The seaside villa was perpetually wrapped in an inescapable ocean dampness. Even with the air conditioning running nonstop to circulate the air, faint salty traces of moisture still lingered. This perfect coolness, mingled with the humidity, stirred up a heavy drowsiness.
Fu Yanzong leaned into one corner of the sofa, his chin propped on his crossed arms. A few strands of his long hair fell loosely, catching the cold glow from his phone screen and shimmering with tiny glints of light.
At first, the fixed camera in the room clearly captured his idle swiping across the Match-3 Game interface. The audience watched eagerly as he curled his fingers to tap at the screen, chiming in with comments and critiques.
But after a while, he suddenly tilted his face up to glance at the camera. Then he shifted his position slightly, letting the brim of his cap completely block the phone screen. Now the viewers could only see him languidly turning the phone sideways, fishing earbuds from his pocket, and slipping them on—retreating fully into his private bubble.
By then, the main live feed had switched to the kitchen, where Song Linyu’s focused cooking filled most of the frame. Fu Yanzong’s little inset window got shoved to the bottom right corner; even zoomed in with a microscope, it showed just a quarter of a blurry glow.
The cameraman was zeroed in on the savory aromas rising from the kitchen. At first, everyone’s eyes were glued to the colorful, mouthwatering dishes under Song Linyu’s hands—no one noticed the faint, muffled voices leaking from Fu Yanzong’s earbuds in the sofa corner.
It took a bit before someone curiously asked if Fu Yanzong was watching a movie. If so, could he share his recommendations? They were dying to know.
After all, Fu Yanzong had been in the industry for years without ever publicly reviewing a single film. The only one he’d ever commented on was back on some talk show, where he’d earnestly thanked Pen Immortal vs. Sadako. He’d said the movie was so perfectly boring that it helped him drop off to sleep the moment he got back to his hotel from set each night—extremely useful.
The chat filled with similar pleas, and the production team caught wind of the audience’s curiosity. They quickly prepped to swivel the camera for a peek at Fu Yanzong’s phone screen.
But Movie Emperor Fu’s radar for cameras was uncanny. The lens behind his head had barely budged when he sensed it, snapped his phone off, stretched his arms overhead with a lazy yawn, and sat up straight.
“Tsk! He’s got secrets!”
“What good stuff is he hiding? Share with us!”
Those chat messages didn’t reach Fu Yanzong’s ears. Meanwhile, the other guests started arriving at the villa one by one.
Time was tight and tasks were piling up, so they exchanged quick greetings with Fu Yanzong before heading straight to the kitchen. Naturally, the last to show—the one covered head to toe in mud—was Su Tang.
To play up his image as a gentle, innocent little white flower, he’d deliberately worn a laced, open-waist tied corset suit jacket. Anyone who didn’t know better might’ve thought he was strutting a runway—aside from his less-than-model height.
It looked like Su Tang had taken a nasty tumble on the mountain path. His clothes were filthy, and that “subtly sheer white lace” his fans raved about had turned a solid gray, dotted with so much mud it resembled a honeycomb—enough to trigger trypophobia in anyone.
The chat begged the production team for a mosaic to spare their eyes. Su Tang’s Quick-Lie fans argued online that it made him look like a pitiful, abused beauty. But when he actually stood before Fu Yanzong, even they went quiet.
No one should be that blind.
So they switched tactics.
“Come on, whine to hubby, Tang Tang!”
“Someone’s gonna feel bad now—cry it out for our little Tang Tang!”
“? Quick-Lie Sister, can you not post that greasy crap? This isn’t your fan thread…”
“I can’t take it anymore—how are there so many crazies I can’t block? Aaaah!”
In front of the camera, Fu Yanzong—tormented by Su Tang’s getup—tilted his head and kindly pointed toward the kitchen. With utmost sincerity, he suggested, “Teacher Su, do you want to tackle the task first, or head to your room to change?”
Su Tang froze, scrunched his nose hard to force out some tears, then fixed Fu Yanzong with a gaze full of soulful longing. It made Fu Yanzong wonder—aloud in his mind to the Self-Rescue System—whether it really had no mosaic function.
“None at all, Host,” the Self-Rescue System encouraged him, glaring fiercely at Su Tang. “But I can face it with you!”
“…”
Fu Yanzong fell silent for a moment. Suddenly, Su Tang burst into pitiful sobs.
He buried his face in his hands, weeping softly. “Brother Fu, thank you for holding back on your team’s progress—not going to the kitchen to help, just waiting here for me. Little Yan and I… we’re best friends, that’s why we’re always together…”
The words dripped with implication: the two of them fighting over him.
Truth be told, Fu Yanzong had always admired Su Tang’s talent for spinning black into white. It was the only way he could keep living in his own little world.
But while Su Tang’s face showed tears, his voice didn’t quiet at all. He even raised the volume deliberately. Every guest in the kitchen couldn’t resist the gossip bait—they all paused, sneaking glances over.
The synchronized freeze-frame was hilarious. The once-bustling kitchen went dead silent, making Song Linyu’s blank-faced stirring of the flour stand out sharply.
Beside him, Shen Yuan couldn’t help shifting her gaze to her top boss, Song Linyu.
Truth be told, Shen Yuan’s impression of Song Linyu was pretty one-note.
Her first encounter was during her company entrance exam. Song Linyu always showed up for those in person, and her manager had drilled her endlessly: be careful, the boss was notoriously harsh and cold.
She’d been nervous for two straight days. In the end, during her presentation, she only caught a distant glimpse of him—lowering his lashes, slashing a sharp mark across her form with blinding speed. When he looked up, his pale, gaunt features and the thin folds of his eyes pressed down in weary fatigue. In the most businesslike tone, he said, “Next.”
The rehearsal room was packed with top-tier talents, even by industry standards. But in that moment, Shen Yuan felt like they were all just “next” to him.
But whether it was the boss personally leading the hype with his acting skills… Ever since seeing Song Linyu on this show, Shen Yuan’s worldview had started to crack.
The gap was too huge.
The way he looked at Fu Yanzong when leaning close, or the way his eyes widened ever so slightly at that Little Fish Card—it all made him seem so… vividly human.
But after Su Tang’s line, though Song Linyu’s expression didn’t shift—he kept handling the task like it was paperwork—Shen Yuan got that same old vibe from afar in the office building: oppressive, distant, untouchable.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that Su Tang was digging his own grave…
Shen Yuan thought to herself, watching Fu Yanzong across from Su Tang curve his eyes in barely suppressed amusement. He drawled slowly, “Teacher Su… are you misunderstanding something? I’m just sitting here because I can’t cook—jumping in would only get in Little Yu’s way. As for ‘best friends’… shouldn’t that come from Teacher Cheng himself?”
The affectionate “Little Yu” in his words left Su Tang blank for a second, brain scrambling to figure out who he meant. Finally, he dropped the act to demand, “You—you and Song Linyu, what are you playing at? You barely even know each other, right?”
Ding! A crisp chime rang from the baking tray, cutting Su Tang off sharply. He whipped his head around to see Song Linyu approaching with a wooden tray in one hand.
His sleeves were rolled to his forearms. His lean, upright frame, black hair framing his expressionless pale face, radiated an intimidating pressure. For some reason, Su Tang felt a chill like he’d stumbled into a predator’s territory—he stepped back on instinct.
Song Linyu stopped right in front of Su Tang.
On his tray sat an Avocado Shrimp Tower and Corn Chowder—probably for the judges to sample. But beside them was a small plate of Jam Waffle and half a cup of Hazelnut Latte.
Portions for exactly one person. Clearly made special.
Su Tang gaped, speechless.
He couldn’t muster any of his usual cutesy lines in front of Song Linyu anymore.
Before, Su Tang had pegged Song Linyu as a stone-faced, aloof ice block. But now, comparing the two, he realized that must’ve been Song Linyu actively holding back.
“Even though I can’t cook… I can at least help carry the tray.”
Fu Yanzong’s amused voice shattered the tension. Ignoring Su Tang entirely, he extended a hand to Song Linyu, offering to take the tray.
Song Linyu glanced at him for a beat, as if he hadn’t heard. On pure instinct, he lifted his free hand and clasped Fu Yanzong’s palm naturally.
Fu Yanzong arched a brow slightly.
Song Linyu paused, then looked up at him with a touch of awkwardness. He nibbled his lip cautiously and explained, “I didn’t hear you clearly… force of habit. Sorry.”
He was apologizing, but in front of Su Tang, he didn’t let go of their joined hands.
“Why say sorry?”
Fu Yanzong smiled faintly and pulled him a little closer. With his other hand, he took the tray from Song Linyu’s grasp and headed toward the living room, answering as naturally as could be, “I already said you could hold it.”
The kitchen fell so quiet you could hear a pin drop. The fruit Shen Yuan had been washing slipped from her fingers and plopped into the sink with a splash, jolting everyone back to their senses. They quickly averted their gazes, pretending they hadn’t seen a thing.
“That’s some smooth selling. Should we take notes?”
Shen Yuan’s partner, Mu Yunjin, watched the two seniors’ retreating backs and offered his thoughts with a sigh.
There was no envy of romance in his eyes—only a hunger for the camera.
Shen Yuan pictured the scene and immediately broke out in goosebumps. She shook her head furiously in refusal and said with conviction, “Theirs doesn’t look like acting. If it were us, it’d probably come off as fake.”
Everyone gradually finished their dishes and trickled into the common area to submit their creations. Though only first place came with a reward, last place meant punishment. No one wanted to fall behind—after all, not everyone could cook well. Many of the guests had put in real effort and now looked disheveled and weary.
In stark contrast, Fu Yanzong lounged on the sofa, savoring an extra afternoon tea: a small plate of waffles topped with glossy blueberry jam along the edges, and a steaming cup of hazelnut latte so sweet it bordered on cloying—all tailored to his sweet tooth.
Song Linyu sat beside him and warned sternly, “You can only have a little.”
Any sweet treat was a calorie bomb, after all. It satisfied Fu Yanzong’s cravings but demanded careful management of his figure. Fortunately, he had excellent self-control in that regard. He occasionally slipped up, but only ever in front of Song Linyu—nothing worth noting.
“Got it—” Fu Yanzong deliberately lowered his gaze to meet Song Linyu’s, a picture of someone who’d gotten the bargain and was still playing innocent. The others watched with open envy.
Su Tang wandered the kitchen in a daze, unsure what to do with himself. The production team couldn’t let the segment drag on, so the host brought over a lottery box and announced with a smile, “While we wait, let’s play a little game. This box has keywords prepared by the crew. Draw one, come up with a line related to it within three seconds, then we’ll vote on our favorite. The winner gets a small prize too.”
These segments were prime time for setting up personas with flirty lines. The guests had prepped templates like “It’s not… but rather… symbolizing…” They were ready to drop some gold-tier quotes and show off.
Anticipation buzzed in the air.
Shen Yuan drew first and got “swallowtail butterfly.”
Twisting that into something romantic was a stretch. She blanked for a moment, scraped together some half-related words from her mind, then fixed Mu Yunjin with what she hoped was a soulful stare and delivered, “The swallowtail butterfly shuns the mud, borrows the wind to cross the wilds, and whispers ‘I love you.'”
It was pure cheesy inspirational magazine poetry. Shen Yuan nearly cracked up saying it aloud. But her partner Mu Yunjin nailed a convincingly moved expression. With some post-production music and slow-mo, it shouldn’t look too off.
Fu Yanzong went second. He unfolded his slip right in front of the camera: “intersecting lines.”
Shen Yuan thought to herself that it figured—he even had luck on his side. She watched him eagerly.
The director’s countdown rang out clear: three, two, one. Fu Yanzong glanced calmly at the paper. He made no exaggerated faces at anyone, used none of his usual florid phrasing. Instead, he spoke as if delivering a line from one of his films, without a second’s hesitation.
“We… can’t just be two intersecting lines that cross and part.”
“Way too perfunctory, Teacher Fu! You got the easiest one—say more!”
Someone cracked the joke to liven things up, and it was fair enough. Compared to Shen Yuan’s line, his was almost too plain—plain enough that it didn’t sound like something cooked up for the show. More like words he’d truly meant to say someday.
Fu Yanzong took the teasing in stride with a soft chuckle. He turned his head and, as if to play along, quipped naturally, “Is it? I actually thought about using that line to confess once. Lucky I didn’t.”
He took a sip of the cloyingly sweet hazelnut latte, tuning out the half-genuine gasps of surprise from the group. His eyelashes lowered gently.
…He really had thought it.
But it wasn’t lucky that he hadn’t said it.
