ATC 04

Chapter 4

Kyoto

Jiang Wanju couldn’t imagine why she always seemed to encounter him when she was at her most disheveled. Like now—her nose was reddened, the northern wind felt like it was carrying sand, and her cheeks probably looked no better than they would after drinking. Today she had been calling factories nonstop to cancel orders she had prepared for printing, leaving her lips slightly chapped.

Not to mention her somewhat messy hair, tousled from falling asleep on the subway, and her hands and feet were cold, as if she had stomped barefoot through the snow. She looked completely disheveled, exhausted.

Jiang Wanju said, “Thank you, no need.”

Chen Zhouren asked, “Do you want me to call the police?”

“Thank you, no need.”

“Or would you like a cup of hot coffee?”

“Thank you, no need.”

Chen Zhouren finally smiled, and the small dimple on his right cheek looked so vivid: “Do I look like a bad guy? Are you so on guard that you won’t even consider answering?”

How absurd.

Jiang Wanju still remembered that this person had once said, smiling, that she was the first person to compliment him as a good person. Now, in an instant, he had no memory of it—his memory as clean as freshly fallen snow.

Whether in books or online, people often say the first person who truly values them is special—but few really remember so clearly.

Jiang Wanju tried to stand. She felt her feet go numb. “I don’t need help.”

Perhaps because of the cold, she shivered even as she spoke.

Chen Zhouren didn’t seem intent on playing the rescuer anymore; he merely nodded politely, said goodbye, and entered another coffee shop that was still open.

By this time it was late. The distant city lights glowed, buses had stopped running, and Jiang Wanju shivered as she opened the Didi app to order a ride. It was rush hour, so there was a queue and no driver picked up immediately. She stood silently, cold, hungry, and tired, until a faint aroma of baked cakes reached her. Then she heard Chen Zhouren’s voice:

“Where are you going?”

Jiang Wanju gave her school’s name.

Chen Zhouren smiled: “Perfect, I’m headed toward the municipal building. I can give you a lift. But I won’t cross the bridge—you’ll walk the rest of the way to your school, okay?”

Jiang Wanju didn’t hesitate and nodded firmly.

Chen Zhouren’s car was parked nearby, a low-key black, the model unobtrusive and hard to gauge at first glance. Jiang Wanju hesitated between the passenger and the back seat, but eventually chose the front passenger seat.

Chen Zhouren placed the cake he had just bought in the back.

The distance wasn’t far by car—maybe ten minutes—but walking in the cold could easily make her catch a cold.

Jiang Wanju hugged her old floral tote, a gift from a relative celebrating her “halfway into society” milestone. As her aunt had said, one’s attire should fit their work environment. Jiang Wanju had just started at a renowned luxury brand, so she could no longer carry her college bags.

She wanted to tell her aunt that she was merely an intern, trudging through mundane work, completely mismatched with the glamorous luxury store environment. But for now, the tote she held was her most-used bag: spacious, convenient for errands, reliable.

In this industry, clothing mattered—these expensive items were her armor.

Chen Zhouren spoke little, carefully maintaining appropriate distance with a stranger: “Just got off work?”

“Mm,” Jiang Wanju said.

“Interns have it tough. You’re in IT?”

Jiang Wanju thought for a long time before answering, “No.”

The car was warm, and the chill of her down jacket slowly faded. She turned her face to the window, seeing her flushed reflection. Her hands felt numb; touching them felt like touching someone else’s face.

“Your boss is ruthless,” Chen Zhouren remarked, “milking you dry.”

Jiang Wanju replied, “It’s fine. Today was just an accident.”

Chen Zhouren sighed: “I’m talking to you, and you’re sympathizing with the capitalist?”

Jiang Wanju looked at him sideways: “Aren’t you a capitalist?”

“Of course not,” Chen Zhouren laughed. “Capitalist isn’t a nice word. I don’t want a noose.”

This made Jiang Wanju finally laugh, and she asked, “Then what do you do?”

Chen Zhouren half-joked, “Serve the people.”

He said it in a way that left no gaps—his identity and name carefully hidden, revealing nothing.

Jiang Wanju thought about the relativity of warmth by a stove; she felt like she was sitting by one, lazily warming her hands and body.

This man had a strange kind of charm.

Time seemed to fly pleasantly, and in what felt like an instant, the car stopped.

Before she got out, Chen Zhouren took out his phone: “Let’s exchange WeChat. Remember to check in once you’re back at your dorm.”

Jiang Wanju added him, reporting her name. She paused briefly while editing his contact info.

Chen Zhouren said: “Chen Zhouren—Chen from the East, Zhouren as in daytime and benevolence.”

Chen Zhouren—a name reminiscent of a villain in a Hong Kong drama: one moment smiling about business, the next pulling a gun. The name suited him well.

They exchanged contact information and said goodbye.

Chen Zhouren didn’t get out of the car. Jiang Wanju walked a few dozen meters forward, then looked back: his car was not heading to the municipal building but returning the way he came—

The “on the way” excuse was a lie. It wasn’t on the way at all.

Jiang Wanju even suspected his name might be fake.

This brief encounter lingered only momentarily in her mind. That night, she sent him a message after returning to her dorm, but after washing up and before bed, there was no reply.

Chen Zhouren’s reply came only the next morning, a single word:

“Good.”

Jiang Wanju closed her phone.

Her remaining internship days weren’t smooth either. Her supervisor was perfectionistic, demanding nearly obsessive attention to detail. Font sizes, subtle color deviations—all intolerable. Jiang Wanju ran back and forth to factories for samples for days. In a blink, Christmas approached. She still needed to contact major beauty bloggers, handwrite letters, send beauty boxes and gifts, revise PPTs, handle material samples, and move new trial products.

Finally, on Christmas, Jiang Wanju got a day off.

It was also then that she met her second boyfriend, Bai Qing, a colleague in the same company—EC—whose workload could be described as overwhelming.

Bai Qing was a man with extremely high standards of living, a severe neat-freak. No stains on clothes, drank only sparkling water, never touch other drinks, didn’t brew coffee, never ate street food. Dates were always at dinner, always at Western restaurants.

Like a refined, polite robot.

That Christmas, Bai Qing booked a place, planned the time, and informed Jiang Wanju in advance. Rarely, this time the dinner spot changed to a Jing cuisine restaurant hidden in a deep alley. A secluded courtyard, elaborately carved beams, elegant quadrangle. From the outside, it was impossible to tell it was a restaurant.

Bai Qing intended to introduce Jiang Wanju to his family. She asked to choose her outfit according to the occasion. He only said they were cousins who grew up together.

Jiang Wanju prepared carefully, picking clothes meticulously, even splurging on a pair of high heels outside her budget.

She thought she was fully prepared, but when Bai Qing introduced her, she still froze.

Chen Zhouren smiled and extended his hand calmly: “Hello, I’m Bai Qing’s cousin, Chen Zhouren.”