Pu Chu had been eliminated, bowing out in the top five without reaching the finals.
Her style was a bit of a thankless one. In the preliminaries, she’d broken through with a cover of a classic anime song. Petite in stature with a doll-like face, she packed a powerful punch, her three soaring high notes going viral across the internet.
Her later song choices followed a similar vein, which ended up limiting her. On one hand, they failed to showcase her full potential; on the other, the audience for anime-style tunes was niche. The professional judges docked her points heavily, leaving them with little more than aesthetic fatigue after the initial wow factor.
Her manager had brought it up countless times, but Pu Chu still struggled to break out of her comfort zone. She just didn’t handle other genres as effortlessly.
In the previous round, encouraged by Zhong Jia, she’d tried a different style. Pu Chu had been convinced she’d bomb it—her post-performance speech came out all jumbled. But the judges’ feedback and audience reactions had been surprisingly positive. Unfortunately, her opponent was just too strong, and she’d lost in the end.
The production team hadn’t called for any returning contestants, and Pu Chu had her own schedule anyway. But after talking it over with her manager, she’d come anyway, wanting to cheer on her new friends.
Zhong Jia was the kind of friend truly worth having. Leaving aside how great a person she was, she didn’t exactly look the part of a bubbly idol type—rather aloof to strangers, even. But she had this incredible way of inspiring positivity in others.
During the pre-countdown preparations backstage, chaos reigned. The stage manager bellowed through a megaphone: someone’s mic was missing, groups one through three get ready, check the props and aerial wire rigs…
“Such a big production—they’re even using aerial rigs?” Pu Chu tuned Zhong Jia’s guitar as she asked casually.
Zhong Jia stared blankly at her phone, tensing up every time the screen lit with a notification. But it was always just an app alert or spam text. Fine, if that person wasn’t coming, whatever—no message at all?
She’d been hoping Xie Yingnian would show. Maybe she was already on her way without saying a word. But as time ticked down, there wasn’t the slightest sign. The surprise seemed to be nothing more than her own wishful thinking.
Whatever. What was the point of nitpicking with someone who was basically an invalid?
Even if she didn’t get romance or know the first thing about flirtation, this was her choice. She was willing to live a plain life with her—scratch that, plain? Forced fun in the basement? The only cabinet in the darkroom stuffed with collars, leashes, even tails. Most folks could only glimpse that sort of thing in some niche erotica.
Pu Chu didn’t get a reply. Seeing Zhong Jia muttering to herself, she asked again and told her not to be nervous.
“Shi Cainran’s not as talented as you. She’s just got the popularity from her days as a net idol, plus her stage presence really wows people. Some fans eat up that vibe—thorny rose, sassing the judges. They call it authentic personality, but it’s just rude.”
“I’m not nervous,” Zhong Jia said.
She kept her head down, gazing at her ethereal white gown, silently mouthing the lyrics to her new song in her mind. Suddenly, she grabbed her phone from the table, tempted to text Xie Yingnian: “You can come a little late, that’s fine.”
It wasn’t part of the finals lineup anyway. After the rankings were announced, she wanted to share her thoughts through this song instead. There was no better way to convey her feelings—she struggled with words, so she’d poured her unwavering devotion note by note into the music, hoping Xie Yingnian would hear it, understand it.
If she didn’t show, it would all be for nothing. She’d scrap the song. Texting across a screen always felt like something was missing. Even zero-distance physical intimacy didn’t guarantee true heart-to-heart connection.
Humans might be advanced animals, but when it came to emotions, they seemed stuck at a primal level. Fierce coupling, overwhelming ecstasy with tears overflowing, bodies marked with bites… Only by reverting to raw animal instincts could they return to basics and feel that intense love.
She knew Xie Yingnian craved security even more than she did, so she spared no effort in proving her steadfast vow from age sixteen, in every way she could.
“Dressed so beautifully—what song are you singing?”
Pu Chu’s ears tingled. That voice had reverb like a pro studio track, a million-dollar timbre, rich and familiar. Where had she heard it?
She turned, coughed, froze in place—neither standing nor sitting quite right, upper body rigid. Hesitantly, she greeted, “Teacher Xie.”
The woman on the stool beside her shot to her feet, accidentally knocking over the setting spray on the makeup table. The round bottle rolled to Xie Yingnian’s feet. She nodded at Pu Chu. “Hello. We met before.”
Ever since their relationship went public, Xie Yingnian had made these surprise visits. She didn’t do much—just quietly kept Zhong Jia company during recordings, curbing her unconscious self-harm like chugging iced milk tea or smoking when uninspired.
Sometimes she’d treat everyone to late-night snacks. She didn’t eat the lobster herself but peeled it like a pro, pulling out plump, perfect tails in no time and piling a full bowl in front of Zhong Jia. It made everyone else feel like their own servings were just dog food.
Seen her? You’d nearly killed me with those death glares!
Pu Chu thought Xie Yingnian’s expression now was that same scary cold one. I’m not eyeing your girlfriend, I swear!
Sensing the vibe, she set down the tuned guitar and slipped away, leaving the lounge to the couple.
“Didn’t you say you weren’t coming?” Zhong Jia tried to feign anger, but stomping her foot just made her laugh instead. The glitter under her eyes sparkled, scattering light into Xie Yingnian’s heart.
As a guest, to avoid stealing the spotlight, Xie Yingnian was dressed simply: a white silk suit over a matching asymmetrical shirt, a narrow decorative tie dangling from the collar, hem loosely tucked into dark blue jeans, black British-style leather shoes, pearl studs in her ears. Refined and appropriate.
She approached Zhong Jia, bracing her long arms on the table edges, trapping her in her embrace. The sudden pressure made Zhong Jia shrink back.
Hitting the table edge, Zhong Jia remembered she was the one in the right. What was there to fear? High heels put her at eye level, boosting her bravado. But those fox-like eyes smiled lazily, as if she had Zhong Jia completely pinned, no hint of proper remorse.
Zhong Jia cupped Xie Yingnian’s face and bit down hard on those maple-red lips. “Liar.”
“Just ask the director—you’d have known. And you fell for it.” Xie Yingnian sighed dramatically. “Silly.”
Her big mouth earned her another bite mark from the fuming girl. She winced with a muffled hum, her slender white swan-neck outlined fragilely by the slanted light. She pinched the triumphant one’s waist, savoring the much louder yelp, then said calmly, “Love biting so much? Next time, wear the tail yourself.”
Zhong Jia’s ears flushed. No more biting—she switched to kissing. Lipstick needed retouching anyway, and it was the only way to shut that annoying mouth.
A lamb to the slaughter—that was her right now.
Xie Yingnian wondered when she’d learn.
Halfway through the deep kiss, Xie Yingnian’s tongue deftly parted Zhong Jia’s teeth. Instinctively, she clutched her shoulders for support, just like so many times before—unaware she was handing over even more control.
Ambiguous sounds escaped her throat, head tilting back, unwittingly offering her even more delicate neck to Xie Yingnian’s lips. A thin black leather choker encircled it, the cutouts revealing skin lightly chafed red against the snowy white beside it—a pristine canvas begging for more color.
A knock sounded at the door. Zhong Jia perched half on the makeup counter, eyes damp with panic. Xie Yingnian smoothed her tousled hair, straightened up, and blocked the view with her body.
A Cha didn’t enter, just rapped a few times. “Tiantian, it’s about time to go on.”
Under Xie Yingnian’s gentle touch, Zhong Jia’s heartbeat steadied. She cleared her throat with a few coughs—but the next second, fingers pressed her neck. Clutching the table edge, flustered, she met Xie Yingnian’s innocently expectant gaze, clearly waiting for her hoarse voice to respond professionally.
Fuming, she kicked out, but Xie Yingnian dodged easily and grabbed her ankle.
Her heel clattered to the floor. Xie Yingnian lifted her foot, palm sliding to the inner thigh, pressure teasing outward. Zhong Jia panicked and retreated, back thumping the smooth mirror. Outside, A Cha called again, thinking no one was there. She hurriedly replied, “Got it—coming right now!”
Her voice came out a bit raspy, sluggish. Maybe a trick of the ear, but A Cha paused before saying, “Okay, see you out there.”
The wicked woman chuckled, finally releasing Zhong Jia’s neck. She circled behind, kindly loosening the choker a notch.
“Thought I was gonna do it here?” Xie Yingnian murmured in her ear with a laugh.
Zhong Jia flinched from the tickle, mumbling timidly, “…You wouldn’t be above it.”
“True.” Xie Yingnian nodded in agreement, glancing at the crooked mirror behind her. “With a mirror right there, anyone would lose control.”
Zhong Jia bit her lip gently and turned her face away, but she could clearly see her own disheveled appearance and flushed cheeks in the full-length mirror across from her. Mortified, she quickly squeezed her damp eyes shut. The motion was too forceful, sending her fan-like lashes trembling violently.
Her breath enveloped her. Even the mere touch of her hand against her neck carried an added hint of intimacy from its lingering slowness. Zhong Jia had no choice but to press her lips together tightly, fighting back the low gasps she could barely control as she struggled to regain some semblance of composure. Her white dress had a low neckline, and her collarbone rose and fell subtly with each breath. A tiny red mole perched there, so delicate amid the thin sheen of sweat that it seemed it might burst at the slightest pinch.
The contestants took the stage first, with the guests following later.
Xie Yingnian was the finale act. Once Zhong Jia had composed herself and left with A Cha, she emerged at a leisurely pace from the dressing room. By then, most people had already made their way to their positions, leaving the hallway eerily quiet. Suddenly, someone called out to her.
“Xie Yingnian.”
Shi Cainran had called her name but fell silent afterward. Her gaze burned into Xie Yingnian’s familiar yet distant back. She waited for a reaction—a glance over the shoulder, a turn, anything to make her linger just a moment longer. Only then could she muster the resolve to say or do what she needed to.
“Is there something you need?” Xie Yingnian asked calmly.
Her shadow stretched long across the floor. Shi Cainran trailed after it, her lavish skirt trailing behind her. The pointed tips of her high heels stepped delicately along the border between the tiles and the shadow, as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to draw closer or flee.
For more than twenty years of their lives, they had been inextricably entwined. Ripping themselves apart had left them both bloodied and raw.
But Xie Yingnian had clearly healed much faster—and far better—than she had.
“I… I want to move back into the apartment,” Shi Cainran said. She was startled by her own instinctive placation, as if their roles had flipped. Now she was the one speaking in a soft, subservient tone.
“Mm. It was bought for you anyway. Just get the keys from Jujiu,” Xie Yingnian replied.
That wasn’t it.
That wasn’t what she wanted.
Back in the old days, she never would have had to swallow her pride and beg like this. Xie Yingnian had been the desperate one, the orphan with no parents, groveling pathetically just to have a place at her adoptive parents’ table and avoid being abandoned again.
A monster like her had always been as lowly as dust. Shi Cainran had already been more than generous—calling her “sis” her whole life, even feeling the sting herself after slapping her. All those buried grudges and hatreds seemed melted away by those years of clinging to each other for survival, tamed into submission. She still hated her deeply, but she knew she couldn’t live without her. Yet her pride wouldn’t let her beg her to stay.
Why should she?
Why was she still trapped in the shadows of the past, suffering endlessly, while Xie Yingnian strode down the complete opposite path?
If she wasn’t doing well, then why should Xie Yingnian get to be happy?
They were meant to rot together forever.
Shi Cainran took an urgent step forward. Her high heel struck the floor with a sharp, startling click. She shouted at the woman who didn’t even turn her head. “Sis—!”
She dug her nails deep into her palm. In her heart, she pleaded: Xie Yingnian, just turn around and look at me. Once is enough. Turn around, and I’ll turn back too.
The tall figure vanished at the end of the hallway. Shi Cainran’s gaze, nearly scorching now, chased after it. In the instant the lights went out, darkness swallowed everything. She couldn’t find that guiding light anymore—or the way out.
Shi Heng couldn’t sit still in the front-row agent seats. He clutched an e-cigarette and wandered over to chat with the director. With others around, he avoided prying too much into the competition details. Instead, they talked about wives and kids, then various tutoring classes. Compared to the young folks behind them geeking out over anime and games, he felt positively ancient.
The guests made their brief appearances one by one. Next came the finalists’ medley performances. Shi Heng stood up. “I’m heading out. Gonna check on my girl.”
“Director Yu, why’d you decide to use the aerial wire rig for this song? Seems unnecessary…”
Shi Heng remembered why he’d come over in the first place. Since someone had asked, he perked up his ears. The director gave a helpless chuckle. “The original plan got shot down. The investors wanted this, and I don’t get the final say on everything.”
Investors?
There were plenty of investors out there. Which one had such tacky taste, insisting on hoisting a ballad up to the clouds amid swirling smoke?
Shi Heng grumbled inwardly as he returned to his seat. It was a live broadcast, with a packed audience and plenty of heavy-hitter guests’ fans in the crowd, all buzzing with chatter.
The live chat was full of praise for Zhong Jia’s white dress. She usually rocked a cooler, edgier casual style, but she looked stunning as a fairy too—like Qiao Yingqiu descending in her snow-white feathered robe from that one movie.
The accident happened without warning. Those farther away were still lost in the beautiful melody, humming along softly, when a loud thud jolted them. Pandemonium erupted, like dumping dumplings into boiling oil.
Shi Heng’s legs went half-numb from the shock. Before he could react, a figure darted past—Xie Yingnian shoving through the crowd and charging straight for the stage. Her suit jacket flapped wildly as she ran. A small square box slipped from her pocket and clattered to the floor. Inside lay a ring, nestled on vibrant red velvet lining.
Zhong Jia lay unconscious on the ground, surrounded by staff. Blood seeped steadily from the back of her head.
It was a ghastly sight.
“Holy crap, did the wire snap?”
“Why does Qinggua always get hit with this stuff? Last time it was that outdoor variety show…”
“Is Zhong Jia okay? That height’s like two stories…”
