Chapter 2: “The Way She Makes Her Entrance”

“Take a photo of me.”

This unbelievable woman loved to say those words.

Her tone was calm, but her voice was pleasing—like a particularly gentle cat, scratching outward just once per sentence, yet impossible to ignore.

The first time Fu Tingli heard it was during a California summer. She was gripping the woman’s ankle, awkwardly kissing her amid the salty, briny sea air.

At the time, she thought she’d misheard. But the woman’s warm, soft fingers slipped through her hair, gently stroking her golden locks, as she gazed at Fu Tingli with deep, affectionate eyes and repeated herself.

“Take a photo of me. Right here.”

Later, whenever the woman buried her nose against Fu Tingli’s collarbone, as if drawing in some scent from her body, she would suddenly say it again.

Fu Tingli obliged, snapping photos of the woman. It was a pure, straightforward summer, and the resulting images didn’t carry any erotic undertones. Most were just shots of the woman and the scenery.

The woman was always fully dressed—sometimes serene, sometimes laughing heartily, sometimes stretching out her arms to let the wind tousle her soft form.

But each one held a fierce, mad beauty.

Mad enough that, the moment the photo was taken, the woman would toss aside Fu Tingli’s phone—before she could even lock the screen—and seize her suddenly empty hand in that surging, intoxicating rhythm of “California Dreamin’,” lacing their fingers together and pinning them against the car door.

Then they would kiss wildly, either in the cloying sweetness of ice-cold soda or beneath California’s scorching sunset, without a care in the world…

It was the same woman whose surname they had never exchanged.

“California dreaming, on such a winter’s day… /

The cigarette, nearly burned to its end, finally flared up angrily, singeing Fu Tingli’s chilled, stiff fingers and making her flinch. The melody, looping endlessly in her wired earbuds, poured clearly into her ears once more.

She curled her fingers and tucked her long-darkened phone back into her pocket. She stared blankly at the cigarette butt in her hand for a long moment, then took a deep drag.

Coughing it out violently, she exhaled a cloud of smoke from her throat. It was a mild, sweet smoke, its flavor masked by aromatic red wine beads, but she still couldn’t get used to it.

Just like that first time, when the woman handed it to her and she inhaled too deeply, choking hard—only for the woman, shaking with laughter, to pin her down amid the heatwave and kiss her fiercely.

Afterward, every time she saw this brand, it pulled her back to that California summer: the open-top vintage car, the gurgling waves, the bonfires blazing at night…

That woman who had crashed into her young life.

~~~

Fu Tingli didn’t consider herself stubborn.

But her response to Li Weili just now had been: She’d think about it.

Given her current situation, she had no reason to turn down an offer of “sculpture guidance” that had fallen into her lap—especially since that “guidance” probably had little to do with actual sculpture.

So what was she hesitating over?

Perhaps it was the faint, almost imperceptible pride lingering inside her, urging her to think it through clearly:

Should she forget that woman from California altogether? Or pretend she’d never learned that the woman was none other than the superstar Kong Liyuan?

Once the bus reached her stop, a thin layer of snow had already blanketed the road.

Trudging through it to get home, Fu Tingli climbed the six flights of stairs, coughing harshly from the biting cold air. Her body temperature felt like frozen porridge, yet by the time she reached her door, she was drenched in cold sweat.

Her hastily rented apartment had no air conditioning, but luckily, the massive floor-to-ceiling window made it unpopular in winter, slashing the rent by a few hundred. She shed her coat and stood in the cramped, damp bathroom, rinsing off under lukewarm water in a haze.

She scarfed down some food, tossed the empty mineral water bottle into the trash, and deliberately turned the elegant half-bust sculpture of the glamorous female star to face the shadows.

Clutching her mug of instant cold medicine, she gazed out at the swirling snow, at the futuristic glow of Shanghai’s old streets on the opposite side, and sipped it down slowly before burrowing into her perpetually cold bedding.

When she woke again, the air felt shrouded in a gray fog—or slick with sweaty scales—making it hard to breathe.

Her phone buzzed: a call from Li Weili. Fu Tingli shifted sluggishly under the covers, blinking groggily awake, and caught sight of the Flying Bird White Model Sculpture on her bedside table.

The sculpture was still unfinished, some details forever incomplete—she’d never found what she had meant to add.

On the line, Li Weili paused for a moment before saying, “Just got word: the crew starts shooting next week. We need to lock in the on-site guide today.”

Kidnapped by her cold, Fu Tingli’s mind wandered. When Li Weili prompted her again, she snapped back—only to realize she was fixated on the necklace casually draped over the sculpture.

Chilly drafts still seeped through the gaps in the massive window, rustling the edges of old newspapers tucked against it. Downstairs, some child wailed hysterically, the noise pounding in her already heavy head.

Everything seemed to scream at her: her top priority should be escaping this cheap, damp, frigid rental—seizing every slim chance to peel away the dark moss clinging to her body—instead of letting that flicker of hesitation… or stubbornness… trap her here.

She rolled over, muffling her coughs. “Next week?”

Her hand reached out unbidden, her fading body heat brushing the necklace pendant, fingers rubbing repeatedly over the letters etched there:

Zoe.

On the other end, Li Weili said, “Yeah, next week.”

Fu Tingli let go. The pendant, hanging from the sculpture, swung limply in the cold air, indifferently brushing against the shifting light and shadows.

She rolled over, pulling the covers tight. “Then by then… my cold should be better.”

~~~

Shanghai’s snow never lingered—that was the city’s stark, divided nature. By the time the snow had fully melted, Fu Tingli’s heavy cold seemed to melt away with it.

Changing out of the coat she’d worn through her illness, she finally felt the exhaustion and pallor leaching from her pores begin to fade. She donned a face mask, wrapped herself in an inconspicuous camel-colored coat and jeans, and arrived at the Film and Television Base Li Weili had mentioned.

The base was in the suburbs, with vast grounds divided into sections, each further split into different shooting sets: ancient cities, old towns, Republican-era Shanghai architecture—all clustered together, with cameras and cap-wearing crew members everywhere.

Fu Tingli got lost, somehow wandering into another production team’s area. Luxury stretch business vans lined the roadside, and staff in puffer jackets and vests hurried past her.

She ignored the appraising glances and stood at the roadside, about to flag down someone for directions, when Li Weili’s voice called from behind.

“Bertha!”

Fu Tingli turned in surprise. Li Weili, still a bit out of breath, reached her side. Fu Tingli steadied her before asking softly,

“Am I late? You sound rushed.”

“No.” Li Weili exhaled a puff of white breath. “The sculpture team lead was asking if you’d arrived. I called your name earlier and you didn’t react—figured since you just got back from abroad, you might not be used to your real name, so I tried Bertha.”

“I didn’t hear you.” Fu Tingli felt apologetic. “Let’s hurry then. Didn’t they say they’re waiting for me?”

“Oh right, I need to take you to meet Teacher Wen quick.” With that, Li Weili led Fu Tingli through the bustling crowds, heading back the way she’d come.

But they didn’t know that, right after they left—right beside the spot where Fu Tingli had been standing—a sleek black luxury van’s door slid open slowly.

A slender, bony hand grasped the doorframe, faint blue veins visible on the pale inner wrist. But before the occupant stepped out, a vintage seafoam-blue silk scarf slipped free, caught by the wind and drifting lazily outward.

It landed softly on the ground, its whimsical, bizarre patterns stirring in the breeze—as if ill-suited to the city’s sharp divides, desperately rolling away.

A staffer in a “Daytime Blizzard” vest passed by, scooped it up, and handed it into the car.

“Teacher Kong, your scarf.”

“Thanks.” A mild, clear voice emerged from inside, followed by a hand holding steaming coffee extending from a sleeve. The thin wrist gleamed excessively pale in the wind.

“The weather’s chilly—don’t catch a cold.”

The staffer, flattered, took the coffee. “Got it. Thanks, Teacher Kong.”

“No need to thank me.” The voice from the car paused a few seconds, then asked,

“Do you know who that person who just passed by was?”

~~~

Li Weili led Fu Tingli along, getting held up again when they ran into others. After a very long walk, they reached another site and turned toward an elegant woman, probably in her forties or fifties, with exquisitely permed hair, a deep purple sweater dress, and a lighter purple coat. Teacher Wen was holding a cup of coffee, waiting for them.

Seeing them approach, Teacher Wen lifted her chin slightly. Her words carried a hint of local Shanghai dialect. “You’re here?”

Fu Tingli greeted her. “Hello, Teacher Wen.”

“Teacher Wen.” Li Weili offered a greeting as well, then added, “This is Fu Tingli. Some of her works were in that exhibition you attended in California. I’m not sure if you noticed—”

“No.” Wen Yingxiu cut her off bluntly, her brow furrowing. “How am I supposed to remember all those?”

Li Weili tugged the corner of her mouth into a smile.

Fu Tingli didn’t flinch in the slightest, allowing Wen Yingxiu to scrutinize her at leisure. Ever since returning to the country, she had endured far worse—dismissive stares, outright hostility. This mild bit of picky inspection was nothing.

Wen Yingxiu stared at her for a long moment before huffing out a breath through her nose. “You’re definitely young, that’s for sure.”

“You saw the script summary I sent over earlier, right? ‘Daytime Blizzard’ is a movie about chasing dreams and self-discovery. The protagonist is a young sculptor, and every plot point revolves around her personal growth…” Li Weili explained from the side.

Fu Tingli picked up seamlessly where she left off. “That’s why, in this film, every sculpture created by the protagonist is crucial. They can’t be pulled from her existing exhibited works or overly mimic real-world art pieces. And for every shot involving actual sculpture techniques, an expert needs to be on set supervising.”

“That’s why I had her call you here.” Wen Yingxiu tossed her empty coffee cup into the trash bin and shot her a glance. “Mask off?”

Fu Tingli’s fingers instinctively went to the ear straps of her face mask, on the verge of pulling it down, when a soft voice drifted in from somewhere nearby.

“Hey, has Teacher Kong finished her promo shots?”

Her cool fingertips hung frozen in the air, as if they had solidified into some ancient sculpture. Li Weili and Wen Yingxiu both lifted their heads toward the sound.

The chaotic buzz of the crew seemed to halt in that instant. Off in the distance, a figure leaped into view from right in the middle of the scene.

Before steeling herself to step onto this set, Fu Tingli had imagined countless ways Kong Liyuan might reenter her life—ways that could completely eclipse the memory of that woman who had crashed into her car amid California’s summer heat.

Something theatrical, like executing a perfect 360-degree flip straight into Kong Liyuan’s arms after a tumble. Something realistic, like passing each other as total strangers, both pretending to have forgotten those fleeting glances from that summer. Something wildly over-the-top, like Kong Liyuan slapping five million dollars down in front of her and demanding she delete those photos.

But nothing like this.

In her twenty-four years—a life neither starved for experiences nor bogged down in boredom—she thought she’d seen her fair share of the world’s wonders.

Yet when she spotted that hazy silhouette—a woman riding a white horse at an unhurried pace across the slick, frigid winter ground, gradually sharpening into focus right before her eyes—everything felt unreal.

Only then did Fu Tingli sluggishly register that the woman wasn’t the only one on horseback. Horses dotted the area here and there. She and Li Weili had arrived at what looked like an open horse field, their backs to the barren winter trees and the sun beaming straight down. Brown and white horses were scattered about, along with actors riding them for promotional shots and photographers scurrying below to capture the perfect angle.

This was a film and television base, after all—a place where Republican-era buildings stood side by side with faux ancient cities, where the bizarre and improbable happened every day.

Take, for instance, the woman in a plush, tawny cowhide trench coat riding a white horse, approaching her in a dreamlike haze that slowly solidified into vivid clarity.

The woman’s straight black hair fell to her shoulders, a narrow belt tied in a loose knot at her slender waist, swaying gently with the horse’s measured steps.

She resembled a butterfly on the verge of scattering to the wind—or perhaps a vast, intoxicating net poised to unfurl.

The expansive, chill horse field bathed in winter light held clusters of riders: some cautious and tentative, others buzzing with excitement. But the season’s bite draped them all in a heavy, parched veil.

This woman alone dangled a horsewhip in her hand, urging her mount straight toward Fu Tingli with commanding ease. From her vantage high above, she gazed down, the pale skin of her neck revealing faint blue veins beneath.

She drew to a slow halt just a few meters away, letting the piercing sunlight glide across her profile. Dim shadows and stark daylight carved a razor-sharp divide between them.

Her presence felt almost tactile, vivid as liquid spilling across Fu Tingli’s field of vision.

Fu Tingli’s gaze dropped instinctively. She had no idea why she suddenly couldn’t bring herself to remove the mask—or why she felt the urge to hide.

But those eyes found her anyway. She shifted sideways with care, only for Li Weili to tug at her sleeve once the woman had dismounted at a leisurely pace and started walking their way.

Clutching her mask, Fu Tingli had no choice but to look up—and take in the woman’s breathtaking features.

She truly stumbled then, nearly tripping over her own feet, only to be steadied by a pair of warm, soft hands gripping her wrist.

Awkwardly lifting her eyes, Fu Tingli could almost feel again the tenderness and calm of those fingers stroking her damp hair. She recalled the silken texture when those same hands had guided hers, pressing against the vibrant flying bird tattoo at the woman’s waist.

For one fleeting second, the stubborn echo of her body’s memory surged back to life, whispering a reminder: This woman was a living contradiction, woven from madness and serenity in equal measure.

But in the next second, Fu Tingli wrenched her stiff, chilled wrist free from Kong Liyuan’s grasp.

The other woman’s deep, piercing gaze hooked into her like a barb, shredding the thin barrier of her mask and seizing her without mercy. Then, unhurriedly, she spoke.

“And this teacher is…?”