Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 55

Ran Lin stared blankly at Lu Yiyao. From the moment he said “you,” Ran Lin could no longer hear any background noise. It was as if the world suddenly quieted down, leaving only Lu Yiyao’s voice.

People like to be praised.

Had this been in the past, such praise would have set off fireworks in Ran Lin’s heart. But now, he didn’t want to ask further or hear more from Lu Yiyao. The sweet words felt like termites gnawing away at the fortress he had painstakingly built in his heart—he didn’t have an iron wall; just a wooden one, and if not halted promptly, it would eventually be gnawed to ruins.

“There’s something I don’t understand.” Ran Lin lifted his eyes, avoiding Lu Yiyao’s gaze and focusing on the military emblem above his hat brim. “Even if Han Ze dislikes me, he doesn’t need to demean himself by acting in a drama full of newcomers, does he?”

Lu Yiyao, who was immersed in the emotional atmosphere he had just created, was abruptly interrupted and momentarily stunned.

As he tried to answer and naturally sought Ran Lin’s eyes, he found they wouldn’t meet his. Finally, Ran Lin turned to grab a glass of wine, raising it towards Peng Jingyu in a gesture.

Peng Jingyu, not one to refuse, put down his empty glass and picked up a new one. Ran Lin naturally leaned over to clink glasses with him, then politely smiled before turning back and sitting upright, asking Lu Yiyao, “What do you think?”

His question was still about the motive behind Han Ze’s competition for resources, but with this interruption, the previously superfluous Peng Jingyu was brought back into the conversation, and the atmosphere of private conversation between two was completely gone, replaced by a trio engaged in open chat.

Lu Yiyao felt a bit disappointed. Peng Jingyu, on the other hand, felt more at ease and, without waiting for Lu Yiyao to speak, began to interject, “This matter isn’t as complicated as you think. Both of you are from the same company. There’s competition for resources, and your image and positioning are similar. If not this drama, it would have been another. Maybe he just dislikes you. There are plenty of people who do harm for no benefit.”

Lu Yiyao looked at Peng Jingyu with annoyance, suddenly feeling the only reason Peng Jingyu and Huo Yuntao weren’t friends was likely that Huo Yuntao spent most of his time abroad; otherwise, given their talkative nature, they would instantly become fast friends.

Peng Jingyu felt slighted, recognizing the disdain in Lu Yiyao’s gaze. He was all too familiar with it—his own brothers often looked at him with the same sentiment. But he could accept it from his brothers, not from a younger artist.

“Indeed, there are people who do harm without benefit, but those who harm others for their own benefit are more common,” Lu Yiyao dismissively said before diving into his phone for information.

Ran Lin knew Lu Yiyao never spoke irresponsibly, especially when offering advice. He would gather a whole book of evidence to support his point, so when Lu Yiyao began searching on his phone, Ran Lin waited patiently beside him, knowing he would come up with something substantial.

Peng Jingyu, observing the two, one focused and the other patient, grew curious. He had thought about leaving the somewhat awkward conversation, but now he decided to stay, sipping his drink, waiting for Lu Yiyao’s insight.

Lu Yiyao’s search wasn’t too complicated. He was looking up information about Han Ze, mainly recent works, what had been shot and aired, what was ready to air, and what was shot but had no broadcast platform yet. After a quick search, he had a rough idea.

“Han Ze shot two TV dramas the year before last, both supposed to air last year.” Lu Yiyao showed the phone screen to Ran Lin. “But one has been delayed and hasn’t aired yet, and the other aired on a local channel without making a splash. Last year, he only shot one TV drama and one web series. The web series is airing now but is doing poorly in both reviews and views, and the TV drama is still in post-production, scheduled to air this year. But from the cast and plot summary, it seems mediocre at best, unlikely to stand out…”

Ran Lin seemed to grasp the implication. “You mean Han Ze is on a downward trend?”

“Exactly,” Lu Yiyao confirmed. “His current fame is based on past achievements. If an artist continues without work or good work, it’s hard for financiers to regain confidence in them, leading to fewer opportunities, and it’s even harder to pick a good one from diminishing options. It’s a vicious cycle, one reason why once artists flop, it’s hard for them to come back.”

“So he needs to maintain his visibility.” Ran Lin put himself in Han Ze’s shoes, understanding the dilemma. “Because in this industry, there’s never a shortage of people, only resources. Investors have a wide range of choices, and if they don’t see you in their scope, you’re quickly forgotten.”

“But is it worth it to take a step down and play a lead among newcomers?” Ran Lin questioned the value of such a choice.

“It’s a personal decision.” Lu Yiyao turned off his phone, his gaze deep and thoughtful beneath his cap’s brim. “If I were his manager, I’d advise him to wait. An artist’s image can’t withstand overspending. Once associated with bad productions or mediocrity, it becomes harder to impress audiences later, and you might miss truly good opportunities in the meantime.”

“But you can’t be sure there will be good opportunities later.” Ran Lin’s brow furrowed in empathy with Han Ze’s predicament. “Isn’t it a risk either way, potentially missing out on everything?”

Lu Yiyao shook his head. “Even on a downward trend, with Han Ze’s status and popularity, there will always be opportunities. It’s better to wait for something better than jumping at <Chronicles of Winter>.”

Ran Lin felt almost persuaded, or rather, already was. While the logic was sound, not everyone has the confidence or foundation to wait. The ever-changing entertainment industry often leads to panic among those within it.

“What I can’t understand is why Wang Xi, his manager, didn’t dissuade him but instead helped him fight for it,” Lu Yiyao mused. “I can think of this. Wang Xi certainly can too.”

Ran Lin was momentarily surprised, momentarily forgetting his termite-and-wooden-fortress analogy. He looked up and met Lu Yiyao’s gaze, saying, “I find it strange too. If Xi Jie initially intended for Han Ze to take the role, there was no need to involve me at all, causing discomfort all around. The only explanation is that Xi Jie was fighting for this role for me from the beginning, and Han Ze intervened later. But knowing her, she’s not one to be easily swayed by others, so I assumed she simply preferred Han Ze. However, if she could analyze the pros and cons as you say, then she should have advised Han Ze for his own good rather than helping him.”

Lu Yiyao could only shrug in speculation. “Perhaps Han Ze was insistent. Artists often lack a sense of security.”

Ran Lin shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense. Xi Jie is a very assertive person, and it’s hard to shake her from her decisions, even for Han Ze…”

He stopped mid-sentence as past memories surged up like salmon swimming upstream, each vying to leap out of his stream of consciousness.

Various emotions flickered across Ran Lin’s face under his neat student cap. He frowned, squinted, and pursed his lips, his curiosity so palpable that Lu Yiyao wished he could buy a ticket to explore Ran Lin’s mind, even if it meant getting scalped ones.

Finally, Ran Lin spoke again, but it was about something seemingly unrelated. “Do you remember Wang Xi buying a pair of couple’s watches in Dubai?”

Lu Yiyao rubbed his nose, feigning deep thought while actually recalling nothing. He barely remembered 90% of that Dubai trip, aside from struggling to buy gifts for his mother and sister. The only other thing he remembered was the mid-note of the perfume Ran Lin wore.

The scent was light and fresh, and when he smelled it with his eyes closed, he could see blue skies and grassy fields.

“Teacher Lu?” Ran Lin waved his hand in front of Lu Yiyao’s face, not wanting to explore where his thoughts had wandered so far off. “If you don’t remember, just say so. Your silence is making me feel a bit awkward as I’m about to continue.”

Lu Yiyao blinked, pulling his thoughts back from the clouds and into the American-style living room, nodding cooperatively. “Mm. What’s the issue with those watches?”

Daydreaming didn’t affect Lu Yiyao’s ability to keep up with the conversation, a unique skill of his. Ran Lin rolled his eyes in mild exasperation but continued, “Wang Xi has always worn the female watch from that pair, but I’ve never seen her boyfriend, nor does anyone in the company know who he is. More importantly, with her workload, she hardly has time for a relationship. She’s either busy with my affairs or following Han Ze…”

Lu Yiyao’s expression turned incredulous, his mouth slightly open. After a long pause, he ventured, “You’re not suddenly suggesting a bold hypothesis…”

Ran Lin looked steadily at Lu Yiyao’s meticulously fastened military collar, his gaze as calm as dead water. “Indeed, Commander Lu.”

Lu Yiyao playfully patted Ran Lin’s head, unable to ruffle his hair through the cap and resorting to a light tap instead, like picking out a watermelon. “Things are too tumultuous. Maybe you should go back to school instead.”

Ran Lin brushed Lu Yiyao’s hand away, seriously replying, “I’m not joking. Though I’ve never seen Han Ze wear the other watch, this theory makes sense. Even the most assertive women can struggle to maintain their stance when facing their own lovers.”

Lu Yiyao held his forehead in disbelief. “Have you considered the twenty-year age gap between them?”

Ran Lin immediately shook his head. “Fifteen years.”

Lu Yiyao dropped his hand, blinking seriously. “That seems more plausible.”

Ran Lin spread his hands in agreement. “Right…”

Startled by the sudden roar, Lu Yiyao and Ran Lin jerked in unison, turning to see that the previously solitary armchair around Peng Jingyu was now surrounded by people—some sitting on the armrests, some on the wool carpet, and some even squeezed into the same chair as Peng Jingyu. It was a full house.

The sight of the portly, dark erhu musician squeezed next to the pale, Qing gang young master was picturesque enough, but it didn’t end there. A slick-haired actor sat next to an underground worker, their vivid suits and tattered outfits looking as if one of them had been photoshopped into the scene. And then there were the others, including a Beijing opera singer and a young business scion, among others—all gazing with the wide-eyed curiosity of children, their faces full of the eager anticipation of an audience gathered under a bridge to hear a story.

“When did you all come over…” Lu Yiyao felt his collar tighten, almost tempted to unbutton it like Peng Jingyu, but resisted, as that wouldn’t be fitting for his image.

“Since you started looking up Han Ze on your phone.” Xia Xinran smoothed his suit, helpfully clarifying for his friend.

Ran Lin was dumbfounded, realizing they had basically witnessed the entire conversation, wondering how he could have missed such a large audience!

“You two were so engrossed, like you had your own private noise-canceling bubble,” Tan Ying exclaimed, his wide eyes making him an unforgettable character, ill-suited for an underground worker.

“What do you know? It’s like being in a play,” Su Mu interjected with a depth that didn’t match his slick appearance. “When the spotlight hits the stage, it becomes the entire world. A good actor doesn’t think about the audience in the dark, only focusing on the stage—the counterpart, life as the play.”

As Su Mu elegantly sipped his drink, embodying a certain old-world charm, Yuan Yiqun couldn’t resist snatching the glass from his hand, downing it in one go, then looking around, asking, “Where were we?”

Pan Dapan and Peng Jingyu chorused, “Fifteen years apart.”

“Right,” Bi Ye added with a gentle, clear voice. “You suspect something unclear between your manager and the First Brother of your company, who are fifteen years apart.”

Before Ran Lin or Lu Yiyao could respond, Xia Xinran reassured, “Don’t worry, they’re just producing gossip, not spreading it.”

Ran Lin was both amused and exasperated, realizing there were no secrets in this crowd, but trusting Xia Xinran’s assurance that they would keep it to themselves. And he had to trust, for once words are out, there’s no taking them back.

“Don’t worry about us, you guys continue,” Tan Ying encouraged when he saw that the two were still not speaking.

Ran Lin couldn’t laugh or cry. “There’s nothing more to continue. That’s it, and it’s all just speculation. I don’t have any solid proof.”

“To be able to discuss to this extent, I’m really impressed with you two. It’s like a discussion between peers, turning into a level of a detective drama,” Pan Dapan expressed his admiration.

Peng Jingyu listened the longest and the most attentively. He wasn’t interested in what Wang Xi or Han Ze had to say; what surprised him was Lu Yiyao. When this person discussed various “I think,” “I feel,” “I believe” moments, his tone and demeanor were particularly like his two older brothers, and his insights were very clear, not like a male celebrity, but more like a professional who deeply understands the industry.

Peng Jingyu didn’t look down on celebrities, but everyone has their expertise. Thus, artists usually focus more on their work and appearances. This is why they need a management team, as most don’t have the mental capacity or interest to delve into the industry’s rules.

So when he was first asked for his opinion, he simply spoke off the cuff, not thinking too deeply. It was only when Lu Yiyao began to analyze for Ran Lin that he understood the meaning behind “that disdainful look.”

He understood everything Lu Yiyao said, but he had no desire to tax his brain cells for Ran Lin.

If it’s no trouble, then it’s no trouble. Still, he wanted to interject and be disliked for it, not feeling wronged in the slightest.

No one noticed that Young Master Peng was reflecting on himself. Everyone was eagerly expressing their views on the “older woman, younger man romance speculation,” engrossed in their discussion.

But in the end, it was just speculation. No one could definitively say whether it was a romance or not.

Someone started discussing other gossip later, not avoiding others’ ears nor minding being overheard. Thus, Ran Lin inadvertently gathered a basketful of information that paparazzi would die for, feeling the regret of attending this party—unable to speak, only listen, like a choked Pixiu.

After some time, when people got tired of chatting, they gathered around the sofa, leaning and lying down, with people on the sofa, on the armrest, on the carpet, and some even brought over bar chairs. The group’s high and low positions were scattered but orderly, and a string instrument brought them back to old times.

Pan Dapan sat on a chair he had pulled over, which was originally next to the dining table, with a dark brown, solid wood back engraved with hollow patterns, making it look like someone had invited a traveling artist to a wealthy family’s home. Thus, the dusty figure with his instrument seemed out of place.

Yet, the sound of his erhu was soul-stirring.

In his memory, the erhu was always sorrowful and poignant, tugging at one’s heartstrings, but the piece Pan Dapan played was vigorous and powerful. Ran Lin never knew that listening to the erhu could be so exhilarating.

After the piece ended, the living room fell silent, but the echoes lingered for a long time.

Pan Dapan looked at Bi Ye, somewhat provocatively. Bi Ye calmly responded, “<Listening to the Pines>.”

Ran Lin quietly searched on his phone and discovered it was a piece by Abing, the composer of <Reflection of the Moon on Erquan>, said to have first been performed during the Anti-Japanese War, fitting the Republic of China theme of the day.

Pan Dapan was slightly disappointed at not stumping Bi Ye but was undeterred. He set down his bow and raised his chin. “Let’s hear you play something.”

Bi Ye didn’t refuse and stood up. Although he was dressed as a famous actor, he was in a simple long robe without makeup. Still, as soon as he posed, his eyes sparkled, and he exuded charm.

“Suddenly realizing that all the vibrant colors of flowers~~ have all turned to decayed walls and broken wells~~ What a beautiful day, what a pity it is~~ Pleasures of the heart, whose courtyard will they grace~~ Morning flight and evening curl~~ Clouds and mist in the emerald tower~~ Rain strands and wind fragments, a painted boat in the waves~~ People by the brocade screen hardly notice how cheap this beautiful time is…”

“<Peony Pavilion>,” Lu Yiyao whispered to Ran Lin.

Caught off guard, Ran Lin’s ears heated up.

It took him a while to recover, glancing at Lu Yiyao from the corner of his eye. The man was still seriously listening, nodding his head occasionally, a knowledgeable demeanor.

But Ran Lin felt there was something odd about Lu Yiyao today, though he couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

He must have seen Ran Lin’s confusion in telling him the title of the play.

Unfortunately, knowing the name didn’t help Ran Lin understand what Bi Ye was singing. But his ignorance didn’t stop him from enjoying it. Bi Ye sang with great charm, the kind that didn’t require understanding the background or knowing the title—purely enjoyable on a sensory level.

What started as a contest between Bi Ye and Pan Dapan somehow turned into a talent show of the Republic of China era.

Peng Jingyu supported his head with one hand, watching Su Mu sing <Tuberose> doubting his choice of friends.

But he liked these eccentrics—a breath of fresh air in a world filled with pretense and politeness, no matter how strangely they flowed.

Watching Ran Lin and Lu Yiyao whisper occasionally, Peng Jingyu couldn’t help but feel mischievous, thinking it would be a shame not to play a prank after feeling ignored, disliked, and weirdly tormented.

As Su Mu’s lingering song ended, time seemed to have been brought back to the nightclubs of old Shanghai. Yuan Yiqun was urging Pan Dapan for another piece, <Zhaojun Chu Sai>, when Peng Jingyu suddenly spoke up. “Ran Lin.”

Still immersed in the melody of “I love this boundless night,” Ran Lin looked up bewilderedly. “Hm?”

Peng Jingyu leaned forward, resting his arm on the sofa armrest, but his voice was clear to the whole room. “Why don’t you give us a performance?”

Ran Lin was confused. “A performance of what?”

Peng Jingyu grinned mischievously. “Anything, wind, strings, sing, or dance, or even a fast-paced talk—but it has to be something from the Republic of China era to fit our party theme.”

Ran Lin was bewildered.

The onlookers became excited, and Yuan Yiqun stopped pestering Pan Dapan, looking forward to the “newbie’s” performance—compared to the “old hands”, Ran Lin was certainly fresher.

Facing so many expectant eyes, Ran Lin felt trapped.

The atmosphere was just right, and everyone was having fun. If he said no, it would really dampen the spirits… But no one said anything about preparing a talent, especially one from the Republic of China era. How much more difficult could it be!

Lu Yiyao knew these people meant no harm and were just overly excited, but he still disliked seeing Ran Lin’s helpless look, and frowned, “I…”

“This is a ditch of despairing dead water…”

Ran Lin’s clear voice interrupted Lu Yiyao’s words and dispelled the lingering ambiguity of <Tuberose>. Suddenly, his articulate recitation pulled the entire space from the peaceful world of Shanghai’s grandeurs to the old society riddled with warlord strife and rampant imperialism.

“… A gentle breeze can’t stir a ripple here, it’s better to throw in some broken copper and iron, boldly splash your leftover soup and dishes.”

“Perhaps the copper will turn green like jade, rust on the iron cans bloom into peach flowers, let the grease weave a layer of fine silk, and mold steam up some clouds and mists.”

“Let the dead water ferment into a ditch of green liquor, floating with pearls-like froth, the laughter of the small bubbles turning into larger ones, only to be burst by mosquitoes stealing a drink.”

“Then such a ditch of despairing dead water can boast a bit of vibrancy, if a frog can’t stand the loneliness, it’s as if the dead water has sung out.”

“This is a ditch of despairing dead water, this place is not where beauty lies, better to leave it to the ugly to cultivate, to see what world they can create!”

Ran Lin recited earnestly, with focus.

No one laughed, instead becoming entranced.

Lu Yiyao suddenly remembered Su Mu’s metaphor: when the spotlight shines, everything else is in darkness except oneself and the stage. Ran Lin was now on stage, shining under everyone’s gaze.

Then someone clapped.

No, it was applause.

“Wen Yiduo’s <Dead Water>.” Su Mu lowered his hand and looked at Peng Jingyu. “Do you want to return with a piece?”

Peng Jingyu froze, still defiant. “What is there to return?”

Bi Ye said leisurely, “You asked someone else to perform, and they complied. Shouldn’t you reciprocate?”

Peng Jingyu was embarrassed, not sure whose side these bastards were on!

“Forget it. Let’s not force him,” Tan Ying intervened. “He’s just capable of listening to the faint sounds, not reaching the heights of anti-feudalism and anti-imperialism.” Then, suddenly turning to Ran Lin, his eyes bright and earnest. “Why don’t you join me as an underground worker? I think you have the integrity and potential!”

Ran Lin didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; his recitation’s brewing momentum was now gone like smoke.

Su Mu, who had just finished singing <Tuberose>, was displeased. “Who are you calling faint sounds?”

Before Tan Ying and he could argue, Xia Xinran had already stepped forward, nudging Lu Yiyao aside and wrapping an arm around Ran Lin’s neck, laughing. “They’re all crazy, but they’re good people.”

All the friends, whether watching the spectacle or involved in the argument, instantly paused.

Half a second later, everyone burst out—

“The one reciting poetry at a party is the real crazy one!!!”

Lu Yiyao was the first to laugh out loud.

Now he was just a spectator, fully enjoying the show.

After the collective teasing, the handsome men of the Republic of China era laughed together in a disorderly bunch…

Click.

The sensitivity to the sound of a camera’s shutter is almost a shared trait among all artists. In an instant, the laughter stopped abruptly.

Everyone’s first reaction was to turn their heads sharply, looking in one direction—Tian Mai.

Tian Mai, holding an old camera and wearing a checkered cap, looked innocent. “I’m a tabloid journalist.”

All the male gods slowly rose, advancing towards him step by step. “Even the paparazzi of the Republic of China are paparazzi, unforgivable…”

Ran Lin and Lu Yiyao sat at a distance, leisurely watching the scene.

Tian Mai was almost instantly overwhelmed, managing only to howl—

“I damn well didn’t turn in my paper yet!!!”

Lu Yiyao couldn’t help but chuckle, whispering, “Xia Xinran wasn’t wrong. They are a bunch of crazies.”

Ran Lin looked at them with a bit of envy. “But they’re cute. It’s not easy to have friends like this in the circle.”

“It’s not easy indeed, and you even have to perform.” Lu Yiyao laughed. “If it were me, I would have probably killed the mood.”

Ran Lin was both relieved and a bit proud. “Luckily, I was there. I’ve been practicing recitation lately, and several of the poems I’ve chosen are from the Republic of China era. If one wasn’t enough, I could have recited a few more.”

Lu Yiyao was about to ask why he was practicing this when he suddenly remembered the critical scene in <Sword of Fallen Flowers> when Zhong Jiakun seemed to have mentioned something about recitation to Ran Lin, though he didn’t remember clearly…

“I really have to thank Teacher Zhong. If he hadn’t suggested I use recitation to practice my lines, I might really have had to sing <Night in Shanghai>.” Ran Lin felt the situation was both coincidental and lucky.

As Lu Yiyao’s fragmented memory pieced together, he felt even more surprised. “He just mentioned it, and you took his advice and practiced?”

Ran Lin frowned slightly, not too pleased. “What do you mean ‘just mentioned’? When a teacher who has acted all his life is willing to give you advice, it’s something people beg for.”

Lu Yiyao looked at him for a long while and then nodded, admitting he was right.

In his heart, he felt it wasn’t just luck with Ran Lin; it was that he was more hardworking than many.

Ran Lin felt uncomfortable under Lu Yiyao’s gaze and turned away to look at the group of friends.

The handsome men of the Republic of China era were now chasing and playing near the staircase, a chaotic bunch, hard to distinguish one from another.

Lu Yiyao followed his gaze, then said softly, “Don’t envy them. We too have a deep connection.”

Ran Lin glanced at Lu Yiyao, relieved to see he wasn’t staring too intently, but he didn’t continue the conversation.

The truth was, they couldn’t go back to being completely carefree with each other. They could still be friends, but not like the carefree group at the staircase. But he couldn’t voice this; it would only spoil the mood and add to the awkwardness.

He thought Lu Yiyao would press him on why he wasn’t speaking, but instead, he asked a different question. “If you liked me back then and I liked you too, what would we be like now?”

Ran Lin’s breath hitched, his first instinct was to turn and look at Lu Yiyao with wide eyes.

He knew he shouldn’t, but he couldn’t help it; if this were a play, he would scour the script for clues. This kind of spoiler-free “deep conversation” was scarier than a horror movie.

Compared to Ran Lin’s shocked face, Lu Yiyao was calm, lightly smiling. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m just hypothesizing. You can treat it like an academic question.”

Ran Lin, pushed to his limits, retorted, “I’m the person involved, okay? I can’t even confide in a tree hollow without losing face, and you want me to discuss it like an academic question now?! You really think I can just turn the page and…”

A flicker of hope suddenly passed through Lu Yiyao’s eyes.

Unaware, Ran Lin swallowed hard, continuing with difficulty, “Turning the page… Of course, it’s turned, but it’s not something joyous. I really don’t want to bring it up again for discussion. If you consider me a friend, this matter…”

“I’m asking because I consider you a friend.” Lu Yiyao interrupted, his gaze intently fixed on Ran Lin’s face, with unprecedented seriousness. “No matter who you like, even if it’s not me, you will meet someone else in the future. If it happens that the feelings are mutual, what do you plan to do then?”

Ran Lin was startled by his seriousness and reflexively said, “Then I’ll be with them.”

Lu Yiyao glanced at the staircase, where the noisy crowd had dispersed, most following Pan Dapan to the bar, leaving a few scattered here and there, some standing by the window in a daze, others sitting on the stairs chatting.

Withdrawing his gaze, Lu Yiyao’s voice was deep and slow. “If both of you are artists, have you thought about the future?”

Ran Lin paused, surprised that Lu Yiyao was seriously discussing this with him, and instinctively became more earnest, distancing himself from petty romances to think objectively.

After a while, he heard himself say, “If that person is willing to risk ruining their career to be with me, then I’m not afraid of anything.”

Lu Yiyao’s heartbeat quickened, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. “What about your own career? You love acting so much, aren’t you afraid of it being destroyed overnight?”

“So many things can ruin an actor: rumors, scandals, accidents, even disputes with the agency. Any one of these could end me. But even if I’m not an actor, I still have my life to live.” Ran Lin gave a bitter smile; his voice lowered almost to a whisper. “I was born liking men, and that’s something I can’t change. The so-called ‘right person’ one meets in a lifetime is actually quite limited. No one is obliged to wait for you, and I’m afraid of hesitating and missing out.”

Lu Yiyao fell silent, his face calm, but his eyes seemed to be swirling with many thoughts.

“Of course.” Ran Lin shook off the heavy mood, trying to show a relaxed smile and look spirited. “It’s best not to be discovered. So, if there really comes a day you mentioned, I’ll be fully alert, becoming a 360° impenetrable underground worker.”

Finally, Lu Yiyao relaxed, his shoulders slumping. “Easier said than done. You think the paparazzi are vegetarians.”

The heavy and solemn atmosphere vanished, and Ran Lin raised an eyebrow. “I’m not vegetarian either!”

Lu Yiyao smiled. “May I ask, what did non-vegetarian Classmate Ran do yesterday?”

Knowing yesterday was Valentine’s Day, Ran Lin immediately replied, “Stayed home all day, scandal-proof, completely safe.”

Lu Yiyao nodded, reached out to straighten Ran Lin’s hat, and adjusted his uniform, making sure he looked neat and tidy from head to toe, then finally, contentedly spoke—

“Next year, on the same day, can I spend it with you?”

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Kinky Thoughts:

Fuck me, Lu Yiyao is not putting on any brakes.

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