Cheng Ji rarely found himself in such an unguarded moment; last night, he had truly overindulged.

Huangjiu is deceptive—it enters sweet and smooth, like sugar water, coaxing you to drink more without realizing its potency until half an hour later when it hits hard.

In his past life, Cheng Ji had earned the nickname “Eight-Four,” meaning he could down eight taels of baijiu and still finish four bottles of beer—a decent drinker by most standards. But now, in his current body, eight taels were out of the question; he was barely holding up to eight qian.

Since crashing onto the bed around 10 p.m., he hadn’t woken up once, much less cared who he was sleeping next to.

Wang Beifeng woke up first. As he pried Cheng Ji’s arm off him and groggily rubbed his eyes, he suddenly noticed a shadow looming by the bedside. Startled, he let out a short yelp before recognizing who it was.

“Xiao Qi, what brings you here?” Wang Beifeng asked.

Qi Beisong grabbed his collar and yanked him off the bed with a sharp tug.

Wang Beifeng tumbled to the floor, his head spinning. “Xiao Qi, what—”

Qi Beisong’s gaze swept downward, sharp as a blade. “Who were you sleeping with?”

Wang Beifeng turned his head and saw Cheng Ji still sprawled on the bed. Alarmed, he hurried to explain, “Ah, this… Cheng! No, wait, this person surnamed Cheng said you two had agreed to a 24-hour ceasefire until tonight. I thought you knew, so I didn’t report to you.”

Qi Beisong repeated coldly, “Who were you sleeping with?”

Wang Beifeng thought, ‘What’s going on? You’re looking right at him—don’t tell me you’ve suddenly forgotten who he is.’

“Cheng Ji,” he said, resignedly.

Qi Beisong sneered, his voice dripping with disdain. “You know you were sleeping with Cheng Ji, huh? His mother is lying there on the brink of death, and you still have the nerve to cozy up to her son? Do you think that’s fair to her?”

“Uh…” Wang Beifeng stammered, at a loss.

Qi Beisong pressed on. “Taking advantage of an orphan and a dying mother, huh?”

“Wait—”

Wang Beifeng protested, “Xioa Qi, all we did was squeeze onto the same bed for the night. We didn’t do anything! There was only one empty bed here. If we hadn’t shared it, where else could we have slept?”

“Then why didn’t you let him have the bed?” Qi Beisong demanded.

“Where would I have slept then?”

“Don’t you have a home to go back to?”

Wang Beifeng felt utterly wronged. ‘You were the one who forced me to stay here in the first place, and now you’re questioning why I didn’t leave? You’re impossible to please, Old Qi.’

Qi Beisong ordered, “Go home. I’m staying here instead.”

“You?” Wang Beifeng didn’t trust him. First, he doubted Qi Beisong’s ability to stick around at a hospital. Second, he didn’t believe Qi Beisong would refrain from doing something to Cheng Ji within the 24-hour ceasefire.

Having shared drinks with Cheng Ji all night, Wang Beifeng felt they were practically sworn brothers now. Even though Cheng Ji was still fast asleep, he couldn’t just stand by and let Qi Beisong mess around, boss or not.

He got up from the floor and said, “No way. Someone still has to help turn Auntie Cheng over later. Besides, isn’t the company really busy right now? You should head back and oversee things.”

“Are you leaving or not?” Qi Beisong asked, his tone icy.

“I’m not leaving,” Wang Beifeng declared.

Qi Beisong kicked him out of the room.

“If you’re not leaving, then go buy breakfast for me. I only eat shrimp dumplings and char siu buns from Tingyue Lou.”

“Tingyue Lou is on the other side of the bay! It’s a two-hour round trip,” Wang Beifeng protested.

“Then you’d better hurry. If you wait any longer, you’ll hit the morning rush,” Qi Beisong said, tossing him his car keys. “Take my car, but don’t floor the gas pedal. If you get a speeding ticket, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”

With no other choice, Wang Beifeng reluctantly took the keys and left.

The moment he was gone, Qi Beisong locked the hospital room door.

Inside, only four people remained: Qi Beisong, Cheng Ji, Cheng Ji’s mother, and the elderly patient on the bed by the door. Two alive, two nearing death, and only one fully awake.

Qi Beisong tiptoed to Cheng Ji’s bedside and bent down to stare intently at his face, his expression unusually focused.

Suddenly, he lifted the blanket and filled the spot Wang Beifeng had vacated, lying down next to Cheng Ji.

Cheng Ji was sleeping on his side, his posture quiet and still.

Last night, he had drunk himself into oblivion with just two cups of huangjiu. Even so, his drinking habits remained impeccable—no crying, no fussing, no rambling. He had simply chuckled twice before falling asleep, remaining motionless the entire night. Even his breathing was barely audible.

Crowded onto one corner of the narrow bed by Wang Beifeng, he had curled up like a cat, undisturbed by the snoring thunderously beside him. Not once had he stirred.

He seemed to have spilled some alcohol on his clothes, its scent overpowering his usual one. The smell was akin to a freshly opened jar of “Nu’er Hong” rice wine—sweet, mellow, and sharp.

Qi Beisong traced his outline with his gaze: his slightly furrowed brows, his long and thick eyelashes, his straight nose, and his tightly pressed lips. He wasn’t effeminate at all, exuding the pure and handsome charm of youth. His lips looked soft yet thin, giving an impression of faint aloofness.

His skin was impeccable—smooth and fair, though there was a stress-induced blister at the corner of his mouth. However, his round ears bore chilblains, likely from recklessly cutting off his long hair and leaving his ears exposed to the wet and bitter cold of winter without a hat.

Qi Beisong scrutinized him for three minutes, then five minutes, yet his body remained entirely unresponsive.

Great, this confirmed it—he definitely didn’t like straight men, especially not ones who seemed to derive joy from hitting him. Last time must’ve been due to the accidental stimulation from physical contact.

Finally, realizing his actions might be odd, Qi Beisong decided to leave, but at that exact moment, Cheng Ji opened his eyes.

Caught off guard, Qi Beisong couldn’t avoid meeting his gaze and instinctively pulled back two inches.

Cheng Ji, still drowsy and confused, stared at him for so long that Qi Beisong began to suspect he was sleepwalking with his eyes open.

Qi Beisong’s chest heaved as his breathing grew heavier. He had no idea how Cheng Ji would react. If he suddenly threw a punch, Qi Beisong would need to be ready to fight back.

But after a long moment, Cheng Ji muttered softly, “This wine really packs a punch,” then grabbed the corner of the quilt that Qi Beisong had lifted and pulled it back over himself. He turned his back to him, seemingly ready to fall asleep again.

Qi Beisong’s heart, lodged in his throat, hadn’t even had time to settle when Cheng Ji rolled back over, lifted the quilt once more, and draped it over Qi Beisong as well. He even patted him lightly and murmured in a gentle tone, “It’s winter—don’t catch a cold.”

With that, he closed his eyes and fell asleep again within two seconds, breathing evenly. To him, this must’ve all been just a dream.

Qi Beisong panicked and scrambled off the bed, retreating to the opposite side of the room and pressing himself tightly against the door. He had forgotten how much noise he was making, potentially disturbing anyone in the corridor.

He was utterly terrified.

His heart pounded in his chest like a drum, each beat tingling as if jolted by electricity. His heavy breathing filled the room.

How ridiculous. He, Qi Beisong, reduced to this state by a guy not even twenty years old? And that guy was still sound asleep!

Qi Beisong opened the door and stormed out of the hospital room, determined not to make a fool of himself any further.

The sound of the door slamming against the wall jolted Cheng Ji awake. He opened his eyes abruptly.

The meteorological office had issued a warning the previous day, forecasting fierce winds and heavy snowstorms—rare weather for Hongcheng. Cold wind gusted in through the open door. Though the windows were closed, they weren’t sealed properly, causing them to whistle like windpipes when the door opened.

Cheng Ji glanced up, thinking the wind had blown the door open. He was about to get up and close it when a dull pain struck between his brows, forcing him to groan and fall back onto the pillow.

Hungover, he struggled to suppress the churning in his stomach.

Two bottles of alcohol shared among three people, yet he’d ended up this drunk—pathetic. The alcohol scent clinging to his clothes nauseated him.

The hardware at Changkang Hospital wasn’t great. The central heating was underpowered, and the room’s overnight warmth was slowly leaking into the corridor.

Cheng Ji strained to check on Mrs. Cheng, noting she was bundled in a quilt from neck to toe. Apart from swelling, her face showed no other abnormalities, so she likely wouldn’t catch cold.

Relieved, he felt too drained to move. Instead, he imagined over and over in his mind getting up to close the door. Just as he summoned the courage to prop himself up, someone entered the room.

Qi Beisong marched back in, shut the door, locked it, and stood at the bedside.

Cheng Ji had no memory of his earlier visit and looked at him weakly for a long time before murmuring, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Qi Beisong asked, his tone sharp.

“Hmm,” Cheng Ji rubbed his forehead, “What time is it?”

“Not even 5:30 AM,” Qi Beisong replied, glancing at his watch. “What are you thanking me for?”

So early? Cheng Ji wanted to go back to sleep, but Qi Beisong’s intimidating glare made that impossible.

“Why are you here?”

“Am I not allowed to be?”

“I thought we agreed on a 24-hour truce?”

“Truce means no fighting—not no surveillance.”

Cheng Ji sighed, closing his eyes. “Suit yourself. Where’s Beifeng?”

“Beifeng?” Qi Beisong’s tone grew colder. “You mean my bodyguard, Wang Beifeng? How familiar are you with him to drop his last name?”

“He insisted I call him that. Said using both his name and surname felt too formal,” Cheng Ji muttered from under the quilt.

“‘Felt too formal’?” Qi Beisong’s expression darkened.

If Beifeng hadn’t been sent thirty or forty kilometers away to Tingyue Tower to fetch breakfast, Qi Beisong would’ve considered shipping him to the remote Nansha Islands instead, where typhoons and tidal waves might keep him stranded for three months.

Qi Beisong suspected Beifeng might secretly harbor feelings for Cheng Ji. After all, it was Beifeng who had jokingly called Cheng Ji “handsome” before.

“Say my name—Qi Beisong,” Qi demanded. “Call me Beisong.”

Cheng Ji, half-asleep, grumbled irritably, “Beifeng, Beisong, are you two brothers or something?”

“I’m his employer,” Qi Beisong retorted.

Cheng Ji chuckled softly, cracking open his eyes. “Mr. Employer, why are you here before dawn? If you don’t want me mingling with your men, fine. I won’t. Can I sleep now?”

Qi Beisong fell silent, then noisily dragged a chair to sit by the bed.

He had donned a rare down jacket due to the cold, though it hung open, revealing a thin cashmere sweater beneath. His tailored European pants fit snugly, his hips pointed squarely at Cheng Ji’s face.

Unable to sleep, Cheng Ji flipped onto his stomach, propping his head on his hand. “Mr. Qi, what do you want?”

Qi Beisong wanted nothing—except to stay. For what, he didn’t even know.

For now, he simply declared, “Waiting for time to pass so I can fight you.”

Cheng Ji couldn’t help but laugh in exasperation. “You’re really relentless. You manage such a big corporation. Don’t you have anything better to do than wait for me?”

“It’s not office hours yet.”

“Being able to work properly and earn a living is a blessing,” Cheng Ji muttered. “Life isn’t easy. You should cherish it.”

“When have I not cherished it?”

“What do you think?”

“Stop changing the subject. I’m not letting you go,” Qi Beisong declared, his lines always so terribly clichéd.

Cheng Ji was so frustrated that he almost laughed. He shook out the blanket and covered himself, turning his back to Qi Beisong.

“Don’t even think about running. You can’t escape,” Qi Beisong warned.

This time, Cheng Ji really laughed, letting out a soft snort. Then he said, “Let’s call a truce for 24 hours.”

After saying that, he pretended to fall asleep, ignoring the noises Qi Beisong made around him.

Qi Beisong didn’t linger long. After sitting there for a while and finding it dull, he left to catch up on sleep at the company. Before leaving, he thoughtfully closed the door, mindful of the cold draft in the hallway.

Hearing the door lock click, Cheng Ji finally let out a sigh of relief. With his eyes still closed, he muttered under his breath, “What do these rich people even think about all day?”

Qi Beisong strode out of Changkang Hospital, completely ignoring the admiring gazes of the nurses behind him. As he stepped outside and saw the snowstorm, he remembered his car had been driven away by Wang Beifeng.

This year’s weather phenomenon was called “La Niña,” marked by persistently colder-than-usual sea surface temperatures. It brought cold waves and blizzards. The southeastern region where Hong City and Hong Province were located was already under strain, with snowfall this winter exceeding the annual average by 70-80%. The region was struggling to cope with the resulting disasters.

Qi Beisong called his bodyguard as he walked through the snow. “Where are you? Come pick me up near Changkang Hospital.”

Normally, he dealt with personal matters during work breaks. But lately, his pursuit of Cheng Ji had disrupted the company’s affairs, and it was time to get back to business.

He stayed at the company until late into the night. His friend Zhao Xiaojing invited him to dinner, but Qi Beisong, annoyed, refused. Only after Zhao promised it would be a small gathering with just a few childhood friends did Qi reluctantly agree to go.

Zhao Xiaojing, a troublemaker with a history of vices, wasn’t a good person by any means. His methods were often unscrupulous, but he was genuinely loyal to Qi Beisong. The two had grown up in the same compound and had been classmates from kindergarten through high school, sharing countless brawls.

At the dinner table, Zhao noticed Qi’s mood was off and asked what was wrong.

Qi Beisong didn’t spill all the details, only mentioning the incident where Cheng Ji falsely reported him to the police, landing him at the station.

Zhao was shocked. “Who has the guts to mess with you like that?”

Qi Beisong smiled bitterly.

“Who is it? What’s their name? Got a picture? Whose kid are they?” Zhao peppered him with questions.

“They’re nobody,” Qi Beisong replied, finally showing Zhao a photo of Cheng Ji on his phone.

After a glance, Zhao scoffed. “That delicate-looking kid dared to mess with you?”

Qi squinted at the photo. “Where do you see ‘delicate’? I don’t think so at all.”

“What does he do?” Zhao asked.

Cheng Ji was tied to the operations of Shuiyue Manor, but Qi Beisong would never reveal that, even under threat.

“Nothing,” Qi deflected.

“If he can mess with you, why not give him a taste of his own medicine?” Zhao suggested.

Qi Beisong’s expression turned cold. “Don’t mess around. I’m not petty enough to bother with him.”

“Then send me his picture, and I’ll deal with him,” Zhao volunteered.

Qi Beisong flatly refused. After a few drinks, he left. Over the years, he and Zhao Xiaojing had grown apart, their paths diverging significantly.

After Qi left, Zhao called over a few influencers and models to keep him company. Fueled by alcohol, he became increasingly reckless. Thumping his chest, he declared, “Qi Beisong might have the magnanimity of a saint, but I can’t swallow this indignation. I’ll make that kid regret it for life.”

The others laughed. “Get out of here, you spoiled brat. What can you even do? Mind your own business.”

“What do you mean, ‘mind my business’? This is called loyalty to a friend!” Zhao drunkenly retorted.

“If he dared to mess with Qi Beisong, I’ll make him regret it,” Zhao swore.

Although Qi Beisong refused to disclose any personal information about Cheng Ji, the people around him weren’t as cautious. Zhao didn’t have to try too hard to find out that Qi had been frequenting a place called Changkang Hospital, a hospice care facility.

This was highly unusual for someone like Qi Beisong. Zhao sent people to dig around at the hospital and soon had his answer. Cheng Ji had become a minor celebrity there, with handsome visitors regularly asking for him by name.

“So, he’s a social butterfly,” Zhao concluded.

A hospital aide, bribed with 200 yuan, even managed to secretly take a few photos of Cheng Ji. When Zhao saw them, he commented, “At best, he’s moderately attractive.”

“The real person looks better. I took a peek inside the room,” the photographer said. “The aide was scared of being caught, so the pictures came out shaky.”

“What’s the use of being good-looking? If he were that attractive, he’d already be in Qi Beisong’s bed,” Zhao sneered. “And looks don’t last forever.”

Soon after Cheng Ji’s 24-hour truce ended, he received a malicious “gift.”