Since the contract, ostensibly forged in the name of ‘responsibility’ but in truth meticulously orchestrated by Lan Yucheng, had taken effect, time itself seemed to have plunged into a viscous, transparent gel.
Days appeared to flow onward smoothly, with sunlight gracing the windowsills precisely on schedule. Yet, beneath this unduly pristine brilliance, something formless and intangible, heavy enough to constrict one’s very breath, was quietly settling, permeating every corner of the apartment.
Su Yiyi was the most acutely aware of this viscous atmosphere, and its willing bearer.
That crushing guilt, which attributed Lan Yucheng’s ‘fragility’ and ‘trauma’ to her own loss of control, had not faded with time. Instead, like an inkstick dropped into a clear glass of water, it slowly and continuously diffused, ultimately dyeing her entire world with the undertones of atonement.
This undertone was as heavy as a shackles, yet it also offered her a strange, twisted sense of stability. It was a clarity of her own purpose, even if that purpose was rooted in guilt and compensation.
And this, precisely, was the most secure and inescapable form of control Lan Yucheng had calculated.
Consequently, Su Yiyi’s care became meticulously thorough, imbued with an almost ritualistic reverence.
Her biological clock was entirely reset; she always awoke before her alarm.
Even as the sky outside the window merely hinted at dawn’s pale light and the city had yet to fully awaken, she would quietly slide out of bed. Barefoot, as if fearing to disturb a fragile nightmare, she would leave the bedroom.
The kitchen became her first battlefield.
She researched recipes for nourishing the stomach, simmering millet porridge until it was soft and warm, and preparing several light side dishes. Even her fried eggs were made with painstaking effort, striving for perfect shapes, devoid of any burnt edges.
Remembering Lan Yucheng’s casual mention of disliking the fishy taste of milk, Su Yiyi would prepare honey water at the perfect temperature well in advance.
Each movement was gentle and focused, and the air filled with the primal, warm aroma of food. This offered her a small measure of satisfaction, a sense of being a ‘guardian’.
She was, through these trivial daily acts, painstakingly mending the cracks she had torn open that night, brick by brick.
Only after everything was prepared would she return to the bedroom door, taking a deep breath as if about to embark on a sacred mission.
She walked to the bedside, leaned down, and spoke in a voice deliberately softened to a tender whisper: “Yucheng, it’s time to wake up.”
Lan Yucheng was usually already awake, or rather, she never truly deeply slept.
With her eyes closed, she could clearly perceive every subtle sound of Su Yiyi’s busy movements in the outer room: the running water, the gentle clinking of dishes, and those deliberately light footsteps.
She was waiting, much like an experienced hunter patiently awaits prey to wander into the deepest part of a trap.
Upon hearing the summons, she would slowly open her eyes, a perfectly proportioned trace of drowsiness and imperceptible fatigue lingering within them. She would softly hum in response, her voice imbued with a hint of dependent nasalization.
The most pivotal ‘ritual’ of the day then commenced.
Su Yiyi would retrieve the small medical kit from the bedside table drawer, her movements as solemn as if extracting a sacred relic.
She sat on the edge of the bed, extending a slightly trembling hand towards Lan Yucheng, her eyes filled with careful inquiry.
Lan Yucheng would compliantly offer her wrist, resting it on Su Yiyi’s lap, which was cushioned by a soft towel.
The marks there had, in truth, long faded. Unless one specifically searched for them, they were almost indistinguishable.
However, Lan Yucheng had her methods. When Su Yiyi wasn’t looking, she would gently pinch and rub the old scars repeatedly with her fingernails, or apply certain harmless substances that temporarily made capillaries more prominent, ensuring those faint white lines always retained a suspicious, almost fresh, reddish hue.
This seemingly insignificant ‘evidence’ was her crucial prop in maintaining this meticulously orchestrated drama.
Su Yiyi’s fingertips were warm, even slightly damp from nervousness.
Her movements as she unraveled the old bandage were as gentle as brushing the most delicate flower petals.
She held her breath, her entire concentration focused on that small expanse of skin.
Once unwrapped, she would meticulously ‘examine’ the almost invisible scars, her gaze intertwined with an overwhelming mix of guilt and tenderness, as if it were a severe injury requiring extreme care.
She would use a cotton swab moistened with warm water, wiping the surrounding area with a feather-light touch, ensuring no pain was caused. Then, she would apply a cooling ointment, which Lan Yucheng privately considered entirely superfluous. Finally, with fresh, pristine white bandages, she would carefully wrap the ‘wound’ layer by layer.
Throughout the entire process, Lan Yucheng mostly remained silent. Yet, her gaze was like the most precise probe, silently scanning every expression and movement of Su Yiyi.
She observed Su Yiyi’s lowered eyelashes, casting small shadows on her focused profile; she watched her slightly pursed lips, betraying her tension; and she felt the pure, fervent concern emanating from her fingertips.
Sunlight, filtering through the curtain gap, fell precisely on Su Yiyi’s earlobe and the side of her neck, outlining a soft halo.
In that instant, a peculiar, almost luxurious sense of tranquility would envelop Lan Yucheng like a warm tide.
This feeling was unfamiliar and dangerous, yet it carried an alluring warmth, as if she could truly lower all her defenses, lean her full weight into it, and immerse herself in this harbor, built from guilt yet so incredibly real.
The warmth from those fingertips seemed to temporarily smooth the cold creases in her heart.
But this brief indulgence was often as fleeting as the strike of a match.
Almost as that sense of peace was about to reach the deepest part of her heart, another figure would materialize like a ghost—Qing Xinxue.
Not the concrete girl in reality, but the highly symbolic phantom in Lan Yucheng’s memory, representing an extreme possessiveness and destructive emotion. She could almost see Qing Xinxue’s eyes, burning with mad possessiveness, mockingly staring at her.
She could feel the wet, licking sensation of a wound in her memory, imbued with pain and a strong mark of ownership. It was a more primal, more violent connection, one that more closely aligned with Lan Yucheng’s understanding of the essence of ‘relationships’, burning with blood and pain.
Her heart would suddenly constrict, as if pierced by an invisible ice pick.
That nascent, shameful sense of dependence instantly vanished, replaced by a more familiar, cold calculation. ‘What am I doing?’
‘Am I indulging in this false tenderness? This is merely a product of my manipulation, a meticulously choreographed puppet show.’
Su Yiyi’s gentleness was extorted through her ‘trauma’, like a flower in a glass greenhouse—seemingly delicate, yet its roots were fragile and weak. Once the truth was exposed, it would immediately wither and shatter.
What Qing Xinxue had given, even if it was pain, was real, a mark seared into her soul.
A mixture of self-loathing and intense vigilance surged within her.
She could not succumb, even if this slow-boiling frog trap was one she had personally set. True control had to be built upon absolute clarity.
Thus, one morning, as Su Yiyi, as always, was gently tying the final knot of her bandage, her face even revealing a relaxed, almost sweet smile from completing this ‘important task’, Lan Yucheng suddenly moved.
She did not withdraw her hand. Instead, with the hand half-wrapped in the bandage, she gently turned it, her warm fingertips subtly brushing the inside of Su Yiyi’s wrist. The skin there was extremely thin, allowing the pulse’s beat to be clearly felt. It was a seemingly unintentional, yet deeply probing touch.
Su Yiyi stiffened slightly, as if struck by a faint electric current, her bandaging motion instantly freezing.
She looked up in astonishment, meeting Lan Yucheng’s unfathomably deep eyes.
That gaze was no longer the usual obedience or vulnerability of someone receiving care. Instead, it held an indescribable, profound scrutiny, as if assessing something, or perhaps deliberately stirring a still pond.
“Sister Yiyi,” Lan Yucheng’s voice was very soft, husky with sleep, yet it scratched at one’s eardrums like a feather. “You’re so good to me. What if… I can’t get used to life without you?”
It sounded like a declaration of dependence, yet it subtly hinted at an ominous premonition and a veiled threat. Beneath the sweet facade, a sharp, icy thorn quietly emerged.
Su Yiyi’s heart rate abruptly spiraled out of control, pounding against her chest.
She looked at Lan Yucheng, the complex emotions in those eyes making her heart tremble. Was it fragility seeking reassurance? Or… another form of warning?
She couldn’t discern it, only feeling a chill creep up her spine, clashing violently with the overflowing pity she had felt moments before. It left her speechless, yet her cheeks uncontrollably flushed.
“I…” Su Yiyi opened her mouth, her voice dry. “I won’t leave. I said I would take responsibility.”
Her promise carried a tragic, unwavering resolve, yet it also bound herself even tighter.
Lan Yucheng received the anticipated reaction, the corners of her mouth curving into an almost imperceptible, tiny arc, so quick it seemed like an illusion of light and shadow.
She lowered her eyes again, resuming her vulnerable posture, and gently withdrew her hand, as if that fleeting, provocative touch had been unintentional.
“Is breakfast ready? I’m a little hungry.” She changed the subject, her tone returning to normal, as if the turbulent undercurrents of that moment had never occurred.
But Su Yiyi knew something was different. That invisible thread had been gently tugged.
The morning sunlight was still bright, the breakfast aroma still warm, and the bandage was still perfectly wrapped. Yet, a complex emotion—a mix of sweetness, unease, guilt, and a hint of secret thrill—had already entwined around her heart like a vine, holding it ever tighter.
She watched Lan Yucheng’s seemingly slender back as she walked towards the dining room, the weight of that ‘responsibility’ in her heart suddenly increasing severalfold.
And this was precisely the effect Lan Yucheng desired. She didn’t need Su Yiyi to feel comfortable; she needed her to sink deeper and deeper into this net woven with tenderness and sharp stings, utterly unable to extricate herself.