a million yuan. He had to drop out of school and start delivering food to pay it off.

The next turning point came much later, when a talent scout gave him a chance and he entered show business, eventually rising to the top.

There was a three-year gap between those two events. Quan Heng had assumed he was supposed to play a part during that time.

Let me check. The system searched through the plot, comparing what was supposed to happen with what had gone wrong. In the original story, your agency froze you out after you refused to be exploited. That’s when you met the protagonist and pretended to be a gentle, helpless little thing so he’d support you.

You told him you had a special way of earning better interest than the bank. You got him to hand over all his money for you to manage, but you actually spent it renting expensive designer clothes and building a rich, glamorous image online to prepare for your comeback.

Sounds like something I’d do. Quan Heng entered the kitchen and spotted the steamer on the stove.

He opened the lid. Inside were the breakfast Wen Congrong had left for him: steamed buns and a carton of milk.

How did he catch you? Quan Heng reached out to touch the buns. They’d cooled down. Moisture beaded on his fingers.

He needed money to pay off his debts, so he asked you to give his money back, the system said. You’d already spent all of it, and you’d even taken out loans using his ID.

Well done. Quan Heng turned on the burner to warm the buns, sincerely admiring his own villainy. That’s just like me.

The pale blue gas flame flickered in his eyes. As it burned, gas hissed softly through the stove.

His voice was matter-of-fact. Then he probably has a huge fight with me, meets a talent scout, and, with the scout’s help, ruins me while going on to shine in show business and pay off his debt?

Exactly, Host! The system was surprised by how accurately he’d guessed. It hovered beside him, drooling over the buns. How did you know?

Quan Heng’s smile never reached his eyes. “It’s a classic kind of stupid.”

Huh?

The system didn’t understand, but Quan Heng had lost interest in the topic. He asked, So what went wrong?

What went wrong was—

They put me on the shelf and tried to pimp me out before my contract expired. I went public online with their filthy secrets, but I didn’t have enough evidence. They turned it around on me and painted me as a disgraced celebrity who’d do anything for attention. Quan Heng chuckled softly, bitterness in his voice.

Then fans mocked me, the company buried me, and well-meaning internet users dug up every ugly thing from my past. In the end, I died in a car accident that was “an accident.” I never met the protagonist, so he never met his talent scout either—or he met a different agent.

The system was still searching through the plot, but Quan Heng cut in with every detail it had been about to tell him.

That’s exactly right. The system forgot all about the buns and floated closer, stunned. How do you know all that?

I haven’t forgotten the cause of my own death that quickly. Quan Heng waved the little gray ball out of his way and lifted the lid to check the buns.

Steam rose from the pot, briefly veiling his features and making him look distant and unreal.

True. The system leaned over to stare at the steamed buns, filling the silence with the plot details Quan Heng had left out. He was supposed to sign with Chen Yi, the ace agent from Yaoyang Entertainment who helped Triple-Crown Best Actress Ruan Ying make it big. But because he never met you, he ended up signing with Xinghui Entertainment instead.

Quan Heng prodded a bun with his finger. Its soft surface sank beneath the pressure, then sprang back when he pulled away.

The system swallowed audibly. By the way, Host, isn’t your agency… Wow, those smell amazing… Xinghui Entertainment?

Mm. Quan Heng’s answer was flat.

He’d signed with Xinghui Entertainment five years ago. At first, his career had gone nowhere. Then, just over half a year ago, things had finally started to improve—until the company froze him out.

At the time, he’d been young and naïve enough to think being shelved was no big deal. Surely he’d get another chance eventually.

Well, things had changed. Now he was about to be blacklisted.

Once the buns had warmed through, Quan Heng carried them to the dining table and sat down. He picked one up and peeled away some of its rather thick skin.

He was left with a thin layer of dough, which he tasted. The flavor was good, so he took another bite.

Years of etiquette lessons had taught him to eat with unhurried grace. It was a pleasure to watch.

I want one too! The gray ball circled him, ravenous.

After the system pleaded with him, its two thin arms clasped together and bobbing like someone praying for a New Year’s bonus, Quan Heng picked up a bun with his chopsticks and set it on the table.

Thanks, Host! The system was delighted. It munched away and praised the food. No wonder the protagonist’s such a good cook.

Wen Congrong made these? Quan Heng paused. He used his chopsticks to push the piece of skin he’d peeled away back onto the bun and examined it with a faint frown.

Yeah. The protagonist can’t afford takeout. The system polished off the first bun and gazed hopefully at the rest. It was also eyeing the piece of bun skin Quan Heng had left behind. If you’re not going to eat that, maybe you could—

I’m not eating it. Quan Heng said. When the system’s eyes lit up, he moved his plate away. And I don’t have a habit of giving people my leftovers.

All right. The system reluctantly turned its gaze away. From the way Quan Heng guarded his plate, it knew there was no chance of getting the rest of the buns.

After breakfast, Quan Heng was about to clear away the dishes when he heard the door open.

He looked up and met the gaze of Wen Congrong, who was standing in the doorway with his helmet on.

Huh? Why’s the protagonist back already? The system floated over to Wen Congrong and waved right in front of his face. It took advantage of the fact that he couldn’t see it, hopped onto his shoulder, and swung its little legs. I thought he worked all day delivering food.

Quan Heng took his eyes off Wen Congrong’s face and looked at the bag in his hand.

“Were you just getting up?” Wen Congrong was slightly out of breath. Beads of sweat glistened on his neck as he came over and set the bag on the table.

Summer wasn’t too hot here. The apartment faced away from the sun, and indoors it was tolerable even without air-conditioning.

That was true for Quan Heng, who barely moved. For Wen Congrong, who’d been delivering food outside—and had carried things up eight flights of stairs—the heat was stifling.

Quan Heng didn’t answer, but Wen Congrong glanced at the plate he’d left out before heading downstairs and understood.

When he saw the bun skin left on the plate, Wen Congrong’s brows drew together. He gave Quan Heng a sharp look, picked up the chopsticks, and ate it himself.

“Don’t waste food.” Wen Congrong didn’t scold him for acting like a pampered rich kid.

From Quan Heng’s expensive clothes at the restaurant, he’d already guessed that the man was some kind of actor or influencer. And yesterday’s behavior had convinced him Quan Heng was a handful. He wasn’t even surprised to see him being picky about food.

He gave Quan Heng a sincere little lecture, then opened the bag and took out two containers.

Quan Heng was still reeling from the sight of the protagonist eating his leftovers. He blinked and nodded at Wen Congrong’s words without thinking.

“Good.” Wen Congrong smiled, talking to him like a child. He immediately realized that wasn’t appropriate for Quan Heng and stopped smiling. He pushed one of the containers toward him. “There weren’t enough leftovers in the fridge for two people, so I brought back lunch. We’ll eat this.”

Quan Heng looked down. It was rice topped with pork and green peppers.

“What’s wrong?” Wen Congrong had meant to take his own lunch and leave right away, but Quan Heng had been silent for a while. He stopped and frowned at the difficult man.

He thought Quan Heng was about to complain and was trying to work out how to make him settle for what he had. Then Quan Heng spoke, his voice quiet and apologetic.

“I’m allergic to green peppers.”

…

Wen Congrong froze. He looked at Quan Heng’s cautious expression, then at the open doorway. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he set down his own lunch and shut the door.

He took off his helmet, pushed up his sleeves, picked up the empty plate, and turned toward the kitchen.

“Wait a minute. I’ll make you some rice.”

Quan Heng hadn’t expected Wen Congrong to stay without a second thought. The awkward, timid look he’d deliberately put on faded away. His gaze passed over the two boxed meals as he blinked and got up to follow Wen Congrong to the kitchen doorway.

“Sorry,” Quan Heng said softly. “I’m making trouble for you.”

“It’s fine.” Wen Congrong was in a hurry to get back to delivering food. He rinsed the rice quickly and answered as he worked. “I should’ve asked first.”

“It’s my fault.” Quan Heng sighed. “I thought you’d look me up on Baidu Baike, so I didn’t think to tell you.”

“I didn’t look you up.” Wen Congrong answered casually as he took out a cutting board and started chopping vegetables.

He’d been too tired last night, and today he’d been busy delivering food. He hadn’t had time to look anyone up.

But as soon as he said it, he heard Quan Heng’s low, self-deprecating voice.

“Of course. I guess I got ahead of myself. I’m such a nobody that no one would bother looking me up.”

…

From the corner of his eye, Wen Congrong caught a glimpse of the man’s expression. Quan Heng’s head was bowed, his lashes trembling faintly. Wen Congrong could hear the sadness in his voice.

His chopping slowed to a crawl.