Chapter 11: Still Reeling

Zhong Jia quickly realized that this method was utterly useless for cooling down a specific spot. She was buried against Xie Yingnian’s chest, the touch soft and yielding. The scent wafting from Xie Yingnian’s body was entirely different from her usual one, mingling with the night breeze to envelop her completely.

It wasn’t the rich top notes and gentle base of wild jasmine that Xie Yingnian usually favored when giving her roles subtle personal touches. For Ruan Ting, she had chosen a soft, cool fragrance. When she leaned down to kiss her, that scent seemed to melt into spring water, her strands of hair falling across Zhong Jia’s cheek like countless delicate vines, wrapping around her and drawing her slowly into a daze.

Intoxicated—that was the word Nong Siqing had used.

And Zhong Jia was indeed intoxicated.

Back when she was sixteen, she hadn’t even had time to say thank you before Xie Yingnian had rushed off for her next schedule.

This was the person she desperately wanted to see again, the one she longed to thank, the one she yearned to understand more deeply. And now Xie Yingnian was right in front of her. They hadn’t delved into that understanding yet, but their bodies had bridged the gap first.

The sudden leap left Zhong Jia’s mind short-circuiting—panicked, unsettled, and utterly confused. She didn’t know if her intoxication stemmed from being Kong Can or…

“Snapped out of it yet?” Xie Yingnian gazed down at the top of Zhong Jia’s head. The pear-shaped lamp lit up again as Nong Siqing summoned them remotely. She had just mouthed to the crew that they’d be there in a bit.

In this scene, Ruan Ting was about to go to bed, wearing a blue silk nightgown beneath her coat. She felt the fabric at her abdomen being clutched tightly, balled up in someone’s fist, and heard particularly ragged breathing.

It was no surprise if the girl was holding her breath or whatever—playing a scene like this was bound to make a young actress shy.

Xie Yingnian recalled her own first scene in Reed Shoal Moon. Nong Siqing at her peak had been even less personable than now, jumping straight into a bed scene with the exposure level something they’d “discussed.”

But Director Nong was a perfectionist about her work; that “discussion” was just a heads-up. Xie Yingnian hadn’t had much choice back then—she was shouldering too many responsibilities, and her own needs always came last.

The most revealing take had been around that time.

They’d only just met, and Qiao Yingqiu had been emotionally volatile after her divorce, with no bandwidth to look after a little sister. When the director called cut, she withdrew from between Xie Yingnian’s legs, her clothes disheveled, flipping off the bed with brisk efficiency. She was as cold as a client in a transaction, and naturally, an assistant hurried over with a towel and robe.

Zhou Chun hadn’t been around that day—the company was swamped, she’d been assigned a newbie, and running between tasks had her overwhelmed. She even had to borrow an assistant for an emergency.

Xie Yingnian handled it herself. The set had been cleared, but there were still plenty of people around the cameras. The potbellied male producer had groped actresses before; she didn’t even want to dwell on it. There were definitely sleazy, uncomfortable stares.

Years later, someone else suddenly found herself in that position: Qiao Yingqiu’s daughter.

Xie Yingnian’s genes weren’t flawless, but traits like kicking someone when they were down or gloating maliciously were just too tacky, too low-class. In the law of survival of the fittest, they could only be crushed by fangs lurking in the darkest corners—beyond recognition, reduced to fertilizer.

She didn’t mock Zhong Jia, not even with the teasing from before. Instead, she offered comfort and companionship.

Maybe she was born that way—partial to women from the start. If Huazi had been a tomcat, Xie Yingnian wouldn’t have pampered her so. Her double standards were utterly unapologetic.

Snapped out of it? Of course not—who could? She shouldn’t have buried herself in Xie Yingnian’s clothes in the first place. Her face burned even hotter now, her heart pounding faster.

Zhong Jia slowly pulled back. The nightgown collar, rumpled from her frantic nuzzling, had come open a little, revealing a glimpse of collarbone. The sudden flash of pale skin caught the eye, and she ducked her head in panic. “Sorry—we have to do it again.”

“Sorry,” Xie Yingnian said to her.

Zhong Jia froze for a few seconds, letting out a puzzled sound.

Then Xie Yingnian pinched her cheek lightly. “Gotta kiss you again.”

The lingering warmth reignited memories of the kiss with those words. Zhong Jia instinctively wanted to bolt. She forgot which way was which, forgot the wall behind her. With Xie Yingnian right there, backing up seemed quickest and safest.

Thud—her heel hit the wall. She hadn’t moved, and the back of her head slammed hard into the unyielding, cold surface.

“Ow—” Zhong Jia yelped, eyes watering from the pain.

Xie Yingnian blinked in surprise, then her cheeks puffed out like buns. She couldn’t hold it in, turning her head to burst out laughing.

The two assistants standing nearby were on the verge of cracking up too. A Cha held an ice pack meant to cool Zhong Jia down, while Jujiu looked heartbroken. “For real, I almost forgot how cool Zhong Jia is on stage—like a total Punk Girl.”

“I keep telling those fans online not to idolize her too much. Flower Mom’s the real winner here.”

A Cha rolled her eyes. “Tiantian has always been super girly, okay? Her nightgowns are all pink and frilly.”

The back of her head wasn’t too bad, but when Xie Yingnian reached to rub it, Zhong Jia leaped away three meters, bounding downstairs like she was hopping. A Cha chased after her, panting.

An assistant handed Xie Yingnian a cup of warm water. She took a sip, her smile still lingering. Jujiu stared at her like she’d never seen her before, watching for ages.

Before long, the two leads headed over to the director. Nong Siqing said, “Have a seat. Let’s review that last take.”

The footage paused now and then as the group watched and discussed. The director added, “This scene is their first kiss—the emotional buildup and release are crucial. Xiao Xie, Tiantian…”

They talked through the scene, then did touch-ups on makeup.

Zhong Jia got a WeChat from Xie Yingnian. Instead of directing her on how to act, she asked a few plot-related questions as Ruan Ting.

Zhong Jia looked up from her screen. Xie Yingnian stood outside the window, the makeup artist applying another layer of lipstick. Her posture was straight, her figure graceful, her updo slightly tousled with loose strands framing her face. Her neck was slender, her expression lazily aloof—completely detached from Ruan Ting now.

With looks and talent like that, she had every right to her status. Even in group montage videos, clips from the Hong Kong era before and after hers were full of praise, but hers still dominated the barrage. The comments were packed too, with few nitpickers.

Xie Yingnian happened to glance over, and Zhong Jia immediately dropped her gaze.

With the ice pack applied, her cheeks and ears weren’t as flushed. The makeup artist sister complimented her skin, and she murmured a distracted thanks.

At Xie Yingnian’s level, a few casual words could enlighten a newcomer.

Zhong Jia asked Nong Siqing for ten minutes alone. She wanted to sort out the extra emotions bleeding into the role and rethink the scene properly. Now she sat on a little stool in the corner, flipping through the script.

The surrounding clamor faded from her ears.

Her mind kept replaying Xie Yingnian’s questions.

Ruan Ting embodied everything Kong Can craved—not just the advanced luxuries of a big city displayed on a woman’s body and figure, but deeper things from the soul.

In Nong Siqing’s words, Kong Can and her father despised each other. Their bond was enforced by a court order. At sixteen, Kong Can venturing out was liberation for both. The two thousand yuan from her father wasn’t affection—it was severance.

Father and daughter both knew it. Severing the kite string had been their shared wish for years.

Whether she soared or crashed, she was done with that hollow shell of a home. She was free, but rootless.

No one wanted Kong Can, that clingy little jacket. Fine, then.

From Xin Nan to Chongxiang, she took the train alone. Her cousin had been whisked away the day before by her cousin-in-law’s Santana convoy—three cars total, one a truck. The dowry included a few grunting pigs, but plenty of locals turned out for the rare lavish wedding.

Chongxiang was richer than Xin Nan, thanks to its mineral wealth. Leaning against the window, Kong Can saw massive smokestacks belching thick plumes. The fog of leaving home crystallized into raw confusion.

The train plunged into a tunnel, pitch black. Suddenly, she cracked the window. The wind made the person beside her squint. “You got a screw loose? Why open it in the mountain? Your hair’s gonna fly away!”

Kong Can’s wallet was empty save for a faded, half-torn family photo—of her and her mom.

The sixteen-year-old bit her lip. Wind, light—she had them all now.

With nowhere for her longing to land, Kong Can refused to let those two thousand yuan become a blank-page fantasy. It was just empty dreaming anyway.

The window slammed shut amid curses. Kong Can kicked off her shoes, curled up on the seat with her back to everyone, and let the bumpy green train—littered with melon seed shells, peels, and trash—carry her toward the unknown.

Before meeting Ruan Ting, Kong Can’s closest person had been her mom. That figure had only existed briefly but left a profound mark, making her drawn to older, gentle women.

Like her cousin who went to provincial college, or Sister Miao Miao from the same building who knew all sorts of knitting patterns and was stunningly pretty. Or Ruan Ting at the market, her eyes peeking from under the umbrella enough to captivate anyone.

But Ruan Ting was different. She had a daughter, her marriage on the rocks. Sometimes Kong Can felt like she was seeing her younger self…

About ten minutes later, Zhong Jia took a deep breath, closed the script, and stood before Nong Siqing. “Director, I’m ready.”

Nong Siqing nodded and picked up the walkie-talkie. “Slate ready.”

This take was much better. Nong Siqing watched the monitor, a few crew members clustered behind her, murmuring and nodding frequently.

The backdrop evoked an early-2000s movie, complete with outfits and makeup that were tackily, meticulously authentic.

Ruan Ting’s look was a touch better—fashion being cyclical and all—but Kong Can’s taste was an unmitigated disaster, straight out of the urban-rural fringe. She fancied herself stylish, strutting around in winter like a flower peacock, every single item a different color, piling herself up into what Ruan Ting called a walking color palette.

The camera cut in from outside to a silent rainy night. Kong Can, holding a blue-plaid Paradise Umbrella, made her way into the tenement building. Today she wore a gray-white winter ensemble with a pair of white sneakers that had cost less than a hundred yuan—a rare departure from her usual garish reds and greens.

Small towns turned ghostly quiet after ten at night. That’s when the pervert killer supposedly struck, targeting pretty women in red, gutting them and not even sparing their cunts. Rumors like that cropped up every winter, from Xin Nan to Chongxiang. Just yesterday, a few elementary school kids getting haircuts had been chattering about it.

Your world was what surrounded you, and in all these years, not a single case had ever actually happened.

But Kong Can was spooked. She’d even texted Ruan Ting about it, warning that her friend’s flashy, demoness getup was practically begging for trouble.

Ruan Ting—who had mastered the art of the mocking smile emoji years ago—replied with a simple [hehe], then added: Dumped by an ex and now taking it out on society? Men killing women and wrapping it up in some lovesick bullshit—how disgusting is that? If you’re scared, there’s a comic rental shop right next to the salon, open till midnight. I can bring Yuan Yuan and we can flip through manga while we wait for you to get off work.

Kong Can hadn’t known how to respond. Just then, a customer came in for a wash, and she seized the chance to slip away.

That slip turned into days of avoidance. Texts cost fifty cents apiece back then, and data was even pricier. Kong Can figured vanishing without a trace was the most natural thing in the world.

The tenement was five stories tall, with two wings connected by a long central passageway. The rooms in the main building faced south, so they were less damp and a bit roomier. The rent was several times higher as a result—hardly worth it when you crunched the numbers. Ruan Ting was one of those suckers in the eyes of the locals.

She didn’t scrape by like folks from small towns, making do. No, she was thoroughly petit bourgeois.

After coaxing Yuan Yuan to sleep, Ruan Ting stepped out of her apartment. She lit a cigarette and strolled through the corridor toward the third door on the right—Kong Can’s place—pausing to take in the entertaining nighttime vignettes from the left and right neighbors.

In a big city, everyone kept to themselves. You could live next door for decades and never say hello.

She hadn’t even reached the door when she heard the commotion.

Puddles had gathered on the windowsill. Ruan Ting hung back a bit and spotted Kong Can right away from that dowdy umbrella of hers. There was her target. Acting all sneaky, Kong Can pressed the umbrella lower and crept along beside the downstairs bike shelter, convinced she was invisible. But the woman upstairs had her in plain sight. In a childish flourish before closing it up, Kong Can gave the umbrella a twirl, sending raindrops flying outward in a sparkling spray.

Ruan Ting smiled. She watched intently, and a long ash fell from her cigarette, scattered by the evening breeze. Her heart felt singed by the embers, kindling a sudden impulse.