As Liang Jingyan spoke, Fu Yanzong couldn’t help but think of Song Linyu again.
It was infuriating. He’d been the one to warn Song Linyu to stay away, as if that alone could shake off the man’s ever-present shadow.
But it wasn’t easy to escape here in Shenlan. The moment he returned, Song Linyu’s influence stretched out endlessly.
It wasn’t the kind that popped up in daily finance news feeds or slipped into conversations with business partners. It was the sort that lingered even after Fu Yanzong had blurted out “I’m bored of you,” the memory of that popsicle split in two.
In filmmaking, every second consisted of twenty-four frames, and those brief frames were the core of a film’s smooth flow.
Many directors used frame drops to convey leaps and lapses in time, and Fu Yanzong, the protagonist in countless shots, handled his own memories the same way.
But no matter how much he edited and cut, the instant Liang Jingyan mentioned it, he could still recall the segment where his fingertip pressed against Song Linyu’s ice-cold lips, and the man blinked softly.
The game on his phone reached its end. Fu Yanzong glanced at the results and let out a soft tsk, turning his head toward Yang Wan as she leaned in.
“Racking up kills like crazy?” Yang Wan stared at his settlement screen and shook her head. “If even non-networking games annoy you this much, is the new project that tough?”
“…It’s fine,” Fu Yanzong replied, eyes lowered. He held out his hand to her. “Lend me a smoke.”
“Didn’t you quit?” Yang Wan asked as she pulled a pack of Marlboros from her purse, her gaze full of curiosity. Fu Yanzong ignored it, took the pack with a quiet “thanks,” and stood to leave.
Spring showers arrived abruptly that evening. Early spring’s fine rain pattered unexpectedly against the window glass, the private room’s lights flickering. Fu Yanzong closed the door behind him, muffling the voices.
The resort was unnaturally quiet at night. Aside from the drizzle, it was almost utterly silent. A breeze whispered through the corridor’s end, carrying the chill of the mountain woods—far more soothing than the noisy room.
Fu Yanzong thought as much, lifting his hand—only to realize he hadn’t asked Yang Wan for a lighter.
After a brief pause, he gave a helpless smile.
The sound was faint, quickly dissolving into the night, blending with the rain mist into something hazy and translucent. In the distance came low voices amid the rain, followed by the measured steps of polished shoes.
Fu Yanzong turned, looking toward the main building a few paces away.
Light shone through the side hall’s floor-to-ceiling windows, as if a group inside was holding some team-building event. A crowd emerged from the opened door, the leader turning to reveal half his profile—a face not quite like the one in Fu Yanzong’s memories, yet somewhat similar.
Fu Yanzong stood quietly under the eaves for a moment, recalling that Dongyu’s New Year break had started long and early, so their annual gathering was scheduled after the Spring Festival.
Serenity Moon Misty Court had a big reputation; it wasn’t odd for them to hold their event out here. Song Linyu wouldn’t know about Fu Yanzong’s ties to the place, or he never would have come.
And precisely because everyone from Dongyu was here, Liang Jingyan had rushed to set the dinner for tonight.
Fu Yanzong withdrew his gaze and turned toward the koi pond by the lake—it was far enough away that no one should disturb him.
He strolled along the covered walkway into the small pavilion overlooking the pond and had just settled on the stone bench when messages from Yang Wan and Jiang Ming popped up. They told him not to rush off; they’d ditch Liang Jingyan soon and go racing with him.
Fu Yanzong replied with a simple “Mm,” lazily pinching the Marlboro he’d borrowed from Yang Wan between his fingers. He propped himself on the table, watching the koi dart and play, unusually lively in the light rain.
The humid air clung with persistent moisture. Time passed—he didn’t know how long—until the drizzle seemed to coat even his long lashes in mist. Only then did he slowly close his eyes.
When he opened them again, he suddenly noticed someone standing on the path outside the pavilion.
Song Linyu stood at a careful distance, quietly watching him.
He must have been there for a while, but Fu Yanzong’s eyes had stayed on the pond, his peripheral vision catching only the extending walkway, so he’d missed him.
The fine rain had soaked Song Linyu’s pale face, softening it like damp cotton wool. Crystal droplets slid from his black overcoat onto the bluestone steps, splashing tiny stains—the sound just masking the brief hitch in their breaths as their eyes met.
That profile Song Linyu had shown leaving the banquet hall earlier wasn’t quite the same as before.
Gone was the youthful gloom and fragility he’d once hidden, along with that hint of compliance—replaced by sharp ambition and thorns.
Yet now, drenched by the rain, lips pressed tight as if with nowhere to go, he looked exactly like he had back then.
Fu Yanzong fell silent for a moment.
Perhaps it was the rain calming his mood. Soon, he lifted his gaze to Song Linyu’s face and asked flatly, “What are you doing standing there in the rain?”
Song Linyu’s lips parted, as if he wanted to speak but feared saying the wrong thing. Slowly, he stepped from the path into the pavilion.
Fu Yanzong showed no displeasure at sharing the space.
Song Linyu positioned himself by a pillar, deciding that was good enough. He wasn’t permitted to speak to Fu Yanzong anyway, and he didn’t quite dare scrutinize the man’s expression.
He knew he’d be staring into eyes veiled by cool detachment, so he averted his gaze.
To his surprise, Fu Yanzong spoke first. “You saw me?”
Song Linyu hesitated, then reasoned that since Fu Yanzong had initiated, it didn’t count as breaking his own rule. He nodded honestly. “I saw you leave.”
In the pitch-black night, the blurry silhouette—Song Linyu had still recognized Fu Yanzong instantly. Instinct took over before he realized it, and he’d followed.
Not wanting to annoy Fu Yanzong by being seen, he’d stopped in the visual blind spot by the pond path.
“Fair enough. You always spot me.”
Fu Yanzong said it without any real emotion, as if merely stating a plain fact.
The atmosphere grew profoundly still. Neither knew what to say next, nor did they want to.
But Song Linyu feared Fu Yanzong would leave soon. He didn’t want to waste this rare chance to talk.
After a pause, unable to hold back, he blurted out, “That video—the clarification from Silver Lake? I had them post it. I didn’t tell you ahead of time… If you need a backup, I can send it now.”
He regretted it instantly. It sounded like a clumsy excuse to get his contact info back—or beg to be unblocked.
But he truly wanted it. Even if he couldn’t fully reclaim what was lost, Song Linyu desperately wanted to taste even a drop of sweetness from Fu Yanzong, poison or not.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, thumb grinding against the phone’s sharp edge, then painstakingly pulled it out and offered it.
The phone hung in the air for half a minute, clutched in his palm, but Fu Yanzong showed no reaction.
Song Linyu lowered his eyes and smoothly changed the subject, asking softly, “No lighter?”
Fu Yanzong glanced at the Marlboro loosely held in his own hand. Perhaps by whim, perhaps habit, he murmured an assent.
Song Linyu knew that look and gesture—it meant he could approach.
Unsure why Fu Yanzong’s attitude had shifted, Song Linyu still felt a spark of joy. He leaned down earnestly and lit the cigarette.
The rainy night brought gusts of wind. In the faint glow of the flame, Song Linyu’s features were intensely focused. He cupped his hand around the flickering light, the fine water droplets on his knuckles clearly visible—one even slipped silently onto the back of Fu Yanzong’s hand.
Fu Yanzong’s throat bobbed slightly. A moment later, in a tone like complaining about poor service, he said softly to Song Linyu, “Your hand’s too cold.”
Song Linyu froze, then murmured after a beat, “Sorry…?”
Fu Yanzong paused, then dropped his head, at the end of his patience.
He pulled back his hand and drew in a deep lungful of nicotine through the rising wisp of smoke to steady himself. In the heavy shadow, his long lashes lowered halfway, the mole at his eye’s corner thick and indelible, like an unwipeable stain.
Song Linyu couldn’t fathom why Fu Yanzong suddenly looked so sorrowful. Panic surged instinctively, and he asked hurriedly, “You—”
“I didn’t block you.”
Fu Yanzong cut in abruptly.
Ignoring the sound caught in Song Linyu’s throat, he continued.
“You didn’t know because you never planned to message me from that account again or explain anything. You just switched numbers, thinking you’d contacted me seamlessly.”
Fu Yanzong raised his eyes to meet Song Linyu’s, enunciating each word. “Song Linyu, you’re too stupid.”
Song Linyu stood stunned, lips parting as he tried to speak, but his mind blanked. He couldn’t form a full sentence, only listening dazedly as Fu Yanzong went on.
“Every year on my birthday, after everyone else sends their wishes, you show up late—from a different number, pretending to be some unfamiliar business contact wishing me well.”
“Didn’t you realize others time it precisely?”
Fu Yanzong gave a self-mocking smile. Smoke drifted lightly over half his profile, his voice so low it was nearly swallowed by the rain.
“You know to look for me, but you never say a word.”
“In the first winter after I arrived in Berlin, a number ending in 4103 sent me a message: ‘Is Berlin cold?'”
…
That year, Berlin experienced a rare snowfall.
The streets were nearly deserted, the surroundings eerily quiet. Fu Yanzong hadn’t taken a car; he walked back to the villa from the set on foot. The wind loosened the scarf at his collar, and icy snowflakes blew into his lungs along with the frigid air.
Fu Yanzong hadn’t fully shaken off his role yet. He walked along the edge of the birch grove, alone in the wind and snow, gradually peeling away his character bit by bit.
Even after arriving home and pushing open the door, all that greeted him was an empty room, cold and silent as if no one had ever lived there.
Fu Yanzong said nothing. He draped his coat over the sofa and was about to stand up to turn on the heating when his phone suddenly lit up.
On the screen was a text from an unfamiliar number. It looked like spam at first glance, but the message itself was so simple it was almost comical:
“Is Berlin cold?”
Fu Yanzong’s fingertips tightened as he stared at those words for a long time—until the pale light from the snow filtered through the cracks in the window, reflecting off the screen and stinging his eyes until they burned.
He slowly lowered his hand, neither replying to the message nor deleting it.
In every winter that followed, that greeting never came again.
But Fu Yanzong never blocked that number.
