SATC C10

Chapter 10 – Beating Up the Patron

Truth be told, after so many years out in the world, the clothes Chu Yang had worn most were suits and shirts.

During downtime, he’d change into baggier tank tops at the gym; even if the place was sweltering, he wouldn’t strip down with passersby around, at most biting his shirt hem to fan himself.

Only during occasional small-scale martial arts tournaments would he go half-naked. When off-duty, Chu Yang rarely went out, just wrapped himself in his blankets at home and slept, hardly concerning himself with daily fashion.

Sometimes, passing men’s clothing stores, the shop assistants would swarm him like a money tree.

Girls would chirp and circle him, thinning the little reserve of self-consciousness he once possessed, until he left with a few pieces all the same style. Chen Jiali could stare for ages and never realize they were new at all.

Chu Yang felt deeply frustrated.

Chen Jiali, always the comforter, said it was fine — “Ah, Yang-ge, this is just straight-man aesthetics. Totally normal.”

Chu Yang looked at him for a long while, then murmured, “Hmm.”

But grumbled inwardly, But I’m not a straight man.

Back in Southeast Asia, when assigned to protect Ling Si’an, missions occasionally required him to operate solo and undercover. Chu Yang would paint his face with camouflage cream, wear a simple black fitted vest — sometimes, in the heat, he’d strip everything off and oil his chest and abs, never feeling even a hint of embarrassment.

But now, dressed in the white T-shirt and jeans Ling Yibo bought for him…

Chu felt more exposed than being half-naked.

Today was Li Guanqi’s turn for rest. The kid had managed to evade humiliation, leaving for the capital before dawn as though making a getaway.

Key point: Ling Er, for whatever reason, radically broke routine today. He didn’t go to the basement to work off his energy with boxing, didn’t nap on the second floor, didn’t play endless video games on the third.

Instead, he insisted on coming down to the first-floor living room to lie on a recliner and read.

The recliner was directly opposite the doors of Chu Yang and Chen Jiali’s rooms.

It was even laid with a natural blue fox blanket.

Isn’t he hot? Chu Yang wondered.

“Yang-ge, wrong — Chief Chu, are you very hot?”

Chen Jiali was thrilled about Ling Yibo’s new “uniform” policy, picking lint off his shirt and chattering nonstop. “Your ears are so red, do you need my portable neck fan? Oh man, patrol duty at night is roasting, plus there’re tons of mosquitoes — the beach ones are vicious, one bite, one welt, one bite, one welt, one bite, one welt…”

“I get it, you’ve got three welts. Stop harping,” Chu Yang pinched his earlobe — it was a bit hot — “Keep that neck fan on too long, you’ll get facial paralysis. Watch yourself.”

Chen Jiali’s smile faded: “Really?”

“Really. The last guy who quit got fired for that.” Chu goaded him.

“So… is that why you have facial paralysis? Too many neck fans?” Chen Jiali’s brain-system was never wired quite like anyone else’s.

Chu Yang glared. Chen immediately shut up.

Sitting on the bed’s edge, Chu straightened the creases in his jeans, ignoring him. After listening to Chen finish saying “I never splurge on pricey clothes myself,” Chu put his finger to Chen’s lips: “Enough. Shut up. Start work.”

“Yes!”

Chen snapped to attention, still carrying a bit of his old military habit. “Swear to protect little Ling to the death — a thousand deaths, no regrets!”

He explained: “Means no matter how many times I die for him, I won’t quit.”

Chu Yang genuinely admired Ling Yibo’s tactics.

A set of expensive clothes, a timely midnight meal, and Chen — such a naïve brute — was instantly bought. “Ling Er, that brat,” had turned into “little Ling,” appeasing and affirming everyone, even making Chu Yang finally feel the tug of authority at play — who was supposed to obey whom.

One thing Chu could confirm: Ling Yibo was not evil enough to aggressively escalate by having him wear women’s clothing next day.

He stepped out of his room.

Ling Yibo seemed quite satisfied with Chu’s outfit, flicking his sunglasses onto his hair, scrutinizing him from top to toe before drawling, “Not bad… Kind of reminds me of the vibe when you came to catch me that time.”

Chu was speechless.

Are you really a masochist, Ling Yibo? Got a thing for getting caught?

His hair, grown out and untrimmed, was often raked up in rough handfuls, bristling more for show than effect.

Maybe he thought it looked cool.

Forget it. Young men a few years younger always had unpredictable minds.

Chu arched his brow, wanting to refuse: “I’m not used to dressing like this.”

“You look great in it,” Yibo offered, unexpectedly earnest, “Though the black shirt you wore last night was also sexy. You can include that in your daily work wardrobe.”

Last night’s black fitted dress shirt had been a swap for the too-bright white; Chu generally avoided black shirts in summer since they absorbed heat — he seldom wore them lately.

Sexy seemed a very high compliment for a man’s look?

But Ling Yibo’s hyper-focus on his staff’s appearance was a little too much; Chu could not put a finger on his own feelings.

Before he could object, his phone rang — Raymond calling.

Yibo didn’t bother shooing him away, just nodded: “Take it here.”

Chu had no choice, reporting the previous day’s outing right in front of Yibo without mentioning the episode of facial-baptism; as for today, Second Young Master had stayed home reading — what book?

A glance showed: The Shawshank Redemption.

He reported the title, then saw Yibo propping his chin and grinning. Sure enough, on the other end, Raymond hesitated for a few seconds, then said, “Chief Chu, please keep an extra close watch on the young master.”

Got it. Chu sighed, ended the call, and turned to glare at the troublemaker.

Yibo was unconcerned, entertained by Chu’s robot-like professionalism, soon grew bored with the book, and headed up to the second floor.

A short time later, he came back down, stripped bare to the waist, wearing swim trunks, pale towel on his shoulders — all muscle, a model show.

The necklace he’d kept — snakehead with emerald eyes, draping down to his pecs. The green glint gave him an aura of privilege.

He walked straight toward the pool, then paused by Chu to ask: “I’m going swimming. Want to join?”

His swim trunks featured a sunset print, with a silhouetted palm tree — so garish Chu couldn’t help glancing twice.

Where does he get these outrageous shorts?

Chu gave the standard reply: “I’ll wait for you by the pool.”

The villa’s poolside had loungers and umbrellas — he could shade himself, relax, and fish for a break.

After a moment, Yibo shook his head, stepped closer, arms folded, leveled his gaze: “Can’t go in? Train with me?”

“I don’t have swim trunks.” Chu refused.

“I’ll get Chen to buy you some.” Yibo said.

Chu inhaled deeply; the last thing he wanted was Chen driving into town just to buy him some ridiculous swim shorts, just so he could keep Yibo company for whatever mood swing was happening.

“No bodyguard takes a gig wearing swim trunks. If the client falls in the water, and I’m forced to undress in public to change, it’s totally unprofessional,” Chu’s tone grew agitated. “If you’re that full of energy, just try diving. Dive, swim up, dive again — in an hour you’ll be exhausted.”

“…”

Turns out, when angry, Chu could talk nonstop.

Yibo raised his brow, genuinely considering this idea. “What sport would you do with me then?”

Chu imagined a hundred possibilities, but hadn’t considered Yibo wanted a workout partner. “You really need someone to ‘mess around’ with?”

“Wrong. Exercise.”

Yibo had stood in the lounge till he broke a sweat. Beads trickled from his collarbone. He wiped off with a towel. “Of everyone available, you’re the best choice. We haven’t sparred in three years. Aren’t you curious?”

Chu: “Not at all.”

Yibo’s disappointment was obvious. “…”

“I’ll book a sparring partner for you. You can swim till sunset.” Chu turned to go.

“What if the sparring partner drowns me?” Yibo hypothesized.

“Then you get compensation,” Chu said. “The payout goes to Director Ling’s account.”

“So you failed to protect me,” Yibo mimicked Chu’s tone.

After, he sneaked a look at Chu’s face; for once, after a night chill, it finally showed a ripple of emotion.

Those ripples looked great on Chu — anything but deadpan.

Stay calm.

Don’t fall for provocation, Chu reminded himself.

If he gave in, it’d be for three reasons:

First, Zhou Du — already over thirty — would lose face if Yibo flattened him next;

Second, Chen Jiali, with his special-forces background and height edge, would also be humiliated if bested by Yibo;

Third, it’d been ages since Chu had sparred with Yibo — and, honestly, the thought of landing a punch was tempting.

“All right, let’s have a fight.” He made up his mind.

It wasn’t that Chu lacked competitive drive. His competitive streak, bottled up for so long, was especially intense and direct, irrelevant of rank — this showdown arose purely between Chu Yang, the man, and Ling Yibo, the man.

After speaking, he crossed his arms, lifted his shirt hem and stretched, a sharp line forming in his back. He peeled off the tee from overhead.

Casually ruffling his hair, he let the shirt dangle from his elbow, the soft fabric brushing the faint swell of muscle.

Stripping down for a fight — felt surprisingly good.

“I’ll spar with you.”

He headed for his room, twirling the shirt, not looking back: “I’m changing into a vest — wait for me. Don’t run away.”

In this mood, Chu seemed possessed — a second soul raring to break out.

He changed, then followed Yibo into the basement gym.

For the house bodyguards’ training, aside from usual gym equipment, Chu had set up an open space his first week living here, bordered by a massive black rack with a blood-red sandbag dangling from it.

Sunlight spilled in from the basement atrium, casting the sandbag’s shadow onto matching gym mats.

Chu stepped up, punched a few blows for warm-up. Shadows quivered.

He changed into a quick-dry fitted vest, stripped off his jeans for black sports shorts.

His bare skin was very pale, smooth, and the muscles — neither bulky nor understated — looked just right for strength without showiness.

Yibo was shirtless, distinctly more rugged and broad across the shoulders — years by the sea had tanned him to a shade closer to his natural ancestry.

Close now, side by side, the contrast was stark: one a stay-at-home, the other perpetually wild.

“I’ll spar here,” Chu pointed to the edge of the red gym mat. “This is the boundary. Step out and it’s a foul. Inside, you can hit me however you want.”

Yibo tossed the towel on a machine, took off his necklace, listened and laughed. “Isn’t it more you hitting me? Uncle Sen said you won a fighting championship.”

“I did — in Southeast Asia.”

Talking achievements, Chu turned cocky. “Second place got nearly concussed by me. Needed the whole award ceremony to recover.”

His proud, confident smile surprised Yibo, but he found it entertaining. “Wouldn’t have guessed.”

With them stripped down, Yibo finally noticed Chu’s torso—

On his external obliques, faint knife scars that freshly healed mismatched his pale skin. Higher up, running diagonally from left pec to armpit, a deeper wound showed peeled flesh.

That scar, Yibo recalled.

Their freshman year in college, on a rainy night, Chu accompanied him to Xie’s birthday party. Their two-ton car got rammed into a barrier on the expressway by a tailing vehicle; the car was sturdy, ended up skidding on its side, dented, the rear window shattered — but not into shards, just a large piece that collapsed inside.

Chu instinctively shielded Yibo—

That night was peak summer heat. Chu wore just a short-sleeved shirt.

Since then, Yibo never rode a sedan again. The perpetrator was still in prison.

Facing him now, Yibo couldn’t inspect the back of Chu’s neck at such close range — all he saw were straight shoulders, protruding collarbone, rounded shoulders leading to a solid, vibrant frame.

Chu had no idea what Yibo was daydreaming.

He ignored Yibo, unfurled a roll of ivory hand wraps, looped it round his thumb, wrapped the wrist, crossed back toward the thumb, then threaded the cloth tight between ring and pinky fingers. The fabric lay smooth against the pronounced bones of his hand.

Tilting his head, Chu swiftly used his other hand to finish the wrap on the back. He pushed down on his wrist, bowed his head, gripped the trailing length in his teeth, yanked hard, fixing it snug.

He finished his own protection, grabbed another roll and, without asking, pulled Yibo forward, flicked his chin to signal: “Hand out.”

Yibo obligingly stuck out his hand. “Has to be wrapped? It’s not comfortable.”

“Yeah,” Chu said, focused. “Wouldn’t want to destroy your dog paws.”

Yibo paused, lips quirking into a grin. “Is that your pre-match trash talk?”

“You called me a dog first, in front of Xie. I remember perfectly.”

Chu yanked the wrap tight, then shoved Yibo back to clear space.

“I heard from Uncle Sen you beat up the new American recruit. That serious?” Yibo’s hand throbbed — Chu was merciless with the wraps.

Last time he’d been dominated by Chu in the office it was a total surprise; Yibo felt an edge of stubborn pride, challenged, his competitiveness spiking at Chu’s current demeanor.

“If you don’t believe, try it.”

Chu mimicked Yibo’s usual arrogant style, crooking a finger: “Come see what kind of skill you get for seventy-eight thousand a month.”

Footnotes:

1. 78,000/month — The referenced monthly salary for hiring a top-tier private bodyguard in this context (reflects the premium value placed on Chu Yang’s skills).

2. “Dog paws” and “dog” — In certain contexts, calling someone “dog” is playful or competitive banter, not always derogatory. Here, it’s referenced as inside-joke trash talk between the two characters.