Fu Yanzong spoke slowly and patiently. He was certain Song Linyu had heard every word clearly, for Song Linyu’s chilled fingers slipped carefully yet insistently between his own, clinging desperately like dodder vines to the only sturdy tree around.
But the man cradled in his arms still offered no response to Fu Yanzong’s question.
Song Linyu weighed next to nothing. When pressed against Fu Yanzong, the sharp angles of his bones pressed clearly through the crisp fabric of his clothes.
His faint breaths trembled violently. Fu Yanzong needed only to glance down to see Song Linyu’s pale jaw and bloodless face. Even his pallid lips were clenched between his teeth, leaving a stark indentation—as though voicing the answer was an impossible ordeal.
Fu Yanzong watched him for three seconds. A moment later, he turned his head and took two silent steps back, lifting his hand to withdraw his own.
The motion triggered an intense reaction in Song Linyu. He jerked his head up, clutching Fu Yanzong’s hand in a death grip, pleading in raw panic, “Wait—just wait a second.”
He stumbled forward into Fu Yanzong’s embrace, pressing against his waist and begging breathlessly not to let go.
Fu Yanzong stilled for a moment. Then he lowered his head, cupping Song Linyu’s tear-streaked face, weariness threading through his voice. “Then speak up, Song Linyu. Tell me the truth.”
His thumb paused, almost imperceptibly, upon brushing the damp trails along Song Linyu’s cheek. Helpless against this version of him, Fu Yanzong covered the tears and commanded softly, “Look at me.”
Song Linyu’s body went rigid in silence. Obeying on instinct, he raised his gaze. His tear-soaked pupils locked blankly onto Fu Yanzong’s face, forgetting even to blink until thin threads of blood vessels marred the whites.
Fu Yanzong said, “So you don’t want the gift.”
It was a statement, delivered with utter certainty. Song Linyu shook his head at once, gripping Fu Yanzong’s arm and repeating desperately, “I want it. I want it so much.”
“Then a fair trade.” Fu Yanzong’s lips curved faintly. “What do you say, President Song?”
Song Linyu fell quiet.
His throat felt stuffed with cotton. No sound would come out. He could only stare at Fu Yanzong before him with naked greed.
A moment passed before he slowly lowered his eyes and managed a stiff smile.
Perhaps that “President Song” had yanked him back to reality. Song Linyu’s demeanor steadied somewhat. He hesitated, then released his grip with mechanical slowness, murmuring to himself like a quiet rebuttal, “But this isn’t fair. You’d be getting the short end of the stick.”
Even as he spoke, he curved his eyes into a gentle smile for Fu Yanzong. “Happy birthday is enough for me, bro. That’s all I want.”
“And who asks an ex for a birthday gift anyway? It sounds selfish. I can’t impose just because you’re such a good guy.”
With that, Song Linyu averted his gaze, pulling himself together with practiced nonchalance. In moments, he reverted to the breezy poise he showed the world—as if he were nothing more than a sensible, self-possessed ex, not the same desperate soul who had just refused to leave Fu Yanzong’s arms.
He took two steps toward the door, murmuring an apology as he went. “I won’t keep bothering you then, bro. Get some rest. I’ve got something to handle…”
“Celebrating your childhood sweetheart’s birthday?” Fu Yanzong couldn’t suppress a laugh. He leaned against the vanity, tilting his head toward Song Linyu with mocking edge. “You can’t exactly let him know you’re over here losing it for me, can you?”
Song Linyu halted. He felt no offense in the words—only an urge to explain. Bro, don’t get mad. It’s got nothing to do with Su Tang.
But before he could utter a syllable, Fu Yanzong let out a lazy chuckle. “Su Tang says he pulled off this clever redemption of yours on your birthday. Makes sense—such a huge debt of gratitude. You ought to pay it back properly.”
Song Linyu’s pupils contracted sharply at those words. The obedient gentleness he always wore around Fu Yanzong vanished in an instant, supplanted by a coldness that felt tangible and a ferocity laid utterly bare.
“Redeemed…?” Song Linyu felt as if he’d heard the punchline to the cruelest joke imaginable—so hilarious he could scarcely draw breath. He savored the word, syllable by syllable, as if grinding it to dust.
His chest heaved once. He nearly lost his grip on his emotions. Then came a sharp click—the unmistakable snap of a lighter’s metal lid flipping open. It cut through the silence like a gunshot.
On reflex, he whipped his head around. There was Fu Yanzong, lounging against the vanity with careless ease, toying with the silver lighter and cigarette case he’d lifted from Song Linyu’s pocket. He lit a cigarette without haste.
Song Linyu’s brand was bitterly harsh. Fu Yanzong recalled that Song Linyu had never smoked around him back then. Either he’d picked it up recently, or he’d always hidden it from him.
Probably the latter.
Fu Yanzong tilted his head back. Smoke drifted languidly past his eyes. His thin eyelids narrowed to slits, his gaze scattering lazily before converging on that solitary tear mole.
In the room’s cool lighting, the cigarette’s glow flickered through the haze, casting an otherworldly, icy allure across his features—one no camera could ever quite capture.
Song Linyu wasn’t a director. He had no lens to preserve the moment. He simply let his heartbeat thunder unchecked, committing it to memory.
Then Fu Yanzong spoke, light as air. “But you guessed right. I don’t make a habit of buying gifts for exes after a breakup.”
“That’s fine, I wouldn’t dream of…” Song Linyu began with a smile, ready to say it didn’t matter—only for Fu Yanzong to mirror the expression, calmly cruel. “So that one was meant for you back then.”
“It was the gift I prepared after the awards ceremony—the one I meant to give you.” Fu Yanzong tapped his index finger downward, flicking ash with casual precision. “Along with my trophy.”
Best Actor for Three Quarters. Fu Yanzong had wanted to share a piece of it with Song Linyu.
Back then, he’d believed he differed from the film’s protagonist. Li Gu had spent a lifetime searching for the self he’d lost, but Fu Yanzong had found his own missing quarter—the one who let him step outside the story entirely.
Fate, however, had other plans.
“Don’t want it anymore?”
Fu Yanzong’s tone turned earnest. “If you pass, I’ll toss it out, Song Linyu.”
Song Linyu’s mind went utterly blank.
This emptiness ached worse than his earlier daze. The magnanimity he’d feigned evaporated, giving way to panic and fear, torment and despair.
Through the haze of light smoke, Fu Yanzong watched Song Linyu whirl back heedlessly. In his haste, Song Linyu’s knee below the kneecap slammed hard into the edge of a stacked makeup case—the most tender spot imaginable.
He didn’t make a sound. Instead, he lunged forward, seizing Fu Yanzong’s hand and pleading in a frantic, groveling rush.
“Bro… I’m sorry. I want it—I want it. Sorry, I’ll tell you, okay? Please don’t throw it away. Save it for me?”
He could always abase himself utterly before Fu Yanzong. And Fu Yanzong knew exactly how to wound him—a single sentence could shatter his heart.
Song Linyu’s pallid fingertips dug into Fu Yanzong’s arm. Careful not to hurt him, they trembled with such force that his knuckles cracked faintly.
“I just… I just didn’t want you to…”
I just didn’t want you to see me as pathetic and hateful.
I didn’t want to look so pathetic in front of you.
Don’t learn any more of my ugly sides.
Song Linyu resembled a pauper at auction, concealing his empty hands from a priceless porcelain vase while dreaming of the day he might claim it and carry it home.
But to drop the mask would mean forfeiting that dream forever.
Fu Yanzong said nothing. He merely glanced at the spot Song Linyu had bashed, then tugged him closer until Song Linyu’s weight settled against him.
With a regretful shake of his head, he declared softly, “Too late. No chance—at least not this time.”
Song Linyu’s fingers clenched in desperation. He doubled over at the waist as tears streamed silently down his face. Another fragile thread binding him to Fu Yanzong had snapped by his own hand. Nothing could sting with deeper regret.
“…”
Watching him like this, Fu Yanzong wondered if he’d even registered the words. Patiently, he rephrased the question. “So, where’s my answer?”
Song Linyu hesitated. Then, in a broken, defeated rush, he rattled off several medication names. Fu Yanzong wasn’t well-versed in mental health drugs, but a few rang familiar.
Judging by the list, Song Linyu was genuinely, catastrophically ill.
Fu Yanzong stared at the bruised shadows beneath his bloodless eyes. He didn’t need to guess—Song Linyu had clearly ignored his doctor’s instructions.
After a long silence, Fu Yanzong said, “Song Linyu, the last thing I want is a call telling me you’ve been committed.”
Song Linyu let out a low murmur of agreement. Utterly defeated and numb, he nodded. “On that day, I’ll just vanish on my own, bro. I won’t be your problem.”
Fu Yanzong turned his face toward him, gazing at that utterly hopeless expression, and lightly furrowed his brow.
Song Linyu fell silent for a moment before asking in a low, humble voice, “Then at least… can you tell me what it was you wanted to give me back then?”
“No,” Fu Yanzong said.
He watched as Song Linyu’s eyes dimmed inch by inch. After a pause, he added slowly, “I can only tell you what it is when you next earn the right to take it home.”
Song Linyu’s breath caught in his throat. He felt Fu Yanzong lift him up and set him down in the chair. Then, in a daze, he realized something had been stuffed into his arms.
Disbelieving, he looked down and saw that Fu Yanzong had tossed over the bouquet of opening-ceremony flowers from the dressing table—the ones the crew had sent. Red roses formed the lush centerpiece, accented here and there with delicate white eustomas. Soft and lingering, like a hesitant caress, the arrangement now filled Song Linyu’s lap with its rich, heady fragrance.
Fu Yanzong shot him a sidelong glance, neither too sharp nor too gentle. He took a lazy drag from his cigarette, letting the white smoke hover at his lips for a moment before blowing it playfully, directly onto Song Linyu’s stunned face.
He flicked ash from the tip, stubbed out the cigarette beside Song Linyu, and drawled, “Try a different brand. This one’s too bitter.”
Without waiting for a reaction, he glanced at the clock on the resting room wall, pulled open the door, and strode out.
To his surprise, Ren Haoran was waiting just outside—and from the look of him, he’d been standing there for some time.
Ren Haoran startled slightly at Fu Yanzong’s appearance, then nodded in instinctive greeting. Only as Fu Yanzong brushed past did he snap out of it. He grabbed the door before it could close and called inside with urgent concern, “Boss, you didn’t—”
He’d expected Song Linyu and Fu Yanzong to have a blowout fight—maybe even fists flying. But the room was eerily quiet, nothing like the aftermath of a heated clash.
No, something had definitely happened…
Ren Haoran blinked and saw Song Linyu sitting there, clutching the bouquet to his chest. His eyes sparkled with unrestrained delight.
Then, wearing a beaming smile of pure, unadulterated joy—the kind he’d never let slip around his subordinates—Song Linyu held out the flowers toward Ren Haoran, showing them off with smug pride. “This is the birthday gift my big bro gave me!”
Ren Haoran froze, a chill sweat prickling down his back. He nodded with a forced smile, thinking to himself: Fu Yanzong… in a certain sense… was truly terrifying.
