Because of this sudden incident, Unit C paused filming.

Well, “paused” wasn’t quite accurate—since this scene had already been shot once before, and the director had been fairly satisfied. The second take was mainly to get the best possible version, but given what had just happened, “the best version” clearly wasn’t happening tonight.

Cheng Yuzhi didn’t push for it either. Besides, how serious this whole incident really was—aside from Liang Yan and Liang Xumo themselves—he was probably the only one who fully understood.

“Uncle Cheng, what happened?” Xu Lu arrived late, having heard plenty of chatter along the way, everyone with their own version, no one quite sure of the actual cause.

Cheng Yuzhi turned at the sound and glanced toward the break room. That small room glowed faintly in the night; a gust of wind blew past, and the light flickered as if about to go out.

He looked over for a good while before calmly withdrawing his gaze. “Who knows. Bunch of young people, always making a fuss over something.”

Xu Lu, genuinely believing this was just some youthful romantic squabble, lost interest and instead asked about today’s progress.

The progress was decent enough.

At this pace, in less than half a month, the production would wrap.

Four months, over a hundred days.

This group of people, cooped up together in this film city, had built out an entire era.

“Uncle Cheng, Qiao Qi…” Xu Lu asked hesitantly, “What do you think of her?”

Cheng Yuzhi paused, pulled a cigarette from his pocket and put it between his lips. The flame flickered in his somewhat clouded eyes; he exhaled smoke, and the wind scattered it into the air.

He gave a small laugh, then slowly sat down on the nearby rest chair, tilting his head back, smiling at Xu Lu. “Kid, before you ask what I think of her, you should first figure out what you want from her.”

Xu Lu froze.

Cheng Yuzhi didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. He slowly took another drag of the cigarette, exhaling a thick cloud of white smoke; through that veil, the night looked even hazier and more indistinct.

He raised a somewhat aged hand and waved it lightly, saying something meaningfully vague: “She’s quite something. But for you, she might be a bit too much.”

After Xu Lu left, Cheng Yuzhi lay rocking on the chair, when a graceful figure caught his peripheral vision. He called out, “Qiao Qi.”

Qiao Qi had no assistant, unlike other actors who, after getting rained on or dirtied during filming, would immediately have someone hand them dry clothes and towels. She was now soaked through and would have to go change on her own.

Except she felt the scrape on her back might be fairly serious, so she wanted to head to the medical station first to find some ointment.

She herself had no need to be so delicate about it—normally she’d just splash some alcohol on it and call it done.

But right now she was Cheng Yanyun, and some things couldn’t be handled too carelessly.

Hearing Cheng Yuzhi’s voice, Qiao Qi was a bit surprised.

There weren’t many people left on set now—everyone was either off whispering in groups or busy with their own things.

Why was Director Cheng still lingering here?

“Director Cheng.” Qiao Qi walked over, her movements a bit stiff. She didn’t sit down, just stood nearby, and didn’t ask why he’d called her over.

Cheng Yuzhi didn’t get up either, just lay back comfortably, smoking without much urgency, his eyes drifting lazily over Qiao Qi. After a long while, he said, “Sit.”

Qiao Qi shook her head. “No, I’ve got things to do.”

Cheng Yuzhi was stunned for a moment, then couldn’t help laughing.

At his laugh, Qiao Qi grew curious instead. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing.” Cheng Yuzhi said. “If you have things to do, go do them.”

Qiao Qi nodded. “Then get some rest early, Director Cheng.”

As she turned to leave, she heard Cheng Yuzhi say, “If it’s not convenient to change your dressing yourself, call Little Yue over.”

Qiao Qi paused, turned back to see Cheng Yuzhi had already closed his eyes, feigning sleep. She murmured a low “mm” and said “thank you.”

Once the sound of her footsteps had faded, Cheng Yuzhi sighed and pulled out his phone to call an old friend.

“That kid of yours—something happened on set.”

The person on the other end asked a flurry of anxious questions. Cheng Yuzhi cut in. “What’s the rush? She’s a grown woman now, how long are you two going to keep sheltering her?”

“She has to face it eventually. No breaking, no building.”

“The reason I’m calling you is to tell you—those two siblings of yours both need to grow up.”

—

The break room was silent. Liang Xumo sat curled in a corner of the sofa, arms crossed over her chest, in a highly defensive posture.

From falling on set, the hem of her skirt was covered in dirt, her hands smudged as well.

Liang Yan watched for a long time before slowly walking over. He crouched in front of Liang Xumo, tilting his head up to look at her.

Liang Yan had rushed off set in a hurry and was still soaked through. He’d run his hands through his hair a few times, tousling it back, revealing eyes that carried a hint of eagerness to please.

The usual careless, easygoing air was gone from him now, replaced by a careful earnestness.

“Sis, let me wipe your hands off first, okay?” Liang Yan said, watching Liang Xumo while also trying to control his gaze so it didn’t seem too probing.

He tentatively reached to touch Liang Xumo’s hand, but the instant his fingers grazed her fingertips, her whole body went rigid. Her eyes suddenly widened, and she began to tremble.

Liang Yan clenched his jaw without a word, the veins on his forearm nearly popping in an instant.

He suppressed it, masking every reaction with feigned ease, forcing a light tone. “Sis, look, your hands are all scraped up. Mom and dad will definitely scold me if they see this.”

“They’ll probably say I’m reckless again, that the filming environment is unsafe, and drag me back to the company—”

Before he could finish, two hands suddenly clamped tightly onto his shoulders.

Liang Yan looked up, meeting Liang Xumo’s somewhat unfocused eyes.

“Not going back to the company.” Liang Xumo’s grip tightened further, her voice hoarse, none of her usual gentleness left on her face, only unease in her eyes. She looked at Liang Yan. “Not going back to the company.”

“Sis won’t let you go back to the company.”

Liang Yan’s throat tightened, his eyes suddenly burning hot. He swallowed hard, then forced a smile. “Then let me wipe your hands clean first, and go buy you some medicine, okay?”

Liang Xumo seemed to come back to herself somewhat. She and Liang Yan locked eyes for a long moment before she murmured his name in a daze. “Liang Yan…”

Liang Yan smiled faintly. “I’m here.”

Liang Xumo slowly lowered her eyes, picking at her own fingernails again and again—there was dirt trapped underneath, and she tried to clean it out, but pulled too hard and tore one of her nails.

Liang Yan caught her hand, turning it over to stop her. “Pull any more and it’ll look ugly—won’t even be good for a manicure anymore.”

Liang Xumo stopped picking, but didn’t speak either.

Liang Yan didn’t press her to talk, just wiped her fingers and palms clean with a wet wipe, one careful stroke at a time.

The fall had scraped against the ground, inevitably breaking the skin.

But it wasn’t too serious, at least, and there was no bleeding.

Once he’d finished cleaning her hands and was about to withdraw his own, he saw a single teardrop land with a soft plop on the back of his hand.

He paused, all movement stopping.

He didn’t look up, just quietly stared at the teardrop on the back of his hand.

After a long while, he said, hoarsely, “Sis. I’m sorry.”

These three words—he had already said them for ten years.

And there was still a lifetime ahead in which to keep saying them.

Liang Xumo said nothing, only slowly pulled her hand from Liang Yan’s, cupping her palms over her own eyes.

A few seconds later, tears trickled out from between her fingers.

And Liang Yan, without noticing when, had shifted from his crouch to kneeling on one knee, back bent, head lowered, hair falling in front of his eyes.

The shadows of his hair swayed, blurring his vision.

After a long while, he finally heard Liang Xumo say, “Go get me some medicine. My hand really hurts.”

Liang Yan looked up, his eyes curving into a smile. “Okay.”

—

As Qiao Qi came out of the medical station, she received a call from Tong Shuqu, saying Maiya had been in a bad mood all evening, wouldn’t say why, and wouldn’t video call with her either.

Qiao Qi felt oddly tired tonight for some reason. She stepped into the elevator and leaned slowly into the corner, her clothes still damp, tight, and heavy, making it a little hard to breathe.

The pain on her back grew more noticeable now that her clothes were soaked through. She let out a soft breath, and asked, her voice neither too high nor too low, “Had a falling out with the little ones, probably.”

“Probably. I’ll ask tomorrow,” Tong Shuqu said. “She was playing with some kids this afternoon.”

“Mm.” Qiao Qi answered listlessly.

Tong Shuqu noticed, and asked, “Really tired?”

Qiao Qi lowered her eyes, her gaze drifting over the medicine bag in her hand, and after a moment said, “It’s alright.”

“So late already—are you done for the day?”

“Mm.”

Tong Shuqu was probably working overtime and couldn’t chat long. “Alright then, get some rest early.”

“Okay.”

Just then the elevator door opened with a ding. Qiao Qi lifted her eyes and raised a foot to step forward, then paused slightly, seeing Liang Yan standing at the elevator entrance.

Liang Yan was clearly not in a good state. He hadn’t changed his clothes either, standing there without his usual laid-back, easy manner, just gazing down, lips pressed flat, seemingly deep in thought.

The moment she looked up, he happened to lift his eyes too.

Beneath his long, thick lashes, his eyes were a deep, dark color. The hallway lights were bright, the light overhead pouring down everywhere, but where it fell on his hair, it scattered into scraps of shadow.

He stood there like a lone wolf under moonlight.

Someone people would be wary of, not dare approach.

Qiao Qi’s upbringing had given her a keen sensitivity to other people’s emotions. Sensing Liang Yan’s displeasure the instant she saw him, she instinctively bristled as well.

Keeping a distance that was neither too close nor too far, Qiao Qi kept her eyes fixed tightly on Liang Yan, until the elevator doors began to close again—and Liang Yan stuck his foot out to stop them.

Liang Yan’s gaze landed on the medicine bag by Qiao Qi’s hand, and he spoke, his voice dry and hoarse. “What happened to you?”

Qiao Qi shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

The two of them, one heading out, one heading in, brushed past each other, and a detail suddenly flashed before Liang Yan’s eyes.

—He’d shoved Qiao Qi earlier tonight, in his hurry.

Thinking of this, Liang Yan suddenly reached out and caught Qiao Qi’s wrist, tilting his head slightly, his gaze landing on her back shoulder.

The elevator light was bright too, illuminating the state of her shoulder clearly.

Liang Yan’s pupils tightened. He opened his mouth. “That injury on your shoulder—did I do that? I’m sorry, I was in a hurry back there—”

“It’s fine,” Qiao Qi said. “I lost my own footing too.”

At that, Liang Yan suddenly gave a short laugh, his peach-blossom eyes flicking out a trace of mockery at the corners.

He let go of Qiao Qi’s hand, his voice carrying a hint of something almost laughable.

“You people are really something. It was clearly my fault, and I’m not even trying to make excuses for myself, yet you’re all rushing to make excuses for me instead.”

You people.

Qiao Qi stepped out of the elevator, and the two of them stood face to face.

The elevator doors slowly closed.

Liang Yan’s eyes gradually disappeared from view.

Until the doors shut completely.

Beside her, the elevator’s floor numbers ticked downward.

It stopped on the floor with the medical station.

Qiao Qi looked down at the medicine in her hand, and as she turned to leave, thought to herself:

Who’s “you people”?

Author’s Note: Update tonight at 10 PM.