ICSTC CH1: Downpour Tomorrow

“I’m sick.”

Luo Ye leaned lazily against the balcony railing, stating the fact in a completely calm voice.

He was standing on the 13th-floor balcony of DFG—the largest media enterprise in the southern district of Zhaonan City. From up here, one could see the bustling city traffic and the mist-shrouded distant mountains of December.

At this exact moment, his eyes were fixed right on the center of the sky.

Luo Ye remained silent for a beat before adding, “And I’ve got it pretty bad.”

The moment the words left his mouth, a surge of brute force grabbed him by the waist and yanked him backward with frantic desperation.

His close friend Lan Ju—who just seconds ago had been squatting right beside him munching on a sandwich—was now clinging to his waist for dear life, desperately shuffling backward on his tiptoes.

Lan Ju was over ten centimeters shorter than Luo Ye. Wrapped in a company-issued leather coat with a head of ash-gray hair, he looked remarkably like a freshly rolled spring roll.

The spring roll strained with all his might, but Luo Ye didn’t budge an inch. Then, Lan Ju’s panicked voice rang out: “Stay calm! You’re only twenty-five! You’re young and handsome! You even survived everything your uncle put you through—what else is there that you can’t get past?! Look how successful you are now! You have a car, an apartment! Even if you don’t care about yourself, think of your younger brother! If you leave, Pengpeng will be all alone! Do you have the heart to do that?! And aren’t you still looking for that friend of yours?! Are you really going to give up before you even find him?!”

Luo Ye, who had just been completely exposed out of nowhere: “…?”

“Did you lose your mind too?” Luo Ye said, utterly speechless. “Why don’t you just shout out my ID number to the whole world while you’re at it?”

Lan Ju’s face flushed bright red. Gulping down a breath, he blurted out frantically, “I’m stopping you! Weren’t you about to jump?!”

“…Ah.” Realizing Lan Ju had completely misunderstood his situation, Luo Ye’s exasperation turned into amusement.

He grabbed Lan Ju’s arms, gently pushing himself free from the grip. Tipping his chin back toward the glass doors, he said, “Brother Lan, even if I were going to jump, I wouldn’t do it in front of a crowd, would I?”

Lan Ju turned around, instantly struck dumb.

In the lounge area behind them, more than a dozen employees from other departments had collectively put down their coffee cups. Halting their conversations, they were all staring straight at them.

The ratio of human to beastfolk employees at DFG was 8 to 2. While the human staff stared with wide eyes, the beastfolk turned their heads—a neat row of fluffy animal ears perked up in unison toward their direction.

The sheer awkwardness of the scene sent a shudder straight down Lan Ju’s spine. With a swift pop, a pair of pale gray hamster ears sprouted from his hair.

“Let’s go, let’s go! Let’s go buy coffee!” Lan Ju covered his ears, frantically shoving Luo Ye toward the scenic glass elevator.

The elevator doors slid shut slowly, beginning their smooth descent.

Stopping several times along the way, group after group of colleagues packed into the car. Some chatted in hushed voices, others scrolled through their phones, filling the cramped space with a low hum of activity.

Luo Ye leaned quietly in the corner, never once raising his head. His gaze remained glued to the transparent window, watching the curtain wall of the adjacent building glide upward.

Only when Lan Ju called out to him directly did he occasionally drop a brief response.

With a soft ding, the elevator reached the first floor, and Luo Ye followed the crowd out.

The coffee shop Lan Ju mentioned was located in the small plaza right beside the company building, named “Not Thirsty Without You.” A vibrant arrangement of fresh flowers lined its entrance.

By the time they reached the ordering counter, a queue of over ten people had already formed in front of them. Judging by their matching thick red down jackets, they looked like employees from a neighboring company out for a group meal, resembling a row of inflated wall anchors.

In his head, Luo Ye lined them up and cleared them like a match-three puzzle.

Lan Ju blew a breath into his cupped hands and glanced over at the dazed Luo Ye. “Why did you suddenly say you were sick back there anyway? I genuinely thought you’d suffered a total mental breakdown from work.”

Luo Ye let out a quiet chuckle. Raising his index finger, he signaled for Lan Ju to look up at the sky. “Brother Lan, what do you see up there?”

Lan Ju blinked his large eyes, staring intently into the sky for a long moment.

“There are clouds, some sunlight, and a jet cruising past…”

As Lan Ju spoke, his voice gradually rose with dramatic flare.

“A testament to time flying, the eternal turn of the seasons. The biting December winds sweep through the streets, wrapping the world in a bitter chill. Yet beneath the eaves rests the tender warmth of the setting sun. Though winter cuts deep, winter is already here. Ah—can Spring… be far behind—?”

The young man standing directly in front of Luo Ye turned around at the sound, glanced at the two of them, and immediately whipped back around, whispering excitedly to his friend: “Holy crap! Is this coffee shop running some kind of event today? The guy behind us just started reciting poetry!”

Luo Ye: “…”

As expected of a screenwriter. Turn your back for a second and he’s already serving up a whole theater production.

Lan Ju, having finished his poetic performance, nudged Luo Ye’s arm again. “So? Why did you ask me that?”

“Nothing really,” Luo Ye shrugged casually. “Just wanted to see what you could see.”

Lan Ju laughed, slapping him lightly on the back. “What kind of question is that? It’s not like we’re seeing different things, is it?”

Lan Ju was clearly joking, but a faint smirk tugged at the corner of Luo Ye’s lips.

Actually, you got that right. We really aren’t seeing the same thing.

Across the cool, pale-white expanse of the sky, aside from the faint trail left by the airplane, a row of sharp, bold white numbers hovered directly in the center.

Glowing at roughly 60% brightness, the numbers faded out and refreshed clearly at a rate of four frames per second—

Forming a semi-transparent countdown timer.

[576 hours, 35 minutes, 45 seconds]

[576 hours, 35 minutes, 44 seconds]

[576 hours, 35 minutes, 43 seconds]

…

Since stepping out of the office building, these numbers hadn’t vanished; instead, they had only grown increasingly vivid.

Having graduated as a director and editor, Luo Ye had read through hundreds, if not thousands, of web novels and screenplays. Innumerable absurd premises flashed through his mind, and the answer surfaced almost instantly.

This was the countdown to his death.

Coincidentally, owing to his upbringing and environment, Luo Ye possessed an extraordinarily fast acceptance rate. No matter how bizarre the situation, he could come to terms with it in three seconds at best, or a single night at worst.

For instance, last Tuesday at noon, when a male colleague named Zhou Tian announced he was getting gender reassignment surgery next year, the rest of the team was still trying to digest the news while Luo Ye had already updated his phone contact from “Brother Zhou” to “Sister Zhou.”

So, when Luo Ye first laid eyes on this countdown timer, his initial reaction had been a tragic, cynical thought: Is there something wrong with me, or is the universe out of its mind? The person who deserves to die is someone else, right? How is it me?

By his second thought, it transformed into: Actually, I’m pretty lucky.

Knowing the exact time of your death in advance meant you could use the remaining time to fulfill your unfinished wishes.

And his very first wish was…

“I’m quitting.”

The moment Luo Ye took hold of his iced white chocolate latte, he uttered those two words effortlessly.

“Huh?” Lan Ju froze, his teeth clamped mid-bite on his straw. “Are you moving again? Did your dad track you guys down?”

“No, he won’t ever find us in this lifetime,” Luo Ye drew in a deep breath of cold air, his tone turning even flatter. “I want to go somewhere far away, so I need to quit.”

Thinking Luo Ye was merely joking, Lan Ju asked him again.

When he received the exact same answer, Lan Ju found himself at a loss for words.

He knew Luo Ye was someone who acted on whim and made decisive moves. But a job wasn’t like school; quitting out of nowhere just to go traveling felt genuinely reckless.

Thus, he offered a gentle word of advice: “You should really think this through. DFG is a top-tier company. Money alone can’t guarantee you a spot here, and your salary is practically at the ceiling for your department. Walking away like this is such a sh—”

Before Lan Ju could finish the word “shame,” both of their phones chimed simultaneously.

They traded a glance and pulled out their phones.

The moment they refreshed WeChat, the post-production department heads dropped a sudden announcement across all four active project groups at once:

[Notice: Due to personal issues, artist Bai Cheng has been strictly banned by higher management from appearing in any media programs. Details have been sent to everyone’s company email. Effective immediately, all finished cuts and raw footage featuring him must have his face blurred, dialogue muted, and name removed from the subtitles. Single shots require full blur; group shots require complete digital removal.

Special Note:Saturday’s Diary is scheduled for release at 10:00 AM the day after tomorrow, and the release time remains unchanged. Colleagues in the post-production editing department, you’ve worked hard these past few days. Five hours of overtime have been pre-approved for you all today. @All Members]

“…” Lan Ju slowly set his phone down, placing a heavy hand on Luo Ye’s shoulder and giving it a firm pat. “Quit. I support you 100%.”

Luo Ye: “…”

When Luo Ye returned to the 8th-floor post-production department, the entire floor was engulfed in an aroma of coffee that smelled bitterer than life itself. The dense, rapid clatter of keyboards filled the air, soundly battering spacebars and return keys into submission.

Luo Ye understood completely.

Unlike other companies, DFG’s post-production department handled external outsourcing projects alongside their in-house shows. With the emergency censorship rush taking top priority today, all other projects had to be pushed back. There was a high chance they’d have to pull overtime again tomorrow; the fact that no one was openly cursing in the hallway was proof of their incredible self-restraint.

Luo Ye swung by the break room to grab a pack of chocolate Pocky sticks. Dangling one from his mouth, he strolled over to his workstation and typed the name “Bai Cheng” into Weibo, quickly scanning through the event summary.

To put it simply, the guy had been caught red-handed engaging in tax evasion and hookup chat leaks. Currently facing a massive internet backlash, he was occupying four separate spots on the trending hot search list.

Luo Ye couldn’t resist using an alt account to drop a comment under the thread:

[From this day forth, the world loses a star and gains another stingy guy whose brain is ruled by a toothpick.]

Just as he posted it, a notification popped up from the White Wave Domain production group chat—the director’s team had shared a list of attendees for the wrap banquet.

Luo Ye located his own name and scrolled downward. Halting abruptly halfway through, his mouse cursor hovered over a specific name: Chi Zhiyue.

“…” Luo Ye narrowed his eyes slightly, snapping the chocolate stick in half with a crisp crunch.

A dozen seconds later, he closed the attendee list and officially got down to work.

Isolating his assigned segment from the dense, chaotic timeline, Luo Ye expertly created a dedicated censorship track.

For static shots, he dragged over the mosaic effect and applied face blending; for moving shots, he flipped straight into After Effects to draw masks and set up motion trackers. They were all mechanical, muscle-memory tasks he could do in his sleep.

Seated right beside the floor-to-ceiling glass window, Luo Ye needed only to glance up to see the countdown timer. The sky bled from a cold, pale hue into an orange-red morning dawn as the numbers ticked down tirelessly.

By 8:30 AM, after nine hours had slipped away, Luo Ye finished his workload for the day. Packing up his belongings, he headed straight into his supervisor’s office to hand in his resignation.

Though taken aback, his supervisor wished him a bright future, printed out the resignation form, and reminded him of the company policy requiring a one-week transition period after submission.

By the time Luo Ye stepped out of the office, it was precisely 9:00 AM. Slinging his backpack over his shoulder, he grabbed one last pack of chocolate sticks, took the elevator downstairs, and casually tore open the wrapper along the way.

He was in luck this time, pulling a white chocolate-flavored stick. Offering a satisfied curve of his lips, Luo Ye bit into it.

When the elevator reached the first floor, the main lobby was dead quiet save for his own footsteps. Crisp, cool white light cascaded down from the distant high ceiling. Outside the sprawling glass windows, the world had long dissolved into pitch black, illuminated only by the blurred glow of distant neon lights.

Suddenly, a familiar figure caught Luo Ye’s eye—an apricot coat quickly melting into the surrounding dark night.

Why is he still here?

Luo Ye’s gaze lingered for two seconds before he strolled over to Lan Ju, who was standing in front of the bulletin board, and offered him a chocolate stick.

Taking the stick, Lan Ju chuckled softly, “You really have it rough, finishing at eight right alongside me leaving at twelve.”

“Luckily, the director’s team came over to help out, or I’d be stuck here past ten,” Luo Ye said.

“Then your luck isn’t half bad,” Lan Ju’s eyes settled back onto the bulletin board, letting out a soft sigh of admiration. “Your photo here came out incredible. It could literally pass as a professional avatar.”

Lan Ju was referring to the “Star of the Department” photograph pinned on the showcase board.

The company held a quarterly evaluation, selecting one employee per department. The winners were awarded a custom suit or formal attire for a commemorative photoshoot. Luo Ye was the lucky winner for the fourth quarter of this year, his photo positioned on the right side of the main center block.

In the picture, Luo Ye’s yellowish-brown, shoulder-length hair was tied in a half-bun. A tiny mole sat just beneath his right tear trough, with another resting on the center of his left cheek. His double eyelids swept slightly upward toward the outer corners, his piercing emerald-green pupils staring dead into the camera lens.

With a lazy, lopsided smirk playing on his lips, an effortless aura of rogue charm radiated off the print.

Lan Ju turned to look back at the real-life Luo Ye standing beside him.

Draped in a short black jacket trimmed with fleece, paired with dark gray cargo pants tucked neatly into high-top motorcycle boots, he possessed broad shoulders, a narrow waist, and clean-cut, sharp lines. Standing at 180 cm, his proportions were so remarkable he easily looked 188 cm.

It suddenly reminded Lan Ju of their college days. Back then, Luo Ye’s appearance and style were even wilder and more rebellious than they were now, leading many to mistake him for a heart-breaking, playboy bad boy.

In truth, the guy was nothing more than a soft-hearted tsundere photographer who loved editing high-tech videos. Behind his back, everyone used to call him “Otaku Bro.”

Right now, “Otaku Bro”—feeling pretty satisfied with his photo—unknowingly let out his leopard cat ears. The soft, furry ear flaps twitched lazily in the air.

Dangling the chocolate stick from his lips, he pointed at his picture. “I remember my photo was originally placed in the upper left corner.”

“HR finally wised up, I guess. Realized it makes sense to put the handsome faces together,” Lan Ju gestured with his chin toward the photo right next to Luo Ye’s.

Luo Ye shifted his gaze to the adjacent frame.

The man in the photograph possessed striking, handsomely defined features—a classic, deep-set face. He had brownish hair, dark eyes, and a neat slicked-back hairstyle. His nose bridge was straight and sharp, with deep-set double eyelids that drooped slightly at the ends. A warm, gentle smile curved his eyes, casting faint dimples at the corners of his lips. The photo couldn’t quite fit the full span of his broad shoulders.

His aura stood in stark contrast to Luo Ye’s—calm, composed, and upright, looking exactly like the type of guy who would immediately hand a lost hundred-dollar bill over to the police.

Luo Ye lowered his eyes, and a line of text beneath the portrait entered his view:

[External Strategy Team — Chi Zhiyue]

Luo Ye twitched his cat ears lightly, turning his head to ask Lan Ju, “Did Chi Zhiyue just pass by a moment ago?”

“Yeah, he was chatting with me just now,” Lan Ju replied.

“So he leaves the moment I show up, huh?” Luo Ye remarked, unsurprised. He casually added, “What were you two talking about? Did something go wrong with the brand sponsor and that show you’re working on again?”

After all, the External Strategy Team handled communications between brand sponsors and project shows. Since Lan Ju was a screenwriter for the show, that was usually the only topic they had in common.

To his surprise, Lan Ju shook his head, offering an answer that left Luo Ye wondering if he had misheard. “It wasn’t about work. He asked me what we were doing up on the balcony at noon, asking if something bad had happened to you.”

Luo Ye froze on the spot, taking three full seconds to find his voice. “What did you tell him?”

“I couldn’t exactly tell him I was stopping you from jumping off a building, could I? So I just said you looked like you were about to faint from dizziness, and I was just holding you back,” Lan Ju recalled the awkward situation from earlier that afternoon. “Luckily, he only saw our movements from afar and couldn’t hear a word, so I was able to make something up.”

“He mentioned afterward that you might have caught the flu and told you to find time to visit a hospital to get checked out so it wouldn’t turn into a bad cold. Then he left.”

“He seemed pretty concerned about you. When did you two get so close?”

Luo Ye remained dead silent the entire time, listening quietly as Lan Ju finished. With a sharp snap, he bit straight through his chocolate stick.

Swallowed into his stomach along with the sweet, milky chocolate was a mind completely full of question marks.

He wanted to know when they had gotten so close, too.

Didn’t Chi Zhiyue absolutely despise him?