YMW CH 28

Butterfly Hurricane

Xie Guilan only attended two classes before taking a leave to visit the hospital, grudgingly bringing a flask of goji berry tea on his way out.

Song Lingwei needed heart stent surgery next month. Xie Mingcheng had arranged for an overseas specialist, and since major decisions required a family member, Xie Guilan was technically the only one who fit the role.

Song Lingwei’s body had already fallen apart. Even before childbirth, she had heart issues. Years of late nights, club work, and drug abuse—sometimes at clients’ insistence—had wrecked her health. She even had a history of addiction.

Her abusive ex-husband had left her with multiple organ damage, nearly condemning her to a life with a colostomy bag. The high surgery risks forced doctors to patch her body up over the years, delaying the operation until now.

While Xie Guilan went to the hospital, Cen Wu stayed in class, using his free time to organize notes and send them over. Not that he knew whether Xie Guilan even needed them—he couldn’t begin to comprehend what it was like to be the top student.

During break, Meng Liangping suddenly popped his head in at the door. “If you’re joining the sports meet, remember to sign up with the class rep! Also, don’t slack off on the monthly exams. The principal said if our scores are good, we’ll get a fall trip next month!”

The class erupted in excitement, practically reverting to a primitive state.

“Are you serious?!”
“I’m not ranking last this time, I swear!”
“If you score 30 again, I’ll strangle you!”

Someone excitedly called out, “Lu Wang! Can we go to the hot springs?!”

Lu Wang casually raised a hand, “Consider it done.”

His family, worried he’d be ostracized at school, sponsored the annual trip. They wanted to show his wealth and connections just enough to prevent bullying, without making him a target of envy.

Not that Lu Wang thought that deeply—he just figured he had money to spend, so why not share? If Cen Wu took his money, why shouldn’t others?

Cen Wu suspected that even if Lu Wang found out he had scammed him out of over 600,000 yuan, he wouldn’t be mad—just heartbroken that Cen Wu hadn’t asked him directly.

---

With exams coming up, Meng Liangping urged everyone to finalize the performance lineup tonight. He had canceled evening self-study to let the class settle on their act so it wouldn’t interfere with their studies later.

The rain, drizzling all day, turned into a downpour by nightfall.

Xu Lingling, already an actress—albeit playing minor roles—naturally took the lead role and directed the performance. Their play was less of a full drama and more of a tribute, recreating classic scenes in a short 15-20 minute slot.

Two girls auditioned for The Butterfly Lovers, reenacting the tragic love and transformation scene. Meng Liangping filmed everything for school archives, making it feel like a real production.

For a moment, Cen Wu felt like he was on an actual film set.

---

At sixteen, Cen Wu directed his first movie. By then, his parents had been gone for three years, and he had moved out of his aunt’s home. One evening after school, his father’s former assistant director, Lu Lian, unexpectedly came looking for him.

Lu Lian had once been his father’s student, working under him for a few films. After his parents’ deaths, they had barely crossed paths. Now, Lu Lian looked rough—unshaven, exhausted, wrapped in a wrinkled jacket.

“Xiao Cen,” he said wearily. “Can I buy you dinner? I need to talk.”

Cen Wu didn’t refuse. They ended up at a street-side hotpot stall—not because Lu Lian was stingy, but because he was dead broke.

Seeing his rumpled shirt, Cen Wu couldn’t help but ask, “Lu Dao, what happened to you?”

Lu Lian opened his mouth, voice hoarse. He hesitated, then roughly wiped his eyes with his sleeve, trying not to cry in front of a teenager.

After Cen Shen’s death, the film Hurricane had been abandoned. He had served as both director and producer—the backbone of the project. Investors pulled out, and the crew fell apart. Without enough experience to take over, Lu Lian had no choice but to accept assistant roles in other productions.

Everywhere he went, people sneered at him. If a project succeeded, the credit went to others. If it failed, they mocked, “So this is the level of Cen Shen’s disciple?”

The film industry was ruthless. Without his mentor, he was nothing. This time, he had offended the wrong producer and got kicked out of his latest job.

“Xiao Cen,” Lu Lian said, voice strained, “I want to restart the project. If it fails again, I’m leaving the industry for good.”

Cen Shen’s unfinished movie—Hurricane—was meant to be a blockbuster. A disaster film with a powerful emotional core, it had been a sure bet for the year’s biggest hit.

But the project had halted halfway through filming after the accident. His script notes had burned in the crash. Now, besides his wife, maybe only Cen Wu knew how he had planned to finish it.

Lu Lian, desperate, hoped Cen Wu still had any of his father’s remnants.

“I don’t,” Cen Wu said, shaking his head.

After his parents’ deaths, creditors had taken everything valuable to settle debts. What remained were just sentimental trinkets—things worth nothing, yet too precious to let go.That night, Lu Lian drank a lot. By the end, his eyes were bloodshot, and he suddenly grabbed Cen Wu’s arm.

“Can you shoot?”

Cen Wu froze for a second.

He had spent more time on film sets than in school since he was a child. He often helped out in productions—so much so that he was more familiar with the set than Lu Lian, the assistant director himself. But he had never directed a movie on his own.

Lu Lian grew more and more excited. He wasn’t joking. He didn’t expect Cen Wu to do it alone—he was still young—but what if they worked together? Wouldn’t that be enough?

Of course, Cen Wu wanted to complete the film his parents had left behind. Even if it sounded impossible, the thought tempted him.

The hardest part was getting the actors and funding. Lu Lian had already reached out, but most of the original cast refused to return. As for investors, he barely managed to scrape together a few million yuan.

Desperate, he and Cen Wu went everywhere trying to raise money.

At the time, Cen Wu wasn’t exactly shy. He wasn’t an extrovert either, but at least he could hold a conversation.

They humbled themselves, begged, and pleaded—but no one gave them a single cent. They were either mocked or kicked out.

No one believed they could pull this off.

Just when Lu Lian was about to give up, an old friend of Cen Shen’s reached out. He was open to discussing an investment.

They bought tickets overnight and rushed to meet him at a restaurant.

“Uncle,” Cen Wu said, placing the script and storyboard on the table. “Please take a look.”

He had also saved over a hundred finished scenes from the original footage. Lu Lian brought backups, just in case.

But the man didn’t even glance at them. He set the script down and said lazily, “No rush.”

Cen Wu couldn’t quite figure out what he was thinking. Since he wasn’t interested now, there was no point in forcing it. Instead, he poured him a drink.

At sixteen, Cen Wu was still growing, his features sharp and striking. Black hair, snow-pale skin—he looked young, impossibly young. But even when he leaned forward, his spine remained straight, as if something cold and unyielding held it firm.

No one would ever associate softness—or weakness—with him.

The man let out a small, amused chuckle.

That was when Cen Wu realized something was wrong.

His face darkened as he dodged the man’s hand from wrapping around his waist. The man frowned at his rejection but remained patient. “If you want to make this movie, there’s nothing stopping you—if you’re willing.”

His murky eyes held a clear implication as his fingers reached for Cen Wu’s hand.

“Mr. Zhang,” Lu Lian was stunned. A sickening disgust rose in his chest, but he couldn’t afford to offend the man. Swallowing his anger, he stepped between them. “I thought you were friends with Director Cen?”

Zhang scowled at him impatiently.

Cen Shen was dead. There was nothing he could do about it. He had been eyeing Cen Wu for years—wasn’t that devotion in itself? Besides, he was even willing to give the kid a few million yuan to play around with.

Who cared about the movie? He never took it seriously.

He waved a hand, and someone immediately dragged Lu Lian away. Then, he reached out to touch Cen Wu’s face.

But before he could, a brutal punch landed straight on his nose. Blood gushed instantly.

A man in his fifties, bloated from indulgence and vice, was no match for Cen Wu.

The waiters were too shocked to react.

Cen Wu pinned him down and kept hitting him, one punch after another. His beautiful eyes were like the cold mist in the deep mountains, detached and merciless.

Not until the man’s head was drenched in blood did Cen Wu finally let go.

Lu Lian, held down by the staff, had struggled so hard his clothes were a mess. He slumped to the floor, crying.

Cen Wu frowned and said coldly, “Get up. Stop crying.”

Lu Lian’s tears froze midstream. Without a word, he obeyed, got up, and followed Cen Wu out.

Looking back, that was the night Cen Wu became his anchor.

Trying to take advantage of a friend’s teenage son? That would ruin a man’s reputation.

Zhang never dared to trouble Cen Wu again.

Cen Wu and Lu Lian kept searching for funds. He even pitched some of Cen Shen’s other scripts to film companies, along with a few he had written himself. 《Hurricane》 remained stuck, but one of his own scripts got a response.

It was a romance film with a fake-incest theme, inspired by 《Hurricane》, so he called it 《Butterfly》.

By the time he finished writing, it had nothing to do with 《Hurricane》anymore. They were completely different works.

A professor from the film academy offered to introduce him to investors. He suggested that Cen Wu try directing a small project first—《Hurricane》 was too expensive, and no one trusted them with it, but this? This could work.

So Lu Lian became his assistant director again. Their crew was broke. The lead actors were just students from the academy.

Cen Wu led a team of fewer than fifty people, actors included. Everyone had multiple jobs. They filmed for three months straight.

It was winter. They were short on cameramen, so Cen Wu carried the camera himself. His hands were raw and chapped from the cold.

Some of the actors didn’t respect him at first. They thought he was too young to be taken seriously. One of them, the only mildly famous one in the cast, played a supporting role but considered himself the backbone of the whole production.

Looking down on Cen Wu, he said condescendingly, “Xiao Cen, I think this line should be—”

“On set, I’m the director,” Cen Wu’s gaze was ice-cold, his voice just as sharp. “If you don’t like it, leave.”

The actor scoffed. He didn’t believe Cen Wu would actually fire him.

That night, Cen Wu terminated his contract.

It was snowing outside. The man was kicked off set.

The rest of the cast—mostly students—quietly started calling him “Director Cen” and followed his instructions without question.

At night, Cen Wu still had to do his schoolwork. He was constantly running on empty, but under relentless pressure, they finished the film.

He never expected Butterfly to be such a success.

Despite his inexperience, there was a raw, undeniable charm in his work.

On top of that, he had a talent for intense, tragic love stories. The film was emotionally overwhelming, striking a deep chord with audiences.

It made its way through screenings, film festivals, and award circuits—until, unexpectedly, it landed a nomination at the Berlin Film Festival.

The movie 《Butterfly》 was released on Valentine’s Day and became an unexpected box office hit of the year.

Cen Wu, whose grandfather was a jewelry tycoon and whose parents were also well-known figures, attracted media attention at the film’s premiere. Reporters initially assumed the movie was just a publicity stunt, but by the time the screening ended, audiences were leaving the theater in tears.

After 《Butterfly》 was nominated at the Berlin Film Festival, Cen Wu’s reputation skyrocketed. Though he didn’t win, investors backed him to adapt 《Butterfly》 into a TV series, which also became a massive hit.

Both the movie and the drama made their lead actors famous overnight—even some supporting roles gained popularity.

How big was it? Theaters initially only scheduled one or two screenings per day, and some didn’t even show it at all. But as ticket sales soared, screenings increased to over ten per day. 《Butterfly》eventually became the year’s highest-grossing film.

When the TV adaptation aired, its success cemented 《Butterfly》 as a cultural phenomenon. Every winter, whenever it snowed, people would be reminded of the movie, and theaters even displayed butterfly specimens as a tribute.

Capitalizing on his success, Cen Wu quickly moved forward with filming 《Hurricane》.

A year later, Hurricane》 was released during the holiday season and met all expectations, becoming another massive success. Despite the passing of the film’s executive producer, the quality remained high, and it once again topped the box office.

Cen Wu continued making one film per year, and while not all were fully directed by him, those he participated in still achieved remarkable box office results. Even when ticket sales weren’t record-breaking, his films consistently won awards.

Meanwhile, an actor who once rejected a role in 《Butterfly》 deeply regretted his decision. While the other students from his film school became A-list stars, he was still stuck playing minor roles, filled with so much resentment that he could barely sleep.

But Cen Wu was indifferent—cold to the core. He never looked back or gave second chances. It was as if he had never even met the actor in the first place.

Though the actor was consumed with hatred, times had changed. He no longer had the power to take revenge on Cen Wu.

Unlike most directors who remained behind the scenes, Cen Wu himself became incredibly famous. One of the most viral photos of him was taken during an outdoor shoot in winter. Paparazzi secretly captured a shot of him smoking outside the set.

The scene was in the south, where rain and snow mixed in the cold air. Cen Wu held a black umbrella, dressed in a thick black coat. Despite the heavy layers, he still looked slender. His long hair was unkempt, his pale skin cold against the wintry backdrop, and a cigarette rested between his lips. His sharp gaze met the camera with undisguised irritation.

When the paparazzi photos were published, the internet exploded with comments, including playful ones like “Step on me, wife.”

One dedicated fan even edited together clips of Cen Wu from his films, public appearances, and candid shots into a short video. By the next morning, the video had been shared over 100,000 times, with numbers still climbing.

Even people who hadn’t seen 《Butterfly》 had seen the video. The hashtag #A Dream of Mist and Rain# trended across platforms.

However, Cen Wu’s fame never overshadowed his movies or actors. Instead, his films only gained more attention, and the actors he worked with shone even brighter—like a butterfly’s wings stirring a storm.

For four years, Cen Wu’s films dominated theaters, earning the best reviews and the highest box office numbers. The media described his era as youthful and brilliant, yet his departure was as sudden as a falling star.

At 16, he became a sensation with his Berlin Film Festival nomination. At 21, he won Best Director at Berlin. Then, he vanished.

Cen Wu never officially announced his retirement, but after winning the award, aside from finishing a few ongoing projects, he never made another film.

He personally accepted his Best Director trophy in Berlin, but for the next six months, every domestic and international award ceremony sent his assistant director to collect on his behalf. It was as if he had disappeared from the world.

---

Cen Wu looked up.

On stage, students were performing a comedic gender-swapped play—an extremely muscular, 6’3” guy was playing Cinderella, while a petite girl barely over 5’0” played the prince.

The girl was laughing hysterically while chasing the guy around the classroom, holding a sports shoe (borrowed from her desk mate) as a makeshift glass slipper.

“I don’t want it anymore!” The guy said in a deep voice while running, blushing furiously.

Cen Wu: “…”

Next to him, Lu Wang was recording the chaos on his phone. Cen Wu held back for a while before finally adjusting the angle and settings on the phone.

Lu Wang had no idea what just happened, but when he looked at his screen again, the lighting was perfect—capturing a warm, nostalgic feel, turning the scene into a moment of laughter and affection.

Cen Wu rested his chin on his hand, his soft cheeks slightly squished. As he glanced at his phone, he saw a message from Guan Xingxue, sent ten minutes ago.

【Guan Xingxue: Xiao Bao, Mom and Dad are at the mall. Is there anything you want?】

Cen Wu never let his family spend money on him—he saw it as a debt. But as he looked outside at the pouring rain, he hesitated for a moment before replying:

【Cen Wu: Mom, can you buy me a pair of shoes?】

---

Song Lingwei’s condition was deteriorating. The doctors recommended a full-body examination.

Xie Guilan had been busy all day and later attended a medical discussion on Song Lingwei’s surgery.

When it was finally over, he walked to the hospital room and immediately spotted Xie Mingcheng standing outside.

“You’re here? What did the doctors say?” Xie Mingcheng adjusted his watch and turned to ask.

Xie Guilan’s gaze remained cold and indifferent. He didn’t respond.

Xie Mingcheng smirked.

Back then, he hadn’t kept Song Lingwei and her child out of love. He had been in the middle of taking over the Zhou family’s business—by then, half of Huai Capital already bore the Xie name. The Zhou family had either died or fallen ill, but Zhou Li still refused to show him any respect.

Zhou Li had always looked down on him. Even after years of marriage, her arrogance never wavered. Xie Mingcheng found it laughable. So when Song Lingwei showed up with a child, he didn’t even bother with a paternity test—he let them stay.

It didn’t matter who came to him; he would have accepted them all. He just wanted to prove to Zhou Li that she was nothing now.

At first, Zhou Li threw tantrums over it, but as the years passed, she seemed to have accepted Xie Guilan’s presence. Not that it made any difference to him—he didn’t care what she thought.

Xie Mingcheng built the massive Xie Corporation by knowing what mattered and what didn’t.

Xie Guilan never understood that. He cared too much about Song Lingwei, and that was why he was living such a pathetic life.

Xie Guilan was his son, after all. It didn’t matter who gave birth to him—as long as he carried his blood, he would be treated the same.

He could have given Xie Guilan the same privileges as Xie Shangjing, but Xie Guilan just didn’t know his place.

A nurse was giving Song Lingwei an injection. Her dark hair cascaded over her shoulders, making her pale neck look even more fragile. There was a delicate, worn-out beauty about her. She was scared of needles, covering her eyes with trembling hands. Her eyes were red—just like when she was a teenager.

“A woman isn’t a mother just because she gave birth to you,” Xie Mingcheng said coldly to Xie Guilan. “You need to understand the difference between a mother and a whore. Do you really think she loves you? What she loves is my money. If I didn’t have money, you wouldn’t even exist. Think carefully about what really matters. A woman who sells herself to anyone—how much conscience do you think she has?”

He didn’t even lower his voice. The hospital room was well soundproofed, and the door was shut, so Song Lingwei couldn’t hear him. But the doctors, nurses, and patients in the hallway did. They all cast sidelong glances.

Xie Guilan stood beside him, his arms pale, veins faintly visible beneath his skin.

Maybe Song Lingwei had no shame. But Xie Mingcheng had no right to judge her.

They had known each other since childhood, growing up in the mountains. When Xie Mingcheng left for university in Huaijing, Song Lingwei had given him 300 yuan. A few hundred yuan in a poor mountain village back then—who knew how long she had saved up for that?

He stepped on women to rise to power, then looked down on them all the same.

Seeing that Xie Guilan remained silent despite everything he had just said, Xie Mingcheng frowned.

But then, Xie Guilan suddenly spoke. The corner of his lips lifted slightly. “You would sell yourself if you could, wouldn’t you?”

Xie Mingcheng’s face darkened. “Xie Guilan.”

“But you can’t, can you?” Xie Guilan’s dark, narrow eyes held a mocking glint. He didn’t lower his voice either. “Is that why you’re so bitter?”

Xie Mingcheng’s expression turned ice cold. His chest rose and fell violently before he lifted his hand and slapped Xie Guilan across the face.

Xie Mingcheng was a man who had worked out for years—his strength was no joke. Xie Guilan’s head snapped to the side, blood immediately seeping from the corner of his lips. Half his face went numb.

Inside the hospital room, Song Lingwei heard the commotion. She clutched the blanket nervously. “Xiaolan? Xiaolan? Are you here?”

Xie Mingcheng couldn’t remember the last time someone dared to talk back to him like this. He was so furious, he actually laughed. Staring coldly at Xie Guilan, he pointed at him and said, “Fine. If you think so little of me, then take care of her surgery yourself. I won’t be paying a single cent. Just don’t come begging me later.”

Xie Guilan leaned lazily against the wall, rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek. He ignored Xie Mingcheng completely and walked straight into the hospital room.

Song Lingwei had been waiting anxiously. The moment she saw Xie Guilan’s face, she panicked. She grabbed his arm. “What happened? Did you fight with your father again?”

Xie Guilan lowered his eyes, not responding.

“Say something!” Song Lingwei’s voice rose. Her face was full of worry. “Why do you always make him angry? He’s your father—he doesn’t mean you any harm.”

Her surgery was coming up soon. She was terrified that Xie Mingcheng would refuse to pay, so she desperately wanted to please him. Every time things reached this point, she regretted swapping the children all those years ago.

Xie Guilan would never win Xie Mingcheng’s favor. She had met Cen Wu before—that child was much more obedient. If her real son had stayed with her, Xie Mingcheng would have definitely liked him.

Maybe he would have even married her by now.

Blood wasn’t so easily replaced.

The hospital room door closed firmly. In the hallway, the sound of leather shoes clicking against the floor gradually faded away.

Xie Guilan didn’t want to say anything. Song Lingwei, desperate, tried to get up to chase after Xie Mingcheng.

Her IV line yanked painfully, and blood started backing up into the tube. Xie Guilan pressed her down onto the bed.

Song Lingwei struggled wildly, kicking and flailing. She nearly slapped him again, but then she caught sight of the handprint on his face. She flinched.

Then she reached for him, trying to touch his face. Forcing out a weak smile, she said, “Mama didn’t mean it. Does it hurt, Xiaolan? You—”

Xie Guilan dodged her hand. Holding her wrist down, he reattached the IV needle she had ripped out. Then, without another word, he grabbed his school bag and walked out.

Song Lingwei wanted to chase after him, but she didn’t dare. She called his name a few times, but Xie Guilan never looked back.

She lowered her head and started crying.

The elderly woman in the neighboring bed, who had been watching in silence, finally sighed. She tried to comfort Song Lingwei, “Xiao Song, think about the child too. Don’t make things so hard for him. He still has school—running back and forth like this every day isn’t easy. And… look at his shoes.”

The old woman didn’t spell it out, but Xie Guilan’s shoes had long since fallen apart. The soles were peeling so badly they couldn’t even be glued back. Huaijing had been seeing nonstop rain this year—who knew how soaked his feet must have been?

Song Lingwei had originally stayed in a private room, but she found it too lonely and asked Xie Mingcheng to switch her to a shared one.

Xie Mingcheng hadn’t refused. To him, Song Lingwei was just something to keep around for amusement. If he was in a good mood, he’d spend a little to humor her. If he wasn’t—so what if she died?

Still, he found it ridiculous.

Some people didn’t even know how to enjoy the luxuries given to them. She had a VIP suite and refused it, choosing to share a room instead.

And she thought she could marry him?

What a joke. Marrying a woman like her would make him a laughingstock in Huaijing’s high society.

Here’s a more natural, novel-like translation of the passage:

---

“H-He… his dad bought it for him.” Song Lingwei tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, looking a little uncomfortable. She tried to brush it off. “He just didn’t want it. The kid’s too stubborn.”

The elderly woman shook her head but said nothing more.

She had been in this hospital room for nearly three months and found this mother and son rather odd. Song Lingwei was too soft, not like a parent at all. In fact, she seemed a little afraid of Xie Guilan.

Whenever Xie Guilan’s face turned cold, Song Lingwei wouldn’t dare say a word. Her own son—what was there to be afraid of?

It wasn’t like Xie Guilan had ever hit her. At most, his eyes carried a quiet indifference and exhaustion.

Outside, the rain poured heavily. A gust of cold wind cut through the air, making the wound on Xie Guilan’s face sting sharply. Half of his face was shrouded in the dim rain, his eyes heavy with a frustration that refused to fade.

Finally, he glanced at his phone. Ji Changyu had sent him a few game results, which he ignored. Scrolling down, he saw a note Cen Wu had sent him earlier in the day.

His finger hovered over the small cat icon on the screen. He had intended to exit, but his thumb accidentally tapped it.

The screen flashed with a notification:

【You patted Cen Wu.】

Xie Guilan: “……”

He didn’t really understand how this worked. He wanted to undo it, but there was no option to retract. Worse, Cen Wu had already replied.

【Cen Wu: o.O】
【Cen Wu: I’m here.】

Xie Guilan hadn’t meant to say anything to him, but after a few seconds of silence, Cen Wu sent another message.

【Cen Wu: Hello! How can I assist you? Press 1 for dinner delivery, 2 for homework help, 3 for customer service.】

Xie Guilan: “……”

【Xie Guilan: TD.】

Cen Wu sent back a crying cat sticker.

Xie Guilan’s lips twitched slightly, but the movement tugged at his wound, sending a sharp taste of blood into his mouth. His eyes darkened again, his irritation intensifying.

He started typing a reply, but after a moment, he deleted it. He had no intention of continuing the conversation.

Then another sticker popped up.

【Cen Wu: Don’t think I’m not here. I’m always here.jpg】

Xie Guilan sighed and gave in.

【Xie Guilan: Where are you?】

【Cen Wu: In class.】

【Cen Wu: Are you coming to find me? Cat winking emoji】

Originally, Xie Guilan had planned to go straight home instead of stopping by Lan Ye. But his fingers hesitated for a moment.

【Xie Guilan: Okay.】

That night, since the teacher wasn’t strict during the discussion session, Cen Wu slipped out without asking for permission.

By the time Xie Guilan arrived at school, Cen Wu was already waiting for him in the hallway. When he lifted his head and saw the wound on Xie Guilan’s face, his gaze froze for a moment, but he didn’t ask any questions.

Instead, he handed over a shoebox. “H-Here… try them on.”

He had asked Guan Xingxue to buy them.

At first, Guan Xingxue thought he was shopping for himself. But when Cen Wu gave a different size, Guan Xingxue paused and asked, “Who are these for, Xiaobao?”

“A c-classmate,” Cen Wu murmured. “Mom, don’t pick anything too expensive.”

Guan Xingxue understood without needing further explanation. If it was too pricey, the other person might refuse to accept it. She chuckled and said, “Got it. So, sneakers, right?”

It had been years since Cen Wu had seen his parents. When he filmed Butterfly in the winter, most of the scenes were shot in the snow.

He had bought snow boots for himself—the same brand his mother used to buy, around the same price, three or four hundred. But somehow, when he wore them, they never felt as warm.

Maybe he just wasn’t good at picking the right ones.

The rain in Huaijing never seemed to stop, and the temperature kept dropping. He had thought about buying Xie Guilan some warm clothes and shoes but was worried he’d refuse.

Still, Xie Guilan had already drunk the goji berry tea he gave him—what was one more thing?

Xie Guilan’s lips pressed into a thin line. He averted his gaze and said coldly, “I don’t want them.”

“Oh.” Cen Wu nodded slowly, then hugged the shoebox. “Then… I’ll just give them to Zhang Yuanzhou. But… they might be a little big on him. Maybe I should give them to A-Ling? He’s so good-looking, he’d make anything look nice…”

He started to walk away.

Xie Guilan’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly. His dark, brooding eyes locked onto Cen Wu, unreadable and intense.

Cen Wu turned back. “You want them or not?”

Xie Guilan: “……”

Xie Guilan: “…Yeah.”

That settled it.

Cen Wu handed him the box. “Try them on.”

Xie Guilan bent down to put on the shoes, but his fingers trembled slightly as he tried to tie the laces. He hadn’t even noticed—his hands were still shaking from pent-up frustration.

After a moment, Cen Wu crouched down and reached for the laces himself.

Xie Guilan froze. He frowned and grabbed Cen Wu’s arm, trying to pull him up. “Young Master—”

But Cen Wu ignored him and continued tying the laces.

He had worked with plenty of actors. Back when the production team was understaffed, he and Lu Lian had to buy costumes themselves. One look, and he could tell the right size. Sure enough, the shoes fit perfectly.

“A-All done,” Cen Wu said.

Who else would treat you like a kid?

Xie Guilan didn’t respond. His eyelashes were long but not curled, casting heavy shadows over his sharp features. He stared down at the shoes, silent.

The hallway was dimly lit. His strong brow and deep-set eyes seemed to absorb all the darkness of the storm outside.

Cen Wu tilted his head, leaning in for a closer look.

Xie Guilan stiffened and instinctively tried to move away. But every time he dodged, Cen Wu just shifted to block him from the other side.

A student from another class passed by on his way to the restroom, glancing at them several times with a curious expression—his eyes full of gossip, as if he was watching a bickering couple.

Xie Guilan: “……”

His expression darkened, but he stopped dodging.

Cen Wu blinked and asked hesitantly, “D-Do you… wanna stay at my place tonight? I’ll g-go ask for leave. We can leave now.”

Xie Guilan hadn’t even had the chance to refuse before Cen Wu straightened up and started walking.

Left with no choice, Xie Guilan grabbed his backpack and followed.

Seeing his injuries, Cen Wu worried he wouldn’t want to be seen. He turned to him and said softly, “W-Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Xie Guilan stopped in his tracks.

He felt weird the moment he put on those shoes, like a dog that stopped whenever Cen Wu told him to.

Why the hell should he?

The urge to rip them off and throw them away burned in him. Frustration bubbled up, his temper flaring. He stood there, debating whether to just walk away, but after a long while, he realized—his legs hadn’t moved an inch.

Xie Guilan: “……”

Cen Wu was afraid he’d leave on his own. Xie Guilan never cared about anyone—he didn’t even take the discipline director seriously. So, after a quick word with the homeroom teacher, he rushed out.

But to his surprise, Xie Guilan was still there, standing in the dark, face cold as ever, those deep, sharp eyes swallowed by the shadows.

So obedient. He really waited for him.