This scene wasn’t easy to perform. Zhong Kefei’s delay had thrown Zhong Jia’s mindset off, requiring a full reset.
Kong Can clashed violently with Gou Jiaxun, who had shown up in Chongxiang to drag away his wife and daughter. The set was a total mess, with tables and chairs flipped over.
The defenseless man collapsed into a pool of blood. The fruit knife slipped from Kong Can’s grasp. She hung her head, staring at the blood staining the tip of her shoe, and let out a low chuckle. The room’s poor lighting made it feel damp and shadowy, and that smile seemed to seep right into the gloom, sending chills down everyone’s spines.
There were few lines, but capturing that instant emotional explosion was tricky. The choreographed physical interactions demanded multiple run-throughs.
Zhong Jia felt a touch of nerves. She’d never played a role where fists slammed into someone’s face. Her blood surged like it had been pierced and scorched by a beam of light, yet her mind stayed ice-cool. Gou Jiaxun’s sudden arrival in Chongxiang, Ruan Ting battered and bruised once more—Kong Can had already steeled her resolve.
On a rainy New Year’s Eve night, they sat in a sampan boat gliding across the lake, the strains of opera drifting through the curling mist.
“How far to the sacred mountain?” It was said to be 108,000 li and some change. Yet between them, it felt like there was no path at all.
The blood pack burst during rehearsal, splattering prop blood that soaked straight through the shirt. Jiang Fuwen smiled. “No worries, Little Zhong. Just go for it.”
He had weathered an industry blacklist scandal and been cut loose by his agency. These days, he operated on a shoestring indie setup, family-style.
The young man serving as both his assistant and cousin was as thick-skinned as they came, with a legendarily low EQ. Even the refined Jiang Fuwen had shot him plenty of meaningful glances to zip it. This time, though, there wasn’t a chance to intervene. The director had barely called “cut” when the cousin rushed over to dab the blood from Jiang Fuwen’s face. “Take a page from Teacher Qiao’s book,” he told Zhong Jia. “My bro played her obsessed stalker once and caught a bunch of slaps for it.”
Jiang Fuwen shot his cousin a glare, his expression turning awkward. “Little Zhong…”
“Yeah, she slapped me plenty when I was a kid too. Real firecracker, that one.” Zhong Jia was dressed light for the summer scene in the script: a denim shirt and canvas pants. She’d have to hold ice in her mouth later to keep from steaming up the shot.
Her once garish kill-matt hair was dyed black, falling just to her shoulders with a subtle curl at the ends.
She rarely wore it like this—a budget wolf tail, too long to be short and too short to be long, a hassle to style. But the promo shots A Cha had snapped for her the other day had gone over big. The fans in the comments were pro-level delusionists, masters of their own wishful thinking. After all, Zhong Jia’s manliest feature was arguably those brows and eyes—more like a heroic glint, really, thanks to cheekbones no one else could match.
Zhong Jia brushed it off. Jiang Fuwen gave his cousin an earful anyway before heading to the dressing room.
A Cha handed her the phone. A new WeChat popped up from Xie Yingnian, who was sitting nearby with Nong Siqing. The cousin’s voice boomed like a megaphone—it was impossible not to overhear. Xie had sent two emojis that together formed a milk candy.
Tch. Talk about a straight-guy way to sweet-talk someone.
She fired back a GIF of a cartoon heart riddled with arrows, collapsing in a shattered heap. Pure overkill.
She had to stifle a laugh. Why did it hit exactly like those staged celebrity couple posts?
Besides Nong Siqing, plenty in the crew had worked with Qiao Yingqiu before. Stuff like this came up now and then. Zhong Jia would catch bits of it—unavoidable chit-chat, no ill intent, just careless slips. She’d space out for a second, thinking: So Mom pulled this kind of thing too.
Dad checked out long ago, Mom gone forever. No genetic blueprint to reference—her reactions were always a beat slow.
That umbilical cord had tethered them once, full of potential for them to reflect each other like mirrors. But the man’s lies had shattered everything, cracking the half-formed glass before it set.
Holding their mother-daughter bond together had always felt forced. Later, with oceans between them, it seemed like a relief for both. Was it, though? Not for Zhong Jia.
Maybe it was Kong Can’s character rubbing off on her, but she hadn’t obsessed over Qiao Yingqiu before. Moms and dads were different beasts, weren’t they? She’d started following Chen Kuang on Weibo and saw her like a post once: “Who doesn’t wanna be a total mama’s girl?”
It spawned a viral emoji pack of Little Cat bawling for “Mommy.” Screenshots flooded feeds: Send it to your mom, and she’d panic, thinking you were heartbroken, pulling out all the stops to comfort you.
Zhong Jia found it so heartwarming. She curled up in bed, saving each one. In her gallery, she paused on the share button, remembering she had no one to send them to.
The room lights were off, everything hushed. The screen glow caught the faint dampness at the corner of Zhong Jia’s eye. She rubbed it furiously, forcing the tears back down.
Qiao Yingqiu, I kinda wanna swing by the cemetery to see you. But what if you pull that old line from when I was little? “Don’t cling to me. Don’t call me Mom.”
…It’s just a little sad. Really, just a smidge. Don’t make a big deal of it. I don’t miss you that much.
She flicked over to WeChat, scrolling through contacts before tapping Secretary Zhou’s avatar.
Over the years, Mr. Xie had been more than a financial backer—always in the loop on big things and small. Still, Zhong Jia’s outreach stayed pretty one-sided, routed through Secretary Zhou with the excuse that Mr. Xie was swamped.
Business types gonna business. Zhong Jia didn’t dwell on it. Every so often, though, a wild hunch would hit: Was Mr. Xie really Mr. Xie? Not some stereotype—just personally, she hadn’t met many guys this thoughtful and gentle. Her manager Shi Heng was one rare exception.
But it didn’t add up. Why would gender matter? What was there for Mr. Xie to hide?
She stared at the chat, stumped again. Mr. Xie was half parent-figure, sure, but no substitute for a mom. Wrong person for unloading like this. Nah.
The emojis were already saved—she was too lazy to delete them. She powered off the phone, set it on the nightstand, and drifted into sleep with her eyes shut.
The film was in its final stretch. Factoring in pickup shots, they’d wrap by month’s end.
Lately, Nong Siqing kept zoning out. One evening after shooting wrapped, her assistant spotted her leaning against the windowsill, cigarette in hand, her gaze tracking the two leads as they emerged side by side downstairs. She watched until Zhong Jia and Xie Yingnian climbed into the same business van, its exhaust trailing off into the gathering dusk.
She was so lost in it that the piling ash burned her fingers before she snapped back.
The crew had a dedicated behind-the-scenes team, but Nong Siqing still toted her own camera every day. Her footage held no flowers or scenery—just Ruan Ting and Kong Can.
Them goofing around on the sofa, clean green grapes tumbling from the fruit bowl, bouncing off their overlapping pale legs—one after another, bursting on the concrete floor and oozing juice.
Kong Can brushing Yuan Yuan’s hair now that the shampoo girl had gone legit. Even the sun seemed curious about her skills, slanting a beam through the red-lattice window. The hairdryer whirred noisily. With her daughter’s eyes closed, Ruan Ting snuck up behind, hands clasped, and planted a kiss on Kong Can.
Yuan Yuan spiked a fever in the dead of night. Ruan Ting was stuck overtime, so Kong Can rushed the kid to the ER.
In the dingy bathroom, Kong Can bent over the sink washing her hands when the click of high heels echoed behind her. Ruan Ting stepped in. Their eyes met in the scratched-up mirror and ignited on sight.
With Yuan Yuan around, moments of closeness were rare.
This time, crammed in the narrow stall, Kong Can pressed back against the door. Ruan Ting kissed her until her bones felt like melting. Strangers came and went outside. The kiss roamed slow and teasing, her ragged breaths muffled in Ruan Ting’s soft palm. Steam fogged the air around her. She couldn’t help tilting her head back—half her view the spiderwebbed corner of the wall, half Ruan Ting’s intent face.
The toilet flush buckled her knees. Ruan Ting caught her, dipping low with eyes shut, kissing fierce and unrelenting. When they emerged, Kong Can’s tank top clung damp with sweat. Summer wind poured through the window, billowing the fabric between her shoulder blades where her black bra straps twisted visibly.
The chandelier glowed dim and yellow. Moths fluttered toward it in longing—and met their end there.
Not long after Yuan Yuan’s discharge, Gou Jiaxun somehow tracked down his wife and daughter. He traveled a great distance, trying sweet talk and tough love first, reasoning and pleading. When that failed, he laid into the unfaithful wife. In the end, he left without them—but lost his life to Kong Can’s knife.
…
So much footage—some bound for the final cut, some destined for the cutting-room floor after tweaks. The assistant director even joked that Director Nong’s personal stash could make a whole bonus episode.
Nong Siqing had once said in an interview: “Creators should keep some distance from their characters. Understand them, sure—but don’t get too empathetic.”
She’d bucked her own rule here, pouring thick, murky emotions into the film. Crew gossip about it stayed hushed. Some boldly speculated the director was one of the protagonists’ real-life inspirations. Others argued no—her visual language felt more like a eulogy for two people at once.
“Cut. That’s great.” Nong Siqing gripped the walkie-talkie, murmuring “great” twice over. Her eyes were distant, her face etched with exhaustion, as if she’d lived the scene onscreen herself.
The director fell silent for a moment, then rose to her feet. Her assistant hurried after her with concern. She paused mid-stride but didn’t turn. Her voice came out faint. “You all go rest. That’s a wrap. Don’t worry about me.”
Ai Yilan had no scenes left. She sprawled across Xie Yingnian’s lap, all clingy. Glancing back from Nong Siqing, her hand brushed the girl’s soft locks—and something struck her. Her heart jolted hard.
It took ages to settle.
Ten or so minutes later, Zhong Jia emerged from the lounge. Xie Yingnian waited at the door. Their eyes met. The one slouched lazily against the wall had no time to straighten up before strong arms pulled her into a full embrace.
Xie Yingnian wore a pair of plain glasses, the dangling silver chains from the temples hooked behind her ears. She lifted her arms and, through her milk-tea-colored trench coat, embraced Zhong Jia. Her palms gently stroked the slender back up and down.
At this moment, she was not only Xie Yingnian but also Ruan Ting. Zhong Jia was too deeply immersed and hadn’t fully emerged from her role. She was channeling all the emotions that had nowhere else to pour out or vent.
A Cha coughed lightly and slipped away in a flash. Though she inwardly judged that these two hadn’t made much progress, countless bullet comments still flashed before her eyes—like Jujiu’s CP-fan commentary buzzing in her ear, the kind that obsessed over pairings like breeding pets.
Wrap had been called a while ago, and the noisy chatter echoed from another floor. In this secluded hallway with the window cracked for fresh air, cold winds blew freely. Even their breaths formed thin wisps of white mist at their lips.
The collar of Xie Yingnian’s deep gray, long suit jacket was left wrinkled and rumpled from Zhong Jia rubbing her head against it. Zhong Jia clung to the lingering shadow of Ruan Ting on Xie Yingnian’s body. Yet in the other’s silence—so at odds with the character—she caught the scent of wild jasmine.
Zhong Jia reached back, grasped one of Xie Yingnian’s wrists, and pulled it forward. With her other hand, she wrote stroke by stroke on the palm:
“My—candy—where?”
A smile crept into the slightly curved corners of Xie Yingnian’s eyes. She feigned confusion and asked, “Didn’t I already give it to you?”
“Where?”
“On WeChat.”
Zhong Jia’s eyes widened. She looked up, ready to lecture her unromantic girlfriend, but a hand gently pinched her chin. Xie Yingnian’s glasses chain brushed past the stray hairs by her ear as she took control, pressing a dense, lingering kiss to those pretty, rosy lips.
Zhong Jia’s bewildered hand was turned palm-up. Xie Yingnian used her now-free hand to write the real answer: Did you eat the candy?
The words were swallowed by Xie Yingnian’s deep kiss. When Zhong Jia parted her lips, only muffled syllables escaped—her breathing ragged and uneven.
Compared to any ordinary reply, this loss of control was far more pleasing.
The most hidden crease in Xie Yingnian’s heart—the tiniest, most secretive fold—was teased open by the girl’s rapid breaths at her ear. It revealed a cramped, shadowy corner…
The hand pinching her chin tightened unconsciously. Zhong Jia endured the ache, accepting this rare initiative amid the discomfort. She recalled that night of the confession, when Xie Yingnian had inexplicably nibbled at her.
Zhong Jia kept her eyes open. Xie Yingnian’s gaze was devoid of emotion, dark and fathomless. Then the phone’s shrill ringtone pierced their eardrums, finally shattering the chilling invasiveness that had chilled Zhong Jia to the bone.
