Chapter 64: Waiting for People

Yang Wan’s low-budget short film was shot entirely in a studio. By seven in the evening at Shenlan, night had fully fallen, but it did nothing to slow the crew’s momentum. The set buzzed with activity—crowds of people milling about, lighting rigs on tracks, props crew dashing down ramps with equipment in tow. Footsteps, walkie-talkie chatter, and shouts overlapped in a chaotic symphony. Pushing open the door felt like stepping into another world.

Just a second before, Yang Wan had been fully immersed in her role, trading fierce blows with her co-star while special effects makeup artists daubed on fake blood and bruises. The moment the director yelled “Cut!”, she flung her arms out, collapsed to the floor, and let out a long, dramatic groan.

“I’m dead tired.”

Yang Wan usually stuck to artsy indie films, but this time some wild idea had struck her out of nowhere. She’d impulsively decided to direct and star in a suspense thriller with infinite loop rebirths and mind-bending mysteries—naturally, it demanded insane stamina. This one scene had taken nearly three hours to nail a usable take.

Her assistant hurried over with a bottle of water. Yang Wan waved her off weakly, whining, “I can’t get up. Let me recover. Don’t pull me off this floor, anyone. I need to lie here until the end of the world…”

The assistant girl chuckled and nodded, then added, “Sister Wan, but Teacher Fu’s car is here.”

Yang Wan’s vacant stare didn’t waver. In a voice flat as a dead sea, she replied, “If he’s here, he’s here. I don’t have the energy to receive His Majesty right now. Tell him to tidy himself up and go claim the throne.”

“Um.” The assistant hesitated, then leaned down, visibly nervous, and whispered, “But President Song… came with him.”

Yang Wan racked her brain but couldn’t recall any Song surnamed guy among her and Fu Yanzong’s mutual acquaintances who went by “President Song.” Frowning in confusion, she asked, “Which President Song? The way you say it, people might think it’s that Song Linyu from Dongyu’s circle.”

The assistant girl choked for a second, then crouched lower, her voice a tense hush. “It’s Song Linyu, Miss Song. Why do you think he’d tag along with Teacher Fu? Don’t they have beef? Should we prep for trouble? In case things go south, can you and Teacher Fu get out unscathed?”

“No way… for real?”

In one fluid, unbelievable motion, Yang Wan sprang up from the floor. She shook out her tangled hair and strode forward, instantly revived like she’d chugged a full health potion—vibrant, buzzing with excitement.

“Slow down, Sister Wan.”

The little assistant, knowing her boss all too well, jumped up and trailed after her with a helpless reminder. “Sister Wan, let’s fix your makeup and hair first. You can’t meet people looking like that.”

“No worries. This battle-worn look shows proper respect for our guests—it’s one in a century. Plus, it gives off a scary vibe. If Song Linyu goes after Fu Yanzong with claws out, I’ll have to charge in and barely save his skin.”

Far from slowed by her assistant, Yang Wan marched ahead with grim determination, striding forth like a warrior on the battlefield. She barreled through the crowd and equipment, took a deep breath from her core, and bellowed, “If you’ve got beef, don’t come at me—go savage on this Fu Yan—”

“?”

Yang Wan froze mid-sentence, then let out a weird hiss. She glanced around for two seconds before whipping back to her assistant in a furious whisper. “Weiwei, your intel’s off! The script wasn’t supposed to be Fu and Song at each other’s throats on set, with clever Yang Wan swooping in to break the tension? How come there’s no Song Linyu, just this guy lounging here all cool and smug? Now my big shout looks brainless!”

Fu Yanzong was perched on a stack of prop crates, one long leg dangling lazily to tap the floor, the other propped casually. His black trousers clung perfectly, tracing sleek lines. The studio lights cast a dim yellow glow, softening over him like an old film filter. His half-tied black hair hung loose at the back, stray strands swaying in the AC breeze across his nape, highlighting skin so pale it gleamed.

When Yang Wan arrived, he was deep into a Match-3 game, utterly absorbed. His back arched slightly in concentration—you could just make out the elegant curve of his shoulder blades through his fitted jacket.

Fu Yanzong stared down at his phone screen, thumb sliding slowly. His left hand dangled loose, a half-smoked cigarette pinched between his fingers. A gust from the cold air swirled the smoke up his arm and along his jaw, lending him an air of perfect leisure.

Sure, the screen was just a splashy Match-3 level, but in this lighting, it suddenly seemed like high-stakes drama.

“…Damn it.” Yang Wan crossed her arms, grinding her teeth as professional rivalry peaked. “Should’ve fixed my hair before coming over.”

Hearing that, Fu Yanzong—who’d just cleared the level with a perfect star rating—tilted his head with a mocking half-smile. He’d been showing only a cool profile before; now, turning fully, the mole at his eye’s corner curved up, flooding his face with vivid mischief. It screamed blatant provocation.

“Yang Wan, you just said something about savagely ravaging a Fu…? That wasn’t about me, right?”

Fu Yanzong drawled her words back at her, unhurried. Just then, the wind caught the tip of his cigarette, dimming the ember. He shifted it aside slightly, letting thin smoke curl around his pale knuckles.

Yang Wan coughed, playing it cool. “You misheard. Can’t you see my sincere welcome? I just tumbled off set and trekked over like a pilgrim to greet you.”

Fu Yanzong huffed a laugh, seeing right through her nonsense but letting it slide for now.

“Weiwei said Song Linyu came with you. What dragged His Excellency here? You two finally blew up? And you ditched him already—what happened?”

Yang Wan plopped onto a prop crate opposite him, firing off questions like machine-gun fire. No friendly concern for her friend—just pure hunger for fresh gossip.

As she spoke, she beckoned her assistant over. “Go grab Teacher Fu an ashtray. Who on our props crew spoiled him with smokes for everyone…? Wait—Fu Yanzong, since when do you actually smoke?”

It only hit her midway. “Last time at Serenity Moon Misty Court, you bummed one off me… Didn’t you quit?”

Fu Yanzong flicked his eyes up lazily. “Not smoking.”

“Then what’s that, a prop for posing? …Okay, I could totally see you pulling that.”

Fu Yanzong laughed, the kind that begged for a punch. “Does this face need to pose?”

“…Tch.”

“Just holding it for someone.”

He brushed it off casually.

But Yang Wan’s mind was all on Song Linyu. She’d noticed him staring daggers at Fu Yanzong during that welcome-back banquet after his return—something was off. She dropped the smoke topic instantly, pressing, “So, answers to the earlier questions? About Song Linyu…”

“Miss Yang, were you calling for me?”

A crisp, cool voice cut in from behind her—not loud, but precise, with a faint pause and subtle emphasis. Footsteps crossed the floor steadily, unhurried, shattering her casual banter.

Yang Wan frowned as Song Linyu appeared behind her. He brushed past and stopped beside Fu Yanzong.

It was her first time seeing Song Linyu in casual clothes. He’d shed some of his boardroom frost, but that distant aura lingered.

Song Linyu was tall and lean, his coat buttoned tight, sleeves rolled to reveal clean wrist bones. His pale skin gleamed faintly under the lights, quiet and austere. Those amber eyes caught the glow, freezing into an enigmatic shade. His gaze landed on Yang Wan, neutral—yet somehow carrying a silent edge of confrontation.

Yang Wan wiped the grin from her face, instinctively on guard. She nodded at him professionally, mustering a polite smile. “Sorry, President Song. No offense—I was just curious about your visit to set. Our shoot’s content isn’t public, and we’re not hurting for investors.”

Song Linyu paused briefly. For some reason, that intimidating detachment softened a touch. Yang Wan, sharp-eyed actress that she was, caught the hesitation in his expression. This President Song might not be as aggressive as she’d assumed.

She glanced at Fu Yanzong, waiting for his take.

To her surprise, he sighed, looking exasperated. “Come on, nothing happened. Don’t be so fierce with him.”

Yang Wan: Huh…? Huh? Huh huh huh??

Me, fierce? Is this how it’s supposed to go?

Song Linyu, standing aside, picked up smoothly. His long lashes dipped slightly, his tone softening just a hair—gentle, almost. “It’s fine.”

For some reason, it struck Yang Wan as off. Why was it suddenly fine…? And why did it sound a bit like green tea manipulation…?

Fu Yanzong hummed in acknowledgment and, with complete naturalness, lifted his hand toward Song Linyu. The scarlet trail of smoke drifting from the cigarette stood out starkly between his slender, pale fingers, while his palm remained loosely cupped.

Without the slightest hesitation, Song Linyu leaned down and brushed against the warmth of that palm, the motion as proficient and intimate as if they had done it countless times before. Then he curled his fingers and gently grasped Fu Yanzong’s wrist—very lightly, to the point where it was uncertain if he was even applying any pressure. At last, Song Linyu turned his head wordlessly, shifting away from the curve of their touching skin. His thin lips parted slightly, and he took the cigarette from Fu Yanzong’s hand with his mouth.

The overlapping pads of Fu Yanzong’s fingers seemed to be scorched by the sudden heat as well. Song Linyu’s cool lips grazed that patch of skin, sending an unexpected shiver through him. His Adam’s apple bobbed faintly for a moment before he obediently tilted his face upward, a glossy silver gleam shimmering in his pupils.

This entire sequence shattered every social boundary, teetering right on the edge of outright flirtation. Be it the gentle nuzzle against Fu Yanzong’s palm or his boundless tolerance for Song Linyu’s closeness, it all flew in the face of everything Yang Wan knew about Fu Yanzong. The realization hit her like a thunderbolt.

So that cigarette had been Song Linyu’s all along…

And Fu Yanzong had just been holding it for him?

Yang Wan suspected she must have eaten something bad that day or was so stressed out she was hallucinating. Was the man in front of her really Fu Yanzong? What on earth had happened between them that she didn’t know about?

No way—what was going on with these two guys now? Had they fucking already hooked up? Otherwise, how could Fu Yanzong let someone get this close?

Yang Wan reeled from the fact that Fu Yanzong had gone all out right from the start. She fell into a deafening silence for a moment before shooting him an admiring look.

Not afraid of the fallout at all. Respect.

Luckily, Song Linyu didn’t notice the whirlwind of emotions in her eyes. He simply straightened up and exhaled a lazy wisp of smoke from between his lips.

His pale cheeks stood in sharp contrast to the shadowy depths of his pupils. A moment later, he gave Yang Wan a slight nod and said softly,

“Miss Yang, you’ve got the wrong idea. I didn’t mean any disrespect—I’m just pursuing someone, so I’ve been a little forward.”

At his words, Yang Wan nodded absently, her mind racing: No worries, I get it. A strait-laced, ascetic-looking guy like you getting swept up by Fu Yanzong makes total sense…

Wait. Hold on.

Who was pursuing whom?

Song Linyu pursuing Fu Yanzong?

Did this guy even know the first thing about how people actually chase someone?

Yang Wan glanced at the utterly serious Song Linyu, fell silent for a beat as if she wanted to speak but thought better of it, and instead curved her lips into an elegant, enigmatic smile.