Getting hit on out of the blue in a bar, Chen Yiyi’s face stayed calm, like a still lake under neon rain—not the disgust anyone expected.

In fact, when she saw who it was, she let out a breath like dropping a pack of bricks from her shoulders.

“Hey, Mo Yao, why meet me in a place like this?” Her words pouted like cherry lips; her gaze clung like silk, more girlfriend tease than friend’s look.

Even her tone floated ambiguous, like perfume hanging in a cloud of smoke.

“You know I don’t like this place.” The music gnawed like a hive; the crowd pressed like reeds in a flood.

“Because it looks fun this way.” He held a glass that glittered like ice in moonlight, smiling as he walked up; neon painted his handsome face fox-sharp and devil-bright.

Compared to those men with other agendas, this one felt like the only spark that could light her heart.

“Cut the act.” She stepped back, slicing space like a blade, her expression dry as sand. “You didn’t finish what you promised me.”

“Last time?” His brows knotted like cords tugged tight.

“What’s wrong?” His voice thudded like a low drum against the bass.

“Don’t ask what’s wrong. The person I asked you to remove—you didn’t do it.” Her words shot like arrows across the din.

At the name Suo Sen, heat surged; her voice flared like a torch, but the club’s beat swallowed the blaze.

“What do you mean?” His face dimmed fast, like cloudbanks rolling toward storm.

“You promised to take Suo Sen out. You didn’t. I’m starting to think you never even tried.” Her stare cut cold, like frost on steel, from a step away.

“Impossible. I did send people to do her.” His eyebrows twisted, rope-tight, suspicion dripping like sleet.

“Abao.” He sliced the air with a wave, fingers like a fan cutting smoke. “Come.”

Chen Yiyi watched a server-like man slip from the crowd, a shadow peeling off the wall.

“Young Master.” Abao bowed, bent like bamboo under snow, reverence neat as a folded fan.

“Call in the ones who handled last night.” His mouth was set, thunder under the skin, and Abao took the order like a stone and withdrew.

Mo Yao turned back; his face thawed like frost under early sun.

“Where’s your tagalong little wolfdog? Not glued to your hip tonight?” His words flicked like a whip with a grin.

“Chongming has other things to do. He can’t be with me tonight.” She kept her secrets tight, like cards held chest-close; letting them fly helped no one.

“So you came running to me?” His smile curled like a hook in water; he drifted closer, pulled by gravity as warm as wine.

“Pah. Don’t flatter yourself. If you hadn’t botched your promise, I wouldn’t be here.” Her cheeks warmed like cherries steeped in alcohol; she retreated again, putting cool space like glass between them.

“If we can, let’s keep contact to a minimum.” Her voice laid down thin ice between them.

“Why?” The word struck flat; his face went charcoal-dark, rain-slick with temper.

“Am I that lacking? Worse than the tagalong you keep behind you?” His hand snapped to her wrist, an iron cuff biting into skin.

“Or is standing beside me that uncomfortable—so shameful?”

“It hurts...” Her eyes filmed, tears pricking like needles; she pulled, a bird caught in a snare, and couldn’t break free.

“Tsk.” Anger prowled in him like a caged tiger with nowhere to charge; his expression shifted like squalls. Then he let go and dropped it.

“Young Master.” Abao reappeared with a pack of teens, faces pale as paper under neon; he bowed and slid aside, revealing them like masks on a rack.

“They’re here.” Mo Yao’s voice was slate. “Private room. Too many ears.” He left first, a stormfront moving.

Chen Yiyi’s awkwardness showed like a blush in frost; she still followed, face thickened with nerve like lacquered armor.

Abao glanced from his Young Master to Chen Yiyi, shook his head like a willow in a light wind, and went after them.

......

“Whoa, unbelievable—looks like the heroine’s got a thing with the second male lead.” Nana Toki’s whisper fizzed like soda in the dark.

Once Mo Yao and the others left the dance-floor seating, on the other side, Nana Toki finally tiptoed out like a cat slipping along a wall.

“Suo... Suo Sen, did we just hear something huge?” Yuzuki tucked her head like a quail in tall grass. “They sound like they want to do something to you...”

“It’s fine, it’s just a pair of mutts; I don’t care.” Nana Toki’s eyes sparkled like mischief fireflies; she wanted to tail them, but Yuzuki pinned her like a gentle hand on a sleeve.

System: “......” The voice pinged cold, like a cursor blinking on a dark screen.

Other protagonists aren’t poking you. Why poke them?

You know nothing. Zip it. Her retort popped like a slapped fan.

The System ate dirt, silent as a dead modem, rage brewing like tea left to steep too long.

This rotten Host—one day you’ll taste this System’s bite.

Elsewhere, Nana Toki had long since downloaded the plot: the second male lead was Mo Yao, Young Master of the Mo clan, the silk and steel behind that smile.

He was rival to our Protagonist Lord, Chongming Yan, the boss of Teiguang High—a banner flying over a restless crowd.

He leaned on money and power, a proper modern rake, a comet burning arrogant trails across the city night.

And he carried a very urban-romance kind of trope: he liked the male lead’s woman, a forbidden flower behind another’s fence.

So villains now all pine for someone else’s wife? The wind of trends is weird.

Our Protagonist Lord has it rough, waves slamming him from every side.

Unlike Chongming Yan, Mo Yao had killed. Real steel. A knife pushed and pulled, blood blooming like a red camellia.

Not like Tinglan’s small-time scrums with steel pipes and rods, street thunder that fizzles when dawn breaks.

The plot said: when Tinglan and Teiguang clashed, Teiguang got ambushed and lost; as boss, Mo Yao was chased like a stag in brambles.

By coincidence, he met the heroine on her way home from a late shift, her steps tired as dusk, her kindness soft as candlelight.

She treated his wound, and they spent a night in pure hee-hee, xiu-xiu kind of talk—really pure—feelings braided like red strings.

Mo Yao fell for her, unsayable and deep, a secret pond under moonlight.

Gotta admit, this plot goes down easy, like hot rice with a crisp pickle.

When Nana Toki first received it, she was stunned, jaw loose like a dropped chopstick.

A random woman picks you up, patches you up, sleeps a pure sleep, and you fall in love? So casual?

Aren’t you a cold, ruthless Young Master? Never seen women before? Man, what a joke.

Badass, huh. Badass. She clapped the air like drumbeats, half mocking, half amazed.

No wonder he’s the second male lead. No wonder she’s got a heroine halo. Badass indeed.

But Mo Yao’s later arc was a lament, a house collapsing like rotten beams.

He kept courting death, and in the end, he lost everything, ashes blowing like leaves in a winter wind.

As for the details, the System didn’t give them, keeping the curtain tight like a theater hush.

Nana Toki had asked, curiosity sparking like a flint, but the System answered, calm as porcelain:

“The original author abandoned the work. This world follows that outline. Outcomes will change with your interference. If you want the ending, clear the game yourself.”

How is that different from playing a game? Her complaint flapped like a protest banner.

Nana Toki gave it a hard thumbs-down in her heart, a sour lemon on the tongue.

Then she thought it over; unpredictability is spice. More fun. She let it go like a kite on a longer string.

“All right, sweet dum-dum, head home first. I’ll be back later.” She waved, wrist flicking like a willow branch. “We’ve seen the club. Time to call it a night.”

We’re about to do big things, the kind that rumble like thunder behind the hills.