Toxic Pheromones of a Scumbag Alpha (GL) - Chapter 11

A sharp, terrified scream pierced the night, followed by the unmistakable sound of something fragile crashing to the floor.

Ji Yao jolted awake from her sleep and rushed toward the noise.

The power was out.

In the pitch-black room, Tan Zishu was trembling as she clung to Ji Yao tightly.

“You’re still scared of the dark? Just like when you were a kid?” Ji Yao murmured, confused. But wait, she thought, didn’t she seem perfectly fine with the lights off yesterday? Why is she reacting so badly tonight? Ji Yao gently patted her back, trying to calm her down. “Don’t be afraid. I’m here.”

Truthfully, Tan Zishu wasn’t really afraid of the dark anymore. She had spent years facing lonely nights on her own.

What she feared wasn’t the dark — it was losing someone.

Especially now, after Ji Yao had just agreed to give her a chance. What if, the moment she closed her eyes, the darkness returned — and with it, she was thrown back into another endless cycle of despair?

It had happened before.

In one lifetime, she had forced Ji Yao to stay with her — even made her do things she didn’t want to. That very night, everything turned pitch-black. The darkness reeked of bl00d and dread… and then, just like that, she was kicked into the next cycle.

This time, everything had finally started well. Ji Yao had said yes.
She couldn’t lose her again.

So when she opened her eyes and saw the bedside lamp wasn’t working, that old fear rushed back like a tidal wave.

Ji Yao grabbed Tan Zishu’s phone and turned on the flashlight. Then she pulled the blanket over her like wrapping a zongzi, tucking her in tight, and sat down in front of her.

“The power’s out,” Ji Yao said patiently, staying by her side. “I don’t know what these past ten years have been like for you… but to be honest…”

So broken.

It had nothing to do with money or her quality of life. Tan Zishu lived like a string stretched to its very limit, ready to snap at any second. Ji Yao couldn’t imagine how she’d have survived if she hadn’t shown up.

Was this really how she’d been living? Just punishing herself day after day?

“You’re acting like you’re trying to punish yourself,” Ji Yao said softly. “Why are you always fighting yourself so hard?”

She reached under the blanket and found Tan Zishu’s hand — it was ice-cold.

The feeling hit her like a wave: guilt, pain, heartbreak. All because she’d said a few harsh words — ones she hadn’t even meant — just to provoke that damn listening device. And Tan Zishu had taken them to heart, spiraling into a meltdown. Just like that, she nearly lost her life again.

Ji Yao was silent for a moment.

Sigh.

So dramatic. Always on the edge of life or death.

Seeing that Tan Zishu wasn’t even close to sleeping, Ji Yao gave up on trying to rest and decided to stay up with her.

Dawn was still more than an hour away. Her phone battery was down to less than 50%. She opened a soft, calming music track, then lifted the blanket and sat down beside her.

Staying up all night is seriously a health hazard, she thought. This woman acts like sleep is optional. She hadn’t slept properly for two nights now — and Ji Yao didn’t even know how many nights before that had been the same.

By the time the first song finished, Tan Zishu finally seemed to come back to herself.

“…I’m sorry I made you worry,” Tan Zishu said softly. Now calm again, her first instinct was to apologize. “You can laugh if you want. I’ve really been trying to live a normal life… but it just keeps getting worse.”

Seeing that Tan Zishu was finally opening up, Ji Yao patiently waited for her to continue.

Tan Zishu said, “After the accident… your so-called ‘friends’ all scattered. A few didn’t leave, but for various reasons, they didn’t dare get involved. Everyone knew your death was suspicious, but barely anyone spoke up. Any online speculation was quickly shut down. I don’t know who was behind it, but they must’ve been powerful. After Lou Juan and I handled your funeral, she got me into acting. She told me that it was the fastest way to earn money — and once I was strong enough, I could find out what really happened to you.”

At first, Tan Zishu didn’t know who the mastermind was. But over time, she uncovered the group of people who had been working together behind the scenes. She had gotten her revenge on them — but in every cycle, Ji Yao never seemed that interested in the truth.

After so many lifetimes, Tan Zishu eventually lost the drive to keep digging. She simply made sure those who were directly responsible for Ji Yao’s death ended up behind bars.

After all, if Ji Yao herself didn’t care, who was she doing it for?

Now, during this rare moment of honesty, Tan Zishu didn’t think Ji Yao really wanted to revisit all that either — so she quickly glossed over it with a shift in topic. “I sold the house we used to live in. I hope you don’t mind.”

Ji Yao replied, “I don’t. A house where someone died… it’s not exactly peaceful. Being alone there would’ve been scary.”

Though Ji Yao had died from a fall during filming, it was still considered an unnatural death. She could understand why little Tan Zishu might have been afraid to stay there alone.

But Tan Zishu shook her head slowly. “No… it’s not that. I wasn’t scared.”

Her expression was weary, eyes dim and distant. Even if it had been haunted, even if Ji Yao had returned as a ghost — as long as she came to see her again, Tan Zishu wouldn’t have cared.
At least then, the grief and regret wouldn’t have driven her insane.

The real reason she sold the house…

“Lou Juan wanted it sold,” Tan Zishu admitted. “She said I couldn’t stay there anymore. That if I kept living like that, she was afraid I’d be next.”

She lowered her head, the light casting a soft line along her graceful jaw. The way she bit her lip… made Ji Yao picture how this proud girl must’ve looked the day she got the news of her death.

Ji Yao gave a half-serious smile. “I always thought you didn’t care much about me. Who would’ve guessed I could leave that much of an impact? If I really became a ghost back then, I probably would’ve laughed out loud.”

Tan Zishu gave her a long-suffering, silent stare — the kind that clearly said, Are you listening to yourself right now?

Ji Yao burst into laughter, nearly falling back onto the bed. “Hahaha—!”

Tan Zishu felt like crying. Watching Ji Yao laugh so carelessly, she could only sigh and mutter, “Stop laughing…”

Ji Yao teased, “See? That’s what you get for arguing with me back then. Regret it now?”

I do; Tan Zishu answered silently in her heart.

Ten years ago, Ji Yao was at the height of her fame. Her schedule was packed every day. Even so, she always tried to make time to connect with Tan Zishu, to build their bond. But one of them was constantly on set, the other left at home, living in two completely different worlds. With such a disconnect between their mindsets and lifestyles… how could they have truly understood each other?

Young Tan Zishu was in her rebellious phase. With the stress of switching schools and heavy coursework, every phone call from Ji Yao felt like a chore. Ji Yao, being naturally talkative and overprotective, always had a lot to say — but never seemed to get to the point. After a few minutes, Tan Zishu would feel like her ears were growing calluses.

“I have exams coming up,” she told Ji Yao impatiently. “If there’s nothing important, can we stop calling so often?”

Ji Yao didn’t understand. “You ungrateful little thing… I take time out of my day to strengthen our bond, and you don’t appreciate it at all. It really hurts.”

Tan Zishu shot back, “Well, if this is your idea of bonding, thanks, but no thanks.”

Ji Yao: “…”

Over the next few days, Ji Yao started calling non-stop. Tan Zishu was so annoyed she just kept hanging up.

Until finally — Ji Yao snapped. “If you don’t answer this time, then don’t ever answer again.”

And Tan Zishu said coldly, “Fine by me.”

A simple argument… that turned out to be their last.

Ji Yao was too busy with filming to return home and settle things in person. The fight turned into silence. Neither of them reached out, and the cold war began.

With so much distance between them, nothing got resolved. Ji Yao stayed on set for a long time. By the time she had a chance to breathe, it was almost Tan Zishu’s birthday.

The day before her accident, Ji Yao reminded her assistant to order a cake. She said she’d go home to see Tan Zishu as soon as the current shoot wrapped.

On the day of the accident, Ji Yao called. She planned to wish Tan Zishu a happy birthday first — the apology could wait until she got home.

But the call didn’t go through.

Tan Zishu was late for school and running out the door. Still upset, she ignored the call.

She thought, She’ll probably call again once I’m in the car.

That small hesitation… ended up being the last chance she’d ever have.

Ji Yao, being rushed by the director, didn’t get a chance to call again. She simply told her assistant to make sure the cake was delivered at noon.

Later that day, while filming a scene involving wires over a cliff, Ji Yao fell — and never came back.

Tan Zishu was called out of class by her homeroom teacher. Confused, she asked what was going on.

The teacher hesitated before finally saying, “Your sister got hurt while filming. Don’t go back to class yet. There might be someone coming to pick you up.”

Tan Zishu frowned. If she’s hurt, she should be taken to the hospital. Why am I supposed to just sit here and wait? I’m in class. Even if I go over there, what can I do?

—Thirty minutes later, the call came. Ji Yao had died. Resuscitation failed.

Even after living through countless lifetimes, Tan Zishu could never forget the way she felt when she heard the news.

Disbelief. Grief. Regret. Helplessness. Longing.
It repeated like a curse. She couldn’t forgive her own stubbornness and immaturity. If she hadn’t been so prideful, if she had just picked up the phone… she wouldn’t have missed their final conversation. They wouldn’t have ended things still upset.

Numb and silent, she was ushered into a car, thinking:

I hadn’t even forgiven her yet. How could she just leave me like that?

“It felt like the sky fell,” Tan Zishu said now, softly. “Even after your funeral… when I came home to that empty house, part of me still believed it was just one of your jokes. That maybe this was all a twisted way of making up — and you’d walk through the door any minute.”

Ji Yao couldn’t laugh this time.

Tan Zishu was much calmer now, but when she talked about that time, there was still a deep sadness in her face — so raw that just looking at her pulled you into her grief.

Ji Yao had died quickly, without suffering. She hadn’t realized what Tan Zishu had been left to face alone.

Tan Zishu blinked, her dry eyes stinging as a sharp pain struck her chest — the kind of pain that came from deep in her heart.

“I was only home for a short while when the doorbell rang,” she said. “I was so happy. I really thought it was you. I thought it was all part of a birthday prank — that you got everyone to help scare me.”

She checked trending topics online. There was nothing about Ji Yao. That made her even more certain it was all fake — that Ji Yao would walk in at any moment, laughing.

Ji Yao said nothing. She felt awful.

Outside, the sky slowly began to brighten.

Tan Zishu leaned against her shoulder. “But I was too scared to open the door. I waited… until the doorbell stopped. And only then did I realize — that was the cake you ordered for me.”

Since then, even after becoming a famous actress, Tan Zishu never celebrated her birthday again. She refused every birthday-related event and ad campaign. No one could book her on that day, and she never reached out to anyone.

She told people she hated birthdays.
She told them she hated cake.
But the truth was… what she really hated was herself.