Chapter 1: "I Have Someone I Like."

I have someone I like.

From university for four years, through graduation and work, I’ve been secretly in love for six whole years.

I like Liang Zhiting. But he’s getting married.

“Liang Zhiting is getting married.”

When I heard this news, I had just pushed open a small gap in the glass door of the break room, and inside, my coworkers’ gossip suddenly slipped into my ears.

My feet froze on the spot, unable to move forward or back.

I’m not the curious type, but the name Liang Zhiting carried too much weight in my heart for me to stop listening.

No one inside noticed me eavesdropping by the door, and they kept chatting casually:

“It’s such a shame. Such a great guy, and now he’s going to become someone else’s husband, going back to family life. Why can’t I ever meet a good man?”

“Who’s his wife?”

“I heard she’s his boss’ daughter, a rich and beautiful girl. They met at work, grew close over time, and are a perfect match.”

I listened intently, unaware that footsteps inside were slowly approaching me.

Until the glass door suddenly swung open. Two coworkers saw me standing silently like a ghost outside and both screamed.

One looked pale, clutching his chest, complaining: “Nan Li! Why were you standing there without a sound? You scared me!”

I didn’t say a word, just raised my hand slightly, holding up the glass cup I had to show them I was just there to get water.

They seemed to glare at me—or maybe they didn’t; my gaze was lowered, not paying close attention.

Passing by me, one whispered harshly in my ear:

“Freak.”

I kept my eyes straight ahead and entered the break room, pretending not to hear.

Of course, there was no denying—it was the truth.

Yes, I’m a freak.

Gloomy, taciturn, always wearing thick black-framed glasses with thick lenses, long bangs covering half my face—a disliked, awkward country bumpkin.

I’ve known since I was young that no one liked me.

From the moment I have memory, the only living person around me was my dad.

He had a scar on his face, slashing from his forehead, across his nose, winding down to his mouth, like a giant centipede crawling on his face. He was fierce and loud, and the thing he said most often was:

“You eat so much every day, pigs don’t eat as much as you! Damn it, always eating my money, wasting my money! Why don’t you just die already!”

Whenever he got angry, he’d take the belt from his waist and lash me with it. The belt struck my body like a whip, louder than firecrackers during New Year.

I dared not cry or run away. Otherwise, he’d hit me even harder. Under his blows, I curled into a turtle shell, imagining my back as a hard shell, enduring the pain, whispering softly “dad”, begging him to stop.

He cursed me to die again and again. I hurt so much I wanted to die, but the devil wouldn’t take me.

I grew up battered day after day, until I started school.

I thought school would be better, that life would improve when I was away from my dad. But no one liked me at school either.

Classmates threw mud and worms into my water cup: “Your dad’s a rapist, and you’re a disgusting little rapist!”

They said my dad was a bad man, who had raped a female university student when he was young—that “female student” was my mom. My mom hated him. She also hated me, the one who carried his genes. When I was young, I couldn’t understand why she hated me so much and yet still gave birth to me, and why after all the hardship, she handed me to my dad.

Only when I grew up did I realize—it was because of hate. She wanted to torture the man who raped her, and also wanted to torture the little bastard I was. Little bastard, big bastard—it was mutual torment, and only then was she satisfied.

I am a disgusting, pus-green tumor born from her womb. She hates me and she hates herself for carrying such a tumor.

My birth was a mistake. No one wanted me in this world.

I have no mom. That man with the centipede scar isn’t my dad.

I am a little bastard no one wants.

From elementary school through high school, I was called a “little rapist.”

At first, I’d cry and protest that I wasn’t, but eventually I got used to it, became numb, and just let it go.

No one would listen to my defense. No one could change the idea they had in their heads. Like my mom, they believed I carried the genes of that centipede man—the criminal factor—and that sooner or later, I too would become a rapist.

After I decided never to call him dad again, I started calling him “Big Centipede.”

Being beaten by Big Centipede was a daily routine, until the second year of high school. After that, he never hit me again.

Not because he changed, but because something happened that year.

One day after school, I forgot to buy him alcohol. He kicked me hard until I slammed into the coffee table, which shattered. I lay on the ground, not knowing how many shards of glass had pierced me, blood flowing like red flowers blooming beneath me, winding into the tile cracks.

He panicked—not for me—but because he had a criminal record and feared killing me would land him in jail. He had no choice but to take me to the hospital to get stitches.

After coming back, he commanded me to cook for him. I silently went into the kitchen and put rat poison into the food.

As I poisoned the food, I laughed. Just thinking about Big Centipede dying—foaming at the mouth and writhing—made me feel an unprecedented relief.

Unfortunately, before I could serve the meal, he overturned the entire pot.

He found out I poisoned him. He found out I wanted his life.

He beat me again. My wounds reopened. It hurt terribly, but I couldn’t stop laughing. No longer a turtle, I lay on the ground letting him hit me, staring at the scar on his face, and said:

“You found out once, but can you find out twice? This time you’re lucky. If you don’t eat or sleep forever, I’ll find a chance to get you.”

I think my face must have been twisted at that moment, because I saw a terrified expression on Big Centipede’s face—as if he had seen death itself coming for his life.

“I’m your dad!”

At that time, he seemed to scream that phrase hoarsely.

What a joke. After treating me like a punching bag and a dog all these years, now that his life is threatened he’s acting like a dad?

I spat blood and saliva, but because I was lying down, I couldn’t spit it in his face properly. What a waste.

“Who are you disgustin’?” I said faintly. “You damn rapist.”

His expression was priceless.

He feared death. All living things fear death.

Me? I’m just a stinking tumor.

School held no happy memories for me, until university when I left that village where Big Centipede was, moving to another city where no one knew that I was the rapist’s son. No one called me little rapist anymore.

But my personality was already formed—dull, reclusive, unable to make friends. Luckily, I’d gotten used to living alone.

On my first day at university, I wandered the campus and passed the basketball court. Suddenly, a basketball shot straight toward my head. I heard shouts, but didn’t move.

For a moment, I thought the ball was deliberately thrown at me—after all, getting hit by random things was common when I was a kid.

But the ball didn’t hit me. It was caught out of thin air by a hand.

That was my first time seeing Liang Zhiting.

He wore basketball clothes and held the ball in his arm, apologizing to me with a smile that revealed a small fang.

There was a faint pleasant scent on him; the scent followed his palm as he ruffled my hair—and softly asked,

“Are you okay?”

That smile, that touch—my heart was completely stolen.

I was supposed to thank him, but I was stunned. Before I could say a word, he hugged the ball and went back to the court, returning to his world.

The feeling of his fingers on my hair lingered.

No one had ever treated me so intimately before.

For the first time in my black-and-white world, I saw a late-coming bright color, realizing the world could be so touching.

From then on, I set my heart on him.

He was one year ahead, my senior. I secretly checked his schedule, joined clubs he belonged to, trailed him like a disgusting rat in a sewer, secretly took photos of him, and at night hid under blankets to vent in front of his pictures.

Just one glance was enough to stir feelings called love.

I’m a freak, a weirdo; I can’t control my obsession with him.

Later, just watching him from afar wasn’t enough. One day, I ordered the same meal as him at the cafeteria, purposely brushed past him, hoping he’d recognize me and smile like he did that day when he blocked the ball.

But heaven never favored me.

We just passed each other calmly. He didn’t even glance my way.

He’d forgotten me.

Liang Zhiting was popular wherever he went, always surrounded by a group of people.

His life was colorful and full of things and people I could never access.

The moon high in the sky never notices the ants below.

How could it guess that ants worship it like a god?

I couldn’t fit into his world. All I could do was watch from afar, trying to be a transparent participant in his life.

After graduation until now, I chose to work in this company because Liang Zhiting worked in the same office building.

The building has more than thirty floors, each floor hosting different companies.

Liang Zhiting works on the fourth floor for an international freight company. I couldn’t get into the same company, so the next best was to join this advertising company on the tenth floor as a concept artist.

Same building, he’s on the fourth floor, I’m on the tenth.

Six floors apart — just like my six years of unreturned love.

I don’t care what others think of me. No one likes me, and I don’t want anyone’s approval.

Only Liang Zhiting.

I just hope to gain the favor of that one person, even if it’s just a fleeting glance unintentionally cast my way.

But just now, I learned—he’s getting married.

Though I was prepared, it’s still hard to accept when it actually happens.

Half an hour before leaving work, coworkers started fighting over where to eat after work, naturally leaving me, the invisible one, out.

I was glad to be free from it. I never could fit into social circles made up of different people anyway.

After work, a crowd noisily left the office. Only then did someone remember me:

“Nan Li, lock up! Don’t forget the lights!” Without waiting for a reply, they left laughing.

The noisy place suddenly fell silent.

I shut down my computer, slowly stood up, clocked out, and turned off the lights.

Locking the door, I glanced at the empty office and raised my hand, giving the entire workspace the middle finger.

If not for Liang Zhiting, no way would I work in a place like this.

Go to hell.

I hate crowded public transport, so I always bike to and from work.

Blending unnoticed into traffic, just one insignificant dirt spot no one pays attention to.

My rented apartment is a 20-minute ride from work, in an old neighborhood that’s a bit rundown but quiet.

No elevator, only stairs.

Like always, I climbed the stairs.

Usually silent day or night, today I heard faint noisy voices from above.

The closer I got, the clearer the sounds.

Turning the corner on the fifth floor stairs, I saw a large crowd crowded outside the door of the sixth floor.

Coincidentally, it was my door.

Among the crowd were two uniformed police officers.

“The guy living here is weird—gloomy, always covered up with hats and masks year-round, never talks to neighbors, very reclusive.”

“He lives alone, no friends. A few days ago, I even heard him going out late at night—what’s a guy doing wandering at night?”

“This has to be connected to him. Let’s search and find out.”

Mostly old folks from this building, muttering complaints about me to the police. I listened with some interest.

An elderly lady suddenly noticed me standing on the stairs overhearing and shouted to the cops, pointing at me with a shriveled finger: “He’s back.”

Everyone turned to look at me. I lowered my cap and squeezed into the crowd.

The police saluted me and explained the situation.

A child went missing on the third floor, but there were no cameras in the hallways, so the child’s whereabouts were unknown. Then some tenants said, “603 (my apartment) has a suspicious guy.”

That suspicious guy was me.

Since the police were involved, they needed to investigate suspicious persons.

I cooperated, took out my keys, and opened my apartment door for them.

Neighbors craned their necks, eager to see inside, full of righteous fury, probably expecting to find a bound child, then drag me to the guillotine.

Click.

I opened the door and invited the two officers in.

Their faces immediately fell with disappointment when they saw my empty apartment.

Understandable—they didn’t see the scene they imagined.

A child? If the things that came from my body counted as children, I still had some crumpled paper balls in my trash bin. If they wanted to see, I could unfold them and let them admire my child’s unique face.

The police looked around my living room and kitchen and stopped at my bedroom door.

“May we?” one asked.

I nodded, “Of course.”

Opening the door stirred the breeze, rustling the things hanging on my bedroom wall.

Photos covered the wall.

All of the same person—Liang Zhiting.

Most are candid shots I took during university—in the cafeteria, classroom, under the trees, outside dorms. My favorite photo was placed by the bedside.

He stood on the basketball court, sweat dampening his forehead, lifting his shirt’s hem to wipe it, revealing a patch of sweaty abs.

When I took that photo, my hands trembled.

Every time I looked, my heart skipped a beat.

I took a deep breath, trying to steady my rapid breathing—damn, just thinking about it got me excited again.

The police were clearly surprised by my bedroom’s decor. Before suspicion could grow, I casually lied:

“He’s an unpopular idol I like, collecting his photos is my hobby.” Liang Zhiting is handsome enough to be a star anyway.

The policemen were older and probably didn’t know much about current celebrities, so they didn’t doubt me, just thought I was an enthusiastic fan.

They didn’t understand but said collecting photos isn’t illegal, so they couldn’t do much.

One officer glanced around my room and came to my wardrobe.

My fingers curled subtly, eyes fixated on his movement.

He placed his hand on the cabinet door, just as he was about to open it, a commotion broke out outside.

“The child’s found!”

The officer withdrew his hand, and I quietly breathed out.

It turned out the missing child on the third floor hid at a classmate’s house, afraid to go home after failing exams.

A false alarm.

With the child returned, my innocence was proven.

As expected, no one apologized.

Once the police left, the building’s residents continued whispering and pointing at me. I couldn’t be bothered to waste another drop of breath.

Just a bunch of judgmental lunatics.

With neighbors like these, only masochists with mental disorders would want to talk with them.

Just continue with your lives. Who can outlive you old pests?

The crowd dispersed, and I closed the door. The world finally quieted.

Entering the bedroom, I opened the wardrobe and quietly observed its contents.

If that officer had opened this wardrobe, they’d find that the “idol” in those photos is curled up inside.

Of course, not a real person.

It’s a life-sized doll, much taller and stronger than me, able to cover me entirely with its presence.

Even if they had seen it, people their age would just think it was some kind of inflatable bed doll.

It’s not a simple toy.

I spent a lot of money to get this.

The doll maker from a remote mountain village is highly skilled. I gave him Liang Zhiting’s photos, and he custom-made a “Liang Zhiting” just for me.

It sat hugging its knees in the cabinet. I stroked its face—exactly like Liang Zhiting’s—and slowly reached behind its left ear to press a red, pea-sized round button.

A faint electric buzzing sounded. The doll moved under my hand.

It tilted its head slightly and rubbed its cheek gently against my palm.

I was pleased by the movement and smiled, praising it:

“Good husband.”




***




Author’s note:
It’s started! This time I’ve tried a new writing style—feeling nervous but hopeful that the end result satisfies me. Still asking for stars and bookmarks, thank you!!

This story is a big mix of my favorite tropes and kinks. To me, there’s no taboo here, but I don’t know how to organize it, so please be careful on your own if anything makes you uncomfortable \_(:з」∠)\_. If you feel uneasy about a scene, stop reading; don’t force yourself.

1v1, HE, the personalities and actions of both gong and shou are a bit unusual—don’t relate this to real life. The main goal is just entertainment!

Thank you all, bow!~

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