Chapter 9

Half an hour later, the slanting sun went out entirely.

Zhou Siyou rose from the stone bench and stole a few glances at Zhong Qing’s iPad—nothing on it but a spread of clear, golden color.

Zhong Qing said these were storyboard sketches.

Zhou Siyou knew only a smattering about such things, so she didn’t press further.

On the way down, Zhou Siyou angled her phone backward for a shot—the paparazzi were still dutifully trailing them.

Coming toward them was a group of high schoolers in an assortment of spring and winter uniforms, girls and boys alike.

They laughed and roughhoused, their merriment lending the silent winter day a touch of brightness.

Zhong Qing suddenly stopped and faced Zhou Siyou. “One final test. Answer it right, and today is over.”

It’s over already? Zhou Siyou thought. We set out from home and went from one street to the next… it doesn’t feel like we did anything at all.

Seeing no reply from Zhou Siyou, Zhong Qing asked point-blank: “Given that Jiang Jin’s school years were far from kind—suppose Jiang Jin, walking down the street, comes upon high schoolers like these, little cliques of them, and unavoidably thinks of the people from back then. Would she flinch? Would she avoid them?”

Zhou Siyou’s eyes narrowed, taking this for a friendly freebie.

“Of course not,” she answered with utter composure. “She’d just walk right past them, head high, chest out.”

With those words, the two of them ambled from the mountain path back onto the streets, once more entering a district of tangled lamplight.

Night had deepened.

Zhou Siyou said, “There are so many works like that—depicting a bullying survivor’s life afterward. They love to say the unhappy past leaves scars that last a lifetime, impossible to erase.”

“Is that so? Maybe. But the way I read it, Little Director Zhong, your Achromatous (Colorless) leans toward a different meaning: there’s no need to live in fear. They, too, can… live well.”

“Like how the protagonist of KillMen stops at the killing—the downpour hammering the bloodstains, yet never diluting the bewilderment in her eyes. But in your Achromatous, the post-vengeance Jiang Jin should get a better life.”

Hearing this, Zhong Qing seemed to freeze for a beat—and stopped on the steps.

Zhou Siyou stopped too.

She stood half a step below Zhong Qing, tilting her face up slightly as their eyes met.

And so Zhong Qing saw, before her, on that exquisite face, a smile carrying a flush of youthful triumph.

Zhong Qing suddenly reached out.

Her fingers, slightly curled and ice-cold, gave Zhou Siyou’s forehead a light flick.

“There. Zhou Siyou—the role is entirely yours now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?…” Zhou Siyou blinked, then seemed to laugh at herself. “If I’d done badly today, were you planning to take the role back?”

Zhong Qing narrowed one eye faintly—half a smile, half not—rather like a dignified ragdoll cat.

“No. What I mean is: this role used to be mine. Now it’s entrusted entirely to you.”

“From now on, you are Jiang Jin.”

By the time they walked back to her complex, the evening wind had chosen that moment to die down.

From a distance, Zhou Siyou spotted the bright-and-dimming lights along the street, passersby clustered in threes and fives around the food stalls.

Zhou Siyou thought of high school, of dragging a reluctant Zhong Qing to roadside stalls for barbecue skewers, crispy fried pork, chive pockets, candied hawthorns, ice cream—street food was, for the mildly fastidious Zhong Qing, a truly formidable trial.

In the end, after all her winding resistance, she had graciously condescended to eat a teeny-tiny bit of fried rice cake.

Afterward, Zhou Siyou had handed her an ice cream. “I only bought it because the second one was half price. Don’t read into it.”

Teenaged Zhong Qing had been delighted. “I haven’t said a thing.”

Zhou Siyou had stubbornly retorted, “I can tell what you’re going to say just by looking at your face!”

And Zhong Qing had laughed at her without the slightest restraint.

—Zhou Siyou remembered suddenly: back then, the two of them really had made so many promises.

To hear Shiina Ringo’s concert tour together, to hear Lindsey Stirling in concert, to see Chicago the Musical; to go to California and ride a Ferris wheel or the Sunset Coaster, feeling the amber-gold wind against their faces.

But now…

An invisible wall clearly stood between them.

A lukewarm relationship. A distance neither far nor near.

Perhaps they could still be friends—when they spoke each other’s names, the feeling in their eyes held more familiarity than strangeness.

But Zhong Qing’s come-close-then-drift-away manner reminded Zhou Siyou at every turn: what’s gone is gone.

Now, Zhou Siyou stopped at the corner as Zhong Qing said her goodbyes.

“It’s late. Go home and rest,” Zhong Qing said, watching her. “Once I’ve organized the detailed schedule for joining the crew, I’ll send it to you.”

“…Okay.”

Zhong Qing gave her a small wave. “I’m off.”

As Zhong Qing lifted her foot to go, something seemed to strike Zhou Siyou—she jolted, chased a few steps, and seized her wrist. “W-wait! How are you getting home?”

Zhong Qing turned back. “The bus.”

“…!”

Zhou Siyou let go and turned her face away, laughing. “A grand director, taking such a humble mode of transport.”

Zhong Qing countered: “And what’s your brilliant suggestion?”

Zhou Siyou gave a light cough. “The paparazzi are still tailing us. If your address gets exposed, they’ll stake out your doorstep next.”

“Teacher Zhong, let me drive you home,” Zhou Siyou said, composing her words at lightning speed and shifting her gaze away with a tinge of guilt. “That, um—didn’t you ask me earlier… whether I had experience shaking paparazzi?”

Zhong Qing stared at her for two seconds.

As if weighing something.

A few seconds later, she answered, “Fine. But how exactly will you see me off?”

Zhou Siyou smiled, unhurried.

“Street racing.”

Zhong Qing: “…”

In truth, the paparazzi had long since memorized Zhou Siyou’s license plate by heart.

She hadn’t planned to drive at all, in fact. She’d meant to pull out the motorcycle—at the very least, she and Zhong Qing could have caught some river wind.

…But there was absolutely no second helmet to be found in the apartment.

Settling into the car in the underground garage, Zhou Siyou checked her reflection in the rearview mirror—then, with one turn, shook off a little minivan first.

The moment the black car rolled out of the garage, the roadside paparazzi caught the scent and swarmed after.

Outrunning paparazzi at speed—Zhou Siyou had some experience with that. But having a passenger in the seat beside her was a first.

In the passenger seat, Zhong Qing had the window half-open, watching the world outside.

Night wind poured into the car.

In the car, the stereo alternated between traffic reports and old songs from the last century.

《Intimate Lover》

“Tonight the wind still blows…”

Zhou Siyou drove into a tunnel, then opened up full throttle across the river bridge.

In moments, the teeming traffic in the rearview mirror faded away like scattered stars.

The car drifted outward from the bustling city. The city’s cluttered winds dissolved—and in the speakers, so did the music.

The car stopped on a secluded lane. Zhong Qing stepped out; Zhou Siyou rolled down the window.

Standing outside the car, Zhong Qing said goodbye once more. “Be careful on the way back. Don’t drive so fast.”

“Okay.”

Zhou Siyou agreed.

Zhong Qing kept looking at her, as if pondering something.

In the dark, the streetlamps swayed with light; the night moon was dim and blurred, and every rare scrap of brightness had steeped into the depths of the eyes before her.

Zhou Siyou met her gaze, silent for a moment.

It was as if each were waiting for the other to say farewell first.

—Zhong Qing, you chose me as your actress for more than just my understanding your creative intent, didn’t you? The bigger reason is what we are to each other. Isn’t it?—That was what Zhou Siyou wanted to ask.

Zhou Siyou did want to know the answer.

But in the end, she couldn’t bring herself to ask it aloud.

Because she understood: the question had only two possible answers. Yes—or no.

If Zhong Qing said “yes,” then they would lay everything bare, and take one more step toward each other. If Zhong Qing said “no,” then Zhou Siyou would have only flattered herself, and could laugh it off with an awkward smile and pretend nothing had happened.

But if there was even a one-in-a-hundred chance the question would push Zhong Qing away…

Then Zhou Siyou wouldn’t ask.

Reunions were rare things. Zhou Siyou didn’t want to be the one who ruined the mood.

And so, at this moment of parting, she merely tilted her face up slightly and said with a smile, “Achromatous—Little Director Zhong. Here’s to a wonderful collaboration.”

“Mm.” Zhong Qing’s brows and eyes curved faintly as she answered softly, “A wonderful collaboration.”