AFM 105

“This is the key.”

“Though you said you were the previous owner, I don’t recall seeing you much,” the landlord mused. “I vaguely remember a mother and son living here for five or six years. Later, I heard they became well-off and moved away.”

Jing Guozhen followed the landlord upstairs. Dust swirled in the stairwell, and he coughed twice, his face pale, his steps slow and weary.

“This area’s a bit remote, but it’s slated for demolition soon,” the landlord said. “You came at the right time. In a few months, construction might’ve already started.”

Jing Guozhen forced himself to speak. “…I wasn’t around much back then.”

“Oh, no wonder you seem unfamiliar.” The landlord nodded. “Your kid was called MianMian, right? He must be an adult now. Which university did he go to?”

Jing Guozhen: “Lincheng University.”

“That impressive?” The landlord looked surprised, then added after a pause, “Well, it makes sense. His mother seemed like an intellectual—very refined. She probably hasn’t retired yet, has she?”

Jing Guozhen lowered his head, falling silent again.

After a long while, he said, “She’s gone.”

The landlord didn’t catch his meaning. They reached the second floor, and he unlocked the door. Patting his pockets, the landlord said, “Take a look around. I’ll go downstairs to buy a pack of cigarettes.”

Jing Guozhen agreed.

This was his first time returning to this old house.

The actual living space was just over forty square meters—a modest two-bedroom, one-living-room layout, though one “bedroom” was little more than a small partitioned space. Unlike Jing Luo, Jing Mian had spent most of his childhood in that tiny room.

Most of the furniture had been cleared out, leaving behind only an old sofa, a dated television, and a stove covered in layers of dust. The place had been uninhabited for far too long.

Jing Guozhen could count on one hand the number of times he’d been back here.

He could barely recall where the dining table had been, where the fridge stood, where they’d gathered to watch TV in the evenings, the sliced apples, and Jing Mian’s little study desk.

Song Zhinian had endured the hardest years of their lives with him.

And so had their child.

Jing Guozhen stepped into the room adjacent to the bathroom. Though small, Jing Mian’s room was bright, facing the alleyway where people came and went, a faded sign for a steamed bun shop, and the morning market.

Jing Guozhen didn’t know why he’d come back here—to this first home of theirs.

After a severe illness that nearly left him paralyzed, with no family to care for him, he’d brushed against death and emerged feeling like a different person. Suddenly, he’d wanted to return and see this place again.

Doctor Pei had refused to tell him everything—where Jing Mian’s illness had come from—so he had to trace the cause himself.

But he suspected… it had all started the day of the car accident.

His wife and child, who should never have been in that car. The detour they’d taken. And MianMian, the sole survivor.

Back then, unable to vent his grief and rage, he’d poured all the blame onto his young son.

What had happened after that accident?

Jing Guozhen still remembered.

He hadn’t comforted MianMian as the boy lay in the hospital bed, bruises around his eyes, his head bandaged, trembling as he looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks.

Jing Guozhen had known the child needed comfort—and feared his reaction.

What had he done instead?

He hadn’t comforted him.

On the very night Jing Mian was discharged, he’d grabbed the boy by the collar and thrown him into this old house.

“Didn’t you wish every day to leave this house?”

“This time you’ve had your fill—you killed my wife!” he roared. “Attending birthday parties? Don’t even think about it for the rest of your life. You deserve to rot in a place like this!”

With that, he left without looking back.

He was gone for three days and nights.

The remaining elder of the Song family was so furious he nearly had a heart attack. His career had just begun to flourish, and after dealing with the aftermath, an utterly exhausted Jing Guozhen suddenly remembered MianMian, whom he had left behind in the old house.

A pang of worry struck him.

But then he recalled—there was food and water at home. What could possibly go wrong?

Too proud to face the child himself, he sent his assistant to check.

What they found was alarming. Upon opening the locked door, they discovered Jing Mian had fainted in his room for nearly half a day, showing signs of dehydration.

He never imagined MianMian would curl up alone in that dark, desolate house, without food or water, enduring three days and nights by himself.

No one knew what the child had gone through.

Jing Guozhen’s heart ached.

He crouched down and picked up a toy left in the corner by the windowsill—gray, worn, and broken, with a pencil nearby whose lead had snapped.

As Jing Guozhen was about to stand, his gaze inadvertently fell below the windowsill.

Faintly, something seemed to be written there.

Kneeling with one knee on the ground, he squinted to see clearly. When he finally made out the words, his breath caught, and his hands began to tremble.

The pencil marks were faint, as if written by someone with little strength, barely noticeable.

Jing Guozhen read carefully, finding the shaky handwriting occupying only a small corner of the wall.

[Mom],

and [Brother].

The words were uneven, almost erratic.

Jing Guozhen’s lips quivered as he read on. At the very end, in the corner where Jing Mian could reach, a few crooked words were scrawled:

[I’m sorry.]

[I couldn’t die.]

“Is the stream live yet?”

“It’s live!!”

“The camera’s a bit blurry.”

“AHHHHH SHEEP!!”

“MianMian finally started streaming, sobbing.”

“Long time no see, Mom misses you.”

Jing Mian adjusted the equipment, the soft clicks of the mouse echoing in the room. The young man seemed to be sitting in a spacious study, wearing a black mask, his lashes casting delicate shadows.

However, the study’s cold, austere decor didn’t quite match the boy—like snow-laden pine trees, sharp and unyielding.

Only a whale plush sat at the edge of the solid wood desk.

Jing Mian entered the interface as usual, but the viewer count kept rising.

In just a few minutes, it had surpassed the peak of any previous stream.

Last time, Sheep’s stream was abruptly cut short due to a fever. New fans who had come eagerly waited for days, finally getting to watch Sheep’s first full-length stream.

“Sheep’s eyes are so pretty.”

“Who bought our baby the little whale? You deserve a temple.”

“No-face streamers don’t hype looks.”

“Is the global tournament coming up?”

“Yeah, 20 days left. Will our baby go to Europe or Japan/Korea?”

“Most likely Europe.”

“The match list is out—ME. vs. POV. first round.”

“Not Mox? That’s a relief.”

【AUB’s first match is against Mox, silently lighting a candle for AUB. Even with Shock, they’re bound to get crushed.】

Jing Mian’s gaze lingered for a moment.

At the instant the speeding car exploded, the young man swiftly repositioned himself, decisive and fluid. While maneuvering, he murmured under his breath, “I won’t lose this time.”

【My heart aches for our baby’s words】

【Yeah, he even fell seriously ill after the finals. That match wasn’t just ME’s lingering regret】

【Go for it, you must win the global championship!!】

【Feeding future world champion some cookies】

The topic of the global tournament was currently blazing.

No matter which livestream they frequented, players couldn’t resist chiming in with a few words whenever the subject came up. After all, this year’s two hottest Teams were about to step onto the grand world stage.

After the livestream ended, Jing Mian stretched, his back sore.

With the competition approaching, the training intensity at the base had gradually increased, with practice sessions lasting up to thirteen hours a day. The young man would head straight to the base after class, yet he never reduced his promised streaming frequency.

He glanced at the clock, it was almost 11 p.m.

Mr. Ren had been busy these past two days, sometimes returning even later than him, but never past eleven. Jing Mian had thought the man might break their agreement tonight.

Unexpectedly, before the clock struck twelve, the sound of the door opening echoed through the house.

Jing Mian had just finished streaming and was curled up in his Husband’s study, unaware until the door opened. Still wearing his headphones, he paused mid-motion to remove them, slightly surprised. “You’re back?”

He discreetly checked the time and froze when he saw it was exactly eleven.

He still remembered his promise to his Husband, even if he stayed up late, he’d be in bed by eleven.

“Mn.” The man’s lashes lowered slightly, fragmented light outlining his profile.

When he was lifted from the chair, Jing Mian panicked for a moment. But as soon as he regained his footing, he found himself seated in the man’s lap.

His unease didn’t fade, especially since, two hours ago, he’d lazily microwaved instant noodles for dinner. Though he’d disposed of the packaging afterward, he wasn’t sure if his Husband would notice.

So he quietly steered the conversation back: “…I was just about to wash up when you got back.”

To his surprise, the man replied, “Wash up later.”

“Stay with me for a while.”

……

Mr. Ren carried the chill of the late night air on him, but his clothes were smooth and soft, warm and comforting to the touch, enough to make one unconsciously want to nuzzle closer.

But Jing Mian resisted. Not only that, he even attempted to soothe his lover with a mature, parental tone, “Were you busy today?”

“Mn.” The man said, “Just took on a new task.”

“Is it project related?”

“No.” Mr. Ren parted his lips. “It’s related to gaming.”

Though Jing Mian knew about the Ren family’s business, he wasn’t familiar with the specific industries Mr. Ren was involved in. But since it was gaming, it was likely some endorsement deal within the circle.

It must have been an exhausting and demanding day.

Even the seemingly invincible Mr. Ren needed to rest occasionally.

“Thank you for your hard work.” Jing Mian reached up and hugged the tall man back, his palms pressing lightly against his back in a gentle pat.

This time, his voice was softer: “Brother.”

The man’s breath hitched slightly.

Before long, a cool imprint landed on the young man’s neck, mingled with a familiar, pleasant scent.

The touch was light, yet unrelenting.

Jing Mian wanted to shrink away, but in the end, he stayed obediently still, like a graceful swan arching its neck, allowing the kisses to fall upon him.

As the kisses continued, his earlobe was suddenly nipped.

Jing Mian couldn’t hold back a soft sound from his nose, and a flush instantly spread to the roots of his ears. He didn’t even have a free hand to first remove the mask from his livestream, so he could only murmur, “…Husband.”

He tilted his head slightly. “What’s wrong?”

The moment he lifted his gaze, the man kissed his chilled nose bridge and lips through the mask.

The expensive suit pressed against the boy’s hoodie as the young man in his arms was gradually pulled closer, his chin resting on the man’s shoulder. Then, he heard his husband’s low, slightly rough voice:

“Recharging.”