Chapter Text
Wenlang stood in a room that didn't feel like his own.
The walls were bare, yet the air seemed dense, pressing gently against his chest as though it carried memories he couldn't quite reach. The quiet was unnerving—too quiet—and for the first time in years, Wenlang felt vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed himself. His gaze drifted across the room, slow and deliberate, until it landed on a small desk near the corner.
A bottle of lime juice.
Unopened.
Beside it, a slightly worn group photo lay half-tilted, edges curling with age. He picked it up instinctively, without thinking, and his fingers trembled as he traced the familiar shapes of faces he had long since stopped noticing. And there, unmistakably, was Gao Tu.
The memory struck him like a sudden gust of wind.
No—he corrected himself.
It wasn't just a memory. It was a truth he had buried.
The day Gao Tu joined the company—the day he had chosen him.
Out of all the candidates, out of all the resumes and potential assistants, he had paused, longer than he should have, on Gao Tu's file. Every part of him wanted to dismiss it, to make a safe, rational choice. But something deeper, something unreasoning and stubborn, had compelled him to say, almost automatically:
"Appoint him."
No hesitation. No second thought.
Just a quiet certainty that he could not explain.
And now, here it was—the proof of a decision he hadn't questioned, the tether to a past he had tried to keep locked away.
He looked down at the photo again. Gao Tu stood there, calm, composed, just close enough to feel intimate, yet distant enough to feel untouchable. His expression was unreadable, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
Why would he keep this?
A faint sound cut through the stillness of the dream, soft and hesitant, almost like the echo of a voice carried through a long tunnel:
"...Wenlang..."
The sound made Wenlang's chest tighten. He spun around, the photograph slipping slightly from his grip. "Gao Tu?" he called, his voice sharper than he intended.
No one.
Only the oppressive quiet.
"...Wenlang..."
The voice came again, closer this time, threaded with something intimate, something desperate that tugged at a part of Wenlang he had long ignored. His heart began to pound. He swallowed hard, but his throat felt too tight.
Then, like shattered glass, memories began to fracture and flicker before his eyes.
A younger Gao Tu approached his desk, silent, carrying a folded piece of paper. Wenlang had accepted the note, puzzled at the care in the movement, but had never thought much of it.
A farewell day—chaotic, loud, filled with the chatter and cries of departing students. Wenlang had waited at the school gate, the autumn wind pulling at his coat, his eyes scanning the crowd for one familiar figure. Gao Tu should have been there. He would have been there. And yet... he never came.
The crowd thinned, the voices faded, and Wenlang had finally turned away, a quiet weight settling in his chest. He had carried the disappointment silently, burying it deep beneath years of routine, professionalism, and careful control. But now, in this dream, the weight pressed against him again, heavier than ever.
Then—a sudden, jarring shift.
The office. The polished floors gleaming under fluorescent lights, the faint hum of the city beyond the glass walls. The moment Gao Tu had walked into his life again—steady, calm, unreadable. The way his posture had conveyed confidence without arrogance, and the careful politeness that masked something far more complex. Wenlang's memory sharpened.
It wasn't just the arrival. It was the decision that had preceded it.
He remembered seeing Gao Tu's name on the candidate list. Something inside him had flickered—a spark he hadn't recognized. And before rational thought could intervene, before he could analyze resumes or interview performance, he had made the choice.
"Appoint him."
No second thought. No lingering questions. Just instinct.
"...Wenlang..."
The voice came again, closer now, warmer, threaded with a yearning he couldn't place. It brushed against him like a whisper on bare skin, unsettling, intimate, and maddening all at once.
Wenlang's heart raced. He wanted to turn, to find the source, to call out—but the air seemed thick, unyielding. And yet, the voice persisted, drawing him forward, pulling him into the center of memories he had long tried to forget.
He turned—
And woke up.
His eyes snapped open, breath uneven.
The dim light of his bedroom settled around him, pulling him back into reality. He stayed still for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his heartbeat slow but heavy.
A dream.
Just a dream.
"...Tch."
He pushed himself up slightly, running a hand through his hair.
He pressed a hand against his forehead, trying to push away the lingering images—the classroom, the school gate, the office, the photograph, the bottle. All of it pressed on him, relentless, insistent.
"...Ridiculous," he muttered, voice low, almost angry at himself.
They had spent the entire evening together—business party, endless conversations, careful smiles, and the subtle, practiced gestures that made Wenlang feel both secure and exposed. Gao Tu had been at his side the whole time, precise, silent in ways that comforted and unsettled him.
Even after the business dinner ended, Gao Tu had escorted him home personally, just as always, making sure everything was in order before slipping away quietly. Nothing unusual, nothing extraordinary—just the routine he had grown accustomed to.
And yet...
Even as he reminded himself of the logic of the situation, even as he repeated "it's just a dream," the memory of that farewell day gnawed at him. Waiting at the school gate, hope twisting into disappointment as Gao Tu never appeared. The hollow ache of ten years buried in the corners of his heart.
His fingers twitched, curling instinctively around the unseen—wanting to hold the photograph, the bottle, the memory itself.
It was absurd. Impossible. Yet the dream had left a mark.
Wenlang closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, trying to steady his racing thoughts. He had appointed Gao Tu himself, chosen him for reasons he didn't even understand. And now, after all these years, all these decisions carefully hidden behind control and professionalism, something in him was waking, demanding acknowledgment.
But the rational part of Wenlang's brain never let him for to have any distraction which he considers this to be, he ran a hand over his face, trying to steady his breath.
"It's just a dream," he muttered to himself, his voice low, almost a hiss. "It doesn't mean anything. I can brush it off. Forget it. End of story."
He leaned back against his pillow, closing his eyes, willing the strange images—the lime juice, the photograph, the voice calling his name—to fade into nothingness. Dreams were just that: illusions, tricks of the mind.
But the room... didn't obey.
The air thickened, almost viscous, pressing down on his chest. It was subtle at first, a gentle weight, like the calm before a storm. Then it intensified, a creeping suffocation that made the walls feel smaller, the ceiling closer. Shadows seemed to lengthen unnaturally, stretching across his room in impossible angles. Every sound—the distant hum of the city, the soft rustle of his curtains—suddenly carried an edge, as though the room itself were holding its breath.
Wenlang's fingers tightened around the bedsheet. Something was wrong.
Then, a voice was heard.
"You cannot skip this dream," it said.
The words reverberated in his mind rather than in his ears, curling around his thoughts like a vine, relentless and inescapable.
Wenlang froze. "Who... who's there?" he demanded, though his own voice sounded small, swallowed by the oppressive atmosphere.
Silence answered him for a heartbeat—then the voice continued, calm, almost cruelly measured:
"If you ignore it... if you continue to pretend it means nothing... you will lose what is most precious to you. The treasure of your life. The one you refuse to see."
Wenlang's heart thudded violently. His mind raced.
Treasure? Gao Tu? Impossible. He could not even entertain the thought. It was just a dream. A trick. A fleeting feeling conjured by the subconscious.
"I don't... I don't need this," he muttered, pushing himself up, trying to shake the suffocating weight pressing down on him. "It's nothing. Just a stupid dream. I've spent my life ignoring distractions. I don't—"
"—You will not be able to ignore this," the voice interrupted, cutting through his protest like a blade. "If you refuse to see... if you refuse to understand... it will slip away. Everything you shared, everything you hoped... gone. Forgotten. Lost."
The room felt smaller now, the shadows pressing closer, the air burning in his lungs. Wenlang's hand gripped the edge of the mattress, knuckles white, as panic began to claw at him.
"Stop... stop this," he hissed, head spinning. "I said it's nothing! It doesn't matter!"
But the voice didn't relent. It whispered, patient, knowing, almost teasing in its power:
"You cannot run from this dream, Wenlang. The treasure of your life... will not wait. If you do not seek the truth, you will wake one day... and it will be gone. Only your work, only your office... and nothing else will remain. And yet... you will remember nothing of what you have lost."
Wenlang's breath caught in his throat. His mind screamed, trying to rationalize, to fight it, to brush it off like it was the ramblings of his imagination.
Wenlang thought to himself, why should such a simple task, require tis kind of super exaggeration, he could simple ask Gao tu, go to his room to check about the juice & photo...What's exciting in this..?
The voice cut through the room, low and deliberate, carrying a sharp edge that made Wenlang flinch.
"Really, Wenlang... do you think this is going to be that easy?" it sneered, each word dripping with mockery. "You can't just stroll up to them and ask. No, no... that's far too simple for someone like you."
Wenlang's stomach twisted. "What... what do you mean?" he demanded, though his voice trembled.
The voice laughed softly, cruel and precise, as if amused at his confusion.
"You are forbidden from doing that. Yes, forbidden. One little question, one tiny hint, and—poof!—the curse will strike. The person you care about, the one whose heart you've toyed with... will forget everything about you. Every laugh, every shared memory, every secret. They'll remember you only as a colleague. A boss. Nothing more. Gone. Just... gone."
Wenlang's pulse jumped. "Disappear... from my life?"
"Oh, of course," the voice continued, sarcastic, slow, like it was explaining a simple fact to a child. "Disappear. All your precious history with them? Erased. Vanished. And guess what? You get a nice little timer to make things interesting."
"Timer?" Wenlang echoed, his throat tight.
"Yes. Three days. That's right—three whole days to sniff out the truth behind the little act they've been playing all these years. Fail, ignore, or just stare at your feet like the genius you are... and the curse activates automatically. Memories gone. Poof. Treasure lost. Forever. Isn't that delightful?"
The room seemed to close in, the shadows thickening as though the walls themselves were leaning in to watch him squirm.
"And now, Wenlang, you have a choice. But make no mistake," the voice said, sharp and commanding, every word a whip against his conscience, "one false step and you lose them. Completely. Do you understand? Good. Then... be smart. Decide wisely. Or don't. And see what happens."
Wenlang's chest tightened, his hands clenching the bedsheets. The voice, mocking yet precise, had stripped away every comfort, leaving only fear—and a bitter, mocking challenge.
This wasn't a dream anymore.
This was a command.
The next morning, Wenlang sat behind his polished desk, staring blankly at the papers before him, though his mind was nowhere near work. The sunlight streaming through the tall windows of his office did nothing to warm him; it only highlighted the storm inside him. Three days. Three impossible, suffocating days to uncover a secret he couldn't confront directly.
He ran a hand through his hair, muttering, "Think... observe... don't ask... don't..."
The office door opened quietly. Gao Tu stepped in, calm as ever, his posture measured, his expression carefully neutral. But Wenlang noticed the subtle tension beneath the surface—the faint tightness in his shoulders, the way his eyes flickered momentarily before meeting Wenlang's gaze.
Gao Tu approached the desk, producing a neatly folded piece of paper from his folder. Every movement was precise, controlled, as if he were walking a tightrope.
"I'm resigning," Gao Tu said, voice calm but quiet, almost rehearsed. He placed the paper in front of Wenlang, sliding it gently across the desk.
Wenlang froze. His fingers hovered over the paper. His pulse quickened.
Gao Tu continued, carefully, "The reason... my omega is pregnant. I cannot continue working here under these circumstances."
Wenlang's mind screamed. His omega...? His heart thundered in his chest, and suddenly the curse's warning from the dream hit him with crystal clarity. This was it. The first ripple. Gao Tu was already taking steps to leave him.
And yet, Wenlang also understood something else—the truth behind the resignation letter was not the whole truth. Gao Tu's words were carefully measured, vague. His omega wasn't someone else. It was his... child. Their child.
Gao Tu, meanwhile, was completely unaware of any curse. He didn't know that Wenlang had been warned, that every step was a potential disaster. He only knew that he couldn't tell the truth—couldn't tell Wenlang that the child growing inside him was theirs. Not yet. Not ever. He couldn't risk the shock, the complications, the impossible questions he couldn't answer.
Every step he had taken toward handing over the resignation had been painstakingly calculated. Keep it professional. Keep it calm. Keep the truth hidden. Protect the secret.
He watched Wenlang freeze, his fingers hovering over the paper. His stomach twisted. He wanted to explain, to reassure him, to tell him everything. But he couldn't. Not now. Not in the confines of the office, with the unspoken stakes between them.
So he remained still, expression neutral, voice steady. "I'll finalize all pending tasks before leaving. Everything will be handled professionally."
Wenlang's mind raced. He couldn't ask directly. He couldn't confront him. And yet, he couldn't ignore it either. The curse, the ultimatum, the ticking clock in his mind—it pressed down on him with unbearable weight.
Gao Tu, oblivious to all of this, felt only a quiet dread gnawing at him. He had concealed his omega identity for years. He had hidden his love. He had hidden the child. And now, with a single resignation letter, he had revealed the first sliver of truth.
He turned to leave, his steps deliberate, measured. The door clicked softly behind him. He didn't look back. He couldn't. He couldn't risk revealing more than he already had.
Wenlang sat frozen, staring at the paper. His mind spun, heart pounding. Three days... The curse, the rules, the warnings—every instinct screamed at him. He had to uncover the truth. He had to save what was theirs. But how? How could he act without asking, without exposing the secret prematurely, without losing everything?
Outside the office, Gao Tu exhaled quietly, leaning against the wall for a brief moment. He felt the weight of his own secret pressing down on him. He had no idea that unseen forces had already begun weaving a dangerous game around him. He only knew that one wrong move could ruin everything, though he didn't yet know what "everything" truly meant.
And inside, Wenlang's mind raced, calculating, planning, desperate.
The next three days would decide everything.