Qin Baiyan felt like he had slept for a very long time.
The price of resisting his instincts was a prolonged, incurable fever.
He slumbered deeply in a near-comatose haze, waking only sporadically. When his eyes finally fluttered open again, his body still throbbed with persistent soreness.
The world suddenly felt enormous.
No—his field of vision had narrowed.
His hearing and sight sharpened with startling speed. His body quivered, nearly toppling him off balance.
“Hmm? Dozing off on me?”
A voice clear as a mountain spring said, “It’ll be ready in a moment. Just hang on.”
Qin Baiyan’s mind cleared, and he realized he was still in the form of a Haidongqing.
He had been nodding off against Min Fan’s cheek.
The realization was so ridiculous that he instinctively wanted to pull away.
He flapped his wings, ready to launch from Min Fan’s shoulder, when a pair of chopsticks appeared, offering a morsel of fresh meat.
“Care for a bite?”
It was bloody rabbit meat.
Qin Baiyan still thought they were too close.
It might not matter to a bird, but now that his wits were about him, all he wanted was distance.
By some inexplicable impulse, he dipped his head and snatched the meat, tossing it back to swallow.
The rabbit blood was sweet as strawberry nectar, the strip of flesh so tender it made him squint in delight.
Qin Baiyan decided then that he owed Min Fan more thanks going forward.
They had crossed paths by sheer chance, and he had been utterly saved by the man’s kindness.
Yet the young man remained focused on tending to his pet, oblivious to the White Falcon’s shifting demeanor.
“Fancy some freeze-dried treats?”
Min Fan was strikingly handsome, though his personality was reserved and composed, with little taste for socializing.
The company had first tried molding him into a warm, approachable idol, but soon discovered his cool detachment toward everyone. They rebranded it as one of his signature charms instead.
The fans devoured it.
On camera, he came across like snow capping a ridge or frost amid plum blossoms—beautiful, but only from afar.
Right now, though, he directed a rare softness and intimacy toward the White Falcon, his eyes even warming with it.
Qin Baiyan had planned to take flight and revert to human form at once, but this blatant favoritism gave him pause.
To Qin Baiyan himself, Min Fan was perpetually cool and distant, offering nothing but the occasional forced smile.
Qin Baiyan sensed the underlying hostility, though he couldn’t pinpoint why.
Their partnership was nothing more than a convenient arrangement, kept strictly professional.
As the White Falcon, he craned his neck once more. Before he could focus, gentle hands scooped him up.
The young man murmured coaxingly.
“Let me hold you just a little longer, alright?”
The White Falcon went rigid in his grasp, stiff as a mounted specimen.
Slender fingers slipped into the dense plumage, kneading with slow, languid strokes.
Qin Baiyan had tensed at first, but the instinctive pleasure drew a soft sigh from him.
Every limb went lax and tingly under the caress, faint electric tingles chasing the path of Min Fan’s fingertips.
He had never dreamed another man’s embrace could feel like a cozy nest, impossible to abandon.
His pride screamed no, but his instincts flat-out refused to budge.
Min Fan had the TV on, his chin lightly propped against the little bird’s head, now and then tweaking a feather shaft.
His fingertips were long and delicate, nails a pale pink, cuticles pristine as jade.
Qin Baiyan stayed put, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
Every so often, the young man’s palm grazed the top of his head, feather-light as wind-kissed petals.
He tilted his head to study the man’s face.
A falcon’s eyes could pick out a sprinting hare on the plains from thousands of feet in the air.
Vision that keen tended to magnify every imperfection up close.
But Min Fan looked like a masterpiece.
From the sharp line of his jaw to his thin lips, and wherever his gaze happened to linger.
Min Fan was breathtakingly perfect.
His features evoked flawless porcelain—deep-set eyes, straight nose, a faint, calming fragrance clinging to him.
The avian bond stirred subtly in the background.
Qin Baiyan drifted toward sleep once more, unable to stop staring.
His human mind floated in a dreamlike fog, while the feather descendant’s deep-seated yearning welled up from within.
Min Fan was the first person he had laid eyes on after transforming into a bird.
Thyroid hormones had seared the notions of safety and intimacy onto the man himself, like a brand.
Cradled against him now, it felt like being wrapped in unconditional affection.
Qin Baiyan could hardly meet his eyes. Even as his thoughts wavered, he fought to cling to reason.
This wasn’t right.
Min Fan’s breaths came soft and even, forcing him to suffer his quickening pulse in silence.
The TV blared some mindless variety show. The White Falcon in his lap grew fidgety, impatient.
Why watch television?
He had stared at him for so long—why no acknowledgment?
No. That wasn’t right.
Qin Baiyan dimly recalled his own identity.
He shouldn’t be this close to Min Fan.
They hardly knew each other. They had no real connection.
How… had they ended up… this intimate?
Qin Baiyan slipped back into slumber.
After four or five days of this back-and-forth routine, things finally settled into a stable rhythm.
Both managers had been waiting on tenterhooks, breathing a collective sigh of relief only when they got word that they could finally join the production.
The little lovebirds had patched up their spat. Time to get back to work.
White Ink was a blockbuster co-production from Hong Kong, Macau, and Taiwan. Director Xiao Buchuan was an industry legend—a wunderkind who’d cut his teeth on comedy films and now had the pulse of audiences down to an art form. His name alone was box-office gold.
The movie was eyeing the Lunar New Year release slot next year. The script crammed with crowd-pleasing tropes, it had been the hottest property since greenlighting two years back.
Veteran actors lined up to slash their fees for a chance to work with him; up-and-comers would practically pay out of pocket.
It wasn’t about the money. The entertainment world was a cutthroat churn of fresh faces. Carving out real recognition with audiences was no small feat.
The story unfolded against a Hong Kong backdrop, but most interior scenes were filming on elaborate sets in Hengdian.
The male lead and his second-in-command arrived on set one after the other, bunking in presidential suites on the top floor of the luxury block.
2502 and 2501.
Private elevator, personal staff handling meals, sprawling spaces with refined decor—the perks were endless.
Qin Baiyan was growing accustomed to his days as a man and nights as a bird. In public, he kept a deliberate distance from Min Fan.
He said little, meeting his hidden cravings with stoic silence.
Min Fan had no inkling of this inner turmoil. He simply felt relieved.
He hated clingy types.
Even if Qin Baiyan cut a striking figure—the pinnacle of rugged, mature handsomeness—a passing glance now and then was plenty. They weren’t buddies.
On the flight, they sat poles apart, managers firing off frantic signals with winks and nods.
[What’s the deal? Did they fight?]
[You’re reading too much into it. Gotta keep up appearances in public.]
[Fair point, but Brother Qin’s vibe is off. Like storm clouds rolling in.]
Three days shy of cameras rolling, Min Fan told his assistant to pack light, then stepped out for a lemonade iced tea.
“Brother Fan,” the assistant ventured, eyeing the gnarled branch, “what’s with the big tree limb?”
“Feng shui piece,” Min Fan replied. “Master said I’m short on wood in my elements. Gotta stick a couple by the bed and in the living room.”
The assistant took in the branch on its wooden base, sprinkled with sawdust bedding. Brother Fan’s going all-in on this remedy, he thought, nodding along.
“You buy into that stuff?” Min Fan grinned. “Friend of mine races pigeons. This one’s trained to find me sometimes. Swap the bedding if it gets messy.”
“You got it!”
Once the crew cleared out, Min Fan shot off a message to Qin Baiyan.
[Min]: Come over.
Qin Baiyan, huddled under a blanket with his script, scowled at the buzzing phone.
Only five-thirty in the afternoon.
Displeasure simmered to life.
Did he want him turning bird ahead of schedule?
Was that all Qin Baiyan amounted to—a fluffy plaything, good for nothing else?
Pushing into that makeup room had been a snap decision, his body teetering on the brink of an uncontrollable shift.
He’d prayed under his breath not to get strong-armed or bought off by some rookie, lest cutting ties turn into a blackmail nightmare.
Min Fan demanded zilch, kept a cool, courteous distance from everyone. If anything, it only stoked the man’s irritation.
A concealed door linked the presidential suites. Two soft raps sounded.
Min Fan swung it open, motioning him toward the living room.
Qin Baiyan seethed inwardly, his face a mask of frosty detachment.
“Thanks for rigging up the bird perch, Mr. Min.”
He pulled the blanket tight, bracing to morph back into the white falcon with its riot of plush feathers.
“What’re you doing?” Min Fan twirled his pen, rapped his notebook. “Script’s right here.”
Qin Baiyan, seconds from vanishing: “…”
“Early riser?” Min Fan glanced at the clock. “It’s just six. Two hours of coaching doable?”
“Mm.”
White Ink kicked off with hacker Chen Zhuan, mid-Parkinson’s episode, solo-hacking an electromagnetic pulse that blacked out half of Hong Kong.
Qin Baiyan embodied the deceptively affable finance titan Lu Fang: victim in act one, prime suspect midstream, capping with a double-twist reveal. Thrills galore.
Chen Zhuan might’ve drawn second-lead billing, but his clashes with Lu Fang crackled with tension—pure fireworks.
“Parkinson’s is a beast to nail,” Qin Baiyan said, scanning the character breakdowns and notes Min Fan had jotted over the past days. “How you tackling it?”
Min Fan had his approach locked in but mulled it over fresh. “Internal battle.”
Qin Baiyan froze mid-page-turn, eyes locking on him.
“Popping—that street dance style. Hits tremors with those snap muscle locks and releases.” Min Fan went on. “Binged every video on the disease I could find, mixed in my spin. Demo for you?”
Qin Baiyan held his gaze.
He marveled at Min Fan’s swift immersion—no awkwardness in dissecting craft, just bold, unhesitant display.
All the more by this young actor’s sharp instincts.
As an artist, Min Fan was indeed as cold as ice, always carrying an air of aloof nobility.
But as an actor, he threw himself into the role without a shred of hesitation. He dared to go all out.
Many professional actors spent years learning to unleash their inhibitions—mimicking wild animal behaviors with over-the-top movements to shed their self-consciousness about the outside world.
Qin Baiyan had come prepared to teach him some techniques along those lines, only to realize Min Fan needed none of it.
He watched intently as Min Fan finished the first segment. “You’ve got the essence down,” he said.
“But it lacks emotion. That’s why it doesn’t feel authentic.”
“Tell me more.”
Qin Baiyan took a sip of black coffee and dove into breaking down the script for him.
Rather than nitpicking a single scene’s delivery, he started big: Hong Kong’s unchallenged dominance in the financial world coming under siege.
From the Hong Kong Stock Exchange to the Shanghai Stock Exchange. From the relentless flood of the times to the barren existence of a disabled programmer scraping by.
A dish of vibrant green pistachios sat on the coffee table. Every so often, one or two shells cracked open.
Qin Baiyan reined himself in, forcing his focus onto the script.
He couldn’t let himself sit too close.
The mark seared into his skin once more, pulling his attention away in fleeting moments of distraction.
Min Fan remained oblivious, assuming Qin was simply giving him room to absorb it all.
He soaked it up with fierce concentration, internalizing the character bit by bit.
The pistachios dwindled to nothing.
Qin Baiyan used the nuts to blunt some of his mounting frustration, but fighting off his primal urges left him drained.
By the time they’d worked through the segment, the first five pages of the notebook were crammed with notes in red, blue, and black ink.
“Have you eaten dinner yet?”
“No,” Qin Baiyan said, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “A salad will do just fine.”
Min Fan rang the bell, signaling room service to wheel in their cart.
He stuck to his usual: a grain bowl topped with yogurt, quinoa, kiwi slices, and neat stacks of salmon.
Qin Baiyan stared at those salmon slices, his breath growing shallow.
Then a bowl of raw beef tartare was set before him—crimson and silken, crowned with a raw egg yolk, flecked with blood.
Clots of beef blood, lamb sauce, and capers garnished the side.
He looked up. Min Fan met his gaze, utterly calm.
As if to say:
No need to pretend.
I know exactly what you’re craving.
