“I’m telling you, I was really scared out of my wits back then.” That evening, after getting home, Chen Yi finally hopped into voice chat with Fade again to play games.
“How come?”
“I was just reading your messages when I looked up and saw my boss standing right there—ahh, you know, the Female Demon Head. Master, remember her?”
Xu Yan thought, of course she remembered.
Wasn’t that herself?
She sat in the armchair in her study, dressed in comfortable loungewear, leaning back in a half-reclined position with her phone held up. Her bare face, free of makeup, carried a natural freshness, and her eyes, fixed on the screen, held a faint haze of contemplation. The voice changer icon sat in the top right corner of the game interface, flickering softly every time Xu Yan spoke.
“I remember,” she said, striving to keep her tone as casual and indifferent as always.
Chen Yi noticed nothing amiss and continued sharing her day with innocent enthusiasm.
“She was right there at the elevator doors. My friend and I were too freaked out to even talk.”
“Mm. And then?”
“And then? That was it. She was probably heading downstairs for a meeting and didn’t say a word. My friend and I just got off the elevator and went back to our desks. Worked through the afternoon.”
“Are you that scared of her?” Xu Yan had long puzzled over this question, and now, speaking through Fade’s voice, she finally voiced it.
Truth be told, if her average subordinate held her in such awe, Xu Yan would only feel pleased. It was precisely the effect she aimed for. She preferred a team with clear hierarchies and stellar efficiency over one where colleagues bantered endlessly.
But with Chen Yi…
Xu Yan paused to consider.
She hadn’t done anything too outrageous, had she? So why was Chen Yi so terrified of her?
“To be honest, yeah, a little.” Chen Yi maneuvered her character through the monsters in the game, adjusting the microphone on her headset closer to her mouth before going on. “Actually, I think she’s pretty nice. She might seem hard to approach, but she really looks out for us subordinates.”
Xu Yan thought: Oh.
So you knew that too?
“But Master, do you know that feeling? Like when you see your teacher at school. That’s exactly how I feel whenever I spot my boss now.”
“Running into her at the office gives me that instinctive wariness, like back in school when the dean was patrolling the classrooms.”
“And the very first day I met her, she tried to fire me.”
Chen Yi hadn’t forgotten that detail for a second.
“Maybe she had her reasons?” Xu Yan couldn’t help but defend herself.
Chen Yi picked up on the odd note.
She joked, “Master? Who’s the real disciple here? Why are you taking her side?”
“You’re supposed to be on my team!”
Xu Yan smiled helplessly at that.
“Alright, alright.”
“I’m always on your side, okay?”
Fade’s voice still carried a lingering rasp from her cold. By her account, the illness had taken a toll on her vocal cords, requiring plenty of rest to heal.
Chen Yi’s immediate response was, “Then you should talk less. You can just type.”
Fade let out a chuckle, her gravelly tone rolling like a ticklish caress against Chen Yi’s ear.
“It’s fine.” In the game, her character swapped out ammo—the red-clad woman bowed her head to eject the magazine. “I don’t talk much anyway.”
Chen Yi reflected for a moment. Fade had always been that way.
She’d never waste two words when one would do.
It was as if speaking burned through her mana, and she only had a tiny bar to spare each day.
“But Master, you’ve said a ton to me today,” Chen Yi pointed out.
The two of them were tackling a duo dungeon. While Fade reloaded, Chen Yi held the front, clearing out the mobs.
“Yeah.” Fade finished swapping bullets and shifted into a steady firing stance, gun at the ready. “We’re on voice. What’s wrong with chatting a bit more?”
Chen Yi had a reputation in gaming circles as a rock-steady sharpshooter whose bullets never strayed—her aim was legendary.
But at those words, her mouse betrayed her. She clicked the left button, and the shot whizzed past the monster’s edge, barely grazing its outline.
If this were a stream, that one slip would have her fans and fellow streamers roasting her for years.
Vegetable Sister has her day too, huh?
Even Fade piled on with a tease: “What’s with the shaky hands?”
Chen Yi’s face flushed red. “Master, don’t rub it in!”
Fade found it amusing. “I’m just curious. Can’t I ask?”
“You know exactly what you’re doing!” Chen Yi accused. “You’re so mean.”
“Then I’m sorry.” Fade backed down without a fight. “Won’t ask again.”
“Little Cub’s shaky hands were just a fluke, right?”
“Aaah!”
Chen Yi let out an uncontrollable yell right at her screen. She had to vent somehow. Otherwise, the emotions surging wildly in her chest would keep building, piling up inside her fist-sized heart until they triggered an explosion.
She couldn’t take it.
Chen Yi thought she truly couldn’t handle Fade in this state.
What on earth had Fade gone through during those days she’d vanished?
Had she secretly joined some speech boot camp behind her back?!
No, no, she couldn’t lose now.
In her headset, Fade’s voice filtered through the soft ear cushions like tiny feathers, slipping into her ear canal and drifting straight toward her heart. Each flutter brought a ripple of fine electric tingles, stirring her entire body.
“What’s up?” Fade asked. “Something happen?”
Chen Yi figured that was another classic loaded question.
The tone carried a playful mischief, wicked yet oddly laced with genuine concern. That sliver of worry left her unable to read Fade’s true intent.
“Nothing,” Chen Yi said. “Just feeling kinda hot.”
“Hm?”
“I touched my neck—it’s burning up. I might be coming down with a fever.”
Now Fade sounded truly alarmed, her voice thick with pure tension.
“A fever?”
Xu Yan recalled what Chen Yi had worn that day.
She remembered every detail.
It was late autumn. Chen Yi had on a hoodie layered over a green button-up shirt, paired with sporty cotton pants. Not exactly chilly weather.
“Did you catch a chill?” Xu Yan asked.
Chen Yi: “Nope.”
“Just, I got a fever because of you.”
“Master, do you know how many meanings ‘fever’ has in English?”
It wasn’t only for describing a body overheating with illness. People also used it for falling head over heels in love. Romance was uncontrollable, like a sickness—irresistible, prone to bouts of dizziness and heat.
So—
What Chen Yi really meant wasn’t “I’m feverish because I’m sick from you,” but “I’m feverish for you”—smitten.
She was testing the waters with Fade, hoping for confirmation: proof that her feelings weren’t one-sided, that those flickers in her heart truly meant something.
That the emotions simmering between them weren’t hers alone to bear.
Maybe Fade felt exactly the same.
Chen Yi was eighty percent convinced of it most days; the remaining twenty percent lingered in uncertain fear and dread.
She said it was fine, but what if? What if she’d misread everything? What if Fade vanished again?
The longer they stayed in this hazy limbo, the less clearly Chen Yi could see things. She worried she’d sunk too deep, weaving her own version of the truth with wishful eyes. A truth that wasn’t from Fade, but one she’d fabricated herself.
So she pushed to shatter the vagueness, to pierce the fog and stand before Fade for real—to ask, and get an answer.
I like you.
What about you?
The answer had to be straightforward, crystal clear, no metaphors or detours. Simple, blunt, and brimming with power. It might prop her up—or cut her down.
That was the game and the gamble of love for Chen Yi.
Meeting someone, laying your heart bare, and betting on an adventure with no guaranteed end.
She’d never understood Su Dai before, always wondering from the sidelines why she dove in so deep only to get hurt. Now that it was her turn, she got it.
It felt instinctual.
In the headset, Fade fell silent, her quiet breaths the only sound. On screen, both characters stood motionless.
Chen Yi wasn’t sure if Fade grasped the weight of her earlier words.
Just as resolve stirred in her to lay it all bare, the screen went black.
She heard screams and curses.
Not hers.
They echoed from somewhere in the neighborhood.
The house plunged into darkness. Peering out, she saw the once brightly lit buildings, their windows glowing in a patchwork of light, swallowed whole by pitch black.
The group chat notifications wouldn’t stop buzzing. The neighborhood chat was filled with angry rants, and the property management quickly posted an apology. A transformer had malfunctioned, leaving the entire nearby area in a total blackout. The power company was working on repairs and urged everyone to remain calm.
Chen Yi had no choice. In the pitch darkness, she pulled out her phone and messaged Fade to explain.
Chen Yi: Power’s out at home T_T
The lively atmosphere came to an abrupt halt. It didn’t feel right to press on with that earlier question. Chen Yi decided to ask next time.
Fade asked her: Afraid of the dark?
Chen Yi replied: I’m not that timid! But yeah, the outage is super inconvenient. I’m heading out to a café to hang out and grab some candles on the way!
Chen Yi: Phone’s about to die and shut off! Talk later!
After sending the message, Chen Yi pocketed her phone, grabbed her jacket, and headed out the door. Only once she was outside did she realize something ridiculous: with the power out, the damn elevator was dead too!
By the time Chen Yi made it downstairs, panting and out of breath, she ran into someone completely unexpected in the complex.
How was Chief Editor Xu here?!
Compared to Chen Yi’s disheveled state, Xu Yan looked perfectly calm. She eyed Chen Yi’s condition with clear puzzlement and asked, “You took the stairs?”
Chen Yi didn’t need to answer—her exhausted appearance said it all.
Xu Yan pursed her lips. “You know the elevator has backup power, right?”
Chen Yi: “……”
She sure as hell knew now!!!
