Qiu Yingying is reborn and bound to a learning system.

When Meng Yanchen woke up, the room was unusually quiet.

The curtains were drawn tightly, letting in only a few rays of morning light. There was still a lingering smell of alcohol in the air, along with a strange, sweet fragrance, like a mixture of some kind of fruit and flower scent. It was very faint, yet impossible to ignore.

He opened his eyes and it took him a few seconds to realize where he was.

It's not a hotel, it's my own home.

He moved, but his body didn't feel as refreshed as it would have when he woken up. Instead, he felt an unusual weariness and emptiness, as if he had suddenly relaxed after a tense night, with an indescribable lethargy permeating even his bones.

My head aches a little, and I feel a bit disoriented and tired, unsure of what year it is.

He looked down and saw that he was covered with a thin blanket, but his chest was exposed.

That patch of skin was covered with a dense array of scratches and bite marks, stretching from the collarbone all the way down to the pectoral muscles, and even extending to the abdomen, varying in depth and glaringly red.

Meng Yanchen's eyes instantly turned cold.

As a well-educated young nobleman who valued appearances above all else, he had never seen himself so... out of control. He remembered running away from where he had been drugged yesterday, but what happened afterward was a blur due to the effects of the drug.

He raised his hand, his fingertips gently tracing the red marks, the skin beneath his fingertips still burning slightly.

Last night's hazy memories are shrouded in a thick fog, indistinct yet carrying a dangerous heat—

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Icy water, scalding body temperature, soft touch, rapid breathing...

There were also the soft, sweet breaths of a woman, each one seemingly whispering in his ear, carrying an unconscious dependence and panic.

What is even clearer is his own struggle.

He remembered lying in cold water, trying to suppress the uncontrollable heat in his body with reason. He remembered the medicine burning like fire in his veins, and he gritted his teeth, telling himself again and again to control himself, to push it away, to stay awake.

He remembered that he had indeed pushed it, more than once.

I remember using all my strength to try to move the person off me, I remember hoarsely saying "no" and "stop," and I remember my knuckles turning white from the exertion.

But the drug was too potent, like an invisible hand that gripped his reason tightly, dragging it little by little into the abyss.

In the end, he still couldn't stop it.

Meng Yanchen closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tried to suppress those images.

This is not something he would do.

Absolutely not.

He threw back the covers, got out of bed, his movements were fairly steady, but his steps were a beat slower than usual, with a hint of sluggishness from just waking up and... a trace of barely perceptible awkwardness.

He steadied himself by holding onto the edge of the bed, and his gaze inadvertently swept across the floor.

On the carpet lay something that didn't belong to him.

A woman's shawl.

It has a very light color, a soft texture, and a faint, almost imperceptible perfume scent.

Meng Yanchen's gaze paused for a moment.

He bent down and reached out to pick up the shawl.

The moment his fingertips touched the fabric, he could feel a trace of warmth remaining on it, and... a few strands of long, brown, curly hair.

The hair was soft and had a natural curve; it was clearly a woman's hair.

Last night's images kept resurfacing uncontrollably.

Her soft body pressed against his, her curly hair cascading over his shoulders and chest, carrying a faint fragrance, and her soft, sweet voice whispered in his ear.

Meng Yanchen's gaze was terrifyingly deep.

He placed the shawl on a chair beside him and continued to scan the room with his eyes.

There were no other women's clothes, no shoes, no bag, and nothing that could prove her identity.

She just... left like that?

Meng Yanchen walked to the bathroom door and pushed it open.

The steam in the bathroom had long since dissipated, but a sweet fragrance lingered in the air, the same as the scent in the room, only stronger, with a hint of ambiguity.

The edge of the bathtub was clean and tidy, but you could see some subtle marks that someone had leaned on it, as if someone had supported their body there, or as if someone had slid down and left shallow marks.

On the sink, there was a small hair clip, very ordinary in style, but clearly a woman's item.

Meng Yanchen's gaze fell on it, his eyes darkening further.

He walked to the mirror and looked at himself.

Her hair was messy, her face was paler than usual, and her lips were covered in lipstick.

The red marks were smeared on his lips, and even some rubbed onto the corners of his mouth and chin, making him look disheveled and... ambiguous.

There was a clear teeth mark on his Adam's apple, reddish-purple, as if he had been bitten hard.

His chest and abdomen were covered with scratches and bite marks, crisscrossing as if he had been brutally abused.

Meng Yanchen took a deep breath, trying his best to maintain his composure.

He is Meng Yanchen, the heir of the Meng family, a person who was taught from childhood to be restrained, dignified, and law-abiding.

But now, he has done something... out of control.

And that woman... ran away.

He glanced at the marks in the bathroom, then at the empty bed in the bedroom.

She didn't leave any contact information, not even an apology.

And just like that... he left.

Meng Yanchen stood silently in place for a long time before slowly walking back to the bedside.

He sat on the edge of the bed, ran his hands through his hair, and scratched it hard.

His life, always meticulous and orderly, was always under his control. Except for the unexpected events involving Xu Qin and Song Yan. His life was like a carefully planned track, with every step arranged and every decision carefully considered.

But now, the track has suddenly derailed.

Something happened that he had never anticipated and had no control over at all.

"What should we do...?"

He murmured softly, his voice carrying a barely perceptible hint of frustration and bewilderment.

When has Meng Yanchen ever been in such a sorry state?

He raised his hand and pressed his throbbing temples, his mind filled with images from last night—

The woman's soft body, sweet fragrance, brown curly hair, soft, panting breaths, and his own out-of-control reaction.

He is not an irresponsible person.

He should be held responsible for what happened.

but……

He didn't even know who the other person was.

I can't even remember her name or what she looks like.

All I remember is that her hair was soft, her voice was sweet, her breathing was light, and... the temperature that made him lose control when she was in his arms.

Meng Yanchen leaned against the headboard, closed his eyes, and sighed deeply.

"We have to be responsible for them..."

He spoke softly, as if to himself, yet also as if to the woman who had vanished.

This made Meng Yanchen, who had always been in control of everything, feel a deep sense of powerlessness for the first time.

Moreover, given what happened, he, a man accustomed to maintaining his dignity, simply couldn't bring himself to ask his assistant for help in investigating.

How do I bring that up?

Does he expect him to sit solemnly in his office and tell his assistant, "Find out who the woman I went home with last night was, and also pull up the CCTV footage?"

Just thinking about it made Meng Yanchen's ears burn.

When did Meng Yanchen need to use this method to track down a woman's whereabouts?

If this gets out, how will he ever be able to maintain his standing in the industry with that face?

The assistant's matter is minor; the key issue is—

Once an investigation begins, it means that the matter will leave a trace.

What he least wanted was for this absurd matter to leave any evidence that could be brought up again.

He is the heir of the Meng family, a senior executive of the Meng Group, and the calm, composed, and disciplined President Meng in everyone's eyes.

His life has always been clean, respectable, and impeccable.

But now, because of an out-of-control accident, his life trajectory has been marked with an unspeakable scar.

Meng Yanchen opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling with a complicated expression.

It's not that he doesn't want to take responsibility.

He genuinely didn't know how to take responsibility.

You can't exactly go around the company asking everyone, "Did you take me home last night?"

You also can't go around on the street with a shawl and a hair clip, asking, "Excuse me, do you recognize this?"

This is absurd.

It was so absurd that even he found it laughable.

Meng Yanchen raised his hand and pressed his throbbing temples, feeling a splitting headache.

He discovered for the first time that the word "decency" could sometimes become a constraint.

He was so constrained that he didn't even know where to begin with the most basic "responsibility".

The room was so quiet that you could hear your own heartbeat.

Meng Yanchen leaned against the headboard, staring intently ahead.

He knew that this matter couldn't be left like this.

But he also knew that, given his current status and situation, he couldn't conduct a high-profile investigation.

He can only rely on himself now.

Meng Yanchen closed his eyes, and the blurry figure from last night flashed through his mind—brown curly hair, a sweet fragrance, soft, panting breaths…

He has to figure it out himself.

From the location of last night's dinner party, the designated driver, the community surveillance footage, and even the brand of the shawl and hair clip... we searched for clues bit by bit.

Although it's troublesome, there's no guarantee of finding one.

But at least, it was the only way he could do that didn't violate his dignity and principles.

He exhaled softly, his voice so low it was almost inaudible:

"No matter who you are... I will find you."

At the very least, say it to their face.

Sorry.

And... take responsibility.