The suite’s dining room was furnished in a European style, with a long table that could seat twelve guests.
Qin Baiyan pulled out the second chair, glancing over to see Min Fan pulling out the fifth.
A quiet sigh of relief escaped him.
When he was in bird form, Min Fan had been too close.
Close enough to breach personal boundaries, stirring up a visceral aversion triggered by his genes.
Min Fan kept a clear line between work and personal matters, friendly yet polite. That was good.
The two ate in silence, without exchanging polite small talk. The only sounds in the dining room were the faint clinks of cutlery.
After the bloody steak had soothed him somewhat, Qin Baiyan glanced sideways, as if checking a WeChat message, then looked back at the distance between their plates.
It was far. As distant and unfamiliar as his dinner.
An inexplicable displeasure stirred within him.
At eleven that night, after showering and preparing for bed, Qin Baiyan sat on the wooden perch, wrapped in a blanket.
Min Fan placed his pants and towel nearby.
“…”
With a clear cry, he transformed once more into a haidongqing, his long feathers slightly raised.
Min Fan crouched beside him, gazing at the bird with serene composure.
Its pure white plumage had a creamy texture, the mottled patterns resembling scattered coffee grounds.
It exuded an air of noble elegance, occasionally revealing a touch of softness that made it utterly endearing.
Min Fan had studied design and once adored a type of rock slab called Alps Snow White.
The haidongqing’s feather patterns were more densely and artfully arranged, far surpassing it in beauty.
Compared to Qin Baiyan himself, he preferred this white bird.
Of course, propriety prevented him from coldly telling the man to his face, “Change back.”
Min Fan scooped up the little white bird, his mood instantly lifting.
“Snow Fluff, it’s been a while,” he said with a beaming smile. “How about I call you that in secret?”
Qin Baiyan, fully alert, said nothing.
During the stabilization period, they had reached a consensus.
In emergencies, calling out Qin Baiyan’s name would quickly summon his consciousness, allowing him to shift back to human form.
Qin Baiyan’s control over his consciousness wasn’t refined enough yet.
He hadn’t told Min Fan that, right after transforming, he could briefly retain his human awareness.
Thus, he endured a gentle scratch on his head, followed by a leisurely stroking of his feathers.
“I’ve got some bedtime snacks for you. Want any?” Min Fan opened a drawer. “There’s baked cod donuts, venison treat cans, duck biscuits…”
Qin Baiyan looked up at him in disbelief.
At first, he’d thought Min Fan was just gritfully looking after him, but he hadn’t expected such thorough preparation.
And… far more attentive than when dealing with him in person.
When ordering room service, the young man had been coolly perfunctory. Now, facing the little bird, his smile bloomed like spring flowers carried on the wind, freshened by rain.
Qin Baiyan wasn’t particularly hungry, but he quietly ate half a donut and four duck biscuits.
The white falcon allowed the young man this intimacy, the unwelcome imprint in his heart slowly giving way to acceptance.
The person he trusted most was grooming his feathers, gazing at him with a smile.
He relaxed enough to want to sigh.
The next morning, Qin Baiyan woke at eight. The bedroom was empty.
He removed the ankle chain, still unaccustomed to the odd sensation of the ankle ring marking him.
By OAC rules, feather descendants had to wear ankle rings for life, while snake descendants wore neck rings.
This helped the organization monitor various situations and protected them from being hunted, sold, or eaten as animals when not in human form.
The man tentatively tried to remove the ankle ring. The chip detected no matching changes in body temperature or heart rate and refused to deform.
Draped in his bathrobe, he stepped out of the bedroom. The suite was empty.
Old Xu was still snoring. His phone buzzed once under the pillow.
[Brother Qin]: Where’s Min Fan
Old Xu: “…”
[Tianlai Entertainment – Xu Xiao]: No idea, bro. Why not ask him directly?
[Brother Qin]: Not that close
[Tianlai Entertainment – Xu Xiao]: What’s up? I’ll WeChat call Ayi later.
[Brother Qin]: Personal matter
Old Xu learned that Min Fan had several concerts this year. Before joining the production, he’d rented a conference hall in the hotel and turned it into a rehearsal studio. He’d headed there at five that morning.
“Oh, right. Director Xiao said a few old friends from the central and western districts are coming by this morning. Want to join for tea later?”
“Got it.”
Qin Baiyan returned to his room, freshened up, then sipped black coffee while replying to work emails.
His mind operated rationally and methodically, clearly discerning the subtleties of business dealings.
Yet deep inside, something tugged at him like a fishing line.
Min Fan wasn’t here. He was in some conference hall on the twentieth floor.
They had no real connection—just temporarily collaborating actors.
Ten minutes later, Qin Baiyan paused his work, retrieved the blanket from its spot, and draped it over himself.
The familiar scent of Yipinyun Qingtan incense wafted through the air, enveloping him like a gentle embrace.
Cardamom, lemon, frankincense, violet leaves.
It carried a refreshing brightness full of youthful vigor, tempered with just the right touch of steady maturity.
The first time it had transformed into the White Falcon, it had thrashed uncontrollably in his arms, sniffing at this scent for what felt like forever.
After that, every time before shifting into bird form to sleep, he would wrap himself in Min Fan’s cream-colored fluffy blanket, letting this warm fragrance sink even deeper into his senses.
Qin Baiyan managed to force himself to work for a whopping twenty-seven minutes.
Then he snatched up his script and tablet and headed straight to the twentieth floor.
He himself felt nothing for Min Fan. It was all just this superfluous imprint stirring up trouble.
Qin Baiyan absolutely refused to admit as much. He told himself he was merely accommodating that troublesome Haidongqing.
He couldn’t see Min Fan. He couldn’t sense his presence. It was like some corner of his heart had been snagged by a fishing line, tugged and pulled without end.
There might not even be any sharp pain, but it shadowed his every step, leaving the man nothing but irritated and unsettled.
Before, he had needed to fight the instinct to turn into a bird. Now he also had to contend with this urge to draw close to Min Fan.
If he’d known it would come to this, he might as well have hidden out on the moon during Comet Night.
The dance practice room turned out to be surprisingly easy to find.
Its soundproofing was excellent—no disturbance to anyone outside—but young actors and staff were always sneaking peeks through the door.
When Qin Baiyan arrived, he spotted Ayi beaming like a total fanboy, snapping away at Min Fan with his camera shutter clacking nonstop.
Min Fan was wearing a white tank top, leading a group of dancers through their routine.
The drumbeats pounded fiercely, the vibrations intense.
Min Fan held the center spot, every inch the pinnacle of professional artistry.
As he danced, he sang into an open mic, his long legs slicing through sharp moves, every gesture flowing as smoothly as ripples on water.
The dancers gathered and scattered in perfect sync, every rhythm dictated entirely by the strikingly handsome artist at the core.
If someone flubbed a step, Min Fan shot them a razor-sharp glance, and the whole group snapped to attention.
He didn’t mind the onlookers. His voice rang out bright and captivating, the flourishes at the end of each phrase laced with mesmerizing allure.
Ayi watched in a total daze, thinking to himself that Min Fan not blowing up to stardom would be a crime against nature. It took him a good while to notice someone had sat down behind him.
“Hey, Brother Qin, you’re here?”
“Hiding out from the toasts,” Qin Baiyan said, eyes on his tablet. “Don’t mind me, keep going.”
Ayi immediately waved over an assistant to pour water for the big boss, though he still stole glances at Min Fan’s dancing whenever he could.
Qin Baiyan had his own private motives, so he kept his eyes down, looking for all the world like he was buried in the quarterly reports.
His gaze lingered on the text, but his ears stayed tuned to Min Fan’s voice.
The instant he stepped into the practice room, that clamoring restlessness inside him finally eased.
The lyrics were all the hot youth anthems of the moment—sweet little love songs, punchy upbeat EDM tracks.
Each song brought a shift in mood, and Min Fan’s delivery adapted on the spot.
Last night, while running through the script, Qin Baiyan had felt a quiet appreciation for this still-green junior.
But today, he finally witnessed Min Fan at his absolute peak.
His features burned so fiercely into the memory that they were unforgettable at a glance; even his icy demeanor drew you in.
When he sang a girly pop tune, his voice turned syrupy sweet, soft enough to make Qin Baiyan’s heart itch.
But as the track switched, that cotton-candy softness hardened into crisp mountain spring water.
The man glanced up to find the dancers all dropped to one knee, leaving Min Fan to solo his dance.
He seemed utterly aloof, untouched by the mortal world, yet he commanded everyone’s gaze and adoration. That very contradiction only made him shine brighter, more irresistibly captivating.
The longing that had just settled surged back, greedier than before.
That’s about enough, Qin Baiyan told the Haidongqing.
Haven’t you had your fill of clinging yet?
That evening, Min Fan soaked in the bath for a long, relaxing stretch before toweling off his hair and going to check on Snow Fluff.
The White Falcon had seemed restless these past few days.
The young man paused in his steps, watching as it battered its wings in fierce, nonstop flaps.
To keep from careening wildly around the room, the White Falcon’s talons gripped the bird perch tight, reduced to mimicking flight as a way to vent its pent-up tension.
Sensing Min Fan’s approach, Snow Fluff calmed a touch and let out a clear chirp, like a greeting.
He drew closer and reached out to stroke it thoughtfully.
Snow Fluff basked quietly in the warmth for a moment, then tilted sideways for a gentle peck. It seized a loose tail feather in its beak and offered it to Min Fan.
The young man looked up. “Is this for me?”
The White Falcon nudged it forward insistently.
With a tender smile, he accepted it, unable to resist planting a kiss on the little bird’s head.
“What a beautiful feather. I’ll keep it safe as a bookmark. Thank you.”
After returning to his study to tuck away this precious gift from his bird, Min Fan pondered intently for a long while before standing once more before the White Falcon.
In the brief time he’d been gone, it had kept flapping relentlessly, enough to rock the bird perch with the gusts.
“Qin Baiyan,” Min Fan called out. “Come out here for a second.”
On the third call, the White Falcon’s gaze sharpened in an instant. It burrowed into the soft blanket and shifted back into the form of a man.
“What’s the matter?”
“Do you even realize how badly you want to fly?” Min Fan asked bluntly. “You’ve been a haidongqing for so long—have you ever gone out and flown even once?”
He could see it crystal clear as an outsider. How could the man himself remain oblivious?
“No need for that,” Qin Baiyan replied. “The risks are far too great.”
A momentary thrill wasn’t worth it.
As the one bearing responsibility for so many identities, he had to keep the bigger picture in mind.
Min Fan found the man exasperatingly rigid, teetering on the edge of asceticism—never voicing a complaint, enduring everything without a murmur.
If he were that haidongqing, he’d indulge far more recklessly, consequences be damned.
The young man stepped forward, his tone laced with challenge.
“Qin Baiyan, do you dare to make a bet?”
“I’ll take you out for the highest flight of your life.”
