Meeting The Father

Zhao Wei stood in the middle of the stupidly expensive-looking living room, staring at the hallway that branched off into several doors.

Where the fuck is my room?

He turned his head slightly, glancing toward the hallway where his mother had disappeared, then back at the door Jian had shut behind him.

No one had bothered to tell him anything.

Not a single damn word like, "Hey, Yihan, your room is that way" or "You sleep here, not on the fucking floor."

Did they just expect him to magically remember?

For fuck's sake, wasn't I supposed to be a traumatized amnesiac?

Zhao exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Fine! If they are not going to tell me, I'm going to figure it out myself."

His footsteps barely made a sound against the polished floors as he strode down the long hallway. The doors were identical—tall, sleek, and fucking unhelpful because there was no way to tell which one led to his room.

He tried the first door. Locked.

The second door swung open, revealing a bathroom so extravagant it looked like it belonged in a five-star hotel. White marble countertops, gold-trimmed faucets, a massive glass shower that looked way too nice to actually be used on a daily basis.

Definitely not a bedroom.

Zhao shut the door and moved to the next one.

This time, he was greeted with a storage closet.

For fuck's sake.

Was he really about to go door to door like some desperate salesman trying to find a place to sleep?

His patience was wearing thin.

He reached for the next door, bracing himself for either another bathroom, another closet, or maybe even a fucking broomstick to the face—because, at this point, that would just be his luck.

When he pushed it open, he was met with darkness.

His fingers found the light switch, and the room flickered to life.

It was a bedroom.

But it looked… wrong.

The bed was neatly made, tucked under a large window that overlooked the glowing cityscape. A plain wooden desk sat in the corner, its surface completely bare except for a closed laptop. A bookshelf lined one wall, sparsely filled with textbooks and a few novels. The wardrobe stood slightly ajar, revealing a row of neatly pressed clothes inside.

And that was it.

No posters. No personal photos. No clutter.

Nothing that suggested a real person actually lived here.

Zhao stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. The room was quiet—too quiet. His own apartment back in his real life had been small and cramped, filled with little signs of his existence: half-finished coffee cups, old sneakers kicked into a corner, laundry that he always forgot to put away. This? This felt like a stranger's room.

Was this really Yihan's space?

Something in his gut told him it was. But it didn't make sense. Where was the personality? Where was the mess? It was unsettling, the way everything felt too pristine. Too lifeless.

His gaze trailed to the desk, where the closed laptop sat, its sleek black surface reflecting the glow of the overhead light. He had the sudden urge to open it, to see if there was anything inside that would tell him who the hell he was supposed to be.

But before he could take a step, something flickered in the air above his bed.

Zhao's breath caught in his throat as glowing, transparent text appeared in front of him—floating, shimmering softly like an unwelcome ghost.

[This was my room.]

Yeah! Figures.

Dropping back onto the bed, he flung an arm over his eyes and let out a slow, controlled exhale.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath.

The next morning, Zhao Wei woke up to the same suffocating silence.

For a few blissful seconds, caught in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, he thought—maybe it was all just a fucked-up dream. Maybe he'd just had a nightmare, and any second now, he would wake up in his cramped little apartment, groaning at the alarm clock and cursing at his very existence.

But as his eyes blinked open, reality sank in like a knife to the gut.

The unfamiliar ceiling. The soft, expensive sheets that felt completely foreign against his skin. The faint scent of something clean and expensive, like a hotel room that had never been truly lived in.

Shit.

With a groan, he pushed himself up, running a hand over his face. He was still here. Still trapped in this bizarre new life.

He let his head fall back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling like it held the answers to all his problems.

This had become part of his routine now—waking up, hoping to find himself back in his real life, and then getting slapped in the face by the same harsh reality.

Dragging himself out of bed, he shuffled towards the corner of the room where a large screen flickered to life at his movement.

[FIX Relationship with Parent.]

Zhao Wei squinted at the words, then let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

"Yeah, fuck you too."

He lifted his middle finger at the screen, flipping it off with all the enthusiasm of a man who had truly stopped giving a shit.

Fix his relationship with his parents? What a fucking joke.

With a scoff, he turned away, heading towards the en-suite bathroom. He didn't bother looking in the mirror as he brushed his teeth. He still wasn't used to the face staring back at him, and quite frankly, he didn't want to be. It was bad enough being stuck in this rich asshole's life—he didn't need to bond with the guy's reflection too.

Once he was done, he threw on some clothes, not really paying attention to what he grabbed. Everything in the wardrobe looked expensive and tailored, which only annoyed him further.

It wasn't until he stepped out of the room and made his way downstairs that things really started feeling surreal.

The scent of food hit him first—warm, rich, and mouthwatering.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he spotted the dining area, where an enormous table was set with all sorts of food. Eggs, bacon, fresh fruit, pastries—shit that looked like it belonged in a five-star buffet.

And sitting at the head of the table, sipping his coffee with an air of quiet authority, was him.

The father.

Zhao Wei stopped in his tracks, staring at the man like he was some kind of rare specimen.

So this was the piece of shit's old man.

Xu Chengrui.

The CEO of Jinrong Corporation, the company he had finally gotten a job at before dying to save that brat.