Because of those few inexplicable words from Luo Jun, Ren Chenbai couldn’t fully concentrate for the rest of the meeting.

No matter how hard he thought, he couldn’t make sense of what Luo Jun had meant.

Luo Zhi was missing again?

That wasn’t anything unusual.

Luo Zhi never stayed long at the Luo household—even if he wanted to, the Luos wouldn’t tolerate him. That Mrs. Luo would start causing a scene within twelve hours, unless Luo Zhi was locked away in some remote, forgotten guest room.

Otherwise, there’d have been no need to place Luo Zhi in their care in the first place.

Ren Chenbai leaned back in his seat, listening to department reports while absently fiddling with a Bluetooth earpiece whose call had long ended.

He still wore his usual mask of calm refinement, listening to a department manager drone on about meaningless nonsense, yet a sharp, mounting irritation crept steadily up his spine.

…A bunch of useless people.

Even he wasn’t sure whether this sudden, cold contempt was aimed at the incompetent subordinates before him, or at the Luo family for failing to keep track of Luo Zhi.

Of course the Luos could never keep Luo Zhi under control—and Ren Chenbai himself had long been fueling that very outcome.

He had been doing this for years, ever since they were children, long before he even began to hate Luo Zhi.

By quietly allowing, even subtly guiding Luo Zhi back to the Luo family, Ren Chenbai had repeatedly ensured Luo Zhi saw the family’s true, cruel nature.

He had waited with quiet confidence, certain that once Luo Zhi finally gave up on them, he would stay with the Rens forever, and they would remain a family.

Ren Chenbai could never understand why his mother had punished him for it.

When Luo Zhi was twelve, he was pushed down the stairs by Mrs. Luo and broke his leg. His mother took him to the seaside villa to recover for three months.

Ren Chenbai had been overjoyed, eager to visit him, only to be told by his mother that he wasn’t allowed to see Luo Zhi, not until his injuries healed.

So he had no idea at all that his mother had given Luo Zhi a car.

Why give Luo Zhi a car?

To help him run? To vanish where no one could find him?

Ren Chenbai lowered his gaze, his fingers tightening unconsciously—until the Bluetooth earpiece nearly shattered in his grip, only snapping him back when the department manager finished speaking and the room broke into applause.

…Everything had started changing during those three months.

During that time, Luo Zhi discovered new passions—painting on the massive canvas wall his mother had specially prepared for him, teaching himself guitar and singing.

Every night, Luo Zhi excitedly told Ren Chenbai about his guitar.

Ren Chenbai watched his progress soar—songs that had been clumsy just a week ago now played with fluid ease. He watched the quiet, withdrawn boy who once clung to his shadow and distrusted strangers now willingly join travelers at bonfire gatherings by the sea.

Ren Chenbai watched Luo Zhi play flamenco, seated in the sand.

That night, many gathered around the fire to listen. The flames cast a warm glow on the boy’s face, his eyes bright as if filled with stars.

Luo Zhi sat on the beach, his short hair tousled by the sea breeze. He cradled his guitar, and lively, spontaneous melodies poured from his arms like wildfire spreading freely across open land.

The silent, almost gloomy boy who used to hide alone in unseen corners of the Ren household had suddenly caught a spark—and burst into a brilliant, blazing flame.

Often, Ren Chenbai couldn’t help but wonder: would Luo Zhi ever truly lose hope?

Would he, given even the faintest spark, the tiniest glimmer of light, always find a reason to live joyfully?

As long as someone still cared for him, could he always summon the last of his strength to crawl out of the mud dragging him down?

…

Ren Chenbai finally crushed the Bluetooth earpiece. The shattered plastic was sharp, piercing deep into his fingertip—blood instantly welled up.

The department manager speaking was startled. “Quick! What—”

He caught sight of the cold, dark look in Ren Chenbai’s eyes and froze, instinctively cutting himself off.

“You are subsidiaries my mother personally supported,” Ren Chenbai said. “Because of that, I’ve given you many chances.”

His tone was calm, but everyone present broke into a cold sweat. The entire conference room fell into absolute silence.

Then Ren Chenbai fell abruptly silent.

He stared at the blood welling from his fingertip, yet in his mind, he saw again the motionless, almost lifeless figure of Luo Zhi in the hospital room.

Back then, he hadn’t known Luo Zhi had already lost consciousness. After Ren Chenbai shoved him away, Luo Zhi’s head hit the bed frame—but there was barely any blood.

It was as if the body had already lost most of its blood, so little remained to spill. The whole person had begun to grow cold.

That pallor, that stillness—unlike anything he’d seen in the two years Luo Zhi had first returned.

Ren Chenbai had personally pushed Luo Zhi into that pit. He had watched him struggle, watched him fail to grasp any outstretched hand. He had called Luo Cheng, making Luo Zhi listen as his most beloved sister dismissed his life and death.

Just as he’d wanted, Luo Zhi sank slowly, swallowed by icy black water—yet never once grew angry at him.

Luo Zhi showed him mercy. He was far more forgiving toward Ren Chenbai than he ever was toward the Luos.

Luo Zhi had given him many chances.

The thought surfaced from somewhere—only to be instantly crushed by a bitterly mocking laugh. Luo Zhi gave him chances?

Ridiculous. He was punishing Luo Zhi. Luo Zhi’s guilt would take a lifetime to atone for.

From the day Luo Zhi caused his mother’s death, there had been no possibility left between them.

Even the fleeting thought of treating Luo Zhi a little better—Ren Chenbai wasn’t even sure whether that would honor his mother, the one Luo Zhi had betrayed.

“One last time,” Ren Chenbai said. “Show me what you can do.”

He looked around the room. “Think carefully about what you’ve done.”

The managers held their breath, exchanging glances, all frozen in silence.

The former head of the Ren family, Ren Shuangmei, had always been decisive and ruthless. After the old chairman’s sudden death, they had indeed grown lax and careless dealing with this young, always-polite Mr. Ren.

“Is—is there some misunderstanding?” one older manager dared to ask, clinging to a sliver of hope. “Mr. Ren, we…”

“Waste this chance,” Ren Chenbai cut in, “and pack your things and leave. There won’t be another.”

The man instantly clamped his mouth shut.

No one dared utter another word. Trembling with fear, they lowered their heads and slunk out of the conference room.

But Ren Chenbai didn’t leave immediately.

He watched as his assistant treated his wound, then had someone bring back the computer. He personally packaged the files he had promised and sent them to Luo Jun’s email.

Then he requested another pair of earphones and connected them to the computer.

Last night, Ren Chenbai had indeed gone to Huai Sheng Entertainment—alone.

After Luo Zhi left, Huai Sheng Entertainment descended into chaos. Many departments began to slack off, and with Jian Huaiyi’s management skills far inferior to Luo Zhi’s, the entire company was rapidly deteriorating.

Only Li Weiming’s soaring popularity—flames under a cauldron, flowers in full bloom—temporarily masked the ominous signs beneath.

Luo Chengxiu was senile, but Luo Zhi had extraordinary talent. He had pulled a nearly bankrupt, delisted company back to life in just three years. Without those accidents, his abilities wouldn’t have been inferior to Luo Jun’s.

But Ren Chenbai wasn’t moved by that—the company, no matter how well run, was still the Luo family’s business. Luo Zhi hadn’t listened to his advice, stubbornly insisting on rebuilding it, and now it had indeed fallen into Jian Huaiyi’s hands.

Luo Zhi would never learn to listen.

Ren Chenbai suppressed the coldness in his eyes and clicked open a video on his computer.

His cooperation with Jian Huaiyi wasn’t public, but he hadn’t tried to hide it either. He was indeed colluding with Jian Huaiyi in mutual corruption.

So Jian Huaiyi’s assistant had no guard around him. When Ren Chenbai said he’d left an important file in the CEO’s office, the assistant led him right in.

On Jian Huaiyi’s desk sat a newly delivered USB drive.

Inside were numerous pre-compiled videos—all related to Luo Zhi, collected by Li Weiming’s ever-pervasive fans.

Li Weiming’s own people managed several influential online accounts, filtering out unusable content before maliciously editing and distorting the rest for online release.

Ren Chenbai copied a copy and brought it back. He sent the maliciously edited portions as evidence to Luo Jun, then dragged the remaining files one by one into the media player.

He put on his headphones and stared at the screen.

These were the raw materials that had been filtered out—footage that, even with editing meant to twist truth and falsehood, could not alter the fundamental nature of the scene.

The blurry image wavered several times before stabilizing. The distance wasn’t close, but it was still possible to barely recognize Luo Zhi.

Luo Zhi was sitting in the rain, playing his guitar.

The guitar sound was nothing like that night by the bonfire—perhaps because Luo Zhi couldn’t hear himself anymore, or perhaps because his inner state had finally changed.

Luo Zhi didn’t realize it himself, but several times in that rain, he nearly lost consciousness, his head and hands drooping down.

The wind pushed him, swaying unsteadily, and the guitar nearly slipped from his hands—only for Luo Zhi to jolt awake and clutch it tightly again.

He looked around, though no one knew what he was searching for—perhaps not even himself.

Luo Zhi found nothing.

…

Ren Chenbai watched the final result of his revenge.

He had seen this video the night before. He thought he was reviewing and savoring it, but unexpectedly, no sense of satisfaction arose.

Instead, Director Gong Hanrou’s words surfaced uninvited, lingering in his mind all night.

Regret? Not really.

He didn’t think he was wrong—this was what Luo Zhi owed his mother.

But suddenly, he felt perhaps it was enough. He had once wanted Luo Zhi to suffer for life, but Luo Zhi now seemed to have only half a life left.

Ren Chenbai thought he might arrange for someone to treat Luo Zhi’s hearing.

They were no longer teenagers. He was tired of the chaos. Maybe he could pretend to let go of his hatred, pretend none of the upheavals had happened, pretend everything was still as it once was.

Maybe he wasn’t incapable of being kinder to Luo Zhi.

Maybe he could pretend he didn’t hate him.

He would still deal with Li Weiming eventually, make that little star pay for all this—but for now, he still needed to use Li Weiming and Jian Huaiyi to bring Luo Zhi back.

Luo Zhi had nowhere else to go. He would return sooner or later.

When Luo Zhi came back, he could make him kneel before his mother’s grave for a night, then pretend they had both forgotten.

If Luo Zhi didn’t want to return to the Ren family, he could arrange a quiet apartment for him, or send him to a sanatorium to recuperate…

…

So where had Luo Zhi gone?

Ren Chenbai slowly furrowed his brow.

He watched the blurry video—Luo Zhi playing his guitar in the rain—watched the progress bar inch forward.

Only now did it suddenly occur to him—not only had he not directly answered Luo Jun, but Luo Jun had never answered his question either.

What exactly had Luo Jun seen, for his attitude to change so drastically?

What unforgivable thing had Jian Huaiyi done to Luo Zhi?

He felt as if bewitched by some strange state, only now vaguely sensing something was wrong. And the moment he realized it, an overwhelming, rapidly spreading anxiety instantly filled his entire body.

Unreasonably, Ren Chenbai suddenly recalled Luo Zhi during resuscitation.

Lying quietly on the bed, Luo Zhi’s body silently rising and falling with each electric shock—how could that body, seemingly devoid of any life, feel even lighter than he imagined, so light it seemed already emptied of the last ounce of will to live?

So where had Luo Zhi gone? Why hadn’t that useless Luo Jun kept him under control?

In Luo Zhi’s current state, if he went missing, what would happen?

Where would Luo Zhi go? Could he even be found again? Then why was he wasting time here, so leisurely?

What exactly had bewitched him?!

Ren Chenbai suddenly felt an unprecedented panic. He stood up and paced back and forth, then yanked the conference room door open with force.

The assistant waiting outside jumped in fright and hurried over. “Mr. Ren…”

“Find him,” Ren Chenbai gripped the doorframe tightly, took a deep breath, and exhaled shakily. “The person I told you to find before—keep looking.”

The assistant was startled, hesitating before asking, “…Bring him back?”

“Of course!” Ren Chenbai snapped. “Bring him back! If he refuses—”

The assistant had indeed searched for Luo Zhi for a while and had even found some leads, but then the matter had been dropped.

At the time, Ren Chenbai had only given the order casually, never pressing for updates, so they assumed this person wasn’t important.

The assistant didn’t dare ask further, trembling in silence, waiting for new instructions.

Ren Chenbai realized his own loss of composure. He pressed his forehead hard, controlling his voice. “If he refuses… notify me.”

“I’ll go get him myself,” Ren Chenbai said. “Don’t hurt him.”

“Don’t hurt him. Don’t scare him.”

Ren Chenbai closed his eyes briefly. “No need to rush bringing him back. First, take him to the best hospital nearby, then notify me.”

The assistant sensed something was seriously wrong and nodded quickly, rushing off to carry out the order.

Ren Chenbai stood at the conference room door.

He suddenly felt an intense fear toward a certain possibility.

Perhaps because he was too terrified, he couldn’t even clearly imagine what that possibility entailed—only a vast, chilling emptiness remained.

He couldn’t think further.

Ren Chenbai had no heart to watch the remaining videos. He called someone to shut down the computer and return it to his office, then left the company.

…

When someone came to collect the computer, the media player automatically advanced to the next video.

Luo Zhi sat in a street corner, holding a sketchpad, drawing.

This time, the image wasn’t as blurry—seemingly filmed from a café corner, separated only by a floor-to-ceiling window and a curtain of rain.

A person in a trench coat stood before Luo Zhi.

The camera couldn’t capture the person’s face, and Luo Zhi’s figure was mostly blocked.

In the footage, Luo Zhi leaned against the corner, looking up and saying something. After finishing, he handed the sketchpad over, then took off his guitar and pushed it forward as well.

The man didn’t want the guitar—only the drawing.

But Luo Zhi was stubborn.

The two seemed to fail to reach an agreement, pushing back and forth in rain heavy enough to flood the sky, until finally, the man gave in first, lowering his coat hem and half-kneeling down.

He bent his shoulders, tilting the entire umbrella over Luo Zhi’s head, speaking seriously to him.

Luo Zhi tried hard to keep his eyes open, but the light in them gradually faded. He remained in the same posture, then silently, soundlessly, lost consciousness.

The man waited for a response, then repeated himself several times.

Luo Zhi leaned against the wall, eyes slightly closed, motionless.

The man reached out to touch Luo Zhi’s forehead—before even making contact, Luo Zhi’s body suddenly convulsed violently, reflexively curling his arm to protect his throat.

The man froze.

Luo Zhi took a few seconds to steady himself, shook his head to clear it, then shoved the drawing, guitar, and all his belongings into the man’s arms.

The man, dressed neatly, looked rather comical carrying such a haphazard bundle. But he still thanked him, placed the umbrella into Luo Zhi’s hand, and left as agreed, taking all of Luo Zhi’s belongings with him.

The story seemed to end there.

The person filming apparently thought so too—the画面 darkened as the phone was placed face down—then suddenly, as if noticing something, quickly returned to the original spot amid hushed background chatter.

The man had come back. This time, his hands were empty. Judging from faint outlines in the video corner, he had probably just gone to put those items in a nearby car.

As if guessing Luo Zhi wouldn’t use the umbrella properly, he squatted down, took Luo Zhi’s hand, and helped steady the umbrella over his head, shielding him from the bone-chilling rain.

Then he raised his right hand, palm facing forward, showing he was holding nothing, and paused it beside his ear.

He looked at Luo Zhi, as if waiting for a certain permission.

What permission was he waiting for?

The person filming whispered in curiosity. The person collecting the computer didn’t shut off the screen immediately, holding their breath for the final answer.

Luo Zhi was under the umbrella.

He opened his eyes, motionless, staring at the figure before him.

Who knew how long passed—finally, Luo Zhi’s arm, protectively held across his chest, slowly lowered.

And so, the man received that permission. He politely said thank you, then placed his hand on Luo Zhi’s head.

He placed his hand on Luo Zhi’s head, gently, slowly, and stroked it.