Chapter 309

Entering the room, Yang Tao curiously looked around.

The room was neatly arranged; the first things to catch her eye were paintings and photographs hung everywhere—so many, so densely packed, they gave a cramped feeling. But what she saw next were several large bookshelves, divided and filled with books and handicrafts, occasionally interrupted by a green plant. Standing just at the doorway, she could see through the gaps the entire room except the bedroom—everything laid bare.

The living room was plainly furnished: sofa, coffee table, TV. Adjacent was the study, where brushes of varying thicknesses hung on a brush rack, and on the desk lay an open sheet of rice paper weighed down by a paperweight. Turning further, a row of shelves held cameras and lenses of all sizes, scattered haphazardly, while on the floor lay tripods and other clutter. On a long table sat two monitors and a single laptop.

This unobstructed view visually relieved the earlier sense of crowding.

Though the decor was somewhat whimsical, it only struck Yang Tao as novel—not anything extraordinary.

After a quick glance, she picked up the lucky bamboo from the table, wandered around the whole room, and placed it beside the TV cabinet, among the other potted plants.

"I put the lucky bamboo beside the TV cabinet."

Hearing Yang Tao's loud voice, Wang Yan turned and smiled: "Good." Then he turned back to continue stirring the large spoon.

After placing the lucky bamboo, Yang Tao began walking along the walls, examining all the paintings and photographs. She couldn't appreciate the calligraphy or ink paintings, but she thought they looked nice. She didn't scrutinize the photos either, but she found them pleasing too.

"Did you paint and take all these yourself?"

"Yeah, not bad, right?"

"Not bad? That's an understatement. I don't understand art, but I know your skill level is high." Yang Tao gave the neighbor a thumbs-up: "Impressive."

Wang Mou was always humble and low-key: "It's alright, just amateur level—not nearly as good as the professionals."

His calligraphy was LV5, traditional painting LV3, photography LV2—only calligraphy was truly presentable, painting was average, photography was passable—but the person before him didn't understand. Public taste was simple: good-looking or not good-looking, comfortable to look at meant good, uncomfortable meant bad; if you could tell it was good, it was good; otherwise, it wasn't. He had always been like that—lacking discernment, he could only judge by feeling.

Of course, whether Yang Tao understood or not didn't matter—it wasn't something he used to show off. Pure hobby. If she understood, he was a master; if she didn't, he got labeled "multi-talented." Perfect.

"You're being modest. Just looking at all your photography gear, I'd say you're professional."

"Just an amateur enthusiast. If you like anything, take it." As he spoke, Wang Yan turned off the stove, plated the dishes, then carried two plates—one in each hand—to the dining table: "Dinner's ready. Come eat."

Seeing the array of dishes in the kitchen, Yang Tao hurried over to help, silently counting: "It's just the two of us—you made way too much."

"Not too much—not nearly enough. I was worried it wouldn't be enough. It's the first meal after moving in—must be lavish. Don't be polite, eat your fill. If you're not full, it's my fault for not hosting well." Wang Yan wiped his hands and handed chopsticks and bowls to Yang Tao across the table: "Want some alcohol?"

Before she could answer, Wang Yan turned and pulled two chilled beers from the fridge, placing them on the table: "Today I moved in—that's one joy. Meeting such a beautiful neighbor—that's two joys. And you, such a beautiful neighbor, helping me warm the new home—that's three joys. We must drink."

Wang Yan walked to the door, and under Yang Tao's puzzled gaze, opened the door she'd casually shut, then returned to his seat: "Don't worry, Miss Yang. Even if I'm not a gentleman, I'm certainly not a villain. There are people upstairs and downstairs. We'll sip lightly, moderately."

Looking at the earnest new neighbor, Yang Tao laughed and sighed: "Come on, do you really have to be this serious? We live in a rule-of-law society—why would I be afraid of you?"

"Rule of law comes later. Right now, there's none here. We've just met, and you're this beautiful—if I suddenly lost control, where would you cry for help? Better to be cautious." Wang Yan casually grabbed a beer, twisted his wrist, and popped the cap off with a smile, holding up his unharmed hand and raising one eyebrow in mild triumph: "Trick."

Yang Tao widened her eyes in surprise and gave him two thumbs-up: "Impressive."

Pouring the chilled beer, she handed Yang Tao a glass, and Wang Yan raised his cup with a grin: "Come on, let's drink to the three joys."

Yang Tao smiled warmly and clinked her glass against his: "To the three joys!" Internally, she felt a flicker of embarrassment—after all, two of the joys were about her. This new neighbor really knew how to speak sweetly…

After finishing her drink and feeling the coolness, Wang Yan gestured: "Try my cooking."

Yang Tao picked up a boiled green vegetable, chewed thoughtfully, nodded: "Tastes great—better than any master chef outside. And you've got all kinds: Sichuan, Cantonese, Suzhou-Hangzhou dishes. Impressive."

As a four-star hotel's front desk manager, she knew food and lodging well. This made it clear Wang Yan was sincerely hosting—six dishes and one soup, all made by one person, wasn't easy, especially with some dishes being so labor-intensive.

"If it tastes good, that's enough. I didn't know your tastes, so I made a bit of everything. Now that you've given such high praise, I'm relieved. Eat up—it'll get cold."

Yang Tao smiled brightly: "Alright."

After eating a few bites, Wang Yan asked: "Miss Yang, may I ask—what's your current romantic status?"

"Single." Yang Tao didn't avoid it: "Don't call me Miss Yang—it sounds awkward. Just call me Miss Taozi. That's what my friends call me."

"Then call me Wang Yan." Wang Yan nodded, then continued: "Miss Taozi, you're this beautiful—men chasing you could line up from here to the Forbidden City. Why are you still single?"

Yang Tao rolled her eyes: "I'm thirty-two. You're exaggerating. If it were really like that, I'd be fine—I wouldn't be a leftover woman now."

She was beautiful—more beautiful than many. Men did pursue her, but for various reasons, none stuck. Wang Yan had seen the whole story—he knew exactly how she felt. He thought a moment and said: "Thirty is a wonderful age. You have the face and figure of a twenty-year-old, and the wisdom and experience of a forty-year-old. It's the prime of life. Like Beijing in September—days feel like August, nights like October. Very beautiful. And you don't know—when I heard you were single, I felt like a stone had been lifted from my heart."

Everything he said before "and" were her own words. No other phrase could better comfort her about her age—using her own words to soothe herself. Perfect.

Yang Tao froze. That was exactly how she felt—and just three days ago, she'd told her mother's arranged match exactly that. She hadn't expected this new neighbor to think the same.

As for his last remark… Yang Tao blinked her big eyes at him: "I agree with the first part—but isn't the second part too hasty? We've only known each other one day."

"Everyone admires beauty." Wang Yan smiled. "I'm straightforward—I won't lie. Honestly, I've been captivated by your beauty. If you want a fancier term, it's love at first sight. Isn't love at first sight always just lust at first sight? Well, I've got lust."

"Smooth talk." The witty remark was amusing. Yang Tao didn't mind—adults, after all. She rolled her eyes and smiled: "How old are you?"

Wang Yan raised his cup: "Twenty-nine. Isn't there a saying: 'Woman three years older, gold brick in hand'? Perfect fit." They clinked glasses and drank it down.

Another beer down, the carbonation rose. Yang Tao, embarrassed, realized she was about to burp. She clapped her hand over her mouth and tried to suppress it.

Wang Yan clearly noticed. He chuckled: "Taozi, even beauties eat food and drink. Don't hold back so tightly—I won't laugh at you. Come, follow me." He downed another beer, turned his head away from the table, tilted it, and let out a loud: "Hiccup—"

"Ah—hiccup…" Yang Tao couldn't hold it. She covered her mouth, confirmed it was over, then gave him a huge eye-roll: "You're so annoying."

"I'm annoying, I'm annoying." Wang Yan picked up a piece of meat for her, changed the subject: "Eat more. You're too thin. Work's tiring, right?"

Clearly, Yang Tao didn't mind. In the drama, some painter had made her swoon—but honestly, that painter couldn't even tie Wang Mou's shoelaces.

Though she'd had a small embarrassment, Wang Yan had defused it, sparing her solo awkwardness. Good. She silently gave her new neighbor one point in her mind: "It's fine. I'm front desk manager at a hotel—work isn't too tiring, just lots of standing. But after so many years, I'm used to it. You said photography's a hobby—what's your main job?"

"Unemployed vagrant. What main job?" Without waiting for her question, Wang Yan continued: "My family was in business. Ten years ago, my parents died in an accident, leaving me money and a few apartments. I had no great talent, and I was young then—I didn't know what to do with the money. Then, one of my parents' apartments was slated for demolition, and I got decent compensation."

"I thought: this is the capital—lots of people leave their hometowns to find opportunities here. They'll need to rent. So…"

Yang Tao finished: "So you used all the money to buy apartments?"

"Clever." Wang Yan looked smug: "Back then, property was cheap—I bought a lot. Now you know the prices. Strictly speaking, my main job is collecting rent."

Is wealth a factor in choosing a partner? Especially for women over thirty—even if they dream of love, it can't be love with nothing. Life matters. Of course, Yang Tao might marry a man with nothing for love—she'd probably do it. But the outcome would be terrible—unless Xue Sumei died, Yang Tao couldn't even imagine it.

Yang Tao leaned forward, whispering: "Can you tell me how many apartments you own? Let me envy you properly."

"Not many—just over thirty."

"That's not many?" Yang Tao widened her eyes, then looked strangely at the neighbor: "Wait—that doesn't make sense. You're this rich, why live on the fifth ring road?"

"Lived there too long. Got bored. And I had money, so…" Wang Yan didn't finish—just gave her a knowing look.

Yang Tao clucked her tongue: "Rich people really can be willful…" She wasn't jealous—his wealth had nothing to do with her. Just admiration. She'd struggled for three years to pay off her 200,000 yuan debt. He owned over thirty apartments—and without blinking, bought another right beside her rental building. Rich people really had it good.

But good as it was, it was also pitiful. He was twenty-nine now. Ten years ago, he was nineteen—parents gone. Even with all that money, loneliness must be hard.

As for class difference—she truly didn't feel any. This neighbor in baggy shorts, half-sleeve shirt, and slippers? He looked nothing like someone with status…

"Hey?" Wang Yan waved his hand in front of her face. "Terrified by my billionaire status? Feeling inferior?"

"Not at all. I'm not borrowing money from you."

"Oh? Then you're at least a little attracted to me!" Wang Yan winked. "I've saved the landlord's seat just for you."

She rolled her eyes. "So you've been alone all these years?"

"What do you mean?" Wang Yan took a sip of wine. "If you mean parents or family, then yes—it's just me. If you mean girlfriend… it's still just me."

"No way. You're so rich—how could you be alone? Don't you party and chase women?"

"It's not that exaggerated. I'm just an ordinary person. In college, I dated one girl, but back then I was shy and stingy. She naturally didn't want me. After she dumped me, I never had another girlfriend—not until now." Wang Yan said it without shame, face calm, heart steady.

"Don't give me that." Yang Tao noticed she'd rolled her eyes more tonight than ever. "You're not shy at all."

"People grow, after all. Nothing stays the same." Wang Yan poured her more wine. "After college, I got into photography and didn't want to stay in Jingcheng. So I packed a bag and traveled south and north, snapping photos everywhere. I wandered for over three years. Traveling toughens you—that's how I grew. If I hadn't spent those three years, when I saw a beautiful woman like you, I'd have only dared to sneak glances, let alone talk to you."

His situation was now clear: approachable, single, no family, humorous, talented, twenty-nine years old—exactly the right age. Who could resist a man like this?

Looking at her new neighbor, Yang Tao smiled and clinked her glass with his. "I think you'd be better off staying a little shy. You've gone bad now—always cracking jokes."

She hadn't meant to ask about girlfriends—she'd wanted to ask about family and friends. But Wang Yan brushed it off with one simple sentence, so she didn't press. Though her own father had passed even earlier, now she thought of it and felt a pang. Still, she had her mother alive—much better off. Her new neighbor had lost both parents. She imagined those years must have been hard. Just thinking about New Year's Eve, sitting alone with a table full of food—who wouldn't feel miserable? Now that Wang Yan avoided the topic, she wisely didn't ask.

"It's better to be a little cheeky. Otherwise, I'd never have the guts to invite a gorgeous woman like you to dinner."

"Stop it already. You'll make me lose all sense of direction."

Wang Yan laughed, then found more topics to talk about—his travels, his interests. Yang Tao enjoyed the conversation. She realized her new neighbor was truly impressive—yes, no wonder he'd traveled the world. He knew everything, could talk about anything. It felt like he had endless stories.

Laughing and chatting, they didn't notice when the meal was finished.

Yang Tao, true to her name, had cheeks flushed like a peach. She leaned back in her chair, waving her hands. "No more. I can't eat another bite."

Wang Yan popped the dish he'd been about to give her into his mouth. "Don't say I didn't treat you well."

"You treated me too well. I've gained at least two pounds tonight."

"You're so thin. Gain a little weight—it'd be healthier."

"Stop. I worked hard to lose this weight." Yang Tao glared at him. "Are you always this big of an eater?"

Six dishes and one soup—plenty of food. Two people couldn't possibly finish it. She'd only drunk three bottles, which took up a lot of stomach space, so she hadn't eaten much. Yet now, half the food was gone.

Wang Yan downed the last of his beer, belched naturally, and winked at Yang Tao's disgusted face. "Being able to eat is a blessing!"

Yang Tao grimaced. Being able to eat is for pigs…

Wang Yan heard her muttered comment but pretended not to. He began clearing the table. The meal had gone well—he'd openly shown his intentions, revealed his qualities, and gotten along wonderfully with Yang Tao, instantly drawing them closer. He didn't believe a woman who craved love and marriage wouldn't be smitten.

Seeing Wang Yan start cleaning, Yang Tao struggled to stand. "Let me help you."

"Guests don't work," Wang Yan shook his head, leading her to his studio—the room separated off and piled with photography gear. He pulled down two large boxes, opened them, turned on his computer, and operated it for a moment. "Everything here, and everything on the walls—take what you like. The originals are all on the computer. Pick the ones you want and email them to yourself. Don't be shy. As you said yourself—I'm not worse than a professional. These photos cost me nothing but my hard work shooting and editing."

His father had always done things without flaws. Aside from his casual paintings and calligraphy from recent years, all his other photographs were taken across the country, matching his skill level.

"Don't worry—I won't be polite," Yang Tao teased. "Billionaire." She squatted down and began flipping through Wang Yan's work.

Wang Yan laughed along, then wandered lazily to the kitchen to clean up, washing dishes.

The room fell quiet—only the sound of running water, clinking dishes, and a rhythmic whistle. Yang Tao smiled as she gazed at each photo…

After a while, everything was done. Wang Yan sat at the tea table on the balcony, arranging his teaware. "Miss Taozi, want some tea to settle your stomach?"

Yang Tao, lost in thought, snapped back. Holding the photo she'd unconsciously picked, she plopped down across from Wang Yan. "No thanks. My stomach's full. I think this one's especially good—it's almost as good as that photo of the little girl."

He glanced at it: a ragged boy reading a book at a train station. One look, and the system delivered its information—his past with the boy.

Wang Yan, still arranging teaware, frowned, thinking of the little girl she mentioned. After a pause, he said: "You mean the one of Xie Hailong—'Big Eyes'? The Project Hope photo?"

Yang Tao thought carefully. "Probably. That little girl had huge eyes—gazing into the lens, not at it. I don't know much about photography, but I could still see the longing in her eyes."

"How could my skill compare to theirs? But this kid's inspiring." Wang Yan explained: "I took this in a county in Guizhou. His father died when he was young, his mother ran off—he lived with his grandparents. Luckily, they were still strong, no major illnesses, and scrimped to pay for his schooling. When I took this photo, he was in Gao San. Soon after I shot it, his grandfather fell to his death in the mountains. He'd been on track for a top-tier university, but the trauma affected his exam results—he only got into a second-tier school."

Yang Tao couldn't help asking: "So only his grandmother was left—and she's old. Could she still afford his education? What happened then?"

"Since I ran into him, I naturally did what I could. I've sent him money every year to cover tuition and fees. After he graduated college, I stopped. I don't know how he's doing now." He finished, smugly staring at Yang Tao, eyebrow raised. "Impressed by my good character?"

"Totally moved," Yang Tao said, but rolled her eyes. She couldn't stand his smugness.

She understood the principle: having money doesn't mean you must donate; donating doesn't mean you must donate much. So she wouldn't say, "You're so rich—you should give more." She wouldn't say, "You're so rich—why not give even more?"

Of course, to Wang Yan, it was all arranged by the system—not his own choice. But only in this world. He didn't need to mention charity at all; over the years, he'd truly accumulated boundless merit. He'd just happened to be there, so casually telling Yang Tao about it showed his kindness—and added a few points.

"It's fine. I know you're stubborn and embarrassed." Wang Yan smiled, poured tea from the gaiwan into a fairness cup, and handed her a cup. "This tea won't hurt. Have a sip."

Since it was already poured, what could Yang Tao say? She picked up the cup and sipped. "Not bad. What kind of tea is this?"

"Biluochun."

Yang Tao didn't know tea, but figured Wang Yan, being so rich, wouldn't drink cheap stuff. Curious, she asked: "Is it expensive?"

"Not too bad. Two thousand a jin. Lasts a long time." Wang Yan casually explained, then stood. "I'll find you two frames. You can't just leave photos bare."

"Okay."

Soon, Wang Yan found several matching frames, sat back down, and joked as he helped her mount the photos.

When done, Yang Tao admired them, stood up, and smiled. "That's enough for tonight. Thanks for dinner. I'll head out. Next time, I'll treat you."

"When's 'next time'?"

Few people asked that—he was genuinely straightforward. Yang Tao laughed. "When I get time off. Then I'll introduce you to some friends."

By now, they'd reached the door. Wang Yan leaned against it. "Alright. I'll wait for your call."

"Mm." Yang Tao held the bag with the photos in one hand, fumbled for her key with the other, opened the door, and turned back to Wang Yan's smiling face. "Goodbye."

Wang Yan nodded. "Goodbye."

Yang Tao glanced at him, turned, and stepped inside—*bang! *—the door slammed shut. Instantly, she pressed her eye to the peephole, watching Wang Yan enter his apartment and close his door. She exhaled deeply, leaned against the door, and couldn't help smiling.

She felt very positively about Wang Yan—there was a spark. When he jokingly said he'd fallen for her at first sight, she hadn't minded. After all, she was confident. Many people stared at her on the street; a high rate of turning heads was a fact. Wang Yan was just bolder—he dared to say it out loud.

But later, as they ate, drank, and chatted more, she had to admit: Wang Yan truly had a unique charm. Though he looked ordinary and dressed casually, he gave off a natural vibe. During dinner, she hadn't noticed time passing, hadn't indulged in fantasies. It was already past ten at night—and she hadn't realized. That was why she said goodbye.

Most importantly, she'd been cheated by her ex—she'd felt deeply insecure. But tonight, with Wang Yan, she hadn't even thought about security.

Yet she remembered they'd only met one day, spent only three hours together. Yang Tao quickly shook her head, placed the photos on the entryway cabinet, changed into slippers, hummed a tune, and happily found a spot to put her new photos. On her nightstand, she placed a landscape photo of lakes and mountains. After a satisfied glance, she continued humming, grabbing her pajamas to head to the bathroom.

Perhaps she didn't realize she was humming the exact tune Wang Yan whistled while washing dishes—Encounter…

Who will I meet, and what words will we exchange? The person I wait for, how far in the future is he? The song, still in tune, blended with the rush of running water, echoing through the bathroom…

Closing the door, he returned to the tea table, sat down, and sipped tea while reflecting on this incident.

He was a veteran of romance; Yang Tao was definitely not getting away. As for the mission—he was such a top-tier player, wasn't it enough to play the role of her son? Easy as pie.

What he mainly thought about was what he should do this time; otherwise, just hanging around dating was pointless.

Of course, this time he successfully became a happy person whose main occupation was collecting rent—six-figure monthly income, more than enough to spend. So this time, he definitely wouldn't sell Qiang Shen Wan, nor would he pursue any tech or artificial intelligence.

Mostly because the time was too short—he couldn't launch his rockets, and that would be boring. Besides, the contents in his mind hadn't been fully copied yet; even if he continued developing now, eight years at most would bring him to a comparable level, and even that wasn't guaranteed. No point in all the trouble.

After much thought, Wang Yan decided to take up photography. After all, he'd already arranged it—all those long lenses and short barrels would cost at least a million or two; he couldn't let them go to waste. He'd originally planned to take a break this time, and picking up a new skill was fine. He could even try to edge toward film production—not just shoot, but direct too. After returning, he could use his filmmaking techniques to make the videos for A-Mao and A-Gou more exciting, and most importantly, make Wei Lan happy. Though she was happy every day, why not make her happier?

Moreover, long ago when Wang Yan studied photography, he'd read a line he thought was excellent—it was said by a foreign photographer: We don't just photograph with cameras; we bring into photography everything we've read, every movie we've watched, every piece of music we've heard, everyone we've loved.

He had never loved anyone—if he had, only his parents remained. As for music, with the increasing flood of trash songs and blatant plagiarism in recent years, he no longer listened much. One could say he was outdated, out of touch with the mainstream—he only listened to songs from his youth. Like his own father, he listened to songs like "Sweet Honey" and "Bitter Coffee," more or less the same. But after receiving the System, he hadn't listened for a long time; only after being with Wei Lan did he start listening to her selections more often.

He didn't like watching movies either—only when his Living Father assigned a film-related task did he bother to watch one. Otherwise, he never did. Because no matter what a movie portrayed, no matter how much glory it carried, it couldn't match even a fraction of the brilliance of his own decades of experiences.

That left only books. He had read nearly four hundred years' worth—understood past and present, knew East and West, possessed more learning than could fill ten carts. For him, the quote should read: the books read, the people seen, the events endured, the years passed.

Shaking his head, he drank the last steep of tea, packed away the tea set, then rose and sat before the computer in his studio. After some operations, he logged onto Taobao, browsed for a while, ordered a stenography machine, and bought several external hard drives.

He had to get the contents of his mind out—he was going to stay eight years, and he feared forgetting. This wasn't something to brag about, not to be arrogant; it was seventy-four years of his life's work. If he forgot it, even his cultivated mind would perform a headfirst crash into a wall.

After buying the items, he checked the computer's time—it was eleven. No need to rush. Today had been a proper day of hard work—household chores, different from company duties, and he still wasn't fully accustomed to it.

He got up, turned off the room's light, entered the bedroom, washed up, then lay on the bed and slept deeply…

The next day, Wang Yan rose as usual, checked the time—just past five. He splashed cold water on his face, found a quick-dry fitted short-sleeve shirt and black tech-fabric shorts in the closet, pulled on a baseball cap to cover his bedhead, slipped on sneakers at the door, and stepped out.

He couldn't let his Living Father go unappreciated—he was naturally looking after his good big son. Though Dongjun Huafu wasn't a project by a major developer, its location was excellent: Dongjun, naturally in the city's east, heading toward Tongzhou, right beside the Tonghui River. Nearby amenities were fully equipped; not far away stood a sizable park.

Wang Yan stepped outside, stretched his arms and legs, warmed up, then jogged toward the park. At any time, the most diligent were always the elderly. Perhaps they simply couldn't sleep—anyway, they rose early. When he arrived, the scene wasn't any less bustling than Beihai Park's: old men and women with birdcages and dogs, walking them. He spotted only a few young people running, and from his perspective as a Master of Traditional Medicine, all of them had minor ailments.

Having such advanced medical skill was also inconvenient, especially in today's society—glance at anyone, and you'd rarely find someone truly healthy. Healing the sick and saving lives was certainly necessary, but he lacked a medical license. If he went up to someone and said, "You're sick," they might not curse him—but they'd definitely suspect him. He didn't want to waste breath proving himself, so the best method was to say nothing. Life and death were fate—what could he do? Why bother with extra worry?

So this weighed on his heart constantly. Of course—who else but General Wang Da? He'd never cared much for human lives, let alone when he was Emperor Wang—the moment he issued an imperial decree, without even glancing, tens of thousands of heads fell. That's just how it was. He couldn't save them anyway; better to pretend he didn't see.

He didn't unleash his superhuman strength, only ran at a pace slightly under four minutes per kilometer. This speed was certainly faster than many amateurs, but nowhere near the dazzling pace of his three-minute sprint. To the old men and women watching him circle the park, it was just: "Hey, this kid's got spirit."

Wang Yan—the Spirit Boy—jogged leisurely for over ten kilometers, then found a quiet spot to practice two sets of fists, returning drenched in sweat. In terms of exercise efficiency, ten kilometers didn't compare to the power of his two fist sets—not even close.

Outside the residential complex, Wang Yan spotted a mobile outdoor breakfast stall from afar. Based on years of experience, such stalls usually had some skill. More importantly, he saw people queuing, some chatting casually with the owner and his wife—clearly a long-standing operation—so he made his judgment.

He sat at a table, waited until the crowd thinned, then ordered tofu pudding, fried dough sticks, tea eggs, and pickled vegetables, and ate. As expected, the taste was still good.

It was 2012 now; such mobile stalls had been listed by the Jingcheng government as "non-recommended breakfast businesses," mainly because owners ignored regulations—blocking sidewalks, obstructing pedestrian paths, jamming traffic. They were already rare on the Second and Third Ring Roads; in another two years, even the Fifth Ring would see none—slowly being phased out.

Wang Yan ate without interest, lost in idle thoughts—he had nothing to do with it. After finishing breakfast, he returned home around seven. After washing up, he practiced calligraphy for a while, then sat before the computer and began typing furiously, copying the contents of his mind about the stars and seas…

Yang Tao woke up bustlingly. Though she'd drunk three bottles of beer the day before and was slightly drunk, she'd tossed and turned until late at night, making it hard to rise.

Looking at her dark circles in the mirror, Yang Tao grew irritable, slipping into melancholy—before, when she occasionally stayed up late, she'd never had these… She applied makeup to cover the circles, dressed, checked herself in the mirror to confirm everything looked fine, slung her small bag over her shoulder, changed shoes at the door, and as she reached for her keys, noticed the sad little boy's photo on the entry cabinet—smiling, she opened the door and stepped out.

While waiting for the elevator, staring at the closed door across from her, she couldn't help thinking again of yesterday's pleasant conversation. A jobless layabout, no worries about food or shelter, no one to boss him around—he was surely still sleeping in now, she thought, and burst out laughing.

Realizing her foolishness, she quickly covered her mouth, instinctively glanced around, then fixed her gaze on the door across, confirming no one had noticed. Just then, a soft "ding" sounded, and she hurried into the elevator.

In the car, she still couldn't stop laughing. She didn't know why—this trivial thing, with no real humor, just made her laugh for no reason.

She pulled out her phone—no unread messages. WeChat had no new notifications. She exhaled deeply, started the car, pressed the accelerator, and drove out of the underground garage to work.

Wang Yan in the apartment didn't notice Yang Tao's silly laughter—he hadn't moved a muscle. He'd heard her open the door, of course; a chance encounter now would've been effective. But he wouldn't do it.

According to his usual philosophy: you must drag it out. Last night's interaction had been so pleasant, he, Wang Mou, was so outstanding, and he'd already expressed love at first sight, lust at first sight—Yang Tao hadn't rejected him, which spoke volumes. According to normal romantic norms for newly acquainted men and women, one should seize the moment, solidify the connection, chat more.

He wouldn't. He'd drag it out—he'd make Yang Tao anxious. The more he acted irrationally, the less he paid attention to her, the more she'd overthink. After all, she'd just heard him say "love at first sight," and now he vanished—any normal person would wonder. She'd keep agonizing: Should she reach out? But what if he'd just been joking, just flattery? What if it was all her imagination? That'd be too embarrassing—she'd probably can't handle it.

But they'd already planned to have dinner together this week—a legitimate reason—so Yang Tao would definitely contact him. But after these few days of overthinking, she'd already unconsciously fallen in. He'd held back first; after dinner this week, he'd begin chatting again to solidify things—that'd be the follow-up, a sure win.

Of course, all this relied on his self-awareness and understanding of Yang Tao's psychology. If he didn't have the skill, he'd still have to lick.

In the blink of an eye, three days passed—it was Saturday…

Thank you, Brother Guangpi's little zombie, for the 1500 coins and monthly ticket support.

Thank you, Ling Zhi Bu Ai, for the 100-coin support.

Thank you to eight brothers: Ni Hui Ge, Hao Tian VS Zhan Shen, Wu Liao De Ka Miao, Chao Neng Li, **Zhu Zhu, Erlang Shen vs Ultraman, Cong Tou Zai Lai I, alex1342, for continuing your support.

Daily thanks to the good brothers who voted monthly tickets.

Thank you to all the brothers who voted recommendations.

Thank you to the silent readers, brothers, for your support.