Chen Cebai Is Too Easy to Control
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Qiu Yu had already grown accustomed to Chen Cebai’s constant fear of loss and gain. She furrowed her brows slightly and unceremoniously slapped away the hand he had pinching her cheek.
During this time, as long as she showed even the slightest hint of wanting to leave, he would stare at her with an extremely terrifying gaze.
Qiu Yu admitted that, at the beginning, she had indeed been dazzled by his appearance—Chen Cebai, as the strongest known existence in human society, was cold and rational, yet whenever he looked at her, his gaze was always direct and scorching.
It was difficult for her not to fall into it, to indulge him, to let him do whatever he wanted.
But very soon, she realized that one of them had to stay clear-headed, or else things would turn out just like this—
Sinking into darkness, melting in each other’s embrace, forgetting normal order in the boundless stretch of time.
Yet Qiu Yu had always remembered—Chen Cebai had once said that the reason he had initially taken notice of her was because she treated him as an ordinary person.
Deep down, he should be longing to be a normal person.
…Things must not be turned upside down.
Seeing Qiu Yu fall into silence, Chen Cebai tightened his arms around her, feeling a faint sense of anxiety.
He knew this wasn’t right. Qiu Yu did like his strong possessiveness, but after all, she was an ordinary person who needed a normal life.
She needed sunlight, social interactions, and places she had never seen before.
However, humans all have selfish desires.
What’s more, his selfish desires had been magnified several times due to his genetic mutation.
Holding her in his arms like this was already the result of an intense struggle with his own desires—his compromise.
Before that struggle, his desires had been even darker, even more frenzied, even more repulsive.
If even the compromised version of himself was something she could not accept, then there was no need to mention the version of him that was “completely unrestrained.”
Rationally, Chen Cebai understood that Qiu Yu resisting was normal. No one could accept such a pathological love.
Even he himself sometimes found those fleeting thoughts unfamiliar and disgusting.
And yet, he couldn’t help but harbor a sliver of hope—that even such a dark and twisted version of himself could be fully accepted by her.
This was nothing short of an absurd delusion.
Chen Cebai closed his eyes briefly, clasped the back of her neck, and buried his face into the crook of her neck. He inhaled deeply for a moment before barely suppressing his anxiety and delusions.
He was just about to tell Qiu Yu that he would take her away from here tomorrow when he suddenly heard her say—
“Of course I’m willing.”
The joy came too fast. He couldn’t even react immediately—he only felt a tingling sensation spread across his scalp.
“I was mainly afraid you’d get bored.” She blinked her curled eyelashes and, like a kitten, rested her chin on his shoulder, forming a position where their necks crossed. “Only seeing me, only talking to me—won’t you feel dull?”
Chen Cebai’s breathing became heavier, and he almost didn’t hear what she said. The moment she said “willing,” the violent pounding of his heart had drowned out everything else.
A few seconds later, he finally responded in a hoarse voice, “No.”
“But I’m a little bored.” She acted coquettishly in a sweet voice. “It’s not that I think you’re boring—I just think this bedroom is boring. When we’ve had enough of being outside, let’s come back here, okay?”
Chen Cebai no longer had any objections.
Qiu Yu couldn’t help but laugh out loud.
Chen Cebai was just too easy to control.
He only looked strong and domineering, but in reality, he was completely incapable of resisting her coquettishness. Even if acting spoiled didn’t work, as long as she showed signs of being angry, he would quickly compromise.
He wasn’t nearly as terrifying as he described himself to be. Qiu Yu thought happily.
The next day, Qiu Yu returned to her real life as she had wished, continuing her work as a corporate drone.
Perhaps because the conflict with Chen Cebai had been completely resolved, she was in an exceptionally good mood the entire day. Her colleagues frequently cast either curious, sympathetic, or pitying glances at her, but she paid them no mind.
It wasn’t until the end of the workday that she belatedly realized—the frequency of her colleagues’ gazes seemed a bit too high.
Qiu Yu furrowed her brows.
A female colleague walked over, pressed her shoulder, and said sympathetically, “…I really didn’t expect something like this to happen. Qiu, you must stay calm, don’t act impulsively, and most importantly, don’t blame yourself. This isn’t your fault.”
Qiu Yu quietly shook off her hand. “What happened?”
“You really don’t know?” The female colleague said in surprise. “It’s been dominating the trending list all day. If you’re not mentally prepared, you’d better not look.”
Ever since stepping out of the bathroom that day, Qiu Yu hadn’t used her chip again. Upon hearing this, she decisively activated it and entered the social media platform.
Opening the trending tab, the very first topic was #Chen Cebai#.
The second was #Genetic Modification#.
The third and fourth were:
#The Dangers of Genetic Modification#
#How to Prevent the Human Gene Pool from Being Contaminated#
The female colleague was still trying to comfort Qiu Yu, her words dripping with insincere concern. Qiu Yu ignored her, crossed her arms, leaned back in her office chair, and refreshed the interface projected on her retina with a blank expression.
A new trending topic shot to the top.
#Chen Cebai: Crimes Against Humanity#
Right after it came another:
#Biochemical Crisis Feared to Become Reality#
Clicking into it, the first thing that appeared was a 30-second short video.
—Filmed via chip recording, the footage was somewhat shaky, as if the person recording was inside a laboratory. Red warning lights flashed all around, and loud alarms blared.
Then, a bipedal monster entered the frame—its skin was semi-transparent, resembling silicified flesh, and its claws were razor-sharp. It let out a sharp screech at the recorder, the bone spurs covering its body bristling upright, before lunging forward without hesitation.
The camera spun wildly, then plunged into darkness, followed by the chilling sound of chewing.
The recorder was evidently dead.
Qiu Yu’s breath caught. She opened the comment section and scrolled through the top-ranked responses:
【Look into Chen Cebai’s background, and you’ll understand why he did this. Since he himself is a victim of genetic modification, he wants to drag all of humanity down with him. Can the people defending him wake up already? At this point, you’re still idolizing him? So what if he has a high IQ? Does that change the fact that he’s a lunatic hell-bent on destroying the world?】
【Putting all the blame on Chen? If the company hadn’t modified his genes, would any of this have happened?】
【Classic. Blaming the company again, huh? So whenever someone lashes out against society, it’s always the company’s fault? The company has taken too many hits for you people.】
【Fun fact: Worshipping corporations online won’t get you hired by them.】
Qiu Yu couldn’t be bothered to watch these people argue. She swept her gaze across the screen and switched the comments to chronological order:
【It’s real, but it’s still unclear whether it leaked from Chen’s lab. In any case, that entire area has fallen. These things are everywhere on the streets. I strongly advise everyone not to go outside and to be prepared for lockdowns at home or in the office. These things are particularly hard to kill—biotech companies are probably going to be busy for a while.】
Qiu Yu closed the social media app, tilted her head back, and let out a deep breath.
She was surprised at her own calmness.
Maybe it was genetic. Even at such a critical moment, she didn’t panic in the slightest. Her thoughts were clear, and not a single drop of cold sweat formed.
The cause, process, and outcome of the incident gradually took shape in her mind.
It was obvious—the company had discovered Chen Cebai’s true identity.
Whether they figured it out on their own or Lu Zehou deliberately revealed it to them, Qiu Yu had no way of knowing.
Regardless, Lu Zehou was definitely suspicious. He held deep resentment toward the company, and his attempt to persuade her to provoke Chen Cebai with a divorce was likely just a ploy to push Chen Cebai into losing control and exposing himself in front of the company.
Unexpectedly, she had confronted Chen Cebai directly instead. Left with no choice, Lu Zehou must have gone straight to the company and exposed Chen Cebai’s mutation, forcing him into a confrontation with them.
As for those “monsters,” they were very likely something the company had released to divert attention from the “genetic modification” controversy.
Qiu Yu understood the company well.
They dared to bypass ethical oversight and experiment on human genes, attempting to push the limits of human evolution. That alone meant they were definitely conducting other secret research as well.
Those “monsters” were either failed test subjects or extraterrestrial organisms—created to portray Chen Cebai as a cold-blooded, terrifying, and evil scientist.
If the narrative wasn’t guided in this direction, public sympathy for Chen Cebai would be overwhelming.
The company didn’t want the public to sympathize with a mutated, out-of-control pawn.
A wave of exhaustion swept over Qiu Yu.
Previously, she had thought that no matter how much she loved Chen Cebai, she could never spend eternity with him in a time-frozen space.
In the end, either she would grow tired of him, or he would grow tired of her.
Yet, who would have thought that after less than a day back in the real world, she was already exhausted?
Just then, her chip emitted a notification sound.
She had received a message from Lu Zehou.
A video, accompanied by a line of text.
【Miss Qiu Yu, it’s not too late to cooperate with me now.】
Qiu Yu didn’t even glance at the text. She opened the video immediately.
She had no idea how Lu Zehou had obtained this footage—it was actually from the company’s surveillance cameras.
In the video, Chen Cebai had just walked out of the laboratory, removing his gloves and mask before tossing them into the incinerator.
As always, he wore a white coat over black pants, his cold and sharp features framed by a pair of thin-rimmed glasses.
But unlike before—
In the past, he had always been fully focused in the lab, never distracted by anything else.
Yet in this video, every few seconds, he would tap open a tablet, lightly tapping on the screen, as if replying to someone’s message.
—He was replying to her messages.
Qiu Yu pressed her lips together tightly, a sour and bitter ache rising in her chest.
If she had known all this chaos would happen, she wouldn’t have let him bring her back to the real world.
She knew Chen Cebai couldn’t be considered a good person. She also knew that his feelings for her were twisted to the extreme.
—When protective instincts swell to a certain extent, they become dark and damp, like a malignant growth. When someone’s affection reaches the level of near-obsession, it is, in another sense, a form of cold-blooded ruthlessness.
He might not have committed crimes against humanity like the trending topics claimed, but he definitely had little affection for humanity as a whole.
During their time in the eternal space, she had once discussed Lu Zehou with him.
At that time, none of this had happened yet.
She had originally intended to persuade Chen Cebai to help Lu Zehou, but Chen Cebai’s evaluation of him had been rational to the point of cruelty. He had analyzed everything purely from the perspective of data and algorithms, concluding that Lu Zehou could never successfully resist the company—no matter what his plan was, failure was inevitable.
It was only then that she realized—Chen Cebai only ever showed his anxious, deeply emotional side when he was with her.
At all other times, he was like an AI program, processing everything through data, algorithms, and logical deduction.
—She knew all of his flaws, understood what made him terrifying, and was fully aware that he was not a kind person, yet she still couldn’t help but feel tenderness toward him.
Just like now—watching him in the video, thinking about the overwhelming waves of slander and curses directed at him outside—she knew full well that he wouldn’t care about public opinion, yet she still felt a faint, stabbing pain in her heart.
At that moment, someone entered the surveillance frame, standing in front of Chen Cebai, seemingly saying something.
Chen Cebai lifted his gaze slightly. Behind the lenses, his eyes were utterly emotionless. He raised his hand, palm inward, making a dismissive gesture.
However, the person refused to back down. Their mouth movements grew more intense, and their gestures became increasingly exaggerated.
The video had no sound—Qiu Yu couldn’t hear what they were saying. She could only see the person’s face flushing red, veins bulging, as they aggressively pressed toward Chen Cebai, as if forcing him to make a decision.
The next second, Chen Cebai’s arm, which had been resting at his side, was suddenly enveloped in a layer of pitch-black liquid metal, forming the shape of a sharp scythe. The blade gleamed with a chilling light that sent a shiver down the spine.
He tilted his head slightly—then abruptly raised his hand.
Blade rose, blade fell.
A head rolled to the ground in an instant.
Blood splattered everywhere.
As he moved, the laboratory was instantly flooded with flashing red lights.
At the same time, sound returned to the video—chaotic footsteps and frantic screams filled the air.
Someone was screaming at the top of their lungs:
“Don’t kill me! Don’t kill me! Dr. Chen, don’t kill me!”
As if sensing that she had finished watching the video, Lu Zehou sent another message:
【Miss Qiu Yu, have you ever seen this side of Dr. Chen?】