The sky that day was a boundless, clear blue.

And yet everyone gathered at the entrance to the memorial service felt as if storm clouds pressed down on their backs, with cold wind cutting freely from behind.

From beginning to end, Lin Luxiao’s gaze did not rest on her for more than a second — well, perhaps one second, when it had nearly reached her and was immediately reined back.

After Lin Luxiao turned and walked away, Meng Guohong cast a glance at Nan Chu.

She — her eyes were practically attached to Lin Luxiao’s person, as if she wished she could carve herself a spot there. He gave a faint shake of his head and said nothing, then went inside.

The group hadn’t seen Lin Luxiao for some time, and they were thinking that when Lin Luxiao finished talking to the old commander, they might go over and say hello. Then someone suddenly remembered the situation between Nan Chu and the commander — and that made things a little awkward.

When the media storm had broken back then, they had chosen silence. Now, they were in no position to say a word about anything, and certainly in no position to go digging for gossip.

Liu Xiahan was the first to speak. “All right, let’s go in.”

Everyone looked at Nan Chu.

Nan Chu, perfectly composed, didn’t try to hide anything — she just looked straight at Lin Luxiao’s retreating figure.

Her expression — if it was longing, it was more like admiring a perfect view.

Yan Dai grabbed her arm and pulled her along. “Stop looking. Let’s go.”

Nan Chu laughed easily, took one last long look at that figure, and turned to follow.

Lin Luxiao stood by the large camphor tree at the entrance, both hands tucked in his pockets, talking with the old commander. Perhaps it was the sight of an old familiar face — his posture was unusually relaxed.

The old commander had grown even more vigorous in retirement, his brows still bold and his voice still carrying. Lin Luxiao smiled at him — one brow hooking slightly, his usual roguish air surfacing for a moment. “How come you look younger every time I see you?”

The old commander wasn’t having any of it, and gave a cold snort. “You’ve gotten considerably more settled.”

Lin Luxiao smiled and glanced away without a word.

The old commander: “I went by the unit recently. Commander Meng said you’d gone to Lushan. What have you done wrong this time?”

“Nothing at all,” he said lazily.

The old commander pressed a finger to his temple and gazed into the distance, his tone growing slow and meaningful: “Do you still remember the year you first came to the unit? Twenty-three or twenty-four, were you? Ha — that spirit of yours, bold as anything. I made your father take a strap to you himself. It’s about time now — find someone reliable and settle down. Stop drifting around so carelessly. A man is at his best only in these few years.”

He paused, then sighed. “And Xiao Jiu — what a pity.”

Lin Luxiao bowed his head, and was silent.

Such a pity. All of it.

The old commander clapped him on the shoulder. “All right, go inside. Walk Xiao Jiu out one last time.”

The memorial service was set for three o’clock. There was still time, and everyone was quietly waiting.

Inside, black banners hung from the ceiling and flowers were piled everywhere. There were many people, yet it was silent — no one dared speak above a murmur, as though afraid of disturbing the one lying quietly within. Many familiar faces were present, but this was not the time for catching up. People acknowledged one another with a nod and stood quietly off to one side.

Nan Chu turned her head and saw Lin Luxiao enter with the old commander and take his place beside Shao Yijiu.

Platoon Leader Shao’s eyes were red — he had recently been weeping. Lin Luxiao placed a hand on his shoulder in comfort.

Shao Yijiu: “How long are you back for this time?”

Lin Luxiao’s brows and eyes were calm, his gaze settling on the coffin in the center of the funeral hall. “Leaving tomorrow.”

“So soon?” Shao Yijiu was startled.

“Yeah. Leave is hard to get.”

“Will you be back within the year?”

“Don’t know.”

That really was uncertain. The original deployment had been one year, but those who were sent out typically ended up staying for two. On top of that, the leadership over there had mentioned keeping him on for another year.

Shao Yijiu deflated. “Ah.”

Lin Luxiao gave him a quick knock on the forehead. “What’s that supposed to mean — I’m not here, that doesn’t mean you get to slack off. When I come back, I’ll be checking every single one of you.”

Their exchange was quiet.

Nan Chu heard every word clearly from where she stood nearby. She hadn’t heard him speak in this quiet, unhurried way for such a long time — he wasn’t talking to her, and yet she found a strange, deep contentment in simply listening.

Ten minutes later, the memorial service officially began.

The mood hadn’t been quite so heavy until Xiao Jiu’s remains were brought before them — at that point no one could hold back. Even Nan Chu couldn’t manage it. Tears fell one after another, as large as drops of rain, and she wiped them away with her hand, only to find more coming faster the harder she wiped.

She sniffled.

Lin Luxiao was standing beside her. He must have heard it — on instinct he turned his head and looked at her.

His own eyes were burning red from holding it back.

She hadn’t cried when someone hit her. Hadn’t cried when people came after her in the press. Hadn’t even cried at the breakup.

He had half-assumed this woman’s tear ducts simply didn’t work.

And yet — if it were him lying there inside, perhaps she’d cry just as hard.

At that thought he felt foolish himself. A self-deprecating smile curved the corner of his mouth against his will.

The farewell service concluded. Xiao Jiu was brought into the cremation room.

The unit had originally planned to bury Xiao Jiu in the Martyrs’ Cemetery, but Xiao Jiu’s grandfather insisted on bringing his ashes back home.

An hour later.

The ashes were passed through the small window. At the sight of that dark-brown square box, the eighty-year-old elder with the full head of white hair lost all composure — crumpling to the ground, crying out in desperate anguish: “Xiao Jiu — come home with Grandpa—”

“Don’t wander outside anymore—”

The memorial service ended.

The vehicle arranged to take the six artists away was already waiting at the entrance to the funeral home.

As Nan Chu walked out, she saw Lin Luxiao standing beside a car talking with a soldier, a cigarette between his fingers. The golden afternoon light fell over him, the medal on his shoulder catching the light. His profile was sharply defined — his brow and eyes, unlike those somber moments inside, now carried a hint of ease.

The soldier seemed to be someone from his military academy days, pulling at his arm with palpable excitement.

“Where are you stationed now?”

Lin Luxiao: “Lushan Brigade.”

“How did you end up all the way out there? That’s practically on the other side of the world from us.”

“Not too bad — about a day by train.”

“When Old Yang got married a while back, how come you didn’t come? The whole dormitory showed up except you — Old Yang complained about it for ages. He said when it’s your turn to get married, you’ll have it coming!”

He bowed his head with a quiet laugh. “We’ll see when the day arrives.”

Their conversation was interrupted.

Xu Ya and Liu Xiahan called out “Commander Lin” as they got into the car. Lin Luxiao stopped and turned to look at them. “Yeah.”

Nan Chu was standing directly behind him, about two steps away.

His back was broad and tall — it was blocking the glare of the sun for her.

“Commander Lin, we’re off.”

The six of them said their farewells one by one.

He gave each a nod in turn, his expression genuinely solemn, the way one would be with ordinary comrades.

Nan Chu was last.

This was their first encounter since reuniting.

The first time Lin Luxiao let his gaze settle fully and formally on her. Those dark eyes, in the sunlight, looked particularly bright and deep.

His hands were tucked in his pockets, and he watched her quietly.

For once, there was no furrowed brow, no pressed lips. He seemed — patiently — to be waiting for her farewell.

Nan Chu stood by the car door in her black dress, her long hair falling behind her like silk, reaching her waist.

She didn’t speak for a long moment.

She said nothing — and his gaze could not move away.

The strange silence stretched for several minutes. No one broke it.

The five people in the car were silent too, and somewhat astonished. They had assumed these two were nothing but fire and dry kindling — a blaze that burned fast and died. But the scene before them now — even the most oblivious person could see it: the current flowing through this air between them was too full of reluctance to simply vanish.

If you set aside all that had come before —

That atmosphere, weighted with unspoken feeling, made it seem like the next words out of Nan Chu’s mouth should naturally be: Let’s get married.

A withered yellow leaf spiraled down from mid-air. Nan Chu’s gaze followed it as it fell.

The leaf landed on the roof of the car. Nan Chu drew a breath, looked back up at him. Her dark eyes were clear and bright. Her voice rang out clean and crisp: “Goodbye, Lin Luxiao.”

Then she turned and got into the car.

Didn’t look back.

The wind stirred.

The fallen leaf was picked up again.

Nan Chu found a seat by the window.

She watched as the leaf drifted down and at last came to rest on the ground — not lifted again, as though it had grown roots. As though everything had settled, and all the dust had come to rest.

Behind her, the man tucked his hands deep in his jacket pockets. Suddenly, he laughed out loud — quietly, with more than a little self-mockery in it.

His patience.

He had used up every last bit of it on this woman.

Lin Luxiao returned to Lushan the next day, and simultaneously received a dispatch notice extending his deployment by one more year. He had no particular objection — he seemed, in fact, quite content with this outcome. The only thing he would need to request was a trip home before the year was out; otherwise the old man would have too lonely a New Year.

When autumn arrived.

Zhao Guo had found a girlfriend, and had gone completely soft and clingy. In the evenings when he was on the phone, he would burrow into his blankets and make the most embarrassing sounds — Lin Luxiao threw a pillow at him, and he still wouldn’t stop.

Not that it mattered.

Zhao Guo took it all as jealousy from a single man.

With the glow of new love about him, Zhao Guo grew more energetic by the day, and would periodically remind his girlfriend over the phone: “Hey — sweetheart, when you get a chance, can you help introduce someone to my buddy? Isn’t your friend so-and-so still single? This buddy of mine is seriously good-looking — he’s thirty now.”

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend didn’t believe him. The friends of his she’d met all had shifty, unimpressive faces — who could there possibly be that was seriously good-looking? “He’s thirty and still single? Why?”

Zhao Guo: “My buddy is too dedicated to his work. He’s given his entire life’s energy to the nation.”

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend snorted — she didn’t buy it for a second. Then one day, after they had checked into a hotel together and Zhao Guo went in to shower, she happened to glance at his phone and saw a photo of Lin Luxiao. The photo had been taken of a different roommate — Lin Luxiao was just sitting in the background against the headboard, reading.

“Who is this?”

“That’s the thirty-year-old buddy I mentioned. Pretty impressive, right?”

“A man with that kind of look can’t find a girlfriend?”

Zhao Guo toweled off his hair. “Told you — he’s dedicated.”

“…”

As a result — entirely without Lin Luxiao’s knowledge — he was set up for a blind date.

One weekend, Zhao Guo dragged Lin Luxiao over to his place for dinner. He arrived to find two young women seated on the sofa — Zhao Guo’s girlfriend, and a blind date arranged by said girlfriend.

The young woman looked Lin Luxiao up and down when she saw him, assessed him for two seconds, then gave Zhao Guo’s girlfriend a satisfied nod.

The only reason Lin Luxiao maintained his composure and didn’t simply shake off Zhao Guo’s hand and walk out was because Zhao Guo had said: “My mom knows you’re coming, and she made a whole table of food specially for you. If you leave, who am I supposed to find to eat it?”

Zhao’s mother’s warmth was something he simply could not resist.

At the dinner table, the young woman’s very first words were: “Mr. Lin, you’re from Northern Xun?”

Lin Luxiao kept his eyes down on his bowl. “That’s right,” he said flatly.

Her second question: “Do you own property?”

He let the corner of his mouth curve just slightly — that roguish streak coming out — and said: “No. Can’t afford it.”

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend tried to smooth things over: “That’s perfectly normal — property prices in Northern Xun are so high.”

The young woman looked at him with distinct regret. “A car, then?”

Lin Luxiao: “I have one.”

The young woman brightened. “That works too.”

“Two wheels. Haven’t ridden it in ages.”

“…”

The interrogation pressed on. The young woman was nothing if not persistent. “What do your parents do?”

Lin Luxiao picked up a piece of meat and placed it in his mouth. “They work odd jobs.”

And with that, the young woman’s interest began to visibly wane.

After dinner, Lin Luxiao and Zhao Guo stood on the balcony smoking. “So — what did you think of her?”

Lin Luxiao had the cigarette between his lips, both hands in his pockets, one foot propped lazily against the stone step at the base of the balcony railing. “Average.”

“Average?! I’ll be honest with you — that girl is better-looking than even my own girlfriend!”

Lin Luxiao kept the cigarette in his mouth, and let out a low, amused sound. “That just means you haven’t seen truly beautiful.”

Zhao Guo was immediately put out, and launched into an earnest campaign to correct what he perceived as Lin Luxiao’s “distorted” standards: “Luxiao, we can’t be like that — if you set out to find a girlfriend by measuring every woman against celebrity standards, you’ll be searching with a lantern and still come up empty. Finding a wife is about making a life together. A woman who can live a good life is all you need. Too beautiful, and you keep her at home — can you even manage that…”

Inside.

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend was asking her cousin: “What do you think?”

The cousin thought it over. “Besides being good-looking — his circumstances are this poor? And he’s a firefighter, stuck out in that mountain valley? Comes back to: no house, no car, and he’s not even local. He’s worse off than your Zhao Guo!”

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend made a face. “What — are you after my Zhao Guo?”

The cousin pursed her lips. “I was making a comparison. I have a master’s degree, a decent job — he’s got nothing except parents who are laborers and a face. How is that not beneath me?”

“Fine — if you’re not interested, we can leave it.”

The cousin thought about how good-looking he was, and hearing that the answer was no, suddenly panicked. “Don’t — maybe I’ll give it a try?”

Late summer. Nan Chu took on a new project — Bombing Her Ex-Boyfriend.

The other actress in the same production was Yan Dai. On the very first day on set they ran into each other at the door. There were no kind words — they had long gotten used to trading barbs. “You gained weight again?” met with “Have you been getting more filler injections?” — after which they both pinched each other’s cheeks firmly, by way of a friendly greeting.

After Nan Chu parted ways with Jiahe, Yan Dai had come under Shen Guanzong’s management. During breaks on set, the two of them would occasionally have a good complain.

“I genuinely have no idea how you survived all those years — Shen Guanzong is basically a juicer, do you know that? Give him one orange and at that volume of his, he’ll have it pulverized into juice instantly!”

She finished and did an exaggerated impression of him standing there.

Nan Chu sat in her chair, a copy of the Bible open on the table in front of her. “A juicer? Hmm. That’s a new one.”

“All right, on a serious note — Shen Guanzong’s at this age and still no girlfriend. Do you think he’s gay?”

Nan Chu kept her eyes on the text and shook her head. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

Yan Dai deflated — she had been hoping for something juicy to use as leverage the next time Shen Guanzong started screaming at her.

Filming had been going for two weeks.

Their rapport had grown at an astonishing rate. Yan Dai started asking Nan Chu whether she was coming along everywhere she went, and when they talked she liked to argue with Nan Chu for the sake of it — the crew around them couldn’t quite figure out what the nature of their relationship was.

Were they friends? Or enemies?

Halfway through production, the screenwriter added a new character, and the night after the late shoot, Xu Zhiyi arrived on set.

Because of Xu Zhiyi’s sudden addition, half of Yan Dai’s original scenes were cut.

That day, Yan Dai and Xu Zhiyi had a scene where Yan Dai’s character was supposed to catch her in the act, burst in, pin her to the bed, and tear her clothes — broadly speaking, an “implied stripping,” just a bared shoulder or similar. But whether it was unintentional force or something else, Yan Dai yanked — and the entire blouse came clean off. Two pale, bare breasts were fully exposed to the camera lens.

Yan Dai sat up instantly, bowing and apologizing with great sincerity: “Zhiyi, are you okay? I’m so sorry, truly.”

Xu Zhiyi gave her a cold look, shook her head without expression, and put her clothes back on.

Later, someone came to visit Xu Zhiyi on set. In the dressing room, some rather indescribable things took place. A props assistant going in to collect costumes heard unmistakable sounds from inside — a woman’s breathless moaning and a man’s heavy panting — and fled, red-faced.

He passed right by Yan Dai and Nan Chu, who were heading over to change for the next scene.

“Let’s push that door open right now,” Yan Dai said, “and see if we can’t give her a heart attack.”

Nan Chu was entirely unmoved.

Yan Dai: “Come on — she’s the one who exposed you. You could record the audio from outside the door right now and leak it to those gossip accounts, and no one could even say you were out of line.”

Nan Chu smiled. “You should eat more walnuts — good for the brain.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Calling you clever.”

“You think I’m stupid?”

“Yeah.”

Look at her, so sharp she could cut herself.

Yan Dai let out a scoff.

The truth was, Xu Zhiyi’s way of surviving in the entertainment industry was something Yan Dai found genuinely contemptible. Yan Dai had her principles — no matter how scarce the projects, no matter how far from fame, she would never exchange her body for any resource. That was the one thing she looked down on about Xu Zhiyi.

As for the old Nan Chu —

She might have just counted herself unlucky, taken the knife in her back, and let it go. She hadn’t cared much about anything back then.

Back in her early filming days, a director had once said the Nan Chu of that era was like a black swan — though that hadn’t been quite right, either. The Nan Chu of back then was more like a white swan.

Whereas now — from the outside in, from the surface to the bone — the Nan Chu of today was a truly genuine black swan.

The best way to take revenge on someone:

Reach for the things they tried to tear from your hands, and have them first — always. And when they are clawing their way up with everything they have, you arrive at the summit without breaking a sweat. They watch from below — jealousy and fury flowering inside them — and they can do absolutely nothing.

When autumn arrived.

Xu Zhiyi’s scandal broke open — intimate photos leaked, a three-minute video circulating online. Her social media was overrun. The “righteously outraged” netizens swept into the comments to deliver their “moral verdicts.”

The language was beyond ugly — as vile as it could possibly be.

Xu Zhiyi didn’t show up for three days. She locked herself at home, looking blankly at her phone, all tears long since dried up.

Yan Dai clapped her hands in delight.

Nan Chu smiled, cool and composed.

Shen Mu, scrolling through social media, spotted the three-minute video and sold access to Big Liu for six yuan via WeChat transfer.

Big Liu, sobbing, blocked Shen Mu on the spot.

Three days after the uproar died down, Xu Zhiyi showed up at Nan Chu’s apartment.

Nan Chu answered the door in a pale green silk robe, leaning against the doorframe. The light behind her made her skin look soft and luminous.

Xu Zhiyi was in sunglasses. In a low voice: “I’m sorry. Please — let me go.”

Nan Chu’s expression was gentle and guileless, her dark eyes clear and unclouded — her acting had improved remarkably in one year, and that wasn’t an exaggeration. “What do you mean?” she asked.

Xu Zhiyi: “It was you, wasn’t it — you’re the one who gave it to the media.”

Nan Chu raised an eyebrow and pulled her robe closed. “You mean the three-minute video?”

Xu Zhiyi suddenly burst into tears. She sank to the floor, as if finally waking from a gaudy dream, and sobbed: “I didn’t want any of that. I was drugged that night — I couldn’t fight back. And besides, I didn’t want to keep being trampled by everyone all my life…”

“So you pushed me and the commander in front of everyone instead?”

Nan Chu’s voice was completely level. She was genuinely calm. Those eyes looked straight and cold at Xu Zhiyi.

“Do you think I’m disgusting?” Xu Zhiyi whispered from where she crouched.

“Did the online abuse feel good?” she asked in return.

Xu Zhiyi wept bitterly. She felt like she might die from it — every time she looked at her phone or her laptop, her whole body shook with a conditioned, terrified reflex.

“Why are you crying?” Nan Chu folded her arms, looked down at her, and said with contempt: “You haven’t even experienced the worst of it yet.”

Do you know what it feels like to watch someone you love be trampled and torn apart?

When winter came, Xu Zhiyi left for South Korea.

Before boarding her flight, she found Big Liu: “Tell your friend I’m sorry. I know it won’t make any difference — he won’t care. But if you ever see him, just pass it on. For what it’s worth.”

Then she got into a taxi and left for the airport.

Snow was falling thickly outside. The bare branches of the trees stood pale against the white.

The car disappeared into the exhaust-clouded din of the road, and was gone.

Big Liu slammed his fist against a nearby utility pole — put too much into it, felt a sharp burst of pain, and crouched down clutching his hand, hissing through his teeth.

Anjiang.

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend’s young cousin, together with a group of her friends, made a trip up to Lushan — ostensibly to “watch the sunrise.”

The fire brigade was right there in Lushan Town. Passing by, they could conveniently pop in to visit Zhao Guo and that certain someone.

A few young women rode the minibus, chatting idly about the usual things girls their age talked about.

“How old is he?” one of the friends asked curiously.

The cousin: “Thirty.”

The friend mulled it over. “Not bad — men at thirty are settled. You’re twenty-eight, isn’t that just right?”

The cousin nodded.

The friend continued: “What does he look like?”

“Very handsome. You know how everyone used to say the Jiang campus heartthrob was something? Not even close.”

“Not close? Which one?”

“The campus heartthrob, obviously.”

“Is he actually that handsome? In my head, anyone who’s thirty is basically an old man. How handsome can an old man be? Plus — didn’t you say his background is pretty ordinary?”

The cousin nodded. “Yeah — no house, no car. But I’ve thought about it, and his job is stable. If we got married and took out a loan for a flat, it shouldn’t be a problem. I could even contribute more. And we could still raise a child.”

Her friend laughed at her. “You’re already thinking that far ahead?”

The cousin: “Of course — he’s not young anymore. If he’s doing this blind date thing, he has to be thinking about marriage. Everyone says handsome men aren’t reliable, but from what I can tell, he’s straightforward — says what he means, no posturing. Not like some of the ones I met before, bragging about owning multiple properties and laying it on so thick.”

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend had done her own bit of talking-sense with the cousin, and after the cousin thought it through properly, she realized there was real merit in what she’d said. On top of that, since that dinner, she had thought about him often — so much so that she was, frankly, not opposed to the idea of marrying him.

Late in the day, as the sun inched toward the horizon.

The minibus stopped at the Lushan Town station. The little group of young women climbed off and followed the fire brigade address Zhao Guo had given to find their way over.

It was the weekend, and free time was permitted.

The fire brigade was holding a friendly basketball game.

Lin Luxiao was wearing a camouflage sleeveless top, camouflage trousers, black military boots with the trouser legs tucked in.

As he came off the court, he rubbed his face against the front of his shirt to wipe away the sweat, then walked over to the basketball hoop, bent down to pick up a bottle of water, twisted it open, and poured it into his mouth.

Someone next to him was pouring mineral water straight over their own head.

Lin Luxiao glanced over, then tapped the person on the head with his water bottle. “Do you have any idea how wasteful that is?”

The person grinned. “Won’t happen again.”

Before the words were fully out, Zhao Guo came running in from outside and grabbed at him. “Hey, Luxiao — come here for a sec.”

Lin Luxiao took his water bottle and followed. “What is it?”

“My girlfriend’s cousin is here — says she came to see you. Could you go say a few words to her?”

Lin Luxiao hadn’t quite registered what was happening. He frowned. “Who?”

Zhao Guo gave a pained grunt. “You know — my girlfriend’s cousin. The one who came over for dinner at my place!”

He frowned, thought for two seconds.

The very next second —

He turned and walked back.

Zhao Guo grabbed at him. He got a flat, quiet: “Are you insane?”

He thought this whole Ta Cong Huo Guang Zhong Zou Lai – Chapter had been closed long ago.

Hey, hey, hey—

Zhao Guo: “She’s already at the gate. At least go out and say something — you can’t let her make this whole trip for nothing.”

Lin Luxiao peeled his grip off without any apparent effort, and walked away without looking back. “Whoever brought her here, they can deal with her.”

Zhao Guo suddenly realized — this man’s strength was genuinely something.

He was muscular, sure — but his muscle was the lean, proportionate kind, long lines and definition. Zhao Guo himself had the kind of build that looked powerfully packed. He had privately assumed that in terms of raw strength, Lin Luxiao wouldn’t match up — and yet that one effortless peel just now suggested otherwise.

The cousin left empty-handed.

Back in the city, she called Zhao Guo’s girlfriend in a huff. “Is that man insane? I came all the way up on the bus to see him and he won’t even come out — what’s his problem? Who does a firefighter think he is? Just because he’s a bit good-looking? No house, no car, no money — what does he think makes him better than me?”

Zhao Guo’s girlfriend immediately called Zhao Guo and let him have it from start to finish. “What is wrong with your friend? Does he look down on people like that? Why did you even ask me to introduce someone if this is how it’s going to go?”

Zhao Guo hemmed and hawed: “It wasn’t really his idea in the first place — I saw he was single and getting on in years and thought, maybe with your help, he’d meet someone. Otherwise he’s stuck here for two years without going out — how’s he ever going to find anyone? I didn’t expect your cousin to like him this much—”

“Do you have a brain?!”

Zhao Guo said quietly, “Okay, okay — my fault.”

The call went dead on the other end. No matter how many times he said “hello,” there was nothing but a flat dial tone.

Zhao Guo stared at his phone in frustration. Of all people, how had he ended up being the one caught in the middle?

He looked up to see Lin Luxiao walking in from outside. Zhao Guo flung his phone down, turned, and flopped flat onto his back on the bed. “Hmph!”

Lin Luxiao curved the corner of his mouth.

Over this business, Zhao Guo ignored Lin Luxiao for several days — every time he saw him, he made sulky noises — leaving Lin Luxiao somewhere between exasperated and amused.

A few days later.

Zhao Guo dragged the projector back out again, his gloom of recent days completely lifted, as though he’d dug up buried treasure. “The big-chested girl has a new movie out. Want to watch?”

Lin Luxiao kept his head down over his book.

A teammate asked listlessly: “What movie?”

“Bombing Her Ex-Boyfriend? I forgot the title. Just downloaded it. Supposedly there’s a shower scene!”

A tall figure walked past. Zhao Guo called after him: “Hey, Luxiao — where are you going?”

“To shower,” he replied without any particular inflection.

Winter arrived, and the snow came.

At the start of the year, He Zhengping’s Capital Moon and Flowers had given Nan Chu a minor burst of fame, earning her a wave of new fans.

In early December, Bombing Her Ex-Boyfriend was released. Nan Chu suddenly shot to major fame. By the year-end fashion rankings, she was officially bestowed the title “Nation’s Enchantress.”

Her fan support base multiplied. Her social media following exploded upward. On every major gossip account, her name kept appearing.

The production company began orchestrating a rumored romance between Nan Chu and the male lead — a young rising star called Yu Lin. The story was that the two had grown close on set but parted ways due to incompatible personalities, and had already broken up by the time the film was released.

On the eve of Christmas night.

Nan Chu and Yan Dai appeared together on a variety show to promote the film. They played a game: whoever lost had to call the other person’s ex-boyfriend.

The call and response for this segment had already been scripted out during rehearsal.

To support the film’s promotion, Nan Chu deliberately lost to Yan Dai, meaning that Nan Chu was the one to make the call — to her supposed “ex-boyfriend,” Yu Lin.

Except —

Yan Dai never expected that when Nan Chu dialed, she was not calling Yu Lin at all. Her fingers moved quickly, pressing out a string of numbers she knew by heart.

Yan Dai was standing closest — she could tell Nan Chu hadn’t followed the script.

She had no idea what this girl was up to, and her heart leapt straight into her throat.

Nan Chu was calm as anything, eyes down on her own phone.

Even the host could tell something was off — the number they’d agreed on that afternoon was clearly Yu Lin’s…

The entire audience held its collective breath and listened.

Ring—

One ring.

Ring—

The pulse inside her chest seemed to move with every beat.

Then, after the third ring: Ring ring ring ring—

He had hung up on her directly!

Nothing left but the flat, rapid dial tone.

The audience erupted — though none of them understood the full weight of what had just happened. Clearly things had ended on very bad terms.