Disciplinary Code

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In just two sentences, there were too many points to poke fun at.
Ji Yao suddenly didn’t know where to start with his questions.
He sized up Jiang Heng, his expression a bit strange.

“What’s wrong?” Jiang Heng chuckled, “Do you think I’m a stone that just popped out of a crack?”

From the first time he met Jiang Heng six years ago until now, this was the first time Ji Yao had clearly heard the words “mum” from Jiang Heng’s mouth.

During the years they were together, every holiday and festival, Jiang Heng had always been alone in Beijing.
Ji Yao had never seen him contact any relatives or family.
Ji Yao had once speculated that there might be something complicated about his family situation.
The best-case scenario was that they didn’t get along, and the worst-case scenario was that his family was no longer around.

Now, a biological mother suddenly appeared.
Ji Yao instinctively felt like it was some sort of trap.

However, Jiang Heng’s choice of words was quite clever.
The term “pretend” easily bypassed Ji Yao’s heavy concerns and made him instinctively reluctant to refuse.

There was something stirring in Ji Yao’s heart, and a somewhat tense, mysterious atmosphere seemed to permeate the air, elusive and intangible.

He locked eyes with Jiang Heng for a moment.
Jiang Heng wasn’t wearing his glasses, his eyes and brows slightly curved, a hint of a smile at the corner of his lips.
He looked very open.

Ji Yao inexplicably felt a bit nervous.
He licked his lips, and the words of refusal spun around in his chest, but what actually came out was something else entirely.

“Alright,” Ji Yao said, “I agree.”

Jiang Heng didn’t seem surprised by his agreement.
He nodded in response and then took out his phone, unlocking it and displaying his WeChat QR code.

“Leave your contact information,” Jiang Heng said, “I’ll let you know when my mom comes back.”

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Ji Yao’s palm was slightly sweaty as he held the phone.
His grip on the phone seemed a bit slippery.
He discreetly wiped his palm and then bent down to scan the phone screen on the coffee table.

Jiang Heng’s WeChat profile picture was simple, the same as three years ago before they broke up.
Only the WeChat ID had changed.

Ji Yao pressed the “Add Friend” button, and he was suddenly overwhelmed by an instinctive panic.

For a moment, he really wanted to ask Jiang Heng if he wasn’t afraid of walking down the same old path.
However, because of the words “joke” and “pretend,” he didn’t have the grounds to ask, nor did he want to voice the question.

“Why me?” Ji Yao suddenly asked, “If you’re looking for a boyfriend, you should have plenty of real options.”

“I want to reassure her,” Jiang Heng said, “We’ve spent the most time together, have the best understanding of each other, and in her eyes, we won’t show any signs—”

Jiang Heng paused, then chuckled, “You wouldn’t ask me to introduce her to someone I’ve only been dating for a month, would you?”

Valid point, Ji Yao thought, it makes sense.

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So Ji Yao didn’t say anything more and tacitly agreed to the arrangement.

Seeing his response, Jiang Heng raised an eyebrow, smiling at him.

The new friend request had been sent out.
Ji Yao held his phone, his fingers tightened and then loosened.
He seemed to want to put the phone in his pocket, but the movement stopped midway.

Jiang Heng considerately didn’t expose his nervousness.
He leaned down and tapped his phone.

“It’s getting late,” Ji Yao said with a relieved tone, “I should go now.”

“Alright,” Jiang Heng stood up, gesturing a few steps towards the door, “Take care on the way.”

Ji Yao nodded and, when he reached the door, remembered something, turning to look at Jiang Heng.

“Don’t open the window when you sleep tonight,” Ji Yao said, “If your fever reaches 38.5 degrees, remember to take medicine.”

“Okay,” Jiang Heng readily agreed.

Ji Yao had nothing more to say.
He pursed his lips, bid his farewell, and turned to leave.

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But just as he was about to leave, Jiang Heng called out to him from behind, giving him a license plate number.

Ji Yao turned around, confused.
He saw Jiang Heng wave his phone at him and said, “Ride-hailing car, waiting at the main entrance.
It’s a white car, the last four digits of the driver’s phone number are 3769.”

Ji Yao blinked.

“The destination is your hospital,” Jiang Heng said, “You can change it after you get in.”

Ji Yao’s heart was unexpectedly stirred, his hand gripping the door frame.
For some reason, he found a sense of familiarity with Jiang Heng in this gesture.

Jiang Heng, dressed in soft home clothes, had arranged the ride for him in advance because he was leaving.
He stood under the warm light, warning him to be careful on the road—this scene looked so familiar, as if the three years of separation had never existed.

Ji Yao was lost in thought for a moment, but he quickly regained his composure.
He nodded and said thank you before turning to leave.

Jiang Heng watched him for two minutes then closed the door before walking to the balcony and dialed Gao Jingyi’s number.

“What’s up?” Unless he was on a plane, Gao Jingyi’s phone was accessible 24/7, and he answered it quickly, “Are you still at the office? Do you need any documents? You have the key to my office anyway, so just go in.”

“No,” Jiang Heng chuckled, “Did you look at the files I sent you?”

Gao Jingyi made a confused sound and quickly checked his messaging app.
He found that Jiang Heng had sent him a pile of year-end summaries.

“Isn’t the New Year still a month away?” Gao Jingyi asked, puzzled, “Why are you sending these to me now?”

“I want to take a break for a while,” Jiang Heng leaned against the railing, his eyes half-closed as he lit a cigarette, “Apart from continuing with Li Linghua’s case, I won’t take on any new cases for a while.”

Gao Jingyi was genuinely shocked this time.
He thought that even a workaholic like Jiang Heng would never voluntarily say he wanted to take a day off—it was truly a rarity.

“Is that true?” Gao Jingyi asked in suspicion, “You want to rest? You?”

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“What’s wrong?” Jiang Heng said, “Can’t I take a break?”

“That’s not the issue,” Gao Jingyi said, “If you want to rest, I wholeheartedly agree.
After all, you’re General Manager Jiang, and your word is law.” After a pause, a hint of concern crept into his voice, “But are you alright? Are you feeling unwell? Or is there something wrong at home?”

“It’s nothing, just a bit tired,” Jiang Heng said softly, “I’ll take a short break and recharge.”

After all, humans weren’t made of steel.
Despite Gao Jingyi often saying that Jiang Heng was built with steel-reinforced cables and power lines beneath his clothes, he couldn’t help but worry about this workaholic.

Now that he had taken the initiative to soften and show vulnerability, Gao Jingyi thought it was a good thing.

“Then go ahead and rest, you’re fine,” Gao Jingyi said, “Anyway, the work before the New Year is just finishing up loose ends.
With me watching, it’ll be fine.
Plus, you had surgery recently, so it’s best to rest.”

Jiang Heng thanked him and then hung up the phone.

On WeChat, the new friend request popped up.
Jiang Heng looked at the cartoon Christmas tree avatar and raised an eyebrow, accepting the friend request.

He had initially wanted to click on the avatar to see Ji Yao’s picture, but the large picture frame spun around twice and quickly refreshed into a picture of the night sky.
At first glance, it seemed low-resolution, as if it had been hastily retrieved from some corner.

Jiang Heng couldn’t help but chuckle, thinking that Ji Yao was quick to change things.

In the residential complex, the parent-child competition on the square had not yet ended.
As Ji Yao passed by the small square, he could still hear the lively cheers and shouts from inside.

Grandma Li stood by the edge of the square with Jun jun.
She saw Ji Yao approaching and greeted him with a smile, handing him two homemade throat sweets.

The damaged access control gate system hadn’t been repaired yet, and a line of cars was backed up at the entrance of the residential complex.
Ji Yao squeezed through the crowded people, following the flow of the crowd as he made his way outside.
The security guard at the entrance noticed him and opened the side door, ushering him out.

The ride-hailing car was waiting at the entrance of the complex.
Ji Yao checked the license plate and got into the car.
He heard the driver report the last four digits of Jiang Heng’s phone number.

At the same time, his phone lit up, indicating that the new friend request had been accepted, and the contact appeared in his address book.

During the short few hundred meters of the journey, Ji Yao once again sensed the subtle feeling he had when they were in love—a feeling that Jiang Heng wasn’t present, yet it seemed like his shadow was everywhere. 

All of this felt unfamiliar yet familiar.
Ji Yao covered his eyes with his hand and took a deep breath.

He felt something in his chest suddenly expand, filling his entire chest with a fullness that was almost a bit sour and tingling.

Whether it was an illusion or not, Ji Yao even thought he could hear the sound of his own heartbeat, as if it were a drumbeat, resonating and making his chest tingle and numb.
The voice in his mind that had been shouting was now even more clear, impossible to ignore.

After a moment, Ji Yao suddenly burst into laughter without warning.

By this time, on this winter night, Ji Yao finally had to admit that after all these years, he really did miss Jiang Heng.

The driver was startled by his laughter and couldn’t help but glance at him through the rearview mirror.

In just a matter of moments, Ji Yao had sorted out his emotions.
He leaned back against the seat, first inexplicably sending a 200 yuan red envelope to Ge Xing, and then with a slight movement of his finger, he opened Jiang Heng’s chat box.

The chat box was empty, containing only an automated system notification sent by the new friend.
Ji Yao looked at the empty screen, his thoughts unconsciously pinning the message to the top.

Jiang Heng’s chat box quickly moved past Ji Yao’s work group and department group chats, arriving at the top of his recent contacts with a blank page.

Three years had passed, and it seemed like they had returned to where they started.