Nan Hong - Chapter 2
It had been years since they last met—years without a word, without so much as a trace of each other. Their connection had thinned to the point of near-erasure, so faint that Wen Yifan had almost convinced herself he belonged to another life entirely.
And yet, she still remembered.
Their final exchange had been far from pleasant.
It wasn’t the sort of bond where a man would offer comfort upon seeing her in disarray, much less lend a hand.
So her first instinct was simple:
He must have mistaken her for someone else.
But another thought intruded, unbidden. Perhaps time had tempered Sang Yan’s edges, broadened his outlook. Perhaps he had buried the bitterness of the past, allowing bygones to rest in silence, and was merely extending courtesy to an old classmate.
Snapping herself back to the present, Wen Yifan offered him the jacket, her gaze threaded with both doubt and question.
He didn’t take it. His eyes flicked past her hand, his voice calm and unyielding.
“I’m the owner of this bar.”
Her hand stilled midair, the words sinking slowly, as if through water.
Was he introducing himself?
Or boasting of his success—of having seized youth and fortune and crowned himself a boss before thirty?
Her thoughts, adrift, tangled with Zhong Siqiao’s earlier remark:
The owner of this bar is said to be the top host of Degenerate Street.
Wen Yifan found her eyes straying back to him. Dark hair, sculpted brows, pupils black and fathomless beneath the dim light. The recklessness of youth had been chiseled away, leaving features sharp and self-assured. His tall, lean frame carried arrogance with the ease of inheritance, his black attire only sharpening the aura of cold nobility around him.
To call him the “top host”?
It did not seem unearned.
Then, two words, crisp and deliberate, pulled her back.
“Surname Sang.”
“…”
Was he truly introducing himself?
So—he hadn’t recognized her.
Understanding clicked into place, and Wen Yifan asked evenly, “Is there something you need?”
“I apologize. Due to our mistake, you were inconvenienced,” Sang Yan replied, his tone still clipped and remote. “If you have any requests, let me know. All expenses tonight will be waived. I hope this hasn’t spoiled your evening.”
His words were polite, yet his tone was anything but deferential. The same voice she remembered: lazy, perfunctory, cold—frustratingly so.
“It’s fine,” she said softly, shaking her head.
At that, his shoulders seemed to ease, as though relieved by her compliance. With a nod that bordered on dismissive, he turned to leave.
Still holding his jacket, Wen Yifan called instinctively, “Sang—”
He turned.
Their eyes met.
And in that heartbeat, she remembered: they were strangers now. The syllable Yan died in her throat.
Her mind emptied, leaving only fragments of her earlier wandering thoughts. Before she could stop herself, the words escaped:
“—Top Host.”
“…”
Silence crashed between them.
She thought—she might have seen the faintest twitch at his brow.
What did I just say?
Sang Top Host.
Oh no.
Her breath hitched; her composure nearly cracked. She thrust the jacket toward him again, forcing steadiness into her tone. “Your jacket.”
It was best to pretend nothing had happened. To bury the moment as though it never existed.
But Sang Yan, of course, didn’t let it slip.
He tilted his head, repeating slowly, savoring each word:
“Sang… Top… Host?”
“…”
Feigning confusion, Wen Yifan asked lightly, “What?”
His gaze sharpened with belated recognition, the corner of his mouth curving in wry amusement. “Ah. I see. Sorry to disappoint you—we run a proper establishment here.”
The implication was clear: I know I’m handsome, but please keep your thoughts respectable.
Wen Yifan wanted to explain, yet words seemed futile. So she sighed inwardly, choosing surrender over struggle. “Is that so? What a pity.”
His expression stilled. Just for a second—then smoothed back into calm.
She offered the jacket once more. Still, he didn’t take it.
Instead, his gaze lingered, unhurried, tracing the curve of her lips with unnerving intent. After a long pause, he spoke again.
“Wearing my jacket,” his smile edged with mischief, “you seem quite pleased.”
Wen Yifan: “…”
He arched a brow. “It seems I’m more famous than my bar. Keep it. Consider it a souvenir.”
“…”
Later, as she recounted it to Zhong Siqiao, her friend laughed until her eyes watered.
“Impressive! Why didn’t he just tell you to frame it and hang it on your wall?”
“That’s exactly what he meant,” Wen Yifan muttered darkly.
“Don’t mind him. He probably gets this all the time and assumed you came here just for him.”
“Have you forgotten why we came?” Wen Yifan countered. “We came to freeload. Does that sound like someone chasing after Sang Yan?”
Zhong Siqiao dissolved into laughter again. Wen Yifan pressed her lips together, stifling her own smile. “Save it until he’s gone. He’s still sitting over there.”
At the bar, Sang Yan lounged with idle grace, glass in hand, the picture of leisure.
The night wore on—drinks served, laughter shared, a bracelet found, money awkwardly returned, a bar running on its strange rhythm. Yet Wen Yifan’s mind drifted elsewhere, tugged back to the last night she had seen him, years ago.
A cold night, moonless. Fog draped the narrow alley, rain falling in fine, merciless strands. The single streetlamp flickered, its glow smothered by damp air and a halo of desperate moths.
He had stood there, drenched, lashes heavy with droplets, pale skin washed colorless beneath the failing light. The fire in his eyes dimmed, leaving only the shadow of pride already spent.
She remembered his voice, hoarse but steady.
“Wen Yifan.”
And then, with bitter self-mockery:
“I’m not that worthless, am I?”
He had lowered his gaze, stripped of all arrogance.
“Don’t worry. I won’t bother you anymore.”
She had never forgotten.
And now, sitting just a few feet away, Sang Yan appeared unchanged on the surface—smiling at strangers, flirting with ease, glass in hand. But that final night’s image remained etched in her memory, an echo beneath every word he spoke.
Ever since spilling a drink on a customer, Yu Zhuo had been walking on eggshells. Every movement was measured, every step calculated, as though the smallest mistake might spark the boss’s temper all over again.
When the last table of guests finally stood to leave, he hurried forward to clean.
As he gathered the glasses, the leather folder slid forward, and a handful of red bills tucked beneath fluttered loose. He froze.
At the same moment, he spotted a bracelet half-hidden beneath the upholstered chair.
With the bills and bracelet in hand, Yu Zhuo returned to the bar, his expression weighted with unease. He pushed the tray toward the counter.
“Brother He, the customer at K11 dropped this.”
He Mingbo accepted it, glancing down before raising a brow. “That jacket you delivered earlier—it looked a lot like Yan-ge’s, didn’t it?”
“I don’t know. They said it was picked up in the bathroom.” Yu Zhuo scratched at his head, still bothered by the money. “Brother, Yan-ge told me that table was on the house. But K11 didn’t take back the refund. Should I… should I tell him?”
He Mingbo shot him a sideways look. “Go apologize.”
“…” Yu Zhuo gaped, flustered. “Brother, it’s not that I’m trying to pocket it. She wouldn’t take it—I told her several times.”
Slipping the bracelet into a clear bag, He Mingbo’s smile carried an edge of amusement. “Yan-ge isn’t known for being reasonable.”
“…”
Yu Zhuo couldn’t argue. That much, at least, was true.
Still, he wasn’t ready to surrender without trying. So he carried the money upstairs, a desperate last-ditch effort pressing at his chest.
He had seen Sang Yan downstairs earlier, lounging at the bar, but now he sat deep in the shadows of the VIP booth, his posture languid, expression unreadable.
It was impossible to tell whether he was listening. He toyed with the clear glass in his hand, the slow spin of liquid catching the dim light.
The silence between them felt heavy, almost suffocating.
Yu Zhuo swallowed hard, forcing his voice out. “This… this might not be payment for the drinks. I overheard those two customers say—”
Halfway through, he faltered. The phrasing was all wrong. He stammered, fumbling for another approach. “But, um… it was noisy, I couldn’t hear clearly, so I might have misunderstood, it’s just—”
Then he met Sang Yan’s gaze. Cold. Sharp.
Yu Zhuo’s breath seized. Words tumbled from his mouth in a rush:
“I heard the customer’s friend ask if she came here to see you, Yan-ge. She said no.”
Sang Yan’s lashes flickered.
Yu Zhuo continued, stumbling faster, as though speed might save him.
“Then she said she came to, uh… to freeload.”
Sang Yan: “…”
Sang Yan: “?”
“So—so maybe this money isn’t for the drinks at all. Maybe it’s… payment for… freeloading you…”
The words hung in the air, absurd and dangerous.
“…”