Chapter 15: The Male Tenor’s Tutoring Challenge (8)

You hold up three fingers from behind your back, though you don’t remember when you hid them there.

You swear to the heavens: this is the absolute, most, most, most, most intense moment in this game where you wish you could just vanish into thin air! Forget all the other times you’ve said that; this one is, without a doubt, absolutely true.

Oh God, oh deities, oh Jade Emperor, oh Buddha, oh… what else? Oh, Balala the Fairies! Whoever among you is listening, please, help me disappear right here, right now!

You finish your prayer devoutly and carefully peek through a slit in your eyelids—

And you find that not only are you still there, but the person in the shadows behind the door has also stepped out.

It is the height of summer, yet the man is dressed in a crisp, sharp suit, buttoned neatly from his neck down to his ankles. His exposed skin is a striking, pale white.

He walks toward you, yet he doesn't seem to truly see you.

His gaze falls carelessly onto his raised left wrist. His right hand’s long fingers unfasten the suit’s cuff buttons, one by one—*click, click*. Your anxious heart automatically provides a soundtrack for his untimely elegance.

Like a camera tracking light, you follow his every movement.

You watch him undo the watch buckle, slide the timepiece off, tuck it neatly into his inner suit pocket, and fold back his cuffs…

What exactly is Student Fu’s brother doing?

While you are lost in confusion, he arrives right in front of you.

You harbor a glimmer of hope that he might not have seen anything, so you bury your head, preparing to shamelessly play dumb. If his brother actually calls the police, you’ll just throw yourself at his legs and wail. Although you’ve never tried "wailing" before, what choice do you have now? You have to fake it until you make it!

You stir up a mess of plans in your head—Zhang Liang’s strategies, bridge-crossing tactics—anything you can think of to try.

Suddenly, a loud "SLAP" explodes above your head.

You look up in shock—

You only catch a glimpse of the man’s descending wrist and Student Fu’s face, which has been knocked to the side.

Your wide, 20/20 vision eyes are too terrified to blink, capturing the entire process of a palm print rapidly blooming on Student Fu’s right cheek.

You silently swallow the excess saliva in your mouth: "!!!!!"

Five red finger marks, distinct and clear, as if branded by a hot iron.

Is this a… brother?

He’s more like Godzilla!

Compared to your ignorant, helpless shock, Student Fu’s expression is remarkably flat. His handsome face doesn’t even twitch, as if the one who had been slapped was you, not him.

"Fu Jinyan," the man says, neither cold nor warm, "if I ever see you being flippant with a girl again, it won’t just be a slap."

So, Student Fu is called Fu Jinyan.

But you feel no joy in finally learning his name, nor do you have the leisure to admire how nice it sounds. You alertly cover your own face, the one closer to the man.

Student Fu only said you were flat-chested and got a slap for it?

Ahhhhh, you touched Student Fu’s butt! Is this face of yours going to make it out of this round in one piece?

Wait, Student Fu is named Fu Jinyan—could his brother be the infamous Fu Shenxing from the world of abusive romance novels?

The man seems impatient with the lack of response from the one he admonished: "Speak."

Fu Jinyan shouts as if answering a drill instructor: "Understood!"

Your frail little body shudders in fright.

Only then does the man seem to notice that you are still in the study.

He turns his head to look at you.

Your hands are still pathetically covering your face.

Your face is too big; if you cover your vital temples, your chin is left exposed. You are stretched thin.

Unable to withstand his oppressive scrutiny, you prepare to back away quietly, but the space in front of you suddenly darkens.

Student Fu, who had remained standing in place when he was hit, suddenly steps across to block the man’s view of you.

The intimidating gaze is completely cut off.

Student Fu stands before you, his shoulder blades pushing slightly against his snow-white T-shirt.

In this moment, you feel as if a pair of white angel wings have sprouted from his back.

You hear him whisper a low: "Brother…"

Huddled behind Student Fu, you roll the word "Brother…" around on your tongue, finding the hidden meaning quite profound.

Like a quail, you quietly poke your head out from behind Student Fu’s left shoulder, only to hear the man looming above let out a scoff of ambiguous laughter:

"Did you think I was going to do something, kid?"

Student Fu, standing in front of you, remains silent.

You cheer for him in your heart.

Then, you see the man’s chin tilt to the left.

And then, Student Fu… moves aside???

The second you face the big boss again, your brief filter for Student Fu shatters into pieces.

How could he abandon a teammate so easily?

"Better the friend dies than me," your anxious brain answers itself, just as the big boss flashes a smile at you.

Only then do you notice the man’s appearance.

An exceptionally striking appearance.

The man is young, but different from Student Fu.

Student Fu’s youth is full of the vibrant, sunflower-like energy of life, whereas this man’s youth is simply that he possesses a face that is physiologically young.

Cold, pale skin, thick dark brows and eyes—his face shows no trace of the passage of time.

They do look somewhat similar if you examine them closely.

Both have high, straight noses, thin lips, and sharp, three-dimensional features. But if they weren’t standing together, the vast difference in their temperaments would never lead you to believe they were brothers.

He seems to sense you observing him but doesn't stop you, maintaining that gentle, reserved smile while letting you look.

Meeting the slight curve of his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses, you even get the illusion that he is encouraging you.

If not for the sound of that slap still ringing in your ears, you might have mistaken him for a gentle, elegant gentleman.

You finally understand where Student Fu learned his talent for changing faces.

However, his master is clearly on a whole other level; if he hadn’t "voluntarily" revealed it moments ago, you wouldn’t have sensed a thing.

In this second, you have a flash of inspiration: he’s a man who cares about appearances!

A decent person likely dislikes losing face. Don’t be afraid—you just have to thicken your skin and play along with him.

You tentatively speak: "Mr. Fu?"

"Teacher Su, I’ve heard much about you." His smile deepens.

The very first sentence leaves you stuck: "???"

He’s heard much about *you*?

What do you have that’s worth him hearing about?

You are too embarrassed to even flatter him by saying you’ve "heard much about him," so how is he able to say he’s "heard much about you" with a straight face?

You really don’t know how to handle this kind of hypocritical politeness.

He seems to sense your awkwardness and continues voluntarily: "Xiaoyan can be a bit unruly. I hope you can be a little patient with him regarding today’s events."

He pauses meaningfully: "Of course, I know that for something like this, a verbal apology is far from enough."

You are confused, and suddenly, a business card is thrust in front of you.

"This is my card. Later, once you’ve settled your nerves, feel free to send over your bank account information. I truly hope to express my sincerity." Seeing you don't take it, he adds, "Of course, if Teacher Su has any other ideas, do feel free to suggest them. As long as it is within my power, I will certainly make sure Teacher Su is satisfied."

You suspect you are listening to this with your mouth hanging open.

After all, in all your years, no one has ever spoken to you with such… respect.

You actually don't know how to describe the way he is speaking to you.

Your mind is a bit blank; you don’t know what kind of game this is. You look at Student Fu beside you for help.

Student Fu nods slightly at you, takes the business card from his brother’s hand, and stuffs it into yours. As he turns, he whispers quickly into your ear: "My brother is incredibly rich. You can really fleece him."

You awkwardly look at his brother standing right in front of you—the man is practically toe-to-toe with you…

You privately think his brother must have heard every word of that "burying one’s head in the sand" advice.

You smile awkwardly.

The man’s lips curl into a smile as he says to you: "Xiaoyan isn't wrong."

You don’t know if his "not wrong" refers to the first half, the second half, or if he is generously affirming the whole statement.

The man asks you: "Teacher Su, is it still convenient for you to continue tutoring Xiaoyan?"

You finally remember your most important task and immediately nod like a woodpecker: "Yes, yes, yes."

A breath of laughter brushes over your head; he seems to be…

Amused by you?

"Right, right, we still have to have class." Student Fu seems to have finally found a legitimate reason to interrupt. "Brother, you should hurry and get to your business."

You obediently express agreement +1 with your eyes.

The man says: "Then I won't disturb Teacher Su’s class. Before I go, I have one more small request."

You are anxious to see him off and nod quickly: "Yes?"

"Regarding today’s events," the man pauses, "I hope you can help keep it a secret."

So, it was just to shut you up. He could have said that earlier, instead of making you overthink everything!

You quickly agree and successfully send off this great god.

Once the door is closed, you lean against it, one on each side, neither of you speaking. It’s as if you’ve just survived a major ordeal, both silently enjoying a moment of peace.

Neither of you says a word, but the looks you exchange hold a thousand unspoken messages.

"Didn't scare you, did I?" Student Fu suddenly asks.

You offer a perfunctory smile.

He stares at your face, seemingly analyzing your expression.

You, however, can’t bear to look at the palm print still lingering on his face: "Your face, does it hurt?"

He blinks at the question and covers his left cheek with his hand.

You: "…Wrong side."

He hurriedly switches his hand to the other side and rubs it casually: "As you can see, I even forgot which side it was. It doesn't hurt at all."

You suddenly suspect he did that on purpose.

"Really!" he raises his voice. "My brother held back. Back in the day, when my dad hit my brother, he’d always draw blood from the corner of his mouth—*that* was real pain."

Your expression is truly indescribable.

"Don't misunderstand, my dad only hits my brother and me; he doesn't hit my mom." He thinks of something and gives a goofy grin. "My brother only hits me."

You: "……………………………………………………"

"Is your brother named Fu Shenxing?" you ask, truly curious.

Student Fu looks at you with a confused expression: "Who is Fu Shenxing?"

It seems his brother isn't *that* psycho Fu Shenxing, and you feel relieved.

You don’t know if this game world even has the novel "The Palm of My Hand," so you stall: "Just a rich CEO."

"Then he must not be rich enough," he nods knowingly. "In Hai City, I've never heard of such a person."

"…Also surnamed Fu?" He rubs his chin, pondering. "Could he be some illegitimate child from a side branch of the Fu family that can't be brought into the light?"

You quickly interrupt his runaway train of thought: "Then what is your brother’s name?"

His gaze slides back and forth across your face at least three times before he points to the business card you are clutching: "Didn't my brother give you his card?"

You smack your forehead.

How could you ask such a stupid question?

You lift the card to your face, preparing to see exactly what his brother is called.

The next second, Fu Jinyan leans over and squeezes in beside your head, looking at his brother’s business card with you.

His well-groomed fingertips extend in front of your face, and you catch the faint scent of peppermint again.

You watch as he points to the "Fu Jinyue" on the card in sequence, asking you: "Which character don't you recognize?"

He says: "Don't be shy, just say it, and I'll teach you."

You take a deep breath, feeling like you want to slap him too.

"Fu, Jin, Yue…" you grit your teeth. "Brother, class, has, started!"

***

You sit back at the table, looking at each other in silence.

You gaze into his clear, harmless eyes and get an illusion:

The brief bickering behind the door just now was just his way of livening up the atmosphere.

"What are you looking at?" He rests his chin on his hand, raising one eyebrow. "Mesmerized by my handsome looks?"

"Yes." You nod solemnly. "Completely bewitched by how handsome you are."

His elbow, resting on the edge of the table, slips, and his cool pose instantly collapses.

You pretend not to see, turn to pick up the pen, tap the worksheet twice, and announce with a straight face: "Class has started."

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him awkwardly adjust his posture and sit facing the desk.

You start teaching from the beginning of the English worksheet.

After going through a few questions, you quickly realize that his mistakes are all in grammar.

After asking, you learn he spent a few years in primary school in the UK and often went abroad for vacations or short terms during summer and winter breaks as he grew up.

His listening, speaking, and writing are on par with a native English speaker—at least to the extent that you can't tell the difference.

His grammar is also as bad as a native speaker’s; after all, they don't usually use such esoteric grammar rules in daily life.

He is quite smart. When you break down the grammar points he doesn't understand, he catches on quickly, making him easy to teach.

But you can tell he doesn't enjoy studying this.

Actually, you can understand. You wouldn’t want a foreigner lecturing you seriously on the differences between Chinese particles like "de, di, de" or which one to fill in for a blank.

Under your understanding and his cooperation, the two of you at the desk seem like nothing more than an ordinary tutor and student, asking and answering questions in the sunlight flowing across the desk.

Time flies.

The situation you were most worried about—him mocking your pronunciation—never happens.

You ask him why.

He turns the question back on you: "You’re Chinese; isn't it normal to have an accent when speaking English?"

Seeing you stunned, he thoughtfully gives you an example: "Australians have an accent when they speak English, too." After saying that, he even gives you a vivid imitation.

Alas, his multi-talented performance is interrupted by a knock on the door.

He glances toward it with resentment and calls out, unwillingly: "Come—in."

It’s someone delivering your change of clothes.

A pale pink MiuMiu skirt set, matching MiuMiu flats, and a soft-looking bag of the same color.

So, this is what the clothes you didn't see in the second round looked like.

Fu Jinyan scowls, telling them to put it down and leave quickly, not to delay his class.

As soon as the door closes, he immediately lifts his chin and looks at you: "How is it? I chose it myself. Cute, right?"

What a pity. Such expensive things, and you can't take any of them back. You don’t even have time to try them on for fun because you have to keep teaching.

"Cute, cute to death," you reply with resentment. "Hurry up and start class!"

"The first time I saw you, I thought you’d look really cute in this. Don't you like it?" He looks genuinely confused. "I see them wearing this all the time?"

You aren't curious about who "they" are. You smack your palm—against the desk, of course—and demand arrogantly: "Class!"

You return to a harmonious lesson.

Your throat feels a bit dry from talking. You glance at the countdown on your phone; there are ten minutes left.

He seems to know what you’re thinking and asks: "Thirsty?"

You: "A little."

He immediately gets up: "Then I’ll make you a glass of mint water?"

Before you can even agree, he has dashed to the refreshment bar a few meters away, shoveling a scoop of ice from the machine with a loud clatter.

You can't help but suspect he just really doesn't want to have class.

Sitting in your seat, you watch his back with an indescribable expression.

At the refreshment bar, he is busy with his back to you.

You hear the sound of him cutting something, then the sound of him opening a can. He is broad-shouldered and long-legged; you can't really see what he’s doing.

Occasionally, through the gaps in his movements, you can see him toss something into the cup, triggering a series of transparent bubbles.

Perhaps sensing the burning gaze from behind, he turns his head to reassure you:

"Almost ready."