Chapter 48: I Cut My Wrist, You Do As You Please

Chen Fan held a pair of scissors, gazing intently at his wrist.

“This feels a bit too cruel. Maybe I should choose a gentler method,” he mused with a blink, putting the scissors away and hurrying off to fetch a basin of hot water.

“Fan, what are you up to?” Xu Changhui asked, eyeing the swirling steam with some suspicion.

“When you’re worn out from overwork, a hot foot bath helps soothe body and mind,” Chen Fan replied. He carefully set the basin down, impatiently peeled off his socks, and let ten lively toes dance in the air, savoring the warmth rising from his feet.

“Does it really work? The water seems a bit too hot,” Xu Changhui said, taking a breath of steamy air that felt as though it might set his lungs aflame.

“No problem. The hotter, the better—it’s only a little over seventy degrees. Feels amazing,” Chen Fan assured him, though in truth, he wasn’t so confident. He usually soaked his feet in water around fifty degrees. Today, idly restless and with an urge to disgust Wei Youlong a little, he’d come up with this spur-of-the-moment idea.

“Oh, oh, oh—” Chen Fan plunged his feet in, barely making a splash, as the hot water crept over his ankles and a boiling sensation surged through his body.

“Oh, oh, oh—” He flailed his arms, gripping his shorts tightly as he squirmed in his seat.

Hearing the pained cries, Xu Changhui asked with concern, “Fan, you look like you’re in agony.”

Gradually, Chen Fan’s furrowed brow relaxed, his body melting into a heap of contentment as he lay back in the wooden chair with a long sigh.

“A moment of pain brings lasting peace,” he declared, feet drifting in the water, striking a pose as if he were an emperor surveying his domain.

“Is it really that intense? Let me try,” said Xu Changhui, tempted by Chen Fan’s look of bliss.

Chen Fan straightened up and nudged the basin back with his leg. “The basin’s too small, your feet won’t fit. Besides, if you put them in, the water will overflow. Just get your own basin—half boiling water, half bathwater. That’s the right temperature.”

“I see. Then I’ll do it before bed—it’ll help me sleep soundly,” Xu Changhui said, rubbing his feet.

“Heh, let’s see what’s happening over there,” Chen Fan chuckled, pulling out his phone and scrolling through his social feed.

[Heh, what kind of cursed luck is this? Who scalds their foot just making hot water?]

As expected, though the text played the victim, the image told another story—a pair of white Decathlon socks thrown conspicuously on the floor, drawing the eye.

And really, who would pay attention to the legs of that crude fellow? Neither fair nor long, rough as a feather duster, utterly lacking in aesthetic appeal.

“Let’s try acupuncture—the essence of Chinese tradition,” Chen Fan suddenly suggested, struck by a brilliant idea. He rummaged through his drawer, found a sewing kit, and took out a few needles.

Truth be told, his mother had tucked it into his luggage before she left, extolling the virtues of thrift. He’d meant to use it for mending clothes and socks—not for this.

Chen Fan wasn’t any kind of traditional doctor, nor did he know much about acupoints; he simply wanted to experiment and perhaps prank the fellow at the other end of the red string.

“One for heaven and earth, two for the ancestors, mutual harm for both,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeve and laying his left hand flat on his thigh, jabbing the needles in at random. Blood or not, it was all about the sensation.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, this tangy pain is something else,” Chen Fan remarked, looking at the pinpricks dotting his hand. He felt instantly more youthful, imagining those melodramatic girls who cut their wrists must feel something like this.

In the end, he spared his right hand and moved on to fire cupping.

“Hui, do you have a lighter? Light it and run it over my back,” Chen Fan said, baring his torso with three glass jars stuck to his back. They had once held succulents, now long dead, leaving the jars free for other uses.

“I don’t smoke, where would I get a lighter?” Xu Changhui replied.

“Go check Wei Youlong’s spot. I remember he has a Zippo—see if you can find it,” Chen Fan said, the jars making him look for all the world like Bulbasaur from Pokémon.

“Oh.” Xu Changhui got up and started rummaging at Wei Youlong’s place. Soon, he held something up. “Is this it? Looks like a pack of gum.”

Chen Fan took a look and nodded. “Yes, yes, that’s it. Light it and heat the jars on my back.”

A sharp flame shot out as Xu Changhui flicked the lighter. Chen Fan turned around, leaning his back against the chair to expose it fully.

“Careful, don’t let the flame touch the jars—keep some distance. It’s giving me the creeps,” Chen Fan said, shivering as if two red-hot lumps of iron were searing his back.

“How’s this?” Xu Changhui adjusted his hand backward a bit.

“Yeah, that’s perfect,” Chen Fan clapped approvingly. “Just like that.”

“What’s this for? I see the marks on your back are really dark,” Xu Changhui asked, puzzled.

Chen Fan twisted his head to explain, “It’s fire cupping—the simple version. Sure, it leaves some bruising, but it unblocks the channels, invigorates the blood, reduces swelling, and relieves pain. It’s healthy living, really. That’s enough, help me take off the jars.”

“Pong—”

“You city folks really know how to have fun. All kinds of strange entertainment. Not like me,” Xu Changhui said as he pulled the jars off one by one and handed them to Chen Fan.

Chen Fan stood up, stretching his limbs. After all that, he felt revitalized. Pulling out his phone, he scrolled through Wei Youlong’s feed again.

[Can someone tell me why there are red patches on my back? Urgent, waiting online.]

Chen Fan was tempted to reply, “He who does much evil brings ruin upon himself,” but in the end, he held back, content to watch the drama unfold.

“Who knows if it’s real Armani or a fake Anima? Who takes pictures of their back wounds with their shirt on, even flipping the collar to show off the label?” Chen Fan muttered, tossing his phone aside.

He pondered whether Wei Youlong was suffering from a persecution-induced urge to show off—perhaps the first advanced case ever.

“Hey, Guangyi, you’re back. What happened to your foot?” The commotion at the door caught Chen Fan’s attention, and the awkward gait drew his eyes to the newcomer’s feet.

“Rode a bit too fast. Lost control on the downhill, flipped the bike, and hit the curb,” Lai Guangyi explained with a wry smile, limping into the room.

“Business going well? You’ve advertised so much today, the whole school knows there’s a spicy hotpot place called Bridge Family now,” Chen Fan said.

“Exactly—business was good, so I loaded more on the bike and tried to deliver faster. Luckily, the takeout didn’t spill,” Lai Guangyi said, lifting his leg and slowly rolling up his pants to reveal a large, dark bruise on his calf.

“Soak it in hot water to help with the bruising. I’ll get you some water,” Chen Fan said, heading into the bathroom to prepare everything himself.

“Oh, Fan, this really feels great. Thanks,” Lai Guangyi sighed, his feet soaking in the hot water, a cold towel pressed to the bruise.

“What are friends for?” Chen Fan grinned.

Looking down, Lai Guangyi suddenly noticed the towel on his foot looked awfully familiar. He paused, realization dawning.

“This is my face towel!”