Is This The Right Way To Repay A Favor? Chapter 69

Twisted

Warm water poured down from the showerhead, mingling with the heat of Shen Zhiyu’s palm as it washed over every inch of Jiang Zhou’s skin. Wherever it touched, silent flames ignited.

A strange, heart-stopping numbness spread silently.

Steam rose, making the air thick and thin. Jiang Zhou felt dizzy, as if the tiles beneath his feet were spinning, and his will to resist slowly became soft and powerless.

“Don’t—” A massive sense of shame wrapped around him like vines, constricting him until he could barely breathe.

The long-dormant thought of self-destruction now broke through the soil, sweeping over him with overwhelming force, frantically devouring his crumbling sanity.

Jiang Zhou was going mad. He had to do something.

Jiang Zhou began to struggle desperately, his fingertips nearly digging into the skin of Shen Zhiyu’s palm.

“P-please, let me go—” He gritted his teeth, tears rolling down his trembling lashes, and the metallic, bloody taste of rust filled his mouth.

Sure enough!

Shen Zhiyu confirmed the suspicion in his heart.

Jiang Zhou hadn’t harmed himself in a long time, and he hadn’t shown any extreme behavior even after actively seducing and servicing him in recent times. This should have been a sign of improvement, but Shen Zhiyu always felt that something was off.

He thought back carefully and realized this change began after their first truly intimate encounter, and the situation became particularly strange after Jiang Zhou first actively offered himself.

And those repeated acts of initiative were entirely wrong. They weren’t the sweet intimacy between lovers; they were more like Jiang Zhou’s personal sacrifice. He seemed to be performing repeated acts of devout, almost self-destructive offering.

Because he had already carried self-destruction to the extreme, he no longer needed superficial physical pain to punish himself. Those repeated acts of initiative were, for Jiang Zhou, the most severe punishment.

Shen Zhiyu didn’t need this sacrificial kind of intimacy.

Jiang Zhou insisted on lowering himself to the dust, insisting on placing him on a pedestal.

But he absolutely refused to accept it.

Burning lips pressed down with a punishing force, aggressively conquering Jiang Zhou’s lips and teeth with undeniable invasiveness.

The rusty, sweet smell spread between their mouths, and water droplets constantly rolled down from their tightly pressed, wet hair.

The kiss almost completely devoured him, and a sharper wave of self-loathing rushed to his head.

Jiang Zhou suddenly pulled one hand back, not to push Shen Zhiyu away, but with a self-destructive resolve, he violently lunged toward the sharp edge of the cold shower caddy in front of him.

At this moment, only real and intense pain could override the burning heat ignited in his palm and the chaos in his heart.

However, the anticipated impact and pain did not arrive.

The hand that had been restraining his waist precisely intercepted him mid-air, the five fingers forcefully interlacing with his, then locking tightly with an irresistible grip.

Fingers intertwined. Jiang Zhou’s knuckles were squeezed hard, held with a force that brooked no escape.

That palm, leading him, ignited a flame that burned all the way to his heart, scalding his soul until it trembled slightly.

The last line of defense in his heart completely collapsed.

Jiang Zhou uncontrollably shivered, and in his desperate descent, he actually tasted a hint of twisted, hopeless sweetness.

—

The silent war in the bathroom drained all of Jiang Zhou’s strength.

He didn’t know how he was led away from that wet battlefield, or how he ended up on this bed. His memory was hazy; he was like an empty shell with its soul drawn out, silently curled up in a corner of the quilt.

Shen Zhiyu had serviced him.

This realization brought Jiang Zhou overwhelming despair.

He had finally managed to convince himself to treat all of Shen Zhiyu’s needs as gospel, and to devalue his own existence to the dust. But everything that happened tonight completely shattered the twisted balance he had painstakingly constructed.

Shen Zhiyu’s forceful yet gentle initiative denied the value of his existence more thoroughly than any rough treatment. Jiang Zhou felt like mud forcibly stuffed into a shrine, defiling the existence that should have been spotless.

The accumulating waves of pleasure, the layers of release, felt like loud slaps across his humble soul.

From this point on, his very existence seemed to become an original sin, a blasphemy against Shen Zhiyu.

Tears silently surged out, soaking the pillow.

A hand gently stroked his back, which was trembling slightly from silent weeping. There was no lust in this touch, only a quiet comfort.

After an unknown amount of time, Shen Zhiyu suddenly cupped the back of Jiang Zhou’s neck, forcing him to lift his face slightly from where it was buried in the pillow.

Jiang Zhou’s cheeks were soaked, and his face was pale, devoid of any color.

Looking at this face, a trace of suppressed anxiety rose from the depths of Shen Zhiyu’s heart.

“Jiang Zhou—” he called softly.

Jiang Zhou seemed to have lost his soul, showing no struggle or eye contact, just staring blankly ahead, his eyes completely devoid of light.

An unprecedented panic arose in Shen Zhiyu’s heart.

How could this happen?

He only wanted Jiang Zhou to face him, not to see him humble himself into the dust. But the result deviated far from all his expectations.

He had calculated all the possible reactions Jiang Zhou might have—fierce, helpless, resentful—but he never anticipated this deathly silence.

The current Jiang Zhou was like a handful of quicksand; no matter how tightly he held him, he could only watch him dissipate through his fingers.

Shen Zhiyu subconsciously held the person in his arms even tighter.

—

The heavy private room door blocked out the noise outside, temporarily carving out a quiet space.

“Teacher Shen, what brings you here?” Yuan Chong sat with his legs crossed, looking relaxed as he faced the uninvited guest.

Shen Zhiyu had suddenly appeared at Diqian tonight, and seeing that Yuan Chong was busy, he had patiently waited for him in the private room for a while.

“How long has it been?” Shen Zhiyu asked.

Yuan Chong looked at him confusedly.

“How long has Jiang Zhou liked me?”

Yuan Chong’s expression shifted slightly, but he still insisted, “Teacher Shen, aren’t you being presumptuous? Ah Zhou has always liked—”

Before he could finish, Shen Zhiyu cut him off directly. “I touched him.”

“What!” Yuan Chong shot up abruptly, his expression changing drastically.

“When did this happen? Where is he now?” he asked while pulling out his phone to call Jiang Zhou.

The call didn’t go through, and Yuan Chong’s eyes turned red with anxiety, “Where is he?”

“He’s asleep. I put his phone on silent.”

“Are you sure he’s asleep?”

“I gave him a sleeping pill.”

Jiang Zhou’s state after the fact was too alarming. Shen Zhiyu brought him back to Haishi overnight. Fearing that he might do something irreversible if left alone, he gave him a sleeping pill before leaving, only departing after confirming he was in a deep sleep.

He had to find Yuan Chong to understand the root of Jiang Zhou’s problem so he could treat it correctly.

Yuan Chong finally relaxed slightly. After Jiang Zhou had talked to Yuan Rong last time, his sister had reminded him to pay more attention to Jiang Zhou’s condition. But apart from the time the bar was smashed, Yuan Chong hadn’t really seen Jiang Zhou much recently.

Jiang Zhou had been avoiding him, rejecting meetings with various excuses, only sending a message every two days to report that he was safe. That’s why Yuan Chong hadn’t forced his way in.

According to his sister’s analysis, Jiang Zhou’s mindset had become even more twisted after sleeping with Shen Zhiyu. He seemed to have convinced himself and accepted a certain arrangement, but in reality, he was sacrificing and punishing himself in a more tragic way.

If this delicate balance could be maintained, he might barely hold on. But Shen Zhiyu’s “response” and “initiative” were nothing short of a catastrophe for that balance.

With the balance completely broken, Jiang Zhou might resort to the most drastic measures.

He would die.

But now, the only person who could save Jiang Zhou was the man in front of him. He was the poison, but also the only antidote right now. Yuan Chong had no other choice but to place his bet on him.

“Do you love Jiang Zhou?” Yuan Chong asked.

Shen Zhiyu didn’t answer. He couldn’t. If Yuan Chong had asked if he liked him, he could have nodded without hesitation.

But Yuan Chong asked about love. The word love was too heavy for Shen Zhiyu.

He couldn’t say it; he always felt that something was still missing between him and Jiang Zhou.

Yuan Chong cursed under his breath.

He understood that asking Shen Zhiyu to love Jiang Zhou was too demanding; feelings were never equal. But facing Shen Zhiyu’s silence at this moment, he still felt sad and that Jiang Zhou deserved better.

“I’m taking you somewhere,” Yuan Chong finally said.

Yuan Chong drove aggressively, the streetlights rapidly retreating outside the window. No one spoke in the car, and the atmosphere was heavy and oppressive.

Ten minutes later, the car pulled up to a residential complex.

Shen Zhiyu found the complex familiar. Thinking back, he realized this was the complex where he had lived during his training camp in Haishi before going abroad.

Yuan Chong led him through familiar yet slightly strange paths, then entered the elevator of the main building.

Shen Zhiyu watched Yuan Chong press the number—12. This was the floor he used to live on.

The answer was almost obvious. Yuan Chong had brought him to the apartment he once lived in.

The lock on the apartment door had been changed; it was now a keypad lock.

Yuan Chong stopped and looked deeply at Shen Zhiyu.

Shen Zhiyu understood and entered his own birthday into the keypad.

A chime sounded, and the door lock clicked open.

Yuan Chong stood outside the door, “See for yourself. I’ll wait for you at the entrance.”

The entryway was dim, and the air was filled with floating dust and the scent of some kind of sandalwood.

Shen Zhiyu fumbled for the light switch on the wall.

The lights suddenly came on, and his breath hitched, his pupils contracting slightly at the sight before him.

The living room, dining room, and kitchen—all non-load-bearing walls had been knocked down, forming one massive, spacious area that stretched from the entrance to the innermost bedroom.

And from the floor to the high ceiling, this vast space was filled with dense images of “him.”

Shen Zhiyu felt as if he had suddenly stumbled into a bizarre, devout temple where “he” was the deity.

In the transparent acrylic display cases on the walls, all his albums since his debut were categorized and displayed, from the youthful first edition EP to the final limited edition vinyl, nothing was missing. In the cabinets on the other side, carefully placed and framed were small photo cards, banners, and yellowed concert ticket stubs.

Walking further inside, posters, standees, and life-size cutouts were stacked layer upon layer. “He,” in various poses and expressions, silently gazed at his stunned real-life counterpart.

Across from these displays, several mannequin racks held several sets of crisp, new clothes. Shen Zhiyu recognized them immediately as the stage outfits he had worn during concerts.

He felt a slight dizziness, his throat dry.

The master bedroom was the only area in this space that remained a separate room. Shen Zhiyu moved his somewhat stiff legs, walking toward it step by step.