Pretend to be crazy

“Brother Li, the people you asked for have been selected and delivered. Do you want to see them now or after the match?”

Tokas, a shrewd-looking man with a small mustache, rubbed his hands and carefully approached Warren, who was hitting a heavy bag in the lounge.

The heavy bag was custom-made, costing hundreds of thousands each, and when Warren punched it, water ripples spread across its surface.

Hearing someone approaching, he delivered a powerful spinning kick that sent the bag flying before turning coldly to look at Tokas.

“Now.”

Tokas couldn’t help swallowing nervously and said with a smile, “Sure thing, Brother Li. I’ll bring them right in.”

He only let out a sigh of relief after stepping out.

Even after being his assistant for nearly a month, Tokas still felt fear staying too close to him.

First, because Warren looked fierce and fought viciously; second, because he was uncontrollable—he even dared to hit the boss.

To facilitate movement and for aesthetic reasons, the underground fight club owner specially had someone design Warren’s look: short, neatly trimmed hair on the sides, with the top roughly styled with gel into a rebellious American-style front spike.

The boss tried to brand him as a living weapon and even wanted to give him some savage tattoos. Warren sternly refused, saying only his boyfriend could draw on him. The boss didn’t give up and tried drugging him — the consequences were predictable.

Warren nearly beat the boss into a vegetative state. And because he was so popular, with lots of fans who loved watching him fight, the boss couldn’t touch him despite his anger and even had to nicely help find him a boyfriend.

Yes, a boyfriend.

This huge guy’s only weakness was his boyfriend.

Before bringing the newcomers into his lounge, Tokas sternly warned them at the door:

“Be enthusiastic when you go in, but not too enthusiastic.”

“Try to act gentle, seductive, wild, kind, docile but a little rebellious too. You should be good at controlling others but also seem controllable yourself — bad, but cute at the right moments.”

The four newcomers looked at him with bewildered eyes.

Pretending not to notice, Tokas thought, Crap, this batch will be a failure again, then continued:

“And most importantly, don’t show the slightest hint of fear. He hates that.”

The four glanced at each other and nodded.

Tokas opened the door.

The lounge was spacious — a full-floor apartment owned by the boss, featuring panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing the vibrant city nightlife.

Warren stood in front of the windows, wearing a sleeveless black T-shirt that showed off his perfectly toned arms. One hand in his pocket, he lazily turned when he heard the noise, his gaze falling on the newcomers.

The first guy’s eyes were too small. The second was tall but way too skinny. The third and fourth looked like baby quails.

No.

Not even close.

He had given them a reference! Was the boss screwing with him?

He stopped pretending, threw on his leather jacket to cover his strong arms, casually grabbed a bottle of liquor, and poured it into a glass, downing it all in one go.

The four, all sent by the boss to try to tame him, were intimidated by his presence and didn’t dare approach, casting pleading looks at Tokas.

The boss believed that feelings could develop over time — even someone like Warren, who after an injury thought he had a “wife” and described her as a “fairy,” might eventually stabilize if given enough effort.

Tokas, gritting his teeth, led the four closer and said respectfully, “Brother, these were carefully selected by the boss. Would you like to take another look?”

Warren slumped into the sofa, gripping the glass. “Get lost.”

Tokas: “Sure thing, Brother!”

He left with the four in tow, and before closing the door, kindly reminded, “Brother, after tonight’s match, the boss asked to meet you for half an hour at the bar.”

Another part of his job at the underground fight club.

Still no sign of his “wife,” Warren weakly waved him off.

The door closed with a click, and silence returned to the room.

He rubbed his temples, trying hard to recall that vague yet distinct figure in his mind.

What was their name? He forgot, but he was sure they existed.

If only he’d known that match would injure his brain and make him forget the most important thing, he would have never fought.

But the damage was done; what mattered now was remembering.

The glass pressed against his lips felt like a kiss.

He bit down lightly — then harder.

Crack.
The glass shattered in his mouth.

Closing his eyes, he chewed the sharp shards, blood pooling in his mouth.

The pain helped him stay calm, pushing back the wild madness caused by emptiness.

After a while, he spit the bloody shards back into the broken glass, got up, and left.

Fighting wasn’t hard for him — battling a whole night barely made him sweat. For him, it was almost entertainment.

Violence and the crowd’s admiration for violence were the only things that somewhat soothed his growing restlessness.

But if he couldn’t find his wife soon, not even violence would work anymore.

Tonight’s match was no different.

He was too strong. No fighter — whether cybernetically enhanced or fully organic — could last five rounds against him.

Some nimble fighters tried dodging, hoping to exhaust his stamina, but he simply grabbed them, smashed their mechanical lower bodies, and tossed them aside like trash.

Bored, and with help from some “enthusiasts,” a dozen monstrous experimental beings were thrown onto the ring.

He killed them all, one by one.

After three bloody hours, standing over a mutilated corpse, Warren calmly raised his head and looked toward the audience.

His blood-red eyes were as cold and merciless as hell.

A suffocating silence.

Then — wild applause and cheers erupted.

Cash and gifts rained down on the ring.

He stood there for a bit, snatching a few good-looking trinkets before calmly exiting with the staff’s guidance.

It was already past 1 AM. Normally, people wanting to meet him would wait until daytime.

But tonight, someone seemed especially eager — so eager they insisted on meeting him immediately, in one of the bar’s private rooms.

The private room was dark when he entered.

He immediately picked up on someone’s slowed breathing near the door.

Trying to play tricks?

He sneered inwardly and reached to turn on the lights, but just as he moved, a shadow suddenly rushed forward and hugged him.

What the fuck?!

His heart skipped a beat. His body reacted faster than his mind — shoving the person away hard and flipping on the lights.

Frowning coldly, he turned to see—

Black hair, black eyes, pale skin, handsome features.

The person had been pushed hard, hitting the floor with a loud thud. He should have been hurt, wincing as he slowly got up.

The scene felt eerily familiar.

Warren stared at him.

His mind exploded with weird little screaming bread rolls yelling, “It’s him! It’s him! You love him so much! And he loves you too!”

His body tensed, heart raced — electric jolts ran up and down his spine, his mind, even that place.

Something’s wrong. Seriously wrong.

He thought, disbelieving.

Yesterday he had received a mysterious message about District 13 — a photo of a horribly mangled corpse lying in a pool of blood.

He hadn’t cared, but his eyes had involuntarily locked onto the still-intact head in the photo.

The blurry memory snapped into focus.

Seeing that lonely, abandoned head had made his heart ache.

Now — the owner of that head was standing right in front of him, alive.

And he seemed to have fallen in love at first sight.

He stepped forward, gently helped Shen Yan up, then deliberately kept some distance, his face cold and blank:

“I don’t like strangers touching me. Did I hurt you?”

“Sorry,” Shen Yan murmured, his fingers curling and loosening.

A strange, helpless rage built inside him.

Who the hell reset Warren to factory settings?!

Damn it!