Pretend to be crazy

Shen Yan crossed his arms and rested them against his chin, staring gravely at the transparent, unflavored nutrient solution on the table.

His stomach grumbled loudly, while the health monitor on his right wrist, issued by the government, blinked an unfeeling red light.

This body, which hadn’t eaten for four days, was on the verge of collapse.

If he failed to consume energy today, the local health squad would arrive at the temporary shelter the next day and take him away for “recycling.”

With a sigh, he spread his hands over his face and let out a silent scream.

But eating it meant death, too!

He slammed his head onto the table with a heavy thud.

He had transmigrated into a book.

By the second day in this world, he realized that his kind and handsome neighbor was none other than the protagonist of the book he had been reading before his transmigration: “Hush.”

The novel was set in the year 2924, in a society depleted of resources after the sixth industrial revolution. A portion of humanity had left Earth to settle on Red Star and Black Star.

Over time, Black Star became the most economically developed and densely populated planet, but also the most socially polarized. At the top of the pyramid, oligarchs controlled politics and squandered wealth in revelry, while the lower classes were exploited, barely scraping by.

The original owner of this body was a fifth-class citizen—the lowest of the low, barely clinging to life.

A month ago, he lost his job due to theft and had since survived by scavenging trash.

But then came the new eco-energy law, and waste was centralized for recycling. Even the garbage disappeared, leaving him nearly starved to death.

The protagonist had saved him, brought him home, and fed him nutrient solutions.

When he woke up, the kind-hearted protagonist even helped him find a job and stood up for him when local officials harassed and threatened him.

Within a month, the original host had come to see the protagonist as the most important person in his life, worshiping him fanatically.

And then, the protagonist exploited him, drained him of every ounce of value, and ultimately sent him to an illegal clinic with the chilling suggestion that he should “offer his heart.”

On the operating table, still clueless about what was happening, the original host stripped himself bare, tears streaming as he said into the terminal:

“I’m finally able to do something for you.”

The protagonist smiled faintly on the screen, and the doctor began to cut into his chest to harvest his heart.

Before his consciousness faded, the black-market doctor sneered, revealing the truth: the protagonist didn’t have a heart condition at all. His heart would be recycled by the health squad. He had been deceived.

The pitiful cannon fodder trembled with rage.

“Don’t you dare slander him!”

Shen Yan blacked out when he reached this part of the story.

He couldn’t comprehend what mindset the author was in to write such a plotline.

And that was just the appetizer.

Later, the protagonist gathered three other notorious figures:

A runaway experiment subject with monstrous strength and a penchant for killing,

A con artist who pretended to be a sweet mama’s boy but would kill his “mothers,”

And a pyromaniac with a lifelong dream of setting Black Star ablaze.

Under the protagonist’s leadership, the four tore through Black Star’s notorious Thirteenth District to the First District, causing havoc wherever they went.

Normally, it should have continued like this.

But when they reached the Seventh District, with everything going smoothly and the big villain almost dealt with, the author abruptly ended the story.

The protagonist suddenly decided to destroy everything.

The plot took a nosedive, and the protagonist single-handedly dismantled all his forces. When the Star Police came knocking, he put a gun under his chin.

The End.

To this day, Shen Yan could still remember the shock, pain, confusion, and anger he felt when he saw the words “The End.”

But upon reflection, the protagonist’s actions didn’t feel out of character—a capricious lunatic and a sadistic experimenter who found joy in others’ suffering.

And now, he had transmigrated into the pitiful guinea pig who was the protagonist’s first long-term experiment.

He had arrived at an inopportune moment—right in the middle of their “honeymoon phase.”

Having been rescued by the protagonist, the original host had begun rebuilding his confidence and job-hunting under his encouragement.

The protagonist had even lent him six nutrient solutions, telling him to knock on his door if he needed more. When Shen Yan transmigrated, the original host had already consumed five, leaving the last one on the table.

After pondering for a long time, he drank the nutrient solution at sunset.

No big deal.

He had… a little plan.

The rundown shelter cost only 300 star coins per month.

In exchange for the low rent, residents had to sign a contract with a sinister clause:

The landlord had the right to dispose of tenants’ corpses during the minimum ten-year lease.

Moving out early required a penalty fee ranging from 500,000 to 1,000,000 star coins.

Meanwhile, an average job in the Thirteenth District paid only about 2,000 star coins.

This was one reason Shen Yan feigned collapse to bait the protagonist.

Once Ruan Zhixian set his sights on prey, he never let it escape.

Even if he managed to leave, the landlord would drag him back. It was better to follow the plot for now and look for a chance to escape.

Light footsteps and the faint rustle of clothing echoed from downstairs.

He closed his eyes, slowing his breathing.

The footsteps drew closer and stopped about three or four steps away from him at the stairwell.

He lay still, every sensation heightened.

The dusty, mildewy air invaded his nostrils, but mingled with it was a faint, refreshing scent that felt entirely out of place in such a decrepit environment.

But he just stood there.

His heart pounded.

With Ruan Zhixian’s abilities, it wasn’t hard to see through his act. Given their current relationship, the original host should have simply knocked on his door for more nutrient solutions, not pulled this pitiful stunt.

Minutes passed, then ten more. The cold concrete floor beneath Shen Yan’s body had warmed from his heat.

What was going on?

His eyelashes trembled as he cautiously cracked open his eyes.

And met the protagonist’s calm, emotionless gaze.

Neither of them knew how long they stayed like that.

Beads of sweat trickled down Shen Yan’s temples and the back of his neck.

“Ah…”

With a feeble exhale, he opened his mouth as if on his last breath, imitating the way his uncle had looked on his deathbed. Trembling, he raised a finger, only to let it fall weakly.

His half-lidded eyes, unable to fully open due to apparent exhaustion, drooped under the shadow of long, dense lashes, radiating pure pitifulness.

The book hadn’t provided a detailed description of the cannon fodder’s appearance, but he was surprised to find that this body was identical to his own, face and all.

This made controlling it effortless—except for the psychological hurdle of the act itself.

He almost laughed at his own performance.

When people are pushed to their limits, they’ll do anything.

Fortunately, the results seemed promising.

He carefully observed Ruan Zhixian’s reaction.

With features that perfectly combined the best traits of his parents, Ruan Zhixian had a refined and handsome face tinged with a subtle air of gloom and frailty. Yet his towering height of over 1.9 meters and broad shoulders balanced that impression.

The corners of his lips quirked ever so slightly. With his defined fingers, he reached out, removed Shen Yan’s black-framed glasses, and pushed back his bangs, fully revealing his face.

The action wasn’t particularly gentle.

He leisurely folded the glasses and slipped them into his pocket. Rising to his feet, he grabbed one of Shen Yan’s arms and effortlessly hoisted him up.

In a single motion, Ruan Zhixian pulled him into his arms, lifting him off the ground.

“Bro,” he said as he opened the door, “you’re not cut out for acting.”

Shen Yan: …

Well, that was straightforward.

His first-ever psychological ploy? Total failure.

There were two nutrient solutions left in Ruan Zhixian’s fridge—one green and one milky white.

“Apple or milk?” Ruan Zhixian asked.

Shen Yan’s head hung so low it was almost buried in his chest. “E-either is fine,” he stammered.

Without another word, Ruan Zhixian handed him the milk-flavored one.

They sat in silence.

The temporary shelter apartments were small—barely over 20 square meters. The bed was next to the desk, and the coffee table wasn’t far from that. Sitting on the floor, they had no room to stretch their legs and had to keep them bent.

Near the door, a shoe rack held several pairs of sneakers. The walls were adorned with posters of trending movie stars, and the desk housed a secondhand computer with a worn-looking case.

When Shen Yan entered earlier, he had taken a quick glance while Ruan Zhixian wasn’t paying attention. The domestic decor made him sigh internally:

He’s really good at acting.

The author never explicitly revealed Ruan Zhixian’s background, only mentioning that he came from District One. He was noted for his cleanliness, obsessive tendencies, and a demeanor so refined it starkly contrasted with the people of District Thirteen, radiating an unmistakable aura of dominance.

He understood the importance of blending in and avoiding attention. In less than a day, he transformed himself into the perfect facade of a kind and reserved “big brother” figure.

By day, he performed good deeds, worked part-time, and earned small sums of money. By night, he prowled the corners of District Thirteen for entertainment.

For instance, he’d ingeniously sow discord, instigating deadly conflicts between rival gangs. Or he’d randomly select a few “lucky” souls in back alleys for twisted social experiments.

When those games lost their charm, he began contemplating something grander: godhood.

There was no doubt in his mind—he was destined to become a god.

For now, though, the concept of godhood was still brewing in his mind, and it wouldn’t fully take shape until after the original host’s death.

Shen Yan quietly placed the empty nutrient tube back on the table after finishing it, sneaking a quick glance at him.

Unexpectedly, Ruan Zhixian was already looking at him. His dark eyes, brimming with a faint smile, carried an inscrutable depth.

Shen Yan quickly lowered his gaze and mumbled awkwardly, “I-I’ve been looking for a job. I’ll definitely pay back the nutrient solutions I owe you. It’s just that… I was too hungry today.”

Ruan Zhixian leaned back. Without his oversized baseball jacket, he was left in a sleeveless black T-shirt. A weathered silver chain hung around his neck, adorned with three or four feather pendants that dangled to his chest.

He picked up one of the pendants and idly twirled it between his fingers. “You said the same thing last time,” he remarked nonchalantly.

Shen Yan pressed his lips together in embarrassment, his voice barely audible. “S-sorry.”

Ruan Zhixian chuckled lightly. “I’m not blaming you, bro. I’m just a little upset. If you were hungry, why didn’t you just tell me? Why lie?”

“Or…”

He suddenly leaned in close, staring directly into Shen Yan’s eyes.

“…are you not him?”

Shen Yan felt a wave of relief wash over him.

Perfect. He took the bait.