Chapter 24 – The Twenty-Fourth Day of Entering the Book: A New Lie… (1)

When He Chen opened the door, the light from the hallway spilled into the dim bedroom, landing just a few centimeters from the person inside. It was such a short distance, yet it felt like a chasm as vast as mountains and seas—symbolic, perhaps, of the complete absence of light in her heart.

In that moment, he suddenly found himself at a loss for words. The despair radiating from Yun Shuning was so intense it nearly engulfed him.

Yun Shuning had initially wanted to take a nap as soon as she entered the bedroom, but considering the need to maintain her persona, she forced herself to stay awake while sitting on the edge of the bed.

This wasn’t a place to sleep. Although Aunt Li had never once entered the room uninvited, Yun Shuning had to be prepared for everything.

Ever since she started coming here, knowing no one would disturb her, she’d made a habit of leaving the door slightly ajar as a show of transparency—as if to say she had nothing to hide.

She was just a bit dazed, not blind or dumb. She could clearly see the light spilling in from the hallway.

At this time, at this place, who else could it be besides He Chen?

So… what kind of expression should she be wearing?

She slowly lifted her head, her face expressionless as she looked toward the door.

The person at the door was backlit. She couldn’t make out his features, nor could she tell what kind of expression he wore.

“He…” A glimmer of excitement flickered in Yun Shuning’s eyes. But the moment she recognized who it was, that light vanished without a trace—as if it had never been there.

She spoke the next syllable in a voice so light it was barely audible: “…Chen.”

So it wasn’t him.

Of course. How could it possibly be him?

He Chen stood in the doorway, taking in her expression in full detail. He knew instantly who she had mistaken him for.

He saw clearly how her eyes returned to calmness and lifelessness, and in that instant, he felt a piercing pain—as if he shared her suffering.

He subconsciously took two steps forward, wanting to get closer, wanting to comfort her, wanting to—

“He doesn’t like other people entering the bedroom,” Yun Shuning said dully, speaking out of instinct.

She knew that He Yan had an intense sense of territoriality and strongly disliked people invading his personal space.

She had entered this room out of necessity, but she wanted to help him protect this place—his sanctuary.

Hearing that, He Chen froze in place.

A wave of jealousy and bitterness surged within him.

From a young age, he’d known that their family was a branch of the main He family, and He Yan had taken over the family at just seventeen—becoming its pillar.

Growing up, he’d been taught to look up to this uncle. And later, when He Yan took notice of him and offered guidance, He Chen truly respected him.

But now, He Yan had been missing for so long. During that time, He Chen had grown stronger, his company more successful.

That reverence had slowly faded.

Until he met Yun Shuning.

Only then did he realize—when it came to this, he would never surpass He Yan.

There would never be another Yun Shuning, waiting with such passionate, tragic love for someone who would never return.

The hallway light bathed He Chen in brightness, while Yun Shuning sat quietly in the shadows, as though she had already accepted that the darkness would consume her.

She glanced at him once before slowly lowering her head again, her expression indifferent to all the joys and sorrows of the world.

A sudden fear seized He Chen: Did Yun Shuning still want to live?

He had used the hope of his uncle’s return, the possibility that someone still remembered him, to keep her going in this world without him.

And she had followed his wishes—finding a new job, pretending she was doing well in front of others. But the real her—was she hiding in the dark every night like this, unable to sleep?

At that moment, he realized how selfish he was. But deep down, he wanted to be even more selfish.

He wanted her to live—no matter how painful, no matter how suffocating it might be.

Yun Shuning lowered her head, thinking she might have overacted. She took a deep breath and wiped the numbness from her face, trying to appear calm and natural.

She raised her head, eyes filled with the familiar detachment He Chen had seen countless times: “President He, what brings you here?”

Seeing this version of Yun Shuning again made He Chen feel an aching numbness in his chest.

So all along, whenever she was around him—or anyone—she wore this mask.

In private, her heart was as empty and hollow as just now.

How could you make someone who had lost all hope, who was merely surviving each day and constantly longing for death, fall in love with life again?

Once he understood the reason for her despair, the answer became simple.

“If I told you… Uncle might still be alive—” He didn’t know why, but the words came out faster than his brain could process. He had no time to consider what kind of impact this would have—on her or himself.

Hearing his words, Yun Shuning broke out in a cold sweat down her back: He Yan is still alive?

Then the lie she’d told would be exposed by the man himself. What was she going to do?

Her heart was in chaos, but her body had long since learned how to react to anything involving He Yan. She stared at He Chen intently—eyes filled with hope, doubt, and a hint of fear.

Her body tensed like a taut string—one that was about to snap.

She was afraid she’d misheard.

Maybe it was because she cared too much. After mistaking him for someone else, she was now hallucinating his voice too.

Seeing her on the verge of breaking down, He Chen no longer regretted his earlier outburst.

He rarely lied. But this time, he had to.

Not only lie—but lie perfectly. Seamlessly.

“There are some things I hesitated to tell you, afraid you’d get your hopes too high,” he said slowly, with pauses between his words. But as he continued, he found his rhythm. “You’ve already seen the report—how Uncle disappeared while driving. His car was almost reduced to ashes.”

He detailed the scene to make the lie more convincing: “But you must have noticed—after investigation, no human remains were found in the ashes.”

He Yan’s car had been specially modified to withstand large-scale impacts. Yet somehow, it had been reduced to rubble. The police later concluded the vehicle had suffered multiple explosions.

Why call it an accident? First, because no one could’ve known He Yan’s schedule. Second, because the car had been parked at an abandoned factory where faulty wiring caused a fire. Combustible dust inside hadn’t been cleaned up, which led to explosions.

Everything could be written off as coincidence—but there were too many coincidences, and people began to suspect foul play.

By now, He Chen’s voice had gone calm: “I know it sounds unbelievable. But I trust in science. Since there’s no concrete evidence that Uncle died, there’s a sliver of hope he’s still alive.”

To make the lie even more credible, he added another: “I remember that from the burnt dashcam, a small fragment of video was recovered—showing a blurry figure leaving the car.”

“Even though the explosion could’ve injured him, survival isn’t impossible.” After saying all this, his palms were soaked with sweat from the tension. He knew how weak and implausible his story sounded.

But on second thought, his theory was perfectly sound. That dashcam footage never existed—but it was destroyed, so no one could prove otherwise.

A body was never found. That alone made his story hard to refute.

Listening to him, Yun Shuning slowly calmed down. He’s still too green, she thought—no match for a master of lies and acting like herself.

From his second sentence, she knew he was bluffing.

Especially since, according to the novel, even in the extras, He Yan never returned. The main couple grew old and had grandchildren, and He Yan only existed in He Chen’s memories. How could he suddenly reappear to expose her?

But regardless of what she really thought, none of it showed on her face.

She stood up and walked step by step out of the darkness into the light.

Standing before He Chen, she looked at him with disbelief and barely restrained hope. Her body trembled slightly from excitement, and color returned to her pale cheeks.

“Is… is what you said true?” Her voice was like a child learning to speak—halting, filled with overwhelming fear.

She was terrified that this was just a cruel joke. That it was all just a dream.

“It’s true.” Now up close, He Chen could clearly see her thin, fragile frame.

Right now, she was like someone dangling over a cliff, clinging to the lifeline he had offered.

He subtly loosened his clenched fists to appear more relaxed: “Scientifically speaking, Uncle does have a chance of survival. It’s slim—but it exists.”

This was the only way he could give her a reason to live. If his uncle’s spirit was watching, He Chen was sure he’d approve.

“Am I… dreaming?” Yun Shuning blinked slowly, her face full of confusion.

Someone who had long believed her beloved was dead, suddenly hearing he might be alive—what kind of reaction would she have?

Cry from joy? Panic? Freeze?

No—first, she wouldn’t believe it.

Then, once she believed—

She would spiral into madness.

She furrowed her brows and let out a bitter laugh at herself, filled with desolation. “It really is true that what you think about during the day shows up in your dreams at night. But if that’s the case, why didn’t I just dream of him directly?”

She didn’t dare believe it, nor allow herself hope—afraid that if she hoped, what awaited her afterward would be a bottomless abyss.

“It’s not a dream.” He Chen looked at the tears streaming down her face and spoke, word by word, with utmost seriousness.

“Not a dream…” Yun Shuning repeated blankly, echoing his words.

Suddenly, she stepped back a few paces and swung her arm hard against the doorframe. A sharp sound rang out, echoing in both their ears.

“Yun Shuning!” He Chen cried out, trying to stop her but too late. “What are you doing?!”

“It’s really not a dream.” Yun Shuning held her throbbing hand, but a childlike, foolish smile appeared on her face, tears falling from her eyes, one drop at a time, mingling with her smile. “Not a dream… it’s not a dream.”

She murmured the words repeatedly. Suddenly, as if remembering something, she stepped around him and headed toward the front door. “I’m going to find him.”

“Yun Shuning.” He Chen grabbed her wrist, softening his voice as much as he could. “How are you going to find him? Where would you even start?”

Feeling the coldness of her wrist in his hand, He Chen instinctively tightened his grip, afraid that if he let go, she would walk away from him forever.

Because of the forceful movements between them, and her loose-knit sweater, the sleeve slipped up her arm, revealing a section of skin as pale as snow, mottled with bruises.

She bruised easily, and with her fair skin, even the slightest bump would turn blue and purple. These past two days, she’d been adjusting to Xiaobai (the cat), so she had some marks she couldn’t even remember getting. They looked serious but didn’t hurt or itch—fading after a while.

So she hadn’t paid them much attention.

But what she was used to, He Chen had no idea about. All he could see was someone who, in places no one else could see, had hurt herself all over.

“I’ll go check where he went missing. If he really is still alive,” Yun Shuning turned her head, her eyes blazing like fire, “no matter where he is, no matter what he’s become, I will find him.”

Logically speaking, if He Yan were alive, he would’ve come back by now.

If he hadn’t, it likely meant he had died. And if not death—then amnesia, or being gravely injured… The chances of him being alive and returning were minuscule.

But so what? That tiny chance was still enough to support someone battered and bruised to keep going.

He Chen closed his eyes. The weight of this raw, undisguised emotion pressed on him—it was too much to bear.

“I’ve already searched every place that should be searched.” He slowly let go of her hand, his voice soft. “I just wanted to tell you—you can hope for a miracle. Who knows, maybe it will come one day.”

“Even if you insist on searching, how could you possibly do better than the professionals?” He looked at her seriously. “If my uncle really came back, the first person he’d want to see would be you.”

“So, all you have to do… is wait.” His eyes regained their usual gentle expression. “It’s just that the waiting may be a little long.”

“I’ll wait for him—no matter how long.” Yun Shuning’s earlier excitement began to settle. She blinked slowly but firmly. “I swear it on my life.”

She knew he was right. Alone, she couldn’t even search a city as big as the capital.

“Was every area around where he went missing checked thoroughly? If he’s not there, where else could he be? How could he not be found?”

“That’s why I said, the probability is very, very small. It just depends on whether or not you’re willing to believe.”

“Then…”

“I know what you want to ask.” He Chen smiled kindly and stepped back two paces, giving her a wide path. “As long as you eat properly, I’ll give you more information.”

“Okay.” Yun Shuning’s voice trembled noticeably. She walked past him, step by step. He could even catch a faint floral scent on her as she passed.

He watched her back. The smile he had forced onto his face gradually faded, and his lips tightened into a straight line.

He slowly unclenched his fists. The pressure had been so strong that his palms bore the imprint of his fingernails.

After He Yan disappeared, in order to deal with the He Corporation’s board members, He Chen had been allocating part of his own funds every year to search for He Yan’s whereabouts.

Everyone knew He Yan was likely never coming back. The wind had been fierce that day—his ashes could have scattered to god knows where.

But as the only heir to the He family without a legitimate title, He Chen couldn’t afford to give up. Whether it was for show or genuine hope, he had to handle the situation impeccably.

And all that data—just in time for Yun Shuning to see.

But…

If Yun Shuning truly believed this lie, then He Chen’s succession of the He family would be indefinitely postponed again.

If his uncle were dead, he could inherit the He family without a ripple. But if there was even the slightest chance he was alive—real or fake—he had to abandon any claim for now.

Was it worth it? He quietly asked himself.

Yes, it was.

One was his uncle. The other, the woman who loved his uncle deeply. Protecting either of them was something he was supposed to do.

Yun Shuning had no idea what he was thinking.

After walking past him, the breath she’d been holding finally loosened.

She didn’t know why He Chen had suddenly come to the villa, or why he would lie to her like this.

But fortunately, she was good at handling crises—today’s trial was already halfway over.

Whether He Yan was truly dead or not, the book never gave a definitive answer. In the end, it only left behind the words “missing.”

So He Chen’s words—half true, half false—if she hadn’t known the subconscious signs of lying so well, she might’ve been fooled.

She walked briskly, filled with urgency. Soon, she sat neatly at the dining table.

He Chen followed right behind her.

Li Shuhua noticed something subtly off between them but didn’t say anything. She simply brought out the food she’d prepared.

Yun Shuning looked at the beautifully plated minced pork with eggplant. Her expression froze for a moment. If He Chen hadn’t been watching her closely, he might have missed it.

He followed her gaze and, upon seeing the dish, closed his eyes in mild frustration.

How could he have forgotten? His uncle was allergic to eggplant. Whenever they ate together, there was never a single eggplant dish on the table.

Yun Shuning had merely demonstrated her knowledge of He Yan, and after that, she quietly picked up her bowl and began eating, almost devoutly.

She wanted to finish quickly, to see those documents as soon as possible.

They weren’t just documents—they were proof He Yan was still alive.

But…

She was extremely sensitive to cilantro. Her tongue could pick up even the faintest trace.

So she didn’t even need to fake it—she looked like she was eating seriously but with great difficulty.

He Chen watched her closely and began eating his own silent meal.

Li Shuhua had carefully considered both their preferences while cooking. He Chen liked cilantro, so she made beef with cilantro and sprinkled some over the eggplant too.

Yun Shuning’s dishes suited her taste—a simple stir-fried vegetable and sweet and sour pork.

But she had overestimated herself. The smell of cilantro in the air was already too much, and now it was in the dishes too. She couldn’t take it—she put down her chopsticks and quickly said, “I’m sorry, I need to use the restroom.”

He Chen frowned, about to call the family doctor, when Li Shuhua came out of the kitchen, looking remorseful.

“Oh no, I forgot Miss Yun doesn’t eat cilantro. A few leaves must’ve fallen in while I was cooking,” she said anxiously as she approached the table. Noticing the empty seat across from He Chen, she asked in a hurry, “Miss Yun—did she leave because of the taste?”

“She… went to the restroom,” He Chen replied softly, putting down his chopsticks.

He knew she loved cilantro. Her records even showed she always added extra at meals.

So when did she change?

It was when he told her—his uncle couldn’t stand cilantro.

He glanced at the stir-fry. There were no visible traces of cilantro on the surface.

If she hadn’t seen it, then she had tasted it.

He had read somewhere that liking cilantro was linked to genetics—part of one’s nature. You could change it, but only with great difficulty.

Her love had already gone beyond instinct.

“Take these dishes away. Clean up the kitchen and make new ones without any cilantro,” he said softly, his voice full of helplessness.

At that moment, he understood clearly—no one would ever hold a more important place in her heart than He Yan. Not even herself.

This kind of love… was rare, unseekable, and never to be forced.

“Aunt Li, when Miss Yun comes out, tell her I’ll leave the documents in the study next week. She’ll see them when she comes.”

He calmly stood up, as if making a decision. “There’s something at the company—I’ll go first.”

He put on his coat, and at the villa entrance, paused. His tone was distant, almost businesslike. “Remind Miss Yun to eat well and take care of herself.”

“This week… is her observation period.”

“What?” Li Shuhua was confused—observation period? What did that mean?

But when Yun Shuning came out of the bathroom, she obediently relayed the message.

“I understand. Thank you,” Yun Shuning said. Her voice was hoarse from vomiting, and her face was unnaturally pale.

Li Shuhua saw her expression and forgot all her earlier questions, speaking apologetically. “I wasn’t careful enough. I’ll redo lunch right away.”

“It’s okay.” Yun Shuning shook her head slightly. “I’m just too picky.”

Today had been full of twists and turns, all thanks to He Chen’s visit.

By the time she returned home, dusk was already falling.

She turned on the lights at the entrance and saw Xiaobai waiting faithfully at the door.

Pets really were healing beings. Seeing the little one, she felt her exhaustion melt away.

She did a quick check around the house and realized that when she was away, Xiaobai stayed completely still—as if it hadn’t moved at all.

Even the food in its bowl had barely gone down.

Her heart ached. She crouched and gently patted its now slightly sunken belly, then carried it to its food bowl. “Go on and eat. I’ll be heartbroken if you starve.”

Watching it gobble down food hungrily, her expression softened.

She still didn’t know why He Chen had lied to her—but she could guess, at least a little.

The most likely reason is that the He family needs stability. He Yan’s disappearance dealt a huge blow to the He Corporation. If his disappearance were to become confirmed as death, that blow would be doubled.

There’s still more than a year before He Chen officially takes over the He Corporation. With his current abilities, he likely isn’t capable of handling it yet, which is why he needs to prove that He Yan is only missing—not dead.

As for why he told her, maybe it’s because she played her role too convincingly.

But after today, she could finally make some adjustments to herself. She wouldn’t need to appear so sorrowful and hollow every time she left the house.

He Chen’s lie was, in a sense, a motivation for “her” to keep going—a reason to live well.

When someone has something to look forward to, has hopes for the future, their aura gradually changes.

No matter what, she ought to thank He Chen properly.

After all, maintaining that empty and numb sense of deep affection had been a considerable strain on both her body and mind.

After that, she played with Xiaobai for a while. When Xiaobai began panting from exhaustion, she shrugged and walked to the fridge to grab something to drink.

The fridge’s cooling compartment was nearly empty, with only a few cans of beverages left.

Yun Shuning sighed and took the outermost can of milk beer.

As she took the first sip, she suddenly remembered that the original owner had poor alcohol tolerance and had never drunk in public.

But she quickly realized that milk beer didn’t really count as alcohol—it was more of a beverage, probably not even 2% alcohol content.

Thinking this, she took another sip.

The drink was actually pretty tasty—like a milk-flavored soda.

She played with her phone while finishing the entire can of milk beer.

“Is it time to stream already?” After finishing, she lifted her head in a daze and glanced at the time. “What time do I usually start streaming?”

Her brain felt clear and energized, but her limbs weren’t quite cooperating.

She staggered her way to her streaming setup, sat in her chair, and zoned out.

“What was I supposed to be doing again?”

She sat there dumbly for two seconds, then suddenly remembered—she was here to stream.

But what was she supposed to do during the stream?

Yun Shuning rested her chin on her hand and concluded, very seriously: she streamed to let everyone know she had someone she loved, but she couldn’t say his name.

Because the person she loved had gone missing.

At that thought, tears slowly gathered in her eyes. But just before they could fall, she suddenly remembered: no, He Yan isn’t dead. She could still wait for him.

Realizing that, she widened her eyes and tried to hold the tears back.

She really missed him—she wanted to hug him, and tell him that so many people had been bullying her.

Thinking that, she hugged her phone and giggled foolishly.

“Time to stream,” she said as she set her phone down and skillfully opened the Jinli streaming app.

“Oh my God, am I seeing things? Why is Shushu streaming so early today?”

“I can actually send messages in the chat!!!”

“Not just that—you can even send unlimited gifts.”

Next came a flood of gift animations. Yun Shuning frowned slightly at the oversized icons cluttering her screen.

“These gift icons are way too distracting. Hold on a sec.”

“I’ll turn them off now.”

Her voice didn’t sound much different than usual. If anything, there was a slight shift—from calm and ethereal to a voice carrying a hint of a smile.

It was a faint smile, but for some reason, it made listeners want to smile along with her.

But what she said made everyone panic and metaphorically reach out to stop her: “No—don’t—!!”

Of course, Shushu paid no attention to their pleas. She expertly disabled the gift feature and nodded in satisfaction. “Much better.”

“You’re asking why I’m streaming so early?” Yun Shuning’s voice rose slightly at the end, carrying a bit of a playful tone. “Is it that early? I think it’s fine.”

“I heard some news today that made me just a little happy.” On camera, she made a “just a little” gesture with her fingers.

Then she immediately corrected herself: “Actually, not just a little—maybe a bit more than a little.”

“Maybe a lot more.”

“But I suddenly realized I had no one to share it with, so I thought of you guys—who’ve always been here with me.”

“What kind of news made me so happy?” Off-camera, she held her phone and tried hard to read the chat messages. “That’s a secret.”

“A secret, so I can’t let anyone else know.”

“Okay, today’s a great day. If you have any requests, go ahead and say them. Who knows? I might actually fulfill one.”

“Stream all day? Reopen the gift feature? Tell you what made me happy?” Yun Shuning read out the chat messages with a bit of confusion and helplessness in her voice. “What exactly is going on in your little heads?”

At this point, her fans started realizing something was off. Shushu was really acting strange today.

Though it wasn’t obvious from her voice alone, her words and constant movements hinted at one thing:

“Shushu, are you drunk?”

Many questions flashed across the screen.

Yun Shuning smiled helplessly. “How could that be?”

“I haven’t even had any alcohol—how could I be drunk?” she emphasized, sounding serious and earnest. “Even if you’re all this adorable, I have to say—you can’t doubt me.”

“So that’s why she’s streaming so early. She’s drunk.”

“Drunk Shushu is so cute—cuter than usual.”

…

Yun Shuning expressionlessly skimmed over the chat accusing her of being drunk and decided not to waste her precious energy responding.

“Someone wants to hear me sing?” She noticed a message in the corner and sounded a bit puzzled. “I don’t think I’ve ever sung in front of people before.”

Suddenly, she felt a bit excited, a little restless.

“Do you really want to hear me sing?”

“YES!!!!”

“Whoever thought of this is a genius. Shushu’s voice is already perfect—imagine how great it would be if she sang.”

“I’m going to record it and play it for my classmates—tell them it’s an angel singing.”

“Do you even need to lie? Once Shushu opens her mouth, she is an angel.”

…

Yun Shuning blinked at the chat. “So you all do want it, huh.”

“Alright then.” For some reason, tonight she felt especially happy, unusually generous, and surprisingly brave.

The news that He Yan was still alive had affected her far more than she expected.

He’s still alive. That’s so wonderful.

Just thinking about it made her smile uncontrollably.

“Then I’ll pick a song I like.” Since she’d never sung on stream before, she fumbled a bit while finding the instrumental, then cleared her throat and began seriously.

The chat, which had been full of fast-scrolling messages, suddenly went blank.

“At Tokyo Tower, I looked out for the first time, watching the lights mimic falling starlight…”

A few seconds later, a hesitant message appeared:

“These lyrics sound familiar… is this ‘Missing You Is a Pain That Breathes’?”

“Probably not? The melody sounds nothing like it. Maybe it’s a different composition with the same lyrics?”

“I think it is that song. Listen carefully—who would compose something that weird?”

“Help—why is Shushu so off-key? No wait—why isn’t even a single word in tune?”

“But she’s singing with so much sincerity. I can hear how serious she is.”

“So she’s seriously… off-key?”

Yun Shuning’s voice continued in the livestream: “Missing you is a pain that breathes. It lives in—”

Chat:

“Great singing. Don’t do it again.”

“This streamer is so inspiring. She could’ve relied on her looks (points) to survive, but she insists on starving with her ‘talent’.”

“Suddenly remembered—angels can be tone-deaf too, right?”

“Help, how is this voice so beautiful and this melody so moving, yet together so terrifying?”

…

At that moment, a heart-wrenching yowl came from outside. Yun Shuning pressed pause and said, a little anxiously, “I’m going to check on Xiaobai real quick.”

She remembered that whenever she streamed at night, Xiaobai always curled up obediently and slept—he’d never acted this strangely before.

Thinking this, she quickly walked to the door and opened it.

“Meow—” Xiaobai rushed over as soon as the door opened, rubbing against her and sniffing her carefully.

He seemed to be checking if she was safe.

“Oh, so you missed me.” Yun Shuning bent down to pick up the cat, her expression softening. “Then come sing with me, okay?”

As soon as she held him, Xiaobai quieted down, nestling comfortably in her arms and purring happily.

“I’m back,” Yun Shuning said, returning to her seat. Her voice had calmed, and the earlier hint of excitement was gone.

“Let’s finish singing then.” She remembered the song she was singing. At the very least, she should finish it before ending the stream.

“Missing you is a pain that breathes. It lives in—”

“Meow—oooo~~” The moment she opened her mouth, Xiaobai began struggling in her arms, yowling along with her.

His voice, already hoarse and pitiful, combined with hers, sounded like a magical attack.

“Xiaobai, you want to sing with me too?” Yun Shuning swayed his paw, then continued singing, “Hate that I didn’t understand you…”

“Meooow~~ Meooow!!!”

Xiaobai’s disruptive meowing drowned out her voice, which was already trembling with sobs. Two not-so-pleasant sounds clashed together and created a chemical reaction where one plus one was greater than two.

“Help!! My mom just asked me if I was secretly watching cat abuse videos.”

“I think psychological attacks should also count as a form of animal abuse, right?”

“This is terrifying—it’s straight-up noise pollution. I turned the volume to the lowest setting, and my head still hurts.”

“Shushu, please, I’m begging you. Other streamers charge money to sing, but when you sing, it costs lives.”

“I think with my current mental strength, I can only stay sane listening to either Shushu or Xiaobai—not both. Yup, I’m definitely not in a normal state anymore.”

While the chat was crying out in despair, the song finally reached its end:
“If only you’d come back, if only we could start over.”

“Shushu’s voice sounded like it was choking up a bit. Was I imagining it?”

“Really? I thought it was fine. Maybe since she’s drunk, her voice just has some natural tremble to it.”

“Meowwooo~~”

“Okay, I guess I was imagining it.”

As the chat continued discussing, Yun Shuning decisively shut off the livestream. Then she hugged Xiaobai and burst into tears, sobbing like she was letting out every grievance she’d ever bottled up.

“Will he really come back?”

“Will I really get to see him again?”

“Is a lifetime too short? I wish I could live a little longer—then I could wait for him a few more years.”

How could she live longer?

Yun Shuning used Xiaobai’s fur to wipe the tears from her face.
“That’s right, I need to sleep early, wake up early, and take better care of my health.”

Then, hugging Xiaobai, she returned to bed and drifted off to sleep in a daze.

And while she slept, the video and audio of her singing began to spread like wildfire across all the major platforms, growing hotter and more viral by the minute.