Chapter 30: The Accident

Song Linyu’s finger hovered over the send button as he hesitated for a long moment. He’d finally come up with a few reasonably plausible excuses when Fu Yanzong’s voice call popped up on the screen without any warning.

President Song, who had just been stirring up market storms from his office, felt his heart skip a beat. His fingertip froze for two seconds, and right as he moved to answer, it jerked involuntarily, accidentally sliding over to the hang-up button instead.

Song Linyu: …Screwed up.

He immediately dialed back without wasting a single second, but this time Fu Yanzong coldly rejected the call. No matter how many times Song Linyu rang in quick succession, he got no response.

Song Linyu pursed his lips in helpless dismay, editing and deleting his typed message over and over. In the end, he could only send a cautious voice note.

“Ge, I accidentally hit the wrong button just now. You know I wouldn’t hang up on you… Can you talk to me, just a little?”

His voice came out small and tinny, distorted by the static, sounding rather pitiful.

Fu Yanzong tapped open the voice message on his end of the screen. His gaze fell on the notifications for the withdrawn videos, and a huff of cold laughter escaped his lips.

The faint upward curve at the corner of his eye flattened into a straight line. The little mole beneath it twitched faintly, vanishing into a smile that never reached his eyes.

Xiao Sun glanced at his boss’s expression and wisely dialed back his own presence.

He had no idea which daring soul had provoked him, but Xiao Sun still offered up three seconds of silent mourning in advance.

Acqua: “You like filming videos that much?”

Pesce: “I…”

Song Linyu’s fingers tapped unconsciously along the edge of his phone twice. He wondered: How should I even reply to that?

Does Ge want me to say I like it, or that I don’t?

But Fu Yanzong had no intention of waiting for an answer. Even through the screen, Song Linyu could sense the displeasure radiating from him.

Acqua: “If you like filming, then film a lot more once I’m done being busy.”

Song Linyu didn’t entirely grasp what Fu Yanzong meant by “film more,” but he fired back an instant reply anyway: “Okay, okay.”

A moment later, Fu Yanzong received a pitiful little puppy emoji paired with the message “Brother, don’t be mad at me.” After that, nothing else came through.

…He was always a pro at playing innocent, but that didn’t mean he actually listened.

Fu Yanzong’s face remained impassive as he viciously tormented the teary-eyed puppy’s head with his fingertip. He hadn’t even locked his phone yet when a brazenly familiar voice interrupted his train of thought.

“Good day, Teacher Fu!”

Su Tang halted a short distance away, an overpowering wave of perfume drifting in his wake. The smile tugging at his lips was exaggeratedly bright, and he pitched his voice deliberately soft and naive:

“Teacher Fu, this is my first time shooting a big night scene like this. I’m feeling a little nervous. Mind if I chat with you for a bit…? Oh, am I bothering you?”

Su Tang’s gaze landed on Fu Yanzong’s phone with feigned concern. A moment later, Fu Yanzong’s tapping ceased. He slowly tilted his head back, his upturned eyes shimmering with a silvery gleam—cold and strikingly beautiful.

Su Tang faltered. Fu Yanzong’s expression wasn’t pleasant; it carried a subtly alarming edge. An inexplicable twinge of guilt hit Su Tang, and he shifted his eyes aside before forcing his smile back into place.

“This is my first time riding in a Pagani Huayra BC Roadster too. Linyu-ge’s garage doesn’t even have one… Does Teacher Fu know cars well?”

His face flushed faintly next, as if embarrassed by his slip of the tongue. He hastily added, “I mean, President Song…”

“Is that so?” Fu Yanzong regarded him steadily, his eyes curving into a shallow smile as he spoke softly. “I don’t know much about them either. It was a gift from my ex-boyfriend—he probably just went for the most expensive one.”

“…?”

The polished mask on Su Tang’s face shattered like crumbling eggshells.

Fu Yanzong watched his gritted-teeth expression with keen amusement.

“Haha, Teacher Fu, you really know how to joke.” Su Tang let out a couple of stiff laughs, but inwardly he was tearing into the Heartthrob System, demanding it dig up whatever dirt it could on Fu Yanzong.

According to the Heartthrob System’s scan, though, Fu Yanzong hadn’t crossed paths with any cannon-fodder bottoms or white moonlights in the early game.

So where the hell had this ex-boyfriend crawled out from?

Su Tang chalked it up to a joke.

Fu Yanzong offered no further comment, as if he’d only mentioned it offhand. He rose from his seat, rolling his shoulders lightly, then shot Su Tang a half-smile. “No need to be nervous, Teacher Su. We’ll have plenty of chances to practice at our leisure.”

Hidden Face was a pulse-pounding action-crime blockbuster packed with explosions, high-speed chases, and brutal fight scenes. Fu Yanzong almost never used stunt doubles; anything he could master through rehearsal, he handled himself to maximize the shots’ dynamism.

Expecting the same from Su Tang, however, would be a death sentence. Unfortunately, in his bid to impress Fu Yanzong, Su Tang had boasted about doing his own stunts.

The thought made Su Tang’s composure crack. He clammed up and trailed sluggishly after Fu Yanzong instead. Moments later, he seized an excuse to slink away.

What a joke. He craved Fu Yanzong’s tender, indulgent whispers—not some dull rundown of fight choreography.

Once Su Tang had scampered off, Fu Yanzong cast a leisurely glance toward Ji Cheng, who had materialized at the edge of the set. The long-absent agent had a hand on Su Tang’s shoulder, murmuring reassurances.

Evidently, Su Tang’s conquest was progressing splendidly with everyone else.

Fu Yanzong let out a soft chuckle, his expression turning pensive.

“Hidden Face, Scene Three, Take Five. Action!”

At the slate operator’s cue, the entire crew sprang into smooth motion. The director stood ramrod straight before the monitors, his eyes locked on every flickering second.

The modified pursuit vehicle hugged the Pagani’s tail, snapping every frame of the blistering speed. Then the supercar lunged forward like a feral beast. Micro-blasts erupted in sync along both sides of the shot, sending sparks slashing through the night’s darkness.

The engine’s thunderous roar intertwined with the tires’ piercing shrieks, evoking a storm’s raw fury. The black-and-red body tore mercilessly along the pitch-black highway amid the raging gale, blurring the line between breakneck velocity and howling wind.

This was blockbuster spectacle at its finest—every onscreen second designed to send audience heart rates spiking with visceral impact.

As the script progressed alongside the director’s commands, the camera eased inside the car to Fu Yanzong.

He had fully transformed into the male lead, Fang Chi.

Fu Yanzong wore a black leather jacket over a plain black tank top, its open collar exposing half his long, elegant collarbone. He looked sharp and boldly charismatic. The cabin’s cold lighting carved perfect shadows across his face, capturing the ideal moment for the lens.

Eyeing the relentless pursuers in the rearview, Fang Chi flashed a sly grin and blew a whistle. Then he wrenched the wheel hard, leaving the chasers stranded on the cross-river bridge.

His loosely tied long hair whipped free in the rush, lending him an air of reckless nonchalance.

The core plot of Hidden Face wasn’t overly complex. It followed detective Jiang Yan, who had gone undercover for years to dismantle an international money-laundering syndicate.

During his investigation, Jiang Yan crossed paths with the wealthy heir Fang Chi amid high-society circles. To deflect suspicion, he entered a sham relationship with Fang Chi, spending considerable time together.

On the surface, Fang Chi was a lawless playboy who dabbled in every vice imaginable. In truth, he was far more than he let on.

The setup for this scene had Jiang Yan accidentally alerting the group, prompting them to move for a kill. Fang Chi arrived just in time for the rescue, dropping his usual antics. He laid bare Jiang Yan’s suspicions, leading to a tense back-and-forth standoff.

The role demanded that Fu Yanzong flawlessly pilot the runaway supercar at top speed while trading lines with Jiang Yan—all to convey an enigmatic air that kept his true motives impenetrable.

Now, Su Tang—perched in the passenger seat, still pale and shaken—needed to deliver his lines.

His complexion ashen, he tilted his face up and demanded in a low voice, “Fang Chi, you showing up here isn’t a coincidence, is it?”

His performance strayed miles from the script’s Jiang Yan, but the Fang Chi on camera merely quirked his lips in amusement, deftly sidestepping the question. “Of course, officer. I’m keeping close tabs on your every move.”

Seizing the line’s cover, Fu Yanzong subtly studied Su Tang.

An actor’s first skill was reading unconscious tells. Fu Yanzong clocked it clearly: Su Tang’s fingers were clenched white-knuckled on the seatbelt, a sheen of sweat beading at his temples.

Even with his shaky skills, Su Tang wouldn’t be this rattled from acting alone.

Fu Yanzong recalled the plot point he’d discussed with the Self-Rescue System.

“…The vehicle spun out of control, veering off course. The voice from the passenger seat swelled deafeningly in his ears as chaotic emotions crashed over him like a tidal wave, clouding all reason. In his peripheral vision, he saw that person throwing themselves in front to shield him… Without thinking, Fu Yanzong seized his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace…”

“Fu… Fu Yanzong…”

Su Tang suddenly spoke up, not using the character’s title but stammering out Fu Yanzong’s real name instead.

The loudspeaker on the modified car blared the director’s voice, reminding him to stay aware of the camera. He acted as though he hadn’t heard a word, gradually leaning toward Fu Yanzong as he advised in a low voice, “How about you slow down a little…?”

Fu Yanzong caught sight of the movement out of the corner of his eye. His fingertips tapped slowly on the steering wheel. Before he could say anything, a sharp turn loomed ahead without warning.

The tires let out a piercing screech as the vehicle drifted sideways through the bend. It came within less than two finger-widths of the guardrail but held steady on the track, carving a perfect arc across the road surface.

Everything was proceeding according to the shooting plan.

Yet in that instant, Fu Yanzong’s peripheral vision caught Su Tang’s hand instinctively reaching out.

The car had already cleared the turn, but Su Tang stubbornly lunged forward anyway. He crossed the safety boundary of the passenger seat, throwing his entire body in front of the steering wheel.

In a flash, the Pagani’s rear wheels lost traction. The car spun wildly out of control, barreling straight toward the camera positioned in front of the lens. Screams erupted on set as the cameraman and crew scattered in panic.

Fu Yanzong’s gaze turned icy. With one hand clamped firmly on the steering wheel, he slammed the brakes without a second’s hesitation. His other hand shot out, shoving Su Tang firmly back into his seat.

The Pagani lurched to an abrupt halt, its momentum killed in an instant. It sat motionless, perfectly steady.

Su Tang’s body pitched violently forward. With the sudden stop, his head nearly smashed into the dashboard. The world spun before his eyes, and the seatbelt bit cruelly into his chest, squeezing the air from his lungs. His face drained of color in seconds.

He was just regaining his wits, his heart still hammering from the terror of facing down that blistering speed, when an icy voice made his breath catch again.

“Teacher Su.” Fu Yanzong leaned back calmly in his seat. He didn’t turn his head, merely lifting his eyes to study Su Tang’s ashen face in the rearview mirror. Narrowing his eyes, he said softly, “The passenger’s job is to stay quiet. Not to cause trouble, right?”

Su Tang dug his fingernails into his palms, staring at Fu Yanzong’s impassive face. A storm of emotions flickered across his features before he let out a cold laugh, as if he’d burned his bridges behind him. Slowly, he said, “Fu Yanzong, besides Song Linyu, you’re the most troublesome one.”

Before Fu Yanzong could react, Su Tang fixed his gaze on that exquisitely handsome face and curved his lips in an eerie smile. He enunciated each word deliberately: “System, use my points—”

The crew had sealed off the road and set strict speed limits well in advance of shooting this action scene. The effects team had marked out every safe zone with precision down to the second.

But the sports car accelerated like a wild horse breaking free of its reins. At the sharp turn where it should have slowed, it only sped up further. It blew past the designated mark and—with no warning whatsoever—slammed headlong into the guardrail on the right side, the one it was never supposed to touch.

The front end veered sharply off course. In the next heartbeat, the screech of brakes mingled with the tortured groan of twisting metal and the engine’s uncontrolled roar, crashing into the night.

The crowd erupted in shock. For that first split second after the impact, no one even registered what had happened. A beat of stunned silence followed before chaotic shouts and commands pierced the air.

Only the camera remained, faithfully capturing every moment of the unfolding farce.

At the far end of the abandoned highway, a pale hand lost its grip. A bag of desserts tumbled to the ground, and the beige bento box inside hit the asphalt with a dull thud lost amid the clamor.

In that moment, the cloyingly sweet, stomach-turning aroma of the desserts flooded Song Linyu’s nostrils.