Wen Ning never intended to become famous. In fact, the very thought of attention made his palms sweat and his ears burn red. He was the sort of person who preferred the corner seat in a café, the quiet end of a library, the chair furthest from the door in any classroom. He liked being unnoticed, blending in with the wallpaper, nodding politely if someone acknowledged him but otherwise moving like a shadow. Unfortunately, fate had a habit of tripping him into the spotlight when he least expected it.

It started with porridge.

Not the exciting kind of porridge, if such a thing even existed, but the plain, white, steaming kind he liked to eat late at night. Wen Ning had trouble sleeping, and stirring a pot of rice into soft mush helped calm him. He would stand there in the dark of his small apartment kitchen, stirring slowly, the rhythm steady and hypnotic. He didn’t realize one night that his phone camera, propped up against a mug, was still recording after he’d tried and failed to film a recipe tutorial for his sister.

When he uploaded it by mistake...thinking he was sending it to her but instead posting it on his tiny social media account...the video was just three straight minutes of him staring into the camera with wide, tired eyes while stirring the pot. Not saying a word. The steam rising ghostlike around his face. His expression blank but oddly intense, like he was communing with the porridge on a spiritual level.

The internet went feral.

Within a day, the video had over half a million views. By the end of the week, three million. The comments section was an explosion of memes, fan theories, and wildly differing interpretations of his “aesthetic.”

“Is this… zombie-core?” one user wrote.
“He looks like he hasn’t slept in 300 years. I love it.”
“The porridge is a metaphor for late-stage capitalism.”
“Bro, blink if you’re alive.”

Wen Ning hadn’t meant to reply, but in a moment of panic, he typed: “I’m alive.”

That only made it worse.

The top reply was: “Sounds like something a very convincing immortal zombie would say.”

And thus the “Immortal Zombie Influencer” was born.

Wei Wuxian discovered this by accident too. He was scrolling through his feed at two in the morning while Lan Wangji sat nearby, trying to read a philosophy book but failing because Wei Wuxian kept laughing every five seconds.

“Lan Zhan! Lan Zhan, you have to see this! Oh my god, oh my god.” Wei Wuxian shoved his phone directly in Lan Wangji’s face, ignoring the way Lan Wangji calmly pushed it back a few inches. “It’s Wen Ning! Look! Our Wen Ning! He’s stirring porridge! He’s—oh my god, three million views?! THREE MILLION.”

Lan Wangji glanced at the screen, expression unchanging. “Porridge.”

“Yes! Exactly! Porridge! But it’s ART now! Look at his eyes! Look at that lighting! It’s peak horror-cottage-core-chic! Zombie-core! It’s a whole vibe!” Wei Wuxian’s grin was manic, his voice rising in pitch with each word. “I’ve been trying for YEARS to go viral, and Wen Ning does it by accidentally… by accidentally…” He doubled over, clutching his stomach from laughing too hard. “BY ACCIDENTALLY MAKING PORRIDGE.”

Lan Wangji closed his book with one deliberate motion. “You are loud.”

“You’re just jealous you didn’t think of it first,” Wei Wuxian said, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. Then his grin sharpened into something dangerous. “Wait. Wait. Oh, this is brilliant. Lan Zhan. We have to manage him.”

“No.”

“Yes!”

“No.”

“Yes, Lan Zhan, yes! I’ll be his manager! I’ll guide his career! I’ll monetize his spooky porridge vibes! Do you know how much brand sponsorships go for these days? We’ll make him the face of—of—of rice cookers! Haunted rice cookers! It’ll be perfect!”

Lan Wangji looked unimpressed. “Wen Ning will not agree.”

Five minutes later, Wei Wuxian was on the phone. “Wen Ning! Congratulations, you’re famous! Don’t argue! It’s true! You’re an influencer now, and I’m your manager! No, no, don’t say no, just accept it! Also, do you own a tripod? No? Don’t worry, Lan Zhan will hold the ring light!”

Lan Wangji, sitting silently across from him, raised one perfect eyebrow.

Wen Ning, meanwhile, nearly dropped his phone. “Wei-gongzi—I—I can’t—I don’t know how—”

“You don’t need to know anything! Just keep being your adorable awkward self! That’s the brand! Mystery zombie man with soulful eyes and suspiciously calming porridge-stirring powers! People love it! Trust me, I know the internet!” Wei Wuxian’s enthusiasm was unstoppable, a flood impossible to dam.

“But I—I don’t want people to—”

“Too late!” Wei Wuxian cut him off cheerfully. “They already do! Besides, you’re immortal, right? This is literally the best long-term career plan you could have. You’ll never age, never get wrinkles, your brand is eternal! You’re basically indestructible influencer stock!”

“…I don’t think immortality is something I should…” Wen Ning trailed off, realizing no one would believe it anyway.

The next week was chaos incarnate.

Wei Wuxian stormed into Wen Ning’s apartment armed with a giant ring light, two boxes of instant porridge mix, a suspiciously glittery notebook labeled “CONTENT IDEAS,” and a very patient Lan Wangji carrying all of it.

“Okay! First things first—we need an aesthetic. You’ve already nailed zombie-core without trying, which is frankly insulting to the rest of us. But we need consistency! Do you have more plain shirts? Gray ones, preferably? No logos, no patterns, just—just existential despair chic.”

“I—I guess I can find some…” Wen Ning mumbled, clutching his sleeves nervously.

“Perfect! Lan Zhan, set up the light!”

Lan Wangji wordlessly unfolded the ring light and adjusted its height with precision.

Wen Ning blinked. “Um… you don’t have to—”

“He does,” Wei Wuxian said firmly. “Every great influencer has a support crew. Lan Zhan is your lighting guy. I’m your visionary manager-slash-creative genius. You are the star.”

Lan Wangji gave a quiet, resigned “…Mn.”

The first official video under Wei Wuxian’s management was titled simply: “Porridge, Again.”

It was six minutes of Wen Ning silently stirring a pot while staring straight into the lens. Wei Wuxian tried to add dramatic background music, but Lan Wangji vetoed it with a single look. The final version was unedited except for one moment when Wen Ning accidentally dropped the spoon and froze in sheer horror, then slowly picked it up again.

The comments section went wild.

“He dropped the spoon like a man who’s seen empires fall.”
“This is peak performance and you can’t convince me otherwise.”
“The way he stared at the spoon before picking it up… Oscar-worthy.”
“Immortal confirmed. He’s been cooking porridge since the Ming dynasty.”

Within hours, Wen Ning’s follower count doubled. Wei Wuxian was beside himself with joy.

“Lan Zhan, we’re geniuses! We’re—no, HE’S a genius, and by extension, so are we! Look at these analytics!” He shoved his phone under Lan Wangji’s nose again, showing colorful graphs of skyrocketing engagement. “Do you realize what this means? Sponsorships! Partnerships! A merch line! ‘Wen Ning’s Eternal Porridge Pots’!”

Wen Ning paled. “I—I don’t want to sell—”

“Shhh. Trust the process.” Wei Wuxian patted his shoulder. “The brand is bigger than us now. Bigger than porridge. Bigger than… well, not bigger than Lan Zhan’s forehead, but close.”

Lan Wangji, without looking up, calmly replied: “No talking.”

Wei Wuxian cackled.

By the third video, a dedicated fan theory thread had emerged online: Wen Ning was an immortal zombie wandering modern society, blending in as best he could. The evidence, according to fans, was “overwhelming.”

“He never blinks.”
“He has the aura of someone who’s watched dynasties rise and fall.”
“His cooking style is ancient. My grandma said so.”
“The way he stirs porridge… it’s too practiced. No mortal man has that much patience.”

Someone even posted a shaky photo of Wen Ning crossing the street at night, claiming it was proof he “floated” instead of walked. The photo was blurry enough that anything could have been happening, but the caption “The Zombie Walks Among Us” went viral anyway.

Wei Wuxian found the thread and laughed so hard he nearly fell off the couch. “Wen Ning! Wen Ning! They think you’re a thousand-year-old immortal zombie! And the best part? THEY’RE RIGHT! AHAHAHAHA!”

Wen Ning covered his face with both hands. “No one will believe it…”

“Exactly!” Wei Wuxian beamed. “It’s perfect. The truth is so ridiculous it loops back around into being believable-as-a-joke. You’re untouchable. This is marketing GOLD.”

Lan Wangji quietly scrolled through his phone, reading the comments. “…Some call him ‘comfort zombie.’”

Wei Wuxian’s eyes lit up. “Comfort Zombie™! That’s the brand! Wen Ning, you’re officially Comfort Zombie! We’ll put it on T-shirts! Hoodies! Phone cases! Immortal chic!”

Wen Ning groaned into his hands.

And thus, the legend of Comfort Zombie began.