Work Text:
Shen Yuan’s last memory is of the Endless Abyss gaping open—an enormous tear in reality, wind howling around him.
Luo Binghe is right there.
Close enough to shove. To push him down into the darkness and hope he lives.
Hope he dies, never to come back for revenge.
Close enough to grab by the shoulders. To pull him closer, back to safety.
And that is the problem.
Shen Yuan’s hand lifts without meaning to.
He freezes, uncertain—but the world doesn’t pause for such a choice; an invisible clock ticks mercilessly.
[ERROR: MULTIPLE UNAUTHORIZED CHANGES DETECTED]
[ERROR: NARRATIVE DEVIATION > 87%]
[PUNISHMENT PROTOCOL PREPARATIONS…]
Someone next to them screams, but instead of desolation, grief, fear—
there is fury.
“This is such fucking bullshit! I didn’t spend years on this just for you to wipe it clean!”
Shen Yuan’s eyes snap to the source.
He meets Shang Qinghua’s gaze. It feels as if they’re locked together for eternity, the entire world forgotten. The mousy man’s cheeks are flushed red, his hands are clenched into tight fists, arguing with empty air—if you weren’t a transmigrator.
“ —shizun? Shizun?!” Luo Binghe looks both angry and afraid, more so than when Mobei-jun had been ragdolling everyone in sight.
[CRITICAL FAILURE!]
[PUNISHMENT PROTOCOL INTIALIZATION FAILED]
And the System—
glitches.
[ERROR: N̷A̷R̷R̷A̷T̷I̷V̷E̷ D̷E̷V̷I̷A̷T̷I̷O̷N̷ > 90%]
[WARNING: SYSTEM STABILITY — COMPROMISED]
[ENTERING DEBUGGING MODE…]
“What the fuck does that mean?!”
He manages one last shout, this time out loud—catching Luo Binghe’s confused, scandalised expression—
And then—
Black.
When he opens his eyes, he’s in a room with Shang Qinghua.
If it even is a room.
If it ever has been Shang Qinghua.
So many impossibilities in one place make Shen Yuan's head spin.
Walls writhe in gray, red, black, pulsing with blaring alerts, colours twist. Warp.
Shen Yuan has learned to navigate the System’s shitty rules with grim, grinding competence over months—years—in PIDW world.
Lines of code cascade down the edges of his vision. Somewhere inside that waterfall of corrupted data is the command he’s supposed to execute.
The one that forsakes Luo Binghe.
[BUGS IDENTIFIED]
[REFACTOR INITIALIZED]
“Oh no, you don’t—”
He lunges.
The system messages are almost tangible now—threads of the dissolving holographic window, something not meant to be touched—and somehow—
he grabs.
“I won’t go back—not to that drivel of a novel!”
“Hey!” Shang Qinghua shouts, up until now silently panicking somewhere that might be a corner. Like he’s a sleeper agent, activated at a code word in seconds. “It wasn’t that bad!”
Shen Yuan steadily ignores him.
And then—
he feels it.
The smell hits first—acrid, electric, like a circuit board burning out. It coats the back of his throat, metallic and sharp. His eyes sting.
Warning bars multiply.
Stack.
Cascade.
The command node flickers—vanishes—reappears three inches to the left, which is impossible, because the System doesn’t even have inches and yet—
His hand chases it anyway. His jaw aches from how hard he’s clenching his teeth.
Sometime along the way, Shang Qinghua's unfortunate bodysnatcher joins him with muttered curses.
[ERROR 401: UNAUTHORISED]
Fuck.
[CONSIDER ADDING THE MISSING PERMISSIONS TO USER PEERLESS_CUCUMBER]
“You are Peerless Cucumber?” Shang Qinghua blurts, incredulous.
“…Yeah. What of it?” Shen Yuan snaps, instantly defensive.
(It sounds worse out loud. Definitely worse.)
“Holy shit,” Shang Qinghua breathes, staring at him like he’s just discovered a rare species in the wild. “You’re a fan. The one who wrote essays under every chapter.”
“I was providing constructive criticism,” Shen Yuan shoots back.
“You wrote three thousand words about my pacing! You were parading in Shen-shixiong’s body all this time, and you were the one yelling to castrate him!”
Shen Yuan blanches.
“If I knew I’d end up in this body, I’d never do that! And you wrote him as a scummy, lecherous old man, what was I to do?!”
“He had depths!”
“Then WHY HAVE YOU NOT PUT THAT IN THE DAMN NOVEL?!”
[ATTEMPTING MEMORY DELETION]
Both of them flinch.
Hard.
“Wait—wait,” Shang Qinghua says suddenly, grabbing blindly at Shen Yuan’s sleeve like he might disappear. “If you’re here—and I’m here, then—”
He swallows.
For the first time, his voice drops.
“…we’re both still alive, right?”
Shen Yuan hesitates.
The question lands somewhere it shouldn’t.
“…For now,” he says.
The System surges.
Something claws through his thoughts—memories peeling back, names slipping, faces blurring at the edges.
“Whatever you’re doing—it’s working,” Shang Qinghua blurts, words tripping over themselves now. “Don’t stop—don’t stop, okay? I don’t want to—”
He cuts himself off.
His grip tightens.
“I don’t want to disappear,” he finishes, quieter.
Shen Yuan’s fingers claw around the command node.
“Then shut up and stop distracting me,” he grits out—but there’s less bite to it now.
Shang Qinghua nods immediately.
Then—fails at being quiet.
“Okay, okay, I’m quiet—totally quiet—supportive silence—”
A moment passes.
“…You can do it.”
Unfortunately, that seems to trigger something in his brain.
“…Just. Do it. Make. Your dreams. Come true.” Shang Qinghua keeps chanting.
“Dude,” Shen Yuan snarls, vision flickering violently, “shut up.”
Colors rupture across his vision—red, white, something that isn’t a color at all. His thoughts fragment under the pressure. He lets out a hiss of pain.
Shang Qinghua panics.
Audibly.
“—this is so unfair! I want to go home, I want my shitty apartment, I want that stupid overpriced hotpot near Nanjing Road—”
Najning Road… Shanghai..?
Shen Yuan clings to the memories those words drag up.
“I want to never hear the name Shang Qinghua again,” he continues miserably, “even if I wrote the guy myself—”
Shen Yuan chokes out a disbelieving sound.
“You wrote that slop? You hack author—” He wants to smack the man's head but he's too busy trying not to die.
“I needed money!” Shang Qinghua shoots back instantly. “People have to eat!”
Of all characters, Airplane Shooting Towards the Sky landed himself in Shang fucking Qinghua.
He nearly, nearly feels sorry for the man if not for the fact that his eternal torment was supposed to be Shen Qingqiu's body.
“I’d pay your bills to write better!” Shen Yuan snaps, regrabbing the slipping command. “Maybe then we wouldn’t be dying twice—how did you even die?!”
“Publishing the last chapter!” Shang Qinghua barks. “What about you?!”
“…Reading your last chapter!”
For one absurd second, he almost laughs.
The system screams—sirens blaring, wailing through the space, drilling into his brain.
“Hey—” Shang Qinghua says suddenly, urgent.
Shen Yuan doesn’t look at him.
“…If we make it out—”
The sentence cuts off.
“Xiang—” he tries again, forcing it through the static. “My name’s—Fei—”
The words tear apart mid-syllable.
Fragment.
Corrupt.
But the intent—
lands.
Shen Yuan doesn’t turn.
He can’t.
But something in his mind locks onto it anyway.
Keep going.
Don’t stop.
His eyes find the command node again. It has stopped flickering.
For one suspended second the red warning bars go still, the cascading code freezes mid-column, and the entire System holds its breath.
The white comes from everywhere at once.
Not a flash—not something directional, not light arriving from a source—just the sudden and total erasure of everything that was in his visual field, replaced by a white so complete it has weight. It presses on him.
He convulses, or the body he’s about to fall back into does, and there’s that horrible, vertigo-lurching sensation of falling without direction—
no down—
no up—
—
And then—
He's upright.
He stares at the familiar-looking ceiling. The whirl of electric fan loud in the apartment, a plate with mantou on his desk that he can see from his position of laying on the floor.
“…No way,” he whispers.
He sits up too fast. His head spins.
It is his room.
His real room.
Laptop. Desk. Bookshelves. The same cracked mug he refused to throw away. His hands—normal. Slightly shorter fingers, skin a tone or two darker, that one mole on the inside of his left palm. No robes. No sword. No System window.
“…Hello?” he tries.
Nothing. Silence.
Then—
A laugh bubbles up.
“…we did it.”
It takes him three hours to confirm reality.
Five to panic.
Ten to start stalk—ahem, investigating.
And by hour twelve—
He’s outside a run-down apartment building on the other side of Shanghai.
The façade has the particular exhaustion of something that has simply given up on having an opinion about itself—concrete gone the colour of old teeth, every available surface layered with graffiti that starts as tagging and, by the third floor, almost becomes art.
“…Of course he’d live here,” Shen Yuan mutters.
He checks the address again—it’s the right one.
Inside, the corridor is narrow. It smells like mildew and someone’s ambitious attempt at cooking that went wrong hours ago. The fluorescent light strobes once, then holds—a blinking commitment to function that Shen Yuan finds deeply relatable.
Fourth floor.
Kinda ominous.
No elevator.
“Of course,” he repeats, already climbing.
He passes apartment doors, a bicycle locked to its own wheel in a way that defeats the entire purpose, and a corkboard with notices so old their corners curl inward like little flowers.
At the end of the hall—
a chipped blue door that might have seen better days decades ago.
Shen Yuan knocks because he can be fucking polite.
There’s a pause.
Muffled cursing.
Something falls with a loud bang.
Then the bolt turns, the door opens and—
They stare at each other.
The man inside looks—
Different.
Not what Shen Yuan expected.
Then again, what did he expect? Some unkempt basement creature hunched over a glowing monitor, surrounded by instant noodle cups?
Instead—slender build. Soft features. A face that still carries the ghost of adolescence. The kind of neatness that makes him look younger than he has any right to be.
“You’re…” Shen Yuan frowns. “Huh. Completely not what I expected.”
The man blinks.
Squints.
Then his eyes widen—pupils expanding like a camera adjusting to new light.
“Fuck me,” he breathes. Then, with sudden certainty: “You’re so young, Cucumber-bro. Or maybe didi?”
Shen Yuan’s expression darkens instantly.
“What? You’re one to talk, Airplane, looking like a high schooler,” he shoots back. “Maybe that's why your papapa scenes were so lukewarm.”
He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks at him expectantly, ignoring the sputtering.
“Aren’t you going to let me in?”
Xiang Fei—because he has to be—stares a second longer.
Then steps aside.
“…Shoes off,” he mutters.
Shen Yuan snorts, but complies.
He has known this person for years in the way you can know someone you have never met: through the accumulated texture of exchanges, arguments, the occasional mutual respect expressed through extremely specific criticism. It is odd to attach a body to that.
Like meeting a fictional character.
He keeps that thought to himself.
It’s too close to several others he’s not touching.
“Come in,” the man says, which is slightly absurd given that Shen Yuan is already inside. He lets it pass.
The apartment is—
Not clean.
Not dirty, either.
It exists in that strange equilibrium of someone who lives here but only remembers to care in bursts. The dishes are rinsed. The surfaces are… negotiable. The room smells of instant noodles.
A laptop sits open on the table.
The screen is dark. Dead.
Shen Yuan narrows his eyes, leaning in slightly, as if proximity alone might revive it.
“Is that thing broken?”
“Yeah,” Xiang Fei says, nudging a chair out of the way with his foot. “It’s going to be a pain to replace.”
Shen Yuan straightens, folds his arms, and tilts his head, gaze lingering on the lifeless screen.
“Huh,” he says after a beat, lips twitching. “Even your laptop couldn’t handle the ending you wrote for that novel?”
Xiang Fei freezes mid-step.
Very slowly, he turns his head.
“…You just got back from a death world,” he says, narrowing his eyes, “and that’s your first question?”
Shen Yuan meets his gaze without blinking.
“Yes.”
A pause.
Xiang Fei exhales sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re still a hack,” Shen Yuan shoots back immediately, not even bothering to soften it.
“Oh no, young man.” Xiang Fei points at him, eyes narrowing in mock warning. “One more word and you’re out.”
Shen Yuan rocks back on his heels, completely unbothered, then leans forward with a mock salacious smirk, just enough to be obnoxious about it.
“Whatcha gonna do, Fei-gege?”
Xiang Fei physically recoils, shoulders jerking as if something crawled up his spine.
“Cucumber-bro, no—” he says, grimacing. “Don’t do that. Are you even an adult? Was a minor reading my smut?”
Shen Yuan snorts, waving a hand dismissively as he turns away, already poking at something on the table.
“Relax. I even have a job and everything.”
“There’s still child labor in the world,” Xiang Fei mutters, eyeing him with deep suspicion.
“No.” Shen Yuan glances back over his shoulder. “I’m an adult. And please, for the sake of all things holy—don’t call me Cucumber outside. My name’s Shen Yuan.”
“Shen?” Xiang Fei repeats, eyebrows shooting up.
Shen Yuan rolls his eyes.
“Yeah. Go on, laugh. Get it out of your system.”
Xiang Fei huffs under his breath.
He turns in a slow, aimless half-circle, like he’s lost track of where he is. His gaze snags on the broken laptop—and sticks.
“I’m here,” he says, disbelieving. “I’ve died and I’m here.”
“Shen Yuan—” His eyes flick up, sharp, almost wild. “Am I hallucinating you?”
Shen Yuan straightens.
“What? No—Airplane, we got out. We’re both here.”
Xiang Fei lets out a short, shaky sound that almost passes for a laugh.
“But I died.”
He gestures toward the table—too fast, too sharp. “Don’t you see? That laptop—”
His hand wavers midair. Then snaps back, pointing.
“It broke when I—after I posted that damn chapter—I electro—” His voice catches. Skips. Breathing goes uneven.
Shen Yuan swallows.
The earlier jab sits wrong in his throat now.
“Shit, Air—Xiang Fei. I didn’t know.” He steps closer, reaching out.
“Hey. Look at me.”
Xiang Fei doesn’t, not at first.
So Shen Yuan reaches out, grabs his wrist—firm—and presses his hand against his own neck.
“Feel that?” he says, steady. “I’m alive.”
“I choked on a mantou,” he adds, a little helplessly. “Can you believe it?”
Xiang Fei’s fingers twitch against his pulse.
“You’re alive too,” Shen Yuan continues, quieter now. “We got out. We’re both here.”
He doesn’t let go immediately.
“And that’s enough.”
“Let’s not think about the rest right now, okay?”
Only then does he release him.
“You… you mentioned a hotpot, right?” he adds, lighter, almost casual. “Let’s go there, Fei-ge.”
For a second, Xiang Fei just stands there.
Then he lets out a wet laugh, dragging the heel of his hand across his eyes.
“My biggest antifan calling me ge…” he huffs, voice rough. “That does have a nice ring to it.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
Xiang Fei exhales, shoulders loosening a fraction.
“And a mantou? Really?” he says, glancing at him. “After that, you want to eat?”
Shen Yuan turns toward the door, suddenly very interested in anything that isn’t eye contact.
“What I want,” he says, reaching for his shoes, “is to sit somewhere that isn’t actively trying to kill me, and eat something that isn’t instant noodles or meatbuns.”
A beat.
“…That’s,” Xiang Fei admits slowly, “a very compelling argument. The food there is great. I’ll show you.”
Something in Shen Yuan’s chest loosens—and then drops, just a little too far.
He pauses mid–shoe, wary of the expression on the other's face. “What is it?”
“Shen Yuan-xiong,” Xiang Fei says, suddenly solemn, one hand pressed to his chest like he’s on stage, “I am a broke-ass writer.”
Shen Yuan rolls his eyes.
“I’m paying.”
Xiang Fei pauses.
Squints.
“…Should I call you daddy?”
Shen Yuan straightens, grabs the doorknob, and yanks it open.
“Shut up,” he says flatly, stepping into the hallway. “Let’s go.”
Xiang Fei snorts and follows, grabbing his keys off the table.
For a moment, neither of them speaks.
Then Xiang Fei stops at the threshold, looking back at the closed door.
“…We really got out,” he says quietly.
Shen Yuan doesn’t look at him.
“…Yeah.”
A pause.
Then, sharper—like a boundary drawn in steel:
“Don’t make me go back.”
On the way out, there’s a moment.
Tiny. Easy to miss.
Xiang Fei puts his keys in a pocket.
Stops.
Glances back into the apartment—not at anything specific.
Just—
checking.
Like it might disappear.
Shen Yuan notices.
Doesn’t comment.
But when they go down the hallway—
he stays just half a step closer than necessary.
The hotpot stall does not look like much from the street—a cart, a row of stools worn smooth from long use, a string of red lanterns casting an amber glow of cheap bulbs—but the broth has been going since noon, and it smells like a compelling argument for staying.
By the time they get there, the street noise has fully returned—cars, footsteps, distant laughter—normal sounds insisting on continuity.
Shen Yuan is acutely aware of his own body again—the tightness in his shoulders, the way his pulse is still not entirely convinced they are safe. It is annoying. He files it away anyway.
Xiang Fei walks a half-step ahead of him, then slows as if remembering Shen Yuan exists. He is too loud for someone who just escaped something that should not have been real. Or maybe he is exactly the right amount of loud.
“Here,” Xiang Fei says, like he is introducing a tourist attraction instead of a roadside stall. “Best one in this district.”
Shen Yuan does not answer immediately. He settles onto a stool that rocks slightly on the uneven pavement and decides he can live with the wobble.
Xiang Fei sits across from him, elbows braced on the lacquered table, entirely at ease—the confidence of a man who has eaten at every stall within a two-kilometer radius and considers himself a connoisseur of informal dining.
The lantern light catches the planes of his face, softens them.
If anything, it makes him look younger.
Shen Yuan finds that mildly offensive.
A server drops two bottles of beer between them. Shen Yuan slides one toward Xiang Fei without comment.
No argument. No hesitation. Just I am paying, do not test me.
Shen Yuan picks up his own, wraps his hand around the cap, and applies pressure.
Nothing.
He adjusts his grip.
Tries again.
The cap remains firmly attached, deeply committed to its position in life.
Across the table, Xiang Fei is watching with the unmistakable stillness of someone who is about to say something. Shen Yuan prepares himself for some kind of inane question, maybe a barb at his beer opening skills.
It seems Airplane, though, lives by the motto “to keep others guessing, make yourself guess first”.
“Have you seen the Corn Girl reel?” he asks, voice casual.
Shen Yuan pauses, suspicious.
“…The what?”
Xiang Fei’s mouth curves.
Slow. Asymmetrical. Satisfied.
He leans in, conspiratorial.
The lantern above them sways slightly, shadows shifting across his face.
“Some call her Corn Mommy,” he says, voice lowered like he’s leaking classified information. “The Corn Girl. There’s a whole faction loving her reels.”
Shen Yuan stares at him.
“…I’m kind of afraid of asking but why corn?”
“Basically she does this thing with a—” he trails off under Shen Yuan’s increasingly judgmental stare. “Don’t ask me to explain it. I didn’t invent the internet.”
“You certainly got lost in some weird corners of it.”
Xiang Fei presses a hand to his chest.
“That was hurtful.” A beat. Then, brightening: “But anyway, she also did something I found enlightening myself—watch and learn.”
He swats Shen Yuan’s hand away from the bottle—decisive, practiced—then picks it up himself.
From his jacket pocket, he produces a half-empty plastic water bottle like it is a normal object to carry around for legitimate reasons.
He braces the beer cap against it.
Angles it.
Presses.
Pop.
Clean. Effortless.
He sets the opened bottle back in front of Shen Yuan with quiet satisfaction.
“There,” Xiang Fei says. “Technique matters.”
Shen Yuan stares at him.
Then at the bottle.
Then back at him.
“…Are you just carrying emergency bottle openers in your pocket.”
Xiang Fei shrugs.
“You never know when inspiration will strike.”
Shen Yuan exhales through his nose and takes a drink instead of continuing that line of questioning.
A mistake, probably.
Xiang Fei leans back, stretching slightly like he has just finished a performance.
“And since you’re so much younger,” he adds, casual as breathing, “you really shouldn’t be speaking to me so familiarly.”
Shen Yuan pauses mid-sip.
Slowly lowers the bottle.
“What,” he says flatly, “am I supposed to call you.”
Xiang Fei considers this with grave seriousness.
Then, without hesitation:
“Corn Daddy is fine, Yuan-er.”
Shen Yuan stares at him for a long moment.
Something in his expression dies quietly and is immediately replaced by irritation.
“…You’re insane.”
“Creative,” Xiang Fei corrects.
Shen Yuan picks up a piece of meat with his chopsticks and points it vaguely in his direction like a warning.
“I was going to call you Mr. Hack Author—”
Xiang Fei recoils slightly, offended on principle.
Then immediately recovers.
“That is worse.”
“But maybe I should just call you a pervert,” finishes Shen Yuan, looking around conspicuously for any eavesdroppers, cheeks flushed.
From the heat of the lanterns nearby, of course.
The smile Xiang Fei gives is infuriatingly composed—less joking now, more pleased with himself in a way that suggests long-term victory.
“Wow,” he says, leaning back, thoroughly pleased. “So defensive—and you still read my novel.”
“I was hate-reading,” Shen Yuan snaps, grabbing his beer and taking a pointed drink.
“Mm.” Xiang Fei tilts his head. “You hate-read all the way through several hundred chapters?”
“I suffered for it.”
“And it showed in a significant increase in my engagement metrics,” Xiang Fei shoots back instantly, tapping the table with two fingers like he’s presenting data. “You’re welcome.”
Shen Yuan looks away first.
They eat.
The broth bubbles steadily between them, indifferent to their existence.
For a while, neither of them says anything meaningful. Just the sound of chopsticks, the soft clink of glass, the occasional hiss of fat hitting heat.
The world continues.
Shen Yuan realizes, distantly, that his breathing has slowed.
That is also annoying. But less so.
“...you do know what reels are, don’t you?”
Shen Yuan does not even look up this time.
“Yes.”
“That was a lie.”
“Yes.”
“How? You’re literally younger than me!”
“I’ve got a job, shitty author. One that pays for this meal.”
“Ouch.”
“Just eat, the meat is done already.” Shen Yuan takes some and puts it into Xiang Fei’s bowl. “You’re too skinny.”
The older man looks at him incredulously.
“Thank you, uncle.”
“Don’t push it.”
Xiang Fei looks pleased anyway.
A few minutes pass.
The adrenaline does not vanish. It just… moves further away.
Enough that Shen Yuan notices the gap it leaves.
He looks at the pot.
A slice of beef curls in the broth, edges turning pale.
Shen Yuan pauses.
Something flickers behind his thoughts—too sharp for a place like this.
He swallows it down before it forms.
Across from him, Xiang Fei is quieter now too, though he pretends not to be.
“…By the way,” Xiang Fei says suddenly, “what were you doing with my protagonist? What was with all that gay tension?”
Shen Yuan chokes.
“Excuse me?”
“I saw the way he looked at you—like a forlorn, love-sick puppy,” Xiang Fei continues, gesturing vaguely with his chopsticks. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“I was just trying to avoid ending up in a pickle jar! By being nice to him! And fixing your writing!”
“And making him pine?”
“He was just a fluffy lamb, looking up to his shizun! Not my fault you made him starving for any affection!”
“I did not write him like that. Since when a demon lord is a trembling M?!”
“You absolutely did! And he’s not—”
He cuts himself off, scowling as he recalled all the times he thought the same thing about Luo fucking Binghe.
“—okay, maybe he is. A bit. Still not my fault,” he finishes, more muttered than declared.
They both stop.
At the same time.
Then—
Xiang Fei snorts.
The steam rises. Warps the world for a second, then clears.
Somewhere in that quiet, the remaining tension finally loosens another fraction.
“…So what now?” Xiang Fei asks, softer.
Shen Yuan snorts once. He rolls the bottle slightly between his fingers, watching the condensation smear under his thumb.
“…You’re asking me?”
“You’re the one who showed up at my door,” Xiang Fei points out.
“Because it was your shitty writing that suddenly became real and trapped us inside.”
“I was just trying to pay my bills. No idea how that happened.”
“Maybe if you wrote better things, they wouldn’t get a real-life adaptation.”
“You still read it.”
“You’re not winning that argument.”
“I don’t need to,” Xiang Fei says lightly. “We already got out.”
That lands.
Not heavy, but it lands.
Xiang Fei looks down at his drink.
Tilts it slightly.
Watches the liquid shift.
“…I’ll write again,” he says after a moment.
Shen Yuan rolls his eyes.
“You need an editor. Someone needs to look at it before you publish your next piece of slop least we end up trapped in doomed characters again.”
Xiang Fei perks up instantly.
“Oh?”
“I didn’t say I would be it.”
“That is what people say before they become it.”
“I said you need one, that’s not volunteering.”
“That is exactly what an editor would say.” sing songs Xiang Fei, eating a lamb skewer in one go. “We can discuss it once I can afford a new laptop, “ he says after swallowing.
Shen Yuan pauses with chopsticks in hand, a piece of boiled meat halfway through to his mouth.
“…I could buy you one,” he says, considering it.
Xiang Fei freezes, just for a second.
Then he looks up, sharp, smelling the trickery.
“On one condition,” Shen Yuan adds, meeting his gaze.
Xiang Fei narrows his eyes.
“…This sounds like a trap.”
“It is.”
“…Go on.”
Shen Yuan leans forward slightly.
“Rewrite it,” he says.
Xiang Fei blinks.
“Proud Immortal Demon Way,” Shen Yuan continues, tapping the table once. “Fix it. Give it a proper, nice ending this time.”
He hesitates.
Just a fraction.
Then adds, more quietly—
“…Just in case.”
The words sit between them.
Not fully explained.
Not needing to be.
Xiang Fei studies him.
Really studies him this time, noticing the faint lines of worry on the youthful face.
Then—
“…You’re ridiculous,” he says.
But there’s no bite to it.
“Are you doing it or not?” Shen Yuan shoots back.
“Depends,” Xiang Fei says, dipping a hot skewer in a chilli sauce. “Are you going to become my editor?”
Shen Yuan scoffs.
“Obviously. You need a keeper.”
“Ah,” Xiang Fei nods solemnly. “A dedicated hater.”
“A concerned citizen.”
“A loyal fan.”
“Don’t push it.”
They clink bottles.
Light. Unceremonious.
Lanterns sway.
The street hums around them, loud and alive and entirely unconcerned with worlds ending and restarting.
For a moment, everything is exactly what it is.
“…Do you think he’s okay?” Shen Yuan asks eventually, not looking up.
Xiang Fei does not ask who.
He just leans back slightly, considering.
“…He’s the protagonist,” he says. “He’ll survive.
Shen Yuan exhales.
“Plot armor, right?”
“Of a very strong kind.
A beat.
“…Still,” Xiang Fei adds, quieter, “if he didn’t…”
He lifts his bottle slightly.
“…we fix it next time.”
Shen Yuan glances up at him.
Then back at the pot.
“…Yeah,” he says.
They eat.
They drink.
They argue about spice levels again five minutes later.
And for now, that is enough.