The script reading finally came to an end amid Su Tang’s stumbling delivery of his lines. The first night scene for Hidden Face’s official shoot took place on an abandoned stretch of road in the city’s outer ring. For safety reasons, the crew had cordoned off the entire Highway No. 3, erecting multiple banks of powerful dysprosium lamps that bathed the chaotic highway in blinding white light.
Parked in the center of the lane was a sleek, low-key luxury black-and-red Pagani Huayra BC Roadster. Against the dim skyline, its streamlined body exuded a cold, powerful aggression, drawing the lenses of distant paparazzi like moths to a flame.
The props master circled it meticulously five or six times, his work ethic beyond reproach. After all, this was Film Emperor Fu’s private possession—priceless and irreplaceable. A single scratch would cost more than double his salary could cover.
The makeup assistant, having just finished prepping the extras, packed away her kit and sidled up to her friend. As she waited for him to wrap up his final checks, she gossiped in a low voice, “That car’s not cheap. Director Zhou really went for it.”
“I heard Teacher Fu flew back from overseas just for this,” the props master murmured in admiration. “Our crew’s got some serious high-end gear now.”
“No surprise there,” the makeup assistant replied confidently. “Otherwise, why would the media swarm us right from day one?”
She tilted her chin toward the distance, directing her friend’s gaze to the cluster of daring paparazzi perched precariously on the streetlights beyond the cordon line.
Flashing camera lights flickered one after another, their focal points locked either on the extravagant supercar or on the film’s leading man—Fu Yanzong.
The two of them instinctively followed the lenses to Fu Yanzong, standing not far away.
He seemed utterly oblivious to the whispers around him, unaccompanied by any hovering assistant. He simply stood there quietly, his makeup and hair already perfected, leaning against a warm light as he reviewed his script.
The light diffused around him like frosted glass, and from afar, only half of his blurred profile was visible.
For the role, Fu Yanzong had grown his hair out a bit longer, half-tied back with a few strands loose, the rest cascading casually over his shoulders in a uniquely rakish, carefree style. The soft glow played across his face—the kind perfectly suited to the big screen—lending him an innate quality that always seemed framed just right.
It was no wonder one fan had described him as: “To the silver screen, Fu Yanzong is like the final frozen frame of a twentieth-century celluloid film—a perfect interplay of light and shadow, restrained yet fervent, imprinting an irreplaceable texture.”
The two onlookers watched in silence for a moment before snapping out of it.
“I heard something else,” the props master said, pulling his friend aside after finishing his work. He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “You weren’t at the script reading a couple days ago, right? Word is, Song Linyu from Dongyu showed up too—and with…”
“Huh? Isn’t he supposed to be with Su Tang…?” The makeup assistant glanced around cautiously, eager to dig into the juicy rumor, when a crisp set of footsteps approached from afar.
Both looked up, their conversation cut short.
If Fu Yanzong was the undisputed protagonist wherever he stood, then the man interrupting them was the hot topic of online buzz these past few days.
Su Tang.
He emerged from the makeup trailer, his steps light and unhurried yet impossible to ignore. He wore a beige sweater, deliberately tugging the cuffs over his knuckles in a calculated display of pitiful vulnerability.
The staffers who had been gossiping moments before switched to feigned enthusiasm, greeting him warmly before exchanging a knowing glance.
Su Tang offered a gentle smile but didn’t pause, heading straight for Fu Yanzong.
The makeup assistant elbowed her friend, nodding toward Su Tang’s face. “Look at those massive lying silkworms under his eyes—you could drive a cab from one to the other in half an hour. We’ve told him a dozen times not to overdo it, but he insists on bringing his own makeup artist and tweaking it himself. No matter what we say.”
The props master nodded in agreement.
Even a layman like him could tell that Su Tang’s character was in the midst of a tense, high-speed chase, yet not a hair was out of place. Those prominent under-eye puffs and the subtle red at his tear ducts screamed deliberate artistry, not genuine emotion.
The entire crew was busting their asses to make this film a success, but here was this outlier with a completely mismatched aesthetic—and as a studio-backed actor, they couldn’t just boot him.
It was infuriating.
Su Tang had light scenes these past couple of days, mostly just getting in the way on set. His team hyped everything aggressively: snapping photos with Fu Yanzong and spinning tales of on-set romance, or pushing his “stunning beauty” persona. When his top fans failed to dominate the crew’s official socials, he blamed the PR team and docked the ops staff half a month’s pay.
Now the whole crew harbored a rebellious streak—let him do whatever. No one cared about the oversized silkworms anymore, or his mangled lines; Director Zhou didn’t even call cut. Whenever his turn came, they handled it perfunctorily, secretly hoping a few content creators would get some good “Su Tang scandal fodder” out of it later.
It was a shame for Fu Yanzong and the other actors. The pay was solid, the script was decent—fans could clip beautiful edits later—but awards? Forget it.
Nearby, Xiao Sun habitually placed a large iced Americano by Fu Yanzong’s chair.
Extra-large size, packed with ice that frosted the cup’s exterior; a swipe of the finger left a trail of chill.
Fu Yanzong set down his script and stared gravely at the coffee for three seconds. To combat swelling and stay alert for the night shoot, he grudgingly gripped the cup and downed the remaining third in one go. He wrinkled his nose in distaste and pulled out his phone.
He hated bitter things and had never acquired a taste for especially harsh coffee over the years, but work demanded it.
Fu Yanzong had meant to squeeze in a quick round of Match-3 to distract himself, but upon unlocking his screen, he spotted Song Linyu’s chat bubble.
Song hadn’t sent a message to bother him—it was just a notification on Fu Yanzong’s gray background: “”pesce patted me.”” It vanished almost immediately in a flustered withdrawal.
Classic case of someone obsessively tapping into a profile to check Moments and accidentally hitting the pat function.
Fu Yanzong tilted his head and opened his own Moments, realizing he’d recently posted a group photo with visiting fans.
The night shoot ran late, and a bunch of girls had braved the abandoned highway to see him. Unsettled, he’d had Xiao Sun order cars and midnight snacks to get them safely back to their hotel. On the way, the fans flooded Weibo with posts about how amazingly fortunate they felt chasing Fu Yanzong—sincere little essays, stacks of handwritten letters and gifts overflowing his room. They’d even sparked a hot search organically.
He couldn’t deny being touched; posting the group shot was his way of commemorating it. And if he wasn’t mistaken, Song Linyu had liked it amid the crowd.
Fu Yanzong drafted a new Moments post, visible only to a select group.
No caption—just a fishing emoji. After it went live, he lingered on the screen for three seconds, right on cue receiving Song Linyu’s bouncy reply.
pesce: “Eager puppy rushing over.jpg”
pesce: “Brother, what’s up?”
Fu Yanzong sipped his iced Americano and drawled back lazily, “Now, who’s the one looking for whom?”
Song Linyu went quiet for a beat before catching on that his withdrawn message had been seen. He explained cautiously, “I’m fine, just accidentally tapped your avatar. Bro, how late’s your shoot tonight? Want me to have someone drop off some low-cal snacks you can actually eat?”
acqua: “…Sweeter ones.”
pesce: “Got it. Super sweet ones.”
Song Linyu fired off the order to his chef right away, specifying restrictions and preferences. When it came to delivery timing, he hesitated before murmuring, “Bring it to my office first.”
—I should be fine delivering it myself… They can take it in, and I’ll just watch from a distance outside.
Lost in the thought, Song Linyu suddenly found he couldn’t focus on work.
He always itched to chat with Fu Yanzong but hated to disturb him, so he made do with peeking at the occasional Moments post.
Fu Yanzong looked so happy surrounded by adoring fans, and with his makeup on, the role lent him a fresh allure that held the gaze captive.
He really wanted to see it in person…
Song Linyu stared at the blank chat for a long while, then saw Fu Yanzong add: “Thanks, but no need for you to come yourself.”
…He’d predicted the thought exactly. Scary.
The calm composure Song Linyu wore during work evaporated instantly. He pressed his phone to his forehead in helpless defeat, pulled it back, and made one last bid.
pesce: “I’m at Dongyu. It’s not far by car.”
acqua: “At the company at 2 a.m.?”
Song Linyu paused, then replied with delicate ambiguity: “I can be.”
acqua: “Should I give you an award for best employee?”
pesce: “For real?”
Fu Yanzong: …
acqua: “Kidding.”
Pesce: “Even if it’s fake, it’s still great. Thanks, bro.”
…
Song Linyu sometimes really didn’t resemble the deeply scheming pervert from the original story that the Self-Rescue System had described.
Out of consideration for the sweets, Fu Yanzong had no desire to make Song Linyu trek over late at night. A moment later, he typed into the chat box: “Don’t come. Haven’t you recovered yet?”
Pesce: “I’m good now, and it’s a fever from inflammation—not very contagious.”
Song Linyu quietly defended himself to the screen. He had actually wanted to add that he could probably kiss you too, but remembering Fu Yanzong’s previous warning, he held back from sending such an overly bold line.
Fu Yanzong doubted his self-discipline. Given Song Linyu’s habit of pulling all-nighters, he didn’t believe a few days could fully cure him. Calmly and to the point, he replied: “Not sure I believe that.”
Pesce: “I have proof!”
Song Linyu grew a bit anxious.
Fortunately, when they’d parted earlier, Fu Yanzong had reminded him to take his medicine. To prove he’d followed through, Song Linyu had set daily alarms, taken the meds, and recorded videos—even though Fu Yanzong hadn’t asked for proof. He had documented it all meticulously anyway.
Thus, the next moment, Fu Yanzong received a barrage of simple videos from Song Linyu, shot at different times and places.
His fingertips paused slightly as he scrolled through the chat box. The videos lined up perfectly with the timeline—no, actually, based on three doses a day, Song Linyu had sent even more than required.
Fu Yanzong examined a few videos of varying lengths. The outfits and locations repeated, but the actions differed slightly, and it was the same medication each time. Clearly, he’d overdosed a bit.
Fu Yanzong quoted the repeated ones and typed: “? Are you sure that’s the dosage the doctor prescribed?”
Quickly, several videos vanished from the chat as they were withdrawn. A moment later, Song Linyu replied pitifully.
Pesce: “I clicked too fast and accidentally sent extras… A few aren’t great, bro—don’t mind them.”
Acqua: “?”
Song Linyu stared at Fu Yanzong’s question mark, hesitating before he was utterly stumped.
He had no idea how to explain it to Fu Yanzong—that he’d thought these videos might one day be seen by him, so he’d re-recorded the ones where his expression looked off several times.
Saying it out loud would sound way too weird… right?
