Work Text:
There is no such thing as a bad job, as long as it puts food on the table. That’s what Qin-shu used to say, and it’s the advice that Zhou Zishu has spent the last six months following.
He doesn’t fully agree with the sentiment; see, the main reason he has internalised the saying—despite getting a tooth knocked out in the competitive pillow-fighting gig, and risking patterned baldness to participate in a clinical trial for dog shampoo—is that he knows there are bad jobs. One in particular. The job he dares not think about, for fear of liberating his stitched-up trauma. The job that’s broken his moral compass so completely he’s now standing in the milk aisle at an upper-middle-class supermarket, handing out samples of some local organic semi-skimmed, and he’s happy to be doing it.
The job at his cousin’s telemarketing company.
Losing one’s dignity before the tender age of 25 has its perks. He doesn’t mind when a woman with a permed bob and a cart full of gluten-free rice asks him to refill her cup for the third time, even though it’s paper and starting to sog at the edges. The little kid who keeps sneaking away from his parents and kicking Zhou Zishu in the shin gets a scowl, at most. The occasional vegan customers leave him cold. “This is the milk of human kindness,” he parrots the company logline, like the very image doesn’t induce nightmares. The job is only for a week, he’s on day five, and he might even miss it. Anything’s fine as long as it isn’t that job.
“Ge! You were right!” a girl yells in Zhou Zishu’s face.
Her voice is shrill in its delight, and would make him flinch under any other circumstances. Courtesy of his uniform, an open-celled foam costume shaped like a milk crate, his ears are well-protected.
He hands the girl a milk sample, but she grabs for his fingers instead. Her nails dig into his skin. He considers dropping the logline, to realign her priorities.
It really is a good thing he has no dignity left to protect, and that he doesn’t believe in soulmates. Because if either of those things mattered to Zhou Zishu, meeting his soulmate while masquerading as a box patterned with smiling cows could be quite embarrassing.
The tracking of melanocyte cells across the epidermis has been previously investigated as a model system for the identification of soul-bound candidates (Yue Feng’er et al., 2007, and Wu Xi, 2019). In the previous clinical studies, potential matches have been observed in 3% and 5% of the control cases, respectively. At the time, however, both studies linked the results to insufficient data, and called for a wider pool of candidates to conduct a subsequent investigation.
This study applies the methods used by Long Que (2017), using five questionnaires and ten participant-written reports, screening for physiological and psychological symptoms associated with soul-bonds (see section 2.1 for an overview of these symptoms), over a period of six months. A total of 26 790 participants completed the study, with 44 participants excluded because they did not pass the initial monitoring questions. The final sample consisted of participants of varied ages (over 18), ethnicities, genders, and locations. Early data was gathered using the Soulmark App [8], which provided participants with the initial monitoring questions and ensured a diversity of the sample group.
[8 - Soulmark App is a smartphone app, initially advertised as a mobile dating application. Intending to create connections between its users based on the placement of their melanocyte cells. Like previous research, the app operates on the hypothesis that a close likeness in placement between two users can operate as a soul-bound symptom. For more on this, see Appendix 3.]
Zhou Zishu emerges into the supermarket parking lot at 6.04, mere minutes after the end of his shift. His hair is sweaty and plastered to his forehead, he’s sporting a yellowing bruise on his shin, and his scowl could sour all the milk he’s spent the day selling. Thankfully, he’s already met his supposed soulmate dressed as a milk carton, so when the guy ambushes him by the bicycle stands, his appearance is the least of his concerns.
“There you are,” the man drawls, and beams at him like Zhou Zishu didn’t just recently get him thrown out of a supermarket.
The girl, the one who almost scraped his skin off, looks him up and down. Her mouth drops and she punches the guy on the shoulder. “You were right! How did you know?”
“It is impossible to hide one’s beauty with shoulder blades like these.”
“But you couldn’t even see his shoulder blades! Not through that hideous costume.”
“A-Xiang,” the man says, and shakes his head with the levity of a master schooling his disciple. “There is nothing you can’t do, as long as you try hard enough.”
“How hard do I have to try before you get a hint?” Zhou Zishu says in a low grumble and tries to sidestep the duo to get to his bicycle.
It is the man, this time around, who stops his hand before it reaches the lock. He pulls on it, making Zhou Zishu stumble, and holds it up to the violet sunlight. He pokes at the mole on his ring finger. “It is a perfect likeness. Even the size is right.”
Zhou Zishu snatches his hand back and unlocks the bike.
“I am not your soulmate,” he says. It is not a sentence he has ever imagined himself saying, and here he is repeating it for the tenth time in a single afternoon. “I don’t even know you. I’ve never seen you before.”
This, he regrets to admit, might not be completely true. There is something familiar about the guy’s lanky set of limbs, the burgundy pea coat he’s wearing, and the grin he levels at Zhou Zishu from under his lashes. He’s given out milk shots to a couple hundred customers this week, and yet something has made him remember the guy’s face. It’s because it was suspicious, he tells himself. Who in their right mind would come to sample the same milk five days in a row?
“Of course you must know me,” the guy says, unbothered. He frames his face by his hands, with a dramatic flourish. “I’m Wen Kexing.”
The girl groans. Zhou Zishu blinks. The guy’s smile grows the slightest hint of insecurity.
“From the Philanthropist Wen channel?” he adds. Upon receiving no reaction, he elbows the girl, an obvious cry for help.
“Ge has over three million followers,” she says, in what could pass as both annoyance and pride. “He’s been named the fastest growing influencer in Guizhou.”
“We’re in Jiangsu.”
“Point still stands,” Wen Kexing interjects.
“I don’t use social media.”
The two intruders share a bemused glance. Almost like Zhou Zishu is the suspicious party in this conversation. Wen Kexing recovers with another dramatic flip of his palm. “Let’s not talk about me. This is about you. Us, to be precise.”
“Not interested,” Zhou Zishu says and hops onto his bicycle. The girl moves out of his way. He almost shoots her a grateful smile, before he remembers himself.
“How can we change your mind?” Wen Kexing asks, grabbing onto the handlebars. “Name your price. I promise I can make it worthwhile.”
“I don’t need your money,” Zhou Zishu says. He prides himself on sounding quite convincing, considering the circumstances of their meeting. Meetings, his mind supplies helpfully.
Wen Kexing opens his mouth to protest, but the girl beats him to it. She snatches the sleeve of his peacoat and pulls until he lets go of the bike, then drops a business card into the pocket of Zhou Zishu’s cargo vest. “Give us a call if you change your mind.”
“Sure will,” Zhou Zishu says. He looks at them once more – Wen Kexing struggling to take a step forward, the girl holding his arms in a grip that speaks of self-defense classes – before he shakes his head and pedals it out of the parking lot.
As he cycles home, he considers his options. Getting fired because a pair of lunatics decided to harass him over a mole on his hand was not part of his daily agenda. Neither was finding a guy who has the same mole, on the same finger, and who’s calling him his soulmate. Zhou Zishu just wanted to wake up, put in his eight hours promoting dairy, and consume the last dregs of his self-respect along with a mountain of take-out. The business card weighs heavy on his chest as he decides he’ll have to call Uncle Li and beg another favour.
Guessing CHEAP vs EXPENSIVE products - *HARD EDITION*
by Philanthropist Wen
2 days ago . 800, 921 views
In today’s video, I have to guess between items that are cheap or expensive. Watch to see me get emotional about condiments!
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milktealover 8 hours ago
i like how you called the cheap wine disgusting and then downed half the bottle. nothing more annoying than a wine snob!
Reply . 551 [Thumbs Up] [Thumbs Down]
Philanthropist Wen 4 hours ago
Truly! Any wine is good wine in my books, no need to go broke over it.
Reply . 11 [Thumbs Up] [Thumbs Down]
Janna F 11 hours ago
lol at you saying both the potato chips taste cheap. YEP. store-brand variety pack or bust!
Reply . 79 [Thumbs Up] [Thumbs Down]
summer moon xo 14 hours ago
So which milk did you actually like better? You kind of went on a tangent there...
Reply . 4 [Thumbs Up] [Thumbs Down]
Zhou Zishu doesn’t worry for another week. He goes for runs and tries to use the extra free time to make up for his sleep debt. Uncle Li comes through with a tutoring gig, and he still has his Monday and Friday coaching job. Then the senior table tennis team disbands when a member sprains his back in a gardening accident, and he’s forced to make a choice.
“Let me get this straight,” he says, pausing to rub at the skin under his eyes. “You want me to pose as his fake soulmate in a marketing campaign for your dating app?”
“It’s a soulmate-matching app.”
“Apologies.” Zhou Zishu nods. “I thought that was just a joke. You know? Since you want to hire me to fake being his soulmate.”
“Luo-yi’s app has successfully matched dozens of soulmates,” Wen Kexing says, smiling benevolently, from where he is almost glued to Zhou Zishu’s side.
“Oh? Why not hire them instead?”
“We did have another couple lined up for the job,” says the woman sitting on the other side of the table. She’s wearing a tailored pantsuit, snow-white hair done up in a professional bun, and doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by Zhou Zishu’s questioning. She shrugs before adding: “They broke up.”
Zhou Zishu is so perplexed he looks to Wen Kexing for support; a momentary lapse in judgement, surely, since he’s the one who got Zhou Zishu roped into this in the first place. The man hums with a compassionate smile, like Luo Fumeng just informed him the weather might take a turn for the worse and she’s forgotten her umbrella. “Poor Qianqiao.”
Zhou Zishu looks between the two of them and wonders, yet again, how he’s gotten to this place.
After reassuring Uncle Gao, who has sprained his back weeding a carrot patch, that it would heal well before the regional championships, Zhou Zishu dug up the cargo vest from his laundry pile and spent two evenings eyeing the business card. He wasted all of the following day on watching Wen Kexing’s videos. He frowned through the first three: Wen Kexing introducing his favourite poetry books, ranking all the parks in the city based on their bird population, and failing miserably at taking an online drawing course. The sixth video he clicked on, where Wen Kexing did live commentary on a couple’s awkward coffee date, somehow made him guffaw. By the time he got to the last one, Wen Kexing’s top five tips for making up a fake persona for a job interview, he was watching with something almost like fondness. Then the screen turned black and Zhou Zishu saw his smile in its reflection. He groaned and deleted his internet history. Like that made any difference.
The next day, he made the call. A monotone greeting followed after one ring: “Morning. I’m Gu Xiang, Wen Kexing’s assistant. We are not currently taking on new clients. If you’d like to file a complaint about –”
Zhou Zishu cut her off. She screamed something muffled, that sounded suspiciously like: “It’s your milk crate dude!”, before Wen Kexing snatched the phone and speed-ran it through pleasantries, straight to inviting Zhou Zishu out for lunch. He gave up after the third rejection and gave Zhou Zishu an address to his office instead. Which, in the end, turned out to be neither his, nor an office.
“Are you here to ask about enrollment?” Luo Fumeng greeted him, after Zhou Zishu had walked the length of the street twice, looking for the right place. The address Wen Kexing had sent him was to a building of a private all-girls daycare, and when Luo Fumeng opened the door, the crying almost made him turn around on the spot.
“I’m here about a job,” he said, decidedly not looking at the two toddlers that fell into the hallway, fighting it out over a stuffed pig.
Luo Fumeng gave him a quick once over and her lips curled into a sly smile. “Ah, Zhou-xiansheng. Follow me, please.”
The office must be sound-proof, Zhou Zishu thinks, now, as both Wen Kexing and Luo Fumeng gaze at him with mounting impatience.
“What exactly would you need me to do?” he asks, and it sounds a lot like giving in.
Luo Fumeng seems to agree, as she shoves a copy of the contract under his nose, pointing at different sections of the dense text. “The campaign is very straightforward. We’re doing a photoshoot, an interview, and a TV appearance. That’s scheduled for next month, so we’d need your commitment until then.”
“Would I need to use my real name?”
“That’s up to you,” Luo Fumeng says, shrugging. “But I’d like your permission to use your likeness in any further materials.”
Zhou Zishu grabs the contract. He scans it twice, then takes ten minutes analysing it for nefarious footnotes. The money they’re offering is less than he’d hoped for, but it would pay the bills for another month. He scratches at his temple. “What’s the catch?”
Luo Fumeng’s face barely moves, but she bites the inside of her lip. Wen Kexing clears his throat. “I’m a catch, surely, ha ha!” His laughter rumbles, an ominous storm. “Being my soulmate comes with a lot of perks. Responsibilities, too, but mainly perks. I’d be very happy to elaborate on them, somewhere private.”
Zhou Zishu glares at him. “Responsibilities?”
Wen Kexing shifts in his seat, his smile growing tighter. “Well, I can’t just pay you for looking pretty. Being a soulmate is a full-time job, isn’t it? Certainly, if your soulmate makes videos for a living.”
“What are you saying?”
“Oh, you know,” Wen Kexing waves his hand around, curiously shifty. “It would be a little suspicious if we appeared in all these promo materials, but I never mention you on my channel. My subscribers are a smart bunch. They’d definitely have questions about it.”
Zhou Zishu feels his mouth drop open, like Wen Kexing’s nervously fluttering hand actually swung into his stomach. “Absolutely not.”
But Wen Kexing furrows his eyebrows and somehow makes his eyes glint in a silent plea, and Zhou Zishu needs a job, and he has spent ten years of his life preying on people’s retirement money. He’s pretty sure rock bottom has been hit, and he’s made himself comfortable in its sprawl.
And, after all, there is no such thing as a bad job, as long as it puts food on the table.
He draws the line at moving in. He’d like to pretend he still has some boundaries, and becoming Wen Kexing’s fake live-in soulmate sounds a lot like crossing them. Everything else, though, spins out of Zhou Zishu’s control.
Wen Kexing insists on making him sign a separate contract, one that lists his new title as that of a “professional content-marketing companion” and promises a monthly salary three times higher than Luo Fumeng’s arrangement. It does not have an explicit end-date, but includes very explicit provisions like having three weekly meals to brainstorm content, and organising a matching couple’s wardrobe.
Zhou Zishu makes sure he doesn’t have to pay for any of it, and signs his name. Gu Xiang, who’s the one in charge of the documents, seems about as taken aback by his acceptance as Zhou Zishu himself. Wen Kexing has no such qualms. He latches onto Zhou Zishu’s shoulders and smirks. “You won’t regret it, A-Xu.”
The photoshoot, a week later, begs to differ. It’s a makeshift set-up in the attic of Luo Fumeng’s daycare, with Gu Xiang in charge of costumes and a friend of hers doing their make-up. The girl, Liu Qianqiao, does a passable job, but Zhou Zishu feels the concealer melting off his face after a minute under the studio lights. The matching striped sweaters – his dark navy, Wen Kexing’s bright purple – don’t help whatsoever. The photographers are unimpressed.
“You are very wooden,” says the one in head-to-toe black camo.
“It’s painful to watch,” says the one in head-to-toe white camo.
Zhou Zishu makes sure to frown extra hard in the next few shots, and sighs in relief when they call for a water break.
“The sweater is too baggy on you, A-Xu. Do you want to try on a different outfit?” Wen Kexing asks, leaning towards him. They’re sitting on a fake swing, a pixelated image of a sunflower field in the background. Zhou Zishu’s head hurts just thinking about the colour combinations.
“Does this shoot have an art director?” he asks, serious.
“Sure. You’re talking to him,” Wen Kexing grins.
“You’re doing a terrible job,” Zhou Zishu says, pulling the sweater over his head. “This makes no sense. Why is there a swing by the sunflower field? Why are you wearing a sweater and shorts? The lightning is all wrong, sunlight doesn’t work this way.”
Wen Kexing looks at him for a few seconds. Zhou Zishu wonders if he’s gotten him to crack. Then he gets up, whispers something to A-Xiang, and shrugs off his own sweater. He rolls down the fake sunflowers, moves the studio lights, and returns to sit on the swing with a self-satisfied smirk.
“There. All better. Except,” he pauses and moves closer, brushing a hand across Zhou Zishu’s jaw. He catches a bead of sweat sliding down his skin, and his fingers come away stained with the cheap concealer. Zhou Zishu holds his breath.
That’s the shot Luo Fumeng ends up using, taken with an unexpected flash and making them both jump. They’re bracketed by the attic brick wall instead of sunflowers, wearing matching white undershirts, and Zhou Zishu is staring at Wen Kexing like he’s hung the moon, not fixed a make-up malfunction. It’s a good photo, a convincing one, and Zhou Zishu stiffens when he first sees it, plastered on the side of a random bus stop shelter. He pedals his bike with more vigour.
He sees it again, when an ad for the Soulmark App pops up on his illegal football stream. And again, when he goes to buy groceries and the lady at the checkout points at his face in some glossy lifestyle magazine. Some people recognise him on the street and he must look traumatized enough that, when Wen Kexing brings up the suggestion that they should take a photo together for his social media, he doesn’t even wait for Zhou Zishu’s reaction before he amends it: “Perhaps just something subtle, then? Just the moles?”
It’s their third time eating at Wen Kexing’s place and he’s made grilled salmon and custard buns. Zhou Zishu calls them stale and proceeds to eat three. He doesn’t mind the lunches, and pretending that he does is honestly the most taxing acting he’s had to do on the job so far. He relents after the third bun and lets Wen Kexing whip out his phone. The photo of their hands, on the table, just a millimeter short of brushing, and showing off their matching moles, is surprisingly artful coming from a man who had thought sunflowers wouldn’t clash with purple wool. He takes a screenshot of it when he gets home. The worst blackmail material, he reasons, is the one you’re already anticipating.
Despite Wen Kexing joking that he’s not just paying Zhou Zishu to keep his handsome face hanging around, that is what it, uncomfortably, feels like. He finds himself lounging about Wen Kexing’s place way more often than their contractually-obliged three weekly meetings. He helps A-Xiang buy props for Wen Kexing’s newest video, one where he’s trying to only cook Mexican food for the week. He eats all of the failed taco attempts and gets to sample some of the successful ones. The script is stiff, so he adjusts it. The lights are unbalanced, so he moves them.
When he goes to stand behind A-Xiang’s shoulder at one point, looking at the flip screen, she kicks him out of the kitchen: “Zishu-ge, you’re a horrible photographer. Do you even know how to focus the camera? Please leave this to me.”
Maybe she’s not wrong in that regard. He’d previously attempted to help Wen Kexing take some photos, as a fake soulmate turned fake boyfriend of a social media celebrity is surely wont to do. The results had Wen Kexing’s face blurred, cropped, or captured in what he deemed “unflattering laughter.” Zhou Zishu had brushed off his criticism. Were the photos not meant to focus on the shampoo, anyway?
The whole influencer thing, really, is proving to be something of a puzzle. From Zhou Zishu’s limited knowledge of the industry, influencers are meant to make their money by selling products. A principle of a semi-even exchange: them using the capital of their internet presence, and a bunch of companies paying them for it. But while Wen Kexing does have a few long-term clients – the natural shampoo brand he doesn’t actually use, an e-shop with hair accessories, and a company selling nut-mixes – none of those usually make it into his videos.
They all start the same way: Wen Kexing greets the camera, there’s a quick montage of the video’s key moments, and then his serious voice announces: “A message from my sponsors.” Only, instead of dropping promo codes or gushing over a new trail mix, he picks a different product each time and proceeds to tear it to shreds. “The material is so itchy it feels like it’s devouring your skin,” he says about a collection of shirts. “This is the best data provider if you’re trying to curb your internet addiction. You’ll go cold turkey after trying to reach the helpline,” he says, and dramatically throws a SIM card into the bin.
Zhou Zishu had watched the segments more times than he’d like to admit, trying to find some sort of pattern in Wen Kexing’s hate-reviews. On the surface, he could really target just about everything. Clothes. Cars. A hotel chain. It was only when Zhou Zishu looked up the telecommunications firm that he found the missing link: all of the products Wen Kexing was criticising came from the same mother company, Tai Hu Corp.
“So, what’s his deal with Tai Hu?” Zhou Zishu asks, one Sunday afternoon, sitting on Wen Kexing’s couch, feet over Wen Kexing’s coffee table, tearing into a new bag of nuts. It’s not a working day. He could be sleeping at home. Nobody calls him out on it.
A-Xiang, however, stiffens at his question, and practically flies to the couch to slam her hand over Zhou Zishu’s mouth. “Do you have a death wish?” she asks, hissing.
He dislodges her hand and tries again. “What? Did they run over his dog when he –”
A-Xiang jumps when she hears footsteps in the kitchen, and slaps his cheek in reflex. “Shut up! Ge is coming. Act natural.”
He rolls his eyes and stuffs his mouth with walnuts. It’s A-Xiang who Wen Kexing eyes warily.
“Did you get into another fight with the trolls?” he asks, clucking his tongue. “Aiya. A-Xu, please remind her what’s the cardinal rule?”
“The only thing to feed the trolls is your silence,” Zhou Zishu says, flat, crunching loudly. The glare A-Xiang sends him practically counts for another slap.
“IT’S TERRIFYING TO IMAGINE WE MIGHT HAVE NEVER MET”: an interview with soulmates who found each other online
By Shen Shen
Relationships are hard, but people have always been fascinated with the idea of finding their missing half. We go through the same ups and downs, bare our vulnerabilities, build whole lives with another person, then watch them fall apart, all in the hope of finding that one true connection. But while many of us are still looking, or have disavowed the idea after one too many disappointments, there is a couple who claims they have succeeded in their quest. In late August, internet personality Wen Kexing signed up for the Soulmark App, a revolutionary smartphone service that promised it would help him with his search. And help it did, when, a week later, he found Zhou Zishu, a man with an identical mole on his right ring finger.
So, have you two moved in together?
Wen Kexing: [laughs] Not yet, not yet! It’s one thing to find a soulmate, it’s another thing to let them into your home. Not that I haven’t been trying!
Zhou Zishu: We’re trying to be sensible.
I would have thought that the idea of taking things slow doesn’t truly apply to soulmates. Are you afraid your connection might fade?
WKX: Not at all! It’s the opposite, really. Imagine your mother lets you go to the candy store and you try each and every product. That’s not very smart, that would be very unfair to your body. Having a soulmate is amazing, don’t get me wrong, but it can be psychologically taxing. We’re still getting used to this being our new reality.
Isn’t a soulmate supposed to be your best friend, someone who understands and accepts you unconditionally? There’s some wariness in your words, like you’re not quite convinced your relationship is strong enough.
ZZS: We’re not literally two halves of the same person. It’s not like Lao Wen just dropped into my lap and I already knew everything about him. I’m not saying we fight about everything but –
WKX: What A-Xu means to say is that, like every relationship, even soulmates have to work hard to cultivate their bond. We share the same values, we understand and support each other, he is very easy on the eyes, but we are still figuring things out, like any other couple.
But still, you make no mention of love in that description. Isn’t that a prerequisite, when you label someone your soulmate?
WKX: Of course it is. I mean – Soulmate or not, I’ve never felt like this about anyone else.
ZZS: [pauses] Yeah.
“You’re not even in the same frame,” A-Xiang says, adjusts the tripod, and shoves Zhou Zishu into Wen Kexing’s shoulder. She brushes her hands off, takes a look at the camera display, and hums in satisfaction. “Better.”
Wen Kexing snakes a hand around his waist to tug him even closer and Zhou Zishu groans, cursing himself for being such a pushover. There was nothing wrong about staying Wen Kexing’s behind-the-scenes soulmate. He’d worked hard to make himself useful, to earn his keep. The colour-grading of Wen Kexing’s videos has improved so much even his fans commented on it; he’d helped him brainstorm insults for Tai Hu’s newest venture, rentable electric scooters; and he’d agreed to occasionally speak off-camera, cutting into Wen Kexing’s vlogs whenever the moment called for it.
But then the interview with Shen Shen got published, and Luo Fumeng congratulated them with enough passive-aggressiveness it made the whole experience feel like getting scolded by one’s elementary school teacher. Wen Kexing, as always, hid his disappointment behind a dazzling smile. Zhou Zishu has somehow learned to read the limits of that smile and suggested they should film a video. Together. With Zhou Zishu front and center.
Well, front and just off-center, seeing as Wen Kexing seems to be determined to merge their bodies at the hip. “Welcome back to my channel,” he greets when A-Xiang counts down to zero and the camera’s red light makes Zhou Zishu blink. “Today is a very special day, for me, and for you.”
He claps Zhou Zishu on the shoulder for emphasis. Or, perhaps, to break him out of his frozen stupor. “I finally convinced A-Xu it was unfair to keep his gorgeousness all to myself. Isn’t that right, A-Xu?”
“Mhm.”
“So, today, we are going to be trying all of your favourite boba drinks!”
A-Xiang yells for a cut and makes them redo the intro ten more times. Halfway through, Zhou Zishu feels comfortable enough to lift his gaze from the kitchen counter in front of them. By the last one, he even salutes the camera.
“Ge, are you sure this is a good idea?” A-Xiang asks in a stage whisper, while Zhou Zishu arranges the dozen boba cups in a neat row. “Zishu-ge is very stiff. Like a skeleton.”
“He’ll loosen up.”
She grudgingly moves on, and directs a montage of Wen Kexing stabbing a metal straw through the plastic cling film. He does it with so much enthusiasm that Zhou Zishu takes an instinctive step back. Mentally, he edits the whole sequence in the style of vintage horror movies. Screeching strings and all.
“Okay, A-Xu, which one do you want to try first?” Wen Kexing asks once they’re rolling again.
“What’s your favourite?”
“Guess.”
Zhou Zishu picks up the vibrant orange cup with magenta stripes, with a thick layer of rainbow jelly at the bottom. He takes a tentative sip, his face twists, and Wen Kexing laughs. “That’s the rose latte with honeydew jelly. Definitely not my favourite.”
“It tastes like old perfume,” Zhou Zishu says, oddly fascinated.
Wen Kexing takes a sip of his own, same straw – the only straw, it’s environmentally friendly, A-Xu – and nods in demure agreement. “Just as bad as it looks.”
Drink number two is simpler, green tea with mango-flavoured pearls. Zhou Zishu calls it an improvement and Wen Kexing disagrees, saying it tastes like a candle. They both like the matcha with red beans, but take off a point for the powdery texture. After trying the last one, jasmine tea with cheese foam, Zhou Zishu goes on a questioning tangent about what cheese foam even is.
Wen Kexing smirks and says, deadpan: “You tell me. You’re the dairy expert in the family.” That scores him some of the cheese foam in the middle of his forehead, and he’s not shy to retaliate. Zhou Zishu has the foam sliding down his ears by the time A-Xiang screams them down, unimpressed: “Great. You two can fix this shit in editing.”
While safely on Wen Kexing’s payroll, Zhou Zishu doesn’t need to keep his old tutoring gig. He does it, anyway.
It’s for a kid from one of the affluent residential areas, with three cars and a house the size of a small palace. They pay by the minute and provide enough snacks to constitute a banquet dinner. Moreover, Zhang Chengling himself is surprisingly humble — and so bad at history that Zhou Zishu can’t just let him fend for himself before his upcoming zhongkao. He’s trying to be a better person, after all.
“Zishu-ge, can I ask you something?”
Zhou Zishu is scrolling through his phone while Zhang Chengling should be transcribing the timeline of the Spring and Autumn period. “Ask me once you get to the Warring States.”
Zhang Chengling bites his lip but returns to his notes. It takes almost half an hour until he sets his pen down with a wince and turns to Zhou Zishu. He opens his mouth a few times, closes it, like he’s blowing invisible bubbles. It’s concerning. He finally says: “Zishu-ge, do you have a boyfriend?”
Zhou Zishu almost chokes on the rice cracker he’s been chewing. Chengling attempts to pat him on the back, but Zhou Zishu shoos his hands away. “What kind of question is that?!”
“It’s just that – I saw you in this video? Trying different milk teas? It did look like it was you, Zishu-ge, I swear! But maybe it wasn’t. Maybe you have a secret twin...”
Zhou Zishu balls up the plastic wrapper in his fist, clears the rest of the spicy mush out of his throat, and stands up, with none of the dignity he wishes to project. “I need the bathroom. You better be halfway through the Qin dynasty by the time I’m back, or so help me.”
Zhang Chengling doesn’t get that far, though the handwriting in his notebook turns so atrocious it does suggest he’d tried. He doesn’t bring the video up again. The following week, however, there’s a red-bean matcha milk tea waiting for Zhou Zishu at the office table.
*SOULMATE* TAG! How well do we know each other?
by Philanthropist Wen
3 days ago . 1, 009, 921 views
WKX: [holding a stack of notecards] Okay, A-Xu. Let’s get the party started. What was the first thing I said to you?
ZZS: Easy. Do you give out smiles for free, too?
WKX: [laughing nervously] He’s joking! Heh-heh-heh. Be serious, please.
ZZS: [after a pause] You are my soulmate?
WKX: Are you asking me?
ZZS: I mean, that’s what you said!
WKX: Alright, alright. A-Xiang, is he right?
GX: [off camera] That’s a point for you, Zishu-ge.
WKX: Moving on. Do I have any allergies?
ZZS: [looking behind the camera for help, getting nudged into the ribs] Uuh, you’re allergic to pollen?
GX: [booing] No points for generic answers!
WKX: Sorry, A-Xu, we told you that’s a rule. I’m allergic to daffodils.
ZZS: Daffodil pollen, surely?
WKX: You only get one try. Next. When is my birthday?
ZZS: These questions are so boring. Are you asking your soulmate, or your physician?
WKX: My birthday, A-Xu?
ZZS: July. Twenty-something.
WKX: [disappointed shake of the head, looks behind the camera]
GX: June ninth. Are you even trying?
…
WKX: Alright, A-Xiang, what’s the final tally?
GX: You don’t want to know.
WKX: We do! Come on, how bad was it?
ZZS: The questions were ridiculous! How was I supposed to know the name of your first dog? Do you know what was my darkest childhood secret?
GX: You got three points, Zishu-ge. Out of thirty.
ZZS: [stubborn silence]
Wen Kexing calls it a practice date before their TV interview. Zhou Zishu calls it Friday night dinner. Terminology aside, Wen Kexing cooks up a small feast and Zhou Zishu brings a bottle of wine—one from a boutique wine shop that he looked up online and cycled forty minutes to, just to choose a rosé that could pass for a supermarket brand. He claims he doesn’t taste the difference, but he does, Zhou Zishu catches himself thinking. At least I know that much.
He’d like to think that he knows more, really. He knows, without having to ask, that Wen Kexing absolutely hates getting sick, because it means giving up control. That when he needs cheering up, he watches those cringeworthy fail compilations, of cakes falling apart and people getting hit by sliding doors. He knows that Wen Kexing believes his way of showing affection is equal parts insults and flattery, but it’s actually the opposite, all the unspoken acts of service, like making sure Zhou Zishu’s tea hasn’t gone cold, or that Gu Xiang doesn’t wear the holey socks anymore. And that most of the money he makes goes straight into a savings account in her name, one that she doesn’t even know about.
Still, three out of thirty sounds like a damning result.
Once they’re on their second glass of wine and the conversation is flowing easily between politics, one-sided complaints about Gu Xiang’s boyfriend, and ranking insects based on sting toxicity, Zhou Zishu feels comfortable enough to breach his secret agenda.
“So. If you only had three more years to live, what would you do with them?” he asks, off-handedly, like he’s asking about Wen Kexing’s favourite laundry detergent.
Wen Kexings narrows his eyes and sets his glass on the table. “A-Xu. Why – A-Xu, are you sick?”
He looks like he’s going to throw up and Zhou Zishu winces. “No, heavens! I’m just. Wondering, you know, it’s an interesting question. Have you never thought about it?”
“Have you?”
“Can you never answer me directly?” Zhou Zishu says, closes his eyes with a heavy sigh. It quickly melts into a smile. “I guess I wouldn’t change much. Just try to make the most of the time. Make myself useful, spend time with good people.”
“Hm.” Wen Kexings studies him for a long time, biting his lip. Finally, he extends his arm and toasts to the words. Crisis averted.
“What’s your favourite season?”
“Spring.”
“Do you have any siblings?”
“Just Gu Xiang, on her good days. Other times she’s more of a headache, like a puppy.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“I do, but – A-Xu, what is this? Why are you interrogating me?”
Zhou Zishu shrugs and takes a gulp of his wine. Wen Kexing’s face lights up like he’s found a wallet on the street, and there is nobody around to see him pick it up. “Is this about the video?”
“What video?”
“Oh, it is!” His eyes sparkle and he leans across the table, lowers his voice to say: “You’re trying to get to know me.”
Zhou Zishu briefly considers denying it, but his resolve has too many holes and even the thought of patching it up makes him weary. “Perhaps. Indulge me?”
It turns out that Zhou Zishu does know him, and learns a lot more about him. Wen Kexing’s never wanted to be an internet celebrity, and doesn’t want to be one forever. His fondest memory is of meeting Gu Xiang, when he caught her stealing candy at a supermarket and helped her get away with it. He grew up in a small town but moved to the city with his parents, when they got a job at a pharmaceutical factory to pay for his studies. They died a year later, when he was seven.
Wen Kexing gets them another bottle of wine, a truly cheap one that he fishes out from the depths of his kitchen cupboard. Somehow, their feet get tangled under the table. Zhou Zishu feels warm, and the wine makes his tongue loose. “What do you have against Tai Hu Corp?”
“They’re an evil corporation that exploits their workers,” Wen Kexing says. The answer is quick, practised, with an even cadence. He’s not inviting further questions, though his gaze slips to the floor.
“Obviously. But what do you, personally, have against them?”
“I think every decent person should have something against them.”
“Fine. Don’t answer me, then,” Zhou Zishu grumbles and kicks Wen Kexing’s shin. He yelps, but his shoulders relax, and Zhou Zishu only then realises how the question had made him stiffen, like a doe before an oncoming train. He frowns into his glass. “This wine is so bad. I can’t believe we’re drinking it.”
“I didn’t peg you for a wine snob, A-Xu,” Wen Kexing smirks. “You’ll have to buy more of your expensive rosé, next time.”
Lao Wen:
A-Xu! Are you on the way?? It’s almost 10
me:
relax. i’m just leaving.
Lao Wen:
Great. Can you pick up some rice on the way? A big pack. I didn’t want to lug it with my groceries yesterday.
me:
is that… why you’re texting me?
Lao Wen:
No! But it would be silly not to ask, if I’m already texting you!
Also making sure you won’t chicken out.
It’s just practice, A-Xu. We’ve got to get this down before the interview.
me:
says the person who can’t kiss my cheek without cracking up
Lao Wen:
YOu try it, then! I never claimed to be a good actor
me:
as if kissing my cheek requires you to act
tell that to the clingy freak who used me as a personal pillow last night
Lao Wen:
soups burning, g2g
get the rice please!
The TV interview goes well, and Luo Fumeng gives him a small bonus for completing the contract. Wen Kexing doesn’t mention anything about their own arrangement. Zhou Zishu doesn’t ask.
Once he’s not obliged to be its fake spokesperson, he tries signing up for the Soulmark App. Just out of curiosity. It asks him a bunch of personal questions that he makes up the answers for, and requests him to provide pictures of all the moles on his body. Praying that Luo Fumeng used a strong encryption code when designing the app, he grudgingly uploads pictures of two moles: one real one, on his right knee, and a sharpie smudge on his elbow.
When the app pings with his first potential match, Wen Kexing abandons the book he’s reading and hooks his chin over Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “Open it up, I want to see.”
His match is a junior doctor from Beijing, with a warm smile and a host of shared interests. Her photos are a careful curation of her hobbies: a fluffy Yorkshire terrier, a collection of badminton medals, and about six pictures of food.
“Those noodles look so dry, did she forget the sauce? Do you like zhajiangmian, A-Xu? I can make some for dinner.”
“That would be great,” Zhou Zishu says, and closes the app.
Wen Kexing tries to go back to reading but ends up grumbling about how phones have completely destroyed his attention span.
“We should do a detox, hm? No technology for the weekend.”
“ You are the influencer here.”
“Which is why I need your support in this!”
Zhou Zishu hands over his phone with no qualms; right after he’s deleted the Soulmark App, anyway.
🟊☆☆☆☆
Bennet Lim 23/09/2021
Useless
the app matched me with someone who chews ice-cubes. that’s all you need to know.
--
🟊🟊🟊🟊🟊 ☆
winglessMoth 08/10/2021
Soulmate BFFs
So I’ve been using this app for the last 5 months to find my soulmate and I was starting to get really frustrated. But this is the real deal, guys, just stick with it! And remember you don’t need to get a lot of matching moles – one is enough. I met my BFF on this app and we’ve just moved in together. She really gets me, more than any boyfriend I’ve ever had. Thanks Soulmark!! x
--
🟊🟊🟊☆☆
playstationstation 15/10/2021
invasive and bugged
the concept is ok if you’re bored and want to meet some people, but the execution is terrible. it asks you upload pictures of your body but there’s nothing in the user agreement about how the data is protected. it matches you with people regardless of location, which is just silly. also, soulmates don’t exist?? it’s just a marketing term y’all!
--
🟊☆☆☆☆
YBY1909 09/11/2021
superficial and misleading
i guess this is just another example of how the younger generation wants to make everything easier for themselves. look, first of all, soulmates are made, not found. if you don’t put in any effort, have fun living by yourself in your 3x3 studio, crying into your pizza. second, moles are gross and the only people taking pictures of them should be the doctors removing them. save yourself the time and get a hobby.
Their first fight comes out of nowhere, when Wen Kexing finds out that Zhou Zishu has booked a part-time hairdressing gig.
“Since when can you cut people’s hair? You’ve never mentioned it! Are you just making it up?”
“You never asked. It’s not something I can just drop into a conversation.”
“Truly?” Wen Kexing asks, eyebrows up to his hairline, and queues up a video on his phone, one that they’d filmed two weeks ago: featuring Wen Kexing trying the latest hairstyle trends for winter.
Zhou Zishu doesn’t say anything and Wen Kexing turns the video off halfway, huffing into the ensuing silence: “Is it because you don’t like this job, A-Xu?”
Zhou Zishu purses his lips.
What does it even mean, to like a job? He doesn’t mind the tutoring, though Chengling is actively forgetting more information than he seems to be acquiring. He’d enjoyed the nagging jokes of his disbanded table tennis team, had liked the organic milk gig because the supermarket was close to his house. He’d spent three months working on a construction site and kept turning up day after day just to enjoy the sunshine.
He’s long since stopped thinking about his jobs in terms of liking them. The only evaluation scale worth considering is how far removed his new ventures are from that job. Working for his cousin’s telemarketing company, designing barely-legal ads trying to cheat old people out of their money, and dodging hundreds of disappointed calls on the daily, informing the unfortunate customers that they’ve failed to read the fine print.
Zhou Zishu stays quiet as he considers this, as he thinks of Qin-shu’s motto. Yes, a job is good if it puts food on the table, but it’s also good as long as it doesn’t make Zhou Zishu feel guilty. And playing this game with Wen Kexing? It might no longer fulfill that criteria.
Wen Kexing, of course, interprets his silence in a different way. His face hardens into a fake smile and he straightens his spine, nodding. “Well, you probably won’t have as much time, with two jobs. Maybe we should amend your rates.”
He avoids Zhou Zishu’s eyes for a long time, until the other man stands up and grabs his jacket. “If you still think I’m doing this for the money, Lao Wen, then maybe we should stop altogether.”
He leaves, before giving Wen Kexing a chance to respond. The thing about guilt is, it is a hard thing to shake off, and yet so easy to indulge in.
Formal Complaint against Soulmark (LLC)
To whom it may concern,
I am writing to file a formal complaint about the soulmate-matching software owned by Soulmark (LLC). I have registered on the application in late August, and have had several unpleasant experiences, none of which have been addressed by the company’s customer services.
Firstly, Soulmark has repeatedly imposed a ban on my account, despite me having zero policy violations. It has stifled my voice and curtailed my freedom of speech when I tried to warn other users about its practices. Upon contacting the company for more information, I have only been given flimsy excuses about violating user policies against self-promotion.
Secondly, although the company claims to perform its matching based on corresponding mole-placement, I have found this to be flawed. I received multiple matches and not one of them had moles in precisely matching spots. I have even ran into cases where the moles were several centimetres off!
Furthermore, the marketing that the company uses is borderline fraudulent.
...
Zhou Zishu spends the next two days day-drinking and stalking Wen Kexing’s social media. Wen Kexing spends them not posting anything on social media. It’s the most effective self-inflicted punishment Zhou Zishu can think of: refreshing his profile, clicking through old videos, responding to hateful trolls with the creativity of a 10-year old who has just discovered swear words.
The end of their spat, though, is almost anti-climactic.
Gu Xiang:
did ge tell u?
Zhou Zishu:
tell me what?
Gu Xiang:
so he didn’t. ok. forget it.
actually, don’t. ur both idiots, go talk 2 him
She ignores the rest of his messages, only sending one more picture of a ticking time bomb.
When Zhou Zishu gets to Wen Kexing’s flat, he’s expecting some degree of carnage. Drunkenness and really bad karaoke. Curtains drawn and sweaty pyjamas. Instead, he finds Wen Kexing stress baking.
He opens the door for Zhou Zishu, furrows his eyebrows, rolls his eyes, and greets him with: “A-Xu, you better like cheesecake.”
He doesn’t, but dutifully eats a slice of both the matcha and the caramel one, and three different cookies that Wen Kexing piles onto a plate. They give him something to occupy himself with, while Wen Kexing whips the batter for whatever dessert he’s decided to make next. He keeps his back to Zhou Zishu, cracks the eggs in a way that’s bound to get some of the shells mixed in, and turns on the mixer each time Zhou Zishu opens his mouth to speak.
“What did you say?” he asks, at last, turning and smudging a bit of the batter on his cheek.
“Are you opening a bakery?”
The mixer whirs in reply. Zhou Zishu swallows another mouthful of cookies before trying again. “Look, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that. I know you’re mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you,” Wen Kexing says, facing away again, busy fiddling with the oven settings.
“Really.”
“Yeah.”
“Well.” Zhou Zishu clears his throat. The oven beeps a few times; it reminds him of A-Xiang’s timebomb. “That’s good, then.”
“It is.”
The cake tin gets slammed into the oven just as Zhou Zishu stands up and takes a tentative step forward. Wen Kexing turns his attention to the mountain of dishes in the sink. “But you’re right, A-Xu. You shouldn’t have left like that.”
He scrubs at the dishes, shoulders tight, elbows sharp and dangerous. Zhou Zishu is even more cautious with his next step, like he’s walking on a mountain trail, looking at the rocks below. One wrong movement and he could get himself impaled, stabbed on Wen Kexing’s pointy bones and rightful indignation. He reaches for his shoulder, first. “Lao Wen.”
Wen Kexing doesn’t drop the sponge, but he leans into the touch. He tries to hold onto his mask, stubborn, squeezing his lips together into a pale line. Up close, however, Zhou Zishu can see it: the faintest hint of smugness, playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Did you like the cake?”
“Yes?”
“A bakery isn’t such a bad idea. Maybe.” Wen Kexing nods to himself. “Gu Xiang would love it. Do you think she could deal with the customers? She doesn’t have much patience for people’s questions, but with some training –”
“Lao Wen, what are you saying?”
Zhou Zishu waits until Wen Kexing dries off his hands and turns to face him. His eyes are trained on the floor, unfocused. There’s still that smudge of batter under his right eye, just the tiniest speck of brown. Like a new beauty mark. Zhou Zishu wipes it off with his thumb and his palm curls around Wen Kexing’s cheek, shifting his face upwards, forcing him to lift his gaze.
“You said you didn’t want to be my fake internet soulmate anymore, A-Xu,” Wen Kexing says. He pushes his face further into Zhou Zishu’s hold, another hint of that suppressed smile. “And that’s fine. I don’t want you – I don’t need you to be. But I want you to stick around.”
“Good,” Zhou Zishu says, humming. He tilts his chin towards Wen Kexing, his lips part: “We seem to be on the same page.”
The kiss is unbalanced, lips meeting halfway, the attempt more notable than the execution. Wen Kexing laughs against Zhou Zishu’s lips when they break apart, a self-conscious thing. The second one is more measured. Still intention over touch, but it doesn’t matter; they feel like they can hear each other’s heartbeats in it. On the third one, they melt into each other, Wen Kexing wrapping his arms around his neck, Zhou Zishu crowding him against the kitchen counter. It lasts until the oven beeps, breaking them apart.
It’s Zhou Zishu’s turn to act smug, while Wen Kexing fights off his hands and hurries to save the cake, dropping it on the table without checking on its state. He falls back into Zhou Zishu’s hold straight away. The cake ends up being half-raw.
“Not a bakery, then,” Wen Kexing says, later, pouting over its sunken middle.
“Do you really want to abandon your fans, Lao Wen? Now that you’ve got a real soulmate to flaunt?”
Wen Kexing grins at him. It’s curious, really; Tai Hu has given him a legal warning, his videos might get pulled for slander, all of his accounts might soon be locked. But even as he shared the news, body still pressed against Zhou Zishu’s, speaking into the dip below his collarbone, he wouldn’t stop smiling.
“Maybe I don’t want to share.”
12 Bizarre Apps That Society Almost Forgot About
10. The Soulmark App
One of the biggest fads from 2021, this app was all people were talking about last fall. Allegedly matching soulmates based on their moles ( ew!), we couldn’t get enough of chatting to strangers who claimed to be our missing half. In the end, all it took was one scientific study debunking the concept, a few cases of data leaks, and rumours about how the company hired actors to promote their fake matches, and we woke up from our collective mania. Thank goodness! Dating apps are already hell to navigate, let’s not throw in cosmic destiny to make our relationships feel even more inadequate.
Luo-yi carefully picks an auspicious date and consults it with her friend, a renowned feng shui master. She orders enough silk that the fabric could engulf the whole building, wrap it up like an over-large crimson present. On the day of the celebration, three different guests trip over a flower arrangement, strewn as they are across the whole room. Only one needs to see a doctor.
“Isn’t it a little excessive?” Zhou Zishu asks, as they watch the injured uncle get carried out in a wheelchair.
“She only had eight orchid baskets for the daycare’s grand opening,” Wen Kexing says, wincing when the wheelchair rattles over the threshold. “The more luck she can get, the better. Besides, all this planning...” He lowers his voice and bumps Zhou Zishu’s shoulder. “It’s good practice.”
He runs off to help A-Xiang hand out the refreshments, greeting more guests by the main door. Zhou Zishu feels the imprint of the words on his temple, a faint tickle that travels down his spine and leaves him fighting off a smile.
The closure of Luo-yi’s daycare was not so much a matter of luck, rather than her loss of interest. One day, she simply declared she’d heard enough temper tantrums to last her a lifetime, and set off to search for a new business venture. Adults are just as immature as children, but they’re not so loud about it, she’d said, and, in the spirit of new beginnings, also removed the Soulmark App from all its platforms. Instead, she poured her energy into a brand new company: a pre-marital counselling service. There’s already been enough interest that she now puts clients on a waitlist.
“You know I’ll find a spot for you two,” Luo-yi tells him later, when the celebratory karaoke is in full swing. “You just need to pull your head out of your –”
“Thank you, Luo-yi!” Zhou Zishu interrupts her, and refills her glass with more baijiu. He glares at Wen Kexing, who’s left him in her company to play protective older brother, karaoke edition. He’s currently on his fifth song in a row, trying to hold off the duet that Cao Weining has queued up for for himself and A-Xiang. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“He’s a good boy, you know,” Luo-yi says, sniffling, and perhaps more baijiu is a bad idea. ”Stupid and stubborn. But good, even when he doesn’t act like it.”
“I know.”
“He’s really soft-hearted, too. You know how long he’s held that grudge, because of his parents.”
“I know.”
He does. Fifteen years and counting, since Wen Kexing’s parents died, working themselves to sickness and exhaustion at a Tai Hu factory. Twelve years since he’s started looking for retribution. Ten since he had moved in with Luo Fumeng, whose business idea for an e-commerce platform got stolen by the Tai Hu founder. Six months since he’s gone back to school, starting a law degree.
“So don’t you dare hurt him, Zishu,” Luo-yi says, off-handedly, as she forces a glass of liquor into his hands. “I can hold a grudge just as well.”
Zhou Zishu downs the alcohol and breathes in relief when Wen Kexing climbs off the makeshift stage and circles back to them, sitting on Zhou Zishu’s lap rather than his empty chair. “A-Xu, you’ve got to help me! He wants to serenade her after this. We can’t let him embarrass her like that.”
They embarrass themselves instead, several songs over. He tries to convince Wen Kexing that they should go home. It’s getting late, he’s got to be up early for his woodworking gig the next day, and the booing from the audience is starting to sound more in-tune than their performance. However, Luo-yi keeps glaring at him from behind her bottle, so he agrees to stick around for song after song.
The party winds down just after ten, the goodbyes take another hour, and the cleanup gets put on hold when Luo-yi falls asleep standing. A-Xiang draws the short straw and calls a taxi to take her home, while Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing decide to walk, chilly spring air be damned.
“I always knew she made the whole soulmate thing up. Just for a clever marketing spin,” Wen Kexing says, rounding the corner, after a few minutes of silence. He looks down at his hand, at the mole on his ring finger. “But it still makes me sad, how quickly people wrote it off. Is that silly, A-Xu?”
It’s not the first time he’s asked the question, but it’s the first time Zhou Zishu doesn’t side-step it, doesn’t joke about tempting fate or grumble about freedom of choice.
“It is,” he says. Wen Kexing slows his feet, his breath hitches, and Zhou Zishu hurries to grab his palm, to stroke a finger across the brown mark. “Who cares what other people think?”