Transmigrated as the Disabled Alpha of the Yandere Film Empress - Chapter 35:
Chapter 35:
After washing up and eating a simple breakfast, Song Yanrong no longer felt overwhelmingly sleepy. She sat on the sofa for a while.
The book she had been reading last night was still on the table. She picked it up again, and the only sound in the room was the turning of pages.
One page after another, like the soft hiss of an hourglass measuring time.
She didn’t know how long had passed before she finally looked up, taking in the quiet and somewhat desolate room. After a pause, she closed the book.
What did Sun Jia want to talk about?
To tell her the truth? Or perhaps a reason reconsidered?
Feelings aren’t something you can just put away. This room had once been filled with sweetness — now that sweetness had turned into salt, seeping back into her body.
Like tiny needles pricking her—not painful, but enough to make her brows knit from time to time and cause her heart to tighten involuntarily.
She rubbed her forehead, then reached for the armrest to get into her wheelchair—but her movement paused.
After being a cripple for so long, it had become instinct.
What she really needed now was a crutch. With just a bit of support, she could stand and walk—just not for very long.
Getting back together with Sun Jia, even though she had told her she had her own motives, meant taking the risk that they might truly fall apart—if they cut off contact, her legs might never recover beyond this point.
But thinking about it more, she realized: she did care about her legs, but she wouldn’t sacrifice her mental and emotional wholeness for them. So she could accept her current condition.
A person should know when it’s time to be content.
…
She slept until after 2 PM, then woke and worked on her laptop in the living room. After what felt like a long time, she checked the clock — only an hour had passed.
She was silent for a few seconds, then forced herself to focus on work again.
…
At around 6 PM, Sun Jia returned.
As she stepped in through the entryway, her eyes immediately landed on Song Yanrong, sitting on the sofa with her head down, focused on her laptop — not even glancing up once.
Sun Jia’s chest tightened.
In the past, no matter what Song Yanrong was doing, she would always look at her when she returned, always with a gentle smile — without exception.
But today, she didn’t even lift her head until Sun Jia changed shoes and walked right up to her.
Then, with a pleasant tone, she said:
“Let’s eat. I’m a little hungry.”
Sun Jia swallowed the lump in her throat and replied stiffly,
“Okay.”
She had wanted to speak those three words first — but Song Yanrong’s calm demeanor toward her made her heart ache.
Before Sun Jia could move, Song had already taken a few dishes from the food warmer.
“I’ll do it,” said Sun Jia.
“It’s fine.” Though Song didn’t reject her help.
Her tone was polite, yet distant. More like roommates than people who had once been deeply close.
…
Dinner was served.
Sun Jia’s gaze landed on the table—finally resting on the tea-scented shrimp. Her eyes dimmed.
It was the first time shrimp had appeared on this table.
Her hand froze.
But Song Yanrong had already started eating. The shrimp were fresh and springy, with a refreshing tea aroma—just the flavor she liked.
Neither of them said a word during the meal.
Sun Jia barely ate, while Song had a great appetite. The small plate of tea-scented shrimp was completely gone.
Sun Jia noticed it all. Song’s face was calm, unreadable. But every gesture seemed to be sending a message:
Her love… was truly coming to an end.
Sun Jia’s emotions surged to the brink. She put down her chopsticks, the frustration in her chest so thick she wanted to flip the table.
But her deeply ingrained manners stopped her.
Still, one desperate thought rose in her mind—
She wanted to trap Song Yanrong in her hand.
Then tell her:
No. You don’t get to stop loving me that quickly.
Her twisted thought came out of nowhere. Her eyes were tinged red, but her lips curved coldly.
“Song Yanrong, how can your love fade so fast?”
Song paused, swallowed her last sip of soup, then calmly wiped her mouth with a napkin.
“If someone wants to stop, they always can.”
Sun Jia flared:
“How simple.”
“Was it difficult when you lied to me?”
Song Yanrong looked up straight at her.
Sun Jia’s face was pale and sickly. After those words, her emotions clearly sank further.
Song looked away:
“Didn’t you say you had something to talk to me about? Let’s talk about that first.”
Sun Jia pursed her lips. A few seconds later, she looked at Song’s calm expression and said, discouraged and frustrated:
“I don’t want to talk anymore.”
Whenever Sun Jia pouted like this, Song used to find it cute—she always gave in, always tried to soothe her.
Song nodded this time:
“That’s fine. Tell me when you’re ready.”
…
After 7 PM.
Song Yanrong, as usual, sat in the living room reading emails. She glanced at the guest room door—still tightly shut. Sun Jia hadn’t come out since dinner.
Song didn’t believe in avoiding problems. Since she decided to give it more time, then she had to continue living with Sun Jia.
At least until people stopped paying attention to them.
At least until Sun Jia no longer needed her protection.
She chuckled quietly to herself.
After all, Sun Jia didn’t love her that deeply. It was just a passing frustration. When things calmed down, she’d forget their short-lived romance.
…
She hadn’t slept much the night before, and now her eyes were dry and aching after just 30 minutes on the laptop.
She closed it and planned to nap a bit until the market opened at 8. Then she’d check briefly and go to bed.
But the nap turned into deep sleep.
And in her sleep, she fell back into that nightmarish loop—the car accident.
She was jolted awake.
Right at the moment when she was reaching out toward the woman in the red scarf — a warm touch fell on her cold forehead.
She flinched and instinctively grabbed that warmth.
When she opened her eyes, she saw Sun Jia’s beautiful face. There was a trace of pain there — maybe even worry?
She finally exhaled the breath she’d been holding in the dream.
Sun Jia bent over her:
“You had a nightmare?”
Song’s voice was hoarse:
“Mm.”
This time, she had gotten closer than ever to seeing the woman who hit her. She’d seen her scarf—and just a bit of her chin: bruised and purplish, like an injury.
Sun Jia looked at her for a few seconds, then down at her own wrist. The irritation she had felt earlier that evening seemed to ease slightly with Song’s reflexive grip.
“What did you dream about?”
Song hesitated, still processing what she saw.
For the longest time, her recurring dream only showed the red scarf. This was the first time she saw part of the woman’s face.
Even though it wasn’t the full face, she now had a lead.
A woman in South City, near the crash site, wearing a red scarf, with a bruised chin—it couldn’t be a coincidence. Even if it was, she could eliminate people by process of elimination.
She hadn’t revealed the improvement in her legs publicly because she knew the crash wasn’t an accident.
Until she found this person, she was essentially in the dark.
And who knew how many people the original Song had offended?
As she thought about all this, she softly answered Sun Jia’s earlier question:
“I dreamed of the woman who hit me.”
Sun Jia froze.
She had never told anyone the person who hit her was a woman. The investigation back then came up with no clues.
“It was a woman?” Sun Jia asked.
Song’s memory flickered back — the woman, in the dim light, standing in front of the car with her back to her.
“She was wearing a red scarf… and…”
Before she finished, she felt the wrist in her hand suddenly tense up.
She snapped out of it and looked down — her fingers were tightly squeezing Sun Jia’s pale wrist.
She quickly let go and restored some distance between them.
When she looked up, Sun Jia’s face had changed. But only for a second. She quickly forced it back to calm.
“What’s wrong?”
Realizing she had said it with too much concern, Song tempered her tone. Sun Jia’s voice had sounded hoarse since morning, and she had cleared her throat several times throughout the day. Song assumed she was unwell.
But she didn’t press the question, “Are you sick?”
“I’m fine.” Sun Jia replied, sitting close beside her as she usually did.
She was thirsty — she hadn’t eaten or drunk much all day. She bent over and took a sip from the cup on the table.
“Was it just a dream, or did you really see her?”
Song’s eyes fell on the cup she just drank from. Her gaze darkened slightly.
“I saw her.”
She saw the woman who hit her.
…
Sun Jia’s face grew paler. She stood up and went back to her room.
After she left, Song didn’t stay in the living room much longer. She drank half a glass of red wine and left.
She wheeled herself to the balcony.
Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, she looked out. It had been gloomy and rainy for days — even the air felt heavy and waterlogged.
She hated the southern weather in August and September.
She preferred winter and snow.
Crisp air, clean cold.
It made people sharper. And colder.
…
Half an hour later, Song got up and left her room.
She found some mild cold medicine and throat lozenges in the medicine box.
At Sun Jia’s door, she knocked twice—no answer.
The second time, she frowned.
Her first thought: maybe Sun Jia was really sick. She had looked pale earlier.
Song opened the door—
The room was dark and silent.
She was momentarily stunned.
Empty.
The window was open, and humid wind blew in.
Judging by the temperature, the room had been empty for quite some time.
She stood there quietly.
Well then.
…
The rain had stopped. But the weather was still irritating.
A woman stood outside an apartment in the new district, wearing a thin cardigan. Her white dress fluttered restlessly in the wind.
She crossed her arms, biting her lips until they turned a vivid red.
“Jiajia.”
A familiar voice came from behind.
Sun Jia turned around — facing Han Yiwen, her eyes wide with surprise and delight.
But seeing her only dulled the irritation and gloom in her chest.
Lowering her eyes, her voice cold:
“That day, when we were together… you were wearing a red scarf, right?”
Han Yiwen paused.
“What?”
“I’ll ask you again.”
Sun Jia’s face turned icy.
“Was it you who hit Song Yanrong?”