Chapter 37: Soul (7)

Wen Mingwei had kept a gun beneath his pillow for many years.

The gun had originally been prepared for Wen Mingzhe. Later, it became an essential means of securing a sense of safety, and it had remained with Wen Mingwei ever since.

But when the weak become strong, what a gun symbolizes is no longer security, but power.

Wen Mingwei stood almost at the summit of power. There were people who could stand on equal footing with him, but no one who could give him orders.

He never deliberately flaunted his authority, yet that invisible force revealed itself in every breath, every glance, every tone of voice. Wen Mingwei might not have been aware of it himself, but Tan Zhao had never before felt so suffocated. Beneath the muzzle was not merely the threat of death, but the oppression of power.

There was simply no room for refusal.

Unless Tan Zhao abandoned the company, abandoned the possibility of avenging his grandfather, and became an idle wastrel who concerned himself with nothing beyond his own pleasures. Even then, Wen Mingwei could still toy with him however he pleased.

A long time ago, when Tan Zhao had been unable to discover the cause of his grandfather’s death and did not want the body cremated so soon, he had quarreled with his family. Wen Mingwei had comforted him with a single sentence:

“If there is only one road before you, then no matter how unwilling you are, you can only walk in that direction.”

Back then, Wen Mingwei had been Tan Zhao’s anchor in a storm, his safe harbor.

Now—

With the dark muzzle of the gun aimed at him, Tan Zhao looked at the familiar yet strange face before him as though he were seeing Wen Mingwei for the first time. After silently studying it several times, he lay down on the other side of the bed and stopped resisting.

It was the night of September 3.

One relationship ended, and another began.

Yet to Wen Mingwei, there seemed to be no difference. He behaved as normally as if nothing had happened. That night, he asked Tan Zhao to bathe with him, eat with him, and sleep with him.

Before they went to bed, at around eleven-thirty, Gu Jing knocked on the door to deliver the medicine.

There were three bottles, each marked with a different number. Wen Mingwei opened them and sniffed the peculiar scent of the medicine before saying to Tan Zhao, “I actually don’t like taking medicine. When I’m with you, I don’t have to.”

“…”

Tan Zhao lay with his back to him, ignoring the remark as though he had no curiosity about what medicine Wen Mingwei was taking, no concern, no interest at all.

But Wen Mingwei had no intention of letting him off so easily. He suddenly poured two pills from the bottle marked “No. 19C.” He swallowed one himself, toyed with the other for a few seconds, then, without warning, pushed it into Tan Zhao’s mouth.

“Take it with me,” he said. “Don’t spit it out.”

A sharp pain shot through his fingertip. Tan Zhao bit through his finger, but Wen Mingwei still gripped his jaw and forced the pill down. One swallow sent it into his stomach.

Tan Zhao finally spoke, frowning as he asked, “What is it?”

“It won’t kill you. Don’t worry.”

“…”

Tan Zhao soon discovered what the medicine was.

Within an hour, his vision gradually deteriorated. Everything before him blurred until he could no longer see clearly. He did not know whether the effect was permanent or temporary, but it was obviously caused by Wen Mingwei’s medicine. The stuff did not seem to cure any illness. It was a poison.

“You’ll be fine tomorrow.” Wen Mingwei knew what he was thinking. “Doesn’t it feel rather novel?”

Tan Zhao was silent for a moment. “What are the other two bottles?”

“More or less the same thing.”

“More or less? Poisons that torture the person taking them?”

Suppressing a surge of anger he had no way to vent, Tan Zhao said stiffly, “Wen Mingwei, you really are sick.”

Wen Mingwei did not take offense, nor did he explain. Under Tan Zhao’s complicated gaze, he poured a pill from another bottle and swallowed it. Then he turned off the light, lay down, and closed his eyes as calmly as ever.

They remained in Dragon City for three days.

The day for replacing Jian Qingzheng’s coffin and laying him to rest was set for September 6.

Throughout those days, Wen Mingwei remained perfectly calm. He no longer treated Tan Zhao coldly, nor did he appear saddened by Jian Qingzheng’s death—or at least, nothing could be seen on the surface.

Aside from necessary communication, he said very little. Especially after taking the medicine, he would sit quietly at the edge of the bed, on the sofa, or in one of the chairs. Because he showed no reaction whatsoever, Tan Zhao could not even tell what symptoms the medicine produced.

Unlike Wen Mingwei, who had plenty of leisure, Tan Zhao was swamped with work. He was often on the phone and occasionally had to attend video conferences.

Tan Zhao was desperate to return to West Capital, but Wen Mingwei allowed him to work remotely and refused to let him leave. He was like a pet tethered to its owner, incapable of putting up any meaningful struggle.

Wen Mingwei paid no attention to his mood and made no attempt to conceal his own needs. If he wanted to kiss Tan Zhao, he simply did so. Even when Tan Zhao was on the phone, Wen Mingwei would approach without a word, turn his face toward him, and kiss him of his own accord.

Afterward, there would be little verbal exchange, as though Tan Zhao were a living tool: set aside once he had been used, then picked up again whenever he was needed.

At times, however, they did speak a few words.

On the night of September 5, they had sex. It lasted a long time. Afterward, they turned off the light and lay side by side, unable to sleep.

Wen Mingwei slept fairly well. It was mainly Tan Zhao who had been sleeping poorly these past few days. His complexion was dreadful, and faint dark circles had appeared beneath his eyes.

Perhaps Wen Mingwei was concerned about whether his pet’s coat was still sleek and glossy. He actually took the initiative to offer some consolation.

“You should try to let it go. Look at our relationship from another angle.”

Tan Zhao thought he was about to say something kind. Instead, Wen Mingwei continued, “Forget what we had before. Treat this as a new beginning. We’re in a relationship by agreement, each taking what we need. Besides, you never loved me all that much to begin with.”

“…”

Tan Zhao froze.

“During the time we were together, I knew you were moved by me too,” Wen Mingwei said. “But being moved is only liking someone. There is still a long distance between that and love. Ask yourself honestly: did you ever love me deeply?”

Tan Zhao’s breathing caught. “What do you consider loving someone deeply?”

“I can’t really say.” Wen Mingwei answered objectively, “In theory, love is the product of hormones. Dopamine and PEA can control the brain, making you excited, accelerating your heartbeat, dilating the cerebral blood vessels, and creating the sensation of love. But when your body is being controlled too heavily by those hormones, it regulates them back to normal levels for the sake of your health. That is when love ends.”

“…”

“That’s why passionate love generally lasts only a few months, two or three years at most. Anyone who persists beyond that is bound by responsibility and unable to extricate themselves. Or they simply cannot find anyone more suitable, so they settle for keeping each other company.”

Tan Zhao could not help but sneer. “Was it the same with Jian Qingzheng?”

“…No.” Wen Mingwei paused. “I simply needed him.”

His words were difficult to interpret. At first glance, they seemed to imply that he had not loved Jian Qingzheng all that much. But if he had not loved him, then what did it mean to need him?

Tan Zhao disliked discussing such things. He did not want to hear Wen Mingwei’s cold, detached tone.

But Wen Mingwei intended to finish what he had begun. “Actually, I know there was a time when you wanted to confess your feelings to me. On the night we slept together for the first time, you kept hinting that you hoped I would give you an opening, so you could naturally say, ‘I love you.’ Isn’t that right?”

“…”

Tan Zhao’s expression stiffened. In the darkness, he turned away from Wen Mingwei.

“At the time, I thought that if I didn’t give you an opening, perhaps you could restrain yourself. As it turned out, you could.”

Wen Mingwei reached his own conclusion, with a trace of what sounded like consolation in his voice. “Your pride, your dignity, your responsibilities, your company—they all matter more to you than love. That’s a good thing. So now…”

He wanted to say that Tan Zhao should change his mindset and adapt to their new relationship as soon as possible. It would make things easier for them both.

But before he could finish, Tan Zhao abruptly sat up.

“Is it possible that I didn’t confess because of pride or dignity? Maybe I was simply shy and awkward, and couldn’t bring myself to say it. How was I supposed to know that I wouldn’t get another chance?”

“…”

“Just because I left out those few words, you get to judge me as someone who doesn’t love you enough, someone with no right to be hurt, someone who has to smile and wag his tail to keep his master happy—or else risk ruining your mood?”

Tan Zhao regretted the words as soon as he had finished speaking.

He should have said, “Yes, I simply don’t love you.”

But the moment to say that had already passed. Tan Zhao tried to salvage the situation.

“Forget it. You’re right. Those things really are more important. I don’t need you to teach me that.”

Without looking at Wen Mingwei’s expression, he ended the conversation himself, lay back down, and pulled the covers over his head.