Chapter 1: Money Arrived, I Entered the Game

Chapter 1: Money Hits, I'm In

The early spring chill was biting as a young man in a gray hoodie hunched his shoulders against the cold and walked into the hospital. Entering the lobby, he rubbed his hands together and pulled back his hood, revealing a young, handsome face—lean cheeks, thin lips, sun-kissed skin, and eyes with a weariness he couldn't quite name.

His older-model iPhone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced at the message, and his expression darkened.

Meng Qi: Bro, the doctor said my mom isn't doing well today. I'm so scared.

The young man replied: Don't be afraid. Once I get the money, I can get Aunt Guo into surgery. She'll be okay.

Putting away his phone, the young man let out a soft breath, his footsteps echoing hollowly.

He was completely out of options.

The inpatient ward was quiet and peaceful, with a faint smell of disinfectant in the air. A nurse at the station saw him coming, stood up, and smiled politely. "Good afternoon, Mr. Zhao."

He nodded at her and walked toward the room at the end of the corridor.

The private hospital's VIP inpatient service was excellent, and the nurses treated him with great respect. He'd never experienced this kind of attentive, personal service abroad because he was dead broke—one step away from being a homeless guy on the streets of America.

Reaching the door of Room 1201, he was about to push it open when he noticed a woman sitting by the hospital bed, her back perfectly straight, her hair immaculately styled.

She was Chen Li—his mother, whom he hadn't seen in over ten years.

He instinctively smoothed his clothes before gently pushing the door open.

The woman looked up at him, froze for a moment, then quickly composed herself and said calmly, "Long time no see, Zhao Yu."

She called him by his full name. Even though they were mother and son, bound by blood, her tone was so cold, so distant—like they were strangers.

The faint, unnameable hope in his chest was crushed instantly. His tone went cold: "Long time no see, Chen Li."

There was a beat of silence. Chen Li frowned slightly, clearly not liking his tone, and got straight to the point: "I already went over the details on the phone. Do you have any other questions?"

"Let me just double-check." Zhao Yu cleared his throat. "You want me to impersonate my brother and sell my ass to the man chasing him, so he'll invest in your company—is that right?"

He put it so crudely that Chen Li flushed with embarrassment.

If her company's cash flow weren't in trouble, she wouldn't have turned to Zhao Yu. Using and selling out your own son to save your company—there was no hiding how low that was.

Zhao Yu let out a faint, cold laugh and added, "Fine. Your company needs investment, and I need money. But I want fifty thousand dollars upfront, wired to a specified account. Money hits the account, and I'm in."

"No problem."

"Also, we sign a contract."

"No need." Chen Li paused, then said, "I'm still your mother, after all. I'm not shameless enough to go back on my word."

Zhao Yu was silent for a moment. "Alright then, pleasure doing business." He bit off the last word: "Mom."

Zhao Yu looked at the young man lying unconscious in the hospital bed—his twin brother, Chen Xitong. They had identical faces. A week ago, Chen Xitong had been in a car accident, and the doctors said he might be a vegetable, never wake up again. Even so, he lay there with his eyes closed—quiet, pristine, like a carefully preserved piece of porcelain.

Zhao Yu then looked at his own reflection in the glass—worn, gaunt, cold, like a shadow.

After a long silence, Chen Li pulled two folders from her bag and set them at the foot of the bed. "These are Xitong's and Gu Hansheng's files. Look them over carefully in the next couple of days and get familiar with their situations. If you have questions, you can ask me, or you can ask Xiao Zhou—he's my personal assistant. I'll have Xiao Zhou take you to Xitong's apartment. You'll be staying there."

He picked up the folders and tucked them under his arm. Just as he was about to leave, he turned back and asked, "What were you up to last night?"

"I was going to pick you up at the airport, but something came up at the last minute." Chen Li's phone buzzed, and she picked it up to check work messages without looking at him. "Don't worry, you'll get every penny I promised."

Zhao Yu stood at the door watching her for a moment, then pushed the door open and walked out without a word.

He didn't leave right away. He tore open a stick of gum and popped it in his mouth, then glanced back into the room.

Through the gap in the door, Chen Li was affectionately holding her younger son's hand, gently stroking his scraped cheek, her eyes full of tenderness—so unlike the woman from moments ago.

Zhao Yu felt like a needle had pricked his heart. He stood at the door for a long time, chewing the gum until it went completely flavorless before turning and walking away.

On the way to the apartment, Zhao Yu slumped in the back seat, leg crossed over knee, speed-reading the two files before draping them over his face and lying back.

Zhou Lan glanced at him and asked, "Do you know anything about Xitong?"

Zhao Yu mumbled, "No."

"Xitong is a great kid—really bright and outgoing," Zhou Lan said. "If you're going to pass as him, you'd better start with his daily habits. Especially don't cross your legs when you sit, and don't slump like that either."

Zhao Yu brushed it off: "We haven't even started the whole act yet, have we? There's no one else in the car."

"Bad habits will give you away. I suggest you start watching every word and action from now on."

"I'll start tomorrow. I'm tired today."

Zhou Lan sighed silently. He thought Zhao Yu and Chen Xitong didn't look alike—Zhao Yu was skinnier, his skin wasn't as fair, and his eyes didn't have Xitong's warmth and friendliness. Anyone who'd known Xitong for a long time would definitely notice the difference. But luckily, Gu Hansheng hadn't been chasing Chen Xitong for long, so he might not be able to tell he's a fake.

The car pulled into the residential complex. Zhao Yu got out, stretched, and looked up at the high-rise apartment building. "What floor is it on?"

Zhou Lan led him inside: "Tenth floor. Once we get up there, I'll give you the door code and go over a few things you need to know."

"Ten floors, huh..." Zhao Yu did another stretch, tucked the files under his arm, and headed for the stairwell: "My legs are stiff from the ride. I'll take the stairs."

"I thought you said you were tired?" Zhou Lan followed him to the stairwell entrance, watching him take the stairs two at a time, and called out in disbelief, "You're really climbing ten floors?!"

Zhao Yu ignored him. Zhou Lan couldn't believe it, gritted his teeth, and followed him up the stairs anyway.

Zhou Lan was in dress shoes and carrying a bag, panting the whole way.

"You gonna make it?" Zhao Yu leaned against the door to the tenth-floor stairwell, mocking him. "I didn't tell you to take the stairs."

Zhou Lan leaned on his knees, catching his breath, and said, "I couldn't exactly just take the elevator by myself, could I? The code is Xitong's birthday."

Zhao Yu opened the door and stepped inside, and Zhou Lan called out from behind him: "There are new slippers on the rack—wear the gray ones."

He followed Zhao Yu into the apartment and said, "Xitong's stuff hasn't been packed up yet. I've got a housekeeper coming tomorrow. Don't touch any of his stuff."

The apartment was huge, decorated in cream tones. A piano stood by the floor-to-ceiling windows, and oil paintings hung on the walls. There was a master bedroom, a guest room, and a study.

Zhao Yu tossed the files on the sofa, opened the fridge without a second thought, grabbed two bottles of water, not really caring, and chucked one to Zhou Lan.

Zhou Lan missed the catch, and the bottle hit the floor with a thud.

"That's rude. Don't throw things. Xitong would never do that." Zhou Lan bent down to pick up the bottle.

"Bro, you're just clumsy. Too much desk time—your limbs have atrophied into what exactly?" Zhao Yu twisted open his bottle, took a sip, and casually sat on the table.

Zhou Lan patiently pulled the latest iPhone and toiletries out of the bag: "The new phone has my number and Ms. Chen's saved in it. All of this is for you. I'll bring your stuff over tomorrow. You'll sleep in the guest room. Don't go in Xitong's room, and don't touch anything in it. That piano especially."

Zhao Yu, irritated by his nagging, shooed him away. "How much is Boss Chen paying you that you're still at work at this hour?"

"Don't mind what time I leave. Just remember what I said," Zhou Lan finally couldn't help but raise his voice, drawing a deep breath. "I'm leaving now. Call me if anything comes up."

After Zhou Lan left, Zhao Yu opened the files again, his gaze dark and complicated as he stared at Gu Hansheng's photo. Gu Hansheng wasn't just some spoiled rich kid; this game was just beginning, fraught with dangerous signals that might suck him into a maelstrom.

He was acutely sensitive to such danger, but he needed money—a lot of it. Without money, he couldn't save Aunt Guo. Period. He'd give anything—body or soul—to save her.

...

The next morning, before Zhao Yu was even properly awake, he heard a racket in the living room. He shot out of bed and yanked the door open, snapping, "Can a guy get some sleep around here?!"

Zhou Lan's face was grim as he shoved a suitcase toward him. "I brought your luggage from the hotel. Deal with it yourself."

Zhao Yu scratched his head and kicked the suitcase into the room with his heel. "You could've just left it by the door. Why'd you have to come knocking this early?"

"Do you know what time it is?"

"Nine."

"It's eleven!"

Zhao Yu glanced at the wall clock in the living room—indeed, it was already eleven.

The room had been tidied up considerably—especially the handicrafts and valuable ornaments, which had all been removed. The sofa was covered with a slipcover, and the carpet had been replaced with a stain-resistant gray one. Chen Xitong's belongings were all protected, as if they were afraid this brother of his might break or dirty something.

The only thing left in the room was the piano, which was too heavy to move. Zhao Yu lifted the velvet cover and the piano lid, then pressed a key.

Zhou Lan's face changed instantly as he rushed over. "This piano is very expensive—it's the most important thing to Xitong. Didn't I tell you not to touch this?"

He closed the lid, realizing he'd sounded a bit harsh, and tried to soften his tone. "It's all on Boss Chen's orders. Try to understand—I'm only an assistant."

"Can't touch this, can't touch that. Why do I even have to stay here? Just get me a hotel room."

"Gu Hansheng knows Xitong lives here. Checking into a hotel would blow your cover."

Then two more people came in carrying two boxes of clothes and hung them one by one in the emptied walk-in closet. All the clothes were light-colored—the complete opposite of Zhao Yu's style.

Zhou Lan said, "These clothes were bought according to Xitong's style. Don't wear your own clothes anymore—from now on, you can only go out in the ones I bought. The barber will be here soon, and so will the manicurist. Go wash your face first."

Zhao Yu looked down at his fingers—rough nails, the edges digging into his skin. They were clearly not a pianist's hands. Unlike Chen Xitong, whose every part was refined.

After the haircut, manicure, and new clothes, Zhao Yu suddenly looked much younger.

Zhou Lan did a double take.

"What, don't I look like him?" Zhao Yu asked.

They were twin brothers with identical faces, but Zhou Lan still felt something didn't add up. He racked his brain until he looked into those eyes and understood—Zhao Yu's gaze was worlds apart from Chen Xitong's.

Chen Xitong's eyes were always lively and full of warmth, often curving into slight arcs with a smile and youthful energy. But Zhao Yu's eyes never curved. Even when the corners of his mouth smiled, his gaze was cold, listless, and distant—as if he had no interest in the world.

That look made Zhou Lan uneasy in a way he couldn't quite put into words, and he instinctively looked away.

"Author's Note"

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