Chapter 1: Love-Struck Brain Should Be Covered by Critical Illness Insurance

Jiang Ruotang’s frail frame made his wool coat hang loosely on him, as if the gust from passing cars could knock him over.

He had originally come back to his apartment to retrieve his laptop but, out of habit, found himself stepping into the convenience store downstairs.

“Mr. Jiang, long time no see. The usual Marlboros?”

Seeing the clerk’s smile, Jiang Ruotang suddenly remembered—he had lung cancer. Did he really dare buy cigarettes now? Was he trying to smoke seven in one go to summon the Grim Reaper?

“No, give me a pack of mint-flavored throat lozenges instead.”

After all, Zhao Yunshu and Zhao Changfeng, that mother-son duo, had noses too sharp. If they caught even a whiff of smoke on him, he’d be dead from their nagging before the illness could even claim him.

Thinking of this, Jiang Ruotang lowered his eyes and smiled faintly.

The clerk froze. “This is the first time I’ve seen you smile like that.”

“Oh? What was I like before?” Jiang Ruotang asked curiously.

“Always busy, always in a rush—like you couldn’t even catch your breath. It seemed like your job must’ve been really stressful.”

“Not anymore.” Jiang Ruotang unwrapped a lozenge and popped it into his mouth. “No need to live in such a hurry. It’s not like I’m racing to be reborn.”

With the lozenge dissolving on his tongue, Jiang Ruotang didn’t press the button for his apartment floor. Instead, he went up to the rooftop.

The moment he pushed open the iron door, the first thing he saw was the giant perfume advertisement on the opposite commercial building—Guilty.

And the face on that ad was the source of Jiang Ruotang’s decade-long love-struck obsession—Bai Yingchuan.

The first time Jiang Ruotang saw Bai Yingchuan was in his father Jiang Huaiyuan’s film.

Back then, Bai Yingchuan played the younger version of a ruthless general.

At seventeen, his sharp, cold eyes burned with ambition, seduced by power. The scene where he licked blood off a blade had captivated countless viewers.

A wronged father, a terminally ill mother, and a shattered version of himself.

The shifting cinematography, the abrupt transition from warm hues to cold tones—it all stirred in Jiang Ruotang a surge of pity and protectiveness, and just like that, he fell headfirst into obsession.

In his senior year of high school, Bai Yingchuan transferred into Jiang Ruotang’s class.

His best friend at the time, Lin Lu, told him that Bai Yingchuan had almost landed the lead role in a certain movie, but the project fell through. Excited, Jiang Ruotang wanted to ask his father to take over the film.

Little did he know, that movie would become Jiang Huaiyuan’s death warrant.

It was an elaborate money-laundering scheme. Bai Yingchuan managed to extricate himself unscathed, but Jiang Huaiyuan was dragged through endless investigations, interrogations, bail hearings, and media crucifixion until he was pushed to the brink—ending his life in the bathroom.

After his death, the film company’s shares were bought at a rock-bottom price by Lin Lu’s father, Lin Chengdong, while Jiang Ruotang, his stepmother, and stepbrother were left with nothing.

After a lengthy investigation, Jiang Huaiyuan was cleared of all wrongdoing. The public’s sympathy for him flooded in, and the remaining connections in his father’s circle extended their goodwill to Jiang Ruotang—resources that other actors and agents could only dream of.

Lin Lu seized the opportunity to pull Jiang Ruotang into Bai Yingchuan’s management team.

He constantly drilled into Jiang Ruotang how crucial these resources were for Bai Yingchuan—how securing them would make Bai Yingchuan see him in a new light, maybe even appoint him as his exclusive agent.

Lin Lu’s empty promises inflated Jiang Ruotang like a tireless mule, charging forward without rest.

By the time Jiang Ruotang had painstakingly negotiated those roles and endorsements, Lin Lu would always find a way to shuffle him out of the team.

Sometimes he’d give him a “break,” other times he’d send him on a trip abroad, all under the guise of “I just don’t want Ruotang to overwork himself.”

Every single time, Lin Lu was the one who finalized the contracts, then went around boasting about his own achievements. The higher-ups at Huanyu Entertainment sang endless praises for the chairman’s son.

When Bai Yingchuan went onstage to accept his awards, only Lin Lu stood beside him for the embrace. Jiang Ruotang didn’t even get a chance to appear in front of the media.

His stepmother, Zhao Yunshu, crossed her arms and looked at him like she had mentally slapped him a hundred times.

“Ruotang, you’re a capable person, but you’re wasting your talents in the wrong place! Once you’ve burned through all the goodwill your father left behind, Bai Yingchuan will kick you out without a second thought—like taking out the trash!”

That day, he saw a post on WeChat Moments from someone he hadn’t even bothered to save in his contacts:

“Love without principles is doomed to end in ruin.”

The poster’s profile picture was a rotting wooden ship at sea, its sails stubbornly upright, as if trying to drag the wreckage back to shore.

For some reason, Jiang Ruotang felt an overwhelming urge to cry.

He collapsed. Stage two lung cancer. Huanyu Entertainment coldly fired him—though they did pay severance.

Lin Lu sent a single WeChat message telling him to “take care” before continuing to flaunt his lavish lifestyle online.

Bai Yingchuan didn’t react at all. He couldn’t even be bothered to send his assistant over with a bouquet of flowers.

On his first day in the hospital, Jiang Ruotang overheard nurses excitedly gushing about Bai Yingchuan’s new ad campaign, calling him “the nation’s male Daji.” That was when Jiang Ruotang finally broke down in tears.

Zhao Changfeng, who was tidying his bed, muttered under his breath, “You’re here crying your lungs out, while he’s probably making out with Lin Lu somewhere, gasping for air.”

Jiang Ruotang burst into a coughing fit, scaring Zhao Changfeng half to death. After a tense pause, Zhao Changfeng exhaled in relief. “Jesus, I thought you were gonna cough up blood like in the movies!”

“Fuck off!” Jiang Ruotang was furious at first—then burst out laughing.

Love-struck brain really should be covered by critical illness insurance.

Huanyu’s severance pay ran out quickly. So did his savings.

He couldn’t let Zhao Yunshu keep working overtime to pay his bills. He couldn’t let Zhao Changfeng keep driving for strangers at night. Jiang Ruotang decided to sell his apartment as soon as possible.

He had bought this apartment because, from the window, he could see Bai Yingchuan’s Guilty ad.

Now, he felt nothing when he looked at Bai Yingchuan’s face—he’d even used one of his posters as a placemat for his takeout.

And the only reason he could sell the apartment so fast was thanks to the deep pockets of one of Bai Yingchuan’s fans, who paid in full and gave him a week to clear out his furniture.

Standing on the rooftop of this building again, Jiang Ruotang realized, belatedly, that what had truly captivated him wasn’t Bai Yingchuan.

It was the cinematic atmosphere his father, Jiang Huaiyuan, had crafted—unmatched, peerless.

Dad, I miss you.

Jiang Ruotang’s eyes burned.

He stepped forward, one foot hovering over the edge—but before he could steady himself, someone yanked him back by the waist, the grip so tight it hurt his bones.

“What the hell are you doing?!” the man roared.

Jiang Ruotang’s head spun.

The person holding him wore a plain, dark trench coat, his shoulders radiating a strength that set him apart from everyone else. His hair whipped wildly in the wind, and his thick black-framed glasses slipped off his nose.

Jiang Ruotang instinctively reached for them, but the man’s grip was too tight. The glasses brushed past his fingertips and shattered against the ground with a sickening crack—like the sound of breaking bones.

A dull pain shot through Jiang Ruotang’s nerves. Suddenly, he was glad he hadn’t jumped. He would’ve died ugly.

Still shaken, he turned to look at the man holding him.

His eyes were elegant yet intense, amber irises gleaming with an untouchable loneliness.

“You… who are you? You look familiar…” Jiang Ruotang asked.

“Lu Guifan.”

“Huh?”

“Your class monitor from high school.”

Lu Guifan’s concise reply slowly dredged up Jiang Ruotang’s high school memories.

“…Oh.” Jiang Ruotang tilted his head, studying him for a long moment before asking, “Did you get plastic surgery?”

“Idiot.” Lu Guifan looked at him like he was stupid. “What were you trying to do just now?”

“I… just wanted some fresh air.” Jiang Ruotang lied weakly.

“You realize you weigh nothing, right? A strong gust could’ve blown you right over.”

Lu Guifan finally released him.

Jiang Ruotang still couldn’t believe it. “You’re really my high school class monitor?”

Not a scammer?

Wait—it’s not like I have anything left to scam. Scamming me would be like scamming thin air.

“What do you think?” Lu Guifan shot back.

Jiang Ruotang’s memory of Lu Guifan was still stuck on his average background, his perpetual air of not fitting in—dry, yellowish hair, bangs hanging gloomily over his forehead, thick glasses obscuring his eyes, gaunt cheeks, and a jawline so sharp it made him seem cold and unapproachable.

Back then, Lu Guifan had been tall but so thin his shoulders looked narrow. Nothing like the broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted, deep-eyed man in front of him now.

The high school group chat had mentioned that Lu Guifan worked at some research institute, which fit his trajectory as a top student.

Since he wasn’t trying to debut as an idol, there was no way Lu Guifan had gotten plastic surgery.

Guess boys really do change after eighteen. Good nutrition beats any cosmetic procedure.

Lu Guifan escorted Jiang Ruotang back to his hospital room, where a basket of fruit sat on the nightstand—brought by him.

They didn’t have much to talk about. Jiang Ruotang leaned against his pillow, watching as Lu Guifan peeled an apple for him.

The spiral of fruit skin coiled like countless reincarnations, but Jiang Ruotang noticed that without his glasses, Lu Guifan was peeling purely by feel.

When Lu Guifan handed him the apple, strips of unpeeled skin still clung to it.

“Why did you come to see me? We weren’t… close in high school,” Jiang Ruotang couldn’t help asking.

Was he here on behalf of their high school classmates to deliver donations?

“During our senior year midterms, I was competing for a scholarship. Lin Lu crushed my only pen. You gave me another one.”

“You remember that?” Jiang Ruotang was stunned. It was such a small thing—he didn’t even recall it himself.

“Mn.” Lu Guifan nodded slightly. “I have a good memory.”