The Cannon Fodder Who Fell in Love at Art School - Chapter 5

Sith’s expression darkened, his voice turning even colder. “Are you testing my patience?”

He had already decided to let this little lamb go, yet the boy still dared to talk back?

Fang Chen, misunderstanding the tone completely, panicked. 

I’m just a broke international student! I only got this ticket from a bag of chips. You can sell it if you want, but I really don’t have any money!”

The air went silent for a moment.

Sith actually froze for the first time. “What?”

A few minutes later, he was staring at the ticket and the small raffle card, the latter stamped with a bold red seal that read “Prize Redeemed.”

Holding the ticket between his fingers, he frowned. “This is the ticket you tried to sell me yesterday?”

“Yes, sir.”

Fang Chen looked both wronged and regretful.

He’d thought he’d finally gotten lucky, winning something for once. Who would’ve thought his “luck” would get him kidnapped instead no money earned, and his life almost lost in the process.

Sith didn’t speak for a long time.

At this point, the whole situation was painfully clear, just one big misunderstanding.

Except…

The man frowned again, still finding it hard to believe. “Then why didn’t you say anything when I tied you up?”

He hadn’t even resisted just quietly went along with it.

Say what, exactly?!

Fang Chen’s eyes widened. “You were kidnapping me! What if I fought back and you killed me?!”

Sith closed his eyes briefly, pressing his fingers against his temple.

Fang Chen peeked up at him, sensing that the man’s attitude had softened somehow. Maybe, just maybe, he’d really let him go.

After a pause, Sith opened his eyes again. “Do you know who I am?”

Now that was a death sentence of a question.

Fang Chen shook his head furiously, like a rattling drum, nearly raising his hand to swear an oath. “Sir, I don’t know you! I swear! I’ll pretend I never saw you I won’t tell a soul!”

“That’s not what I meant.”

For the first time, Sith found himself at a loss. He frowned slightly, his tone more serious. “I’m Sith Bolton. I owe you an apology. Yesterday was my mistake. There have been cases of counterfeit tickets circulating for the championship, and when you approached me, I thought you were one of them. I’m sincerely sorry.”

Fang Chen blinked.

what?

He was Sith Bolton?!

Not some deranged murderer?!

Seeing the boy still frozen in disbelief, Sith pinched the bridge of his nose, clearly feeling a headache coming on. “It was my fault. I was too rash. Whatever compensation you want, you can name it”

Before he could finish, the ticket in his hand was suddenly snatched away!

He froze, stunned to see the timid, lamb-like boy glaring up at him with eyes full of fury.

“Rash? Sorry? That’s all you’ve got to say?!” Fang Chen was shaking from anger, his eyes red, his grip on the ticket so tight his knuckles turned white. His jaw clenched, and it took him several seconds to get the next words out.

“Do you have any idea what it felt like? I thought I was going to die! I thought you were a killer! I thought I’d die in that godforsaken place!”

The words burst out all at once and so did the tears.

He hadn’t cried when he was “kidnapped,” hadn’t cried when the police car drove away, hadn’t cried even when he was dragged into that abandoned factory.

But now, realizing it was all a misunderstanding, the dam finally broke. His bottled-up fear and humiliation came spilling out in hot tears. He wiped at them twice, then just gave up altogether squatting on the ground and sobbing his heart out.

“I don’t wanna be in this stupid book anymore! What the hell kind of plot is this, throwing me into a foreign country where everyone speaks bird language and no one’s nice to me?! I have to work to survive, boohoo, I just wanna go home!”

He babbled incoherently, and because it wasn’t in English, Sith couldn’t understand a word. He hadn’t expected the boy to suddenly break down like this, and for once, he felt… unsettled.

Instinctively, he reached out to help the boy up, but Fang Chen’s head shot up, his eyes red, and he slapped Sith’s hand away.

“Don’t touch me!”

That, Sith understood.

He raised his hands slightly in surrender. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I’m sorry. Please… don’t cry anymore.”

After getting it all out of his system, Fang Chen did feel better. He sniffled, then suddenly stood up, his face still blotchy but his expression fierce.

Unfortunately, because of the height difference, he had to tilt his head up to glare at Sith, which completely ruined the effect.

Glancing around, he spotted a large rock, stepped onto it, and stood tall well taller. Still shorter than Sith, but at least it felt like a small victory.

Crossing his arms, he lifted his chin. “Okay! Pensate!”

He bit out each syllable like it was a curse.

But really, what else could he do?

He’d cried, he’d yelled, and life still had to go on.

Sith nodded slightly. “Whatever compensation you want, I’ll agree to it.”

The words came out without hesitation. Sith was usually a man of reason, never one to speak in absolutes. But when he met those still-red, tear-glazed eyes, something in him softened.

Whatever the boy wanted, he could have it.

After all, it was his fault. He’d terrified him half to death.

Even if Fang Chen asked for a villa in New York City, Sith would probably just ask him which neighborhood he preferred.

Right… what should he ask for?

Money, obviously.

But how much was too much? Would Sith accuse him of extortion afterward?

Fang Chen hesitated, his palms sweaty as he held out the ticket. “I’ll sell this to you—for ten thousand dollars!”

Selling a ticket shouldn’t be illegal, right?!

Sith paused for a second, then nodded. “Alright.”

On the way back, Fang Chen sat upright in the passenger seat, chin high, completely different from the timid wreck he’d been before.

Come on Sith was the one in the wrong here!

And him? He was being generous enough not to hold a grudge.

Call it what you want, maybe not smug, but definitely a small, triumphant sheep.

He’d escaped danger and sold his ticket for ten grand. His mood was miles better, and he even started humming a little tune under his breath.

Once he saved up a bit more, he decided, he’d treat himself and finally have some proper Chinese food!

If he had to eat one more bland “Western” meal, he was going to lose it.

The car window was half open. The air, fresh after last night’s rain, carried the scent of damp earth and green grass. Fang Chen breathed it in deeply, feeling the tension slowly ease from his shoulders.

Sith drove quietly, but his eyes kept drifting to the boy beside him.

Fang Chen had one arm resting on the window frame, leaning slightly toward the breeze. The sunlight caught his side profile, highlighting every fine hair on his skin. His features were relaxed now, and when something outside made him smile faintly, the corners of his lips curved just so.

From the timid, nervous wreck last night, to the tearful outburst earlier, and now, to this moment of calm contentment.

All within a single day and night.

He really couldn’t tell how many sides this little lamb had.

Yet somehow, again and again, Sith found himself lowering his guard his bottom line retreating step by step because of this person.

He turned the steering wheel, made a turn, then took out his phone and handed it over. “Give me your contact info.”

Fang Chen didn’t take it. He turned his head away. “No need.”

“It’s so I can transfer you the money.”

The moment he heard that, Fang Chen immediately took the phone and quickly typed in his contact details.

Sith’s lips curved slightly. “What’s your name?”

“Fang Chen.”

There was a short pause before Sith repeated slowly, “Fang Chen?”

He tried to mimic Fang Chen’s pronunciation, and though his voice was low and pleasant, the tones came out a little strange.

Hearing a foreigner speak Chinese was unexpectedly funny.

Fang Chen couldn’t hold back a laugh. But halfway through, he suddenly realized wait a second. If he thought that sounded weird, did that mean people thought his English sounded just as ridiculous?

Fang Chen: …Not funny anymore.

Seeing him laugh, those eyes that always went wide when frightened or angry now curved softly, and for some reason, Sith’s mood lifted too. But the feeling lasted only a few seconds before the boy straightened his face again, as if nothing had happened.

Sith thought for a moment, then said, “I didn’t say it right. You could teach me a few more times.”

Fang Chen gave a small, stubborn hum. “Not teaching you.”

The man paused, then deliberately repeated the name once more. “Fang Chen.”

When he finished, he glanced over and asked on purpose, “Better this time?”

Ever since Fang Chen had “entered the book,” no one had called his name properly. They called him Chen, Little Chen, or, like Jemmy, teasingly called him baby.

He blinked once, then mumbled after a while, “That was actually… pretty good.”

Sith drove him to retrieve his phone, then dropped him off at his dorm.

When they arrived, Sith got out, opened the door for him, and said quietly, “Get some rest. And… I really am sorry.”

Fang Chen waved it off carelessly. “Just don’t forget to send the money.”

“I won’t,” Sith said.

He watched Fang Chen head upstairs before returning to his car. Lighting a cigarette, he had just exhaled the first puff when his phone rang Joey’s voice came through.

“Where the hell did you go? Don’t forget we have scrims today.”

 I know, Sith replied, then paused.  Get me a few tickets for next month’s match.

Joey sounded instantly suspicious. “What for?”

Outside of regular sales and promotional allocations, all tickets were controlled by the logistics department.

“Giving them away.” Sith named a number. “Fifteen.”

Joey went silent for a few seconds, then asked flatly, “Are you trying to kill me?”

“You have any idea how famous you are? Those tickets sell out in seconds! The rest are all reserved for sponsors.”

Sith cut him off impatiently. How many are left?

Joey gritted his teeth. “Five!”

“Make it eight. Have them ready. I’ll send someone to pick them up.”

And with that, Sith hung up.

He stubbed out his cigarette, glanced once more in the direction Fang Chen had gone, then finally drove off.

Back in his dorm, Fang Chen showered, then collapsed onto his bed and slept straight through until his alarm blared the next morning. Still half-asleep, he dragged himself to the kitchen to find something to eat.

One of his roommates had baked a pizza and left him a slice.

Too lazy to grab a plate, Fang Chen just pulled on gloves and ate it standing by the counter, one hand holding the pizza, the other scrolling through the pile of messages on his phone.

There wasn’t much, really.

He didn’t have many friends here being alone in a foreign country did that.

Only Jemmy had messaged him that morning, asking if they could switch class sessions.

Almost ten hours later, Fang Chen finally replied: Sorry, I was sleeping all day. Just saw this.

Jemmy answered almost immediately: No worries, I already got the day off.

Then came another message: Wait, you slept all day? Did you “do” something last night?

Fang Chen stared at the screen for a few seconds, then quietly closed the chat window. Some things didn’t deserve a reply.

Just then, a new notification popped up.

A bank transfer alert.

Fang Chen glanced at it and froze. His jaw nearly hit the floor.

He blinked hard, checked again. Nope, not a mistake.

Sith Bolton had just transferred him one hundred thousand dollars.