Fu Yanzong turned off his phone screen.
He had originally planned to forward these emails to Song Linyu and demand an explanation, but some inexplicable intuition—specifically about Song Linyu—stopped him. The reason behind this briefing that Song Linyu had sent him alone might not be so straightforward.
In the end, Fu Yanzong chose to let it drop. Some things would probably have to wait until all of Song Linyu’s secrets came to light before he asked about them.
During this period, he and Song Linyu had indeed rarely crossed paths. Fu Yanzong was busy reshooting promotional materials that had been inconvenient to film overseas earlier, along with endorsing his favorite mobile game. Although Sun Jiayang insisted the game he truly loved was the Match-3 Game, that didn’t stop Fu Yanzong from serving as the spokesperson for its limited-edition skins for several years.
They hadn’t met much during his hospital stay either. Song Linyu showed up every day, but always chose the deep hours of the night when Fu Yanzong was asleep. He would arrive quietly shrouded in darkness, confirm that Fu Yanzong was recovering well, and then hurry away.
Fu Yanzong learned about it during one half-awake night. He felt his hand, which had slipped out from under the blanket, being gently tucked back in. The other man didn’t leave right away, though. Instead, he held Fu Yanzong’s palm for a brief moment before reluctantly straightening up.
Fu Yanzong kept his eyes closed, but the next morning when he woke, he messaged Song Linyu to ask if he had come by the night before.
Song Linyu paused for a moment before admitting it candidly. He explained that he had been tied up with Dongyu business lately and could only visit at that hour. At the end, he sent a cautious puppy nervous.jpg emoticon and asked if he had disturbed Fu Yanzong’s sleep.
Fu Yanzong knew that if he said no, Song Linyu would still rush over in the early hours of the morning. If he said yes… well, Song Linyu probably wouldn’t give up entirely. At most, he would stay outside the door for a distant glance without coming in.
Fu Yanzong understood him all too well, because that was exactly what Song Linyu had in mind.
So Fu Yanzong skipped the question altogether and went straight to making his request.
Acqua: “If you’re too busy, don’t bother coming. Just video call instead.”
Pesce: “I do have time… but I think seeing you in person would put my mind more at ease. I’ll try to make room during the day from now on.”
Fu Yanzong typed out a cool line: “No need. I think the hospital room isn’t very convenient.”
Song Linyu’s fingertips froze. Then the chat window slowly filled with another message: “It’s more convenient if you play for me from home, don’t you think?”
When it came to Song Linyu, Fu Yanzong could always achieve his goals with ease. Now he no longer had to worry about Song Linyu sneaking over at night. Even better, before bed, he could slip on his headphones and leisurely enjoy a little video that lasted a satisfying ten-plus minutes.
Fu Yanzong had handled those intriguing toys before, but there was something uniquely entertaining about watching Song Linyu order them for himself and use them on his body—a body that was rusty from disuse and still carried traces of awkwardness.
During their video calls, when Song Linyu was floundering in discomfort yet desperate for more, Fu Yanzong would smile and call out his name.
At moments like that, the edge of the frame would capture Song Linyu’s clenched fist.
It would tense amid the arousal, knuckles whitening as veins subtly bulged beneath his thin skin from the sudden rush of stimulation. His fingertips would unconsciously dig into his palm before releasing, leaving faint crescent-shaped red marks.
Fu Yanzong found the sight endlessly fascinating. Just the sound of his voice was enough to leave Song Linyu’s palm slick with moisture—whether sweat or something else was impossible to tell. Occasionally, his hand would tremble in spastic little jerks, as if seeking an anchor or trying to pull away, only to curl futilely before slowly unfurling again.
Song Linyu’s bed was made up with somber, repressive black linens, but in a scene like this, the dampened black fabric took on a strangely erotic allure.
Fu Yanzong watched as Song Linyu buried his damp-eyed face in the crook of his arm. His fingertip twitched. He screenshotted the frame, cropped it down to just that section of wrist, and posted it to Moments.
He hadn’t grouped his Moments, so within a minute, comments and likes came flooding in.
The photo itself showed nothing incriminating, but the implication hung heavy in the air. A few friends left puzzled comments wondering if it even looked like Fu Yanzong’s own hand—why post a wrist instead of a selfie? It seemed odd.
Some with no filter joked outright, asking if this was some new little star from the industry who had gotten lucky enough to grace Brother Fu’s Moments… or maybe someone whose skills were just that impressive?
Fu Yanzong shot back a single “Scram,” then screenshotted his Moments and sent it to Song Linyu.
On the other end of the video, Song Linyu’s face visibly flushed a deeper shade of red.
He stared at the comments for a long while before finally cradling his phone. Lips pressed tight and fingertips quivering faintly, he tapped to like Fu Yanzong’s post.
He knew exactly what the original image looked like, and even after the teasing remarks sank in, the embarrassed flush refused to fade from his face for ages.
Part of it was mortification, but there was also a bizarre thrill, like some twisted form of public acknowledgment… Even though no one knew who it was, that didn’t stop Song Linyu from feeling extremely, deliriously pleased.
In the end, he repositioned his phone to resume their video call. While slipping into his pajamas and cleaning up the scene, he shot several glances at Fu Yanzong—pretending not to care, though he clearly did.
Fu Yanzong was getting ready for bed and had let his hair down. As he combed through the tangles, he glanced up at Song Linyu, smiled, and asked deliberately, “What are you staring at me for?”
“…Just wondering why you took a picture of me,” Song Linyu murmured.
“Then why did you take pictures of me?” Fu Yanzong countered calmly.
Song Linyu immediately felt a pang of guilt as he remembered the private album hidden on his phone. Fu Yanzong had told him to delete it, but he hadn’t. He had defied the order in secret.
For the first time, he stammered out a goodbye to Fu Yanzong. While urging him to go to sleep, he hastily ended the call, terrified that his secret stash of photos would be discovered.
Fu Yanzong gazed at the darkened screen, the corners of his lips curving in a smile he himself didn’t quite notice.
All in all, they spent a stretch of time relying solely on video calls. Once Fu Yanzong was discharged and dove back into his schedule of events, even those grew scarce.
Song Linyu seemed busier than ever, too.
Fu Yanzong hadn’t pried into it, but then Ji Cheng sent over a video of Su Tang’s discharge from the hospital, which neatly explained everything.
In the video, Su Tang’s fans had jammed the hospital entrance with banners and flowers, forming an impenetrable wall. The commotion was clearly disruptive to other patients seeking normal care, but Su Tang’s staff made no effort to disperse them. Instead, they strung everyone along masterfully, keeping the crowd waiting a full three hours before Su Tang finally made his grand exit.
Su Tang emerged in an all-white outfit, leaning hard into a frail, delicate image. His foundation was two shades paler than usual. The moment he stepped out, fans surged forward with heartbroken cries, only to be shoved back roughly by security and assistants.
Su Tang marched straight ahead without so much as a glance sideways, brushing past the proffered flowers and letters. Only when a Mercedes G-Class pulled up did his face break into a radiant smile.
He called out crisply, “Uncle Song,” before scrambling into the car and wedging himself onto the lap of the man in the back seat.
Plenty of media were on hand, and the clip Ji Cheng sent was the clearest one. Zoomed in, it perfectly captured Song Wen’s deceptively amiable expression.
…Along with Su Tang’s coquettish act as he cozied up to a man more than thirty years his senior, clinging to his arm with feigned innocence.
Fu Yanzong felt like watching any longer might land his eyes right back in the hospital. He shut off the video and typed to Ji Cheng: “Song Wen isn’t an idiot. He’s hyping Su Tang to get under Song Linyu’s skin? When did it start, exactly?”
“The answer’s probably longer than you expect,” Ji Cheng replied.
“The earliest I could dig up is 2021. Details are fuzzy; it’ll take some extra work. I traced it because Su Tang was invited to Paris Fashion Week at the same time you went. He was a total nobody back then—no way he gets those connections without Song Wen pulling strings.”
“With Su Tang out of the hospital, that dating variety show should kick off any day now. Your schedule clears up in the next couple days anyway. I’ll have Sun Jiayang pack your bags early and pull together the guest dossiers.”
Fu Yanzong ignored the last part and zeroed in on the key detail.
“…Paris?”
He repeated the word, his brow creasing faintly.
Fu Yanzong remembered that time well. He had been in a cold war with Song Linyu, so when he headed to Paris, he took only his manager Ji Cheng and left his assistant behind—deliberately stranding Song Linyu in Shenlan.
But then Song Linyu had flown all that way to apologize earnestly and make amends. When he nearly got into an accident doing it, Fu Yanzong dropped the fight.
All those simmering conflicts got shoved aside, at least until they finally parted ways for good.
But what if the words Song Linyu had come to say that day weren’t just an apology?
Fu Yanzong lowered his gaze and let out a soft sigh. Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, he turned his eyes away. A complicated smile tugged faintly at his lips.
/
On the flight from Berlin back to Shenlan, Fu Yanzong draped himself in a blanket and drifted into a dream.
Returning to familiar soil always conjured dreams of old faces. Inevitably, he found himself coldly observing events that had already unfolded—pondering whether the man he was now could have handled things with Song Linyu any better.
At twenty-two, Fu Yanzong was too young and thus too naive. He believed nothing was truly that complicated—that if he just stood in place, the answer would come to him naturally. In the end, when no answer arrived, he walked away without a backward glance or a single question.
But that had already been the best approach.
Because only the young Fu Yanzong could summon the nerve to lay his affections bare, to fall in love with the Song Linyu of that time.
For Fu Yanzong, even standing still took courage. And sincerity and courage were finite resources, depleted with every use.
The Fu Yanzong who received no answer truly intended never to return to Shenlan.
Until the day something called the Self-Rescue System appeared at his side.
It informed Fu Yanzong that he, Song Linyu, and many others existed only because of the protagonist. They would be manipulated into actions they never wanted, stripped of any say in their own lives.
At that moment, Ji Cheng handed Fu Yanzong the script for Hidden Face. But he never imagined Fu Yanzong would accept it. Fu Yanzong had just wrapped a film with a renowned director, and the male lead role in the S+ production Snowfield was already lined up right after—no break in between. The timing was so tight it felt contrived, as if tailor-made just for him.
Ji Cheng never suspected a thing, but Fu Yanzong sensed something was off. He had someone look into Snowfield‘s director, Nuosi, and discovered that four months earlier, Nuosi had engaged in an in-depth discussion in North America with Song Linyu, who had supposedly been there on a business trip for Dongyu.
Four months prior, Nuosi’s film project was still in its infancy—no lead actor assigned, no production partners in talks. Yet Song Linyu had invested in it personally, rather than through Dongyu, single-handedly covering ninety percent of the funding shortfall. In return, he made just two demands—a generous backer with hardly any strings attached.
Those demands were simple enough to meet.
First, the lead in Snowfield had to be Fu Yanzong, and the filming schedule needed to stretch at least two years.
Second, Fu Yanzong must never learn of Song Linyu’s involvement. Any information linking back to Song Linyu had to be fully anonymized.
As Fu Yanzong stared at those two stipulations, one truth crystallized for him.
…Song Linyu might not lack bravery after all. Nor was his heart insincere toward Fu Yanzong.
Perhaps they had simply missed their chance.
Should I bet on that “perhaps,” then?
Fu Yanzong mulled it over for a moment before settling on his answer.
Later on, neither Ji Cheng nor Song Linyu could have guessed Fu Yanzong’s real reason for returning home. They assumed he was drawn to Fang Chi’s character in Hidden Face, or perhaps to Su Tang.
Ji Cheng wondered if Su Tang truly had some connection to Fu Yanzong after all. Song Linyu, meanwhile, lamented that he still hadn’t dealt with the Su Tang problem before Fu Yanzong’s return.
But Fu Yanzong’s reason was far simpler than that.
Berlin was simply too far away. He wanted to hear the answer straight from Song Linyu’s lips.
