The hotel buffet offered a wide variety of dishes, including bullfrog tempura.
Min Fan had never been interested in it before. He always thought the things were too big and looked downright ferocious.
After circling the tempura station three times in a row, he felt like he was coaxing a picky child inside his own head.
Did he really have to eat this? Was there no way around it?
The young man silently picked up two golden, crispy fried bullfrogs and carried his plate back to the table.
Qin Baiyan was sipping Blue Mountain coffee and reading the newspaper. He glanced over during a lull.
Min Fan kept a straight face. “Hear my defense first.”
Qin Baiyan turned his gaze to him, signaling his interest in hearing more.
That was what he said, anyway—but there was no follow-up.
The tempura smelled incredible. Min Fan steeled himself and took a bite, his face breaking into the classic blissful expression of a food show guest.
“Mmm!”
Bullfrog could actually be this delicious!
It was soft and tender with a perfect chew, crispy on the outside and succulent inside, layered with the crunch of the batter. The flavor was outstanding!
Qin Baiyan kept reading the financial newspaper, chuckling to himself.
Min Fan’s aloof demeanor was nothing but a paper tiger.
Once you really got to know him, it was impossible to be fooled.
Ayi had pulled an all-nighter yesterday revising the quarterly plan. He’d slept through until he almost missed lunch. When he finally showed up, the first thing he saw was his own artist messing around with fried food.
“Brother Fan!”
Min Fan ate with elegant poise, pretending not to hear.
Ayi rushed over.
“Bro, fried food makes you swell up! The concert’s next month! And that chocolate milkshake too…”
Min Fan dabbed his mouth with a napkin.
“Qin Baiyan.”
Called by his full name, the man glanced sideways at Ayi. “Director Xiao arranged it.”
Ayi’s nagging trailed off mid-spell. “Huh?”
“You know he never eats bullfrog.”
“Right… yeah.” Ayi rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “I made a fool of myself. You two carry on.”
That afternoon, after running lines in the room, Qin Baiyan showed no sign of leaving.
“Call OAC.”
“Is that necessary?”
Min Fan figured he was overthinking it.
If gene awakening was some sci-fi gimmick everyone could have, it was no different from getting a driver’s license.
Hadn’t the AI assistant said the odds were only one in ten thousand or something…?
The OAC Center picked up the call.
“Hello, has Mr. Qin run into any issues?”
“It’s me,” Min Fan said. “Mr. Qin suspects I’m in the awakening phase.”
The receptionist promptly asked about changes in habits, sense of smell, body temperature, and the like. She said a specialist would be there within half an hour.
“So fast?” Min Fan said. “Are there management offices all over the country now?”
“Both the government and private sectors have poured massive funding into building and maintaining the system,” the receptionist replied professionally. “Don’t worry about the costs—they’re all covered by special funds.”
Now that he thought about it, that made perfect sense.
Ever since Comet Night, anyone—from elites and celebrities down to welfare cases and orphans—could wake up one day to a sudden mutation.
Public discourse was gradually opening up, but to stave off mass panic, things were still in a cautious transition phase.
Before long, a pair of women arrived. They wore crisp black suits, dark sunglasses, and carried identical briefcases to the ones from last time.
“Hello, I’m A841. I’ll be handling your gene screening today.”
Min Fan extended his right hand, letting her draw the blood sample.
Once she’d finished, A841 pressed a cotton ball to the spot and gestured for him to hold it lightly for a moment.
“Please wait five minutes. The results will be ready shortly.”
Min Fan gently peeled back the cotton ball and saw that his fingertip had already stopped bleeding.
He extended his hand to Qin Baiyan as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Blow on it for me.”
Qin Baiyan: “…”
He gently cradled Min Fan’s wrist and blew on it twice, quite seriously.
Min Fan was blatantly running an obedience test.
He even wondered if he asked for anything, would Qin Baiyan find a way to make it happen.
…Just because of this secret owner-pet dynamic?
No way.
The device beeped twice.
A841’s expression shifted slightly. “Your suspicion is well-founded.”
“Per the analysis, you… do indeed carry Flashscale Snake lineage. You may enter the Transformation Period anytime between two weeks and eight weeks from now.”
Min Fan had been smiling just a second ago. Now he stared at her, his voice turning icy.
“Say that again?”
A841 stayed all business. “We’ll come back to register you once the transformation is official. For now, here’s a copy of the relevant documents.”
“Before the Transformation Period hits, try to stay in good spirits. Avoid iced drinks, get used to any shifts in taste or sleep patterns, and keep a soft blanket on hand.”
“Once you’re stable, you’ll need to alternate regularly between your snake and human forms.”
“Stay in snake form too long, and you risk losing basic human cognition. Linger too much in human form, and it could trigger a mutation—with unpredictable consequences.”
Qin Baiyan spoke up. “Does he need to register an emergency contact?”
A841 said, “No need. The professionals have all received training and can detect any anomalies and arrive on scene in as little as ten minutes.”
Just as the two staff members were preparing to leave, the man added, “Send me a copy of the Flashscale Snake habits manual.”
“Certainly. Please check your messages.”
The living room fell quiet once again.
Qin Baiyan made sure the door was securely shut before turning back to Min Fan, his brows lightly furrowed.
The young man sat huddled in one corner of the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, a trace of dejection finally creeping into his expression.
He flipped through his copy of the habits manual, long lashes lowered, lips pressed tightly together in silence.
Qin Baiyan had never been good at handling situations like this.
“I’ll make you a cup of tea.”
“It’s like a bad joke.” Min Fan looked up. “Me, turning into a snake?”
“I only debuted last year, and because of something like this, I even missed the local spring gala.”
It was hard for him to put all his tangled emotions into words.
But now it was his turn.
Billions of people around the world had witnessed that same comet shower.
Why him? Why did it have to be him?
“So I’ll have scales on my body? I’ll have to sleep wrapped in a blanket every night and eat nothing but bullfrogs and white mice?”
Min Fan realized he was losing his composure and clutched the blanket tighter. “I’m not mocking you or discriminating against you.”
“I just… it’s all too sudden.”
Qin Baiyan slid the steaming cup of tea across the table toward him.
The two men exchanged a glance, like patients who had just received terminal diagnoses.
“I don’t look down on you, and I don’t hate you,” Min Fan added on instinct.
I’m just terrified that my life will spiral completely out of control, that I’ll become some kind of… rare freak that no normal person could ever understand.
Qin Baiyan sat beside him, fingers interlaced and pressed to his lips. It was a long moment before he spoke.
“I’ve fought it.”
“My willpower’s strong enough to run a marathon or pull two all-nighters in a row without a break.”
“But no matter how strong someone is, they can’t deny their body’s instincts,” Qin Baiyan said. “Haidongqing are pure carnivores. These days, eating salad feels like chewing newspaper to me.”
Min Fan managed a small smile and relaxed a little.
“Do the pigeons on the street look handsome to you now?”
Qin Baiyan simply gazed at him, saying nothing.
“That day on set, one second I was changing clothes, and the next my temperature shot up, heart pounding close to two-twenty.”
“If you hadn’t been there, I might have transformed into a bird right then and flown off—who knows where I’d be now.”
Or maybe I’d have ended up in some remote woods, tangled in a bird-catching net and gasping out my last breath.
“If it ever happens to you, I’ll do everything I can to keep you safe,” the man said, giving his phone a little shake. “Good thing it’s a non-venomous snake. A few bites won’t kill you.”
Min Fan snapped, “I’m not ready to turn into one of those things!!”
Browsing a pet shop was one thing. Actually transforming into an animal was something else entirely.
And why couldn’t he turn into a swan or a peacock or a thrush—something graceful? Why did it have to be a snake, the kind that just sounded awful?
Even the Milkshake snake they’d seen at the flower-and-bird market that day would’ve been better.
“We need to prepare,” Qin Baiyan said reasonably.
“No preparations.”
“We’ll buy a few more blankets.”
“No buying.”
“And we need a contingency plan from the company.”
“No plans.”
Qin Baiyan watched Min Fan, realizing he must be a little off himself—he actually found this sulky, childish pout endearing.
Hopelessly endearing.
“You planning to play ostrich for a few days?”
Sadness welled up in Min Fan all over again. “Even an ostrich would be fine. An ostrich is okay too, right?”
Qin Baiyan: “…”
The afternoon shoot proceeded as usual, with no one the wiser.
In front of the crew, Min Fan wore his usual faint smile, though he spoke far less than before.
His low spirits were subtle, almost undetectable, but Qin Baiyan noticed and felt an ache in his chest.
He couldn’t help wondering if it was his own scent fluctuations—or maybe some kind of bioelectric signal—that had triggered this in Min Fan too.
The manager and director remained blissfully ignorant as the cast and crew kept up their routine of filming, group meals, and basking in the increasingly warm early-spring sun.
Qin Baiyan’s character had to spend long stretches in a wheelchair, masquerading as a paralyzed retired schoolteacher after posing as a ruthless financial titan who held life and death in his hands.
When Min Fan wheeled him to the incinerator to confirm the death of their enemy, the director pulled them aside with specific instructions.
“Later, when the ambushers leap out, Baiyan—you’ve got to have that split-second instinct to stand up. Xiao Min pounces and pins you down hard.”
“This scene’s straightforward. You hold him back—don’t let him draw his gun for revenge. Sell that emotion with total conviction, or the whole three-year scheme falls apart.”
“You two are both in the corner of the frame—mainly shooting the others’ crematorium gunfight. I don’t need to mention Baiyan’s emotional outburst over there.”
“Departments, prepare! Three, two, one!”
The boss sat in front of the wheelchair, his two fingers just about to press down on the corpse’s carotid artery, when the etiquette lady suddenly drew her gun and aimed it at them, pulling the trigger instantly.
Lu Fang instinctively tried to stand and counterattack, but Chen Zhuan threw himself over to shield him.
The wheelchair flipped onto the ground, both of them knocked down by the impact amid endless echoes of gunfire.
The director called through the megaphone, “Baiyan, struggle a little—just enough to sell it.”
“The gunfight’s gonna take twenty minutes to shoot, so stay down a bit longer.”
Once the close-up of the struggle and restraint was done, the cameramen quickly swung their lenses around to capture the fierce gunfight outside the cremation furnace.
Min Fan was still pressing down hard on his shoulder, staying prone without moving.
Qin Baiyan revealed the relaxation of wrap-up time.
“It’s okay now,” he said softly. “Our scene’s done.”
The young man still didn’t let go—instead gripping his clothes tighter, knuckles whitening from the force.
He was trembling slightly, as if the fear had arrived late.
Qin Baiyan turned his face, wanting to see his expression clearly.
Cool tears trickled down the man’s neck, winding like a baby snake.
“I’m not reconciled.” The young man kept his voice low, still crying.
“Baiyan, why do I have to… turn into a snake?”
