Deafening cheers erupted around them. Fireworks bloomed from rooftops as the crowd surged like a rock festival audience, leaping, screaming, and waving crimson flags.
Chen Wan clapped her hands raw, bouncing with unrestrained joy. Though lightheaded, Li Mu cracked open a beer and chugged it—his first proper drink since rebirth. The burn felt liberating.
In her euphoria, Chen suddenly vaulted onto Li Mu's back, arms looped around his neck. Her chest pressed flush against him, the heat of her thighs searing through his palm as he instinctively steadied her. Zhang Kexuan, cigarette discarded, barked at his bandmates: "Fuck it, hand out the beers!"
Li Mu juggled Chen's weight—one hand gripping her leg, the other thrusting cans into passing hands. Chen's breath hitched. Through thin athletic shorts, his damp palm cupped her bare skin. No one noticed her blush deepening—not Zhang's crew frenziedly distributing drinks, nor the crowd chanting "Beijing!"
She lingered, chin resting on his crown, inhaling the faint chemical tang of his hair gel. "Stupid kid," she whispered, lips brushing his scalp. "If you were older, or I younger…"
Li Mu froze mid-beer handoff. The recipient—an off-duty policeman—accepted the can with a conspiratorial grin, chugging it dry. Tonight, even law enforcement joined the revelry.
Hours blurred. Li Mu awoke hours later in a palatial bedroom, head throbbing. His clothes remained intact. Downstairs, Chen Wan stood at a marble kitchen island, cheeks pink. "Morning," she chirped. "Welcome to my Jinling home."
The mansion's grandeur—spiral staircase, vaulted ceilings—confirmed her status as elite among elites. Over toast and coffee, Li Mu learned the previous night's aftermath: drunken bandmates dispersed, celebrants lingering past midnight.
"Should settle our beer tab with Zhang," Li Mu mumbled through a headache.
Chen waved it off. "He'll rope you into another jam session. Let's get your laptop first."
At Jinling's electronics hub, options proved dismal. IBM's cutting-edge T23 remained unavailable nationwide. Settling for last year's T20 at 20,000 yuan, Li Mu grimaced—clunky by future standards, but essential. A dial-up modem completed his haul.
En route to Haizhou, Chen prodded: "Give me your QQ. And get a phone!"
Li Mu chuckled. "Need to explain this windfall to my parents first."
"Just say you sold songs!"
He brightened. Plausible—his years of bedroom guitar strumming provided cover. Genius could wait.
As Chen dropped him off, her parting jab held melancholy: "At eighteen, you're already this dangerous. Imagine the trail of broken hearts in Beijing…"
The gate closed behind him. Chen lingered, watching until his silhouette vanished. Some farewells needed no witnesses.
Back home, Li Mu surveyed his spoils—the laptop humming to life, modem lights blinking. Sixteen years before smartphones, this clunky machine held empires. He cracked his knuckles. Time to build.