After Amnesia, I Learn I'm a Scumbag Top?! - Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Deep in his subconscious, Pei Ji felt that this white shadow held extraordinary significance for him.

That white shadow should be fluffy and full of life. Whenever he appeared, it would excitedly rush toward him, running circles around him in joyous abandon.

But this scene remained frustratingly vague in his mind. Pei Ji could never quite make out what this massive white ball of fluff actually was.

He rubbed his temples in frustration.

What exactly is it? Why can’t I remember?

Chu Tinghan was still whispering to someone outside the door. Pei Ji strode forward, ignoring their attempts to stop him, and shoved the door open without hesitation.

Pei Ji rushed outside, frantically scanning the surroundings for the familiar white shadow. But there was only one person present—the white shadow he had just seen was nowhere to be found.

His thoughts grew even more chaotic as he circled aimlessly by the door.

Seeing his bewildered state, the guest standing at the door couldn’t help but ask, “What are you looking for?”

Pei Ji walked back to the door and asked both him and Chu Tinghan, “Did either of you see something white just now?”

The guest remained silent, but Chu Tinghan flatly denied seeing anything, even suggesting Pei Ji might have been hallucinating.

Pei Ji frowned, his gaze still fixed on the doorway. “Are you sure you didn’t see anything?”

Chu Tinghan reiterated his denial, and the guest shook his head in agreement.

Utterly bewildered, Pei Ji wondered if the scene he’d witnessed moments ago had been nothing more than a hallucination. Was the image of that white, furry ball darting toward him from the shadows just a figment of his imagination?

Pei Ji’s headache intensified. He suspected he might be ill; why else would he be experiencing recurring hallucinations and growing increasingly paranoid?

Noticing Pei Ji’s distress, Chu Tinghan asked with concern, “…What’s wrong?”

Pei Ji closed his eyes briefly and shook his head. “Nothing, just a headache.”

After regaining his composure, Pei Ji looked up and suddenly met the gaze of the unfamiliar man standing across from him—the same guest who had been speaking quietly with Chu Tinghan earlier.

The man’s gaze was even calmer than Chu Tinghan’s, showing little reaction to Pei Ji’s peculiar behavior.

Then, the man extended his hand with a charming smile. “Hello, I’m Zhou Yingjie, a friend of Tinghan’s. You must be his partner, Pei Ji.”

Out of politeness, Pei Ji shook his hand briefly. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Zhou.”

Zhou Yingjie smiled and added, “I heard you two got married, but we’ve been so busy on set that I haven’t had a chance to congratulate you. Better late than never, right? Happy wedding!”

Saying “happy wedding” at such a moment felt utterly incongruous. Pei Ji froze, stunned, before mechanically replying, “Thank you.”

Pei Ji’s gaze barely lingered on Zhou Yingjie. He was still preoccupied with that fleeting white shadow he’d glimpsed earlier.

In the distance, he suddenly noticed a car parked across the street. He was about to head over and investigate when someone called out to him from behind.

Aunt Zhang stood on the second floor, her voice raised. “Little Pei, this shelf is too high for me to reach. Could you come up and help me get something down?”

Pei Ji’s mind was entirely focused on the two suddenly appearing cars. Without even turning his head, he casually replied, “Just a moment, I’ll be right there.”

He continued walking toward the car, but after only a few steps, he heard a clattering crash from behind, as if something heavy had fallen to the ground. This was followed by Aunt Zhang’s anguished cry.

Pei Ji stopped in his tracks, sighed, and, not daring to delay any longer, turned and sprinted back upstairs.

Once he was sure the man had gone upstairs, Chu Tinghan’s rigid body suddenly relaxed. He leaned against the wall, as if his legs might give way, taking several deep breaths to shake off the lingering tension.

He lifted his gaze and asked flatly, “What brings you back so suddenly?”

Zhou Yingjie pursed his lips, looking awkward. “I left something at your place…”

A cold sweat broke out on Chu Tinghan’s forehead, which he casually wiped away. “What is it?”

Zhou Yingjie closed his eyes in despair. “Lucky Little Bao’s toy.”

Chu Tinghan’s eyes widened, his voice urgent. “What did you say?!”

Zhou Yingjie lowered his head guiltily. “You know… that carrot-shaped teething toy.”

“Where did you leave it?”

Zhou Yingjie scanned the room, then scratched his head. “Maybe under the sofa?”

Chu Tinghan’s face grew grave, his lips turning pale.

“Hey, don’t get so worked up. If he sees it, just say it’s a toy for my puppy. Besides, I really do have an Alaskan at home.”

Zhou Yingjie patted Chu Tinghan’s shoulder in reassurance. “It’s okay, don’t worry.”

Chu Tinghan said flatly, “Don’t bring it next time. This is the last time.”

Zhou Yingjie feigned innocence, chuckling bitterly. “It wasn’t my idea! He recognized the place and insisted on coming. What could I do? Two full-grown sled dogs pulling with all their might—I couldn’t hold them back.”

He had a point. These dogs’ ancestors had pulled sleds; with a good tug, they could easily drag Zhou Yingjie along.

Chu Tinghan sighed wearily.

Zhou Yingjie pulled him to the doorway, glanced upward to confirm Pei Ji was still helping Aunt Zhang move things and hadn’t noticed them, then leaned close to Chu Tinghan’s ear, whispering, “Are you doing all this for him?”

Chu Tinghan didn’t reply verbally, answering only with a look.

Zhou Yingjie gritted his teeth in exasperation. “Seriously, what’s the point? If I’m not mistaken, he’s that little idol who got canceled after the talent show a few years back, right? Look at your status versus his! Why put yourself through all this—hiding around like a thief—and dragging me into your charade?”

Chu Tinghan shot him a sidelong glance. “Regretting it?”

Zhou Yingjie felt the job was too difficult and was about to quit.

“I don’t—”

He barely got half the words out before Chu Tinghan interrupted coldly, “Fine. My schedule’s pretty tight anyway. Let’s forget about that movie theme song you wanted me to sing.”

Zhou Yingjie froze for a moment, stunned that Chu Tinghan held such a grudge. He quickly backtracked, “I don’t regret it! We’re practically family, right? It’s no trouble at all.”

Chu Tinghan curled the corner of his lips, thinking Zhou Yingjie truly deserved his title as Movie Emperor—his face changed faster than flipping through a book.

After a moment’s hesitation, Zhou Yingjie couldn’t resist offering heartfelt advice. “Do you two really have to keep acting like this? Can’t you just be honest with each other?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Chu Tinghan replied, a bitter taste rising in his mouth, his voice tinged with desolation. “Besides, I have no other choice.”

Zhou Yingjie was Chu Tinghan’s best friend in the industry. They’d known each other for nearly a decade and were intimately familiar with each other.

Zhou Yingjie had always found Chu Tinghan’s way of living twisted and stubborn. Once Chu Tinghan set his mind on something, he would obtain it at any cost, never letting go. Not even ten horses could pull him back, and no amount of persuasion would sway him.

“Sigh…” Zhou Yingjie sighed in sympathy, his heart aching for his friend. “Fine, whatever. It’s between you two, and I shouldn’t meddle.”

“Do me one more favor,” Chu Tinghan’s voice softened, almost pleading.

Zhou Yingjie’s sympathy vanished instantly. He couldn’t shake the feeling that this man was up to no good. Swallowing hard, he asked nervously, “What do you want me to do now? I’m not exactly idle, you know. My job keeps me pretty busy.”

Chu Tinghan glanced back at Pei Ji before turning his gaze back. “Help me find a few good child actors, preferably around two years old.”

Zhou Yingjie frowned, thinking he was out of his mind. “What are you planning now? You can still back out, you know. Don’t end up digging your own grave.”

Chu Tinghan’s tone left no room for argument. “Just tell me if you’ll help or not.”

Left with no choice, Zhou Yingjie sighed in exasperation. “Fine, I’ll help. Anything else you need?”

After a moment’s thought, Chu Tinghan added thoughtfully, “Ideally, the child actors should be complete newcomers—kids who’ve never been on screen before.”

Zhou Yingjie’s frown deepened. “That’s asking for the impossible. You want them to be both good actors and newcomers? Honestly, in all my years in this industry, I’ve never seen a two-year-old nail a scene in a single take.”

Chu Tinghan seemed oblivious to Zhou Yingjie’s grumbling, his expression remained serious as he asked, “Can you find him?”

Zhou Yingjie felt that familiar stubbornness rising in Chu Tinghan again. He rubbed his hair in frustration. “Ugh, I guess so. You’re practically begging me, so I have to get it done for you, right?”

A rare flicker of a smile crossed Chu Tinghan’s face. “Thanks. I’ll pay extra.”

Zhou Yingjie held up a hand to stop him. “Hold it right there. I know Director Chu has deep pockets, but let’s keep money out of this. You’d be better off throwing the cash in his face—give him a few million and make him your kept man.”

The faint smile vanished from Chu Tinghan’s face.

“I-I was just joking! Don’t take it seriously,” Zhou Yingjie stammered, realizing he’d crossed a line. He genuinely couldn’t understand what was so special about that guy—why Chu Tinghan was so fixated on him.

Chu Tinghan’s tone was ice-cold. “Don’t ever say that again. He doesn’t like it, and neither do I.”

Zhou Yingjie shrugged helplessly, convinced Chu Tinghan was beyond saving.

But sensing Chu Tinghan’s foul mood, Zhou Yingjie swallowed his true thoughts and asked cautiously, “Any other requirements besides these?”

Chu Tinghan confirmed his criteria, ticking them off on his fingers: “Good acting skills, around two years old, a newcomer with no screen experience…”

“Looks like Pei Ji,” Chu Tinghan blurted out suddenly.

Zhou Yingjie froze. “…Huh?”

What kind of request is this? What exactly does Chu Tinghan plan to do? Could he possibly want to find a child to impersonate their…

Zhou Yingjie didn’t dare dwell on the thought. He felt like Chu Tinghan was about to go mad, his ideas truly terrifying.

“Have you really thought this through? Once you do this, there’s no turning back.”

Chu Tinghan grunted a muffled agreement.

“Fine, I won’t try to dissuade you,” Zhou Yingjie said, knowing it was futile anyway. He roughly guessed what Chu Tinghan was up to. “When do you need the child actor?”

“As soon as possible.” As he spoke, Chu Tinghan glanced back to discreetly observe Pei Ji’s movements. Seeing Pei Ji still helping Aunt Zhang move things, he felt slightly relieved.

Little did he know, Pei Ji’s gaze had been fixed on them for quite some time.

What could those two be talking about? Pei Ji wondered. Why would they have to discuss it at the entrance, away from me?

What are they hiding from me?

The next day, Pei Ji returned to the hospital.

That fleeting white figure lingered stubbornly in his mind, each recurrence sending a sharp, piercing pain through his head. He suspected he might be suffering from some lingering aftereffects of the car accident.

In the hospital, Kong Chuan gazed at Pei Ji with an unreadable expression, his arms crossed as he leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

Pei Ji’s expression was grave. “What kind of illness do you think this is?”

After a long silence, Kong Chuan clicked his tongue. He knew this man was seriously ill, possibly with a brain disorder.

He slowly sat up straight, resting his elbows on the desk and clasping his hands together. With a grave and unhurried demeanor, he said, “You’re saying… you constantly feel like there should be a massive, fluffy white ball near you?”

“Exactly!” Pei Ji nodded eagerly, as if grasping at a lifeline.

Kong Chuan’s lips twitched. “And this massive fluffy ball… whenever it sees you, it excitedly sprints toward you and then circles around you?”

Pei Ji pressed his lips together but nodded earnestly again.

Kong Chuan frowned deeply, convinced Pei Ji was pulling his leg.

A massive fluffy ball? That runs?!

Not only runs, but circles around him?!

Pei Ji grew anxious. “What kind of illness do you think this is? Do I need medication?”

I need a brain transplant.

Kong Chuan picked up Pei Ji’s brain CT scan again, holding it up to the light for a long, scrutinizing look. He still couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

Weird. There’s nothing wrong here? The recovery looks perfect!

Under Pei Ji’s expectant gaze, Kong Chuan asked earnestly, “Have you… eaten any mushrooms recently?”

He couldn’t think of any other explanation for why a giant fluffball would start running around on its own in a scientifically-minded society.

Pei Ji: “……”

He immediately wanted to grab the CT scan and make an appointment at another hospital.

Pei Ji, completely speechless, replied, “No, I haven’t eaten any mushrooms, and I’m not poisoned.”

“Oh…” Kong Chuan nodded gravely, stroking his chin thoughtfully before finally asking in a deep voice, “Then what do you think might be wrong?”

Pei Ji laughed in exasperation. “If I knew, why would I be asking you?”

Kong Chuan rubbed his chin so much it nearly became polished, but still couldn’t think of a suitable diagnosis. “Bro, maybe you should seek a second opinion. This might be some rare condition. I’m just a lowly intern; I really can’t figure it out.”

Determined not to give up since he’d already come this far, Pei Ji pressed, “But you’re a top graduate from medical school! Can’t you think about it some more?”

Kong Chuan nodded deeply. “Oh, right. I’ll think about it some more.”

It seemed modern medicine couldn’t explain Pei Ji’s condition. Perhaps the answer lay in metaphysics.

After pondering for a long moment, Kong Chuan spoke solemnly, “Turn right after you leave and get a divination from that old man with the fortune-telling stall by the entrance.”

Pei Ji nearly spat out the water he’d just swallowed. “Can you take this seriously? I’m not joking.”

Kong Chuan had no words to express his bewilderment. How could he have known Pei Ji would become like this after the car accident? This bore no resemblance to the straight-A student and campus heartthrob everyone knew.

Kong Chuan pondered aloud, “If you absolutely insist I diagnose you with something, I suppose I could.”

Pei Ji’s eyes lit up, listening intently, afraid of missing any medical advice.

With the resolve of a man facing certain death, Kong Chuan declared, “It might be a case of ancient hysteria.”

The next moment, he saw Pei Ji nearly fling the brain CT scan at his face. Without even grabbing the film, he stormed out without a backward glance.

Once Pei Ji was gone, Kong Chuan leaned back in his chair, muttering under his breath, “Who’s ever heard of a furball running away, let alone running with such glee? This is pure fantasy—even Liaozhai Zhiyi wouldn’t dare write something so outlandish… A furball that runs away? Unless it’s a dog!”