---

Chapter Four

Looking back afterward, Fang Shiqing felt that the reason he had such an absurd experience was largely because he’d had a few drinks. His mind and judgment had been too sluggish, leaving him vulnerable to being misled.

At the time, after bidding goodbye to his colleagues, he took the elevator upstairs with the man in the pumpkin mask. The room was opened by the pumpkin; Shiqing hadn’t dared walk through the brightly lit front desk in that outfit, afraid of becoming a spectacle.

The elevator went from the third floor all the way to the twenty‑first. The man kept the mask on the whole time. Shiqing figured he must be deeply closeted and afraid of being recognized.

Once inside, Shiqing went into the bathroom first, took off the wig and fake breasts, and showered. When he came out in a bathrobe, the other man was still wearing the mask, sitting properly on the sofa in the outer room, back straight, hands nervously clasped on his lap. He clearly wasn’t used to one‑night stands with strangers.

Shiqing interpreted his refusal to remove the mask as nerves. He thought it best to just cut straight to the point—directness was the most efficient way to communicate between one‑night partners.

He sat down beside him and began to tease him, in his usual clumsy, old‑fashioned way—he had been told before that his technique was terrible. But unexpectedly, on this pumpkin, it worked.

In less than a minute, the “soft pumpkin” was hard.

Feeling a little pleased, Shiqing reached up to take off the mask—truthfully, he was curious about the man’s face. But before his hand touched it, the man suddenly grabbed his wrist, twisted it, and forced him face‑down on the wide European sofa, both arms pinned behind his back.

The pumpkin’s strength was astonishing. Shiqing froze, dread rising in his chest.

To Westerners, Eastern men already seemed small and delicate. With his fine features, he didn’t look rough or masculine at all. During his years abroad, he’d often been propositioned by white tops, but this was the first time he’d actually been physically overpowered.

He tried to reason:
“We agreed, didn’t we? I’m not a bottom—you promised! What are you doing? Hey, let go of me…”

But the man pinned him without moving for a long time, ignoring everything he said.

Shiqing struggled a few times, to no avail. He was soon panting, exhausted. The other man held both arms easily with one hand, and with the other began to touch his bare legs under the robe—lightly, almost tentatively, stroking up and down as if teasing, afraid to use real force.

Shiqing’s throat went dry from trying to reason. He cursed, shouted, but still got no response—just this silent, stubborn “beautiful pumpkin.”

The slow, repeated stroking from calf to thigh five or six times wore out his patience. At last he snapped, angrily spitting:
“If you’re going to do it, then do it! Quit just groping my damn dick!”

And then—the pumpkin really did pull down his underwear and start touching his dick.

Shiqing had always insisted on topping not because of masculine pride, but because he was terrified of pain. Even plucking his eyebrows made him cry instantly; once, he’d startled a French classmate so badly she dropped the tweezers and nicked his face.

So when the pumpkin began probing his “cherry,” he started trembling uncontrollably, his earlier bravado gone.

He must have been shaking so hard that the man hesitated.

For a moment, the room was dead silent. Shiqing, half furious and half unnerved, thought the guy was both hateful and bizarre.

But before his irritation fully formed, the pumpkin’s “big cucumber” suddenly thrust in, breaking through without warning.

The pain was far worse than Shiqing had imagined. He had expected at most to cry out a little, shed some tears. He never thought he would black out from the pain.

When he came to seconds later, the agony still blazed. He swore in French.

The pumpkin, unmoving, didn’t react, and simply resumed once Shiqing stirred.

Biology dictates that a bottom’s pleasure largely comes from penetration. Even though Shiqing had never wanted to be one, even though this was forced, his body betrayed him. Twice he involuntarily climaxed, leaving him limp, drained, his limbs numb.

Still unsatisfied, the pumpkin carried him to the bedroom, laid him on the bed, and switched to a face‑to‑face position.

Shiqing was seeing stars. Looking up at that masked face, he felt both disgust and despair. With what little strength remained, he swung a weak slap, knocking the mask slightly askew to reveal the man’s chin.

Any normal person mid‑sex would have ripped the mask off and tossed it aside.

But this man? He immediately paused, adjusted the mask back in place, and continued.

A shiver of fear ran through Shiqing—was this a pervert?

When the man finally finished, zipped his pants, and sat at the bedside staring at him, that fear turned to horror.

What had begun as consensual sex had turned into rape. If it turned to murder, tomorrow’s headlines would write themselves:
“Gay Man Found Dead After Hookup.”
For the first time, Editor Fang thought maybe he had a knack for tabloid headlines.

Ha. Not funny at all. His bladder nearly gave way under the weight of that gaze.

Then—the pervert stood up.

Shiqing glared, but he was powerless, soft as mud. If the man wanted to kill him, there was nothing he could do.

Instead, the man simply walked out. The door opened and shut.

Shiqing exhaled shakily. Bad luck—being handsome was a risk, apparently.

Still, this experience had probably killed any desire he’d ever have for one‑night stands.

Too disgusted to sleep in that blood‑ and tear‑stained bed, he dragged his exhausted body home at 3 a.m.

By morning, he woke feverish—probably thanks to the pumpkin’s fluids left inside him.

He called in sick. The editor assumed his flimsy backless dress from the party had given him a chill and told him to rest well.

Shiqing could only suffer in silence. In truth, yes—that damn! backless! dress! had started the whole catastrophe.

Half‑asleep at home, his phone buzzed. It wasn’t even ten yet. Groggy, he picked it up, expecting work, but when he saw the caller ID—Brother‑in‑law—he sobered instantly.

“Qingqing,” Wang Qi asked, “I heard your magazine might split off the fashion section into a separate publication?”

Shiqing answered honestly:
“There are plans, but nothing final yet—it depends on the higher‑ups.”

“Alright. Let me know when it’s confirmed. Are you at work?”

“No, I took the day off. Not feeling well.”

“What’s wrong? At home? I’ll come check on you.”

Shiqing panicked:
“No need, no need! Just a little cold, I took medicine, I’ll be fine after some rest. You’re busy—ah, I’ve got another call, talk later, okay?”

“…Alright. Bye.”

After hanging up, Shiqing shifted positions on the bed, but his sleepiness was gone.

Since returning over a year ago, he had rarely seen Wang Qi. The last time was at his sister Fang Mingyu’s birthday, more than two months back.

Yet Wang Qi occasionally reached out—asking about his work, whether colleagues treated him well, whether he lacked anything living alone—sometimes with more detail than Mingyu herself.

Like today’s sudden question about internal planning. That was just Wang Qi—always attentive to anything concerning those close to him.

But ever since years ago, that “attentiveness” had filled Shiqing with shame.

He rested another day, then returned to work.

His colleagues who knew about his 419 looked at him with teasing, knowing eyes. He forced a smile.

Back in his office, he couldn’t sit properly, squirming sideways in pain. He planned to stay hidden all morning, not letting anyone see his red‑rimmed eyes.

But fate had other plans. At 11, he had to go meet a visitor.

Wang Qi was waiting outside the magazine building—tall in a slate‑gray trench coat, cream shirt and narrow tie underneath, holding a huge plastic bag with the logo of a local supermarket.

Shiqing blinked at his overly fashionable look.
“Brother‑in‑law, don’t you have work?”

Wang Qi’s unit was in the same system as Mingyu’s. He should’ve been in uniform or formalwear.

“I’m off today,” Wang Qi said with a wink. “Got a lunch nearby, thought I’d stop in. Feeling better?”

Shiqing clamped his thighs together unconsciously.
“Mm… much better.”

Wang Qi handed him the bag.
“Bought you some snacks.”

Shiqing took it stiffly.
“I’m not a kid, you know.”

Wang Qi ruffled his hair.
“Didn’t realize—you’re nearly taller than me.”

“Don’t trick me. I’m twenty‑seven already, I’ll never be taller than you.”

Wang Qi just smiled warmly at him.

Shiqing turned his gaze aside.
“My sister comes back tomorrow, right?”

“Should be.”

“Then I’ll treat you both to dinner when she’s back.”

“Alright. We’ll see. I’ve got to go. Take care of yourself.”

“…Goodbye, Brother‑in‑law.”

Shiqing carried the bag back upstairs. To the girls in the office, he said:
“Any of you not on a diet? Here’s some snacks.”

He only kept a chocolate bar for himself, letting them sift through the rest.

Wang Qi probably still saw him as the boy who had first come to the capital a decade ago. Otherwise he wouldn’t have bought chocolate, candies, cakes just to cheer him up when sick.

One of the girls piped up:
“Eh? Editor Fang, why would your friend buy this for you?”

Puzzled, Shiqing looked closer—inside was a two‑kilo bag of ejiao red dates.

On the package, in bold, unmistakable characters:

“Nourish Yin, Strengthen Kidneys.”