MW CH22

Chapter 22: You Don’t Know Shit!

Yan Chuwen seemed to know something. From the day I headed back to Haicheng—maybe earlier—he’d been dropping odd hints. Back then, too tangled in my own mess, I couldn’t parse the depth in his words.

“Him, in Haicheng? What’s he dragging himself all this way for?” I leaned on the railing, aiming for casual.

“Study seminar. Haicheng’s paired with Shannan for aid—past few years, national support’s tackled regional poverty there, but remote spots like Cuoyansong still lag. Beyond frontline cadres pushing progress, they need to soak up advanced know-how too.” Yan Chuwen rambled—pairing programs, National Poverty Alleviation Day, countless grassroots workers in backwater hills, education plans for poor zones.

He talked, I listened quiet—till my cig burned out, ash dusting my hand. Half-grasped, half-lost.

In my world, I’m always first. Things I do? Not about payoff—just what I like.

I’ll chase a “like,” but if it’s doomed—no results—I’m out, clean break. Caring about others’ feelings? Rare—secondary stuff.

I’ll toss spares to people, sure—but sacrifice myself to help? That’s past my self-preservation wiring.

Like I don’t get why Meng En stopped Chunna’s schooling, or why anyone’d rank themselves second—or lower.

Bai Qifeng put himself first—ditched wife and kid for fame, cash. Jiang Xuehan put herself first—cut love, saw through the world. Me? I should too—block all hurt, live free, selfish.

“Seminar—yearly thing? He’s been before?” I toyed with the snuffed butt—my month-long calm rippling under Mochuan’s sudden splash.

“Three years running. He skipped the first two—said he couldn’t leave. This year, he’s in, no clue why. Month-long—Cuoyansong’s just hosting devotees, Li Yang can handle it. Big stuff pops up, he’d bolt back early.” Yan Chuwen turned, mirroring me, back to the rail. “It’s at Haicheng Uni—attendees bunk in dorms. If you’re free, let’s host him for dinner—play good locals.”

Maybe guilt’s got me jumpy—since spotting Yan Chuwen’s weirdness, every word’s a riddle.

Questions hovered—where to start? What if he flipped it back? How’d I even unpack this?

Grown-ups don’t always need it spelled out. Better skip the awkward.

“Oh, cool. You reach out, set it—you guys pick, I’ll pay.” He played dumb to my slip; I played dumb to his catch.

Butt crushed in my palm, wind done, I waved him inside.

Time flowed—spring for real, Haicheng still cold. I stared at my phone’s date, drifting again.

Yesterday he landed—today’s the kickoff…

“This red spinel—clarity, cut, fire—all flawless. Matches your specs. 56 carats, 10 grand a carat—old client discount, 550K USD.”

Kevin, my gem guy for years—overprices, overhypes quality—but steady supply, certs attached, doorstep delivery. Big buys, he’s my first call.

Phone flipped down, I locked in.

“Feather inclusions, cracks—not that clean.” I tilted it to the light, slashed sharp. “500K—deal, cash now.”

Kevin’s face crumpled. “530—can’t go lower. Spinel’s skyrocketing lately, you know.”

He’d mastered haggling—back-and-forth ensued.

I set the oval-cut stone back. “500—take it, or I browse more.”

He wrestled, fake-slammed the table. “Fine! Anyone else, no way—just ‘cause it’s you. Friends, right?”

Heard it, didn’t buy it.

Money sent, goods mine—Kevin split. I fondled the seven-figure rock—sunlight shot laser dots across the desk. Chair spun, I held it high, grinning.

“Feather of God” core stone—check. Birth inching closer.

Gems locked in the safe, I glanced—10:30. Lunch plotting time.

Paced by the window, ten minutes, ran through every Haicheng joint—grabbed keys, picked a stir-fry spot near Haicheng Uni.

Right across the main gate—cheap, hefty, tasty—Haicheng Uni’s top grub pick, loved by students and staff.

I knew it ‘cause Sun Manman, my half-sister, studied there—she’d treated me here once.

Uni’s prime spot—main gate on a French-vibe road. Summer, plane trees canopy it; winter, bare trunks bleak.

Latte from next door’s café in hand, I pushed in, nabbed a window two-seater. Pre-rush, mid-holiday—sparse crowd. Scanned, called a waiter, ordered two specials.

Cup cradled, fingers tapped—food came, no appetite.

Outside, folks flowed—uni gates busy—I didn’t spot who I…

No—I’m here to eat, not wait. Good food, my fave. Waiting? Who’s worth that? Just eating, just eating…

Deep breath—self-hypnosis looped: Haicheng’s small, bumping into anyone’s normal.

Door swung—someone plopped across me. Startled, I yanked my gaze from the street.

“Bai Yin—it’s you?”

Red lips, white teeth—pretty, boyish yet girlish with light makeup—almost a chick at first glance.

“Haicheng’s tiny—fancy meeting here.” His smile turned flirty—vibes off, stomach churned.

“Ming Zhuo.” Nailed his name.

Three uni flings—first, three months, name’s a blur; second, two months, this guy. Memorable ‘cause his name’s rare, and his stunts? Unforgettable.

“Knew you’d remember.” His eyes danced. “Solo?”

I dodged the bait. “Yeah, eating alone.”

Ankle brushed under the table—above, his voice gooey. “Free after? Quiet spot to chat?”

Feet pulled back, blunt. “Not interested.”

He blinked, pressed. “I was immature back then—sorry. One more shot?”

Done talking—about to call for the check—door swung again. Six, seven people piled in. One stood out—black turtleneck, long black coat, standard Haicheng winter gear. Only pop: lapis lazuli beads pinned to his chest, matching his left ear stud.

Haicheng’s small, sure—but this stacked?

Stared too long—Ming Zhuo caught on. Too late to stop him.

“Don’t look!” I snapped.

Too late—my shout didn’t halt Ming Zhuo; it hooked Mochuan’s eye.

“Ah…” Ming Zhuo let out a sly hum.

Mochuan flicked a glance—paused on me, slid to Ming Zhuo, back to me.

Seconds of eye contact—no emotion, no harsh words—still, I shivered.

Down from snow peaks, he carried them in his gaze, his bones.

“Food’s decent—let’s eat here?” A companion asked him.

Like I was a nobody, no second look—smiled at them. “Sure.”

No big tables—waiter led them to a back room.

“That… Mochuan?” Ming Zhuo lit up, conspiratorial. “Waiting for him? You two a thing? Knew it!”

You don’t know shit!

Gripped chopsticks, bent low, eyes shut—voice steady, forced. “Count to three—you’re not gone, these go in your throat.”

Silence—he opened his mouth—I cut him off. “Three!” Jumped up, chopsticks poised to stab.

He freaked—cursing filth, bolted.

All eyes on me—I didn’t care. Tossed the sticks, slumped back, waved. “Check.”

Back in the car—window cracked, no ignition—smoked, replayed Ming Zhuo’s old crap.

Sophomore year, elective—“Wilderness Survival.” Me and Mochuan, same class.

Uni options overlap—can’t pick who’s in. Stuck together, like it or not.

Survival meant field stuff. Beyond theory, the prof picked sunny weekends—camping in Beishi’s outskirts, deep woods.

Ming Zhuo—junior, same major—like Babyface, chased me, begged to try.

Naive then—gay scene unclear—he seemed earnest, looked decent, so I said yes.

Two months in—he heard about the trip, asked who’d be there, insisted on tagging along.

Thought he just wanted to hang—let him.

Big mistake—huge “surprise” waiting.

Signs were there—his eyes glued to Mochuan post-class, fishing for his details, racing over when he heard Mochuan’d be there…