An hour later, Ning Zhuo emerged from Jin Xueshen’s office.
Their rapport was lukewarm—one asked sternly, the other answered coldly—but they managed a civil discussion.
For those unusual deposits, Ning Zhuo’s explanation remained: taking money to serve time for others.
If Lin Qin ever probed “Haina” internally, consistent stories were best.
Lost in thought, Ning Zhuo returned to his floor and saw Shan Feibai jauntily trailing a carved wardrobe toward his room.
The wardrobe, fitted with four electric wheels, glided obediently like a tamed pet.
Hands in pockets, Shan Feibai hummed a tune.
Ning Zhuo, who’d never seen such a massive wardrobe, much less imagined it’d concern him, was speechless.
Shan Feibai, ever perceptive, sensed Ning Zhuo instantly.
Grinning before speaking, he bounded over, popping a peanut candy into Ning Zhuo’s mouth.
His brief review: “Tasty!”
After three months together, Ning Zhuo was used to Shan Feibai’s random snacks.
Their tastes aligned; if he said it was good, it was.
The candy’s lingering sweetness softened Ning Zhuo’s mood.
Eyeing the wardrobe towering over him, he asked, “What are you doing?”
Shan Feibai replied confidently, “Your room had no wardrobe, so I brought mine.”
Ning Zhuo frowned deeply. “The wooden one’s a wardrobe.”
Shan Feibai: “…That’s a wardrobe?”
He seemed poised to voice some heresy but, under Ning Zhuo’s gaze, tucked his tail and relented, “It’s… pretty compact.”
Fed candy, Ning Zhuo humored him, “Your mobile room won’t fit in my bedroom.”
Shan Feibai stunned him, “It’s fine. I knocked down the wall; it should fit now.”
Ning Zhuo: “…”
He doubted his ears, but he wasn’t senile yet.
Silent, he aimed a kick.
But Shan Feibai, agile, dodged, explaining logically, “Not a load-bearing wall! The room next door’s empty anyway.”
Ning Zhuo, amused by his audacity, scoffed, “If it’s too small, don’t stay. Get out.”
Far from leaving, Shan Feibai doubled down, “I’ve disliked your room since I was a kid. Can you even breathe in there?”
Imagining that puppy-faced kid, all innocent charm while secretly judging, Ning Zhuo’s irritation flared. He grabbed Shan Feibai’s head, intent on dragging him to see the damage, growling, “If you’ve trashed my room, this wardrobe’s your coffin.”
Shan Feibai protested, albeit ambiguously, “No way! I want to be buried with you when we’re old.”
Ning Zhuo shot him a look. “…Why with me?”
Shan Feibai answered instantly, “I’m warmer. You won’t be cold if I hold you.”
Such fanciful sweet talk, Ning Zhuo knew was fake, but it was pleasing.
He’d imagined his death countless times, walked alone by death’s door, never picturing a chatty, sweet-tongued puppy by his side.
He quipped, “My coffin’s small. Can’t fit two.”
Shan Feibai’s rogue logic held firm, “I’ll break through the coffin board to the next one.”
Ning Zhuo nearly cracked a smile.
Helping Shan Feibai “walk” the wardrobe to the door, Ning Zhuo saw his room and felt a twinge.
It wasn’t the chaos of dirt and bricks he’d feared.
Debris had been cleared thoroughly.
While he was busy, Shan Feibai hadn’t idled.
In half a day, he’d lively transformed the space.
The narrow bed, barely fitting one and a half, was replaced with a wide, soft double bed. The old bed wasn’t discarded but moved next door, repurposed as a sofa.
Ning Zhuo realized his decade-old bed was actually a sofa bed.
New sheets, in a subtle apricot hue he’d never seen, 60-thread-count cotton, felt skin-soft and warm.
The walls had auto-wallpaper, refreshing the room’s tone, with a faux window added.
The ventilation system mimicked real breezes, carrying a faint fragrance.
The scent came from a fresh pomelo, exuding a crisp aroma.
Shan Feibai pushed the wardrobe to his ideal spot, stepped back to admire it, but bumped the bed and fell, tumbling onto it.
Content, he stayed down, rolling into a burrito with the blanket.
Ning Zhuo, catching his shameless antics, felt infected, striding to the bed, grabbing his feet to drag him off.
But Shan Feibai, slippery as a fish, sat up, arms around Ning Zhuo’s neck, laughing joyfully, as if a long-held wish was fulfilled: “—We’re living together now!”
Pulled onto the bed, Ning Zhuo felt his thoughts sink to Shan Feibai’s childish level.
He didn’t push him off, only snapped, “Let go.”
Shan Feibai, pushing his luck, ignored the order, pressing his cheek to Ning Zhuo’s chest, listening to his heartbeat.
Ning Zhuo’s chest quivered, as if his long-frozen heart was scalded by that external warmth.
Before he could react, Shan Feibai chirped, “Wanna tour my wardrobe?”
Curious about the wardrobe’s contents, Ning Zhuo let him go and opened it.
First to catch his eye was a lovely pink strawberry cake, about six inches, beautifully baked.
Shan Feibai, wrapped in the blanket on the bed, boasted, “Isn’t your puppy clever and lovable?”
Ning Zhuo’s budding warmth was doused by this smug brag, leaving only wisps of smoke.
Carefully taking the cake out, he scanned the wardrobe, a marvel of organization with countless hangers, PVC shelves, dividers, and racks.
Spotting over a hundred colorful ties in a corner, Ning Zhuo was struck dumb.
Even with three necks, Shan Feibai would need a month to wear them all.
Suits, coats, sweaters, hoodies, sportswear, down jackets, trousers, shorts, and underwear filled the mobile closet to bursting.
Chapter 72, Section 1: Date (Continued)
Looking at it, Ning Zhuo’s first sensation was dizziness.
By comparison, his own wardrobe seemed like a mere offspring of this one.
Shan Feibai, sitting cross-legged behind him, chimed in, “I told Yu-ge to leave outdated styles at ‘Panqiao’ and not bring them.”
Ning Zhuo gritted his teeth. “…This isn’t even everything?”
“Nope,” Shan Feibai said matter-of-factly. “My shoe cabinet, accessory cabinet, and hat cabinet haven’t been moved yet.”
He gestured to an empty spot in the room. “They’ll fit right here!”
Ning Zhuo: “…” This little lord is damn high-maintenance.
Shan Feibai hopped off the bed. “By the way, for our date tomorrow, what’ll you wear to match me?”
Ning Zhuo, too lazy to correct his wording, opened his wardrobe and pointed at a piece.
Shan Feibai stared at the outdated suit, speechless, then grabbed Ning Zhuo’s hand. “Buy new ones! Let’s go!”
Ning Zhuo: “…You’re insane. This still works.”
Shan Feibai: “That style’s five years out of date!”
Ning Zhuo: “Why not say it’s from your past life?”
Shan Feibai countered, “If it was from my past life, it might be trendy again. That suit looks dug up from a grave—perfect for a funeral. Makes me want to wail.”
Ning Zhuo: “…You remember I wore this to meet your dad?”
Shan Feibai: “Oh, I’ve got no issue with you wearing it to mourn my dad.”
His slick tongue made Ning Zhuo want to strangle him.
Ning Zhuo never shopped for clothes, and with Shan Feibai countering every word, he doubled down on not indulging him.
In the end, Shan Feibai compromised, lending a new suit.
The jacket was fine, slightly big, but the pants dragged on the floor.
Ning Zhuo decided to wear his old suit pants.
He didn’t care, but Shan Feibai did.
Using Ning Zhuo’s measurements, he had Yu Shifei alter a barely-worn pair of suit pants to fit.
Shan Feibai’s seriousness about this “date” sparked an odd mix of caution and anticipation in Ning Zhuo.
Two nights later, at 7 p.m., the musical began.
Shan Feibai, scrubbed clean and fragrant, chose a watch, tied a tie, and pinned an umbrella-shaped brooch to his chest, transforming into a dashing young wolf before heading out.
Mindful of his two-hour hairdo, he refused to ride a motorcycle.
So, Ning Zhuo and he took a driverless taxi to the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall.
A kilometer away, the hall’s soft lights flooded their view, outshining the sea and sky.
Silver Hammer City wasn’t perfectly hammer-shaped; small alluvial islands jutted out.
The ship-shaped concert hall sat on one such island in Dragon Bay, its neon glow dimming the moon into a dusty ornament.
Tonight’s show, The Shipwreck, was a staple at the “Columbus” Memorial Concert Hall. It told of hopeful youths boarding a ship, battling hurricanes, sea monsters, and loneliness, only to sink in the ocean’s depths, yet leaving a spark of hope.
Clutching two VIP tickets, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai stepped onto the plush red carpet, entering the grand hall.
The hall had two sections.
One was a 2,000-seat auditorium.
The other was the “Columbus” memorial and museum, housing a replica of the ship, survivors’ belongings, and their lifeboat.
Thirty-five monuments honored the 30 fallen souls and praised the five lucky survivors.
The theater manager, Sanjay, was one of those survivors.
He greeted guests at the entrance.
Stocky, dark-skinned, and plump from years of comfort, traces of his youthful vigor lingered in his brow.
Shan Feibai whispered to Ning Zhuo, “He’s the prototype for the musical’s lead.”
Ning Zhuo: “…Wasn’t he the ‘Columbus’ cook?”
“Was he?” Shan Feibai checked the program. “He’s listed as the third mate.”
Ning Zhuo sneered.
Min Qiu’s records detailed the “Columbus” crew and the massacre’s specifics.
The real third mate nearly died to a “friend” sneaking into his room, killed him in self-defense, but couldn’t cope with the betrayal or his own act.
He lost his mind.
The audience, unaware of these sordid details, respectfully approached Sanjay for handshakes, photos, and autographs.
Sanjay, approachable, obliged with a warm, genuine smile.
Shan Feibai, feigning excitement, shook his hand.
Beyond Sanjay’s autograph, he gleaned key intel: “Calluses on his hand. He’s a seasoned gun user.”
Ning Zhuo: “Sure?”
Calluses have many causes; it’s hard to pin on guns.
Shan Feibai clicked his tongue, showing Ning Zhuo his right hand. “Feel it.”
Ning Zhuo took his hand, tracing it.
Shan Feibai explained softly, “Calluses between thumb and index are from gripping a gun; on both sides of the index, from pulling the trigger. He’s no ordinary professional. What was Sanjay’s file back then?”
Per Min Qiu’s records, Sanjay, 24, had a clean background, a culinary school graduate.
Ning Zhuo pondered, lost in thought, until his sweaty palm made him realize something was off.
He shot Shan Feibai a sidelong glance. “…Let go.”
Shan Feibai hooked his arm tighter, smirking, “Nope. I earned this fair and square. Why let go?”
Behind them, two figures trailed at a distance.
Though dressed in suits, their muscular builds strained the fabric, clashing with the opulent surroundings.
They watched Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai’s every move.
“Weren’t they supposed to be old enemies?” one muttered. “…Why do they look like a couple flirting?”
The next second, they saw Ning Zhuo’s free hand lock onto Shan Feibai’s throat.
…Oh, never mind then.
