Chapter 10 Are You Crazy?

Chapter 10: Has He Gone Mad?

Shen Qingci spoke. His voice was quiet, but cold.

Lu Lin's body went rigid.

He turned his head and met Shen Qingci's deep brown eyes.

That gaze... too familiar.

Cold, calm, carrying a scrutinizing air of superiority.

Just like the look Shen Qingci gave him when he made mistakes as a child.

Lu Lin inexplicably backed down.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something cutting, but in the end, not a single word came out.

He slowly withdrew his hand and sat down on the nearby sofa, his movements stiff as a robot.

Shen Qingci was still staring at the bloodstains on the coffee table.

Following his gaze, Lu Lin realized his hand was still bleeding.

He pulled out a few tissues, carelessly wiping the coffee table, then his hand.

But the blood wasn't wiped clean, leaving a smeared red stain on the glass.

Suddenly, Lu Lin stopped wiping.

What was he doing?

This man wasn't Shen Qingci.

Shen Qingci was dead.

Why was *he* cleaning up in front of this imposter?

Why did he sit down just because of a look from this person?

A wave of fury at being tricked rushed to his head.

Lu Lin shot to his feet and kicked the coffee table.

The heavy solid wood coffee table slid half a meter with a screech.

The cup fell to the floor, shattering into pieces.

Then, without even glancing at Shen Qingci, Lu Lin turned and stormed upstairs.

Footsteps pounded on the stairs, ending with the sound of a bedroom door being slammed shut.

The living room fell into dead silence.

Uncle Fu remained rooted to the spot, his face pale.

The bodyguard stood at the door, holding his breath.

Only Shen Qingci still sat in that single armchair.

He looked down at the shattered cup on the floor, then up towards the staircase.

Then he reached out and picked up the newspaper he hadn't finished reading.

A servant quickly stepped forward, their movements practiced as if rehearsed countless times.

The shattered glass was carefully picked up, each piece placed on a tray.

The coffee table was set upright. A young maid took out a tape measure, lay on the floor, and meticulously measured the distance between the coffee table and the sofa, and between the coffee table and the edge of the rug.

She measured with intense focus, brow furrowed, muttering softly, "78 centimeters from the sofa, 15 centimeters from the rug's edge..."

Shen Qingci watched this scene, his grip on the cane tightening slightly.

Once the coffee table was back in place, the maid took out a white cloth, knelt, and wiped the blood from the glass surface.

The water stains and blood traces were gradually wiped away until the coffee table was once again spotless, reflecting the chandelier from the ceiling.

The entire process was quiet, orderly, yet laced with an eerie, unsettling feeling.

It was as if this wasn't a lived-in villa, but a museum requiring meticulous maintenance.

Shen Qingci's frown deepened.

What on earth was wrong with Lu Lin?

Had he lost his mind?

Keeping the position of a house, a piece of furniture, unchanged to the centimeter for ten years.

This wasn't remembrance; it was pathological.

"Mr. Shen?"

A trembling voice came from beside him.

Uncle Fu was still standing there, his already clouded eyes now fixed intently on Shen Qingci, filled with disbelief yet also a stubborn certainty.

"Is it really you?" the old man asked again, his voice trembling violently. "You look... exactly the same as ten years ago?"

Shen Qingci rubbed his throbbing temples.

The phone in his pocket had been vibrating constantly; he didn't need to look to know it was Lin Wei.

Earlier, in the car, she had sent several messages, apologizing repeatedly.

Shen Qingci hadn't replied.

He looked up at Uncle Fu, avoiding the question. "Uncle Fu, you're old now, you should be enjoying your retirement. Why are you still here? Is it a money problem?"

Though not directly admitting it, Uncle Fu understood.

Shen Qingci had once given him a sum of money to ensure a comfortable retirement.

If this person wasn't Shen Qingci, how would he know about the money?

How would he speak to him in this familiar, flat yet slightly concerned tone?

The old man's eyes instantly reddened.

"The money Mr. Shen gave me is enough to last me a lifetime," Fu Bo said softly, his voice filled with exhaustion. "But... I was too worried to leave."

Shen Qingci didn't speak, just watched him quietly.

Fu Bo took a deep breath and began telling the story of the past ten years: "After you left... Young Master Lu's mind began to unravel. He refused to believe you were dead, clinging to the coffin at the funeral home and refusing to let go. Later, he began having hallucinations, always saying he saw you coming back."

"The doctors said it was post-traumatic stress disorder, with self-destructive tendencies. The Lu family sent him to a psychiatric hospital, where he was held for a year. When I saw him again after that, he had changed a lot... He stopped talking, stopped smiling, and sometimes would suddenly have violent outbursts, smashing things and hurting himself."

Fu Bo paused, his gaze sweeping over the villa. "I was worried that if he came back, there would be no one to take care of him, and I was also worried about this villa... with no one to keep it up. You always liked things clean and tidy, sir. If this place became messy, you would be unhappy."

So he stayed.

And he stayed for ten years.

Shen Qingci remained silent for a long time.

"Why bother," he finally said, his voice faint. "He's already gone."

Fu Bo looked at him, his lips trembling as if he wanted to say something, but in the end, he swallowed his words.

There was too much he wanted to say, but as he looked into Shen Qingci's calm eyes, Fu Bo suddenly realized that the person before him was the twenty-seven-year-old Shen Qingci from ten years ago. For Shen Qingci, the past decade was a blank slate.

To Shen Qingci, Lu Lin was still that sixteen-year-old boy; they had just seen each other yesterday.

But Lu Lin... had already spent ten years alone, separated by life and death.

This discrepancy in their experiences was too cruel.

Shen Qingci stood up, using his cane for support, and went straight upstairs.

He pushed open the door to the second-floor bedroom.

It was spotless inside.

Exactly the same as when he had left.

The dark gray bedsheet was neatly made, without a single wrinkle.

Documents were neatly stacked on the desk, with a pen placed at a 45-degree angle on the right side.

Even the half-read book on the bedside table was still open to the same page, with a silver bookmark tucked inside.

Lu Lin had maintained this place perfectly.

So perfectly... it was heartbreaking.

Shen Qingci stood at the doorway, looking inside for a long time.

Then he walked in and closed the door.

Shen Qingci began to really consider: What had his death truly brought to Lu Lin?

He remembered that child.

Eight years old, covered in wounds, his eyes wary like a little wolf.

By sixteen, he had already grown tall, but he would still cling to him, asking, "What time will you be home today, brother?" He would get red-eyed and angry if Shen Qingci forgot his birthday.

But he had never imagined that the child would go mad because of his death.

That he would be sent to a psychiatric hospital, develop self-destructive tendencies, and remain trapped in grief for ten years.

Was this child, Lu Lin... too dependent on him?

Ten years.

A full ten years, and he still hadn't been able to emerge from the shadow of losing him?