Ji Cheng knocked on the door but heard no strange noises from inside the hospital room, so he didn’t stop and rapped twice more. Finally, Fu Yanzong’s lazy voice drifted out.
“Come in.”
Ji Cheng pushed open the door. Fu Yanzong was propped against the edge of the bed with his knees drawn up, his expression showing nothing unusual—just a sated sort of laziness. The snow-white quilt draped halfway up to his waist, smooth and unwrinkled. At first glance, nothing seemed amiss.
—If not for the strands of his long hair hanging in a messy cascade down his chest, still damp.
—If not for Song Linyu turning his head to shoot Ji Cheng a cold glance before lowering his gaze and methodically buttoning his trench coat from the bottom up.
Ji Cheng’s gaze lingered for three full seconds.
Fu Yanzong lifted his eyes to meet his, then spread his hands without ceremony. “Sun Jiayang left the toolkit on set. He didn’t bring me any hair ties.”
Ji Cheng held his stare coldly for a moment before fishing a box of solid black rubber bands from his coat pocket and tossing it over. The plastic box was on the verge of smacking into the bedframe when Song Linyu lifted a hand and snatched it out of the air.
With an expressionless face, Song Linyu popped open the lid and hooked a black hair tie around his wrist with one finger. In a tone like cracking ice, he asked, “Won’t you come over here?”
Ji Cheng smiled faintly. “Taking care of the talent is an assistant’s job. I figured President Song knew that inside out. If you’ve got beef with how our studio divides up the work, by all means, give me a call and lodge a complaint.”
Truth be told, Ji Cheng had never had a problem with Song Linyu before—in fact, he’d rather liked him. Back when Song Linyu served as Fu Yanzong’s assistant, he’d been obedient and hardworking, always jumping in to handle extra tasks. Most crucially, he had a knack for sweet-talking Fu Yanzong into compliance. Ji Cheng had every reason to be pleased with a subordinate like that.
The trouble started when that model employee reinvented himself as a rival. Over the years Fu Yanzong spent abroad, Song Linyu had sabotaged more than a few of the rookies under Ji Cheng’s wing, siphoning off real chunks of profit. Naturally, Ji Cheng had to take a few swipes at him.
Song Linyu’s temper, however, was an equal-opportunity offender. He traded barbs with Ji Cheng like fencers crossing blades, refusing to yield an inch. His eyes narrowed slightly at Ji Cheng’s words, a singularly forbidding expression settling over his pale features. Whatever retort was brewing, it promised to sting.
But he never got it out.
Song Linyu had just parted his lips when Fu Yanzong reached up, clamped a hand on his chin, and twisted his face toward himself.
With evident delight, Fu Yanzong pinched Song Linyu’s cheek—the cold mask had vanished without a trace. Grinning, he said, “There, there. You could always call me up to complain, too.”
Song Linyu’s eyes widened, just a fraction. A beat later, he nodded and echoed the one line that truly mattered to him: “…I can call you?”
Fu Yanzong pulled back his hand and plucked the hair tie from Song Linyu’s wrist. He didn’t let Song Linyu—who had been ready to tie it for him—take over. Instead, he dropped his head lazily and gathered his loose locks into a casual low ponytail.
“You can,” Fu Yanzong said as he secured it, “but I might not pick up.” He glanced at the increasingly impatient Ji Cheng.
Song Linyu knew Ji Cheng’s presence meant they had actual business. Catching Fu Yanzong’s look, he rose to his feet without prompting. His fingertip lingered in a reluctant caress before he spoke. “I won’t bother you too often.”
He added in a near-whisper:
“…Are you still mad?”
Fu Yanzong looked up at him. Before he could reply, Song Linyu bent down again, as if reading his mind, eager to hear whatever came next.
Fu Yanzong had half a mind to spin some nonsense, but with Song Linyu leaning in so willingly, the words died unspoken. He merely curved his eyes in a gentle smile, broadcasting a single message loud and clear: You guess.
The warmth of his breath washed over Song Linyu’s face, drawing an involuntary blink. Thoughts tangled into knots inside his head and scattered to the winds.
…All he could register was how Fu Yanzong’s lips had nearly brushed his eyes mid-sentence.
Song Linyu’s heartbeat thundered too loudly, chaotic and insistent. He suspected Fu Yanzong could hear it, so he drew back a step in mortified fluster. With unusual panic, he stammered a goodbye.
Fu Yanzong watched his retreating back, one eyebrow quirking. The smile still played at his lips.
Years later, Ji Cheng found himself witnessing a scene like this once more. He slid his hands slowly into his pockets and cut straight to it. “What, after all this time, you’re still into playing these games?”
“Playing what games?” Fu Yanzong shifted his gaze back to him. He reclined lazily against the pillows and, reaching out, retrieved his phone from the bedside table. He opened the gallery, selected two videos, and deleted them without mercy.
“Things aren’t what they used to be. Don’t let it cloud your judgment.”
Ji Cheng nailed the issue dead-on, only for Fu Yanzong to shoot him a puzzled look and chuckle. “Shouldn’t I be telling you that? Ditching your boss to cozy up to Su Tang—you’re not worried about getting canned tomorrow?”
“…”
Ji Cheng went quiet for a moment before asking, “Would you even care?”
“Who knows. Figure you’re not quite that dumb, so I’m not too worried.”
Fu Yanzong swiped to a new screen on his phone and scrolled through the activity proposals Ji Cheng had just sent, head bowed.
Hidden Face had barely started shooting when the major car crash hit, injuring all the leads. Su Tang couldn’t recover overnight, and the production needed a full safety overhaul. Filming was on ice for at least half a year—likely longer.
In the meantime, Fu Yanzong had to pitch in with some promo for the production. The only question was scale.
Ji Cheng walked him through the options as Fu Yanzong reviewed them. Top of the list: two talk-show interviews and a documentary. The doc crew was itching to capture the Movie Emperor’s off-camera facets.
Fu Yanzong had done his share of these over the years—high-profile ones, all polished to a shine. Still, he had no plans to bite just yet.
He wasn’t about to lay himself bare for the masses. As an actor-slash-idol, the glamour was key: peddle dreams and bliss. Longevity demanded mystique, a careful distance.
The rest ran the gamut… Truth be told, it had been ages since Fu Yanzong had seen a schedule slate this jumbled, not since his breakout.
Mentor gig on a talent show… Fine if it scouted actors—he’d fielded those invites before. But a boy-band dance-sing-off? He’d just be window dressing: hype and hot air.
The fee was juicy, though. Other mentors in talks: NOVA’s Su Tang and Cheng Yan.
Next up, variety shows galore. Leading the pack: a dating one, boasting celebs from every corner for matchup mayhem. Gimmicky enough.
“All walks of life,” they claimed… Fu Yanzong skimmed the confirmed guests. Every last one was a canon-fodder suitor from the source material, simps orbiting Su Tang. The whole thing would just be a Su Tang shrine.
Not even blameless starlets got a pass—they’d play jealous to amp up his universal appeal.
Then escape rooms, wilderness survival, murder-mystery decoding, castaway base-building, globetrotting jaunts… Every CP-bait clusterfest under the sun, Su Tang’s name stamped on all of them. It felt like open season on Fu Yanzong, singling him out like some smug outsider.
All he saw in them was red ink, red ink, and humiliation.
He brandished his phone at Ji Cheng, utterly earnest. “Tell me—what was going through your head when you put this together?”
Ji Cheng hesitated a hair before coming clean. “One, the paydays are fat. Two, easy way to spark some CP buzz with Su Tang… I figured you were into him.”
He trailed off guiltily, plainly baffled by his own logic.
“Oh, no—my tastes don’t run that dark.” Fu Yanzong’s polite demurral dripped with mockery.
“I haven’t sunk that low.” Ji Cheng nudged his glasses and mounted a defense, then frowned. “That said, Su Tang’s off. Something’s not right.”
Fu Yanzong glanced up, taking in his look. After a pause, he smiled. “Yeah? How so?”
“The chasm between what he’s got and what he deserves—it’s massive.”
Ji Cheng ran back through their dealings. Su Tang’s ascent had been a cakewalk, practically comical. Even Fu Yanzong’s early days hadn’t been that cushy.
“I can’t wrap my head around Dongyu dropping a fortune to sign him. Song Linyu’s no philanthropist, and from today, he’s clearly not over it.”
Here, Ji Cheng absently rubbed his temple. A headache throbbed for no good reason.
After a beat, he pressed on. “Today’s wreck, and me… Whatever. Skip these gigs if you want—no skin off my nose. Documentary too. You won’t be hurting for action anytime soon.”
Ji Cheng geared up to sic the studio team on polite rejections across the board. But Fu Yanzong tapped his screen, letting out a slow, amused chuckle.
“Let’s do it. Who said I was sitting any out?”
“Aren’t romance variety shows pretty fun? Book me on all the ones that don’t conflict with my schedule. I’m genuinely interested in Su Tang.”
Ji Cheng looked at his smiling face. If it had been anyone else, they probably would have thought Fu Yanzong was in a good mood right now.
But Ji Cheng knew Fu Yanzong’s true character all too well.
—Someone was in for it.
Ji Cheng nodded wordlessly. A moment later, he added very seriously, “Then there’s one more crucial point.”
“These variety shows are nominally backed by investments and promotions from Dongyu’s subsidiary, but from what I know, they have no direct connection to Song Linyu.”
“If we have to talk about who’s really behind them…” Ji Cheng said in a low voice, “The ones I looked into all seem to be tied to Song Wen.”
Fu Yanzong paused for a moment before lifting his eyes. He said flatly, “Isn’t that perfect?”
Time to settle the score.
Ji Cheng met his gaze, then nodded slightly with perfect calm. He said nothing more and turned straight for the door to Room 307, ready to dive right into handling the next steps.
But as he pushed the door open, he suddenly glanced back with some confusion. Looking at Fu Yanzong, who was sitting on the hospital bed, Ji Cheng asked quietly, “The reason I suspected you had something going on with Su Tang… that movie Hidden Face played a big part.”
“The script for Hidden Face was passed to you back then. If it wasn’t because of Su Tang, then why did you take it on?”
Fu Yanzong smiled slowly. He tilted his head and toyed with his phone, asking Ji Cheng idly in return, “What do you think?”
Ji Cheng knew full well that the role of Fang Chi wouldn’t have been enough to move Fu Yanzong at the time, so he hadn’t expected him to return to the country.
Even though Su Tang had begged him over and over to bring the script to Fu Yanzong—and had sworn up and down that he would say yes.
…And in the end, Fu Yanzong really had come back.
That was why Ji Cheng had assumed Fu Yanzong wanted something from Su Tang.
But if it wasn’t for Su Tang, then why had Fu Yanzong chosen Hidden Face?
Ji Cheng thought about this as he pulled open the door handle.
The sharp scent of disinfectant flooded back into his nose. Ji Cheng rarely dwelled on the past, but in that moment—thanks to the stinging smell—he felt like something from before was coming back to him.
That day, he had asked Fu Yanzong a question too.
And the expression on Fu Yanzong’s face had been exactly the same as it was now.
He had asked, “Fu Yanzong, you’re not serious, are you?”
Back then, the twenty-one-year-old Fu Yanzong had been sitting on the sofa, staring at the gift in his hands that he still hadn’t given away. After a moment of silence, he had looked up with a smile and said to him, “You guess.”
