Chapter 5: Living Together

The company Jiang Zhi interviewed with was a small outfit focusing on e-commerce operations. The salary wasn't high, but it was a job nonetheless.

He had spent forty minutes squeezed into the morning rush-hour subway, pressed body-to-body against the commuters. Huddled in a corner clutching his briefcase, he had rehearsed his self-introduction over and over in his mind: eighteen months of operational experience, lead on two breakout projects, proficiency in data analysis and team collaboration. He had recited those bullet points at least twenty times, yet the sweat in his palms still managed to dampen the straps of his briefcase.

The sun was blinding as he emerged from the station. He squinted, located the building, and glanced up—eighteen floors, slightly shorter than his previous workplace, with a dingy glass facade. But it didn't matter; he just needed a job.

The HR office was on the twelfth floor. He knocked and entered. A man in his thirties sat behind the desk and nodded at him.

"Mr. Jiang, please, sit. I see you stayed at your last job for quite a while. What made you decide to move on?"

Jiang Zhi knew this was a question about his layoff. He carefully weighed his words. "The company underwent a restructuring, and the entire department was dissolved."

"I see." The HR manager nodded and flipped through his resume. "For the shops you managed, what was the average monthly GMV?"

"At the peak, we hit three million, and it remained stable around two million."

"What about user retention?"

"The second-month retention was thirty-five percent; six-month retention was eighteen percent."

The HR manager nodded again, closed the resume, and looked at him. "Mr. Jiang, we’ve reviewed your profile. You’re quite impressive. However, we may not be able to meet your salary expectations. Our budget for this position is limited; we can only offer eighty percent of your previous salary."

Eighty percent.

Jiang Zhi did the math in his head. Rent, utilities, food, transportation—it would leave him with exactly nothing. He had sent out dozens of resumes; this was the only response he’d received.

Still, he let none of it show on his face. He simply pressed his lips together and said, "It’s negotiable."

The HR manager smiled and set the resume down. "How about this: we’ll discuss it internally and get back to you next week. How does that sound?"

Next week.

Jiang Zhi’s heart sank, but he maintained his composure. He stood up and smiled at the manager. "Sounds good. Thank you for your time."

"It’s no trouble at all. Take care."

Jiang Zhi rose, offered a final smile, and left.

By the time he stepped out of the building, the sun was scorching, making his eyes ache. He stood at the entrance for a moment, watching the flow of commuters, before heading back toward the subway.

On the way home, he bought a rice ball from a convenience store for three yuan and fifty cents—the cheapest one available. He ate as he walked. Midway through, he suddenly remembered that there was someone back at the apartment—someone who knew how to cook. He looked down at the rice ball in his hand and took another bite.

He finished it just as he reached his complex and tossed the wrapper into a trash can. He climbed to the fourth floor, took out his key, and unlocked the door.

He froze the moment he stepped inside.

The living room had been transformed.

The sofa was still the same, but the sagging hole in the middle was gone, leveled out by some hidden padding. The cushions were arranged neatly, and even that old, frayed sweatshirt he usually left on the armrest was gone. The windows were open, the glass polished to a gleam, and the sunlight pouring in was so bright that he could clearly see the original pattern on the floor tiles—a pattern he hadn't noticed in ages, having long been buried under layers of dust.

Even the lightbulb had been replaced.

The old one had been dimming for two years, and he had been too lazy to change it. This one was so bright it was almost blinding; he wasn't quite used to it yet.

There was movement in the kitchen.

He walked over and stood at the kitchen entrance.

Duan Sinan was in front of the stove, his back to him. He was wearing Jiang Zhi’s old sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms. A sizzling sound came from the pan as he stirred something. On the counter stood several bowls: one with sliced green peppers, one with beaten eggs, and another with freshly washed tomatoes.

Jiang Zhi stood dumbfounded at the doorway.

Duan Sinan seemed to sense his presence and turned around. When those eyes locked onto him, Jiang Zhi suddenly felt that the man resembled some sort of small animal—innocent in his gaze, harmless in his expression.

"What are you doing?"

Duan Sinan glanced at him, then turned back to continue flipping the food in the pan. "Your place was a mess. I just cleaned up a bit."

"..."

"Time to eat."

Duan Sinan scooped the food onto a plate—a plate Jiang Zhi recognized. He had bought it at a second-hand market but had never used it, keeping it tucked away at the very back of the cupboard. Now, it had been unearthed and scrubbed clean, piled high with steaming shredded pork and green peppers.

Jiang Zhi stood at the doorway, motionless.

Duan Sinan picked up the plate, walked past him, and set it on the small square table in the living room. There were two other dishes on the table: tomato and egg stir-fry and a smashed cucumber salad. Beside them sat two bowls of rice and two pairs of chopsticks.

Jiang Zhi stared at the table.

It had been a long time since he’d seen his dining table set like this. Usually, he’d sit on the sofa, balancing takeout boxes on the coffee table while scrolling through his phone. Sometimes, when he was feeling lazy, he’d just eat in bed.

"Why are you just standing there?" Duan Sinan sat down and looked up at him. "Come eat."

Jiang Zhi didn't move.

Duan Sinan looked at him, his eyes sparkling, stealthily observing Jiang Zhi’s reaction.

They were only a short distance apart—one standing at the kitchen entrance, the other sitting by the table—neither speaking a word.

After a long moment, Jiang Zhi walked over and sat down.

He looked at the three dishes. The pork was sliced thinly, and the green peppers were cooked to perfection—crisp, not soggy. The tomatoes and eggs were distinct, appetizing, and vibrant. The cucumber salad was sprinkled with minced garlic, and the aroma of vinegar drifted up.

He picked up his chopsticks and took a piece of meat. He chewed it, and then he fell silent.

It was delicious.

It tasted like home—a flavor he hadn't experienced in a very, very long time.

He reached out and took a bite of the egg.

It was equally delicious.

He kept his head down, eating mouthful after mouthful without saying a word.

Duan Sinan sat across from him, just watching him eat.

Halfway through the meal, Jiang Zhi realized that the man was only watching and not eating himself. He looked up at Duan Sinan.

The corners of Duan Sinan’s mouth twitched before he resumed his usual deadpan expression. "It’s okay?"

Jiang Zhi swallowed the food in his mouth. "Average."

Duan Sinan didn't reply, but the corners of his mouth twitched again, as if he wanted to smile but couldn't quite bring himself to.

Jiang Zhi lowered his head and continued eating.

After he finished his first bowl of rice, he noticed a slip of paper hidden under the bowl. He pulled it out—it was his utility bill, with a note scribbled on it: Paid.

He looked up.

Duan Sinan was tidying up, carrying the mostly empty plates back toward the kitchen.

Jiang Zhi watched his back—he was still wearing that old sweatshirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, balancing the dishes.

"Hey," he said.

Duan Sinan paused and looked back at him.

Jiang Zhi opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, he only managed: "...You didn't have to do that."

Duan Sinan gave a soft "Hmm" and continued into the kitchen.

Jiang Zhi sat at the table, watching the man disappear into the kitchen. A moment later, the sound of water reached him—the sound of dishes being washed.

He sat there listening to the water for a long time.

The water stopped, footsteps emerged from the kitchen, crossed the living room, and came to a halt by the sofa.

Jiang Zhi stood up and headed toward the bedroom. He stopped at the threshold without looking back.

"I’ll transfer the money for the utilities to you later."

Silence followed behind him, and then a voice replied.

"No need."

"Let’s sit down and talk about your situation."

Duan Sinan was sitting on the repaired sofa, wearing his old sweatshirt, looking at him with his hands obediently resting on the edge of the cushions.

Jiang Zhi stood by the window, his back to the light, obscuring his expression.

"Three rules," Jiang Zhi said.

Duan Sinan remained silent, just looking up at him.

"First, you must not let anyone discover your identity," Jiang Zhi said. "Regardless of where you came from or why you became like this, you can’t tell anyone."

Duan Sinan nodded, looking very obedient.

"Second, you cannot interfere with my life," Jiang Zhi said. "Do whatever you want, but stay out of my business. The cooking, the cleaning... you don't have to do any of that."

He froze slightly after saying this, because the meal had truly been delicious, but he didn't retract his words.

Duan Sinan’s gaze rested on him, silent.

Jiang Zhi felt uncomfortable under his gaze and looked away. "Third, as soon as you find a way to solve that... that transformation problem, you leave."

Duan Sinan continued to watch him.

Jiang Zhi waited, but when no response came, he turned back. "Did you hear me?"

"I heard you," Duan Sinan said.

"Then say something."

"Say what?"

Jiang Zhi was momentarily stumped. "Say that you agree."

"I agree," Duan Sinan said.

His tone remained as flat as ever, devoid of any discernible emotion.

Jiang Zhi stood there, looking at him.

Sunlight poured through the window, illuminating Duan Sinan. Clad in that old sweatshirt and sitting on the ragged sofa, his features deep and his expression calm, he looked completely out of place in this run-down rental. And yet... it didn't seem so strange after all.

"Also, where am I sleeping?" Duan Sinan asked.

Jiang Zhi paused and pointed to the sofa.

Duan Sinan looked at the sofa, then back at him, but didn't speak.

Jiang Zhi felt a bit guilty under his gaze, but he forced himself to say, "Right there. What, is it too shabby for you?"

"It’s not shabby," Duan Sinan said.

He stood up, walked toward the sofa, but stopped after two steps and looked back.

"Do you close your door when you sleep?"

Jiang Zhi blinked. "...Yes."

"Okay," Duan Sinan said, tilting his head. "Then, can I cook in the morning?"

"..."

"Do you not eat in the morning?"

Jiang Zhi was stumped. He indeed didn't eat in the morning—he couldn't get up early enough, and he wasn't in the habit. But it seemed like the man wasn't asking about his appetite.

"Do whatever you want," he said.

Duan Sinan nodded, said nothing more, and turned to walk toward the sofa.

Jiang Zhi watched his back as he walked to the sofa and sat down.

He remembered last night, the man standing bare-chested by his bed. He remembered this morning, the man in his old sweatshirt cooking in the kitchen.

He quickly pushed those thoughts away.

No. I cannot get used to this.

He’d be gone sooner or later anyway.

Jiang Zhi lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. He rolled over, facing the wall—the wall that separated him from the living room. In the living room, there was a man wearing his old sweatshirt, sleeping on his ragged sofa.

He thought of the meal he’d had today.

Shredded pork with green peppers, tomato and egg stir-fry, and smashed cucumber salad.

He hadn't had a meal like that in a long time.

The bedroom door was closed, hiding the living room, but he knew the man was right out there.

He recalled his second rule: You cannot interfere with my life. The cooking, the cleaning... you don't have to do any of that.

But when Duan Sinan had said "Hmm," it seemed he hadn't taken those words to heart at all.

Jiang Zhi pulled the blanket up over his shoulders.

He closed his eyes again.

This time, he drifted off.

He didn't know how much time had passed when he woke up. The room was pitch black, with only a sliver of light from the streetlamp filtering through the gap in the curtains. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, when he heard it.

It was faint—the sound of footsteps coming from the living room.

He held his breath and listened. The footsteps walked to his bedroom door and stopped. Jiang Zhi’s heart skipped a beat.

He stared at the door, at the doorknob.

The knob didn't move.

The footsteps resumed, moving away. Then came the sound of water running in the kitchen. Jiang Zhi exhaled in relief and rolled over to face the wall.

The sound of water continued—softly, as if trying not to wake him.

He buried his face in the pillow.