Pretend to be crazy

Warren was a pure love devotee, with a strong streak of male chauvinism. He absolutely couldn’t tolerate his lover being close to anyone else — even physical contact like a handshake was unacceptable.

In the original story, a few unlucky souls merely shook hands with someone and were deemed cheaters by Warren, who then beat both the supposed “adulterer” and his lover to death.

Shen Yan had tricked, coaxed, and kissed him, making up story after story, finally getting him to accept Blaze and Falson, and accept their harmonious “family.” But now, after just a few months out of sight, he had reverted?

That wouldn’t do.

Time was tight. Shen Yan figured he had to take a more extreme route to fix this quickly.

He stepped forward reluctantly, raised his head to carefully observe Warren’s expression, and said, “Warren, why would you say that? Do you really not remember me at all?”

Warren frowned. “What do you mean?”

Shen Yan’s eyes reddened immediately, tears welling up. He turned his head away in shame, stepping back toward the door to put distance between them. His voice was filled with sorrow: “It’s good if you’ve forgotten me… I’ll leave first.”

“Goodbye.”

He reached back to open the door, moving slowly enough for Warren to be unable to tell if he was hesitating, making Warren’s heart beat faster, full of doubt. Warren slammed his hand on the door, trapping him between him and the door.

Shen Yan kept his head down, tightly gripping the doorknob, and said softly, “Warren, let me go.”

Warren hated crying the most — whether it was men, women, children, or adults, it all annoyed him.

He was annoyed now too, but this emotion was different from pure dislike. Gently, he lifted Shen Yan’s chin. Shen Yan’s eyelashes trembled slightly, and a teardrop rolled down his face, falling precisely onto the back of his hand.

Warren: “…Someone hit me on the head. I don’t remember anything. You have to tell me.”

“No.” Shen Yan pushed him away. “Our relationship wasn’t exactly honorable. Maybe it’s better to end this twisted love while you’ve forgotten it. If you knew, it would just make you sad.”

Warren had a vague feeling that he might have had a lover before, but the image was so blurry and changeable, and with others secretly gossiping that he was crazy, even he had begun to doubt himself.

Now, when this “boyfriend” showed up, he could instantly sense their deep connection — how could he possibly let him leave?

Unsure how he used to treat Shen Yan before losing his memory, he worried that his current self might not be what Shen Yan liked. So, among the many possible versions of himself, he chose the most acceptable one, and said gently, “It’s okay. No matter what it is, I can accept it.”

Shen Yan looked up at him, “Really?”

Warren swore solemnly: “Really.”

Having confirmed that Warren had no memory, Shen Yan tailored a brand-new story to fit his current situation.

He said he and Blaze had been madly in love, but Warren had forcibly abducted him out of jealousy. After much struggle, Shen Yan had slowly developed some feelings for him too.

Torn by extreme pain, Shen Yan couldn’t accept loving two people at once. In the face of Warren’s repeated questioning, he suffered a mental breakdown and attempted suicide.

In the end, Warren regretted everything and retreated, eventually squeezing himself into Shen Yan’s heart as one of his boyfriends.

As for the bloody photos? Shen Yan explained they were props from a side job in film, pranked on him by someone.

He quietly waited for Warren’s reaction.

Warren was silent at first, then punched a glass table into pieces, pacing like a trapped beast, growling lowly: “I don’t accept it!”

Shen Yan glanced at him quickly, seemingly terrified.

Even in his rage, Warren forced himself to calm down and comfort Shen Yan.

He sat beside him, pulled him into his arms naturally, and kissed his hair. “I’m not mad at you. I just can’t accept having to go save a love rival.”

Shen Yan stayed silent for a few seconds, then gently pushed him away. “It’s okay. You don’t remember the past. You can start fresh. I’ll go find him myself.”

“You’re not allowed to go either.” Warren paused, then suddenly said: “You’re not lying to me, right?”

Shen Yan smiled: “Yeah, I lied. I made it all up.”

If he had tried to explain, Warren would have doubted him even more. By admitting it so straightforwardly, as if he couldn’t wait to distance himself, Warren felt guilty instead — maybe he had hurt Shen Yan again.

Thinking deeper, Warren knew he wasn’t exactly a moral man; it wasn’t impossible that he had done something like forcibly taking someone else’s lover.

Warren believed him.

Seeing his expression, Shen Yan knew he had succeeded. He feigned being broken-hearted and got up. “Just pretend you never saw me today. Blaze needs me.”

Warren interrupted, squeezing each word out through gritted teeth: “I. Will. Go. With. You.”

Warren was a black market fighter — a “ghost citizen” — who had no attachments and no desires beyond his “wife.” Unlike others who fought underground, he had no leverage others could exploit.

He could leave whenever he wanted.

He knocked out the people tailing him and left with Shen Yan on an overnight ride.

He didn’t even ask for identity verification — as long as there was money, anything was possible. When he learned that the money Shen Yan used to come find him came from Blaze, he felt a complicated joy of being a “mistress,” mixed with frustration that he couldn’t provide Shen Yan with a better life.

Sensing his emotions, Shen Yan sat beside him, took his hand, and kissed his knuckles.

“We’re family. You and Blaze got along well later. Don’t sweat the small stuff.”

Warren suddenly remembered the jewelry he had grabbed while fighting. He had many such treasures, all saved up for his future “wife,” but now he only had what he took today.

He moved Shen Yan’s hand aside, pulled out two glittering rings from his pocket, the diamonds catching the neon lights outside the window.

In silence, he slipped one ring onto Shen Yan’s left ring finger, admired it happily for a moment, then gestured for the other hand.

Shen Yan complied.

Now with both hands wearing rings, Warren cupped them in his palms, kissed Shen Yan’s chilly fingertips, and sincerely said: “Xiao Yan looks perfect with beautiful things — so pretty.”

Then, seriously looking at him, he added, “I don’t remember the past, and I’ve forgotten your love for me. So you need to love me even more now, to make up for what’s missing. Okay?”

Shen Yan stayed silent.

He didn’t question, didn’t dig into the obvious plot holes. He just believed everything and quietly played the role of a devoted husband.

Was it because his story was too convincing? Or was Warren just that devoted — so much so that even without memory, his heart remembered?

Foolish.

Hiding in the shadows, Shen Yan’s expression was unreadable. After a long moment, he finally whispered: “Okay.”

.

The black car carried them out of Lion City in Zone Seven. After five hours of driving, they reached Sheep City.

When Shen Yan had created a new identity for himself, he had also prepared ones for Blaze, Warren, and Falson, which now came in handy.

In Zone Seven, even as a fourth-class citizen, as long as you had money, you could buy whatever service you needed. Shen Yan hired a helicopter straight to District Eleven’s MoMa Desert.

At 7:35 a.m., they arrived at a small town at the desert’s edge.

Blaze was stationed at a place called Wind Town, which constantly recruited laborers. Desperate fourth- and fifth-class citizens could sign up, get a small settlement fee, and then be trapped there indefinitely.

Expensive machinery couldn’t survive the desert’s sandstorms and sun, so cheap human labor became the main workforce — at a terrifying mortality rate.

Special lung diseases, skin diseases — 80% died. The remaining 20% usually succumbed to internal brutality and abuse.

After gathering intel in town, Shen Yan immediately signed up as a laborer.

Despite Wind Town’s terrible reputation, there were still many applicants, all huddled in the town square awaiting assignment.

Compared to the others, Shen Yan and Warren stood out — they looked too healthy.

Anyone with any alternative option wouldn’t come here.

Even though they tried to stay low-profile, they still attracted many suspicious stares.

Even the officer in charge scrutinized them when collecting their paperwork, asking more questions than usual.

But ultimately, nothing came of it.

No one would be dumb enough to send spies disguised as laborers.

In Wind Town’s strict class hierarchy, laborers were at the absolute bottom. All they did was work and more work, and even if they tried to run, there was nowhere to go but endless desert.

Thus, Shen Yan and Warren smoothly became laborers.

By the time the transport arrived, it was already night. The desert’s nighttime temperatures dropped to below minus ten degrees Celsius, and dust storms were brutal. Fewer laborers worked at night to minimize losses.

Those selected for night shifts wore dead-eyed, resigned expressions, dragging their feet toward the work zones.

The officer who checked their numbers had already gone to rest. Night shifts were self-managed; if someone didn’t clock in, they’d be publicly executed the next day to set an example.

As the last two night-shift laborers were about to leave the hall, Shen Yan intercepted them.

They moved slowly, not reacting at first. It wasn’t until Shen Yan blocked their path that they looked up mechanically.

Their eyes were bloodshot, their skin cracked and rough. When he asked to swap shifts, they answered after a long pause, “Really? Okay.”

No emotions at all, no curiosity about why someone would volunteer for death — just blankly handing over their gear and hobbling away.

Night shifts were assigned to those near death anyway — people whose bodies were about to collapse after two or three months.

They knew they wouldn’t live much longer. Whether they died today or tomorrow made no difference.

Their souls had been completely crushed.

Shen Yan took the work tools. Though they looked clean, they weighed heavily in his hands — heavier than the mere 5,000 credits fourth- and fifth-class citizens got for their “settlement fee.”

Even after passing through countless hands, they still looked relatively new.

Shen Yan clenched the tools tightly, feeling a wave of sorrow. He turned, wanting to say something, but saw Warren happily spraying water everywhere with his tool like an excited kid, and silently turned his gaze back.

“Let’s go,” Shen Yan said.

Don’t grow attached to this world.

He warned himself in his heart — but felt a bit helpless too.

Even if he tried not to, he knew he was slowly becoming part of this world, reshaping himself to fit its contours.

The laborers were divided into four zones, each with different duties. Shen Yan and Warren were in Zone D, mainly responsible for maintenance of the station’s machinery, with most of their work taking place outdoors. Ruan Zhixian had said that Blaze was in Zone A, where he rarely went outside, and was therefore less affected by the elements.

But Shen Yan still couldn’t shake off his unease.

Ruan Zhixian’s information was half-truths and half-lies. He hadn’t even mentioned something as critical as Warren’s amnesia. Shen Yan didn’t know if this was a test of his adaptability, or if it was a deliberate move to make things harder for him.

Most likely, it was both.

The wind and sand were fierce, stinging faces like knives. Their sandstorm gear was nothing more than thick cloths wrapped around their faces. Every movement was met with heavy resistance; just walking took three times the usual effort.

Some laborers from his group couldn’t bear the harsh wind and hid behind a metal scaffold, shivering together.

Shen Yan joined them, and after observing for a moment, picked a man whose eyes still showed some light as his target.

The workers assigned to outdoor duties had usually been at the station for a while. They were more familiar with its layout and might know where the Zone A dormitories were — maybe even some other useful information.

And nighttime would be the best time to act. Outdoor areas had no curfews, and the supervision wasn’t as strict as during the day. If he could gather information, he could immediately go find Blaze.

Today’s workload wasn’t heavy, but working under such dark, stormy conditions was extremely difficult. If the tasks weren’t finished, they would be beaten. After resting for a bit, the group set off again.

Shen Yan and Warren followed behind the man. Mimicking him, Shen Yan used the plier-like rod to tap the marked parts of the machines. Every tap sent a jolt of electricity through him.

He had no idea how the machines worked, but after just a few taps, his head started spinning and nausea hit him. He bent over, hands on his knees, resting for a while before forcing himself to continue.

After tapping again, a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He couldn’t hold it back. He tore the cloth from his face, staggered to the side, and fell to his knees, vomiting.

Warren stood helplessly, shielding him from the wind.

The man glanced over and, seeing Shen Yan struggling to get up and keep working, stopped him.

He pointed to a smaller machine nearby, signaling Shen Yan to go there instead.

Each group’s workload was fixed. If one person did less, others had to pick up the slack. Shen Yan shook his head, unwilling to burden others.

The man sighed helplessly, patted him on the shoulder, and forcibly pushed him toward the smaller machine.

In the howling wind, any words would be blown away. The man pointed heavily at Shen Yan and then at the small machine in front of him. Then he looked at Warren, waved his hand in front of him, and gave a big thumbs up.

Shen Yan understood.

Warren was so capable that he could handle the work of five people alone — it didn’t matter if Shen Yan slacked off a bit.

He obediently tapped on the smaller machine. The dizziness eased somewhat, though he still felt unwell.

With Warren there, the group finished their tasks ahead of schedule. After reporting in, they dragged their heavy steps back toward the Zone D dormitories.

The dormitories were shabby, barely enough to block out the sandstorm. The wailing of the wind sounded like crying, and the dim automatic lights flickered. The narrow corridors, lined with iron doors one after another, hinted at the terrible living conditions inside.

After a day of hard labor, all anyone wanted was to collapse onto the bed — there wasn’t even enough space to hang oneself if they wanted to.

Shen Yan removed his face covering, slapped off a pile of sand in the de-sanding area, then helped Warren brush off the sand as well. As he worked, he smiled at the man beside him and said, “Big Brother, if you hadn’t warned me today, I might not have made it back. It’s still early — I’ve got some wine. Want to have a drink?”

Inside the station, there was a supply area where workers could exchange points earned from labor for slightly better nutrient fluids, rather than the ones that tasted like sewage.

New arrivals like Shen Yan often brought a bit of food with them when they came. This made them popular — but it also made their first days the hardest.

Those who looked easy to bully had their food stolen outright; for fierce ones like Warren, others tried to curry favor, hoping for a share.

The man didn’t refuse Shen Yan’s friendly offer and silently followed him to the third floor.

Room 3064.

Shen Yan opened the door quietly, only to find that none of the people inside were asleep. Ten men were sitting in a circle, having already torn open all the food Shen Yan had brought, dumping it into a pile in the middle.

One man was shoveling handfuls of crispy shrimp snacks into his mouth, crunching noisily. Upon seeing Shen Yan, he froze for a second, then glared and tried to hide the snacks behind him.

The room went dead silent.

Their wariness wasn’t aimed at Shen Yan — it was at Warren and the man behind him.

The man seemed to have expected this situation. He stepped forward, ready to help Shen Yan clean up this gang of bullies, but Shen Yan said gently, “What’s with the faces? It’s for you guys. I just got back late because of night duty. Eat up.”

The tension eased slightly. The group looked at him like he was crazy, but seeing that he truly wasn’t angry, they silently dug back into the food.

As if they were eating their last meal.

Shen Yan rummaged through Warren’s belongings — everything was still intact. Good thing he had hidden the wine there.

He grabbed the wine and some snacks and left the room with Warren and the man.

As he closed the door, he thought he heard someone whisper a soft “thank you.”

The man’s name was Fang Zheng, from Lead City in Sector 11. He had been at this place for nearly two months. Once strong and healthy, he had been worn down to near collapse. He had helped Shen Yan because he saw his past self reflected in him.

After a few drinks, Fang Zheng loosened up. Despite looking serious and reserved, he turned out to be a chatterbox after drinking, sharing his entire life story with surprising honesty.

Shen Yan listened for a while, then smoothly changed the subject, “Sounds like things are a bit better in Zone A. Brother Fang, I actually came here looking for a friend who’s over there.”

“What’s his name?” Fang Zheng took a small, treasured sip of the wine. “I’ve got a good memory. I should know just about everyone who’s arrived these past months.”

“His name’s Blaze,” Shen Yan said. “Brother Fang, do you know him?”

Fang Zheng turned his head to look at him.

“Blond hair, golden eyes, pretty tall?”

Shen Yan nodded.

Once Fang Zheng was sure, his expression immediately darkened. He sneered, shoved the wine back to Shen Yan, and stood up, looking down on him.

“Get lost. Crazy people have crazy friends. I don’t associate with lunatics.”