Fan Qi was deeply fond of a powerful figure from a Hong Kong novel—a man whose turbulent early life had shaped him into someone irresistibly charismatic.

But admiration was one thing. Fan Qi had never imagined she would wake up in 1986 Hong Kong, becoming the greatest misfortune in that man’s life—his deceased wife.

There was a line in the novel she had never taken seriously:

“If it weren’t for that loose woman, Chen Zhiqian would’ve lived up to his name—gentle and courteous. But now he’s half Buddha, half demon.”

“I heard that woman was stabbed twenty-seven times, every wound to the bone. Was it him who did it?”

“Shh…”

Yet when Fan Qi awoke, what greeted her were Chen Zhiqian’s dark, brooding eyes. A chill ran down her spine.

At that moment, the phone rang incessantly. She picked it up—it was her agent, urging her to hurry to a hotel and entertain a wealthy businessman. The agent even threatened that if she didn’t go, she could forget about making it in the entertainment industry.

Glancing at the TV broadcasting stock market news, Fan Qi replied, “I’m busy,” and hung up.

She went into the kitchen to cook a bowl of noodles. Remembering the “twenty-seven stabs,” she split the noodles in half and gave some to Chen Zhiqian. And so began their life of eating from the same pot, sleeping on the same bed, minding their own business, and occasionally having a chat.

During the booming Hong Kong stock market of 1986–1987, Fan Qi—who had been a professional trader in her past life—made a killing and saved enough to buy a property. She then told Chen Zhiqian she wanted to end their strictly-platonic, shared-blanket sleeping arrangement.

Chen Zhiqian readily agreed, and Fan Qi was relieved by his reasonableness.

However, that very night… he didn’t want to talk anymore.

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