Mistakenly Marked – Chapter 5

Whale Fall

Cruelly cleaving snow-light and moon-shadow.

In the dimly lit private room, over a dozen people sat around the table.

            

On the sofa against the wall, Xu Jialuo served as the dividing line — those on her right squeezed together rather awkwardly, while the few on her left enjoyed considerably more space and comfort.

A server happened to knock and enter, delivering the drinks that had been ordered earlier. This diverted everyone’s attention, and the room resumed its lively atmosphere as if putting on a façade of harmony.

Lin Qingman, uncharacteristically, did not pick another fight. She was quieter than she had ever been before.

            

After a long silence, she bumped Xu Jialuo’s arm. “Order whatever you want to drink. I’m paying.”

The man sitting to her right seized the opportunity to pour a glass of foreign spirits. “By the way, Miss Xu arrived so late — she definitely deserves a few penalty drinks.”

Xu Jialuo sat leaning back, eyes lowered, and did not reach for the glass. Without so much as lifting her eyelids, she said, “I don’t drink.”

            

“Because you drove?”

Xu Jialuo glanced sideways. “Because I don’t like to.”

“…”

            

The refusal was so direct, offered without a single excuse, that there was no room to press further.

The man gave up trying to be clever and turned to chat with his companions on the other side.

Lin Qingman sat to one side, eyes wide with something like surprise.

            

When the gathering wound down, Lin Qingman did her usual routine of pulling out her phone to scan the code and pay the bill. Those who had eaten and drunk their fill left in twos and threes, leaving only Lin Qingman and Xu Jialuo.

Without waiting for Lin Qingman to ask, Xu Jialuo walked ahead with practiced familiarity. The two of them headed toward the underground parking garage, one in front of the other.

The previous times Lin Qingman had called her out, it was always to use her as a driver — and to say a few harsh things along the way.

            

Today, though, was relatively quiet.

“How did you…” It was not until they were nearly at the car that Lin Qingman finally spoke. “How can you be so blunt and clean about it?”

Xu Jialuo stopped. “Hmm?”

            

“I mean… when they were teasing you, and joking about making you drink — how could you be so… direct?” Lin Qingman lowered her voice. “And they actually just let you go.”

Xu Jialuo turned back. “It is not that they let me go. It is that I stopped them. I refused them.”

Xu Jialuo raised a hand to rub the back of her neck. “If you genuinely dislike something, it is better to state your position directly.”

            

Her cool, pleasant voice, carrying a languid trailing note, was especially piercing in the empty parking garage. “When you are ambiguous, people will think there is still room to push — give them an inch and they will take a mile.”

“Easy for you to say.” Lin Qingman scoffed. “Aren’t you afraid of falling out with your friends doing that?”

“Are those people really all your friends?”

            

“…”

Lin Qingman: “You don’t understand…”

A few seconds later, Lin Qingman closed her eyes and finally admitted with some reluctance, “I know they only invite me out because they heard I am generous. They just want me to pay.”

            

“Mm.” Xu Jialuo walked over and pulled open the car door. “I could tell.”

Giving Lin Qingman the seat of honor seemed like a show of respect, but she had been squeezed to the edge of her seat. The flattery went round and round — always the same few lines. Listen carefully, and it was obvious there was not much genuine affection behind it.

Lin Qingman was choked into silence for a few seconds. “…”

            

It was true. These were “friends” who had known her for years but only flattered her to her face while mocking her behind her back.

They clearly knew her family was having problems, yet they kept inviting her out, finding ways to squeeze her for free drinks and meals.

Whatever they said about Xu Jialuo behind her back, they probably said the same about Lin Qingman.

            

Lin Qingman stopped walking. Recalling everything that had come before, she raised her voice and asked, “Xu Jialuo, do you like me?”

Xu Jialuo: “No.”

The answer came without a fraction of a second’s hesitation.

            

“…?” Lin Qingman froze. “Wait — you — how can you answer that fast?”

Lin Qingman, in her heels, tilted her head up to scrutinize the person who stood a full head taller than her.

When she saw that Xu Jialuo was indeed serious, Lin Qingman felt something crack. “I am an A-class omega! My family background is perfectly fine, and I am not ugly, am I? My figure is pretty good too, right? I—”

            

“You should get in the car first.”

They were blocking the path of a car coming from behind.

Lin Qingman: “…”

            

Once they were both in the car, Xu Jialuo removed her mask and heard Lin Qingman confess with reddened eyes, “Let me tell you — I already have someone I like.”

Xu Jialuo responded evenly. “Mm.”

“What do you mean ‘mm’? Do not tell me you already knew that.”

            

Xu Jialuo gave Lin Qingman a glance.

If Lin Qingman’s phone screensaver — a photo of Liang Xiao in a white coat — had not appeared every time she paid the bill, she genuinely would not have known.

Lin Qingman sniffled. “So it is not that I am genuinely ill-mannered. I just do not like you either, and I did not want my family dictating who I spend time with. That is why I kept deliberately being awful to you.”

            

She wanted Xu Jialuo to back off.

Xu Jialuo commented, “That part was not very apparent.”

It seemed far more like she was genuinely ill-mannered.

            

“…” The remaining tears retreated. Lin Qingman laughed out of sheer frustration.

“Xu Jialuo.” She wiped her eyes with her hand, serious now. “I can see it. You are a good person. I give up. I do not want to make trouble for you anymore. So right now, I want to come clean with you—”

“Your family has been having some difficulties lately, and you want to build a relationship with me so the Xu family will step in to help.”

            

Xu Jialuo handed Lin Qingman a pack of tissues, equally candid. “I am willing to help you because in high school, Class 12, you brought me a school uniform and helped me recover a necklace that was very important to me.”

“High school… school uniform… necklace?”

Lin Qingman stared blankly, racking her brain for several seconds to recall something from many years ago. Then her eyes went wide.

            

“So… all this time, you have been patiently humoring me and pretending to be close with me, just because I once helped you? You wanted Grandmother Xu to think we were solid, so she would help my family?”

Xu Jialuo released the handbrake and started the car. “Yes.”

“…”

            

“I did not think… you would remember something from so long ago.”

Lin Qingman stared at the smooth lines of Xu Jialuo’s profile, images of her family’s recent worried faces flashing through her mind.

Her thoughts churned. She opened her mouth, then hesitated.

            

In the end, she only muttered, “Then… thank you.”

SPACE LINE

The city streets were bustling. Even in the dead of night, scattered lights still burned.

            

Xu Jialuo sat cross-legged before the floor-to-ceiling windows of her high-rise apartment, a glass of sparkling water with ice beside her. Her smooth black hair draped over her shoulders and back, the slightly curled tips still carrying the dampness of not being fully dried.

She picked up her guitar and, amid the delicate crackling of rising carbonation, her slender fingers struck a few chords. She hummed a melody in her throat.

After repeated experimentation, she released the strings, leaned sideways onto the floor, and quickly jotted down the melody.

            

In the movement, the collar of her sleepwear pulled open, sliding down along the slight curve of her spine to reveal the back of her neck — normally concealed by high-collared clothing or loose hair.

On her cold, pale, flawless skin, a roughly five-centimeter dark red scar slanted across the nape. Like a keen blade, it cruelly cleaved through snow-light and moon-shadow.

A strand of hair, curled by the friction of the collar, its tip pressing into the skin.

            

Xu Jialuo frowned, brushed the hair aside, picked up the glass for a sip, then pressed the cold glass against the back of her neck to ice it.

Ever since encountering that omega at the villa, the back of her neck had felt uncomfortable.

…Was it an allergy to the fabric, or was the damp weather bringing on eczema?

            

The thought flickered past without leaving much of an impression. Xu Jialuo set down the glass and continued writing on the paper.

She had just filled a page when a message from her manager Zhou Fu arrived — several screenshots of music app charts.

Zhou Fu: The lead single is already #1 on the new song chart! （星星眼） The reviews are really great too! （大拇指）

            

Xu Jialuo’s eyes swept over the screenshots. She pressed her lips together and tapped into the song’s comment section.

Her fingertips scrolled, flipping through pages, carefully reading many of the latest comments sorted by time. A faint light glimmered in her dark eyes.

Switching back to WeChat, Xu Jialuo replied: Saw it.

            

Zhou Fu: Make sure to rest early! （爱心）

Xu Jialuo: Mm.

Xu Jialuo tossed the pen aside, moved to the piano, and played a fluent, pleasing rhythm.

            

Her taut lip line softened. Xu Jialuo pressed the phone’s record button and repeated the music she had just played.

Then she tapped share with practiced ease, found the familiar little whale icon she had been looking at for years, and the page jumped.

This was a fully anonymous music exchange app called Whale Fall¹.

            

Xu Jialuo first logged in during high school. With a let’s-try-it attitude, she uploaded the first piece she had ever composed.

Unfortunately, she had little experience at the time and no understanding of the app’s recommendation algorithm. She had not even written a clear title. The piece sat there for half a month with zero attention.

Xu Jialuo deleted it outright.

            

A few days later, when she opened the app one last time to permanently deactivate her account, she unexpectedly discovered that someone had followed her and sent a private message.

The person asked Xu Jialuo why she had deleted her work, then said they genuinely loved the music she had uploaded and hoped she would keep creating.

After that, Xu Jialuo changed phones several times, and each time she reinstalled this app.

            

Whenever new inspiration struck, she would casually send fragments to the other person.

Sometimes it was an unpolished piano piece. Sometimes a guitar-accompanied hum. Sometimes a more fully arranged composition.

As the exchanges accumulated, the other person moved beyond simple praise and gradually began offering increasingly pertinent and professional feedback.

            

Which parts were catchy and moving, which parts did not flow smoothly, even down to instrument selection and the timing of drum entries.

This continued even after Xu Jialuo began releasing songs, established her own studio, and her new tracks repeatedly climbed to the top of music charts.

The habit of sharing with this person never changed.

            

As for whether the other person had listened to her released tracks, whether they had figured out who she was, whether they knew she was now a highly sought-after independent musician.

The other person never brought it up, and Xu Jialuo never asked.

They simply maintained this strange, unspoken understanding.

            

Xu Jialuo tapped into the sole chat box on the page. The chat partner’s avatar — unchanged for years — appeared at the top: a little white ghost hanging beneath the eaves. The nickname field remained blank.

She sent the recorded audio over.

Xu Jialuo typed: New inspiration.

            

After sending it, she was about to exit the interface.

Because the other person had likely started working in recent years and was quite busy. She sent messages casually, and the other person’s replies came at unpredictable times—

Xu Jialuo’s fingertip paused. She looked at the top of the chat box with some surprise: “The other person is reading the message.”

            

This late, and the other person was still awake too.

A new message popped up quickly.

—It is very good. The variation in the third measure is handled with a light touch. I really like it.

            

Xu Jialuo read it carefully, pressed her lips together, the corners of her mouth lifting unconsciously. She sent: Mm, that is my favorite part too.

Then she continued typing: It is late. Why are you not asleep?

She deleted it all as soon as she finished.

            

Over years of communication, aside from discussing music, Xu Jialuo and this little ghost never engaged in small talk about anything else.

The only exception had been years ago.

It had also been a rainy night like today.

            

Spring chill still lingered, rain curtains joined the sky, and she stood in bone-chilling lake water that had already risen past her waist. In the last few seconds before her phone screen went black, she read the long message the other person had sent, over and over through wet lashes.

Then, after the screen went black, she used her last ounce of strength to crawl back to shore, trembling all over.

Apart from that one time, there had been no exceptions.

            

To preserve this rare connection for as long as possible, she tried to avoid offending the other person. As long as they did not cross a line, Xu Jialuo would not overstep either.

Xu Jialuo retyped: Going to sleep now.

She hit send.

            

The other side quickly showed “typing.” A few seconds later, the reply appeared on screen.

But it was not the expected “Mm” or “Okay.”

Xu Jialuo’s finger, poised to swipe the screen, paused once more.

            

—Are you an alpha now?

…

No preamble at all. Why ask something like that out of nowhere? And… why say “now”?

            

Baffled, but Xu Jialuo replied honestly: No. I am a beta.

She waited a while. No further activity from the other side.

Probably just a random thought that crossed their mind.

            

Xu Jialuo looked down at the screen, thought about it, and typed reciprocally: Are you an alpha?

—No.

—I am an omega.

            

Xu Jialuo: Mm.

The conversation ended again.

She waited a while. No new messages came.

            

Xu Jialuo exited the app and was about to toss her phone aside when a WeChat notification popped up.

【 Request to add you as a friend】

Without looking closely, Xu Jialuo tapped into the details page.

            

The first thing she saw was a hand-drawn, colorful sun sketch avatar. The nickname was blank.

In the note field below, three characters were appended:

Bo Suiqing.

            

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The author has something to say:

Good night in advance, sweet dreams everyone, mwah

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