Chapter 3

Chapter 3

I was still thinking about it the next morning at breakfast.

The System had been vague, only saying that the plot hadn’t reached that point yet.

It was always like this-sharp as a tack when it was scolding me, but playing dead the moment a critical question came up.

I stirred my millet porridge, my mind wandering.

A coat, lipstick, a hat, hairbands…

Zhou Chi had given me so many gifts; I should give him something too.

But what? And what excuse should I use?

We were supposed to get divorced, so I should give it to him before that happens.

Otherwise, wouldn’t it be weird to give a gift after the divorce?

Speaking of which, when exactly are we getting divorced?

I didn’t notice Zhou Chi walk up to me until he spoke.

“What are you thinking about? Your porridge is getting cold.”

Caught off guard and lost in thought, my brain didn’t catch up in time, and I blurted out exactly what was on my mind.

“I was thinking about when I can divorce you…”

The moment the words left my mouth, my heart skipped a beat.

Fortunately, the lightbulb chose that exact moment to fail again. A sharp *crackle* masked my voice perfectly.

It also gave me a convenient excuse. Driven by guilt, I scrambled to fill the silence.

“I hate this light. It’s been flickering ever since it broke last time. It’s kept me on edge all day…”

Zhou Chi went to fix the bulb again.

He must not have heard me, as he didn’t bring it up after he finished. He ate a hasty breakfast and headed out to work again.

He didn’t return until very late, well after the sky had turned pitch black.

He’d been like this lately-leaving earlier and earlier, returning later and later.

“I found a new place. We’re moving tomorrow afternoon.”

Zhou Chi’s voice was calm as he looked at me.

“It’s a spacious apartment. The living room and bedroom both have large windows.”

It wasn’t like this basement-dim and damp. Here, we had to keep the lights on even in broad daylight, leaving me constantly anxious about the bulbs burning out.

The System’s voice rang out excitedly:

[Here it comes! The plot is here! Because you can’t handle the hardship, you have a massive row with the male lead, forcing him to move. You even threaten to jump off a building if he doesn’t. This instantly triggers the male lead’s sense of humiliation… wait, why did the male lead bring it up first? Whatever, as long as the plot gets done…]

The System rambled on for a long time, but I didn’t respond.

Following my gaze, it realized I was staring at Zhou Chi’s arm.

“Your wound opened up again,” I murmured to myself.

It wasn’t just his arm; there were new bruises on his shoulders as well.

Last time he was hauling cement. What was it this time? Ceramic tiles? Or a truckload of putty powder?

I asked him, “Where did the money come from? What did you do?”

Zhou Chi went silent again.

Last time he didn’t say anything because I hadn’t asked, but now that I was asking, he still remained silent.

So, just like the plot demanded, I got angry and picked a massive fight with him.

I screamed that he was incompetent and useless, asking why he could only do manual labor.

I berated him for being pathetic-why did he have to go bankrupt? Why did we have to live in this shithole of a basement?

I called him a loser, asking why everyone else was doing fine while he was always covered in injuries.

I yelled for a long time, until I ran out of strength and slumped onto the floor.

Another figure crouched down in front of me.

Zhou Chi, who had let me vent without a word of protest, finally reacted.

The wounds on his hands hadn’t healed, and now they were covered in chilblains. Only his neatly trimmed fingernails offered a glimpse of the privileged life he once led.

He reached out toward me, a tissue resting in his palm.

Why was he giving me this?

I stared at the tissue for a long time before slowly touching my own cheek.

“Don’t cry.”

Oh. It was because I was crying.

It’s hard to describe the look in Zhou Chi’s eyes at that moment.

He wiped away my tears-first with the tissue, then with his fingers, and finally with his palm, the only part of his hand that wasn’t injured.

Tears are salty. It must have hurt to have salt in his wounds.

But Zhou Chi didn’t seem to notice. He kept wiping them away gently, with immense patience.

After a long silence following our predestined argument, his answer finally came.

“It’s my fault.”

It sounded like a final verdict, yet also like a promise.

My tears soaked his wrist once again.