Pretend to be crazy - Chapter 71

The triple-encrypted gate unlocked layer by layer.

The visitation room was brightly lit, every inch illuminated by harsh white light. A transparent, specially-made glass window split the room in half.

Qi Cong spotted Ruan Zhixian immediately, seated on the other side of the glass.

He wore a pure white shirt and trousers. Around his neck, wrists, and ankles were black rings, each about the thickness of a pinky finger.

If he showed even the slightest sign of aggression, the rings would immediately release a high-voltage electric current strong enough to kill, along with poison injected directly into his system.

Ruan Zhixian had been in custody for almost a month.

Half a month ago, they had barely managed to stop the uprising. District One and its forces suffered heavy losses. A large number of the bugs that had been forced underground were not dead—they had merely gone into hiding, breeding quietly, waiting for their king in prison to rise again.

When District One finally uncovered the true mastermind, they weren’t even surprised.

Qi Cong sat down and knocked on the glass. “How’s life in prison?”

“It’s alright,” Ruan Zhixian chuckled lightly. “But you—did you find the backup data?”

Qi Cong clenched his fists.

The data Ruan Zhixian had leaked publicly wasn’t complete. He had deleted the most critical core files.

During the attack on the data center, all information had supposedly been wiped. The backup Qi Cong had prepared in advance—hoping to claim credit—had also mysteriously vanished.

Now Ruan Zhixian brought it up himself, a blatant provocation.

Qi Cong sneered, “How long do you think you can survive on just that? The Elders’ Council will be rebuilt in less than a month.”

Ruan Zhixian replied calmly, “A long time.”

Then he smirked with irony. “Don’t tell me you’re only here because you’ve made no progress?”

Qi Cong’s true motive was indeed that. Being exposed didn’t faze him—he smiled coolly. “Of course not.”

Ruan Zhixian leaned back, uninterested.

Qi Cong snorted, opened his terminal, and began playing a video.

The room in the footage was empty. A few seconds later, two uniformed men entered, dragging a young man with black hair. They stopped at the center of the room.

The two officers exited. The young man stood slightly hunched, visible bruises from beatings on his exposed skin. His head was lowered, overgrown bangs seemingly poking into his eyes. He reached up to brush them aside.

A cold, authoritative voice asked:

“Name?”

“Shen Yan.”

“Age?”

“Twenty-s… twenty-five.”

“Twenty-four? Why did you hesitate?”

The young man finally looked up, casually pushing his hair back. He smiled toward someone behind the camera. “New year, gained a year—forgot.”

Qi Cong watched Ruan Zhixian’s face closely, hoping for a reaction. He found nothing. That frustrated him.

Still pretending.

Let’s see how long you can keep it up.

The video continued. The young man seemed tired, shifting weight between his feet and yawning.

The interrogator, who already knew the truth, asked, “Didn’t sleep well?”

The young man pointed at the dark circles under his eyes. “As you can see—very sleepy.”

The interrogator chuckled. “Don’t worry. We’ll wake you right up.”

The scenes that followed were brutal.

Qi Cong leisurely crossed his legs, lowered the volume to dull the screams in the background, and said:

“Modern torture methods are predictable, but layered together, they work wonders on most people. Your boy really is something—strong. Nearly died and still didn’t confess anything related to you. Claimed he didn’t know you at all.”

Ruan Zhixian watched silently as the young man was dragged away, a smear of blood marking the floor—a glaring, brutal sight.

The video ended. The screen went black. He looked away, turning to Qi Cong.

He said nothing.

Qi Cong knocked on the glass. “What? Stunned? Or too heartbroken to speak?”

Ruan Zhixian: “Heartbroken? For what—an AI-generated actor? Did he get tortured too?”

Qi Cong’s expression froze. He replayed the video. Every frame had been flawlessly synthesized. How did Ruan Zhixian see through it?

Ruan Zhixian sighed. “My brother wouldn’t be dumb enough to get caught by you people.”

Qi Cong, disappointed, turned off the video and asked casually: “So… him going to Red Star—that was part of your plan?”

“You do realize he can’t come back from there, right? You just let him go? Sacrificing yourself for him—doesn’t sound like you at all.”

Crack.

Qi Cong’s gaze dropped to the black ring Ruan Zhixian had just crushed. His first reaction wasn’t fear—it was curiosity.

He stared for a few seconds, then looked up at Ruan Zhixian, realization dawning. His eyes widened in excitement.

“Ruan Zhixian… you didn’t know Shen Yan is no longer on Black Star?”

Ruan Zhixian’s smile froze, and the light in his eyes vanished. That same light transferred entirely to Qi Cong’s face.

Qi Cong leaned forward, heart pounding, eyes fixed on him. “You really didn’t know? I thought he told you. He said you killed his boyfriend—that he hates you.”

“What happened, Ruan Zhixian? Weren’t you two close? Why’d he lie to you?”

“He didn’t tell you anything? Seriously?”

Bang!

A loud crash. Qi Cong’s heart skipped a beat. The reinforced glass—capable of withstanding hundreds of custom bullets—was spiderwebbed from Ruan Zhixian’s single punch.

Crimson alarms flared, red lights flashing in the stark white room. Qi Cong’s heart raced, but he couldn’t stop talking. He laughed at Ruan Zhixian’s broken reflection in the shattered glass.

“Ruan Zhixian, he lied to me—and to you. To him, what’s the difference between us? We’re both from District One. You think you’re special? The world doesn’t revolve around you.”

Another punch.

The indestructible glass shattered completely. Ruan Zhixian reached through the broken center, grabbing Qi Cong’s hair with barely visible speed, yanking him through the hole.

Shards slashed Qi Cong’s face, blood spilling into his mouth—but he only grew more excited, eyes gleaming.

“One and a half months. Shen Yan’s probably reached Red Star by now.”

“With his skills, blending into Red Star society won’t be hard. Without a dangerous freak like you, he doesn’t need to play games or fake affection. He can walk hand in hand with his lover down the street. You think he’s still thinking of you?”

“Oh, if it were me, I’d remember fondly—back on Black Star, how I fooled that arrogant fool who thought the world owed him something, hahaha—ugh—”

Crack.

Ruan Zhixian snapped his neck.

Silence fell. The red lights stopped flashing. A disembodied, aged voice echoed through the room:

“Ruan Zhixian. You’ve disappointed us.”

Ruan Zhixian didn’t speak.
He picked up the handcuff he had crushed earlier and tried to snap it back onto his wrist.

It wouldn’t latch.

Expressionless, he tossed it aside, not showing any reaction to anything. Walking to the prison door, he said flatly:

“Open the door. Visiting time is over.”

Shen Yan had grown a few pots of flowers.
 The blossoms were palm-sized, with five petals each of a different color. After being watered, they shivered their leaves with excitement.

He was now a legal resident of Red Star.

Inserted onto a ship as a test subject under Qi Cong’s orders, he had negotiated his own terms after faking his death and arriving on Red Star.

The core data of the “Perfect Human Project,” which Black Star had never disclosed to Red Star, had been stolen by Ruan Zhixian and first sent directly to Shen Yan’s terminal.

Shen Yan, a prime subject with over 80% compatibility, had once had a tube of blood drawn by Qi Cong, which had significantly advanced the experiment.

In exchange for that data and the promise to provide blood and physical data three times a year, Shen Yan had secured full legal residency.

Life on Red Star wasn’t much different from his previous world: orderly, fair, and stable. He could walk the streets without fearing someone would jump out, stab him twice, and run off with his terminal.

He didn’t need to work. The government had arranged housing and provided a monthly living stipend. Each time he gave blood, he received a bonus as well.

He saved up and traveled.

Being outgoing and a good conversationalist, he made friends along the way.

During his travels, he stayed alert to jobs he’d never tried. If something seemed interesting, he’d apply. If rejected for lack of experience, he wouldn’t get discouraged—he’d make friends with the successful applicants, learn from them, and apply again when ready.

He kept busy—never giving himself time to dwell on the past.

One day, he suddenly remembered the flowers he left behind. They hadn’t been watered in two months and were probably dead.

Surprisingly, they weren’t. Just a bit wilted.

Shen Yan gently poked a petal and gave them some water. The little things perked up visibly.

The apartment, left unoccupied, was dusty. After cleaning, it was already late afternoon.

Then came a knock on the door.

It was a young man from across the hall—Zhou Hui. Tall, slim, shy, and freshly graduated. He hadn’t found a job yet, and rented a cheap resettlement unit. He spent his days cooped up, tinkering with who-knew-what.

Extremely frugal, he once fainted on the stairs from hunger. That was how he and Shen Yan met.

Shen Yan claimed he couldn’t cook and proposed they take care of each other—he’d cook on Monday, Wednesday, Friday; Zhou Hui on Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday; Sunday was rock-paper-scissors. If neither wanted to cook, Shen Yan treated them to a meal out.

They got close, almost treating each other’s place as their own. Zhou Hui was an indie game developer. He’d always ask Shen Yan to test his demos. Shen Yan would offer thoughts and suggestions in return.

Even during Shen Yan’s travels, they kept in touch. Despite his shyness, Zhou Hui turned out to be quite the chatterbox. He said he was too scared to travel and asked Shen Yan to send lots of photos so he could “see the world” too.

A few months later, Zhou Hui looked almost like a vagrant. Shen Yan couldn’t bear it. Before even mentioning dinner, he gave him a full cleanup. Once the guy looked decent again, they sat down to eat.

Zhou Hui brought some low-alcohol drinks. Though he couldn’t handle liquor, he kept clinking glasses with Shen Yan, gulping them down.

Shen Yan could tell he had something to say, so he let him drink and watched calmly.

Eventually, Zhou Hui sat beside him, clutching the can and staring. After a few more gulps, he finally blurted:

“Shen Yan, you’re like me, right?”

Shen Yan: “What?”

“You like men.”

Shen Yan said nothing.

His silence was confirmation. That emboldened Zhou Hui. Blushing, he said:

“Then I’m just gonna say it.”

Shen Yan: “You like me.”

Zhou Hui paused, fingers clenching the can until it crumpled with a crunch.

His momentum faltered a bit, but he looked up and said, “Yeah. I like you. A lot.”

Shen Yan curled his lips faintly. “I have someone.”

Zhou Hui nervously reached for his hand. “He hasn’t shown up in forever. What’s the difference between having and not having him?”

Shen Yan: “He’s in jail. No idea how long he’ll be in. I’ll wait for him.”

Zhou Hui froze, then slowly withdrew his hand. Deflated, he drank the last of his beer.

“My family wants me to go back. I’m ending my lease tomorrow. Since you’re back, I thought… I should at least tell you.”

Drunkenly, he rambled on. Shen Yan, emotionless, offered some words of comfort. Only in the early hours did he help the now-asleep Zhou Hui back to his apartment.

The next day, Shen Yan made breakfast and knocked on his door.

No one answered.

Shen Yan stood at the door for a while, then returned home.