Chapter 2: Who the Hell Are You?!

Jiang Zhi drifted in and out of a hazy dream. In it, he was sitting in an office.

On one side, floor-to-ceiling windows bathed the entire room in sunlight; on the other, a wall of towering bookshelves. The leather chair was so plush he felt as though he were sinking into it. He glanced down; documents on his desk were stacked in perfect order, and a coffee cup at the corner, embossed with a golden logo, wafted a thin veil of steam.

Standing opposite him was a man. He was dressed in a charcoal-gray suit, tailored to perfection, accentuating his powerful physique. His features were deep-set, his nose bridge straight, and his jawline nothing short of flawless.

Jiang Zhi looked at him.

He looked back at Jiang Zhi.

"From today on," the man began, his voice low and resonant, "you are the CEO of the Sinan Group."

Jiang Zhi blinked, taken aback.

"...What?"

The man didn't repeat himself. He merely watched him with an unreadable expression before reaching into his inner jacket pocket and producing three items, placing them one by one onto the mahogany desk.

A set of car keys, a property deed, and a black card.

The car keys bore the three-pointed star logo; the property deed was stamped with "Sinan Mansion"; and the black card displayed the symbol for unlimited credit.

Jiang Zhi stared at the items.

The man stated, "These are the car keys, the deed, and the black card."

Jiang Zhi looked up.

The man stepped closer.

The sunlight streaming in from behind him gilded his silhouette with a halo of gold.

"And," he added, "I am your husband."

Jiang Zhi bolted awake, his eyes snapping open.

The room was bathed in bright daylight. Sunlight leaked through the gap in the curtains, stabbing at his eyes and forcing him to squint. He lay in bed, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He stared at the ceiling, trying to steady his breathing until he finally let out a long, shuddering sigh of relief.

A dream. It must have been a dream. The CEO, the car keys, the deed, the black card—and that ridiculous claim...

He rolled over.

And then, he froze.

Lying beside him was a person.

Naked, staring directly at him.

The deep-set features, the straight nose, the flawless jawline—he was identical to the man from his dream.

Jiang Zhi’s heart shot straight into his throat.

His mind went blank, but his body acted on instinct. He let out a primal yell and kicked out with every ounce of his strength.

"Ahh—!"

The man was sent tumbling off the bed with a heavy thud. Jiang Zhi scrambled backward, shrinking into the corner of the bed and clutching the duvet to his chest as a shield. His hands were trembling, his legs felt like jelly, and his heart was pounding so hard it threatened to burst.

"Who the hell are you?! How did you get in here?! I'm calling the police! I’m calling the police!"

The man sat on the floor, one hand braced behind him while the other rubbed the spot where he’d been kicked. He looked up at Jiang Zhi, his ears tinged with a faint red.

"...You kick pretty hard," he muttered.

Jiang Zhi ignored him, scrambling to reach for his phone on the nightstand. His finger hovered over the emergency dial button, but his hand shook so violently that the screen blurred in his vision.

"Don't call the police," the man said.

"Who are you?" Jiang Zhi glared at him. "How did you get in? I locked the door! I locked the windows! How did you get in here?"

The man stood up from the floor.

Jiang Zhi retreated further, his back pressing against the cold wall. It was only then he realized the man was completely naked. His gaze flickered downward involuntarily, catching only a glimpse before he whipped his eyes away, his ears burning hot enough to steam.

The man didn't approach any further. He just stood by the bedside, watching him.

"You were holding me in your sleep last night, talking," he said. "Then, with a poof, I turned into this."

Jiang Zhi paused.

"...What?"

The man didn't repeat himself. He just kept watching him.

Something in Jiang Zhi’s brain had seized, refusing to process the information. He opened his mouth, closed it, and opened it again.

"Talking in my sleep? About what?"

The man fell silent.

For a fleeting second, his expression remained stoic, but his ears turned an even deeper shade of crimson. He seemed to realize how absurd his words sounded, glancing away toward the window.

"You said," he said, his voice dropping an octave, "Don't go."

Jiang Zhi: "..."

He sat there, mouth agape, staring at the man.

He remembered last night. He remembered holding that dusty, gray, ugly doll, rambling on about nonsense. He had even, inexplicably, named it "Little Hope." And right before falling asleep, he’d whispered see you tomorrow.

As for that "don't go"—that had to be a dream. Something said in the subconscious. How could it possibly be real?

No, that wasn't the point.

The point was: How did this guy get in here?

Jiang Zhi gripped his phone tighter, locking his eyes on the intruder. The sunlight played across the man's frame, highlighting the contours of his chest and the lines of his abdominals. There was a faint, pale scar on his shoulder, looking as though it had only recently healed.

Jiang Zhi’s gaze couldn't help but drift toward the scar again, before he violently averted his eyes.

The man seemed to notice, but he remained silent.

"Who are you, really?" Jiang Zhi demanded.

The man looked at him.

"Duan Sinan," he replied.

Jiang Zhi waited for the rest.

The man said nothing else.

"And?" Jiang Zhi pressed. "Who is Duan Sinan?"

The man paused, his tone flat but his pace quickening slightly. "I was the CEO of the Sinan Group. A month ago, I was in a car accident. When I woke up, I was inside a claw machine."

Jiang Zhi froze. The dream...

The man continued, "I couldn't speak, I couldn't move. Every day, I watched people come and go, watched the plushies get snatched, thrown back, snatched, and thrown back again. I spent a month in there."

He looked down at his own hands, then back at Jiang Zhi, a flicker of confusion crossing his eyes, as if he himself weren't entirely sure if these memories were real.

"Then, yesterday afternoon, you walked over. You dropped a fifty-cent coin, fished me out, stuffed me in your pocket, and brought me home."

Jiang Zhi’s brain gave up on turning altogether.

"You..." He stammered. "You're saying you're that doll?"

The man didn't answer. He simply gestured toward the nightstand.

"The doll is gone."

Jiang Zhi followed the gesture.

The bedside table was empty.

Beside the pillow, where he had left the ugly doll the night before, there was nothing.

Jiang Zhi felt a chill.

He remembered clearly. He had definitely left that toy by the pillow.

It was right there.

Now, it was gone.

Jiang Zhi turned to look at the man. He was still standing by the bed, bare-chested, the scar on his shoulder sharp against the sunlight, his ears still burning red.

"You..." Jiang Zhi started.

The man stayed silent.

"You're... you're that doll?"

The man looked at him.

"I don't know," he said—the first time his tone betrayed a hint of uncertainty. "I only remember a poof sound, and then I was lying here."

Jiang Zhi opened his mouth, then shut it.

He felt this entire situation was preposterous—a blatant lie, something you'd tell a child! But he couldn't bring himself to say it out loud.

Because he remembered something.

He remembered holding that doll last night, pouring out his troubles. The doll had watched him the whole time, its crooked eyes seemingly listening. He remembered pinching its ears—soft, with uneven, lumpy cotton inside.

He remembered the last thing he saw before drifting off: that dusty, gray silhouette, the crooked eyes, one ear standing tall while the other drooped.

Jiang Zhi stared at the man before him, falling into a tense silence.

After a long while, he finally said, "Do you take me for a three-year-old?"

The man didn't speak. He just watched him.

Jiang Zhi set his phone down, slid off the bed, and walked barefoot across the floor. He bypassed the man and went to the nightstand, leaning over to check.

Nothing.

Absolutely nothing.

He lifted the pillow—nothing. He threw back the duvet—nothing. He checked the bedsheets—nothing. He crouched down to peer under the bed; there was only a patch of gray dust, no doll.

He stood up and looked at the man.

The man was looking back at him.

"Where did you hide it?" Jiang Zhi asked.

"I didn't hide it."

"Then where did you vanish it to?"

"I didn't vanish," the man insisted. "It is me, and I am it."

Jiang Zhi glared at him.

He wanted to scream that it was impossible. He wanted to scream that the world had logic—that people were people and toys were toys. People couldn't turn into dolls, and dolls couldn't turn into people!

But he couldn't say it.

He remembered yesterday afternoon, standing in front of that claw machine, surrounded by dozens of colorful, flashy plushies. He had chosen that dusty, miserable gray one. He had stuffed it into his pocket, its half-submerged head staring at the world with tilted eyes. And today, it had turned into this man.

Jiang Zhi’s gaze couldn't help but slide downward again, landing on that scar before he forcibly snapped it away.

This time, the man spoke.

"What are you looking at?"

Jiang Zhi’s ears burned with heat.

"Nothing!" he snapped, his voice rising in panic.

The man said nothing.

"You..." Jiang Zhi cleared his throat, trying to regain a semblance of normalcy.

"Yes."

"You had a car accident?"

"Yes."

"You spent a month in a claw machine?"

"Yes."

"And then I fished you out?"

"Yes."

Jiang Zhi watched him.

"Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?"

Duan Sinan remained quiet.

Jiang Zhi waited for an explanation. He waited for him to say it was all a prank—that the doll was somewhere else, that he would help find it. He waited for him to call it a misunderstanding, a coincidence, something rational.

But Duan Sinan said nothing. He just stood there, stripped to the waist, watching Jiang Zhi.

His eyes.

They were pitch-black and luminous, but the corners of his eyes drooped ever so slightly.

Just like the doll’s eyes.

That crookedly stitched eye.

Jiang Zhi’s heart skipped a beat.

He turned around and started searching again—the pillows, the bedding, the sheets, the nightstand drawer. He pulled the drawer open; it held his things... a few pairs of socks, a charging cable, a half-used tube of hand cream. No doll.

He stood up, facing the man.

"You—no, wait—you yourself, how did you transform?"

"I don't know," Duan Sinan said, though Jiang Zhi noticed his fingers curl unconsciously. "You were holding me, talking in your sleep, and then, with a poof, I was like this."

"A poof?"

"Yes, just a poof."

Jiang Zhi stared at him.

The man spoke without a hint of excitement or urgency. Yet his ears were still red—they hadn't faded since the moment he woke up. His fingers curled together again, as if he, too, were still struggling to digest this reality.

Jiang Zhi suddenly wanted to laugh.

But he didn't. He just stood there, looking at this man who claimed to be the doll he had fished out of a claw machine.

"Do you have anywhere to go?" he asked.

Duan Sinan looked at him.

"No."

"Do you have money?"

"No."

"Do you have clothes?"

Duan Sinan looked down at himself.

"No."

Jiang Zhi fell silent.

He remembered that he didn't have money, either. The landlord had told him today was the deadline for rent. If he couldn't pay, they’d change the locks, and he would be homeless, too.

He looked at Duan Sinan.

Duan Sinan looked at him.

"You..." Jiang Zhi started, but his phone rang.

He looked down. Landlord.

His heart jumped back into his throat.

He answered.

"Hello?"

"Little Jiang," the landlord's voice came through the receiver, slightly out of breath, as if she were climbing the stairs. "I’m downstairs. Do you have the rent ready?"

Jiang Zhi froze.

"Sister Wang, I thought we agreed that today..."

"Exactly, today. I'm coming up now. Open the door."

The line went dead.

Jiang Zhi clutched his phone, standing rooted to the spot.

Outside the door, on the staircase, the sound of footsteps grew louder.

He looked up at Duan Sinan.

Duan Sinan looked back at him, naked, the scar on his shoulder gleaming harshly in the sunlight.

The footsteps grew closer.

They reached the door.

"Little Jiang?" the landlord’s voice rang out from behind the door. "Open up, I'm here."