Chapter 57 Part 2

His eyes swept sharply over Shen Li, noticing how the man’s legs were drawing together again, his slender calves tensing straight.

Without a word, Qian Xingzhi seized both ankles, pinning Shen Li more firmly between the countertop and the mirror. He leaned down to resume what they’d left unfinished. But Shen Li grabbed his arm and refused. “…Stop. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

Before the words had even faded…

Qian Xingzhi had scooped him up by the waist and the backs of his knees, carrying him horizontally out of the bathroom in a few strides and laying him on the bed.

Shen Li’s legs trembled faintly. He wanted to ask if Qian Xingzhi would remove the cameras before they continued—after all, they’d already prepared the lube in the shower, and reapplying it would be a hassle.

Shen Li’s long, beautiful lashes fluttered once, but he didn’t refuse the kiss. He accepted it without a hint of shyness.

Relationships between adults perhaps needed clearer boundaries rather than vague implications.

Better to lay everything out upfront—that made it easier to get along, or to part ways cleanly.

He felt Qian Xingzhi’s warm palm steadily cradling his injured knee.

The next moment, Qian Xingzhi bent down with a cold expression, retrieving yesterday’s massage oil from the nightstand.

Shen Li obligingly straightened his leg, giving Qian Xingzhi room to work.

As the deep brown medicinal oil traced snakelike patterns across his skin, it made the flesh of Shen Li’s leg seem even whiter than the porcelain bottle.

Qian Xingzhi’s thumb suddenly pressed an acupoint, and a low sound escaped Shen Li’s throat. He turned his head away coolly, swallowing the grunt.

He could feel the rhythmic motion of Qian Xingzhi’s wrist bones—one push, one thrust, one drill, one press—as the man worked to loosen the deep-seated blockage.

It was silent. Forceful.

And not at all like the Qian Xingzhi of old.

Shen Li didn’t think this version of him was bad. He just wasn’t used to it.

Qian Xingzhi had grown too quiet.

Even outside of sex and kisses, he was far more silent than before.

He seemed to need no embraces anymore.

It had only been half an hour since they’d finished, and there wasn’t even a trace of coquetry from him…

Shen Li wasn’t used to this silence. But the habitually passive Shen Li didn’t know how to initiate conversation either. He held back for a long moment before breaking it with a carefully considered question: “How did things go with what you handled this afternoon?”

Qian Xingzhi kept his eyes lowered, kneading diligently and casually replying, “Captain Shen’s as sharp as ever. You guessed right.”

“Guessed what right?”

Though Shen Li asked, he already had his suspicions.

Sure enough, Qian Xingzhi said, “Cao Sheng and Li Zhiming jumped to Ming Wolf. After Jiang Nan was released, he made a big show of hiring several lawyers and forming a team, all shouting about reopening that drowning case from three years ago. Looks like it caught the attention of a WCC higher-up.”

“Higher-up? Who?”

“WCC’s chief financial officer and chairman of the charity foundation—Shi Youxia.”

Shen Li’s eyes sharpened.

Hearing about the case pulled Shen Li’s mind swiftly from his earlier mood. His thoughts raced. “Is this Chairman Shi a key figure? What’s her move?”

“Yeah, this afternoon, I thought Cao Sheng and Li Zhiming flipping sides was tied to Jiang Nan—after all, the post he put out about us yesterday lines up with the sudden schedule change, and Li Zhiming used to be under him at WCC. It wouldn’t be strange if they were still in touch.”

“Unlikely.”

Shen Li shook his head sharply before Qian Xingzhi finished. “First, someone like Jiang Nan, with his brains and mentality, couldn’t realistically still have Li Zhiming under his thumb now. Second, the exposé post yesterday and the last-minute schedule tweak aren’t causally linked.

“It could be someone creating a false trail. Maybe they were afraid the police couldn’t quickly trace the IP back to Jiang Nan, so they altered the schedule on the fly to keep the spotlight on the prime suspect.”

Once Shen Li finished his instinctive analysis, he noticed Qian Xingzhi’s hands had stilled. The man was staring fixedly at him.

Shen Li blinked, his fine brows and eyes softly furrowed in a way that looked aloof yet intensely approachable.

But he was utterly oblivious. “What? Was I wrong?”

Qian Xingzhi’s Adam’s apple bobbed heavily. His restrained, somber gaze dropped away, avoiding Shen Li’s face. “No, what you said matches exactly what the police told me this afternoon.”

Shen Li: .

He thought to himself, Of course it does—those are people I trained. It’s only natural it sounds similar.

—What was with that look on Qian Xingzhi’s face?

Qian Xingzhi’s movements remained proper, his powerful arms tensing as he massaged the knee, continuing: “The police have confirmed Li and Cao’s actions aren’t tied to Jiang Nan. It’s likely this Shi Youxia pulling strings behind the scenes. If she really orchestrated Li Zhiming’s schedule change, it was probably to keep Song Wenyu’s case from being exposed to the public via the live broadcast.”

Shen Li nodded, his eyes brighter than usual as he pushed the reasoning further. “So I bet Zhao Rong and the others are investigating Shi Youxia right now.”

If there really was a connection, then Song Wenyu’s drowning three years ago—and the assault case involving Xiao Ting and Song Wenyu—were highly likely linked to her. Cases long buried without evidence might actually see the light of day in court.

“Just wait for updates. As someone in the public eye, don’t make any rash moves.”

Shen Li’s expression turned serious as he cautioned Qian Xingzhi. “Cooperate fully until the police bulletin comes out.”

“Got it,” Qian Xingzhi replied evenly. “The program schedule was officially filed and approved, so no worries—Cao Sheng changed it on his own. If it seriously sways public opinion, he’ll do time.”

Shen Li’s brow furrowed, his expression freezing as another question arose.

“Wait,” he said dubiously, looking at Qian Xingzhi. “Back then, when you picked Li Zhiming and Cao Sheng as directors, was it really just coincidence? How’d you get so lucky with that team?”

A faint, almost imperceptible chuckle softened the stern affection on the half of Qian Xingzhi’s face turned toward him.

“Coincidence?” Qian Xingzhi echoed. “Go on, find me one at random—the industry has tons of variety show directors. Why would I pick them by chance?”

Shen Li raised a brow. “So it was deliberate?”

Qian Xingzhi hummed in affirmation, continuing to work seriously on the injured leg, his voice softening. “At the time, I just figured dragging Li Zhiming’s team into it might crack things open easier. Didn’t expect to hit the jackpot.”

Three years of prep, a lucky guess in May.

That’s how he’d nailed the picks.

“Nice work,” Shen Li said with an approving nod, like praising a puppy.

Qian Xingzhi’s face hardened further, clearly uninterested in the perfunctory compliment. He snorted coldly, his palm sliding over Shen Li’s tendon in a motion devoid of any erotic intent.

After the praise, Shen Li fell silent, no longer prompting questions as he delved into deeper thought.

Something still felt off… something about Qian Xingzhi.

—If Song Wenyu’s drowning three years ago wasn’t an accident but murder, the real culprit must have been watching Qian Xingzhi all this time, the man hell-bent on uncovering the truth.

Had Qian Xingzhi received threats?

In these three years without contact, was it really just disdain for Zhou Yulin’s flashy courtship?

If he’d faced threats, then WCC’s constant suppression of him and his company—how much pressure had he shouldered alone? It was obvious.

But why?

For a victim who might not even be one?

For a girl whose own family had stopped caring, long dead?

Or for something else…?

Shen Li felt like he was seeing Qian Xingzhi less clearly.

Over the twenty years he’d known him, Qian Xingzhi’s behavior had shifted dramatically—from high school aloofness to tsundere seatmate vibes after they sat together, to lovesick pursuit…

His temperament was like a chemical’s properties—liable to change every six months.

After their marriage, Shen Li’s increasingly demanding job and Qian Xingzhi’s mismatched schedule had turned them into parallel lines diverging farther apart. When Shen Li finally looked back, Qian Xingzhi had transformed again—desperately needy, psychologically unstable, obsessively controlling…

And somehow, more and more like strangers from different worlds.

Shen Li had long accepted that in the cutthroat glamour of showbiz, Qian Xingzhi steered clear of the law but stayed heartlessly detached from anything unrelated.

So why go to these lengths?

Why invest three years and such heavy costs into a case with no personal stake?

Puzzled, Shen Li voiced it, scrutinizing Qian Xingzhi. “You really never knew Song Wenyu or Xiao Ting before?”

Qian Xingzhi’s hands paused, as if he’d anticipated the question: “No.”

Then came Shen Li’s blunt follow-up, short and direct: “Then why get involved?”

No sooner had he spoken…

Than a faint sardonic smile ghosted over Qian Xingzhi’s stern face—self-mocking, more than anything: “I’ve still got a conscience. That a problem?”

Shen Li: .

“I’m serious.”

“So am I not?”

Qian Xingzhi lightened his pressure, his warm palm finally warming that chilled knee a bit more.

“Young actors pouring drinks for clients, sleeping their way into roles, getting drugged and assaulted without consent—these things happen far too often in our industry. It’s the law of the jungle that governs survival in this circle.”

Shen Li narrowed his eyes, fixing his gaze on him.

Qian Xingzhi continued, “Back then, I wanted to prove to my parents that I could make it on my own and provide you with a good life. That’s why I dove into this industry—acting, starting a studio, building a company.”

“Mm, I know.” Shen Li picked up on the faint trace of pain woven into Qian Xingzhi’s words and gently placed his hand over Qian Xingzhi’s. “And then?”

Qian Xingzhi paused, his stern profile taking on a detached air as he let out a cold laugh. “So I told myself, as long as I’m not breaking the law myself, what business is it of mine if others lack a conscience? I’m not a cop. How could I police everyone else’s behavior? That’s a job for you police.”

Shen Li’s brows furrowed sharply.

In that moment, it finally clicked for him—Qian Xingzhi’s mental state during those years must have been abysmal, perhaps because his true nature was so at odds with that environment.

“You…”

Shen Li started to offer some comfort, but he had no idea what to say.

Before the words could fully leave his mouth, they died on his lips.

He felt Qian Xingzhi’s wrist go still beneath his touch, and those clear black-and-white eyes lifted to meet his.

As their gazes locked, Shen Li heard Qian Xingzhi ask, “But after hearing all that, doesn’t it make me sound even more like your kind of person?”

Shen Li froze, his pupils contracting in shock.

A suffocating numbness crashed over him like a tidal wave, freezing his limbs in an instant—

So this was why Qian Xingzhi hadn’t sought him out for all these years: to deliver this question so casually today.

You say all that, and doesn’t it make me sound even more like your kind of person?