The Lingering Effects of Red Bull and an English-Language "Classic"

A rare air of harmony filled room 504.

Chen Ziang had faced a crisis of utmost social death that morning. Although Lu Chuan had casually given him a way out, the young master's heart had still taken something of a fright.

Chen Ziang had just finished washing his face.

He sprawled in his chair, an expensive hydrating sheet mask covering his face.

He was still pridefully maintaining the dignity of a local young master, but the case of Red Bull he had gone to the convenience store and hauled back himself had undeniably brought the roommates much closer together.

Han Dong leaned against the back of his chair, still clutching a can of ice-cold Red Bull and drinking it with relish.

"Oh man, that hits the spot."

Between burps, he was still savoring how his feet had felt while goose-stepping that day.

"Ziang, I'm not kidding, in all my life, this is the first time I've known that putting that stuff under your feet could give you such unbeatable cushioning. I'm definitely clearing another couple of packs off the shelves at the mini-mart tomorrow. It works better than any insole."

Chen Ziang kept his eyes closed, his face mask on, and couldn't be bothered to answer him.

But a muffled snort still came from his throat. Clearly, he had secretly acknowledged how effective "that stuff" was; he just had the stubborn beak of a dead duck and refused to admit it.

On the other side of the room, Zhao Yifan had finished washing up.

Wearing a set of fine-quality pure cotton pajamas, he sat perfectly straight at his desk.

He opened a drawer, took out a pair of black-framed glasses, and put them on unhurriedly.

In fact, Zhao Yifan had excellent vision in both eyes and wasn't nearsighted at all. Since he loved reading, these were merely nonprescription blue-light-blocking glasses to protect his eyes under the desk lamp. But his serious manner, paired with his usually unflappable personality, had unintentionally reinforced everyone's stereotype of him as an "aloof bookworm" to the extreme.

Han Dong and Chen Ziang had always assumed that when this academic ace burned the midnight oil every night, he must have been studying some profound classic on macroeconomics.

The truth was just the opposite.

The thick, original English-language book Zhao Yifan held was an obscure Western popular novel.

It contained no dry economic models.

Only lots of obscure street slang and explicit erotic descriptions.

Zhao Yifan was engrossed.

He thoroughly enjoyed this secret pleasure. He could read smut openly right under his roommates' noses, yet the huge vocabulary barrier kept anyone from glimpsing its secrets. It gave him a secret sense of superiority, as though everyone else were drunk and he alone were sober.

What Zhao Yifan didn't know was that his secret had long since been exposed.

At the start of the semester, on the night the dorm's new air conditioner was installed, Lu Chuan had glanced at it.

Just that one glance.

Lu Chuan had spotted several key, sensitive words on the page with pinpoint accuracy.

In his previous life, to squeeze into those elite circles steeped in Western learning and deal with all kinds of second-generation heirs returning from overseas, he had gritted his teeth and crammed countless bits of slang and jargon into his head.

English erotic innuendo of this level was no different from plain speech to him.

The night gradually deepened.

Han Dong had put on his headphones and started tapping away at his keyboard, playing a game at his computer. Chen Ziang had also gone to the balcony to wash his face and get ready for bed.

Zhao Yifan had reached the climactic scene in his book.

The page used a string of highly metaphorical expressions native to the West, ramping the tension in the scene to the max. Zhao Yifan was completely immersed in the story, reading with great relish. On his normally expressionless face, the corners of his lips curled up uncontrollably in a faint, pleased smile.

Just then, Lu Chuan was drying his hands with a towel.

A glance from the corner of his eye happened to catch Zhao Yifan in his blue-light-blocking glasses, looking perfectly serious while secretly enjoying himself. He sat as straight as an old scholar, yet his head was full of those roiling images.

Having lived another life, Lu Chuan's temperament had long since grown as calm as still water.

But seeing the stark contrast in Zhao Yifan's appearance now, he felt a rare stir of mischievous amusement befitting his age.

He suddenly wanted to tease this aloof academic ace who thought he had hidden himself so well.

Lu Chuan hung up the towel and picked up his cup.

He walked over to the water dispenser behind Zhao Yifan and pressed the hot-water switch.

Water gushed noisily.

Holding his cup, Lu Chuan let his gaze drift casually over Zhao Yifan's shoulder and onto the page he was reading.

Once he had filled his cup, Lu Chuan turned around.

He didn't shout and make a fuss like Han Dong, nor did he pat Zhao Yifan on the shoulder.

He merely bent down slightly, paused behind Zhao Yifan, and said a sentence in Chinese in a low, casual voice.

"Like a helmsman in a storm, he drove the prow mercilessly into that muddy bed."

It was a translation delivered in crisp, clear tones.

Accurate.

Even the roughness and erotic undertones of that veiled bit of slang had been perfectly reproduced, with a hint of teasing in his voice besides.

After translating, Lu Chuan straightened up and casually added a shrewd assessment.

"This author's writing is mediocre."

"The metaphors in this balcony scene are too contrived. There's no beauty to them; it's just a pile of fancy words."

With that, he carried his cup and strolled leisurely back to his desk.

Zhao Yifan, left where he was, froze completely.

The faint, secretly delighted smile on his lips instantly solidified on his face.

His right hand had been about to push up the blue-light-blocking glasses on his nose, but it simply hung there, suspended stiffly in midair. His usually unruffled eyes now had sharply contracted pupils, and they were filled with the terror and shock of someone who had seen a ghost.

At this very moment.

Had it been Chen Ziang, whose secret had nearly been discovered that day, the local young master would certainly have been so frightened that he would have jumped straight out of his chair, scrambled to cover Lu Chuan's mouth, and perhaps even turned red in the face and loudly argued his way out of it.

But Zhao Yifan reacted quite differently.

Eighteen years of privileged family upbringing and muscle memory allowed him to maintain an outrageous degree of physical composure even in the face of such an extreme crisis of social death.

On the surface, he was as steady as an old dog.

He didn't scream.

He didn't panic and snap the book shut in an attempt to cover it up.

He merely turned his head, his whole body stiff and even his breathing halted, trying to maintain the last shred of his aloof dignity as he stared fixedly at Lu Chuan's back.

Lu Chuan returned to his desk, pulled out his chair and sat down, then casually opened a textbook for his major as though nothing had happened.

Watching him, Zhao Yifan felt his scalp tingle.

He suddenly realized something.

These past few days, Lu Chuan had watched him wear his nonprescription glasses and read smut under the desk lamp with a serious face, even watching him secretly enjoy himself as though he were watching a show.

A powerful sense of shame surged through him.

But immediately afterward, instead of going blank like an ordinary boy's might, Zhao Yifan's mind rapidly launched a crisis public relations procedure he had absorbed from his surroundings since childhood.

He took a deep breath and slowly steadied it.

I can't panic.

I absolutely can't let Han Dong and Chen Ziang find out. Especially that loudmouth Han Dong—if he hears even one word, the entire finance department will know tomorrow that I, Zhao Yifan, wear blue-light-blocking glasses to read English erotic novels in the middle of the night. The aloof academic-ace persona I worked so hard to establish won't have a scrap left.

Zhao Yifan silently removed the nonprescription glasses from his nose.

He gently closed the thick original English-language book and slipped it into the very back of the drawer with an extremely steady motion.

He thought back over Lu Chuan's translation.

It was so authentic.

It wasn't a simple literal translation, but the sort of slang that showed a thorough grasp of both the context and the underlying logic.

This roommate named Lu Chuan was definitely hiding his true depths.

But at that moment, Zhao Yifan had no attention to spare for digging into Lu Chuan's background. His mind was entirely occupied with how to sew the guy's mouth shut without bloodshed.

Lu Chuan had kept his voice very low when he translated, so only the two of them could hear.

That meant Lu Chuan knew where to draw the line. He wasn't the kind of loudmouth who didn't know when to stop; he had exposed the matter purely out of some kind of idle mischief.

Since the other man knew when to advance and when to retreat, that made things easy.

The rule his prominent family had taught him from childhood was that when someone else had leverage over you, rather than panic, it was better to seek a tacit understanding and an exchange of benefits.

Zhao Yifan pushed at the bridge of his nose, where his glasses no longer sat, and rapidly made calculations in his head.

Should I buy some top-quality pour-over coffee beans tomorrow? Or offer up some campus resources that might interest Lu Chuan?

He had to find a natural pretext and discreetly reach some kind of adult understanding to keep his mouth shut.

He turned his head and glanced at Lu Chuan, who was sitting in his own seat calmly leafing through a book. A trace of deep resignation flashed in his eyes.

In this guy's eyes, the aloof dignity he had maintained for the past few days was probably already a joke laid bare for all to see.