Out of politeness, Wen Zhixu didn’t rush to reply to Ke Yixuan’s message. Replying and then going silent midway would make her feel impolite too.
The hotpot fish restaurant in Chongqing carried a spicy aroma that made one’s taste buds involuntarily secrete saliva. Wen Zhixu sat upright, watching the server ladle the oily broth into her bowl.
There were no dried chili peppers in the soup. Her stomach had been better lately, but she still couldn’t eat too much. Jian Shichu had ordered pickled cabbage hotpot fish, and the restaurant made it mild.
As usual, Jian Shichu stuck a straw into her drink, pushed it toward Wen Zhixu, and she stared blankly at the beverage sliding across the table, causing her chopsticks to fail to pick up the food in her bowl.
The piece of fish dropped back into the bowl, splashing some oily broth onto her chest. Oil spots stained Jian Shichu’s white shirt.
Wen Zhixu looked down at her chest, and Jian Shichu’s gaze stuck there too, her eyes seeming to ask, ‘What now?’
“I’ll wash it clean and give it back to you later.”
Jian Shichu replied easily, “Sure, I’ll pick it up at your place.” She turned her head and picked up a piece of fish from the pot.
Wen Zhixu didn’t know how to respond to Jian Shichu properly. After a long pause, she finally let out a soft “mm.” Her response carried a hint of perfunctoriness, but Jian Shichu seemed not to hear it, diligently picking out the fish bones.
Many habits couldn’t change in an instant. Habits that didn’t grow were a bit like the polar regions bathed in constant sunlight—beautifully brilliant, yet unable to change the fact that sunset always lingered in one direction.
Wen Zhixu withdrew her gaze. The culprit in her bowl was still half-lying there. Just as her chopsticks touched it, another pair of chopsticks suddenly appeared in her line of sight.
Jian Shichu placed the deboned fish into her bowl. “Try it.”
Wen Zhixu hesitated to speak, her emotions complex, like an iron chain mercilessly binding her heart—any slight movement would make it ache so much she couldn’t breathe.
“You’re acting strange today,” Wen Zhixu said faintly, lowering her head to eat from her bowl.
Jian Shichu looked at her, a smile tugging at her lips. “Where’s the strangeness?”
Wen Zhixu swallowed the bite. The fish was well-seasoned. The high ratings on the orange app were mostly from repeat customers. Hidden in such a place, it was hard to find, but persisting for so many years had its reasons.
Wen Zhixu replied slowly, “You seem to be in a good mood.”
She ate the fish carefully, her chopsticks picking up small amounts, speaking unhurriedly, just like her personality.
“Not bad. What about you?” Jian Shichu held her chopsticks, propping her chin on her wrist as she watched her, her eyes crinkled in amusement.
Wen Zhixu didn’t reply right away. Instead, she picked the bones from her fish. After removing the last one, she looked at Jian Shichu and said, “I don’t feel much.”
Jian Shichu’s brows twitched slightly as she withdrew her hand and sat up straight, saying nothing. A piece of fish appeared on the plate by her bowl.
“I’ve deboned it. Eat up.” Wen Zhixu’s words fell lightly, her expression still calm as water, undisturbed by anything.
Jian Shichu smiled slowly, then began eating. Outside the restaurant, people were playing drinking games—that was the nightlife of the streets.
Wen Zhixu gradually forgot the unpleasantness from the class reunion amid Jian Shichu’s smile. She wouldn’t take those people to heart.
Halfway through the meal, the phone on the table lit up several times. Jian Shichu noticed but pretended not to.
When WeChat chimed for the fifth time, Wen Zhixu finally picked it up. Zhang Yuan’s message was below Ke Yixuan’s—only one from him.
Apart from apologies, Wen Zhixu didn’t look closely at the rest. Her attention was on Ke Yixuan’s chat.
[Teacher Wen, I have some other ideas about tomorrow’s shoot.]
[I think there’s an issue with the lines; they don’t align much with the original.]
[The script the director just revised—I don’t quite get the character’s psychological changes.]
There were several more messages below, all about the script. Wen Zhixu read to the last one: [Are you free to come to the hotel? I’d like to discuss the script with you.]
It was just past nine, not too late. Ke Yixuan’s sincerity shone through in every message, showing she’d seriously read the original.
Female celebrities had varying personas. The professionalism embodied by Tang Qin had now shifted to Ke Yixuan. Wen Zhixu was stunned for a moment—Wang Yun’s revised script hadn’t been shown to her.
She glanced at Jian Shichu, deciding not to mention it. Her finger tapped the screen, replying ‘Okay’ and asking for the location.
After dinner, Wen Zhixu paid the bill first. Beyond the alley were downhill slopes, and Ke Yixuan quickly sent the location.
She and Jian Shichu parted at the intersection. Jian Shichu had her own matters—a call came in, though Wen Zhixu didn’t hear the details and didn’t ask.
Jian Shichu waited until Wen Zhixu got into a car, then stood under the streetlight and called the number back.
She watched the traffic at the intersection. Before the call connected, she flagged down a taxi. As she got in, a voice came through the receiver.
“Has she been taken to the hospital?” Jian Shichu asked, then looked at the rearview mirror and gave the driver the address.
The other end said, “Called 120. She slipped in the bathroom—the floor was wet and not mopped.”
“I’m on my way. You follow to the hospital. I’ll check what happened when I get there.” Jian Shichu stayed calm.
“Sis, Aunt Wang booked for next Wednesday.”
Jian Shichu thought for a moment and exhaled deeply. “Got it. New dishes launch Thursday.”
Besides the restaurant she rented out for filming, Jian Shichu had a private cuisine spot hidden deep in the hills. She rarely went there—it only took one table a day, with just one private room for dining.
But that was enough. Bookings were usually a week in advance. Jian Shichu didn’t like overly complicated or tiring lives; this was just right.
Wen Zhixu arrived at Ke Yixuan’s hotel close to ten-thirty. She hadn’t expected such a coincidence—the eighth floor, right after leaving the class reunion.
Wen Zhixu stuffed her soiled jacket into her bag. The hotel corridor’s carpet cast light and shadows. She knocked on the door—room 8013 at the end of the hall.
The door opened, and Ke Yixuan’s voice came from inside. “Teacher Wen, sorry to trouble you so late at night.”
Ke Yixuan spoke politely. Accounting for age, she was two years younger than Wen Zhixu. There were no bad rumors about her in the industry, except for early ones about frequent dinners with a certain film and TV exec, plus some orientation gossip.
“No worries.” Wen Zhixu nodded and followed her inside as she made way.
At that moment, Ke Yixuan wore a gray dress and high heels. The bathrobe on the rack was disheveled, but Wen Zhixu didn’t notice.
The hotel curtains were half-drawn, and on the sofa by the half-open window sat clothes and low-calorie snacks.
Ke Yixuan tossed the sofa cushion onto the bed, adding more wrinkles to the sheets.
“Teacher Wen, what would you like to drink?” Ke Yixuan went to the table. “Coconut water or mineral water?” She examined a bottle.
Wen Zhixu said, “Mineral water is fine. Do you have an early shoot tomorrow?” She sat down and rummaged in her bag for the script.
“Eight in the morning,” Ke Yixuan said. “First scene is a group one.”
Seventy percent of Ke Yixuan’s scenes were group shots, same for the other three actors—except Tang Qin, still pushing script changes.
Wen Zhixu took the script Ke Yixuan handed her, checking Wang Yun’s revisions.
During this, Ke Yixuan unscrewed a water bottle and passed it to her. “Has Teacher Wen ever given post-shoot talks on set before?”
Wen Zhixu looked up, taking the water. “No, that’s the director’s job. At most, I talk about the character’s psychological journey.”
The click of Ke Yixuan’s high heels filled the quiet room as she sat on the edge.
“Teacher Wen, the script changes are pretty significant.” Ke Yixuan drew the curtains and sat across from her. “Have you seen it?”
Wen Zhixu closed the script and looked up at her. “Not huge, but the lines fit the character better now.”
Ke Yixuan frowned, leaning in sideways to compare the two scripts. “But after these line changes, I don’t understand the character’s psychology anymore.”
Wen Zhixu said, “It’s indeed the same. I don’t know how to direct acting—that’s not my expertise.”
“No worries, it’s still early.” Ke Yixuan glanced back; the curtains blocked the night sky. She tapped her phone screen twice on the table.
“Teacher Wen, why don’t we just chat about the character.”
Wen Zhixu acknowledged. “What do you want to talk about?”
“Teacher Wen, when you wrote the yuri line in this book, did it have any special meaning?” Ke Yixuan looked seriously at the script.
Wen Zhixu said, “Yes, but it’s not convenient to say. I can tell you the character’s story though.”
Wen Zhixu’s eyes scanned the script. As her words fell, her pocket phone vibrated twice more.
Ke Yixuan smiled faintly—she’d clearly heard it too. “Teacher, reply to your message first.” Her gaze drifted elsewhere.
“It’s fine.” Wen Zhixu didn’t take out her phone. Instead, she flipped through the script, her fingertips translucent in the light, unhurried.
“Fog Condensing on the Window originated as a derivative from my previous book…”
Wen Zhixu began recounting the story. She wouldn’t have come if not for Ke Yixuan’s messages. She didn’t direct acting, but talking about the character could help the actress get into the role.
The room held only Wen Zhixu’s voice. After speaking for a while, she looked up at Ke Yixuan. Ke Yixuan’s attention wasn’t on the script, and her eyes looked off.
“Did I explain it clearly?” Wen Zhixu asked, looking at her.
Ke Yixuan came back to her senses at this moment and nodded. “Mm.”
After Ke Yixuan responded, the room fell into an eerie silence. Their breathing grew heavier and heavier. Wen Zhixu glanced at the notebook on the table. Ke Yixuan didn’t ask anything or say a word.
The light fell on the other’s red lips, accentuating the deathly pale complexion. It made her involuntarily think of the eerie female corpse from horror movies—like fingernails scraping down her back, filling her with fear yet leaving her too scared to move.
“What’s wrong with you?” Wen Zhixu asked.
Unexpectedly, the moment her voice fell, a strange noise suddenly came from the cabinet door. Wen Zhixu’s gaze snapped toward it.
There was someone else in the room!
