Chapter 26

Shen Li had barely sent those two words when Qian Xingzhi shot back a question mark, quick as lightning.

He followed it up with two lines punctuated by smiling emojis:

【?】

【I shot this for over twenty minutes [smile]】

【Can you be any more savage? [smile]】

Shen Li paused to think before replying:

【Sure】

【?】

【Stock photo?】

【[smile]】

No surprise there.

Qian Xingzhi’s call came through in under five seconds.

Shen Li let the phone ring twice before answering.

Right at the moment of connection, the sound of cascading water roared from the other end—the shower was still running. Clearly, Qian Xingzhi hadn’t finished bathing.

Shen Li pushed himself up from the bed once more, leaning back against the soft pillows at the headboard. He spoke first. “Hey.”

It was quite a while before Qian Xingzhi responded. His voice came through deep and magnetic, like he was performing in a rain-drenched melodrama, light as a whisper amid a torrent: “You doing this on purpose to rile me up?”

Shen Li’s tone remained even. “You’re overthinking. Just an objective assessment.”

“Objective?”

There was a pause on Qian Xingzhi’s end, then another long stretch of silence, as if his voice needed time to load. When it returned, it was insistent, picking up the argument right where it left off. “First it’s ‘average,’ then ‘stock photo.’ Are you saying the stock photo I picked is average? Don’t you see how contradictory that is, Captain Shen?”

Shen Li: …

“And don’t you know what my abs look like? How could it possibly be a stock photo?”

Shen Li: .

With a tap of his finger, Shen Li reopened the image, his expression blank. His eyes swept over it like a scanner dissecting a suspect’s ID photo, scrutinizing every detail. His mind kicked into analysis mode—

Location: A bathroom with subpar conditions, directly under the showerhead.

Time: Evening, based on the awkward lighting.

Photographer: …

The photo revealed taut, sculpted abdominal lines, carved to perfection. Each muscle block stood out sharply, flowing in natural contours. Every ridge swelled subtly with raw power, the outlines crisp from just below the ribs down to the Adonis belt.

Water droplets traced the muscle striations, gliding slowly downward. The skin looked tight and resilient, shimmering with a healthy sheen.

—Tensed, it formed that familiar curve; relaxed, it would soften into a plush belly.

Definitely Qian Xingzhi’s.

And absolutely not a stock photo.

But the man had sprung this awkward selfie on him out of nowhere—how was Shen Li supposed to respond?

He couldn’t exactly say, “Bro didn’t look for free; bro likes.”

Or, “For guys our age, holding onto this shape is no small feat.”

Shen Li fell quiet for a long moment, mostly because he truly had no knack for banter in moments like these.

From the other end, Qian Xingzhi’s voice chilled further. The water cut off, replaced by the rustle of toweling dry and pulling on clothes. He let out a cold snort, as if muttering to himself: “Misfired again, gone silent. You’ve got a long recording session ahead, and now you’re fresh out of things to say to me.”

Qian Xingzhi’s voice grew muffled, drifting as if he were pacing away, then back.

It was like a puppy wagging its tail for praise, frustrated by the silence and letting out a couple impatient yips—only to droop its tail and start grumbling when met with indifference.

Shen Li found himself at a loss too. In response to Qian Xingzhi’s clearly loaded words, he offered something with a bit of emotional payoff: “…Fine, fine, you’re great. That better?”

But something still rang wrong. Even Shen Li winced inwardly after saying it.

Predictably, Qian Xingzhi’s tone turned icier, more sullen, the skepticism sharpening. “…If you’re skipping the praise, whatever—but what’s with the shade?”

Shen Li: …

“Where’s the shade? That was a compliment.”

“You pull this line whenever you’re done talking,” Qian Xingzhi shot back coldly. “Followed by ‘Can we sleep now?'”

Shen Li: ..

The guy remembered every little thing—and had no filter saying it.

Still—

“You haven’t started recording yet, have you?”

Shen Li double-checked.

That set Qian Xingzhi off for real. “You treating me like a moron right now? Like I’d record my shower? You think I’m nuts?”

Shen Li pressed on mercilessly. “As everyone knows, normal people don’t call their ex mid-shower.”

Qian Xingzhi: …

Silence bloomed and spread without end, a peculiar tension filling the air.

Shen Li sensed it too. Ever since reconnecting with Qian Xingzhi through this show, a subtle shift had crept into their exchanges.

Before the divorce, conversations like this would have been unthinkable.

After seven years apart, their old friction points felt refreshed, reset—like this very back-and-forth echoed their high school days, before they’d dated. All snark and tentative probes.

That long-buried sensation stirred in Shen Li again.

A hazy uncertainty, teetering on the edge of truth.

Like grilling a suspect with lingering doubts—ninety percent sure they were the perp, but not quite landing the knockout punch on their weak spot.

His pulse quickened, a light sweat broke out, adrenaline surged, thoughts raced, forcing him to temper the thrill with reason.

“—Get yourself sorted first. Call back when you’re ready?”

With Qian Xingzhi staying quiet this time, Shen Li took the initiative to move things along.

But Qian Xingzhi had no plans to pause. “No need—I’m all set, just about to hit the sack.”

Shen Li murmured his acknowledgment. Before Qian Xingzhi could signal the start of recording, he confirmed once more: “What are we supposed to cover in this bit?”

He had no script, but Qian Xingzhi might have side instructions.

Qian Xingzhi’s reply matched his earlier line, tone unchanged: “Relax—just say whatever. My assistant will cut anything off. No thirty-minute minimum. Three minutes works fine.”

Shen Li’s brow furrowed. He wanted to ask if the Program Group wouldn’t mind, since they were hawking these extras for eighty-eight bucks apiece.

But before he could, Qian Xingzhi anticipated it. “This segment wasn’t in the contract—no heads-up, no asking your input. I told the planners we’d play along as best we can. Forcing viewers to pay eighty-eight? Nah, we can just drop it.”

Hearing that, Shen Li’s frown deepened as he pieced it together. “So you didn’t design this segment?”

“Tch.” Qian Xingzhi tsked coldly. “If I had, I’d have run it by you first.”

Shen Li held his judgment and pressed on. “But you mentioned veto power. So what’s your role on the production team?”

Qian Xingzhi paused, a hint of amusement creeping in. “Captain Shen’s cop instincts kicking in? Got me in the hot seat like a suspect?”

Shen Li: “…You’re not a suspect. You don’t have to answer.”

Qian Xingzhi didn’t hold back. “Half-investor. Partnered with some folks, tossed in a bit.”

Honest, yet slippery.

He admitted partnership without naming his stake.

Casual about “tossing in a bit,” but it had to be a hefty sum—though he offered no specifics.

Shen Li mulled it over briefly before asking, “Of the three million I’m getting, how much is yours?”

Qian Xingzhi let out an “Ah,” aware of Shen Li’s grasp of investments. He wasn’t sure why the question, but clarified: “It’s all about proportions. Tough to pin down. Everyone pooled funds proportionally and spends proportionally. I put in more than three hundred grand, sure—but you can’t say your whole fee came from me.”

That was exactly Shen Li’s point.

“Right. So what proportion do you hold?” Shen Li stressed the final words, making his intent clear.

He wanted to know if Qian Xingzhi called the shots, if he was the driving force.

Capital locked down variety shows through investment control; the core team answered to the money men. Shen Li needed Qian Xingzhi’s exact leverage.

Why a “remarriage” show, of all things.

This time, Qian Xingzhi caught on. After a long pause, he gave a number: “Fifty-one percent.”

Majority investor.

Shen Li’s gaze dropped. “Mm.” He got it now—no need for more.

Pair it with their car conversation…

And Shen Li had finally circled back to confirm Qian Xingzhi’s drunken ramblings, piece by piece:

The show served two aims—bury WCC and remarry.

With Qian Xingzhi at the helm, he’d steered it straight into unprecedented “remarriage” territory.

No such shows existed on the market: ultra-niche, no blueprints, sky-high risk.

He could’ve picked any format, lured Jiang Nan in as WCC brass for a photo op, then dropped ironclad proof to torch them.

But no—he’d forged this pathless remarriage gimmick.

At last, the man’s motives locked seamlessly with that slurred “want to remarry.”

…

Shen Li stayed silent, reaching up to massage his aching brow. He held back from shattering the fragile veil.

He needed more time to think it through.

Qian Xingzhi matched his quiet, having answered every query without overstepping—without repeating that “want to remarry” line.

An unspoken accord. Room left on both sides.

Warm yellow lamplight bathed Shen Li’s profile, tracing his flawless, chiseled contours with a soft halo. Time seemed to hush and slow. Until Qian Xingzhi cleared his throat lightly: “Alright, let’s start recording then. Done, and bed.”

“Mm,” Shen Li responded, waiting quietly for Qian Xingzhi to get the recording set up.

A “beep—” sounded.

The already silent air turned even more awkward thanks to that prompt tone. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before Qian Xingzhi steered the conversation again, tossing out a perfectly fitting question:

“How are your master’s lungs doing? He was cursing up a storm today—all good now?”

Shen Li had calculated every angle but never expected Qian Xingzhi’s first question to be about his master.

Still, since Qian Xingzhi was thoughtful enough to ask, Shen Li answered patiently. “The surgery went very successfully. It was early-stage, and the post-op results have been great. He just needs to keep an eye on it with regular check-ups.”

“Oh,” Qian Xingzhi paused, as if giving it some thought. “I’ve got some cordyceps here. When the show’s over, why don’t you take it to him?”

Shen Li: …

“No need. He doesn’t accept gifts.”

“Ah, he might not take stuff from people asking favors, but he wouldn’t turn down yours, right? You’re not in the system anymore. What’s wrong with giving him a little token of appreciation? It’s just sitting here with me otherwise—I don’t eat it.”

“…Fine. Hold on to it for me, then.”

“Mm. Just don’t tell him it’s from me, or he’ll toss it.”

Shen Li’s brow furrowed. “…But aren’t you still recording?”

“No problem. I’ll cut this bit.”

Shen Li let out a soft laugh. “I still don’t quite get it—what exactly did you do to get on his bad side like that?”

Qian Xingzhi choked a little before replying helplessly, “I keep bothering you, act immature, don’t support your work, and my ideological awareness is too low. Aren’t those enough reasons for him to sentence me to death?”

Shen Li considered it. Yeah, those were plenty.

Then Qian Xingzhi added, “When we got divorced back then, he was probably the happiest about it, huh?”

“Yeah,” Shen Li said matter-of-factly. “He smoked two extra packs that day and set off two extra strings of fireworks too.”

Qian Xingzhi: …

Shen Li tacked on one more thing. “Oh, and a few years ago at New Year’s when I went home, he even lined up four blind dates for me.”

?

…

“…Did you go?”

Shen Li paused, a little regretting that he’d brought it up, but he answered honestly anyway. “No.”

Qian Xingzhi’s voice dropped lower, his tone casual but probing. “Why not?”

Shen Li’s response was flat. “I’m too busy. Couldn’t manage a family. No point wasting someone else’s time.”

As soon as the words left his mouth, silence fell on Qian Xingzhi’s end too.

It lasted a good while.

Then Shen Li heard him say, “My mom tried setting me up with a few blind dates later on too. I didn’t go to any of them.”

It sounded almost like a pledge of loyalty.

To Shen Li, though, it felt a bit superfluous.

“Oh,” Shen Li said, his voice a touch dry as he changed the subject. “How are your aunt and uncle doing? In good health?”

Qian Xingzhi let out a “ha,” laughing as he said, “They’re doing great. Chasing my little brother around the house every day now.”

“Haochen? He’s in high school already?”

“Nah, third year of junior high. He’s got his high school entrance exams next year.”

“Oh.” Shen Li leaned back against the headboard, gradually relaxing as he followed up casually on the topic of Qian Haochen. “Does he still stick to you like glue?”

Qian Xingzhi huffed. “Every time he sees me, it’s either ‘Get me this celebrity’s autograph’ or ‘Snap a pic with that one’ or ‘Front-row tickets to so-and-so’s concert.'”

Shen Li breathed a sigh of relief.

It seemed like Qian Xingzhi and his brother got along just fine.

“So, do you give in to him?”

“I told him to trade for it with his report card.”

“And can he?”

“Snort.” Qian Xingzhi’s tone held a hint of mockery. “Even if you added up all his scores, they wouldn’t touch what you used to get on a single subject.”

Shen Li: …

“He said he can’t trade grades—how about swapping with the shares Dad gave him?”

Shen Li: …

“You traded with him?”

“No way.” Qian Xingzhi was emphatic. “Dad’s company? I’ve long since lost interest in it. I told Qian Haochen straight up: report card trades only. Everything else is off the table.”

Shen Li’s gaze drifted into the distance as he let out a silent sigh. “You and your parents still haven’t patched things up?”

Qian Xingzhi paused this time.

Shen Li immediately backpedaled. “…If that’s not something you want out there, cut this line too.”

“It’s fine.”

Qian Xingzhi didn’t seem to mind. “Things are about the same. Everyone in our circle knows we don’t get along. I just don’t click with them, that’s all. But I’ll take care of them in their old age. Can’t count on that dummy Qian Haochen.”

“…”

“Oh, your mom, though—I drop by pretty often,” Qian Xingzhi continued smoothly. “The old lady’s been in high spirits lately. She finished a meter-long cross-stitch a few days ago.”

Speaking of his own mother stirred a twinge of guilt in Shen Li.

As her son, he wasn’t nearly as dutiful as his ex-husband.

“Sorry. Always putting you out like this.”

Shen Li was referring to the time after their divorce.

Though he’d only found out about Qian Xingzhi’s frequent visits because the old lady had let it slip earlier that year.

Qian Xingzhi didn’t sound like he was fishing for credit—in fact, he seemed almost boastful. “No trouble at all. Even without you around, she treats me like her own son already. She knitted me a scarf for New Year’s this year. Didn’t make you one, did she? It was specially for me.”

Shen Li broke into a sweat.

Truth be told, he had gotten one too.

And the old lady had insisted it was made just for him.

She’d probably said it that way to keep them from thinking she was still angling to get them back together—burdening them with expectations and misunderstandings.

So Shen Li didn’t call him out. He covered for his mom with the white lie.

Qian Xingzhi took Shen Li’s silence for jealousy and paused before adding, “If you want a little of that favoritism too, how about I bring you her finished cross-stitch tomorrow? Don’t underestimate it—it’s genuinely pretty. Your mom does such fine work; she’d fetch two or three hundred yuan easy if she sold it at market.”

Shen Li’s eyes shifted as a sudden idea struck him. “Isn’t cross-stitch pretty simple? Easy to pick up?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Shen Li hesitated for a moment before sharing his new thought. “There are some elders in the village who can’t work the fields anymore because of their legs. I’ve been thinking about finding them some kind of handicraft to do.”

Qian Xingzhi got it right away, jumping in ahead of him. “Got it. I’ll look into factories near your village. It’s straightforward. We can even use the show to open a livestream channel for sales—guaranteed buyers. Honestly, it shouldn’t be an issue if you’re serious about it.”

Shen Li saw how quickly he was making arrangements and hurried to rein him in. “Hold off for now. I need to confirm it’s doable first, have the villagers learn it, pick products—then we can sort out the rest.”

“Alright.” Qian Xingzhi agreed readily.

Before long, with Shen Li falling quiet, Qian Xingzhi took the initiative again, bringing up old teachers and classmates. The two of them chatted idly this way and that, catching up on everyone from back in the day.

Who’d had a new baby, who had gone into business or finance.

Auntie So-and-So’s dog had puppies—one ended up with Qian Xingzhi. That road got expanded from four lanes to eight.

Until Qian Xingzhi finally went quiet for a bit. “We’re about done recording. Anything else you want to add?”

Only then did Shen Li realize how quickly the time had flown.

“Nope.”

“Should I turn off the recording?”

“Mm.”

Beep—

The recording-end tone chimed again. Shen Li was just about to suggest hanging up or muting the volume before bed—there was filming tomorrow, and maybe voting for observation room guests—when he heard rustling on Qian Xingzhi’s end. He picked up the phone again, making a point to say,

“All shut off now.”

“Mm. Got it.”

Shen Li sensed that Qian Xingzhi still had something on his mind.

So he neither rushed him nor asked—just waited.

Qian Xingzhi stayed silent for a long stretch, until his cool voice finally emerged from the speaker once more:

“I’ve asked about everyone else. Mind if I ask about you now?”

“Go ahead.”

Shen Li’s reply stayed calm.

He closed his eyes for a moment, though, his hand instinctively gripping his knee.

Somehow, he had a feeling he knew what was coming.

Sure enough.

Three seconds later, Qian Xingzhi said,

“I’ve found a rehab center for you. After the show’s wrapped, would you be willing to go?”