Chapter 214: Rainy Night

**Chapter 214: Rainy Night**

Shen Zhao peered down the street and spotted Wen Xian’s car. He stepped forward, adjusting the plastic bag pressed against his chest as if trying to stop him.

Wu turned the wheel, and the car cut a sharp arc at the road’s end, nearly merging into traffic—

Shen Zhao’s leg was still injured, but he lurched forward on his bad limp, clearly trying to intercept them.

Wen Xian’s voice was hoarse: “Stop.”

He suddenly understood why in his past life that coat had always stayed with Shen Zhao.

Shen Zhao had waited at the intersection. He washed the jacket carefully, wrapped it in a plastic bag, and had no choice but to stand there, hoping to catch sight of Wen Xian’s car.

But Wen Xian hadn’t seen him.

He hadn’t remembered Shen Zhao—just like he hadn’t remembered the coat he’d casually given away. To Shen Zhao, the jacket was expensive, its fancy foreign logo an unfamiliar brand. It needed to be washed with care, neatly wrapped, and returned properly. But to Wen Xian, his closet held dozens of similar trench coats. Even if he lost one a day, it would take a week to notice.

The past few days had brought endless rain. The streets swarmed with parents and students, horns blaring nonstop. Neither Wen Xian nor Wu had glanced toward the curb, where Shen Zhao stood, his face brightening with hope.

But this time, as the car passed, Wen Xian saw the light fading from Shen Zhao’s eyes—the helpless way he clutched the soaked plastic bag.

Had it been like this in his past life too?

Had Shen Zhao once stood by the roadside, watching helplessly as his car drove off?

Wu hit the brakes. The Lincoln pulled to the curb with a soft click. The doors unlocked, and Wen Xian shoved the door open.

This Shen Zhao was nothing like the cold, calculating man of later years, who hid every emotion behind a mask. His lips twitched slightly, as if trying to suppress his joy, before he limped up to the car and offered the bundle. “Hey,” he said awkwardly, “thanks for yesterday. Here’s your coat back.”

Wen Xian didn’t take it.

Shen Zhao hesitated, glancing down at himself.

Rain had come without warning. His old phone had no weather alerts. He was soaked through, water dripping from his fingers. Though he’d kept the plastic bag tucked close to his chest, its surface glistened with rainwater.

And yet, Wen Xian’s car was spotless.

Gleaming silver-gray paint, spotless leather seats, walnut trim. The interior was dry, with a sandalwood air freshener beside the driver’s seat.

The soaked plastic bag in Shen Zhao’s hands felt painfully out of place—like a forgotten sack of wet garbage.

His hand stiffened. He carefully draped the bag into a corner. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just wanted to return your coat. It’s an expensive brand—I—”

Before he could finish, a firm grip closed around his wrist.

A burning heat shot through his skin. He gasped as Wen Xian tightened his hold. “Get in.”

Shen Zhao blinked. “What?”

In one swift motion, Wen Xian hooked an arm around his waist and pulled him forward. Shen Zhao tumbled into the car.

He landed on the leather seat, his damp clothes instantly soaking the upholstery. He stiffened, desperate not to make more of a mess—like a stray animal just brought home.

Wen Xian reached for the plastic bag, intending to pull out the trench coat and dry Shen Zhao’s face. But the fabric was smooth and freshly laundered, carrying the sharp, medicinal scent of old-fashioned soap.

Shen Zhao didn’t have a washing machine—he must have washed it by hand.

Wen Xian draped the coat aside and grabbed a fresh one from the center console.

This is a beige trench coat designed for smart casual wear, featuring a tailored silhouette, a simple single row of buttons, and a waist belt.

—It’s rare for Wen Xian to own this style of clothing; he found it while rummaging through his closet yesterday.

If Shen Zhao insists on wearing his clothes, then let him wear this one—it looks way better than the black one.

The coat is a long trench coat, made with more fabric and from a pricier brand. On Wen Xian, it reaches just to the knees, but on Shen Zhao, it would likely fall to the calves. Spread out, it’s like a blanket. With a single motion, Wen Xian throws it over Shen Zhao, covering him completely.

He turns the air vent to maximum: "Dry off. Don’t catch a cold."

"..."

Shen Zhao lowers his eyelids, curls his fingers slightly, and silently wipes his hair.

Wen Xian: "Uncle Wu, head to the same place as yesterday."

Uncle Wu responds: "Right away."

Wen Xian leans back. The city’s neon lights flicker through the window, making his face flicker with light and shadow. "If I hadn’t stopped the car just now, what would you have done?"

Shen Zhao hesitates: "Come back tomorrow?"

Wen Xian lets out a silent sigh.

The rain in Nancheng has lasted a full week. Had Shen Zhao actually been standing at that intersection all this time, waiting for him to pass by?

Wen Xian asks again: "You’re soaked. If I hadn’t stopped, how would you have gotten home?"

Shen Zhao: "...Walk. It’s not that far, really."

Two or three kilometers—not that far, really. But Shen Zhao is drenched, his lips visibly pale, his injured leg submerged in rainwater. The wound is definitely getting infected.

"..."

Had it been like this in the Previous Dynasty?

Wen Xian remembers this downpour. The first two days were manageable, but then it poured relentlessly, nearly overflowing the riverbanks. The back gate of the foreign language school was prone to flooding, so later, Wen Xian switched to the main entrance.

But Shen Zhao didn’t know that.

...So how long had he waited?

Wen Xian feels a dull ache in his chest. The Shen Zhao of later years—unreadable, shrewd, elegant, and icy, the one who forced him into marriage—how could he have been this stubborn in his youth?

It was just a coat. If he’d kept it, so what? Wen Xian hadn’t asked for it back. Why insist on returning it?

Didn’t Shen Zhao want the coat? He could’ve just kept it to wear.

As the car turns a corner, Wen Xian spots the sign of a pharmacy through the rain-smeared window. He signals the driver: "Uncle Wu, stop here. I need to buy some medicine."

He pats Shen Zhao's shoulder. "Stay put."

Shen Zhao pauses, as if about to ask, "Are you sick?" But Wen Xian has already grabbed an umbrella and hurried into the rain.

He buys rubbing alcohol and peroxide, cotton swabs, gauze, and some antibiotic cream to prevent infection. As he’s about to pay, he goes back for some fever and cold medicine.

Considering how cold-sensitive Shen Zhao becomes later in life, he’s definitely catching a chill today.

Back in the car, he hands the items to Shen Zhao. "Here, you’ll need these."

As he spoke, Wen Xian glanced at Shen Zhao's trouser leg.

It was the polyester uniform of No. 33 Middle School, the fabric soaked through with rainwater and clinging to his leg. If Wen Xian remembered correctly, that spot had been kicked twice by a bully the day before, taking off a chunk of skin.

If not treated properly, it would leave a scar.

Wen Xian felt the urge to lift the pant leg and check the injury but hesitated, thinking it inappropriate.

He and Shen Zhao had only met twice—lifting his clothes to look at his leg would come off as weird.

Though Wen Xian couldn't inspect Shen Zhao’s legs in this life, he had seen them often in the previous one. Those legs were long and straight, with toned, athletic muscles, shaking faintly when lifted, tensing shakily.

He racked his brain—no scars.

So, in the previous life, it had been treated properly.

Back then, even without medicine, Shen Zhao had managed. Now that he’d been given some, it shouldn’t be worse.

Wen Xian relaxed slightly.

But then, his gaze fell on Shen Zhao’s waist.

No scars on his legs, but there was a burn mark here, neat in shape, as if a cigarette had been stubbed out on his skin.

When Wen Xian had asked about it in the previous life, Shen Zhao had paused before saying it was from his drunk, cigarette-addict dad. He didn’t seem to want to talk about it, so Wen Xian hadn’t pressed further.

Recalling the feel of Shen Zhao’s waist when he’d held him earlier—

Had there been a scar there? It didn’t seem so.

He dropped Shen Zhao off at his doorstep, glancing at the tight-packed apartment building. Though the area was old, the drainage system still worked—there were puddles, but they hadn’t reached the door yet. It probably wouldn’t rise further today.

Wen Xian got out of the car first.

Opening his umbrella, he reached out to Shen Zhao. “Your leg’s hurt—lean on me.”

As Shen Zhao stepped down, Wen Xian’s fingers grazed his waist, pretending it was accidental. Shen Zhao tensed, but before he could react, Wen Xian had already switched to holding his shoulder.

…Strange. The skin on his waist was completely smooth. If there was no cigarette burn now, when had it happened?

Keeping a straight face, Wen Xian said, “Let’s go. I’ll see you to your door. Remember to put the medicine on.”

Still soaked, Shen Zhao instinctively leaned in closer to Wen Xian’s warmth. “Okay.”

They walked one after the other through the narrow alley. When Wen Xian turned to leave, Shen Zhao grabbed his coat sleeve, as if wanting to say something.

“Stop,” Wen Xian interrupted. “Don’t bother giving it back.”

If Shen Zhao waited at the intersection every day, exchanging clothes each time, Wen Xian would end up having to scoop him up every day after school.

…Like a stray cat NPC spawning at a fixed point in a game.

The thought amused him. He pulled out his phone. “Well… running into you twice like this is pretty wild luck. How about we exchange numbers? If you need anything, just call me. No need to wait.”

Shen Zhao: “Okay.”

They took out their beat-up old flip phones and swapped numbers. Wen Xian waved and left.

Back home, before 66 could jump him with mock punches, Wen Xian laid out a peace offering of biscuits, pastries, and snacks, along with a chocolate cake he’d picked up downstairs. Laying them out on the table, he clasped his hands together. “But Shen Zhao was planning to wait for me every day. In such heavy rain, he’d get sick. Look how rough he’s got it already.”

66 whined and eventually quieted down.

The night stretched on, and as Wen Xian reflected on the day's exam, he resolved to learn from his mistakes. He worked through a math test, but the results were disastrous—covered in red crosses—and he barely managed 20 points. Wen Xian almost snapped his pen in half in frustration.

Just as he was about to pick up his textbook and start over, his phone rang.

He glanced at the screen—it was an unsaved number.

He stepped onto the balcony, lowered his voice, and answered, "Hello?"

The voice of a private detective came through. "Hello, sir. About the person you asked me to look into—I checked, and there's no one named Shen Zhao at the 33rd Middle School. But based on the home address you provided, I found someone else who fits your description. His name is Jiang Zhiyi."

Wen Xian twirled his pen. "Go on."

Shen Zhao had been adopted by the Shen family, so it was possible he had gone by another name before that.

Earlier research showed that after Shen Zhao rose to power, he seemed to have gone to great lengths to pass himself off as the Shen family’s biological son in order to legitimize his inheritance and silence the other board members. All records from that time had been destroyed, leaving Wen Xian with nothing to go on.

"This Jiang Zhiyi comes from a single-parent household. When he moved to Lingjiang Zhuang Road, he had no father—just his mother raising him alone. I asked around the neighborhood, but no one knew where they came from. As you know, records were spotty back then—information wasn’t digitized, so it’s a bit tricky to trace."

Wen Xian hummed in acknowledgment. "Anything else?"

"His mother died young. She used to run a small shop at the alley entrance, selling homemade marinated meats. But later, when food safety regulations tightened, she didn't meet the hygiene standards, and her shop was shut down. So she started selling from a cart instead—business was actually pretty good. But one day, while setting up her stall, she was suddenly hit by a heavy truck."

Wen Xian's grip on the pen tightened.

"The driver who killed her was surnamed Li. He provided some compensation, which Jiang Zhiyi lived off afterward. The driver went to prison and was only released a couple of years ago. He didn’t stay in Nancheng—he took his wife and kids back to his hometown."

"Boss, that’s all I’ve found so far. Should I keep digging? The trail goes cold from here, and the costs might—"

The detective continued explaining, but Wen Xian’s hand stopped mid-twirl when he heard a particular phrase.

Setting up a stall at the alley entrance, selling homemade marinated meats?

That description sounds familiar.

Wen Xian lowered his gaze. Though he hadn’t started smoking yet in this timeline, he unconsciously raised the pen to his lips.

Whenever he felt tense, anxious, or overwhelmed by negative emotions, he always reached for a cigarette.

"Investigate," Wen Xian said softly. "Look into that driver. Cost is no object."