Chapter Text
When Shen Jiu opened his eyes, the world was too white.
It wasn’t the hazy white of fog over a mountain peak, nor the blinding glow of spiritual light from a sect master’s wrath. No, this was… flat, sharp, and artificial. He squinted. The ceiling above him was sterile and seamless, lit by a rectangular panel that hummed faintly.
No stone. No mildew. No dripping water.
No chains.
He blinked again.
His arms felt light. Unbound. Weak, but not aching the way they had after years of restraint. The constant dampness was gone, no cold water seeping into his bones, no mold clinging to his skin.
Only warmth. Dryness. A blanket tucked over his legs.
A machine to his side beeped softly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat.
He turned his head toward the sound.
The movement was slow, deliberate. His body obeyed him with surprising gentleness, as if whatever pain had once ruled his limbs had been washed away while he slept.
What greeted him was unfamiliar.
A room that is smooth, clean, humming with quiet life. Pale curtains swayed beside a large window. A tray of untouched food sat on a rolling table nearby. On the wall, a strange black screen glowed with blue letters.
He breathed in slowly.
No qi in the air.
No spiritual fluctuations.
No hatred pressing down on him from unseen eyes.
“…Is this death?” His voice rasped. It surprised him.
Even the sound of his own words was different—less bitter, less cracked.
He shifted, trying to sit upright. A dull protest from his stomach, but no sharp agony. He reached down. No sword. Of course. He wasn’t wearing robes, but soft blue clothing, thin and plain.
This was not the Water Prison.
And yet, he was alive.
He sat there for a long time, simply staring at his hands. Pale. Clean. Smooth.
Too smooth.
An hour later—or maybe more, time was strange here—a nurse entered.
She was startled to find him awake.
“Oh! You’re up,” she said gently, stepping forward. “Don’t move too much yet, just rest. You’ve been unconscious for three days.”
He watched her warily. Her tone was kind. Unfamiliar.
“I—” He hesitated. “Where… am I?”
“You’re in a hospital. You were found collapsed in the middle of a crosswalk downtown. No ID, no phone. Do you remember what happened?”
Shen Jiu said nothing for a moment.
He could lie. Or he could admit the truth: he didn’t understand any of this.
“…I don’t remember,” he said quietly.
“That’s okay.” She offered a soft smile, adjusting something on the monitor beside his bed. “Amnesia can happen after trauma. You’re fine for now.”
The nurse brought him water. He sipped it slowly, watching her every move like a cornered animal, waiting for the blow that never came.
She simply nodded, said she’d inform the doctor, and left.
The next day, a man in a grey suit visited him with a tablet and some files. His tone was formal but respectful.
“Your fingerprints match a missing persons case from twenty years ago. Shen Qingqiu—disappeared at the age of two from a wealthy family. Your features also match. DNA confirmation is underway.”
Shen Jiu—no, Qingqiu stared at him blankly.
A child who had vanished, now returned.
What kind of story was this?
The man continued. “The Shen family passed away in an accident several years ago. Their estate has remained untouched due to the lack of a confirmed heir. If your identity holds… legally, everything will be transferred to you.”
He passed over papers. Shen Qingqiu looked at them.
He barely understood what "estate" meant in this context.
But when they took him, days later, to the apartment left behind—clean, towering, filled with modern furniture and machines—he accepted it silently.
A soft bed. A private bathroom. A view of the city that stretched into a sea of lights.
Still no qi. Still no swords.
That was enough.
In the following weeks, he learned how things worked.
The TV confused him. So did phoned but he learned how to things work in such a short time.
He learned that this world was fast and loud, with shiny screens and flying machines and invisible connections. There was no cultivation, no sects, no magical beasts. Just people moving on, endlessly.
He walked through streets with no robes, no title, and no fear that someone might recognize him.
No one did.
He was no longer Shen Qingqiu, the hated peak lord.
Just Shen Qingqiu. A quiet man with a load of money he inherited.
One night, he looked at himself in the mirror.
His reflection was sharp and clear. His hair was long but brushed, his skin paler than he remembered, but not ruined.
He touched his face gently.
This world didn’t know what he had done.
This body didn’t carry his crimes.
There was no Luo Binghe here. No Xin Mo.
Just him.
The inheritance from the so-called “Shen family” remained untouched, save for the essentials. But then he passed an old building on a quiet side street: boarded windows, ivy crawling along its bricks, and a faint sign left behind that once read "Wen's Book Exchange."
He bought it with a single signature.
He restored it slowly—replacing shelves, collecting used books, repainting the walls in pale sage and soft cream. Everything smelled faintly of paper and jasmine tea. No loud music, no children running. Only the gentle chime of the door when someone entered, and the creak of old wood as visitors moved between shelves.
He kept the name of it.
There was no fanfare. No grand opening. No online ads.
He simply unlocked the door one Monday morning.
In the months that followed, a few loyal visitors trickled in. A college student looking for poetry. An old man searching for war memoirs. A quiet girl who always brought her own cup and left thank-you notes folded into book spines.
No one ever stayed too long.
No one ever looked at him twice.
That was how he liked it.
He spent most days behind the desk, long hair tied loosely, green robes exchanged for soft turtlenecks and warm shawls. He's just opening the library, drinking tea and just living his life.
And for many months, it stayed that way.
Until the rain came.
And with it… Ryan Gosling.
The bell above the door chimed at exactly 6:57 p.m. on a particularly stormy Sunday. The wind outside howled, scattering leaves against the windows. Thunder rumbled low like a warning.
Shen Qingqiu glanced at the door, already halfway through reaching for the “Closed” sign behind the counter.
He had seen many types wander in—artists, loners, introverts searching for quiet. But this man looked like none of them.
Tall. Dripping from head to toe in a soaked black coat. Blonde hair plastered to his forehead. His presence filled the space without effort, like he didn’t enter the library so much as occupy it.
And his face—well, it was the kind people called beautiful in magazines and dramas, though Shen Qingqiu had no interest in those. Strong jaw, deep eyes, soaked shirt clinging to a sculpted figure.
He looked like he’d walked off a movie poster.
Ryan Gosling stood in the doorway, blinking rain out of his lashes—and then he saw the man behind the counter.
Saw him.
And forgot how to breathe.
For a moment, Ryan could’ve sworn time slowed.
There, behind the desk, framed by golden lamp light and a halo of dust in the air, sat the most breathtaking man he had ever seen.
Sharp brows. Slender nose. Pale skin that looked like porcelain but carried the weight of someone older than he appeared. Long black hair tied at the nape, a green wool shawl draped over slim shoulders. Calm eyes that held no curiosity—just silence. Stillness.
Ryan thought, This is it. This is the face people try to write poems about and fail.
The man spoke before he could.
“We’re closing in three minutes.”
His voice was soft. Clear. Unamused.
Ryan blinked. “Ah—sorry. I just… I needed a place to wait out the—”
“You may return tomorrow at 6 a.m.,” Shen Qingqiu said, rising to his feet and moving to the door.
Ryan quickly stepped further inside. “Wait, wait. Just a minute. There’s paparazzi outside. I can’t… walk back out just yet.”
Shen Qingqiu paused mid-step, looking at him with quiet scrutiny. “Then take the back door.”
Ryan blinked. “I can’t do that either. They’re swarming both exits.”
Shen Qingqiu tilted his head. “Why?”
Ryan offered a sheepish smile—the kind that usually melted fans on sight. “Because I’m Ryan Gosling?”
Silence.
Shen Qingqiu stared at him, blank.
Ryan waited.
Nothing.
“…You know,” he added with a slightly nervous laugh, “La La Land? The Notebook? Blade Runner?”
More silence.
Shen Qingqiu blinked once. “No.”
For the first time in years, Ryan Gosling didn’t know what to say.
“You’re not… joking?” he asked carefully.
“I don’t recognize your name or your face,” Shen Qingqiu replied flatly. “And I don’t care.”
Ryan laughed. It was half disbelieving, half charmed. “Wow. Okay. That’s… new.”
“I’m locking the door,” Shen Qingqiu said. “If you intend to hide, do so quietly. You can leave when the rain stops. I'll keep the back door open.”
And with that, he turned away, flipping the “Closed” sign and walking back to the counter like he hadn’t just turned down Hollywood royalty.
Ryan stood there for a moment longer, blinking water from his eyes, before sighing and wandering toward the poetry section.
It wasn’t the last time he showed up.
The next day, 6:55 p.m.—Ryan returned.
Same thing. Rain. Chime. Tall silhouette in the doorway.
Shen Qingqiu looked up from his book, expression unreadable.
“You again?”
“Don’t worry,” Ryan said, holding up a coffee cup. “I brought some snacks as a thank you.”
He set it down on the counter: a chocolate box and a bottle of cow milk.
Shen Qingqiu stared at it, then at him.
"Hiding again?"
"Yes."
Then, with a sigh so delicate it could barely be heard: “…You may sit until seven-thirty.”
Ryan grinned.
Scored.
The bell above the door jingled at precisely 6:01 a.m.
The sky outside was still painted in sleepy gray. Morning mist clung to the windows, and the street beyond was hushed—no cars, no pedestrians, only the sound of wind whispering through wet leaves.
Shen Qingqiu had just placed the kettle on for tea when the door opened.
He didn’t look up right away. Few people came at opening time, and none ever walked in this early two days in a row.
But the footsteps were familiar. Light. Confident. A little too casual to belong to a regular customer.
Then the voice, low and warm, with a hint of amusement.
“I brought breakfast.”
Shen Qingqiu looked up.
There he was again.
Ryan Gosling stood by the entrance in a clean beige hoodie and jeans, a brown bag in one hand and a drink tray in the other. His hair was still damp from a morning shower. He looked like he’d stepped out of an airport commercial. Too shiny for this sleepy street.
Shen Qingqiu blinked once.
Ryan smiled and held out the bag. “My mom cooked. She insisted. Said I should thank you properly for not kicking me out into the rain.”
Shen Qingqiu eyed the offerings with suspicion. “…What is it?”
“Rice porridge. Soy sauce eggs. And, uh, a thermal bottle of ginger tea.”
Shen Qingqiu hesitated.
It had been… a long time since someone had offered him food without strings. Not disciples. Not flattery. Just—kindness.
He took the bag slowly and murmured, “…Thank you.”
Ryan’s smile widened. “So you can say nice things.”
“I didn’t say it was for you.”
That made Ryan laugh again—quiet and genuine. He placed the drink tray down gently on the counter and pulled a book from the nearby poetry shelf.
He hesitated, then looked over his shoulder.
“…What’s your name?”
Shen Qingqiu met his gaze, calm and unreadable. For a long second, he didn’t answer.
Then, softly: “Shen.”
Ryan blinked. “Last name?”
“That's a last nams. That’s all you’ll get.”
“Gatekeeping,” Ryan mused. “I like it.”
Shen Qingqiu didn’t respond. But he accepted the food and turned away, busying himself with the tea.
Ryan didn’t press further. He took a seat by the front window, the same spot he’d used the night of the storm. He read in silence—an old volume of haiku poetry in hand. Occasionally, his gaze flickered toward the man behind the counter, who sipped jasmine tea with the air of a scholar centuries removed from the present.
By 7:59 a.m., Ryan stood up quietly, slipped the book back onto the shelf, and made his way to the door.
He glanced back once. “I’ll return this Sunday.”
Shen Qingqiu didn’t look up from his book.
But he said, simply, “Doors open at six.”
Sunday arrived, rainless this time.
Ryan returned just after six, dressed in a white t-shirt, leather jacket, and a black cap pulled low over his eyes. He gave a nod in greeting and made his way to the back shelf, as though he belonged there.
He didn’t bring food this time. Just a book tucked under his arm—a dog-eared copy of something Western and dramatic.
The library was still empty. Shen Qingqiu had already lit the incense and was restocking a shelf of ancient philosophy texts.
They stayed like that for a while—silent. Two ghosts in a temple of paper and quiet.
But by 8:15 a.m., someone else entered.
A young woman in a hoodie, earbuds dangling from her neck, blinked in surprise as she crossed the threshold. She looked up, spotted Ryan in the corner… and froze.
Her mouth fell open. “Oh my god.”
Ryan’s eyes snapped up. “Shit.”
“Are you—are you Ryan Gosling?!”
He exhaled through his nose. “Uh… no?”
She laughed. “You totally are. I love you. Can I get a picture?”
Ryan hesitated, glancing toward the front desk.
Shen Qingqiu had looked up from his ledger, expression unreadable. He said nothing. Just watched.
The girl approached, practically bouncing. “Just one photo, I swear. You’re so cool in person! Like—you’re actually reading books! That’s so Ryan Gosling of you.”
Ryan chuckled softly and stood up. “Alright. One.”
She snapped the selfie, beaming.
“Can I ask—why are you in this place? I thought you only did, like, Cannes film festivals and rooftop premieres.”
Ryan gave her a lopsided smile. “Sometimes you just want to read somewhere quiet.”
She then chimed "Don't worry, I'll gatekeep this place"
She turned to Shen Qingqiu. “Do you know who he is?”
Shen Qingqiu looked at her, calm and flat. “No.”
Then, after a beat, “He is just a customer.”
The girl laughed again. “You’re so chill, I love it here. This is the coolest library ever.”
She left soon after, still giggling, probably already tweeting.
Ryan sighed and turned back to Shen Qingqiu.
“…Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” Shen said, returning to his seat. “It’s not your fault people recognize you.”
Ryan watched him for a moment, then sat again by the window.
He didn’t open his book right away.
Outside, the sun broke through the clouds in soft slivers.
Inside, Shen Qingqiu poured himself another cup of tea.
And, without thinking, poured a second one.
He slid it to the edge of the counter. Quietly.
Ryan looked at it.
And smiled.
The morning was slow, just the way Shen Qingqiu liked it.
Rain had passed the night before, and now the sunlight came in filtered through the library windows, golden and quiet. The tea on his desk had cooled just enough to sip. The scent of books and jasmine hovered in the still air.
He was halfway through reshelving a box of translated poetry when the bell above the door chimed.
Not many people came this early, and none of them had a bell this light. This… unsure.
He turned.
The door creaked open, and a tiny figure stepped in.
Barely past the counter in height, drenched from the knees down, with mismatched socks in muddy sandals and a bright yellow raincoat that swamped his small frame.
The boy looked around as if he were afraid of waking something up.
Shen Qingqiu raised a brow. “We don’t allow unattended children.”
The boy looked up, big brown eyes wide and earnest. “I’m not unattended. I have a mission.”
“…A mission?”
The child marched straight to the counter, placing both palms on it with great seriousness. Then, from his pocket, he pulled out a single, slightly dirty, five-cent coin.
“I found this,” he said solemnly. “On the sidewalk. I didn’t earn it. So I need to give it back.”
Shen Qingqiu stared at him.
The boy continued. “I was gonna give it to the police, but I got lost. Do you know where the police station is, Mister Library Boss?”
There was a pause.
The boy stared up at him like he held the world in his hands.
Shen Qingqiu blinked. “You want to return… five cents… to the police?”
The child nodded with the weight of ancient responsibility. “It’s not mine. So I can’t keep it. That would be stealing.”
Shen Qingqiu set down his cup.
“…Sit.”
The boy’s face lit up like a sunbeam. “Really? I can stay?”
“You’re drenched. And ridiculous,” Shen added flatly, already walking toward the back room. “Stay by the heater. Don’t touch anything.”
“I promise!” the boy chirped.
By the time Shen returned with a clean towel and a biscuit wrapped in paper, the child was huddled on one of the reading cushions, staring with rapt fascination at a shelf labeled Natural History: Illustrated.
Shen handed him the towel.
“What’s your name?”
“Evan,” the boy replied between towel flaps. “I’m six and a half.”
“Where are your parents?”
“Home,” Evan replied. “I told them I was going to the corner shop for bubblegum, but then I found the coin, and I knew I had to find the police right away.”
Shen Qingqiu pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re telling me you ran off to return a five-cent coin and got lost.”
“I didn’t run. I walked quickly with moral purpose.”
Shen Qingqiu didn’t know what to do with that.
He handed Evan the biscuit and turned back to the counter. He would call the station and have them pick the boy up. That would be the end of it.
Or so he thought.
The bell jingled again.
And in walked Ryan Gosling.
Shen didn’t even look up this time. “It’s early.”
“I brought muffins,” Ryan announced, holding up a paper bag triumphantly. “Also, I couldn’t sleep.”
He made it two steps into the room before noticing Evan on the cushion, tiny and wrapped in a towel, holding a biscuit like a holy relic.
“…Is that a child?”
Shen Qingqiu sipped his tea. “Apparently.”
Ryan blinked, looked between them, then slowly approached.
“Hey, buddy. What’s your name?”
Evan looked up. “Evan. I’m on a mission.”
Ryan squatted beside him. “Really? What kind of mission?”
Evan held out the coin. “Found this. Gonna give it to the police. Can’t keep what’s not mine.”
Ryan smiled, genuinely. “That’s really honest of you.”
“It’s what heroes do,” Evan replied gravely.
Ryan turned to Shen. “And you just… found him here?”
“He walked in and declared his intentions like some tragic folk hero.”
Ryan chuckled. Then looked back at Evan. “You like books?”
“I like dinosaurs. And books about dinosaurs. And robots. And dragons. And spaghetti.”
“Well,” Ryan said, sitting down beside him, “I think you’re in the right place.”
He reached over and pulled a large hardcover from the shelf—The Big Book of Dinosaurs—and opened it between them. Evan gasped as a full-page T-Rex illustration roared across the paper.
Shen Qingqiu watched from behind the desk as Ryan read.
Not with the slow, obligatory cadence of someone humoring a child. No—he did voices. He gasped with Evan. Pointed at illustrations. Let the boy climb half into his lap while shouting about Stegosaurus armor tails!
The coin sat forgotten between them on the carpet.
At one point, Evan glanced up and whispered, “You look like that guy my mom likes in the movies.”
Ryan winked. “I get that a lot.”
Evan beamed.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t smile. But he poured another cup of tea. And, very quietly, placed a second cup on the empty seat across the desk.
An hour passed.
Ryan had just begun reading about Triceratops herd behavior when Shen’s phone rang quietly. He stepped outside to speak to the local precinct and gave the boy’s name, estimating his address from what Evan had babbled between T-Rex facts.
When he returned, Ryan was teaching Evan how to pronounce “Pachycephalosaurus.”
Shen sat back at the counter, arms crossed, watching the two of them with something he couldn't quite name.
Evan’s eyes sparkled.
Eventually, the boy sat up straight again and held out the coin. “I still gotta return this.”
Ryan took it gently. “Tell you what. I’ll take it to the police station for you. I have to pass by there anyway.”
Evan blinked. “Really?”
“Scout’s honor,” Ryan said with a solemn salute. “I’ll tell them a very noble six-and-a-half-year-old turned it in.”
Evan nodded. “Tell them my name. Evan Hughes. And I don’t want a reward. That’s important.”
“I’ll make sure they know.”
Evan, finally satisfied, yawned.
A knock at the door came moments later—an officer, friendly-faced and familiar with the neighborhood, came to collect him. Evan hugged Ryan fiercely before going, and then turned to Shen Qingqiu.
“Thank you for the biscuit. And the heater. You’re very mysterious, Mister Library Boss.”
Shen Qingqiu blinked. “Read more. Speak less.”
Evan grinned. “Okay!”
Then he was gone.
The library felt quieter afterward. Still warm, still golden, but quieter.
Ryan sat back against one of the shelves, staring after the door.
“…That kid’s gonna take over the world someday,” he said.
Shen Qingqiu didn’t reply.
“You’re good with him,” Ryan added, voice softer now. “Most people would’ve just sent him out.”
“I was going to.”
“But you didn’t.”
Shen Qingqiu looked over. Ryan had that same expression he sometimes wore when he read poetry—not smiling, but... still.
“I’m not cruel,” Shen said simply.
“No,” Ryan agreed. “You’re not.”
They sat in silence a while longer.
Eventually, Ryan stood, brushing his palms together.
“Well. I’ll head out.”
He pulled the five-cent coin from his pocket and twirled it once between his fingers.
“I’m really taking it to the station, you know.”
“I know,” Shen replied.
Ryan hesitated at the door, hand on the knob.
Then, without turning: “You’d be a good dad.”
Shen Qingqiu stilled.
Ryan glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “You have that look. The kind that sees everything and says very little. Kids feel safe around that.”
Shen said nothing. Not a twitch in his face.
But inside, something stirred.
He didn’t answer.
Ryan just smiled softly. “See you next Sunday.”
And then he was gone.
It began, as these things often do, with something quiet.
Ryan was curled up in his usual spot by the window, pretending to read but not turning a single page. Outside, rain tapped against the glass, steady and soft like breath. The library, as always, was calm—only the low hum of wind, the rustle of paper, the faint scent of tea and cedar wood.
And Shen Jiu.
He was at the desk, as he always was at this hour, sipping something pale in color. His expression unreadable, half-hidden by his loose hair. The pale green shawl draped over his shoulders caught the lamp glow like moss in morning sun.
He hadn’t said much today.
But then, he never did.
Ryan watched him from behind the cover of his book—though Shen definitely knew. Shen always knew when he was being watched.
It had been months now. Months of quiet conversations, weekly book swaps, shared tea, the occasional bickering about whether or not Frankenstein was technically horror. Months of Ryan inventing reasons to stop by, then pretending they weren’t reasons at all.
He wasn’t sure when it started.
Was it that first stormy night? Or when Shen had poured a second cup of tea without a word? Or maybe the moment Shen had bent down to tie Evan’s soggy shoelace, expression blank but hands impossibly gentle?
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that Ryan was sitting in this library every chance he got, bringing muffins no one asked for, trying to catch slivers of expression from a man who gave almost none.
He wasn’t used to this. Being the one wondering. Being the one chasing.
But for Shen… he didn’t mind.
Ryan stared at the steam rising from his untouched tea.
I like him.
The thought came so clearly, so plainly, it surprised him.
It wasn’t a crash of realization. Just a stillness. Like water settling after a stone has sunk to the bottom.
I like him. And I’m probably already too far gone.
Shen turned the page of his book, not looking up.
Ryan smiled to himself.
And I don’t think he has any idea.
The next Sunday was unusually warm. The windows were open, the breeze carrying the scent of distant flowers. Shen had removed the shawl and rolled his sleeves up to the elbows—revealing slim wrists and pale, elegant hands that Ryan absolutely did not keep sneaking glances at.
They sat across from each other at the long oak table, a chessboard between them.
Ryan tapped a pawn. “Okay, what’s on the line?”
Shen glanced at him over his teacup. “You want a wager?”
“Absolutely. Stakes make things interesting.”
Shen thought about it for a second.
“Fine. If I win, you stop bringing muffins for a month.”
Ryan gasped. “Cruel.”
Shen raised an eyebrow. “They’re always banana and you always eat them yourself.”
“…Valid. Fine. And if I win?”
“Unlikely.”
Ryan grinned. “If I win, you tell me your real name.”
Shen’s fingers stilled over the bishop.
Then, slowly: “You already know my name.”
“Shen,” Ryan scoffed. “That’s like saying your name is ‘Mister Library.’”
A pause.
Then Shen nodded once. “If you win.”
Ryan rubbed his hands together. “Prepare to lose.”
Ten minutes later, he was losing.
Badly.
Shen was the kind of player who moved like he saw ten steps ahead. Cold. Calm. Not showy, not aggressive. Just quietly deadly.
Ryan narrowed his eyes, studying the board. “You’ve played before.”
“I had disciples,” Shen said, moving his knight without even blinking. “They were annoying.”
“Were they good?”
“No. But they were persistent.”
Ryan clicked his tongue. “I’m getting destroyed.”
“Yes.”
“You could at least pretend I’m a challenge.”
“No.”
Despite himself, Ryan started laughing.
Shen flicked his eyes up. “Why are you smiling?”
“Because I’m having fun.”
“While losing?”
“Especially while losing.”
Shen gave him that look again—confused, distant, like Ryan was a puzzle piece from the wrong box.
Ryan leaned forward on his elbows, chin in hand.
“…You’re different when you play.”
Shen blinked. “How so?”
“You don’t look like you’re keeping yourself small.”
That made Shen freeze.
Not visibly, not enough for most people to notice. But Ryan saw it—the tiny stiffening in his posture, the half-hitch in his breath.
He looked down at the board.
“You’re perceptive,” Shen murmured.
“Guilty.”
The silence after was long. Comfortable.
Then Shen moved his queen.
Ryan stared. His grin slowly widened.
“…You just walked into a trap.”
Shen frowned, leaning closer. “No I didn’t.”
“Oh, you absolutely did.”
Ryan reached out, moved his rook, and then his knight—two steps, one pivot—and suddenly, Shen’s king had nowhere left to run.
Checkmate.
Shen stared at the board.
Ryan leaned back smugly. “I believe you owe me something.”
Shen’s expression remained blank for a long while. Then he picked up his tea, took a deliberate sip, and said:
“Shen Jiu.”
Ryan blinked. “Come again?”
“My name,” he said calmly. “Is Shen Jiu.”
“…Wait. Seriously?”
“Yes.”
Ryan looked mildly offended. “You really went with 'Shen' as your fake first name?”
“It was easier than making something up.”
Ryan opened his mouth. Closed it. Then smiled wide.
“Shen Jiu,” he repeated softly. “Huh.”
“Disappointed?”
“No,” Ryan said, voice quieter now. “Just glad to know.”
There was something… old in that name. Something that didn’t quite match the soft green shawls and the quiet tea-sipping. It didn’t feel like a name someone in this world would have.
But Ryan didn’t ask. Not yet.
Instead, he whispered, “It suits you.”
Shen glanced at him, uncertain.
Ryan added, teasing: “Also, that’s a really dramatic name. Are you secretly a prince?”
Shen rolled his eyes. “No.”
“…Cult leader?”
“No.”
Ryan squinted. “Former assassin?”
“Stop guessing.”
“Fine.” Ryan leaned back again, fingers steepled behind his head. “But I’m gonna use it now. Shen Jiu.”
He said it like a promise. Like something sacred and quiet.
Shen looked away.
But didn’t object.