Chapter 9: "Be Good, Let Me Massage It for You"

Draining more than half the bottle of mineral water in a single breath, Qin Yichi screwed the cap back on, the corners of his lips slowly rising in a faint smile. When he looked up, he met Ji Xian’s cold gaze directly, their eyes locking across the distance, catching both of them off guard.

Qin Yichi’s fleeting smile vanished instantly.

The air felt charged, as if a violent storm was brewing, an icy tension making everyone instinctively wary. Neither side was willing to back down, and an invisible strain thickened between them, sharp as drawn blades.

A moment later, both men looked away, restoring the fragile calm.

Ji Xian’s expression was unreadable as he stared at the bottle of mineral water in Qin Yichi’s hand, his eyes glacial. Soon, he shifted his gaze and turned to leave.

Qin Yichi narrowed his eyes, darkness flickering in their depths—a dangerous glint. As men, both understood all too well what their deep stares meant:

Contempt.

Disgust.

And jealousy.

…

The basketball game had ended just in time for dinner, and everyone was famished, eager to rush to the cafeteria for a meal.

After Ji Xian left, the gymnasium quickly emptied, leaving it almost deserted.

Qiao Zhen washed her hands in the restroom, but since Sheng Lulu hadn’t shown up, she set off for the cafeteria alone.

A flood of messages came in from Sheng Lulu: “Damn, I’m having a major stomach emergency, my stomach’s killing me. That new fried chicken place last night must be poison!!!”

“Zhenzhen, you go on ahead. I’m fighting for my life in here…[crying face]”

Qiao Zhen quickly replied: “Alright, don’t order from there again. Drink some hot water, it should help.”

“[Little cat touching its face.jpg]”

Focused on her phone as she replied, Qiao Zhen started down the steps—when, with a dull “thud,” her head felt as if it had been struck by an iron hammer. A fierce, overwhelming force crashed into her.

She hadn’t even realized what happened before she was nearly sent flying.

“Ah!”

Caught off guard, she lost her balance, her right ankle twisting sharply as she crashed down onto the steps, crying out in pain.

It hurt terribly…

Her ears rang, agony lancing through her brow. She instinctively clutched her forehead, tears welling in her eyes.

Qiao Zhen forced her eyes open to see the basketball on the ground—and—

The boy walking toward her.

Yuwen Jian, Ji Xian’s friend, the one who’d tried to give her a gift in their first year and, after being rejected, had spread rumors everywhere.

He casually picked up the basketball, glancing at her sideways with a mocking half-smile. He raised an eyebrow, “Oh, sorry, that wasn’t on purpose~”

Though he apologized, he did so with utter condescension, his face full of disdain and ridicule.

Qiao Zhen froze, clutching her head, her lips turning pale.

It was obviously deliberate—he’d hit her on purpose.

People like this never really looked at her, always acting superior…

Her eyes reddened as she stifled her tears, about to speak when—

A basketball shot over her shoulder, striking Yuwen Jian squarely in the face with a sharp “smack.”

He toppled to the ground, eyes wide with fury, shouting, “Who the hell ambushed me?!”

Qiao Zhen stared in shock at the sudden turn of events.

The next second, a familiar presence enveloped her—she felt a steady, powerful arm around her waist, lifting her easily from the ground.

As if she were nothing more than a little rabbit.

Qin Yichi gently held her hand, tilting his head ever so slightly as he shot Yuwen Jian a cold, arrogant smirk: “My hand slipped, sorry~”

Qiao Zhen turned to look at him, her heartbeat skipping.

He stood firmly by her side, sunlight behind him, burning bright and fierce like a living flame.

His features were sharp and intimidating, with a faint scar along his jaw—savage and wild, not the sort you’d want to provoke.

But to Qiao Zhen, he radiated an overwhelming sense of security.

“Qin Yichi, you mad dog,” Yuwen Jian spat, fists clenched as he sat on the ground.

A moment later, realization dawned on him. He let out a shrill, jeering laugh, his words dripping with contempt: “Oh, I get it—you actually like this cheap slut, don’t you? Nobody else wants her, who knows what she does in private—”

Bang!

Before he could finish, Qin Yichi lunged forward, fist connecting brutally with Yuwen Jian’s face.

A ringing filled Yuwen Jian’s ears as his face was smashed sideways, warm blood trickling from his nose.

He fumbled for a small knife but Qin Yichi seized him by the collar, slamming his head into the ground.

With one hand gripping his neck, Qin Yichi’s temple veins bulged, his voice low and menacing, each word spat with deadly emphasis: “Say that again and see what happens.”

Every punch was an eruption of rage, carrying lethal force.

“Ah—!” Yuwen Jian wailed, the sound raw and inhuman as if struck by a hammer.

He flailed the knife wildly, chaos erupting in the empty space; there was no one else around.

Qin Yichi sneered, hauling Yuwen Jian to his feet by the neck and dragging him to Qiao Zhen. His warning was cold and grave: “Watch your mouth.”

With a sudden loss of balance, Yuwen Jian collapsed to his knees, the back of his head forced down by Qin Yichi until it smacked the ground—a forced kowtow to Qiao Zhen.

Startled, Qiao Zhen stepped back, nervously biting her lip as a tangle of complicated feelings surged inside her.

It wasn’t until Yuwen Jian staggered away, limping, that she finally snapped out of her shock.

She rushed over and grabbed Qin Yichi’s arm, her voice trembling: “Qin Yichi, are you… are you hurt?”

He let her clutch his arm, eyes lowering, gazing at her intently. “I’m fine.”

A red mark bloomed on the girl’s forehead, stark against her pale skin.

Her eyes shimmered with tears, wide and soft as a fawn’s, brimming with concern and worry.

So obedient.

He wanted nothing more than to hold her.

Qin Yichi reined in his aggression, bent down slightly, and gently touched the spot on her brow. “Does it hurt?”

His handsome face leaned in, his presence warm and masculine, tinged with a faint scent of grass.

He had the face of a rebel—sharp, wild, and arrogant—yet at that moment, his gaze was gentle as moonlight, suffused with tenderness.

Qiao Zhen looked up at him, lost for a moment as their eyes met. Her nose stung and her voice caught: “It doesn’t hurt… I’m fine…”

In truth, her ankle was throbbing with pain.

But she didn’t want Qin Yichi to worry, so she hid it instinctively.

His gaze dropped to her ankle. After a moment of silence, he picked her up and carried her to the steps. “Sit.”

Qiao Zhen didn’t ask why. She obeyed quietly, sitting down on the third step.

Qin Yichi crouched in front of her, his tall figure casting a shadow against the light.

She blinked in confusion. “Hmm?”

Even crouching, he was imposing.

With his head bowed, his dark hair fell softly over his forehead, his eyes unreadable.

Suddenly, Qin Yichi took her slender ankle in his hand, sighing helplessly: “You twisted it this hard—how could it not hurt?”

He looked up, his tone serious: “If you’re hurt, tell me. Don’t keep it to yourself, understand?”

He lowered his voice, making it even more alluring—deep as a cello, the sound drifting into her ears on the wind.

Qiao Zhen’s eyes widened in surprise at his touch, her cheeks flushing, the tips of her ears turning pink. “You…”

She instinctively drew back her right foot, as skittish as a startled rabbit.

Qin Yichi leaned in, his gaze deep and patient as he coaxed her: “Be good, give me your foot. I’ll massage it for you.”