Chapter 13: Midnight Song

The crew had booked rooms at the best hotel in Chongxiang County, not far from the set. It barely qualified as four-star.

The county’s tourist attractions were all out in the countryside—the nearest one was a half-hour drive away, with stuff like caves, stone forests, and flower fields. Out-of-town visitors tended to just crash in the city for a night, while the guesthouses converted from stilt houses proved more popular. Those places put real effort into their bedding and amenities.

This hotel felt pretty average by comparison. On check-in day, Zhong Jia had overheard some of the accompanying staff griping that it was the worst place they’d stayed in ages. Director Nong, however, had never been one to fuss over that sort of thing. As long as the final film turned out well, she was happy.

Zhong Jia had slept comfortably the past few nights. She never had trouble adjusting to new beds—a shower, then straight to sleep.

Tonight, though, she tossed and turned. More than an hour had passed already. Every time drowsiness tugged at her, fragments from the day’s shoot replayed in her mind like scenes from a film: the hallway lights flickering on and off, the rain pattering relentlessly outside, Ruan Ting’s gentle touch, the faint callus on Xie Yingnian’s hand…

And later, during the makeup touch-up—one of them inside the room, the other out by the stairs—that tall, skinny silhouette slowly fading from the edges of Zhong Jia’s thoughts. Xie Yingnian’s smooth jawline reflected in the latticed glass of the rosewood window. It wasn’t the Ruan Ting who’d teased Kong Can for being a scaredy-cat. It wasn’t the Xie Yingnian from years ago who’d asked if she felt uncomfortable.

But in a way, it was all of those things.

Unable to sleep, Zhong Jia simply opened her eyes. They gradually adjusted to the darkness, until she could make out the faint outline of the ceiling overhead.

Insomnia was rare for her. This time, she couldn’t even pin down the reason.

On the drive back, everyone had been chatting in the car. Shi Heng had remarked that the music industry was in a slump these days. Ever since he started out, most of the people he’d managed were actors. He’d worked on plenty of productions and rubbed shoulders with plenty of A-listers, but someone like Xie Yingnian—with that effortless control—was a rarity. No wonder all the scandals never touched her awards or her bank account.

He’d praised Zhong Jia too, of course. But Shi Heng was a firm believer in encouragement. He lavished praise on his daughter during their video calls, start to finish every time—an unyielding holdout in this cutthroat era of tiger parenting.

Zhong Jia took it in stride without getting carried away. She thanked him—calling him “bro”—but admitted she was still nervous about tomorrow’s scenes.

She knew her own strengths and limits. That crucial scene hadn’t devolved into endless NGs only because Xie Yingnian had been guiding her. Bluntly put, Zhong Jia hadn’t been acting. She’d sunk into the role passively, and she had a good opponent to thank for pulling her through.

Zhong Jia could tell the moments that were Xie Yingnian from the ones that were Ruan Ting. What she couldn’t separate were the two faces overlapping in her mind.

“Hoo…” She puffed out her cheeks like a fish and let out a long breath.

Everyone had their own tricks for insomnia: a glass of warm milk, a hot foot soak, or stuffing cassia seeds into the pillow.

Zhong Jia’s approach was brutally straightforward. She let herself off the hook. No more forcing it—the sandman could buzz off wherever he wanted.

She threw back the covers and got out of bed. Padding over to the sofa, she sat down and pulled her guitar into her lap.

Qian Peiqing taught music, so Zhong Jia had been steeped in it from childhood.

Even in a fast-developing coastal county like theirs—one outpacing some prefecture-level cities—it was hard to find like-minded people. Sure, there were instrument players, and the school had an arts program. But there was this stupid hierarchy, totally irrational.

Western classical musicians looked down on folk music, while folk musicians acted superior and splintered into factions—one day it was all about the suona reigning supreme, the next it was Erquan Yingyue. Caught between them, Zhong Jia tried blending traditional sounds into modern styles and got branded a freak. She could never quite fit in, so eventually she quit.

What Zhong Jia really craved was that soul-deep connection.

To her, music and instruments weren’t dead things. They were alive. You could commune with them, pour your stray emotions into them. That’s how she’d met Chen Kuang—and gained her first real human friend in the process.

The AC hummed softly overhead, its warm air chasing away the winter chill.

The guitar in Zhong Jia’s lap was a cheap secondhand model, but it had decent tone. She’d even customized it with white spray paint.

She was practicing one of Wa Si’s originals. In the band, Wa Si handled drums. Her voice was nothing special, but she had a real gift for lyrics and melody. After graduation, she wanted to go behind the scenes. Two-thirds of the tracks Make-Do Band posted online were Wa Si compositions; the rest were Zhong Jia’s. Chen Kuang and Ju Zai were just along for the ride—and had been for ages.

Her two senpais were like a mom-and-pop operation luring their junior onto the pirate ship. Chen Kuang was even scheming to drop a digital album under the band’s name before graduation. This time, guilt had made her play fair: four tracks, one from each of them. Wa Si could toss in extras if inspiration struck—after all, Chen Kuang’s family owned a recording studio, so laying down tracks was a breeze.

Xie Yingnian—the very reason for her insomnia—was sleeping next door. Zhong Jia had no interest in petty revenge this late at night. She didn’t want to disturb anyone either. After about ten minutes, she set the guitar aside.

Her mind felt less restless now, but she was still wide awake. So she crossed her legs, pulled the dog-eared script from the desk onto her lap, and started reviewing it. The call sheet was half a month old already—a thick binder plastered with dated sticky notes.

At the same time, Xie Yingnian hadn’t turned in yet.

She’d just wrapped B-group filming, showered, and blow-dried her hair. She took a few sips from the glass of warm water on the side cabinet—half of it gone now—beside a bottle of white pills.

Xie Yingnian slipped into bed. Black cotton pajamas draped her frame, her long hair spilling across the pillow. On her left wrist sat a strand of small-leaf purple sandalwood prayer beads. She never took them off, not even to sleep. They were perfectly sized for a woman’s wrist, with a faint woody fragrance.

Friends from the music scene often sent her concert tickets. She didn’t know much about it—usually it was just noise to her. But this time, she’d been unexpectedly captivated.

It stopped after barely two minutes.

The room fell utterly quiet, save for the faint whir of the heating AC.

Xie Yingnian waited a good while, but no guitar strings stirred next door. She rolled over, still fixated. Reaching for her phone on the nightstand, she pulled up a playlist and queued a guitar cover. She half-listened through two plays, then killed it before the third intro.

She was still hung up on that melody from next door.

Her pale hand hovered over the lock screen for a few seconds. Then Xie Yingnian opened WeChat and tapped into her chat with Zhong Jia. She paused, startled—the input keyboard had popped up at the bottom. She’d forgotten to tap send.

Zhong Jia’s old avatar had been some abstract, colorful geometric shapes—very artistic. Now it was a calico cat squatting on the ground, head cocked in curiosity. Xie Yingnian thought it looked just like Huazi. That little guy’s goofy expressions had turned him into an internet sensation under Sanhua Daoleng’s management. He even had his own account on the site, racking up more comments than his owner’s sometimes.

Xie Yingnian tapped into Sanhua Daoleng’s Weibo and scrolled down a bit. Sure enough, there was Zhong Jia’s new avatar.

“Where’s your tail? You really went and got one.”

Her lips curved into an unknowing smile. She switched back to WeChat, pondered for a moment, and began typing.

Zhong Jia hadn’t expected night owls in the group chat this late. She’d barely opened her script when her phone screen started flashing nonstop.

The four-person Make-Do Band group could churn out enough chatter for a whole class—99+ every half hour, thanks to Chen Kuang. The woman posted like she was house-hunting online.

Chen Kuang was a year ahead of Zhong Jia in school.

Tall and skinny, with a chest that might not even fill an A-cup. She lived in shirts, and her whole vibe screamed tomboy. Too bad she’d dated nothing but guys since her first love—a walking straight-guy manual. Or so it seemed; she turned out to be Schrödinger’s straight, ultimately bent by her childhood sweetheart.

After hearing about it, Zhong Jia couldn’t shake the feeling that the sweetheart was either a scheming blackbelly or a full-on yandere—probably plotting against Chen Kuang from the start.

Zhong Jia’s first impression of Ju Zai was that the “yandere” label fit to a T.

Frail build, ghostly pale skin—like a few extra words would shave years off her life. Chen Kuang babied her relentlessly. During arguments, one cough from Ju Zai and Chen Kuang was all apologies: “Sorry, wifey!” If she had a tail, it’d probably be wrapped around Ju Zai’s waist by now.

They said people lived up to their names. Chen Kuang’s was neutral, with a hermit-sage vibe—squandering her parents’ hopes. The flat chest half-matched the front half; the rest was pure firecracker, only grazing the “hermit” part with its explosive temper.

Wa Si was a study in contrasts too. Slow-talking, slow-moving—like a sloth more than a gas leak, or Lightning from Zootopia. Sweet temper, though—or maybe she just hit her boiling point after everyone else had moved on.

The other two had started on folk instruments in elementary school: Zhong Jia on pipa, Ju Zai on erhu. Despite being the youngest and frailest, they were the ones who steadied the ship in a crisis.

Chen Kuang dropped a “chat buddy” red packet, rousing Wa Si and Zhong Jia—no big surprise. Even Ju Zai popped up.

Ju Zai snagged the biggest one, then vanished. Chen Kuang went wild in the group, @-ing her: “Good grief, you were faking sleep! Open the door, or I’ll bust it down—you’re doing me tonight!”

Wa Si sent a yawning emoji, clearly unfazed by the routine.

Zhong Jia laughed for ages, only for Wa Si to catch her. She DM’d a screenshot of a memo: her latest homework assignment from the teacher. No class for her, but she had to make it up or flunk finals.

They got to chatting. Zhong Jia listened as Wa Si rambled on about bits of her daily life. It had been fine back at school, but after some time away, she realized how much she missed it.

They didn’t talk long. Wa Si had an early class tomorrow, so she turned in first.

Zhong Jia set her phone aside and flipped open the script. The pages crinkled in her hands as she was about to turn one, but the chime of an incoming message made her glance at the screen.

Xie Yingnian: Haven’t gone to bed yet?

She had no habit of adding nicknames to her contacts—everyone was listed by their real names, WeChat friends included.

Zhong Jia’s first thought was that her guitar playing must have disturbed someone. Why else would Xie Yingnian know she was still up?

She closed the script and set it back on the table, then flopped forward onto the sofa, sinking into its soft cushions. Her crappy phone was ancient—she couldn’t even remember what year it was from. The brand logo had faded, and with only Weibo left in the background apps, it still managed to lag out.

Luckily, it didn’t crash this time. After freezing for a few seconds, it smoothly opened the chat window. Zhong Jia found a “sorry” emoji and planned to send it before explaining everything slowly, lest the phone glitch again.

But Xie Yingnian’s next message arrived first: The song was great. What’s it called?

The question felt oddly familiar. Zhong Jia nearly fat-fingered the steamy pic next to it—the one with two women all tangled up and licking each other. Chen Kuang was always sending stuff like that in the group chat to tease Ju Zai. Too bad one was a self-proclaimed squirting top with zero subtlety, while the other got winded after a short walk, like a walking medicine cabinet. Who knew how they sorted out their bedroom issues.

Zhong Jia had actually forgotten. Wa Si came up with song titles on a whim, with zero connection to the lyrics, like something spat out by an AI generator.

She flipped to the sheet music and typed back: Of course it’s Sweet Tofu Pudding is the Best.

Xie Yingnian: One of your band’s songs?

Zhong Jia: Uh, yeah. My roommate wrote it. She’s a real talent.

Xie Yingnian sent the song title with a note: I’ve heard this one. Adding it to my playlist.

What a coincidence—this was one of Make-Do Band’s biggest hits, and Zhong Jia had written the words and music. It had a stream-of-consciousness vibe, with a climax that exploded like a sky full of fireworks igniting all at once: dazzling and chaotic. It started as niche stuff, but a popular influencer couple added it to their “sexy times playlist,” and the play counts skyrocketed. Tons of netizens jumped on the bandwagon, making it impossible for the song not to blow up.

Even now, Zhong Jia could only laugh wryly at it. The so-called “sultry, steamy track that’ll shake the bed to pieces” had been inspired by her shower. Pure accident.

She’d always figured Chen Kuang’s husky voice was the star, but commenters raved about the backup singer’s little hummed section—said it melted their bones, better than lube. She wondered if singing the whole thing would’ve been even better.

Xie Yingnian was impossible to read.

You’d call her aloof, and sure, she seemed disinterested in everything. Say she was desireless, but she loved making money and played management sims for fun. People dubbed her the lesbian central air conditioner—warm to everyone—but she wasn’t always that friendly. Sometimes she’d drop a subtle barb, soft-spoken but stinging.

With her chin pillowed on her arms, Zhong Jia still hadn’t figured out how to reply. Was Xie Yingnian just appreciating the song, or…?

Zhong Jia was always straightforward in chats, saying whatever was on her mind. Her grandma had raised her well: candid but not reckless, knowing when to advance or retreat in conversations without coming off as rude.

Chatting with Xie Yingnian, though? She kept second-guessing herself. Totally not like her.

She typed: I sang it…

Halfway through, Xie Yingnian messaged: A friend loves it. Made me check it out.

So you probably know how it went viral, huh?

On the verge of social suicide, Zhong Jia squeezed her eyes shut, abandoned the half-typed message, and slapped a palm over her face. Her features scrunched up as she sighed, thinking it sure as hell wasn’t any “proper” friend. But if you’re so above worldly desires, why listen to this?

Make-Do Band’s copyrights had been bought out, and she’d skimmed the song’s comment section. Getting 999+ likes past review was no small feat.

Zhong Jia buried her face in a throw pillow and rolled back and forth on the sofa until she was nearly suffocating. Finally, she flung it aside, sat up, and figured she’d just fire off a cute emoji to brush it off.

But Xie Yingnian’s next message made her crack on the spot:

No more money transfers. Qiao Yingqiu did me a solid, so helping the old lady is the least I can do. If you really want to pay back, wait till after graduation when your income’s steady. If that’s too awkward, just write me an IOU note.

For interest… sing me this song.

Zhong Jia, now wearing the mask of pain: Is it too late to get embarrassed now?