RE:LIVE

1-1. Prologue: Red and White

Pain.

That was the first, and only, clear sensation.

Like someone was taking a pair of red-hot tongs and just stirring my insides around. Every nerve screamed, trembled, and then was brutally snapped. The screech of twisting metal, the sharp crackle of shattering glass, and… the smell of gasoline. Thick, pungent. The official scent of death.

I tried to force my eyes open, but my eyelids felt like they were lined with lead. My vision was nothing but a blurry sea of red.

Then, a shadow fell over me.

I felt a warm body press down, carrying that familiar scent—a mix of expensive cologne and faint tobacco. Its owner, my employer for the last five years, the man I once hated and pitied in equal measure—Sunday Aria—was using his own body, the one fashion magazines called a "masterpiece of God," to shield me.

"...Tch, what a mess, Liu Lie. Sorry, alright?"

His voice, for the first time ever, sounded so weak. It had lost that dramatic, annoying, upward lilt it usually had. Warm liquid dripped onto my cheek. I couldn't tell if it was his blood or mine.

"Next life... don't be my assistant again..." He let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "...It's a bad deal."

Those were the last words he ever said to me.

Then came the deafening explosion, and a searing white light that consumed everything.

In that final moment before the white light completely swallowed my consciousness, the face that flashed through my mind wasn't Aria's, even though he was right there.

Instead, it was a poster I saw on an old TV set, years and years ago.

On it, a ten-year-old boy in a white shirt stood by a river filled with summer fireflies, smiling gently over his shoulder. That was the first time I ever saw Yaku Xiao Lason.

He was the only ray of light in my bleak, gray childhood. A distant, impossibly pure dream.

So, I guess right before you die, you see both your "reality" and your "dream" at the same time.

Aria was my inescapable reality. Lason was the dream I could never touch.

And in the end, they both met a tragic fate.

How fucking… ironic.

...

...White light?

Wait.

After the white light fades, shouldn't it be heaven or hell? Why am I feeling… something soft?

I snapped my eyes open.

The excruciating pain was gone. The twisted metal and the smell of gasoline were gone too. In their place was the dry chill of air conditioning and the feel of a high-end leather sofa.

I was sitting here, completely intact. I looked down at myself. I was wearing my favorite shirt, a vintage-style floral thing with some obscure band's logo on it, sleeves rolled up to my elbows. My entire wardrobe is basically just shirts like this—shirts for old men, for hipsters, for gangsters, you name it.

My gaze drifted blankly around the room. It was an incredibly spacious, minimalist luxury apartment living room where every detail screamed "expensive." Plain white walls, huge floor-to-ceiling windows, and… that damned, massive screen embedded in the wall.

On the screen, a host in a hot pink suit was screaming in a voice so hyped up it made you want to call the cops:

"—That's right, viewers! Welcome back to the final week of The Top Tier Pact! Our three top contestants have successfully moved into the 'Zero Distance Apartment'! The seven-day, twenty-four-seven, no-blind-spots livestream will officially begin in…"

She made an exaggerated show of looking at the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist.

"Thirty minutes!"

...Thirty minutes.

My brain felt like it had been struck by lightning. A total blank. Then, countless memories from the "past life" came rushing back in like an out-of-control flood, demolishing the dam I'd built with my own death.

I was reborn.

1-2. The Pre-Show Conspiracy

As the staff led us into the apartment, our luggage was placed to one side. Aria's was a flashy set of silver hard-shell cases covered in trendy brand stickers. Lason's was just a single, worn-out black cloth suitcase with a small cactus charm hanging from the zipper. He seemed to be struggling with it, so I almost instinctively walked over and helped him lift it to the corner. I deliberately didn't look him in the eye, just muttered, "Put it here." He seemed to startle for a second, then murmured back, "...Thanks."

I cannot believe that I was reborn at the very beginning of it all. And my two “competitors” were already in position. They are just way too gorgeous.

Aria, like a king, had naturally claimed the central armchair. Lason instinctively wanted to hide in the farthest corner. I saw it. Before he could move, I sat down first, in the space between Aria and that corner, using my own body to discreetly create a safe buffer zone for him. Lason seemed to notice my intention. He glanced at me, then quietly settled into that corner.

So sitting on the armchair across from me was Sunday Aria. My od, it's really not fair. The guy's a certified lunatic with glitter for brains, but he was blessed with that face. I was his assistant for five years, saw him up close every single day, and I'd still get distracted sometimes. His nose is sharp, his jawline is almost too perfect—I know for a fact that it's all art sculpted by the best surgeons money can buy, but damn if it isn't natural-looking as hell. Paired with those naturally flirty eyes of his, he's basically a walking, talking hormone trap.

Right now, this "man-made parrot" was surprisingly dressed down—if you can call a custom-tailored, pure white silk suit paired with ridiculously flashy, gold-trimmed black heeled boots "dressed down." His shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, several silver chains of varying lengths hung around his neck, and all ten of his fingers were covered in different rings. He had his legs crossed, holding a small mirror, meticulously checking his perfect eyeliner while humming some pop song off-key. I knew why. He's just scared of the quiet. The moment it gets quiet, the emptiness in his eyes can suck you right in.

And huddled in the corner by the window was Yaku Xiao Lason.

My stupid heart skipped a beat. Wow, he's real, like the living version of him. I'm finally seeing him in person. Again.

He was the complete opposite. A soft, yellow-green hoodie so oversized it could fit two of him had basically swallowed him whole, paired with equally baggy grey sweatpants. The hood was pulled down low, showing only his small, delicate chin and a sliver of his pale lips. Last time, it was my over-the-top enthusiasm—charging at him like a crazed fanboy to confess my admiration—that scared him into total lockdown. He didn't say a single word to me for the rest of the competition. It was one of my biggest regrets.

This time, I could only watch from a distance. He was curled up in a ball, but that wasn't the posture of a startled deer. I meant, he surely looks like a frightening deer at a gaze but when I watched him closely. Even with his head down, his eyes under the brim of his hood were like cameras, slowly, discreetly, scanning the entire room. He wasn't scared. He was observing. Like a timid snake hidden in the shadows, assessing the danger level of his surroundings.

Goddammit, how does he look so good even when he's just being wary… My stupid pretty-face-loving-ass is hopeless.

One noisy parrot, one timid snake, and me—a guy in an elder man's floral shirt with a brain full of memories from a past life.

What a perfect recipe for disaster.

Before I could launch my grand plan, my eyes landed on the luggage again. Lason’s worn-out suitcase had a tiny, potted cactus sitting on top of it. He must have just taken it out. It was a common, cheap variety, the kind you could get for a few bucks at any flower market. But he’d tied a small, neat bow around the pot with a piece of string. He was cradling it in his lap now, gently, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

My Reborn Brain immediately supplied the data: Yaku Xiao Lason, a known succulent enthusiast. His social media, though rarely updated, was 90% pictures of his plants. A coping mechanism. Something quiet and alive that wouldn't demand anything from him.

I decided to start there. I walked over, not to him, but to the cactus. I crouched down, keeping a safe distance, and spoke to the plant.

"Hey there, little guy," I said softly, my voice calm. "That must have been a bumpy ride. You're a tough one, huh?"

Lason’s hands, which were protectively hovering over the cactus, froze. From under his hood, I felt his gaze lock onto me. It wasn't the wary look of a snake anymore. It was… curious. He was watching me, trying to figure out what my angle was. Perfect. I had his attention, but without the pressure of a direct confrontation.

Okay, okay, focus again.

Last time, I spent these thirty minutes like an idiot, silently calculating my chances of winning and missing every opportunity.

This time, I had twenty-eight minutes to rewrite the entire script.

I took a deep breath, stood up from the sofa, and walked straight to the space between them.

Aria glanced at me from his mirror, his voice lazy. "What? Wanna borrow my lip balm? No way, darling, this one's limited edition."

"Let's make a deal," I said, ignoring his trash talk and getting straight to the point.

That seemed to pique his interest. He finally put the mirror down, those peach-blossom eyes of his sizing me up, a playful smirk on his lips. "Oh? A deal about what? About how your shirt manages to offend both the fashion world and a senior citizens' center at the same time?"

"About how you're going to help me win this thing," I said, enunciating every word. "Because neither of you actually needs the money."

I turned to Aria first. I took a step forward, leaned in, and naturally reached out to fix a few strands of his messy blond hair. Five years as his assistant taught me he likes these casual touches; it makes him feel like the center of the universe. "You're the heir to the Sunday Group. Three hundred million is pocket change to you. You're just here because you're bored, right?"

His eyes flickered for a second. He didn't speak, but he didn't pull away from my touch either.

As I pulled my hand back, I let my gaze linger for a second too long on his fingers. His nails were impeccably manicured, buffed to a natural shine, and painted with a coat of clear, matte polish. A subtle detail, but one that screamed ‘high maintenance.’ In my past life, I’d been the one scheduling his weekly manicure appointments. I knew he was obsessed with having perfect hands. He once threw a tantrum because a hangnail ruined the look of a photoshoot.

“Your nails look good today, by the way,” I said casually, my tone flat, as if just stating a fact. “That matte topcoat was a good choice. Understated.”

Aria blinked, his smirk faltering for a split second. The compliment was so specific, so professional, it was completely out of left field for a “fellow contestant.” It was an insider’s comment. I saw a flicker of genuine surprise in his eyes, quickly masked by his usual playful arrogance.

“Well, obviously,” he preened, examining his own hand. “I have, like, impeccable taste. You should be taking notes, Mr. Floral Shirt.”

He was trying to brush it off, but I had planted the seed. The first tiny crack in his perception of me as just some random poor guy. He was looking at me differently now. The game had already begun.

Well, at least it was great conversation, I supposed.

Then, I turned to Lason. I didn't dare get too close, stopping a good three paces away from him. "You debuted early. Your royalties and savings are enough for you to live off of for the rest of your life. The company forced you into this."

The living room fell silent. The smile on Aria's face faded, his gaze turning sharp, observing. Lason's shoulders gave an uncontrollable flinch.

"So, let me have the win," I said, spreading my hands in a gesture of surrender. "Aria, if you help me, after this is over, I'll be your loyal lackey for life. I'll do whatever you say." I even gave him a little wink, adding, "Besides, don't you think this would be more fun?"

I knew him. "Fun" was a more powerful motivator than any promise I could make.

"Lason..." I paused, looking at the boy hidden in his hoodie.

I'm sorry, Lason. Last time, my 'good intentions' scared you away. This time, I have to use a cold word like 'use' to give you a safe reason to engage, one that doesn't require any emotional response. I have to be the 'bad guy' in your eyes first, so I can become the one person who won't end up hurting you.

"I'm going to use you," I said.

The effect was even stronger than I'd imagined. Lason's head shot up. His pupils, almost milky-white under the indoor lighting, clearly reflected my image. Under the hood, his small, exquisite features were stark white with shock.

I forced myself to meet his gaze and continue playing the villain. "You don't have to do anything," I said, each word feeling like a curse I was placing on myself. "Just be yourself. I'll create a safe place for you. In exchange, you 'lend' me your popularity. This is a pure transaction. No kindness, just mutual benefit. Or purely out of my own interest and egoism."

s I finished my cold declaration of a deal, I deliberately looked away, giving him space to process. In my peripheral vision, I saw his tightly clenched fist slowly, one finger at a time, relax. Then, he made a small gesture—pulling the sleeves of his yellow-green hoodie down further, covering his entire hand. It was a little habit I remembered from my past life, something he did subconsciously when he felt safe.

The moment I finished, Aria let out a whistle, his face alight with the thrill of watching a good show.

"So, what's the plan, Mr. Ambitious Director?"

"The plan," I took a deep breath and dropped my bombshell, "is that starting today, for the next seven days, we're going to star in a romance show." I paused, then added for effect, "Or maybe… a marriage reality show?"

"Getting married?" Aria repeated, his voice lifting with delight.

But Lason's reaction was something I hadn't anticipated at all.

The second I said that, he shot up from his corner like a cat whose tail had just been stomped on.

He turned and bolted. He was shockingly fast, his target clear—his own bedroom. He wanted to lock himself away, to escape this confusing, high-pressure conversation.

"Oh my god, he's running!" Aria, instead of stopping him, just yelled excitedly, like he was watching some kind of entertaining obstacle course.

Shit!

Alarm bells went off in my head. I immediately gave chase, jamming my body in the doorway an instant before he could slam the door shut.

"Lason! Listen to me!"

"...Let go." His voice came from behind the door, trembling and laced with tears. He was using all his strength to push the door closed.

"Sweetheart, don't push so hard, you'll squish him," Aria drawled as he strolled over. Then, he casually propped the bottom of the door open with his heeled boot. He even had the nerve to wink at me. "Need some help, 'hubby'?"

Hubby your ass!

I had no time for him. I braced myself against the door and yelled at the panicking person inside. "Lason! It's a script! It's an act! Do you hear me? We're just acting!"

The pressure from behind the door paused for a second.

I seized the opportunity. "It's a protective shell! You don't have to do anything except play the role of a 'protected family member'! Us being nice to you is just 'part of the script'! You don't have to feel any pressure! It's a deal! You just have to play your part, and you'll get seven days of peace!"

Heavy breathing came from the other side of the door.

A few seconds later, the immense pressure vanished.

Slowly, carefully, I pushed the door open.

Lason was crouched on the floor with his back to me, his head in his hands, curled into a tiny ball. His yellow-green hoodie was all wrinkled from the struggle.

He didn't run again.

He had accepted the "script."

I turned around to see Aria leaning against the doorframe, watching the whole scene with keen interest.

"Well," he clapped his hands together, his face full of genuine admiration, "this is, like, a million times more fun than I thought it would be. I'm in. This crazy game? I'm so playing."

Done.

My hastily thrown-together troupe had finally, just before the curtain rose, all signed their names on this absurd contract.

1-3. The Director is in Position. Action!

The screen on the wall began its final countdown.

"10... 9... 8..."

The three of us returned to the living room. The atmosphere was weird, but stable. Aria immediately switched into performance mode, even taking a moment to pull a bright red lipstick from his luggage to touch up his lips, blowing a perfect kiss at the camera. Lason sat quietly beside me, hands on his knees, like an exquisite doll awaiting instructions. He was still scared, but I knew he was trying his best to play his "role."

My Reborn Brain was screaming at me. This is it. The turning point. Last time, you were a coward. You let Aria take the lead, and you faded into the background. You were so scared of Lason you didn't even dare to look at him.

I remembered the regret that ate at me for years. If only I had been bolder. If only I had created a space where Lason didn't have to hide. If only I had understood that Aria's loud noise was just a shield for his desperate loneliness.

I looked at Aria, who was applying his lipstick like a warrior putting on war paint. His hands were steady, but I knew, I knew, that his heart was probably pounding with a mix of excitement and a deep-seated fear of the silence that would follow the applause.

I looked at Lason, who was staring at his own knees. So young. So broken by the industry that was supposed to make him shine. In the past life, his official cause of death was overwork, but I knew the truth. I'd read the hidden fan forums, the leaked messages from ex-staff. He had simply faded away, starved of genuine, pressure-free connection until his light went out.

No. Not this time.

This time, I wasn't just here to win. I was here to conduct a rescue mission. And the first rule of a rescue mission is to seize control.

I moved to stand between them and, during the countdown, grabbed each of them by the wrist. Aria's hand was warm and strong; Lason's was cold and trembling slightly.

"3... 2... 1..."

The "ON AIR" sign on the screen lit up.

The eyes of millions of viewers across the country were now focused on us.

Aria cleared his throat, ready to detonate the show with his signature opening line.

I beat him to it.

Facing the camera, I put on the most sincere, and most world-shattering, smile of my life.

"Hello, everyone."

My voice wasn't loud, but it carried clearly through the mic.

"Let me introduce myself. My name is Liu Lie."

I could feel Aria lightly scratch the palm of my hand. A signal of his excitement. Lason's hand was as stiff as a rock.

I ignored it all and continued, looking straight into the camera, executing our freshly-minted, insane script, word for word.

"Starting today, the three of us are getting married."

1-4. The First Night: The Storm Gathers

The air froze for three seconds. Then, Aria broke the silence with a peal of dramatic, booming laughter, catching my line perfectly.

"Hahahahaha—Oh my fucking god! He's right!" Aria was practically bent over laughing. He threw his arms wide and pulled Lason and me into a crushing hug. "That's right! We're a family! And I'm... um, I'm the husband! They're both my wives, or husbands, I don't care!"

As he said it, he deliberately nuzzled his head against Lason's soft black hair. Lason's whole body went rigid, but this time, he didn't pull away. He just buried his face deep into my shoulder.

Not bad, my actors. Not bad at all.

The chaotic energy was infectious. For a moment, I almost forgot I was a man with a 25-year-old soul, a heavy past, and a secret mission. I was just a nineteen-year-old guy, caught in the ridiculous crossfire between a drama queen and a shy genius.

My inner monologue was having a field day. Okay, Yan-Kong Brain, report. On a scale of 1 to 10, how illegal is Aria's jawline right now? A solid 11. And Lason, burying his face in my shoulder? The fluffiness of his hair is a weapon of mass destruction. How did I never realize this in my past life?

Probably because I was too busy being a stressed-out, broke, and pathetically invisible assistant. My past self was a ghost, a tool. But now? Now I was a player. And goddammit, my co-stars were distractingly beautiful. It was a serious professional hazard. I made a mental note to factor "visual distraction" into my future strategies. It was a bigger threat than any mission the producers could throw at us.

The rest of the time was a one-man show starring Aria, the crazy parrot. He excitedly dragged us on a "tour" of the apartment, which he had unilaterally declared our "honeymoon suite," and naturally claimed the largest master bedroom for himself.

After we'd all settled in and were about to head to our separate rooms to rest, Aria reappeared, leaning against my doorway like a curious bird. He'd changed into a set of black silk pajamas, the top unbuttoned enough to reveal his sharp collarbones and a sliver of his chest.

Damn it, this guy is a menace.

"Hey, Liu Lie..." He tilted his head, looking at me. "You're actually pretty interesting. Where did you even come from?"

His tone lacked the probing sharpness of our past life. It was filled more with the pure excitement of someone who'd found a new toy. This parrot wasn't curious about my secrets; he was just curious about how much more fun I could bring him.

"Just a poor guy who's willing to research your entire family tree for three hundred million," I repeated my all-purpose excuse.

"Boring~" he pouted, clearly finding my answer dull. Then, as if a fun idea just struck him, his eyes lit up. He leaned in close, his lips almost brushing my ear, and whispered, "As the 'husband,' I'd like to invite my two 'wives' to take a bath together tonight, to you know, bond... Is that part of your script, Mr. Director?"

A wave of heat shot from my earlobe straight down my neck. This bastard! He always knew exactly how to push my buttons and make me lose my cool!

I saw Lason's figure freeze in the hallway. Even with his back to us, I could feel how tense he was.

Can't let Aria scare him off. The show just started!

Almost on instinct, I took a step, grabbed Lason's wrist, and pulled him toward my room.

"Let's go."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Aria's squawk of protest came from behind us. "Wow! My two wives are gonna go have secrets without their husband? So mean!"

I ignored him, pulled Lason into my room, and slammed the door shut with a "bang." Aria didn't follow, just made a few weird noises outside the door before his footsteps faded away.

In the room, I let go of Lason's wrist and turned around, about to say something to calm him down.

But I stopped dead.

Lason wasn't panicking or hiding in a corner like I'd expected. He was just standing there quietly. He looked up, his kaleidoscopic, milky-white eyes staring at me, unblinking.

There was no fear in his gaze, no confusion. Just a pure, bone-chilling focus.

He didn't push me away, and he didn't back up.

"...Liu Lie," he said. His voice was soft, but incredibly clear.

"Yeah?"

"Our script," he tilted his head, a look of almost childlike curiosity on his exquisite face. "Does it need... a bed scene?"

My brain blue-screened.

[System Error: brain.exe has stopped working.]

"...What... did you just say?" I thought I was hearing things.

"I'm saying," Lason's tone was still perfectly calm, like he was discussing the weather, "to make the 'marriage' setting more realistic, would we need some... more intimate performances? I can cooperate with anything."

Cooperate with my ass!

I could feel my face burning. "No! We don't! It's just a concept! A theme! Got it?"

"Oh..." Lason nodded, though he didn't look like he fully understood. Then, as if remembering something, he continued in that same emotionless tone, asking a question that left me speechless.

"That's a shame."

Hold on, did he just say "that's a shame"?!

While my brain was still trying to process this information overload, Lason dropped a real bomb.

"Liu Lie..." He looked at me, his eyes so clear they seemed to reflect all of my current panic. "In this script, Aria is the 'husband.' He's the absolute main character, the center of every topic."

He took a small step forward, closing the distance between us.

"Are you sure, if we keep acting this way..."

He lifted his gaze, those impossibly beautiful eyes boring straight into my soul.

"...the one who wins in the end... will be you?"

...

...

...

In an instant, the entire world went quiet.

Aria's noise, the chaos of the livestream, the confusion of my rebirth... everything shattered in the face of Lason's light, simple question.

I was speechless.

I looked at him and thought about the past life.

Lason was found dead at home a year after the competition ended. No external injuries, no drugs. The official cause was "cardiac arrest due to overwork." But everyone knew he was consumed by loneliness and fear. Before he died, the sporadic hate comments online never stopped. And I, just one of his millions of fans, could only watch helplessly. I always thought, what if... what if there had been someone during the competition who truly understood him, who protected him? Would the ending have been different?

I thought by coming back, with the script in my hand, I could be that person.

But I was wrong.

Lason doesn't need a self-righteous "director." What he needs, maybe, is just a kindred spirit who can understand the look in his eyes.

His question just now wasn't a power move.

He was asking me: "Are you sure this is how you want to protect me? Are you sure this is the ending you want?"

Seeing my pale, silent face, Lason seemed to realize what he'd said. The sharpness in his eyes faded, and he reverted to that somewhat lost look again. He whispered, "...Sorry," then turned, opened the door, and quickly disappeared down the hall.

I stood alone in the middle of the room, unable to move for a long time.

A cold sweat trickled down from my temple.

This time around... it seems like everyone is a lot more terrifying than I remembered.

I lay in bed, staring at the small, blinking red light of the camera on the ceiling, Lason's question echoing in my mind.

The director was in position, and the scripts were handed out.

But one of my lead actors is a crazy parrot who ad-libs whenever he feels like it, and the other... is some kind of black-bellied creature hiding under the skin of a timid deer.

And me, the self-proclaimed director, just got checkmated by my own actor on the very first day.

I couldn't help but cover my eyes with my arm and let out a frustrated, bitter laugh.

This show... how the hell am I supposed to direct this?

1.5 Preview for Chapter 2

The next morning, I was woken up by a warm, heavy, and very pressuring sensation.

I pried my eyes open, and the first thing I saw was a toned, muscular chest and a fluffy, blond head of hair.

A strong arm was wrapped around my waist like an iron clamp.

I was being held tightly in the arms of Sunday Aria, like a giant teddy bear.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?