Of Remedy and Remurder

by inblur

Summary:

Cheng Xiaoshi likes cheap thrills, thunderous applause, and boys who melt in his sheets. Lu Guang likes neat endings and keeping his body count at a solid one.

One looking for a spark, one trying not to burn—it should’ve been a clean exit. But when Liu Xiao's script forces them to stage the perfect crime, Cheng Xiaoshi finds himself chasing more than smoke and mirrors.
He’s chasing the boy who always seems one step ahead, one step away.

Chapter 1: Case File #00: Subject Apologised. Wrong Crime. Right Tone.

He’s rehearsing. The stage isn’t real, but the light is too bright and the coffee is too cold and someone, somewhere, is watching.

He sits, spine straight, coat folded beside him since it might testify too. He knows where the camera is, even if no one has called ‘action.’

Across from him, the detective bides her time. She opens a file with the kind of slowness that suggests more theatre than bureaucracy.

“You’re a precise man,”

“Thanks.”

A photograph slides across the table: red velvet seats—a theatre clock with its hands torn off.

“You said you met the victim to discuss a project.”

“I did. We had notes. He had too much wine and I had too many opinions.”

“At midnight?”

He shrugs. “Creatives. We don’t sleep.”

The detective doesn’t react. She sips something pretending to be coffee then offers the next line almost right on cue.

“You were seen entering the theatre. There is no footage of you leaving.”

He keeps his face still. “Then someone cut the scene. Or Liu Lei did. He was dramatic.”

“Convenient.”

He shrugs.

Another photo: a bracelet. It’s familiar. His.

“Bit careless, don’t you think?”

He looks at it the way one looks at a sock one is sure one has never bought.

“If I really staged this, don’t you think I’d edit out the part where I accidentally drop props?”

The detective leans back, studying him—the bad script of it all.

“Witnesses say Mr Liu was still alive after you left.”

“There you go.”

“But someone else was there.”

He doesn’t blink.

“You have a name?”

“Do you?”

And there it is, the soft smile—the one that makes him look apologetic, almost fond.

“If you did, I wouldn’t be here reciting my lines.”

The file snaps shut. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he reaches for the cold coffee, holds it like a prop he forgot to set down—and he doesn’t drink it.

Someone might call ‘cut’ at some point. Eventually.

Chapter 2: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Stage Direction: [Enter, Theatrical]

Beijing, like Cheng Xiaoshi, is a little too much tonight. Too many people, too many lights, too much noise. The café is quieter though not by much. It might have been a nice place to stop and breathe if he weren’t already mid-crisis and nursing a headache—the irritating kind that comes from dealing with Jack’s voice notes and a former flatmate who mistook their arrangement for an invitation to fall in love.

He is stirring his coffee absently, phone wedged between his shoulder and ear, while Xia Fei continues to monologue on the other end.

“—I’m telling you, if you abandon me now, I’ll never recover. I’ll get blacklisted. My career will be over—I’ll have to marry rich and live out my days drinking expensive wine and being devastatingly beautiful.”

“Spare me the theatrics, Xia Fei—this was already your plan,”

“Yes, but I like having options. Maybe I can commit to something better.”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts. “Tell Vein that. Maybe he’ll sponsor your downfall.”

“First of all, he would be the downfall. Second, this is about you abandoning me. Third, you are my co-star; I need to know whether you’ll be in a good mood or a complete disaster when you get back.”

“Not sure if those are my only two settings or just the ones you're willing to handle.”

“The latter—like what if you space out and accidentally forget to breathe again and it’s New Years 2.0?”

It wasn’t an accident. It was testing out the mechanics of a chokehold. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t bother correcting his co-star.

Xia Fei sighs, long-suffering. “Also, our baby needs you. Vein thinks we should rework Act Two. He says it drags so I need someone in my corner.”

“Vein also thinks avant-garde means making the audience suffer. He doesn’t get to weigh in on Every Moment In Between.”

“Maybe, but you should still have some sympathy for the soon-fallen actor who’s one rewrite away from his villain arc— So just tell me where the hell you are, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi could say, At a café. He could say, Thinking about a cipher that may or may not be a prank. He could say, Ice Prince a day keeps self-preservation in decay. Instead, he says,

“Waiting to be seduced.”

“Code for tempting fate, I assume?”

“Hardly. Men and fate find me irresistible,”

“Which leaves us exactly where?”

“Nowhere.”

Xia Fei sighs. Cheng Xiaoshi switches the spoon to his other hand. The coffee is already too sweet. He keeps stirring anyway.

“Look, I’ll deal with the script when I’m back and once I'm done dealing with my own nightmare. Liu Xiao says he might be able to help.”

“By finding you a nice responsible tenant who wouldn’t run off with your air fryer in retaliation for bad sex?”

By spinning a story so believable that Qiao Ling wouldn’t question that there is indeed someone babysitting her favourite unscripted disaster. And Jae Lee never complained about the sex. That’s why he was in it in the first place.

So Cheng Xiaoshi makes a noise that might resemble partial agreement. Xia Fei's eyeroll is audible through the phone, impressively so.

“At any rate, the threat of being homeless won't be as great as being replaced by this new English guy. Vein’s already called him tasty in four languages and he only speaks two. We’re—”

Xia Fei's voice breaks off in the distance, something about Vein calling him. Cheng Xiaoshi takes the opportunity to tune him out, his gaze drifting over the crowd outside.

That’s when he spots him. And it doesn’t happen in the dramatic, thunderclap, slow-motion way, but rather in the way a quiet, familiar presence slips into view. The kind that shouldn’t matter but very much does.

It’s the same long black coat; same tired, unreadable expression; same unfairly beautiful face. The Ice Prince, as Cheng Xiaoshi has privately named him, is sitting at a table by the window, watching the city like it owes him both an explanation and an apology. Across from him, someone is talking too much, smiling too much. A foreigner, leaning in like persistence can melt ice.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches.

Three times now. Excluding the photobomb incident.

He blinks. The café buzzes around him. A name slips amidst the English cadence and drifts across the room: Lu Guang.

“Cheng Xiaoshi?” Xia Fei prods.

He hums, taking another sip of his coffee. The not-foreign name rolls in his mind.

Lu Guang.

“Cheng Xiaoshi, you’re not even listening.”

“I am. Your future male-wifing, our graduate project umbrella, my never-ending charm. I got it.”

There’s a pause. “Someone’s caught your attention and now I'm chopped liver. Again. I hate this.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles, not his usual easy grin, but the sharper one—the one that says he is up to something.

“Not at all,” he lies.

Because he needn’t have lived the past two years or so to reach a certain unfavourable conclusion. He just wonders, vaguely, if fate has a crush on him.

 

◑

 

While the rain isn’t dramatic tonight, it’s enough to make the air damp and definitely enough to justify Cheng Xiaoshi craving something that tastes of the thrill of bad decisions.

But sadly, that’s not tonight’s performance. Because across from him, Jack is talking.

Cheng Xiaoshi is aware of it in the way he might register a leaky faucet—how it’s mildly irritating but not worth fixing. He should be listening to Jack.

Should.

But there’s a woman at the next table, voice cutting through the café music. And she’s talking to him.

Not him him, obviously. She’s talking to Lu Guang.

Cheng Xiaoshi hasn’t seen his Ice Prince since Beijing. Not that he was looking, and not that he was thinking about him either. Yet—here he is, in Hangzhou, same posture, same unreadable face, same untouchable, ice-in-his-veins indifference that made him stand out in Beijing last week. And here Cheng Xiaoshi is stirring his drink, watching the ice spin and melt as he reiterates the merits of a breakup to his soon-to-be ex.

“I’m just saying, you can’t keep living like this. You can’t keep pretending you don’t care and jumping into things just for the drama of it. You say you’re done with me, but you pick fights like you want me to stay.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Jack exhales. “I mean it, Cheng Xiaoshi. This thing you do—filling silence with people who won’t stay, acting like nothing matters—it’s going to catch up to you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his glass. “Fingers crossed.”

Jack gives him a long, knowing look. “You ever wonder why none of them stick? You think you’re so untouchable, but—”

Oh, here we go. The tired, trying concern sandwich-script: one part condescension, one part fake sympathy—finished off with a generous helping of ‘we both know you’re a mess, I just have the guts to say it.’

Cheng Xiaoshi stops listening, not entirely out of rudeness, but because he has already heard the speech fourteen different ways in fourteen different rooms. Messy, impulsive, noncommittal—a car crash in the shape of a man, wreckage somehow still walking. Something even Lucifer had returned.

And then, just as he’s about to say something wildly inappropriate—for the drama of it, obviously—he hears the prattling woman too clearly.

“You know, it’s important for young men to settle down as soon as possible. Someone intelligent like yourself—pleasant and with a promising future— A journalist too, right? You must be making good money. My daughter would kill for a man like you,”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles as he watches a drop of water snake down his glass. He doesn’t mean to intervene.

Well. That’s not entirely truthful.

It’s just—watching his Ice Prince get ambushed by a well-meaning socialite trying to set him up is objectively the most entertainment this evening has to offer. Lu Guang, as expected, has been all polite indifference: nodding at the right moments whilst probably planning his exit four moves ahead.

It’s just so boring.

“You should come for dinner sometime. No pressure, of course.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

The woman is still going on about her daughter despite the slight twitch in Lu Guang’s jaw that says he’s two seconds from losing patience.

“Oh, nonsense. You can’t spend all your time alone. Life is a long ride and you need someone by your side.”

Then Cheng Xiaoshi stands. He drains his drink, and—smoothly, easily—as Jack’s eyes and words hound him still, he says,

“There you are, sweetheart.”

Three tables away from where he was, Cheng Xiaoshi is landing a hand on Lu Guang’s shoulder, squeezing just enough to make a point.

Jack’s brows furrow. The woman stops talking.

And Lu Guang barely startles. He turns his head slightly, cool gaze flicking to Cheng Xiaoshi who adds,

“Thought I'd lost you forever this time. The horrors of this nightmare are what made me lose my sense of time and space.”

Lu Guang does not immediately respond—which is fine. Because Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t talking to him; he is talking to Jack. And Jack is staring like he’s watching a car crash.

The woman looks between them. “Oh. You two—?”

“Know each other?” A short laugh. “I have a label that says Lu Guang's on the back of my neck and he has a piece of me every morning for breakfast.”

Lu Guang exhales. It’s quiet—amused, even, if you know where to look. Cheng Xiaoshi slips into Lu Guang's space, hand curling around his right wrist, thumb caress shifting into something warm and familiar, and more importantly, believable.

Jack watches, brows knitting even more.  Except that it comes naturally to Cheng Xiaoshi—this performance. He leans in to whisper a Sorry I've kept you waiting. Lu Guang's perfume—rain on earth, fresh and damp with a hint of vanilla lurking just beneath—fills his nostrils. His pulse quickens.

Lu Guang studies him, unimpressed. “Fifteen minutes late, was it?”

“Not a lifetime, at least. And you still waited on me, so who’s the winner now?”

Jack makes a noise of disbelief. “Oh, we’re really doing this now?”

“Why not? We’re very much tragically in love, Shakespeare wishes.”

The woman frowns. “But—I was just introducing Lu Guang to—”

“Lu Guang?” Cheng Xiaoshi gasps. “Aw, you’re using his real name? Babe, you hear that? People don’t even know half of the things I call you.”

Lu Guang sets down his glass with the kind of ease that says he’s not fighting this but he isn't indulging it either.

“You say that like you remember what you call me half of the time.” Then, after a deliberate pause, he lifts his glass again. “What was it last time? Faust? Or were you feeling especially tragic and went with Werther? I'm still waiting on something original.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smirks—almost claps.

“See? He always tells it better. For every misnamed one.”

The woman still looks thrown, glancing between them. “My apologies. I truly had no idea you were—”

“Oh, don’t worry. Half the time, he forgets too. Like, the first week after we first met? He treated me like I was the sun and he wouldn’t even look at me. I thought he was playing hard to get but it turns out he’s just like that.”

“Not hard enough, apparently.” Lu Guang deadpans.

Jack blinks. “Wait, he doesn’t look like he'd— So really this is—?”

“Oh, don’t be weird about it,” Cheng Xiaoshi says easily, pulling Lu Guang just a fraction closer. “Baby, you remember Jack, don’t you? My ex—from two years ago?”

Lu Guang just offers the barest tilt of his head.

“This is some elaborate Cheng Xiaoshyan joke, right?” Jack gives Lu Guang a look. “You’re his type?”

Just as Cheng Xiaoshi resists the urge to groan, Lu Guang looks down at him, a little too amused now.

“That’s a good question. Am I?”

While Cheng Xiaoshi almost shifts, Jack’s expression twitches. It’s calculating and very, very sceptical. “Sure. I’ll bite. Please tell the audience how you two lovebirds met.”

“Oh, Jack, you'll love this one—our soft launch.”

“We met in Shakespearean Studies. It was my first day.”

“He was the only person in the room who looked like he’d stabbed someone and proofread the alibi—all while rocking a cunty eyeliner. Jack—you know how much I love cunty eyeliners.”

Lu Guang ignores that. “I implied that Twelfth Night was Shakespeare’s failed attempt at bisexual representation and chaos theory. He simply followed me out and explained iambic pentameter to me like it was a love language.”

“It is, and I followed him out merely to correct his scansion.”

Lu Guang turns to lock eyes with the grinning Cheng Xiaoshi. “For twenty minutes, in meter?”

“Riveting. Nothing says sexual tension like discussing syllabic stress.” Jack says flatly and Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs.

“It was hot. In a public-humiliation-by-sonnet kind of way.”

“You know what? You can enjoy him. I don’t need this anymore.”

But Lu Guang's Smart man is overshadowed by Cheng Xiaoshi’s excited lean-in.

“Guangguang just didn’t believe it when I told him that Shakespeare was the reason I believe in fate.” He chuckles. “He said it’s all for the drama of it—never clarified what it is—so naturally, I went full theatrical and asked for all of Guangguang’s heart after a daring performance. He kissed me first while everyone cheered.”

“It was backstage.”

“Our first kiss?” Cheng Xiaoshi turns slightly to Lu Guang, head tilted.

“While you were sober, yes.”

“And they say romance is dead—turns out it just missed good lighting.”

Jack presses his fingers to his temples. The woman rises too, stammering something about needing air. Probably to scream into it. And Cheng Xiaoshi?

Cheng Xiaoshi is going to hell.

As soon as Jack storms off—muttering something about self-respect and personal growth—Cheng Xiaoshi exhales, long and exaggerated.

“Well. That was either a tactical win or catastrophic self-sabotage. Jury is still out.”

“I was going to ask why you’re pretending to date me,” Lu Guang checks his watch. “But now I want to know why you thought that little skit would work on me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, tapping a finger against his chin, feigning deep thought. “Well, statistically speaking, I had two options: one, you’d roll with it like the snob who’d never humiliate himself by admitting his boyfriend is a fraud, or two, you’d call my bluff and let me embarrass myself in front of my ex and a woman who was two seconds from asking about your five-year plan.” He tilts his head, considering. “And between the two, the first was just so much funnier, even if it went to crap.”

Lu doesn’t blink. “That’s your logic?”

“No, that’s my charm.”

“And the real reason?”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs, all casual bravado. “Maybe I just wanted to see if I could make you say yes to me.”

Lu Guang’s expression doesn’t change. But something shifts—barely—it’s barely anything at all.

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. Then he leans in just slightly, eyes narrowing in amused suspicion.

“I mean, you committed to the bit. You could’ve said we met through a mutual friend. A blind date. You could’ve gone full romcom and claimed I spilled coffee on you in some meet-cute. But no. You went for cinematic fate.”

“Felt on-brand.”

“So, what, you just knew I’d roll with it? Or you'll just claim you had a feeling?”

“Maybe I just told it before so it kind of stuck.”

“Aha! I knew I wasn’t your first!”

Lu Guang adjusts his wristwatch. “Not sure I’d phrase it like that.”

Cheng Xiaoshi presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “And here I thought what we had was special. I would kiss you while the audience clapped and while thunder rolled, for real. If you even care.”

Lu Guang finally looks at him, something like amusement flickering at the edges. “Oddly specific. Too bad I don’t recall agreeing to that.”

“Fine. We’ll take it slow, so let’s clarify—where do I rank? Best fake boyfriend you’ve ever had?”

“You’re certainly the most persistent.”

“Oh, Ice Prince. Flattery will get you everywhere. Threats just might.”

Lu Guang shakes his head, exhaling. “They certainly didn’t help with my landlord earlier.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stills, just for a second. Interesting.

Then he plasters on a saccharine smile. “Well, you do have a very convincing fake-boyfriend now. Maybe he could help. A little whooping never did anyone any harm.”

“Are you offering?”

“Depends. Accommodation or assault?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer immediately. Then, with the same infuriating ease as before, he smirks.

“You were better at this in the previous time loop.”

And that—oh, that—settles right in Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest, an ache wrapped in velvet. A weight that shouldn’t be there but is.

But he doesn’t let it show. He just leans in easily. Confidentially.

“I'm sensing some unresolved hostility from you. I might just be able to help… if you dare.”

“I've been here less than a day and arson is already on the table, so I'm not sure about your idea of help.”

“Fires just happen to be my speciality, because the question isn’t whether you could—it’s whether you’d walk away unsinged.”

“Personally? I would get away with murder if the opportunity presented itself.”

It wasn’t the same thing. Cheng Xiaoshi only watches. Lu Guang rolls his sleeve back down. A head tilt, a lean back, a fingers drum—then Lu Guang adjusts his fanny pack and pushes to his feet. Cheng Xiaoshi arches an eyebrow, voice syrupy.

“All this edging yet no ‘partner in crime’ situation?”

“Plausible deniability. Don’t feature me in your dream tonight.”

“Nightmare it is, then—rated R and disturbingly poetic.”

Lu Guang gives him a single flat look. Then he turns to leave.

Cheng Xiaoshi isn't above checking him out as he heads to the door.

 

◑

 

His flat is dim save for the glow of his laptop screen and the occasional quasi-flicker of his midnight-blue Zippo.

Cheng Xiaoshi sits on the couch, one leg pulled up, the other stretched out. His second talisman, the script for Phantom of the Opera—his annotated copy—lies half-buried under a notebook in which he hasn’t written.

He scrolls through cold cases—bodies, investigations, dead ends. The same story, over and over.

He really needs a new hobby.

But also maybe he doesn’t want one—never needed to.

A documentary drones in the background with grainy footage: another missing person, another family caught mid-collapse. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t hear the words—just the silence between them. 

He isn't looking for answers anymore. The patterns are easier to work with. 

Another click and another thread of nothing. It’s insane, looking for something you can’t name but know was once there. A tasteless metaphor for his life.

But he dives deeper—articles, forums, fiction, non-fiction. Darker corners. People who say things like: If you’ve watched enough detective shows, you’ll know what not to do.

It lands like a thought he shouldn't think. But it’s true: if you pay attention long enough, you learn what everyone else missed.

How to leave no trace.

He sits back, rubbing his eyes. The next case blurs as the next article dissolves. It’s too predictable—same arc and end that it feels like watching his own story on loop, only in other people’s names.

He flicks the lighter open. The hinge clicks—sharp in the quiet. It doesn’t have fuel, hasn’t had for years, but the weight is steady in his palm. Familiar. He flicks it shut. Then open again. It’s a nervous tic, or maybe just something to do while his mind spirals.

“Something wicked this way comes,” he mutters. Because some things deserve an entrance—and if a cryptic message arrives three days before a Beijing flight and just sits in his inbox like a loaded gun, it deserves a Shakespearean omen.

Not that he believes in omens. But he does believe in a well-timed joke.

He drags a thumb across his phone, opening the email for the hundredth time. Subject: XIXI. No sender or caption. The attached QR code links to constellation that requires a passcode.

First, Cheng Xiaoshi thought it was a prank—then, mistake. Now? It feels deliberate. Too clean and too symmetrical—even for Roman numerals. There is no fault in these stars.

He slouches deeper into the couch: one arm over the back, the other working the Zippo. Open. Shut. Open. Shut. Its sound cutting the quiet, rhythmic. Ticking.

“It’s not exactly a puzzle,” he muses. “A performance, one where no acts drag—where we flinch for every beat.”

He would know. He has spent years memorising scripts. Cheng Xiaoshi knows when something is meant to be interpreted, not read.

His laptop glows dim beside him. The essay untouched. Play Analysis: Encoding Narrative Through Movement. It’s due in a week but ignored for days.

His eyes shift to Every Moment in Between on the coffee table. He taps a pen against the couch arm. Click. Click. Click. A countdown. Because the question lingers: who wants him to look deeper? Into what, and why now?

An idea hits.

He grabs the play script then flips through pages in the hope they might rearrange themselves midair.

The premise is fine—but that’s all: fine. Chen Nan’s fallen childhood friend, a Ling Chengshi, plays detective along with his dormmate Li Zhao in order to puzzle out her disappearance. She goes missing from her boarding school, last seen near the mirrored hallway. No footage or explanation or body. The official story called it an intentional disappearance.

Until the notes. Until items reappear—signatures: C.N. It’s either a very committed prank… or a ghost with a flair for drama.

Right now, it’s an unsolved case with no body and no tension.

But that’s fixable. Because Cheng Xiaoshi knows the scriptwriter.

He’ll make him fix it.

Chapter 3: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Schedule of Accidental Meetings

Although often too pristine, too vain—too Vein—the theatre today is too sweaty. Cheng Xiaoshi sits on the edge of the stage, flipping through his script. Vein’s coat flares dramatically as he circles the stage, gesturing too much, talking too loudly. Nearby, Qiao Ling looks like she is counting to ten in five different languages.

“It’s about depth,” Vein says, as if unveiling the secrets of the universe. “Emotion. He isn't just saying the lines—he’s living them. That’s why he’s perfect. He doesn’t overthink it.”

“Which’s exactly the problem.”

Vein waves Qiao Ling off, already moving. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“What are you even saying—? You’re literally directing a drama!”

“So you finally understand the necessity?” He beams. “Cheng Xiaoshi’ll burn so brightly in our July premiere if only you don’t clip his wings. Let my baby prodigy soar until he reaches beyond the sun.”

Qiao Ling exhales slowly. “Xiao Weiying… I am the dramaturg and emotional delivery is on my turf.”

“Yes, and you’re doing so well and I do want you to go out on a high note, but method acting—”

“—is a disaster in waiting,”

“A disaster?” Cheng Xiaoshi tosses the script to the prop table. “That’s harsh, Qiao Ling. I often think of it as immersive learning.”

Qiao Ling glares. Xia Fei, uncapping his water bottle, smirks.

Delighted, Vein turns. “See? Cheng Xiaoshi darling gets it. He’s perfect for this role. It’s practically written for him.”

“Again. That’s exactly my concern. He’s already got murder on the brain.”

But Vein flaps a dismissive hand and drapes his coat over his shoulders even more dramatically before striding across the stage.

“Cheng Xiaoshi, your delivery is delicious, but I need you to dig deeper. What’s Ling Chengshi’s core emotion here?”

Cheng Xiaoshi lazily swings his leg. “Horny vengeance.”

Qiao Ling sighs. “It’s despair, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“Tomato, tomahto.”

Qiao Ling looks ready to throw a script at him. Vein just laughs.

“Case in point. He hits the required urgency. This is a man at the edge of something terrible and knows how to make the best of it—with flair.”

Xia Fei scoffs, commenting about how Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t need to act to grasp that. Cheng Xiaoshi smirks. He watches amusedly as Vein strides off to make some announcement.

Qiao Ling rubs her temples. “I swear to god, if he doesn’t take this seriously—”

“I’m very serious—I’m so serious, in fact, that I’m considering a method approach. You know, really live the character’s emotional arc.”

Qiao Ling’s eyes sharpen. “You’re not method acting this.”

“I could—”

“Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi kicks his feet. “You guys don’t trust me?”

“No.” Qiao Ling and Xia Fei twine.

Cheng Xiaoshi just winks. Across the theatre, Vein claps his hands.

“You and your poor taste—that’s what makes him brilliant. And speaking of brilliant assets—everyone, I’d like to introduce our latest addition.”

It is not the theatricality that draws Cheng Xiaoshi's attention. Rather, it is Qiao Ling, whose posture goes stiff. Cheng Xiaoshi knows that look. He has seen it before. But Vein is still talking.

“Lucas Guan. Journalism postgrad. Express-shipped from London and here on a grant to study how historical narratives influence present-day storytelling— Big words, big project. Be nice and don’t traumatise him too fast.”

Then the door creaks—and there he is. The Ice Prince himself.

Cheng Xiaoshi grins. Fate really has some curious sense of humour.

The introductions are barely out of Vein’s mouth before Cheng Xiaoshi moves—and somehow this has deterred anyone from approaching Lu Guang. It has granted him Lu Guang's undivided attention.

He passes a hand through his hair, mussing it, then kindles his most charming smile.

“Lucas,” he leans against a prop desk, all effortless charm. “What kind of research?”

Lu Guang meets his gaze with the unbothered indifference of someone who has perfected the art of keeping people at arm’s length.

“Journalism postgrad, as you’ve heard. This project is part of my grant.”

“Ah,” Vein interjects, “mind you, it’s not just any research. We’re talking deep-dive investigative work—how stories live and die in public memory, how narratives mutate depending on who's telling them, how the unsolved gets romanticised.” He gestures grandly. “Theatre and journalism! Both are about curated storytelling, no?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s interest sharpens. Because that is exactly the kind of thing that makes people dig into the past.

Lu Guang, however, gives no indication that he finds his own work as fascinating as Vein does. “It’s field research. I'm looking at how performance influences perception. Among other things.”

“So, you’re saying you get to watch us act and call it work?”

“Something like that.”

Cheng Xiaoshi studies him. He knows a good opportunity when he sees one. A journalism postgrad—especially one with this specific focus—means access. Resources. A person who asks questions and follows trails—someone who might already have the kind of information Cheng Xiaoshi wants but can’t get on his own.

And more than that, there’s the simple, undeniable fact: This is Lu Guang.

Five times now. Cheng Xiaoshi lied: he doesn’t believe in fate, but he believes in patterns.

He tilts his head, letting his smile curl at the edges. His eyes cut to the edge of the theatre, where Qiao Ling watches in silent horror. It only further amuses Cheng Xiaoshi—emboldens him, even.

So he takes a step forward. Lu Guang’s phone buzzes in his pocket, but he ignores it. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him ignore it.

“So, what’s the angle?” Cheng Xiaoshi’s tone is light. “Research, understandable, but what exactly are you digging into?”

Lu Guang’s fingers hover over his phone screen. “Unsolved cases. And the stories people tell about them.”

Cheng Xiaoshi sits back, satisfied. “See? Fate.”

“Or unfortunate coincidence. But I suppose it’s just semantics for you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs, because he was going to argue that. Then he outs his second line of attack.

“Gotta be honest for a moment here. I didn’t peg you for the theatre type one bit. Journalism, sure—maybe even literature. But willingly stepping into all this?” He gestures vaguely at the stage, the lights, the people scrambling around. “Unexpected.”

“So much for sleuthing work, guy-pretending-to-be-a-detective.”

“Less pretending and more method acting, if you even care.”

“That does explain a lot.” Lu Guang’s mouth twitches as though holding back a smile. “You look like the type who thrives in chaos, even when the play dictates otherwise—but I reckon we often forget how we should be reading between the lines if we want to correctly interpret the script.”

“Mouthful—but let me just shoot it down because it’s really bold of you to assume I even read the script.”

“Even bolder of you to assume I believe that.”

“Careful, Lucas.” Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, eyes narrowing. “Run your pretty mouth like that and I might start thinking you plotted our inevitable reunion.”

“That does sound like something you’d think.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lets out a spatter of laughter then tilts his head, studying Lu Guang's unreadable expression. He idly taps his arm.

“For a guy who just walked in, you’ve got a lot of opinions and way too many cutting comebacks. Hot.”

“Occupational hazard. If you even care.”

Cheng Xiaoshi makes a show of considering that—of trying to gauge how much mirroring is intentional here. So he just says,

“Fine. I’ll bite—I need the entertainment anyway. Tell me, Lu Guang, what exactly is it that caught your attention?”

Lu Guang glances around, unimpressed. “For starters, your director enjoys the sound of his own voice. Your dramaturg is reconsidering all her career choices. And your co-star—” his gaze flicks to Xia Fei who’s locked in a quiet but visibly irritated debate with Vein, “seems like he’s auditioning to be said director’s next mistake.”

Cheng Xiaoshi flicks an amused eyebrow, prompting Lu Guang who now gives him a once-over. “And you have never met a spotlight you didn’t like.”

“Well, it’s either enable the attention—the lustre—or suffer in silence, and I’m not much for suffering.”

“Right. You prefer making everyone else suffer for your private entertainment.”

He’s quick. Cheng Xiaoshi’s lips twitch. “No comment. What other sharp reads have you made about yours truly in such a short interval of time, Sherlock?”

Lu Guang’s head tilts. “You don’t like being bored. But you also don’t like when things get too real. And if I had to guess, you prefer the chase over the catch.”

The corner of Cheng Xiaoshi’s mouth quirks up. “Good thing I’ve landed a journalist, then—someone who loves a good chase.”

“That depends. Is there something worth chasing?”

For a second, just a second, something tugs at the edges of Cheng Xiaoshi’s mind—like an almost-memory, slipping away before he can catch it. But it’s gone before he can name it.

And so, feigning disappointment, he exhales. “Bummer. And here I thought we were flirting.”

Something flickers in Lu Guang’s eyes. Amusement? Recognition? But the moment is too short. Lu Guang's phone buzzes again. This time, he answers it, turning away.

“Lu Guang?”

It gives Lu Guang a pause. He slowly turns to meet one of the most playful smiles Cheng Xiaoshi has ever thrown another person.

“How do you feel about method actors?”

A beat. Two. “I think they have a tendency to push things too far, forget who they are.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“Oftentimes.”

The moment hovers.

But Lu Guang turns, already speaking into the phone again. And Cheng Xiaoshi watches him go.

Again.

 

 

The rest of the rehearsals goes fine—or as fine as the two successive incidents starring Qiao Ling and Cheng Xiaoshi’s very own inattentiveness can allow.

Cheng Xiaoshi wasn’t paying attention—not to the scattered scripts or to whatever Xia Fei’s been ranting about. His focus has been elsewhere. Across the room, Qiao Ling talks to Lu Guang—where she is laughing.

Lu Guang—Lu Guang—tilts his head toward her with real amusement, the sort you sport around your people. Cheng Xiaoshi felt it before he processed it—his body going still, instinct clenching tighter than thought.

By the time he moves closer, the conversation has been over. All that is left behind are exchanged glances and too-knowing smiles.

He doesn’t linger. He needs Qiao Ling’s help anyway; she’s the only one who can help him finesse a redirection half-decent to propose to Liu Xiao. The man is too clever, too insufferable, and just amused enough to make every move feel like a trap. Cheng Xiaoshi is never sure if he is playing along or being played. He hates being predictable but Liu Xiao—part playwright, part puppeteer, absolute hot menace—makes it inevitable.

Even so, twenty minutes into brainstorming with EMiB’s dramaturg in the quad, and Cheng Xiaoshi finds his thoughts drifting again—not to his pitch, but to the way Lu Guang laughed.

Like it was easy. Like he belonged.

Qiao Ling taps her pen against her notebook. “So, scene direction. We need more tension in Act Three— Ling Chengshi gets too close to the truth too fast, especially with the interlude interrogation scenes. Maybe throw in a red herring, Li Zhao being a trap?”

“No need.” Cheng Xiaoshi’s jaw works lazily. “Ling Chengshi thinks he’s solving a mystery, but he’s really just walking in circles. You let him think he’s getting somewhere, let him feel smart. But every clue leads him back to himself.”

“So the culprit is—?”

“Obvious. Just not to him.”

Qiao Ling narrows her eyes. “That’s—”

“Brilliant? I know.”

“I was going to say concerning.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blows a bubble, lets it burst loudly. He doesn’t apologise.

Qiao Ling sighs, shutting her notebook with more force than necessary. “Speaking of poor self-awareness. How’s the mystery-solving going?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes cut too quickly to the unimpressed Qiao Ling. Luckily, she tacks on a, “You cracked the case of the brooding Ice Prince yet? He’s in real proximity now.”

“Oh? I didn’t realise you were so interested in my love life, or this soft interrogation now is because you guys clearly liked each other in another lifetime?”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“That’s neither a no nor a deterrent. You call him Lu Guang, not Lucas—don’t think I haven’t clocked that.”

“By proxy of you. And if you're so interested, we met in Beijing’s 2025 film festival. Are you done deflecting yet?”

Cheng Xiaoshi smirks. “Only warming up—with both of you, actually. Because as you know, seduction goes a long way.”

Qiao Ling messages her temples. The worst part? The headache talks back. While chewing.

She takes a deep breath before feeling around in her bag.

“I’m not interested in your habit of turning everything into a game. And I’ve seen this one before, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“You mean in those tacky slow-burn tragedies you cling to—where the leads act like they’re not already neck-deep in something doomed? Bit overdone, I'd say, but you do you.”

“Well, you’ve seen him three times in as many days. That’s fate, babe.” Qiao Ling intercepts the gum mid-bubble and drops it neatly into the napkin. “Or stalking—depends on who saw whom first.”

“You don’t believe in fate and that has been in my mouth since yesterday. Want to guess where else my mouth has been yesterday?”

Qiao Ling doesn’t blink. “I’m not entertaining that sentence or its implications.”

“Why, hate to admit you think about my mouth too often?”

“Hate to admit that if I think about it too hard, I’ll need bleach and a lobotomy. You’re a disgusting little coward that I want to smack on the head, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi pouts. “Again? Have I not suffered enough?”

“It wasn’t me the first time. My only regret of that night is that I should’ve stayed and watched.”

“Always a pleasure, Qiao Ling.” Cheng Xiaoshi smiles wryly. “So. What’s your pitch this time?”

The corner of Qiao Ling's mouth quirks up. Her eyes narrow.

“I just think, seeing as you’re already obsessed, you might as well get to know Lu Guang. Properly.”

“You don’t even know if we’d get along.”

“I know you,” she leans back against the chair, crossing her arms, “and I know the last person you went out of your way to be this fascinated by.”

“Say his name. Jae Lee deserves a sneezing fit for running off with my silly little cat-ears hat.”

Qiao Ling blinks—quickly smooths it over into an eyeroll.

“This isn't about Jae Lee. This is about every single obsession of yours. Want me to enumerate them?”

“If I had a yuan for every time I got fixated on something, I’d be funding this production myself. Nothing means anything.”

“Yeah? Well, this one comes with an intriguing history and a heartbeat, so maybe don’t treat it like your latest personality trait.”

It’s not the laugh that is most obnoxious; it’s the way he tilts his head on one side, coupled with the self-satisfied smirk he wears as he leans into Qiao Ling's space.

“Incredible! You’ve cracked the code. What’s next, a full psychological profile? Should I be worried?”

Qiao Ling deadpans. “No need. Your entire personality is public domain, nothing groundbreaking.”

“And how does the DSM-5 account for my charm, dir. Qiao Ling?”

“You think he’s useful, so you keep him close.” She taps her fingers against the script. “That’s the first part. Then you start enjoying yourself—and that’s the part where you screw it all up.”

“Bold of you to assume I genuinely enjoy anything worth keeping around.”

Her eyes cut sharply to him, his name an equal warning. Cheng Xiaoshi lets the ensuing silence stretch.

It’s true that he is intrigued. Lu Guang has settled into his orbit too seamlessly, their interactions too delicious—if their track record is anything to judge by. The journalist angle is convenient; Lu Guang might know something, might even be useful. And Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t above using people to get what he wants.

But it’s also true that something about Lu Guang unsettles him—that there’s a pull he doesn’t understand, an instinct he doesn’t quite trust.

Qiao Ling watches him too closely.

Then, casually—too casually—she says, “Here’s a thought. Why not ask him to move in with you?”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. “What?”

“Don’t act surprised.” Qiao Ling is entirely unfazed. “You need to have a flatmate for being a security risk and Lu Guang can't Tujia his term-stay. He can help you with your term papers and you can help him with his crime non-fiction. It’s a win-win— Unless, of course, there’s a reason you’re hesitating?”

Cheng Xiaoshi narrows his eyes. “You just want me to get a partner—take that however you want—so you can stop listening to my tragic hookups before you leave for Beijing.”

“I want you to stop making terrible decisions, but since that’s not happening any time in the foreseeable future—let alone before August—I’m steering you toward a tolerable one.”

As Cheng Xiaoshi breaks out laughing, Qiao Ling grabs her bag and pushes to her feet.

She gives him a pointed look. “Think about it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches her go, jaw tight.

He won’t.

Probably.

 

That night, after he has walked out of shower, he casually asks his former situationship to ask his crush for Ice Prince’s number.

By morning, Xia Fei has texted him the number.

 

◑

 

It’s approaching spring yet the rain is still making a mess of the city—the sort that taunts memory.

Cheng Xiaoshi hates it. Always has.

He stares at the ceiling, the weight beside him familiarly unfamiliar—a body—a stranger. He breathes in: the room reeks of smoke and someone else’s musky cologne. He exhales, rolls his jaw—waits for something to settle.

Nothing does.

The sheets barely shift when he gets up. He doesn’t look back. In an all-too-familiar sequence, he finds his shirt, swipes his lighter from the floor, and steps out onto the balcony. The air is cold and the rain worse. It drips from the railing, slides down his wrist when he leans. He lets it.

For a while, Cheng Xiaoshi watches the blurring-neon-lights smear of colour. He rolls the lighter between his fingers, then his hands move on their own.

The script is where it always is: stuffed into his bag, pages soft and spine cracked from too much handling. It’s older than it should be—a copy from a play he barely remembers performing. Yet, the thrill of its aftermaths lingers. Its infinity. Inexhaustibility.

He flips through it absently. There’s a note in the margins. He traces the fading ink with his thumb. It should be funny. How something as stupid as a half-forgotten play can feel like a quiet, steady heartbeat in a life that never stops shifting.

But it isn’t. It’s just warm.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking to the blonde still sprawled in his bed. This could be much better—all of it. He pockets the lighter then leans out on the railing. Pitter-patter. Click. Click. Click.

Tap, tap, tap. The first arrow is freed.

how many ‘im too good for a hotel’ comments does it take before u realise u belong in my bed in my arms?

He waits, the rain not letting up. It’s like the silence is daring him to do something—anything—to break it. The phone buzzes three minutes later.

How many Cheng Xiaoshis does it take to hold me in bed? None, because he’s the little spoon.

Cheng Xiaoshi turns around, already feeling smug. He taps out his reply, not wasting time with pretence.

dont act like you dont want the option to crash here. yk ive got everything you need to make the night… unforgettable

A beat. Then Lu Guang's cutting response comes in.

Need I remind you terrible nights are also unforgettable? Don’t flatter yourself.

Ping,

i have ur attention. u let me be ur best fake boyfriend. theres little harm in letting me show u what exactly ur missing

Pong,

Send me a link; you needn’t demonstrate yourself or in-person.

Cheng Xiaoshi's smirk only grows. Amused, his fingers tap the edge of his phone before he decides to fire the text anyway.

tell me, fitzwilliam darcy… when was the last time someone really pushed u? id be more than happy to remind u what that feels like

The bubble shows up. Disappears. It shows again for two seconds. Gone. Cheng Xiaoshi wipes a rain droplet off his screen. No bubbles or dots this time, so he types:

seems like u have to push ur memory really far back

Then,

from the rusty rusty vaults

And,

the forbidden archives

Then Lu Guang's reply chimes in.

Keep pushing and see if it moves.

Cheng Xiaoshi chuckles.

already seems like it has.

The bubble appears briefly. A beat, then a steady bobble.

Not when you're using Mr Darcy as the bar. Someone slept through literature classes in college.

Of course. Cheng Xiaoshi chews on the inside of his cheek.

lets just say my undergrad life is sth of a pipe dream bleary-eyed fugue

Tap, tap, tap.

impressed with my mixed metaphors yet?

Then, not so much an afterthought.

u can fix me. u’ll tutor me just fine

Cheng Xiaoshi can't help himself.

be nice while im only trying to give you a warm welcome

This time, Lu Guang fires back.

A gift basket would be better.

Cheng Xiaoshi is shifting gears. He shifts his weight to the other foot.

sure, why not—mine comes with different-flavoured condoms lubes and a customary blowjob. aftercare included in bundle. refund available if service is wanting

Lu Guang's reply is almost immediate—tight, but still too casual.

The only thing wanting here is your grammar.

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts.

ur only deflecting cuz ur flustered

Someone I knew used to flirt like that. Thought I’d entertain it for a while, but turns out, I have neither the patience nor the taste anymore.

But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss it. He chooses to bite. Hard.

lucky for u im not that ex. so, spring term, partner?

His fingers do their usual dance along the phone’s frame. The dance is similar to the one smoothing the edges of his lighter. It seems like the rain is dwindling, or maybe he has grown accustomed to the cold.

He tosses his head back and closes his eyes. Drip, drip, drip—was it a rainy day?

Cheng Xiaoshi cycles through the memories. Most of them feel another lifetime away. Some sort of bleary-eyed fugue. Purple haze. A bullet through the heart, a syringe to the jugular, a comedown that burns all the way through.

And finally—

Lu Guang’s reply hits like a rush to the head.

Next week.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t waste time sending Lu Guang the address.

 

◑

 

Today’s rehearsal is gruelling, though not for the usual reasons.

Cheng Xiaoshi has always hated the first week of March. It makes his stomach twist.

His eyes follow the cast, but he’s not really watching. His thoughts are still stuck on last night: cold cases, police reports that don’t line up, non-fiction that hits too close to Lumen’s fiction. It loops in his head like bad music. He can’t turn it off.

Onstage, Ling Chengshi’s lines fall flat. Vivian—his Chen Nan—misses a cue, but no one says anything.

Cheng Xiaoshi taps his fingers along the edge of his script. Something is wrong with the scene.

The pretext is simple—Ling Chengshi falls again for Chen Nan while trying to solve the mystery of her disappearance. But the mechanics of it—the trick behind her vanishing act? It’s messy. Off. It reads as someone who went out of their way to make it harder to see.

And it feels like a taunt.

Never missing his cue, Liu Xiao soundlessly stands by the door. No one acknowledges him. He’s used to it.

“Ling Chengshi,” Liu Xiao’s gaze flicks over the scene like he’s seen it all before, “he’s too neat. Too safe, if I dare. What if he got sent something? An anonymous message from Li Zhao or Wang Qing even. It would be something that makes him question everything he thought he knew about the supposed betrayal. Vivian?”

“It sounds like a… promising trajectory.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss the way Xia Fei's eyes narrow at Vivian’s reply. Wang Qing—Shen Miaomiao enthusiastically fleshes out the bestfriend backstory. Cheng Xiaoshi’s grip tightens on his script. The idea lands in his chest heavier than he expected. He stays quiet.

“I could get behind that that,” Xia Fei says. “It would make Li Zhao’s character arc more impactful too.”

Liu Xiao shrugs, dismissive. “More importantly. Ling Chengshi isn't supposed to get it easy. If the clues aren’t good enough, the whole thing is pointless. His personal rediscovery has to feel earned for it to be cathartic—even when the audience doesn’t know that’s the trajectory.”

Cheng Xiaoshi thinks of the cipher. It’s like a puzzle with no answer, except there’s always one—somewhere, hidden. He doesn’t say anything.

Liu Xiao’s eyes flick to him, then away. He isn't smiling but there’s a question in his gaze. “Don’t you agree?”

Cheng Xiaoshi knows this game. He started it, but he’s not going to bite—not until it’s his turn.

“Could be interesting. If it’s something hidden in plain sight—something only he can break… before it breaks him.”

The sound Liu Xiao makes doesn’t qualify as a laugh. He takes a step in Cheng Xiaoshi's direction, as though the rest of the cast is incidental.

“Right? But the tricky part is that Ling Chengshi has to work it out on his own. We can’t even give him hints snice it would ruin the whole fun.”

There’s a long pause. Cheng Xiaoshi feels it and Liu Xiao feels it. Once again, the question is not about the play anymore. It’s about control.

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts, then clears his throat. “Fair. How do you suggest we should move forward?”

Liu Xiao doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at him, as if the question is irrelevant.

“We’ll have to play it by ear, I suppose. There’s a certain melody that might haunt the narrative real soon if we’re bold enough. We just need to make sure no one is… skittish.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t respond. He only feels Xia Fei's prompting hand on his arm. Cheng Xiaoshi would have probably stared at Liu Xiao for a while longer had it not been for the happy accident afoot.

Before he can decide how to move forward, a sharp groan punctures the air. Vivian clutching her arm. Her face is scrunched in pain. Xia Fei is already turned, but Cheng Xiaoshi barely flinches.

Cheng Xiaoshi holds out his hand like he's about to stop traffic—a non-verbal, Hold still.

The room goes still as Cheng Xiaoshi steps toward Vivian, his voice low and almost too casual for what’s happening. He is already bending over her, eyes flicking to what he names as a dislocated shoulder. The movement is too fast, almost surgical. He doesn’t hesitate—doesn’t second-guess.

“Cheng Xiaoshi, what the hell are you doing?” Xia Fei’s voice is half-sceptical, half-alarmed, but Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t acknowledge him. His focus is singular; Vivian’s discomfort is a background hum. Liu Xiao’s smile is crackling fire.

The only thing that matters is the clean snap of the shoulder popping back into place.

Cheng Xiaoshi steps back. He brushes his hands off, looks around, and gives a little grin—the way he would when he's just finished a scene in rehearsal.

Vivian is blinking, still processing what just happened.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs in lieu of explanation. “Watched a video,”

“That is not the same thing— What is wrong with you?”

“I name my bruises, I talk to mirrors, and I keep seeing the same dead man in different outfits.” Cheng Xiaoshi scrunches his nose at the protesting Vivian. “I’m sure you’ll live and I’ll continue being your deranged colleague.”

If Vivian wasn’t still holding her arm gingerly, she would have slugged him. Probably. Cheng Xiaoshi just gives a careless wave of his hand, already heading backstage.

He is passing by the curtain and that’s when the scent tickles his memory—a rush of rain-soaked earth and warm vanilla.

He is the one who said, ‘next week;’ no need to play coy. Cheng Xiaoshi’s laugh sounds too nervous to him.

But he doesn’t heed it. He just whistles and heads to grab his bag.

Chapter 4: ShiGuang and the Flat Not Big Enough for Their Baggage

The move-in day was criminally unforgettable. Literally.

The footsteps in the corridor are faint. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t look up.

He’s crouched over a dummy in a thrifted shirt, red marker across the chest. The knife is in his hand—steady—methodical—as though rehearsing not for theatre but from memory.

The script sits on the coffee table, creased and dog-eared. Vein’s note stares up at him: If you can’t solve the trick, you can’t pitch your detective bit.

He can’t solve it—not fully—but he knows enough. Because the body is cooling and the blood is real.

So, naturally, Cheng Xiaoshi does what any self-respecting detective would do: he sets the stage. For a four-year-old case. It counts as midterm prep, technically.

Two weeks left. Lu Guang will fix him.

The mirror has been dragged into place. The couch pushed to mimic a train suite lounge. He sits—imagines the angle, the knife, the weight of inevitability, the thrill of the mess.

It doesn’t work. He doesn’t fit. Something is missing.

The door creaks open. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t have to.

“Just in time— I was hoping for a dramatic entrance, but I’ll take it.”

Lu Guang leans in the doorway with no lugged suitcase. He only has a floral-patterned umbrella which he now uses as a walking cane. Next week always meant never.

Cheng Xiaoshi straightens then smiles.

“Train murder. Locked-room trick. I need a second pair of eyes.”

He gestures at the scene—dummy, knife, controlled chaos.

“So, here’s the scenario. A stranger. Clean, clinical single strike—right in the heart. Nothing too messy, no drama you'd think it’s polite.” He spins the knife once, lazily, before demonstrating. “It’s all in the build-up, really. The anticipation. You don’t go in like a madman. You take your time, set it up, get the perfect angle. The calm before the plunge. It’s almost like a private conversation. And then—” He mimics the final move, blade dropping.

Only then does he look at Lu Guang—Lu Guang who waits a stretch of beats before finally saying,

“You don’t know how it was done,”

“That’s the thrilling part, no?”

Lu Guang steps inside. He scans the room—mirror, lighting, spacing—without comment. Then, finally, he meets Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes.

“It’s faithful to the scene?”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans against the armrest, shrugging. “What can I say? Top tier method acting.”

Lu Guang exhales. It isn't quite a sigh, but neither does it qualify as amusement. Still, he doesn’t leave.

“It’s the murder Chen Nan witnesses—Liu Lei’s,” Cheng Xiaoshi gestures lazily. “Luxury train suite. Midnight. Victim is seen alive through the window at the tunnel checkpoint. Thirty minutes later, the train pulls in, cabin is locked from the inside, and the rich bastard is dead. The knife is gone and the alibi is airtight with multiple witnesses. Thoughts?”

Instead of answering, Lu Guang checks the door: he rattles it, knocks once—tries the handle. Then he crouches to study the floor gap.

He moves to the mirror. Stares at himself. Tilts his head. Then, silently, turns off the lamp.

The shadows shift.

He steps forward. Then back. Then forward again. Cheng Xiaoshi is certain Lu Guang is watching something he himself can’t see.

The lighter in Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand starts its ritual: it clicks open—snap—then shuts. And the room holds its breath.

Lu Guang turns, sharp and certain. “It’s a two-way mirror trick.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stills. “Explain.”

Lu Guang taps the mirror, gaze steady. “This was never a single compartment. The ‘luxury suite’ was two rooms, divided by a hidden mirror panel. The victim was never alone.”

Cheng Xiaoshi sits up, weight shifting. Something tugs low in his chest.

Lu Guang taps the frame. “The lights dim when the train enters the tunnel, which is when the illusion flickers. The killer—who’s been in the next suite over the whole time—steps through the mirror, stabs the victim, then slips back before the tunnel ends. No one sees them leave because, technically, they were never ‘inside’ to begin with.”

Another pause, longer this time.

Cheng Xiaoshi flicks the lighter closed before turning it over in his palm. He wasn’t expecting Lu Guang to figure it out that fast. But more alarmingly, he wasn’t expecting him to look that focused, that precise while reading the scene like a script and filling in the missing lines.

Cheng Xiaoshi has always been drawn to clever pretty things. But this—this is something else.

He watches Lu Guang, really watches him, and something admiration-adjacent pulls tight in his ribs.

Slowly, Cheng Xiaoshi exhales. Then he grins. “Not bad, Sherlock.”

Lu Guang doesn’t step away from the mirror. He just watches Cheng Xiaoshi, gaze steady, mouth set in that unreadable line that means he’s already thinking five steps ahead.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans against the wall, arms crossed. Still amused. Still waiting.

“Alright, detective.” He grins. “What now?”

Lu Guang tilts his head slightly, probably looking at an angle no one else can see. His fingers tap once against his forearm before stilling. “This is a little too specific, don’t you think?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s expression is smooth. “What? The setup or the trick?”

“Both. All of it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. “It’s called research. You know, what normal people do when they’re working on a play?” He gestures vaguely at the staged scene. “Getting into the mind of a killer, that sort of thing. You should try it sometime.”

Lu Guang doesn’t react to the joke. His silence is pressing in a way that makes the air feel heavier.

Cheng Xiaoshi sighs, mock-dramatic. “Let me work my sleuthing mojo: you think I did it before—you think I lured some poor soul into my apartment just to test an illusion, to get you to help me cover it up?”

Cheng Xiaoshi steps closer, teasing. He doesn’t break eye contact as he laugh-adds, “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you do anything… unless you want me to.”

The silence stretches between them. Lu Guang doesn’t move, but there’s something in the air now—like he’s about to ask a question he already knows the answer to. He doesn’t. Instead, after a beat, he says, “Why are we really recreating this?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t even blink. “For shock value, what else?”

The pause after says too much. It’s just the tiniest crack in Cheng Xiaoshi's easy mask, but it belies how he just realised the obvious answer has been staring him right in the face. He doesn’t like it—so he laughs it off and wanders toward the couch.

“Relax, Guangguang, if I ever actually kill someone, you’ll be the first to find out. Vein gave me the script and wouldn’t let Ling Chengshi back in unless I figure out how the murder has been carried out.”

Lu Guang’s jaw tics. “Was that Vein's idea—not the murder, the test?”

“You’re very good at this.”

“I know.” Lu Guang exhales, almost a laugh. “So why do I get the feeling you aren’t just playing around?”

Cheng Xiaoshi claps his hands. “Because you’re paranoid.”

“You mean because you think I can't read you. Because you think I can't tell this mirrors a real murder.”

That stills him for half a second. Just half. Laughing awkward, Cheng Xiaoshi passes a hand through his hair and perches on the armrest.

“Let’s talk about your surprise guest appearance instead. What tipped you off that I noticed you weren’t actually moving in?”

Lu Guang doesn’t rise to it.

Cheng Xiaoshi puts a hand over his heart. “Which struggle? My gourmet cooking? My pushing the boundaries of personal space? My encyclopaedic knowledge of obscure crime novels? How many Cheng Xiaoshi’s does it take to change a lightbulb?”

“None. He’ll just distract you with a fake murder mystery until you forget the bulb was even broken.”

Cheng Xiaoshi grins and gestures vaguely around them. “And it’d take one Guangguang to change it—after first checking the entire building’s wiring to make sure no one else has messed with it. You're exceptional at enabling me, really, so why the waste?”

“I guess I’m not as good with ghostlights as I thought I were,”

“Code for? It’s getting boring me having to solve a minimum of one riddle just to get you to emote, Mr. Sphinx.”

“Someone found me a place.”

“Tragically it’s in the building opposite to mine. Sounds like fate to me. Again. Totally written in the stars.”

The faintest quirk of his lips betrays Lu Guang. “The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves.”

Cheng Xiaoshi clicks his tongue, eyes glinting with amusement. “Oh, you start with quoting a tragedy and, suddenly, we’re a few lines away from recreating a love story that ends in poison. I’m digging it, but not sure if I’m ready to die for you just yet.”

If Lu Guang's response has excited Cheng Xiaoshi earlier, his reaction now—the small chuckle and slanted eyes—spikes Cheng Xiaoshi’s pulse.

“I too have seen this play before. And I'm not sure I’m in a rush for a sequel.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s thoughts scatter. His body was starting to play a game of its own, and apparently, the rules were ‘no subtlety allowed’ and he might need to sit down with a cushion in his lap for this one.

Luckily, Lu Guang is walking away—Just thought I'd drop by.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches as Lu Guang forgets to pick up his umbrella. He doesn’t call after him.

But that night, he annotates the scene—redrafts it.

 

---

 

Act III. Scene VI

Set: Minimalist: One table. Two chairs. A flickering overhead bulb.

(Ling Chengshi sits with his wrists resting lightly against the edge of the table, posture impeccable.)

(Across from him, Liu Xiao’s DETECTIVE prowls, hands behind his back.)

DETECTIVE (airily):

Quite the body count for a birthday party.

LING CHENGSHI (soft smile, not quite kind):

You make it sound festive.

DETECTIVE:

People keep dying around you, and you're never too far away. (coaxing, then sharp) Coincidence, or just chronically unlucky?

(Ling Chengshi shrugs. Calculated indifference.)

LING CHENGSHI: People disappear all the time. It’s not illegal to be left behind.

(Lights flicker. Ling Chengshi’s silhouette ripples against the back wall—doubled, fractured.)

LING CHENGSHI: If I went through all the trouble, dropping a bracelet would be careless, don't you think?

(DETECTIVE slaps down a photo. Grainy footage. One figure entering. Another leaving. Timestamps blurred, maybe wrong. Purposefully confusing.)

(Ling Chengshi studies it. His own reflection stares back at him through the plastic sheen. He looks away first.)

LING CHENGSHI: Timing is messy.

DETECTIVE: (snarling) And Chen Nan? You really expect me to believe a girl just dropped dead at her own party?

(A pause. Ling Chengshi’s grip tightens around the chair. Barely.)

DETECTIVE: (cutting) Bit convenient, don't you think? Fewer witnesses, fewer problems.

(Ling Chengshi looks up. Stillness gone cold. His face is unreadable. His eyes aren’t.)

LING CHENGSHI: You want a confession? You want me to say it—that I killed her?

(The bulb flickers again. In the pulse of shadow, Ling Chengshi’s shape distorts. Less man, more ghost.)

BLACKOUT.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi needn’t even scheme. By the following morning, fate was doing his bidding.

It’s the theatre again—it’s always the theatre. Something, something about a poor strutting fretting player in a badly cast play. Saint Wilde of the Doomed Dandies or whatever; literature has never been Cheng Xiaoshi's forte.

Xia Fei is mid-rant about the latest rewrite when Qiao Ling gestures sharply.

“She’s out sick. We need the timing tight for this scene. Lu Guang, you’ve been watching it for a week. Just fill in.”

Lu Guang blinks behind his glasses. “I’m not an actor.”

“You’re not being asked to act. You’re being asked to stand in one spot and speak words.”

And that’s how Lu Guang ends up stage, script in hand, eyes very pointedly not meeting Cheng Xiaoshi’s. Xia Fei hides a grin behind his water bottle. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t hide anything. He takes position opposite Lu Guang, bouncing slightly on his heels.

“Careful,” he stage-whispers, “stand-ins tend to fall in love with me.”

Lu Guang doesn’t look up. “Statistically unlikely.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in as if considering him properly now. “And anecdotally?”

Qiao Ling claps her hands. “We’re working. Lines, please.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s cue is soft. He sharpens it on purpose.

“You said you'd write, but the mailbox stayed empty.”

Lu Guang’s delivery is flat, dutiful. “Maybe I ran out of things to say.”

Cheng Xiaoshi steps closer, definitely not in the blocking. “Or maybe you thought silence would spare you the guilt.”

Lu Guang doesn't move, but his fingers tighten just slightly around the script. That’s all Cheng Xiaoshi needs to smell blood.

“Too bad,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmurs. “I like guilt—goes well with your shirt. You wear heartbreak well.”

“You would know.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, off-balance for half a second. Lu Guang fixes Cheng Xiaoshi pointedly—like the sharpness of the gaze, like the clipped words, would keep the menace away. Unfortunately, sleuthing Cheng Xiaoshi beats him to the unrehearsed unscript.

“Let me guess. You think I'm not in character, but ever thought that this is the character—that I am my role?”

“And what role is that—delirious menace? It’s a tired one. Move on already.”

But Cheng Xiaoshi is undeterred. He ignores Qiao Ling's groan and instead amps up the smirk as he leans in, vice syrupy low.

“It wasn’t like that before—how you smell. But I also didn’t think I’d like it so much.”

“New perfume. Though I wouldn’t have worn it if I knew your role came with fragrance commentary.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. His gaze drops to Lu Guang's lips. His eyes narrow when his gaze flicks up.

“You know, it’s kinda hot when you try to eviscerate me like that. Just know I drop to my knees for a lot less than righteous indignation.”

Xia Fei clears his throat in the most exaggerated way possible. Qiao Ling mutters something about defenestration.

Lu Guang finally shifts back. One step, precise; it’s more distance than retreat.

“You’re overblocking,”

Cheng Xiaoshi wrinkles his nose. “Say it meaner. I need to know what tone to tell our future children I fell for.”

A beat.

Then Xia Fei tosses his marked-up script into the air. “This is porn-adjacent. Might as well call Jae Lee back—like is Cheng Xiaoshi even okay?”

“Well, you’ve heard the story—once he got bonked so hard and he’s never been the same since.” Qiao Ling deadpans. Then louder, she says, “Blocking is postponed until the mating ritual is over. Be feral off stage.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is cackling. Lu Guang hands the script back wordlessly. But as he walks past Cheng Xiaoshi, there’s a pause—a tiny breath, a tiny millisecond.

Then he’s gone.

And Cheng Xiaoshi is still facing the empty space where Lu Guang had stood.

Still smiling.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi's flirt-first-think-later style backfires too many times that he starts thinking Lu Guang is bulletproof. The Tutor Me plan should’ve been a controlled descent into mutually assured pining. It should’ve been foolproof.

Too bad Lu Guang is foolproof—which, by definition, makes him Cheng-Xiaoshi-proof.

Or, Attempts made by Cheng Xiaoshi to seduce Lu Guang using increasingly deranged strategies:

 

#1: SUBJECT ATTEMPTS SEDUCTION VIA METHOD ACTING; TARGET REMAINS UNIMPRESSED

Luring Lu Guang backstage during rehearsal? Cheng Xiaoshi isn't a man with a plan; he is a method actor who can well improvise.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans against the vanity, watching Lu Guang flip through the annotated script. He’s close—too close. The top buttons of Cheng Xiaoshi’s shirt are open. His breath deliberately warm against Lu Guang’s neck.

“You know, usually when someone undresses in front of you, you’re supposed to look,”

Lu Guang doesn’t look. “You assume I haven’t already.”

That pauses Cheng Xiaoshi. But Lu Guang doesn’t give him time to recover—he turns a page and adds, almost casually, “You’re too used to being wanted for how you burn under the spotlight. Some of us prefer who stays after curtain call.”

It sounds like an aphorism—most likely isn't.

Cheng Xiaoshi just laughs.

 

#2: SUBJECT MISTAKES CODEBREAKING FOR COURTSHIP; TARGET INTERCEPTS

Cheng Xiaoshi is trying to crack a code. It might be life-threatening, but it might also be a menu for the world’s worst escape room or coordinates for a mass weapon of destruction or just a very funny IKEA manual.

He has been at it for an hour. And by ‘at it,’ it’s more of staring at the paper while contemplating whether God has favourites and whether Lu Guang is one of them. Or maybe all of them.

Cheng Xiaoshi isn't proud of it, but the cipher is officially harder than getting laid in this godforsaken city—and that’s saying something. Because two days ago, he’d tried with a girl who called herself Tatu and had a dragon tattoo on her thigh. He likes dragons. She likes girls. That ended before the drinks arrived.

Yesterday, he’d thought Jae Lee’s replacement—the new stage assistant—was flirting. It turned out that she was just near-sighted and asking for a tissue.

This morning, he almost made eye contact with someone hot on the subway—but then he sneezed so hard his ear popped, and the gourmet moved carriages.

So no. Cheng Xiaoshi isn't exactly on a roll. And maybe that's why the cipher is unreadable today. His brain is trying to translate patterns, but all it’s hearing is: touch-starved idiot wants cuddles and murder, preferably in reverse order.

Still. He can multitask. Which is why and how he ends up flirting with the barista. Liu Meng is cute, she’s got a nose ring, and she laughs with her whole face.

He’s halfway to getting her number when Lu Guang materialises beside him—actually materialises, the way existential dread does. He doesn’t look at Cheng Xiaoshi; his gaze falls on the menu. Then at the barista. Then back at the menu. His expression says he regrets being alive, and in particular, being alive here and in proximity to Cheng Xiaoshi.

Luckily, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t stop. Horniness has no brakes.

He grins. “He’ll have a ‘Just Like My Soul’, please.”

Lu Guang doesn’t blink. “Half-sweet. No whipped cream. Small.”

Liu Meng giggles again. Cheng Xiaoshi takes that as encouragement. “Don’t mind him, he’s just shy and  a little brooding. I believe he spent years embodying every literary martyr known to man. We would've called him Lu-cifer but he doesn’t believe in joy, either.”

“I believe in silence,” Lu Guang replies, “but you keep taking that from me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand theatrically clutches his chest. “Oh no. Is that—contempt? Careful, I told you I'm very much into that.”

“No, you’re into anything with legs that part.”

“That’s not true. I’ve got standards.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “Airway, heartbeat, and warm-blooded barely qualifies as standard.”

Cheng Xiaoshi whispers to Liu Meng, “He’s mean to me on purpose. It’s hot.”

Lu Guang turns and finally looks at him—briefly. “There are simpler ways to chase rejection.”

“So you have noticed me chasing.”

“Hard not to when you’re as subtle as a fire drill.”

“I would dial it back, but I really can't get enough of you talking at me.”

“Get in line. Plenty of people enjoy being disappointed.” Lu Guang presses a smile then collects his coffee.

Cheng Xiaoshi gives Liu Meng a smile. She gives him her number. It’s almost worth the humiliation. He turns just in time to watch Lu Guang's back, already halfway out the café.

Cheng Xiaoshi turns back to Liu Meng, grinning winningly. “He’s just mad because I flirt better when I’m trying to make him jealous.”

She hands him his drink. “Is it working?”

“Honestly? Probably. But he’ll die before he admits it—and it gets me going more like that, anyway.”

She giggles again. Cheng Xiaoshi stares out of the café. The cipher is still unsolved and so is Lu Guang. Maybe the key to both is the same: stop trying so hard. Or maybe he’s just too horny to think straight. It’s a thin line.

So he takes the coffee and the slow-blooming grin, then follows Lu Guang out, wondering if humiliation counts as foreplay once it’s mutual.

 

#3: SUBJECT WANTS TO EAT OUT; TARGET WAPONISES VAGUENESS

Downside of living across one another? Not sharing one bed. Flip side of living near one another? Collateral walking one another home.

Tonight’s rehearsal ran long because Vivian and Cheng Xiaoshi’s improvisation lacked the chemistry. Lu Guang was barely paying attention. Liu Xiao had Vein sidetracked by a conversation about some lawyer who’s yet again in the centre of some high-profile investigation. It’s only natural tonight wouldn’t be their best.

And now they’re outside a convenience kiosk because Cheng Xiaoshi wants noodles.

Lu Guang stands in the awning’s shadow, hands in his coat pockets. Cheng Xiaoshi crouches by the bottom shelf, squinting at cup noodles. He holds up one option—red—then points to another, a blue one.

“Based on the aesthetics, which one do you think has the least nutritional value?”

“The one you’re holding.”

Cheng Xiaoshi flashes him a grin. “Easy with the disapproval. Only makes me want to eat it more.”

Lu Guang just watches Cheng Xiaoshi—quietly and for too long.

Cheng Xiaoshi stands, too fast. He’s closer than necessary; they'd be nose-to-nose if either of them had the nerve. The wind pushes the awning just enough to make it creak.

“Not that I'm not digging it, but I have to wonder,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s tone is more curious than cocky. “Do you always look at people like that—like you’ve already read their worst page and can't help but wonder if it’s worth an overwrite?”

“To overwrite you first have to reread,” Lu Guang’s voice stays soft. “And in no version where I get close enough to see do I weaponise others’ weakness; I only wonder why they have to brand them into their skin.”

“What’s in the ever-loving convoluted metaphor is that supposed to mean?”

But Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice breaks around the edges, because he already knows. Lu Guang steps back—half a step. Enough.

“It means you’re too tired to flirt properly, and I’m too tired to pretend you’re not doing it on purpose.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him, neither smiling nor hurt.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he mutters, brushing past.

The wind creaks the awning. Lu Guang doesn’t move.

 

#4: SUBJECT ATTEMPTS FUNCTIONING DESPITE HANGOVER; TARGET IDENTIFIES PATTERN

Cheng Xiaoshi needn’t a terrible hangover the following morning to know that having gone to whatever house party Xia Fei dragged him to would be a terrible mistake. He should’ve stayed ‘home’ and worked on his seduction via dramatic eye contact game. But no, the promise of good sex once again turns Cheng Xiaoshi into: A Whore.

With an 8h class and a long café queue and a devastatingly pretty Lu Guang, Cheng Xiaoshi knows how terrible a mistake it was. He takes yet another look at Lu Guang, who’s now rejoining his side, and rolls his eyes.

“What now?”

“Really, how comes the roles are reversed? You're supposed to be the Honorary Corpse.”

Lu Guang only arches his perfect eyebrow. Cheng Xiaoshi suppresses his yawn and gestures vaguely with his hand—elaborating.

“Not dead, technically. But emotionally? Fully decomposed. Even your rigor mortis has better range than your emotional availability, Lu Guang.”

“If you want to keep playing this game, you'll have to do better than decomposition metaphors.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smirks. “Buy me a coffee and I’ll tell show you my party piece: I stare four minutes into your eyes and immediately can tell you your tragic backstory.”

“There’s no need for prolonged eye contact. You already do every time you touch me like it doesn’t matter.”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts. It cracks around the edges.

The barista calls Lu Guang’s name. He takes the drink and hands Cheng Xiaoshi the one he ordered for him in advance.

“Two sugars, no milk,” Lu Guang says, not even like a question.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares. “How’d you—?”

“You flirt with everyone, even off the clock,” Lu Guang says, stepping aside. “But you only drink this when you're tired. Or trying to drown it all out. Because it gets too loud sometimes—too light.”

Cheng Xiaoshi forgets what he was about to say.

 

#5: SUBJECT INITIATES FOOTPLAY; TARGET TURNS INTO PSYCHOLOGICAL WARFARE

It’s past two in the library, which means it’s the hour when even light feels fake.

Lu Guang works, posture tight, stylus gliding across a tablet. Cheng Xiaoshi, on the other hand, is bored. He wants Lu Guang's eyes back on him for something other than a stupid term paper.

“You always look like you're solving a murder,” Cheng Xiaoshi says—drawled, hoodie slipping off one shoulder and legs draped with the finesse of a collapsed marionette. “It's kind of hot, not gonna lie.”

Lu Guang doesn't look up. “Don’t be so hasty with the judgement because I am solving a murder.”

“Bloody hobby.” Cheng Xiaoshi nudges his foot under the table until it finds Lu Guang’s. His heel presses, light but deliberate. “You could diversify. Try skinship. Sexting. Casual entanglement with people who sit across from you in libraries.”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick up. His face is unreadable, but there’s something in the way he looks at Cheng Xiaoshi—like he’s dissecting a puzzle he already solved months ago but finds mildly amusing to watch squirm.

“Is that what this is? Casual?”

“Could be.”

“Should I remind you you’ve already tried variations of this line three times this week?”

Cheng Xiaoshi pretends to think. “Two and a half. I was subtle on Tuesday.”

“You’re not subtle now.” Lu Guang's eyes drop to Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand—resting too close to his own. “They keep getting worse every run. Because you think I won’t call your bluff.”

“Call it or not, I stay winning,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s thumb grazes Lu Guang’s knuckle—not quite touch, but enough to send a pulse up his own spine.

Lu Guang doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even pull away. Instead, he tilts his head, eyes steady, tone casual.

“Careful. You don’t know how I treat people I actually want.”

Cheng Xiaoshi's smirk slips. It’s brief but Lu Guang sees it—exploits it.

“You think this is a game. You flirt because it makes people spin, because you like the mirror held up and seeing the version you’ve spun yourself leaving the other person wanting.”

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales. Laughs it off. “And you don’t—you're not?”

“I don’t need to,” Lu Guang says, voice quietly dangerous now. “I already had what I wanted once. You’re a ghost in the shape of it. Smoke and mirrors.”

The air hangs for a beat. Lu Guang hasn’t moved, hasn’t touched him—but he might as well have pressed a hand to Cheng Xiaoshi's chest and pushed.

Cheng Xiaoshi recovers. Eventually. His tongue is in his cheek and his grin returns like armour.

“Damn, Lu Guang, you really keep them coming. Ever consider writing breakup poetry professionally?”

Lu Guang looks back to his screen. “You’re confusing performance for sincerity again. Because if you’d meant any of it, you wouldn’t have said it like a line.”

Cheng Xiaoshi sits there for a moment too long. Then he stands, too casually. “Right. Off to cry in the philosophy aisle, then. You want an energy drink or something?”

Lu Guang hums. “Get something with actual substance. You skipped lunch. The blue brand is marginally better if you have to.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is halfway down the row before it hits. Lu Guang noticed. Remembered.

He swears under his breath and doesn’t return for twenty minutes.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember agreeing to lavender. It’s aggressive, for a plant. The bush beside him is blooming the way awkward kids do when they are trying to flirt—and failing.

He resents it quietly.

But anything for the sake of his masterplan.

They’re sitting outside some boutique café where people break up politely. Liu Xiao’s tea has cooled yet he hasn’t noticed. He’s too busy watching strangers—possibly hunting for something to ruin or fodder for his art. There’s barely a difference when it comes to Liu Xiao.

Without looking over, Liu Xiao says, “I saw Jae Lee yesterday. Apparently, he’s off hookups now. Got a dog and switched to chamomile, too. He says he wants to try real intimacy—like eye contact and conversations and heartbreak in the slow lane.”

A pause. Cheng Xiaoshi twirls his plate.

“Says he’s done being a pit stop for people figuring themselves out and instead wants to be someone who stays, or at least someone who gets stayed for.”

Liu Xiao finally looks back. There’s no smile on his face.

“He asked how you were—said it without cursing your name, too. That’s how I knew he meant it, weird as it is.”

And now it’s quiet enough to prime for a question—but Liu Xiao hasn’t asked it yet. Cheng Xiaoshi fans his face dramatically.

“God. I must’ve really wrecked him if he’s on chamomile.”

A pause, deliberate.

“Say, Cheng Xiaoshi, ever think about how love makes people soft?”

“No.” Cheng Xiaoshi flicks a crumb off his plate. “Soft people fall in love. It’s a different affliction and very much terrible emotional radioactivity.”

Liu Xiao stirs his tea once, then again, but doesn’t drink it. His spoon makes no sound.

“For so long I thought you were the sentimental type—but here we are and I can't believe you don’t believe in love. Even when it was an Adonis like him in question.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stretches his legs. “I believe in physical contact and the rest is marketing—but I suppose you didn’t drag me all the way out here for a philosophical debate?”

“No. I dragged you out here because you’ve been spiralling. Also, I'm quite bored and very much invested in your narrative arc.”

Cheng Xiaoshi checks his phone. Nothing. When he looks up, Liu Xiao has already pulled up his phone.

“You ever want to see what self-destruction looked like when it was still attractive? Or let me rephrase, haven’t you ever been with someone you knew would destroy you from the start, looked at them and thought, Yes, that’s where the ruin started?”

Cheng Xiaoshi raises a brow. “Is this where you tell me about your tragic love affair with a war criminal, or you're just that desperate to play wingman for Jae Lee?”

Liu Xiao rhythmically taps his phone against his knee. He tilts his head at Cheng Xiaoshi, tone too flat—too casual—to be innocent.

“Are you really sure you’ve never been in love?”

Cheng Xiaoshi squints at him. “Liu Xiao, I'm saying this will all my dick’s respect and blood. This conversation has graduated from you tentatively practising small talk to psychological excavation, and I'm this close to moving you from the would fuck if I was heavily intoxicated column to deeply unsettling and unsettled.”

Liu Xiao smiles like he’s waiting for something to explode.

“Foolish, foolish curiosity—what can I do? Makes me wonder if he made the cut—because really, think about it. It must feel strange—not knowing if the worst heartbreak of your life is behind you or just very patiently waiting to be re-met.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t reply. He doesn’t have to; that reaction is answer enough. Liu Xiao grins—then shows him the screen with the slow intention of someone offering a cigarette to a pyromaniac they're about to set on fire.

Cheng Xiaoshi chooses not to read too much into it—not until he has the full picture. Literally. The photo is slightly blurred. The flash is too bright for a pier, maybe, but the face is clear: a pink haired boy—eyes sharp, wind in his hair, grin like he’d just gotten away with something. There’s blood on his cheek. Or lipstick. Or both. It doesn’t matter.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t react. Not visibly. His hand starts tapping his pocket.

“My beautiful war criminal,” Liu Xiao says with the air of someone who scribbled their criminal’s name in the margins once with lipstick before he crossed it out with blood. “Funny, isn’t it? The ones who ruin us are always the ones we think we can fix. You think you'd fallen for broken things but it turns out you couldn’t be any more wrong.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back. “Let me guess. Because you break the thing you love?”

“Only the ones sharp enough to cut back, so I'd say you're not entirely wrong.”

He sets the phone down. Now, they sit in the quiet where lavender smells sweeter. Somewhere, cutlery clatters—mingles with Liu Xiao's chuckle.

“Bit of a mess but absolutely incredible,” Liu Xiao smiles without his teeth. “He moved like the world owed him a second chance even he’d already spent the first. If you think he looks like trouble, it’s only because he laughs like he wants you to follow him into it. He knew all the best stories and he used to hum constantly—onstage, offstage, in bed.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t blink, but the lavender smells stronger now. It has grown teeth.

“I used to tell him it was annoying,” Liu Xiao continues dreamily. “But then he’d do it louder. All impulse, no brakes—really, Cheng Xiaoshi, you would've killed for him.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t look at the photo again. He looks at Liu Xiao—really looks.

“While I'm touched and almost moved to tears, I have to wonder why you're showing me this.”

Liu Xiao lifts his cup, and still he doesn’t drink. “Because it’s our little book club and I roughly asked if love made people soft.”

A beat. Then another.

“It doesn’t. It just makes them dangerous and flammable. I only see it now.”

Cheng Xiaoshi breathes in. The lavender makes him nauseated now.

He blinks once. Then he forces his gaze back to Liu Xiao who’s finally sipping his tea, because sure he didn’t just hand someone a live grenade. Cheng Xiaoshi's voice is light when he speaks.

“I gotta say—he doesn’t look like your type. I pictured you with someone taller. Less… emotional Molotov in human form, I'd say.”

Liu Xiao shrugs. “I liked the edge and he had flair. It wasn’t sustainable, of course, but the beginning was delightful.”

“The beginning usually is. That’s the scam.”

“You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

“I’ve got exes who still send me death threats.” Cheng Xiaoshi flashes a grin. “Which is romantic in its own way... if they didn’t block me soon after.”

“You would take that personally. What did you send back?”

“A final gift—front-facing and high res.. To remember me by. Call it emotional terrorism, but artful.”

Liu Xiao gives a real, pleased laughs.

“God, you’re always so fun. I know I picked right.”

“Deranged calls to deranged,” Cheng Xiaoshi sips tea that has gone lukewarm.

But he’s still smiling. His hand has stopped tapping his pocket. He doesn’t notice when.

Somewhere behind his ribs, the humming goes quiet. Even when it’s only waiting.

Chapter 5: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Script That Was Never Just a Script

The second email arrives with all the tact of a throwaway joke:

‘You can't have forgotten your order: your favourite order from your favourite performance.’

At first, Cheng Xiaoshi had laughed, then he groaned—because one email is a prank but two is a pattern.

He has already slept through two lectures today, twice interrupted by Xia Fei smacking him with Phantom of the Opera. Xia Fei almost lost a dick in retaliation.

Yesternight, Cheng Xiaoshi tried every drink he has ever ordered—iced soy latte, hot americano, black tea with lemon—depending on mood, weather, the placement of the moon, or whether he was trying to impress someone behind the counter. All useless.

He’d even flirted with the idea of punching in Lu Guang’s orders, just in case. It was a low point, even though he isn't sure why he considered it in the first place.

The breakthrough came on the library steps: his laptop on knees and back hunched like he’s waiting for a divine revelation or a half-decent clue. For two hours, Cheng Xiaoshi sat brooding in a stairwell, a ghost with unfinished business who would make OG Hamlet proud.

The key was in the timestamp—a receipt from a random café, nine days before Beijing: matcha latte. Constellation just had to be accessed at a very specific time before it made sense—which took two hours to decode. He doesn’t know why he tried so hard; he should’ve gone home with Qiao Ling—make it up to her forgetting her birthday three days ago.

Now he is holed up in a café booth for round two—lemon tart untouched and hoodie up as he pretends he’s relaxed. He hasn’t blinked at anything but the screen in twenty minutes.

A flash of something surfaces—stage lights, a scribbled margin note in lipstick, his own voice echoing against velvet curtains, a sharp expectant turn as though waiting to fall through the stars, to embrace the moon.

He jolts and breathes hard. Then he types it—the date of Phantom’s closing night: 240414.

It doesn’t work and his groan pierces the silence of the café, which is when he notices Lu Guang camped out in the corner table. His coat is still on and he’s wearing those fake glasses. But that’s not what draws Cheng Xiaoshi's attention, because there’s ink on Lu Guang's wrist and a red mark on his finger like he’s been wearing something tight.

He is locked-in as he types away on his laptop for what should be at least an hour now—given how that is exactly the last time Cheng Xiaoshi looked up from his cipher, and given that Lu Guang's rain-dripping umbrella is still wet by the table’s foot and it was clear skies until an hour ago.

The cipher continues to mock Cheng Xiaoshi. Its second part opens a garbled audio file—Base64. One second of silence. Five notes. Nothing after that but static. It’s broken but also familiar in a way he can't name.

He stares at the waveform. It doesn’t help.

“Love the acoustics. Makes the existential dread echo nicely.”

He rubs his eyes. The theatre schedule loops Shakespeare for the next two weeks, and it would be poetic if he wasn’t stuck trying to make sense of whatever this is. If this continues, he thinks—half-joking, half-scheming—he might rope Lu Guang into helping. Casually, of course. Maybe corner him in rehearsal with something like, ‘Hey, you look like someone who’s broken into weird sound files before.’ Maybe by implying he can’t do it without him.

All fair play. Lu Guang would roll his eyes and solve it in five minutes. Cheng Xiaoshi would pretend that was annoying for maybe two minutes before he starts flirting with him.

Almost instinctively, Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes cut to Lu Guang in the opposite corner. Lu Guang doesn’t look up.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches. He doesn’t mean to, but there’s something quiet about Lu Guang—still. There is no way the other wouldn’t have noticed him. They're not close, but Cheng Xiaoshi can almost smell the slightly floral scent drifting over from Lu Guang's drink. Osmanthus tea.

And just as unbiddenly, it comes—something not sharp enough to name but soft enough to ache.

It’s the kind of stillness that creeps up on him, the quiet slipping in after a storm. He tells himself it’s just observation—that he’s only noticing the way Lu Guang’s eyes flick up when he thinks, the slight lift of his fingers before every key because even words have to pass inspection first. He won’t call it softness—that way his chest twists, or the split-second temptation to brush the hair falling in Lu Guang’s eyes.

But then Lu Guang exhales and Cheng Xiaoshi feels something move where it shouldn’t—something old, something that remembers. The ache in the slow lane.

His laptop pings and immediately he flinches.

A message from Xia Fei: U alive? Qiao Ling said you haven’t moved in hours.

Then a video call request. Cheng Xiaoshi sighs but accepts it all the same. Xia Fei’s face fills the screen, eyes narrowing the second he clocks his surroundings.

“Either you're crashing out or failing at seduction. Pick your poison and tell me its initials aren’t L and G.”

“Go be annoying somewhere else. I have things to do.”

“Again, by any chance does their first name start with L and you hope their last would end with yours?”

Cheng Xiaoshi rolls his eyes and angles the monitor lower. Xia Fei draws closer, adapting a confidential tone.

“While I hate what this says about me, I should tell you to give up. Lucas doesn’t seem like the type who’d let you hit.”

“Which’s exactly why I can't give him up—because he is the kind of off-limits that only makes people want to misbehave more. It’s dangerous and I like it.” While Cheng Xiaoshi grins, Xia Fei reels back dramatically—hand over mouth.

“For two years I’ve been your emotional support golden retriever—your most stable relationship—and now the human version of a vintage filter shows up and it’s the first thing you look for when you enter the theatre. I should be getting paid for this.”

“Oh, but we were never exclusive.”

“My point exactly. What happened to all that ‘emotional distance’ talk?”

“We leave that in the theatre.” Cheng Xiaoshi winks. “Dream of me tonight, Xia Fei.”

The call cuts Xia Fei's melodic laugh.

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales and resists the urge to press his forehead against the cool surface. For a number of reasons. Lu Guang, of course, hasn’t looked over. He’s still typing, still thinking at a level far beyond mortal comprehension.

God, Cheng Xiaoshi really needs divine intervention if he is going to survive this.

And right on cue, footsteps cross the tile.

“You look like a mortal being held hostage by their own hubris,” Qiao Ling says, peeling off a windbreaker that has somehow collected four different theatre pins.

“Highest of praise— What would Icarus be remembered for if not burning too bright, too soon?”

She sits across from him and glances at the screen. “Still enabling Xiao Weiying?”

“No, I’m composing a diss track for the stage crew. Care to hear it?”

“Hard pass. You also need a new hobby.”

“I had one. Solving murders. Someone took it away and I don't even know why.”

She reaches over and lowers the monitor. “And how’s that going?”

“Perfect in the sense that nothing makes sense, and I’ve spiralled into contemplating whether this is punishment for crimes I can’t remember committing. I'm either being pranked or haunted but very much risking involuntary boners at this point.”

“Poetically disgusting as usual and incredibly unhelpful, also as usual.”

Cheng Xiaoshi closes the laptop; it’s a small surrender. “Real talk, though. If this keeps up, I might have to rope in your new old best friend.”

“Lu Guang?”

“Think he’d fall for the ‘help me for a character study’ line?”

Qiao Ling scoffs. “He already has.”

“God, I love a willing mark. Now all I need is one emotionally compromised evening and a working door lock. He’ll remember nothing in the morning—our little midnight summer’s dream.”

On god—at least get the title right!

Qiao Ling narrows her eyes. “Did you just confess to a premediated grand murder?”

“Nope. Only confessed to giving Lu Guang a very addictive taste of the small death in no time. Bed very close to mine too.”

“Go home, Cheng Xiaoshi” Qiao Ling says, rising. “You’ve hit your nightly quota of criminal charm and delusion.”

In lieu of a reply, Cheng Xiaoshi slings his bag over one shoulder and pushes to his feet. He doesn’t look back at the laptop, but he can't stop thinking about the file—about the silence after the notes.

It scratches at something in him.

It might be nothing—but nothing, he knows, is always how it starts.

 

◑

 

ACT V. Scene VI

CHEN NAN: (low)

You think thar I wanted to leave—that it was easy? I never wanted any part of this but it turns out that sometimes you don't leave because you stop loving someone. You leave because you love them too much to watch them turn into the wreck they're willingly choosing.

LING CHENGSHI: (laughing hoarsely)

Fine. You warned me. I know you did. You showed me how ingenuine and not worth it the heat was, but I chose the burn anyway. I chose it because the fire was the only thing that made me feel real enough to hurt. It was the only thing that made me feel close to you—the only thing that I felt you could ever love. But still—this wasn’t the person you left.

CHEN NAN: (quiet)

There’s a version of you that still lives in the negative spaces, in the unsent messages—in the future you robbed us both of. I don’t know if you remember him and I don’t know if you even want to. But I do—God help me, Ling Chengshi, I remember every version of you and all the ways I burned quietly for you—but you still choose to distrust my heart.

LING CHENGSHI: (almost smiling)

If love was enough, you wouldn't be standing over there and I wouldn't be bleeding where you can't see. If love was enough, we wouldn't have to keep pretending we don't want to stay. But sometimes—sometimes love just isn't enough to fix what you bled dry. Isn't that why you've been wearing this cruel mask?

CHEN NAN: (laughing bitingly)

Funny how you call it a mask when it’s my real face you can't stand to look at—as if loving me was fine until you had to love the parts I don't know how to hide.

LING CHENGSHI: (soft, final)

No, no—don’t turn the tables like that. You said goodbye—like it was cleaner that way. But I would’ve forgiven the breaking. It’s the leaving I never figured out how to survive, Chen Nan. You can't call it mercy when all it did was teach me how to live half a life. You fell out of love with a ghost—and I fucking get it. It's hard to love someone who’s half a person.

CHEN NAN: (wry)

And you think you're blameless? The same blood taints your hands, Ling Chengshi. Because you didn’t fall out of love with me—you just fell out of the version of me you built when you weren’t paying attention.

(pause)

And it’s exactly this— You made it impossible for me to return to you, not because I didn't want, but because you gave me nothing to return to. You had to go out there, practising every form of self-destructiveness just to convince yourself that I no longer love you—to justify how you've slowly been murdering yourself!

LING CHENGSHI: (fragile, determined)

Maybe I don’t deserve you back—maybe I never did. But you’re the only thing I ever wanted without feeling like I have to win it.

(pause)

But it's fine, Chen Nan. I’ll survive you. I just won’t be whole when I do. And the murder won't be mine alone then.

 

◑

 

Ever since he read the confrontation scene between Chen Nan and Ling Chengshi, and Cheng Xiaoshi has been pretending it doesn’t exist. Somewhere along the past four years perhaps Cheng Xiaoshi has become a little too good at ignoring all the little things that give him away.

Now, the lights are dimmed to a soft dusk. The corner of the stage is catering to the memory: wounded and wounding nostalgia.

Xia Fei and Vein sit near the front. Lu Guang leans against the back wall, arms folded as he watches. Cheng Xiaoshi paces the imaginary street with his hands in his pockets. He doesn’t speak yet. The silence between him and Vivian is already heavy with the missing years.

The scene doesn’t begin mid-dialogue but Cheng Xiaoshi’s life often feels like it did.

“I waited. I waited every summer. You said you’d write, but the mailbox stayed empty.”

Cheng Xiaoshi spits the line too fast, “Maybe I ran out of things to say. Maybe I thought silence would spare us both.”

“You didn’t even give me the choice. You left like we meant nothing—like I meant nothing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t flinch. “Maybe I got tired of asking people to stay—people who were always half-packed. I left this town when I got on that train, sure. But you? You left me long before that, Chen Nan.”

“You don’t get to do that, not after all those years. It was tolerable for you to leave but the thing is that you never bothered coming back— You—”

“Don’t you get it? People do not come back,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes go sharp. “Not the ones who leave and not the ones who matter. They leave and it’s almost like they were never real—like it was all some bad dream you’re not allowed to wake up from.”

Vivian falters. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t. Next, he cracks open.

“You don’t get to be the one who's hurt. You had a home—you had the kind of people who remembered to come back. Some of us had to pretend we never needed anyone just to survive how there never really was anyone.”

This time, Vivian recovers quickly. She takes an agitated step forward, voice thick with emotion.

“I waited, Ling Chengshi—and I would’ve. For a thousand years. You were the one who promised we’d never end up like our parents!”

“You just don’t get it, do you?”

“I do, Ling Chengshi, if there’s anyone who gets you, that me—not him.”

“Oh, Li Zhao has never been part of our problem—even with all your premonition. Our fairy tale is simple: he was there and you were not.”

“I never asked for fairy tales. I knew I could never be the one to save you—”

“I never wanted you to become that for me.”

“I’m saying—if you could’ve stayed, if you’d fought back against this emptiness, maybe we wouldn’t be here, screaming at each other.”

At that, Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice cracks, “I thought I was protecting myself, protecting you. It’s easy to walk away from someone like me. But maybe I was just—”

A heavy pause lingers. The noise of the backstage is nearly deafening in its quiet. Then, almost imperceptibly, Cheng Xiaoshi shakes his head, as if dismissing a bad dream, and forces a sardonic smile.

“Nothing. Just me rehearsing my tragedy.”

The beat stretches too long—long enough that Vivian blinks. Cheng Xiaoshi can see Lu Guang’s head lifts slightly from the wall, almost on cue with his bitter laugh.

“It’s… whatever, because it’s too late now, Chen Nan.”

Cheng Xiaoshi appends a shrug. Then he turns and walks off stage. It’s his exit, perfectly timed, except that his fists are clenched. Xia Fei watches him go then flicks a glance at Vein. No one says a word.

One step. Three steps—six.

Down the corridor, he stops by the vending machine. The light buzzes overhead. He stares at a bottle of water, white-knuckled but doesn’t open it. He’s trying too hard not to shake.

Lu Guang appears silently beside him—not a single touch. He only reaches, unscrews the cap, and hands Cheng Xiaoshi the bottle.

It takes a beat of something that isn't exactly hesitation before Cheng Xiaoshi takes it. Still, he doesn’t drink.

“What, you come to congratulate me? It was the whole package, yeah? Tragic backstory, abandonment issues, long-suffering eyes, very moving—were you moved?”

“It was honest,”

“It has a name. Method acting.”

Lu Guang doesn’t take the bait. “It has a name and it isn’t Ling Chengshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi puts down the bottle of water then takes a step in Lu Guang's direction.

“You know, most people would offer a hug or something at this point. A tissue. Maybe even a compliment about my performance.”

“You want a compliment?”

“I’m asking for one, yeah. Preferably something about my eyes.”

“You blinked six times too much in that final beat.”

“Wow. Be still my heart.”

Cheng Xiaoshi repicks his bottle and raises it like a toast, but his fingers are tight on the plastic. He has barely taken two sips when he cracks under Lu Guang's gaze.

“So what's the punishment, laoshi, twenty push-ups and a monologue about self-awareness?”

Lu Guang holds his gaze. “You don’t have to make a joke every time you bleed.”

“Oh, but I do. It keeps the floor clean.”

“That’s another rehearsed line. But if you’re going to hide, at least pick somewhere I can’t see you.”

“Please. Don’t start psychoanalysing me. I’ve got an actual therapist now. Didn’t fuck her yet. Tell me I'm a good boy and pet me like a labrador—even if you're a cat person.”

Instead of verbally replying, Lu Guang reaches out and quietly fixes a button on Cheng Xiaoshi's cuff. It doesn’t register as flirtation or tenderness, but rather lands like a nameless third.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares.

“What was that?”

Lu Guang steps back. “Fixing it. Because you're always a mess.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tries to scoff, but it falters.

Lu Guang looks like he might say something else—but he only reaches past him to hit a random button on the vending machine. A chocolate bar thuds into the tray.

Cheng Xiaoshi arches a brow.

‘You trying to bribe me into emotional honesty with sugar?’

He blinks and Lu Guang is still there, but it is his own laugh that rings in his ear—too quick, too loud, too real—You’re so bad at flirting, it circles back to being kind of charming—and again he loses that thread.

The chocolate bar is in his hand and he is watching Lu Guang turn away.

He lingers for a moment, staring at the curve of Lu Guang's neck, the way his shirt hangs just so, the soft pulse of tension under his skin. Then, his gaze catches something small but striking—a mole, tucked just below Lu Guang’s ear.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in without thinking—just a shift of balance, a simple instinct—and presses his lips to the small mole on Lu Guang's neck.

It’s quick—the kind of move that doesn’t ask permission. But it lands, right on that soft hollow behind the ear, soft and sudden and cherishing.

Lu Guang freezes. His breath catches—only for a moment, then it’s gone. But it lingers; the flush creeping up his neck, colouring his face in something hot and unmistakable that isn’t just anger.

Cheng Xiaoshi straightens up, his lips still tingling with the ghost of the kiss. He isn't sure what he was expecting, but he doesn’t know how to undo it now.

Lu Guang’s hand lifts, but it doesn’t touch him. Instead, it hovers near Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest, like a warning. Then softly—like he’s not disagreeing, but grieving something long buried—he says,

“What was that for?”

“Orpheus. Because you looked back.”

“What?”

“I'm naming your moles after literature’s most celebrated lovers.” Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “Because every one of them deserves to be kissed.”

He thinks he says the last bit. Lu Guang's eyes have widened too much that once again Cheng Xiaoshi blinks the timeline. Finally, Lu Guang lowers his hand. He clenches his fist, then releases it before meeting Cheng Xiaoshi’s inquisitive gaze.

“This is— You don’t even know what you’re asking for.”

Cheng Xiaoshi arches a brow. “Isn’t that part of the fun?”

“No,” Lu Guang says. Quiet. Precise. “It’s how people get hurt, but you still flirt like you're bulletproof.”

Something shifts—the air, maybe. Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile stiffens.

“I wouldn’t mind being shot occasionally. Isn't that what your ex taught you?”

“No. It’s what you’ve come to learn. Once.”

Lu Guang’s eyes hold his. Cheng Xiaoshi falters, just enough to betray the crack. He shoves the chocolate bar into his pocket and walks ahead without looking back.

By the time he reaches the others, the grin is already back on his face. He throws himself into Xia Fei’s lap with a dramatic groan, rambling something about needing therapy after sharing the stage with a heartless banshee like Vivian. Xia Fei laughs, clearly relieved. Vein throws out a mocking ‘Tasty’ and calls for drinks.

They all laugh. They all buy it.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi walks out of Dong Yi’s building looking far too smug for someone in yesterday’s shirt. The morning is cool enough to pretend it’s the reason his hair is wrecked. But it can do nothing to his phone with the 2% battery or to how his conscience is weighed by a million different thing that start with nightmares laced in dreams and end in a cipher.

He can still smell Dong Yi’s conditioner, something almond-based and unnervingly gentle. He can still hear the soft lilt of his voice saying something about Roland Barthes while undoing Cheng Xiaoshi’s belt—which, in hindsight, should’ve been a red flag.

But at the time, all Cheng Xiaoshi had registered was: soft hands, nice teeth, smells like the kind of soap that probably costs more than rent.

And maybe he’d been trying to prove something. To someone. He isn't going to dwell on that.

Cheng Xiaoshi is halfway through debating whether almond is a flirty scent when the thought hits him—brutally, like an unfortunate assessment of the past twenty-four hours or the past couple of years. It’s not even about Dong Yi; it’s about the sheer efficiency of his own poor decisions. The same brand of stupid he has worn before. Different names, same exit. Different hamartia, same fall.

He doesn’t remember every detail. That’s the thing; sometimes, the consequences are just feelings, echoes without origin or a quiet dread in the morning light. Because you’ve done this once—exactly this—but no one will tell you what happened after.

He recalls waking up like this once before—same kind of ache in the ribs. Jae Lee’s name—no Liu Xiao's name swirls around the edges of the thought, the way he used to smirk across rooms. But Cheng Xiaoshi remembers nothing else. Nothing of the lead-up or the crash and everything of the static after—everything that summons the nauseating hum.

And it’s back now, just as muted, just as nauseating.

Cheng Xiaoshi is almost done with his consolation bao by the time he spots Lu Guang sitting on the low brick ledge across from the faculty gardens, sipping something that looks like punishment in a paper cup. There is a tote bag full of books beside him and a familiar compact umbrella peeking out of said bag.

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks and the world doesn’t blink back. He aches for his lighter; he needs to set something alight—which is exactly why he ambles over to the unsuspecting Lu Guang, lilting.

“Guangguang!”

Lu Guang looks up; he gives a little unsurprised nod of acknowledgment.

Cheng Xiaoshi tries for casual but evidently fails. He recognises the book Lu Guang is reading. He has seen it on his way out during last week’s walk of shame—though he would've never guessed it’s property of Lu Guang given its rueful state. Lu Guang turns a page as he says,

“Tell me that shirt wasn’t buttoned by someone with a master’s degree in postmodern theory.”

Cheng Xiaoshi briefly considers lying. Fails again.

“First of all, it was barely buttoned. And second, he prefers ‘hybrid literary liminality’ and craps on Hamletmachine way too routinely for a postmodernist. Instant red flag if you ask me.”

Lu Guang finally looks up. “So you actually pay attention.”

Cheng Xiaoshi winces. So much for a poker face.

“I know fate is a thing and the world is small, but I never would've guessed you’re friends with Dong Yi.”

“Friends is a stretch. He flirted with me in marginalia and I told him if I wanted to be seduced by someone misreading irony, I’d go back to secondary school.”

Cheng Xiaoshi whistles. “So that’s why he kissed like he had something to prove.”

Lu Guang doesn’t dignify that with a response. He just blinks. Cheng Xiaoshi flashes an easy grin.

“Jealous?”

“Of witnessing your latest walk of shame? Not particularly.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs and it’s too loud. He tries to smooth it with a mock-seductive lean.

“Come on, Lu Guang. Don’t tell me seeing me like this doesn’t awaken something.”

“Pity.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks—Ouch. Lu Guang shrugs.

“You asked.”

“You’re resisting now, but I’m basically your mid-season character development. I will be the experimental era you romanticise later to strangers under a rainy sky.”

Lu Guang's expression is unreadable. He turns back to his book, taking a sip of his drink.

The following silence is mostly Cheng Xiaoshi’s fault, so of course he tries again.

“For the record, he’s very, hm, what's the word… thoughtful—tender, maybe.”

Lu Guang stares at him, curious.

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts, playful turning uncertain. “I mean, not that I let him—I did not— God, can you not look like that?”

Lu Guang sips his drink, not looking away by any means, which further flusters Cheng Xiaoshi.

“Like you have such gorgeous eyes but have ever considered not staring into my soul?”

Another silence.

“I wasn’t going to say anything,” Lu Guang says mildly. “You were the one narrating.”

Cheng Xiaoshi scratches the back of his neck. “I narrate under pressure.”

“I couldn’t tell. Thanks for the narration.”

Another beat.

Lu Guang turns back to his book. “At least you're consistent. It would've been admirable if it weren’t so tragic.”

“Is that an insult or a compliment?”

Lu Guang shrugs. “Foreshadowing. Chekov’s gun, if we dare.”

That lands somewhere between Cheng Xiaoshi’s ribs. He doesn’t show it. Much.

Then he opens his mouth only to soon close it and sigh dramatically.

“You know, if I were any more gay and self-destructive, half of the characters in Greek tragedies would concede their fatal flaws to me. We should count ourselves lucky.”

Lu Guang doesn’t laugh; he doesn’t even smile though his eyes soften.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks at him.

“Not to throw a curveball at you before the witching hour,” he treads lightly, “but did it ever occur to you that maybe we wouldn’t keep chasing bad choices if the good one didn’t keep watching us like we're disappointing on purpose?”

Lu Guang’s reply is a page flip of his Dream of the Red Chamber—even when his hand tightens slightly on its edge. Cheng Xiaoshi notices. He notices everything, unfortunately.

“Right. Budget cuts on the curt replies and now it’s silence. Guess I’ll go rehydrate.”

He turns to leave.

Lu Guang calls after him. “Tell Dong Yi to return the Duras this time. The notes in the margin aren’t for him.”

Cheng Xiaoshi pauses. He looks back and smiles just a little too sadly to be smug.

“Noted.”

And he walks away.

Still gay. Still doomed. Just a little humbled.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi might not have a spare key, but he has Annoying Privileges—and so, Lu Guang's door creaks open, and Cheng Xiaoshi steps in, arms full of takeaway, dripping rainwater onto the carpet.

“You'd better be dying or downright done because I am not carrying dumplings uphill ever again.”

No answer. The only sound is the low hum of Lu Guang’s laptop and a faint scratching sound—the kind Lu Guang makes when he’s thinking too hard and realises it too late to stop.

Cheng Xiaoshi kicks the door shut and peels off his jacket before limbering toward the living room.

And he finds Lu Guang, not working on the documentary like he said he would be, but sitting cross-legged on the sofa, the screen in his lap, scrolling. There aren’t any video footage or transcripts; it’s a manuscript.

Every Moment in Between. V.III.

The scene stares back at Cheng Xiaoshi.

For a second, he just blinks, waiting for it to configure in his mind. Lu Guang’s brow is furrowed and his fingers hover above the keys.

Then Cheng Xiaoshi clears his throat. Loudly.

Lu Guang startles like a man caught cheating.

“It’s research,” he says defensively.

Cheng Xiaoshi tosses the takeaway onto the coffee table and drops onto the armchair to Lu Guang's left. He’s close enough to see the highlighted paragraph:

You don’t have to say you love me. You don’t have to say anything at all. Just stay.

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, smirking.

“Oh my god. You’re actually reading it.”

Lu Guang shuts the laptop with a snap. “I was—skimming.”

“Uh-huh.”

Lu Guang glares at him, unimpressed. “It’s… saccharine.”

“Saccharine,” Cheng Xiaoshi repeats, fighting a grin.

“Yes. Overwrought. Half the monologues sound like someone bleeding into a love letter because they're trying not to forget their wordiest words.”

Cheng Xiaoshi throws an arm dramatically across the back of the armchair. “You wound me, Brutus.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m wrong?”

“You’re wrong about everything, including me—in more ways than you'd care to admit. But you're not ready for that conversation yet.”

Cheng Xiaoshi grabs a dumpling box as he hears Lu Guang critique it. And the playscript. He eggs Lu Guang on, but he is only half-concentrated.

Because he sees it, like a film reel played too fast: himself at twenty, shoulders too narrow for his ambition and eyes too bright for the city that would devour him. He’s pacing the cracked tile of a tiny Beijing flat, Vein on speakerphone, a ticket to an open audition in one hand and a pen in the other, and already he’s scribbling rehearsal lines across his palm because he couldn't afford to forget them.

He is laughing—wild and breathless—saying something like, ‘If I screw this up, at least I’ll go out with a bang.’

It doesn’t last long. Warped space and time again. Lu Guang remains analytical. Cheng Xiaoshi throws chopsticks at Lu Guang’s arguments. He soon recovers, though, and decides to quickly skims the script as a refresher.

The hallway outside their shared apartment. It's raining lightly outside. The fluorescent light buzzes overhead.

SCENE VIII

(Ling Chengshi comes home to find Chen Nan packing, quietly, like she’s leaving a hotel room, not a life. Again.)

LING CHENGSHI: (voice brittle)

You say you miss who I was like he’s a ghost you’re mourning. But I’m still here, Chen Nan. I never left.

CHEN NAN: (without looking up)

Leaving would've been kinder. Instead, you just stopped meeting me halfway. And I got tired of standing still, hoping you'd find the road back. This thing I'm doing? It’s not running away. It’s running out of choices.

(Ling Chengshi laughs under his breath. It sounds wrong. Tired.)

LING CHENGSHI:

Again? Wasn’t the first time cruel enough? Leaving me— rewriting me out of your story—overwriting me like I was a bad dream?

(Chen Nan closes the suitcase. Stares at her reflection in the window—rain smearing the image.)

CHEN NAN: (quiet, cracking)

I tried. God, I tried to fix the broken places. But you wore your pain like armour and dared me to hurt myself trying to reach you, and I can no longer tell who I'm bleeding for.

LING CHENGSHI: (steps forward)

Maybe you fell in love with who I was before the accident. But you left the person who needed you most.

(A beat. She finally turns to face him.)

CHEN NAN: (trembling)

I didn’t leave because you changed. I left because you stopped believing you were still worth loving.

(Ling Chengshi flinches. As if hit.)

LING CHENGSHI: (Soft, hoarse, almost whispering.)

Every time I try to move on, I meet someone who almost looks like you—who laughs like you— And I remember—I remember it was a choice, you forgetting me.

(Chen Nan closes her eyes. It costs her something to stay standing.)

CHEN NAN: (quieter)

You want someone to blame? Fine. Blame me. But don't you dare call what we had a lie just because you're too afraid to live without its revision.

(Ling Chengshi wants to say, Stay. Please. Even if I’m broken. Even if I’m not who you loved. But he doesn’t.)

LING CHENGSHI: Go. If you need to.

(Silence.)

(She lingers. Maybe waiting for something. Maybe hoping.)

(But no one says it.)

(She leaves.)

(He lets her.)

Right. That—Cheng Xiaoshi remembers. But it’s more fun to play the devil’s advocate, so he deliberately pushes Lu Guang's buttons. They are arguing: about structure, about dialogue, about authorial choices—about everything and especially about whether 'You don’t move on, you just learn to carry the weight better' is too on-the-nose or just painfully accurate.

Lu Guang mutters, “Not to be hyperbolic but if Ling Chengshi had said ‘half a life’ one more time, I was going to staple the script shut.”

Cheng Xiaoshi mock-gasps. “That’s poetry, you heartless troglodyte.”

Lu Guang side-eyes him. “That’s emotional manipulation written in gel pen by someone who makes terrible choices with eyes wide open.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, smug. “A. Liu Xiao would take that as a compliment and B. you just hate it because it hits too close to home.”

Lu Guang says nothing to that. Which, of course, is an answer on its own.

Cheng Xiaoshi grins unrepentantly, trying to declutter the growing ache in his own chest. He leans over, steals a dumpling from Lu Guang’s still-untouched box, and with perfect mockery says,

“Anyway. Liu Xiao isn’t even that good of a writer. I've seen better on the dark web and the category was murder.”

Lu Guang huffs under his breath. But he lets Cheng Xiaoshi have it—lets him have the win, the dodge, the space.

For now.

 

He didn’t plan to stay the night, but Lu Guang doesn’t ask him to leave. Cheng Xiaoshi knows he has only spaced out for a second—for a single time loop.

Now it is a noose. Around his neck. His wrists—no slipknots.

He can’t breathe—and it is nothing like the kind of can’t-breathe that comes from panic or stairs or tight shirts. This one is smaller and more personal—because he’s being packed into a suitcase and shipped to the bottom of the sea.

Lu Guang’s scent lingers in the air, familiar, but corrupted—blended with something wrong. Antiseptic. Iron. Brine. The memory of something burning. Something sealed. Cheng Xiaoshi wants to laugh. It comes out wrong—something between a gasp and a choke.

He tries to shift but the suitcase doesn't open. Which means it isn't a suitcase. A room—no, a coffin. He thinks about air travel, about freight, about corpses that don’t decay when they’re cold enough.

He blinks again.

He’s in a bed, tied down—not violently but firmly enough to notice. Hotel linens. Pale light through blackout curtains. The room smells expensive. Like Lu Guang. Like chloroform and oceans.

He laughs. Intoxicated. But it sounds like he’s underwater.

And then Lu Guang’s there.

On him.

Not straddling and certainly not seducing. It barely qualifies as pinning, as pressing down.

Fingers around his throat. Not tight because that comes later. But the pressure is there, heavy and deliberate— smoke-like intent curling through the air.

Cheng Xiaoshi chokes again, this time on something real—panic or memory, he can’t tell.

An image intrudes. One his brain has filed under Do Not Open.

—his fingers wrapped round the hilt of something sharp—Lu Guang’s arms around his chest, locked like iron—You don’t have to look at him, just look at me, Cheng Xiaoshi, look at me—a scream that might’ve been his own.

But Lu Guang has never called his name. Cheng Xiaoshi almost laughs. His chest rises.

“Lu Guang,” he says, or tries to.

Lu Guang’s pupils are too wide. His breathing too fast. His expression—

Dear saints.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s never seen him like this.

He’s still beautiful—that’s the cruel thing. He’s still Lu Guang, even when distorted. Even when wrong.

Cheng Xiaoshi tries to reach for him. His wrists tug against fabric.

“Come here,” he mumbles, dazed. “I’m here and I'll never let you go.”

Lu Guang leans in—closer, closer, as if drawn by something unseen. His hands slacken and Cheng Xiaoshi cranes up.

Their mouths meet, maybe. Or nearly.

But Lu Guang is breathing too hard for it to be a kiss.

He looks like someone mid-freefall, not sure if he jumped or was pushed.

And Cheng Xiaoshi—Cheng Xiaoshi feels it again. That coffin closing. That water rising. That memory swimming under skin. He doesn’t know if he’s waking up or drowning. But when he blinks again, the lights are low and Lu Guang is asleep—somehow, impossibly—on the sofa next to him.

Correction: on him—head tucked against his shoulder, legs tangled, one hand suspiciously close to his sternum in some kind of unconscious claim. Like three mornings ago he wasn’t just judging Cheng Xiaoshi's walk of shame.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t breathe. He can't move. His pulse is rioting under his skin and his internal monologue has devolved into a loop of Do not panic, followed immediately by Panic attractively.

“Neat,” he whispers to himself. “Love me a very normal reaction to being affected by unresolved plotlines and Lu Guang’s collarbone. A metaphor erection. None of this is real.”

Lu Guang shifts in his sleep.

Cheng Xiaoshi nearly dies. Quietly. In the corner of his own mind. But at least he thinks he refrains from devouring Lu Guang's neck.

Probably.

Notes:

how many words do i need to set things up? a mouthful a chokeful a handful a tragediful a shenaniganiful a redherringful a shiguangiful a lot like yes brevity is the soul of wit but im a rosencrantz written by tom stoppard and not shakespeare so idek idek

Chapter 6: ShiGuang and the Postmortem of a Conversation

Cheng Xiaoshi used to look forward to his birth month. He doesn’t remember when he lost that joy.

Now March almost surrenders to April and Cheng Xiaoshi is all-hands-on-deck to avoid thinking about his eventual decomposing. Because really, he can't afford to think about the heavy missing pieces—about how his last two birthdays were less party and more intervention.

After bolting from Lu Guang’s flat like a Victorian ghost fleeing intimacy four days ago, Cheng Xiaoshi has thrown himself into a rotation of distractions: those having a strong heartbeat and a warm body, and those that most certainly do not.

Today’s distraction: brunch with friends and emotional damage.

Qiao Ling leans across the café table, dangerously grinning.

“You really think I’m letting you off easy after yesterday’s disaster of a costume fitting?”

“I think I deserve an award for courage, honestly. I faced you and that disaster of a wardrobe with grace.”

“The only grace you showed was keeping your face straight while wearing an outfit that screamed ‘last-minute Halloween regret.’”

Xu Shanshan chuckles from her corner. “Think we should cut him a little slack—not much, but because Ling Chengshi is a crappy character and all.”

“Fitting. It saves Cheng Xiaoshi the method acting.”

“Ah—just me and the bad bitch I pulled by having a terrible sense of humour.”

“You're lucky you were ever to pull the baddest of bitches with such a terrible personality”—Cheng Xiaoshi is about to retort but Xu Shanshan's eyes give him a pause, and Qiao Ling is already picking up her speech, “But at least you're consistent in your terrible life choices. So here’s to that, I suppose.”

Cheng Xiaoshi then offers Qiao Ling a shit-eating grin. Qiao Ling's phone rings and she gets up to take it. Naturally, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t waste any time.

“Xu Shanshan, why are you coming for the jugular—I thought you dug the morally ambiguous vibe I always projected.”

“Not always.”

“Are we about to delve into a discussion about adverbs of frequency at 11 in the morning?”

“No, we’re about to dissect why your character doesn’t deserve Chen Nan.” Xu Shanshan leans in with a dramatic sigh. “The betrayal? You could practically feel the emotional constipation. Sure, there seems to be a certain charm in how the script resists character development, but your scriptwriter writes characters like people he can't apologise to.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs, a little too casually. “I thought it was pretty smooth. People do things because they’re bored, yet not bored enough to change. That feels real, doesn’t it?”

“Real?” Xu Shanshan’s laugh is low, almost fond. “Cheng Xiaoshi, you are embodying him—you must’ve felt it. Clearly, Chen Nan isn’t invested: she leaves as proof of her indifference. That’s solid drama—if you hate drama. But Ling Chengshi—you’ve buried his jealousy, his bitterness, every fault he ever owned. Then you roll out this new version of him: reinvented, yes, but completely hollow. He puts on this new face like it’ll fix things, but it just highlights the truth: Chen Nan’s love belonged to someone who doesn’t exist anymore.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s fingers tighten around his cup. “Sounds complicated, and not to be that person—but have you ever considered that the curtains are just fucking blue?”

Before the images could fully flicker to life, Xu Shanshan's gaze pierces through Cheng Xiaoshi’s veil of memories. She watches him for a second. Her smile drops slightly, but she presses on.

“While I often get behind that, I have to say that this time, c'est ne pas un pipe. Complicated isn't the apt word, either. Ling Chengshi tries and tries and tries—because he thinks maybe he can save what was lost. But Chen Nan doesn’t have it in her to go back.”

“Which is a decision we should respect because like who even wants to go back to that?” Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, rolling his eyes. “Not exactly my vibe.”

“Riiight. Just like you’re not really trying to rewrite history with your little obsession over Every Moment in Between. Chen Nan’s betrayal of Ling Chengshi—that’s the part you should focus on, right?”

He glances at the door, waiting for Qiao Ling. His cup taps out a soft rhythm.

“Betrayal—it could be a good theme for the play, though. They never really talk about how they try to fix things, just how they fail because I suppose failure is more honest than winning at this point of their relationship.”

“Well, that’s the part that hurts, isn’t it? Despite Ling Chengshi attempts and how he thinks he can mend what’s broken, Chen Nan has moved on; she’s already gone.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat tightens. He forces his smile wider, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“The way you’ve laid it makes me realise this sounds like something Lu Guang would definitely enjoy— I mean, who doesn’t love a good plot twist about someone realising they’re not the hero in their own story?”

Xu Shanshan’s gaze sharpens but she remains silent—for a beat. Two. Five. Eventually, she caves in.

“Funny how life mirrors art, huh? The ones who stick around are the ones who have always stayed. And the ones who leave? They just—well, they leave.”

He meets her gaze, something flickering in his pale eyes before he masks it.

“Maybe the problem is how some people don’t know what to do with their own baggage. So they flake out.”

Xu Shanshan rests her chin on her propped-up hand. “Or maybe they just get tired of carrying someone else’s baggage. It accounts for the obsession, no?”

Xu Shanshan lets it sink. Cheng Xiaoshi pretends he doesn’t notice the subtext. She leans in, eyes narrowing—a challenge. A call-out.

“Play has got teeth, Cheng Xiaoshi. You’ve been acting the same way as you did before. Last time you were this invested in something, you—"

Cheng Xiaoshi tips his head back with a theatrical sigh.

“Yeah, yeah. I got too involved, blacked out a few things, and moved on like nothing happened. You know the drill: born to rom-com, forced to tragically die in my best friend’s arms.”

Before Xu Shanshan can respond, Qiao Ling strides back in, her entrance almost a little too cheerful for the tone of the conversation.

“Did I miss the dissertation defence?”

“I just got told me my character’s internal conflict lacks thematic cohesion.”

“And pacing. But I didn’t want to pile on; you're already in to your neck.”

Qiao Ling plops down next to Cheng Xiaoshi, throwing a playful look toward her girlfriend. “You can’t not find his deepest wounds and Freud your way through?”

“No,” Xu Shanshan shrugs. “Not when it’s about characters who are too busy projecting abandonment issues onto the romantic subplot so they miss the entire character arc.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s gaze slips away to the window. His hands are still clenched around his cup. He chuckles softly under his breath.

“Right. Character development. Maybe I’ll get back to it after I finish trying to break my own heart in a play.”

Xu Shanshan and Qiao Ling exchange a brief look. Neither of them comments, but the moment stretches thin.

They turn their attention back to their drinks.

Cheng Xiaoshi can only sigh.

 

 

By nightfall, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks briefly about microdosing poison. For science. For the vibes. He doesn’t; instead, he keeps reading Lumen’s old murder stories until his eyes hurt.

He stumbles on a locked-room mystery—a fun one where the killer hides a poisoned needle in the victim’s lipstick. That’s not what makes him pause.

It’s that he has seen this before. Three years ago, in a real case with some actor’s wife.

He leans back, arms behind his head, a quiet little smirk blooming because he’s already solved it. Not the book—the real one. Because he knew what to look for. Because the killer had read Lumen, too.

The killer knew what mistakes not to make.

The very mistakes that made Lumen’s culprit get caught.

Because at the end of the day, Lumen is writing fiction. He isn't there trying to perfect a crime.

 

The next morning, Cheng Xiaoshi calls Xia Fei and lies about a fever. Midterms can wait. He spends the last day of March wrapped in a hoodie, reading every salvaged Lumen post the internet's underbelly has archived.

By nightfall, he needs confirmation.

He sends Liu Xiao a message—a single line. Because the best love stories end in poison.

And the best murders start with it.

 

◑

 

Midterms ending on April’s Fool Day sounds poetic. Shoving the entire syllabus into his brain over the course of two nights has fried Cheng Xiaoshi's braincells enough to have him argue with the soy sauce—the actual soy sauce bottle, which now refuses to pour. He slaps its bottom in the hope it might moan. Or squirt.

“This is why communism failed—not enough red for everyone.”

“Pretty sure that’s not why,” Qiao Ling mutters, pinching the last dumpling before he sees it.

Shanshan’s dining table creaks under bowls and banter. The plan has been the night market, but Qiao Ling suggested something better: Lu Guang. Which means the reluctant Ice Prince is an open target yet again.

Cheng Xiaoshi lost count of which helping he’s currently on. He needs his stamina. For later tonight. Hopefully. He’s about to flirt his way through when Vivian makes the mistake of asking about his midterm.

“Oh,” Xia Fei says sweetly, “he didn’t show up. Apparently, he had some studying to do.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t even blink. “Anatomy, not biology, if you even care.”

“He thinks dissecting life counts as living it,” Qiao Ling says, helping Vivian into a dumpling. “Seems like a theme in his life.”

Xia Fei chuckles. “Didn’t he once write ‘love is entropy in sexy lingerie’ in an essay on Zhuangzi?”

“I still stand by that, by the way,” Cheng Xiaoshi says.

“You should—because you got a 27.”

“It was a bold 27, not that you appreciate style.”

Lu Guang clears his throat. “He also spelled ‘Dao’ with a ‘T’ in that same essay.”

“Spelling isn't my forte. Plus, it’s not all like that: I did get a 46 last week on my literature term paper,” Cheng Xiaoshi says proudly.

“Out of a hundred?” Vivian smiles tentatively, dumbfoundedly.

“Out of sheer force of will and maybe a little bit of divine intervention, but you haven’t heard it from me.”

Xia Fei leans in sweetly. “In Cheng Xiaoshi's defence, he only failed it because he tried to impress someone with metaphors and forgot how to spell synecdoche.”

Cheng Xiaoshi holds his chopsticks like a sword. “You’re all just mad I have range and can flirt with God.”

“You have brain rot and subpar flirting skills,” Qiao Ling corrects before jabbing a thumb over her shoulder. “You studied him harder than anything else that term. Even God wouldn't dare touch you without some salt or incense.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth, but Lu Guang is quicker. He plucks the last dumpling with a kind of elegant irritation and shoves it—gently but with intent—into Cheng Xiaoshi’s mouth.

Using chopsticks.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares at him, eyes wide and cheeks full.

The table falls silent.

Vivian pretends to cough. Xia Fei hides behind his drink. Qiao Ling doesn't even bother holding back the grin.

Lu Guang, calm as anything, reaches for his tea again. “Peace and quiet. Miraculous.”

Cheng Xiaoshi chews slowly, clearly plotting war. He eventually swallows. “You could’ve said please.”

“You weren’t listening.”

“It’s still assault.”

“It’s still effective.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t deny it. His feast isn't over. Because tonight’s buffet doesn’t end.

It is late and their group of five has thinned out, and Qiao Ling has managed to convince Lu Guang to stay—to let Cheng Xiaoshi walk him home if needed.

It will be needed.

Cheng Xiaoshi is halfway through a grilled squid skewer, licking sauce from his thumb. “You know, if I die tonight, I want it written that it was from joy. Or food poisoning, whichever gets better PR.”

“You’re not dying,” Qiao Ling shoves a candied hawthorn into his free hand. “Though if you did, your academic record would improve. Just don’t ask your flatmate to clean up after dead body.”

Cheng Xiaoshi catches Lu Guang's eyes and mouths, You're the flatmate. Of course he punctuates it with a wink. Lu Guang doesn’t do so much as crack a smile.

They stop at a booth selling those cheap water lanterns people pretend will carry their wishes somewhere meaningful. Cheng Xiaoshi buys one. He doesn’t write on it.

Qiao Ling notices. She then casually leans, “Still celebrating your birthday a week later this year too?”

“Can't confuse people by confessing the truth this late into my reconstructed story. I'm all about reinvention but not like that.”

He catches the way Lu Guang's eyes flick to him. Lu Guang doesn’t comment, but his hand brushes Cheng Xiaoshi’s left as he reaches for change. It’s electric. Accidental. By design.

They move on. Qiao Ling ends up buying incense she would never use. Lu Guang lets Cheng Xiaoshi talk nonsense about the philosophy of carnival games, something about how love is just ring toss with worse odds.

“You should be glad I failed my midterm,” Cheng Xiaoshi says to Lu Guang, somewhere between a stall of plastic koi and a stall of smoke. “I wouldn’t have had time for this otherwise.”

“This?” Lu Guang asks.

Cheng Xiaoshi gestures vaguely. “Chaos. Company. Planting narrative seeds.”

Lu Guang is quiet again. He checks his watch for the time. Qiao Ling walks just a few steps ahead, her attention taken by the stalls.

Cheng Xiaoshi wins a keychain and offers it to Qiao Ling.

Behold—a deeply metaphorical keychain that doubles as a trinket of my affection.

If I hang it on my bag, does it curse my relationship or bind me to you?

Neither if you find it a new host—preferably one that’s already haunted.

Lu Guang snorts, actually snorts. Cheng Xiaoshi nearly preens.

Later, they stand beside the river where kids let go of lanterns. Cheng Xiaoshi still hasn’t written anything on his—still won't—so he just watches it as Lu Guang watches him.

Eventually, Cheng Xiaoshi offers, “I wouldn’t put a name on it, anyway. That’s bad luck.”

“Or commitment, an unspoken binding vow.”

Lu Guang doesn’t say it like it’s a joke, which is probably why Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile falters. Then he tosses the lantern gently into the water.

“Say, Lu Guang, do you think it floats, even when it’s laden with so much?”

Lu Guang doesn’t look away. “I think it always sinks a little first, exactly because it carries so much hope.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches the fall. It doesn’t burn but instead ascends.

Because it is meant to, first.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi finishes drafting the specifics of Chen Nan’s disappearance—but not how Ling Chengshi sorts it out.

As a treat, he calls Lu Guang to his flat under the guise of needing two pairs of eyes and Lu Guang just has a very lovely pair of eyes. Lu Guang didn’t even need to knock at midnight.

It is almost 1h now. The flat is quiet and the laptop glows. Lu Guang leans in, fingers hovering. His eyes don’t blink when he’s focused like this. Cheng Xiaoshi sits beside him, a pen in his mouth, a mug balanced on his knees. He hasn’t lost track of time. His pulse is too loud for that.

Half an hour prior to midnight, Cheng Xiaoshi is sitting at his desk. The bitter taste of the cigarette he has smoked still coating his lungs, inevitably making its way through his veins.

Cheng Xiaoshi squints at the spreadsheet. “Wait. Scroll back. That one, yes.”

Lu Guang obliges.

“There. The dancer who died in January. That was also food poisoning?”

“Allegedly,” Lu Guang’s eyes are still scanning the text.

The spreadsheet blurs a little at the edges. Cheng Xiaoshi leans in anyway and taps the screen, hand grazing Lu Guang’s wrist in passing—definitely not by accident.

“Sounds like a careless mistake given they deal with the same catering company yet nothing happened to his crew—although they’ve all had the same meal. My money is not on the meal—maybe it was the excessive smoking from that day.”

Lu Guang’s head slowly turns. He squints at the dizzy Cheng Xiaoshi, who grips the edge of the desk. His pulse speeds up, and he feels the temperature shift. A cold sweat breaking out along his neck. He exhales sharply—too sharply—and his vision stutters.

Five more minutes.

Lu Guang watches him for a moment, his gaze sharp. Without a word, he steps forward, two fingers pressing against Cheng Xiaoshi's sternum. He must feel the erratic beat of Cheng Xiaoshi's heart.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes gleam. He wants to laugh.

“Bypassing the foreplay, Guangguang? I'm into it but I also would've preferred a drink first.”

“You’ve already had your poison.” Lu Guang’s thumb brushes over Cheng Xiaoshi’s pulse point on his neck instead. Cheng Xiaoshi knows Lu Guang is already counting in his head. Lu Guang stops. A beat of silence before he speaks, tone flat.

“Your pupils are blown. You’re sweating. Your heart’s racing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, half-grinning. “And I’m dizzy—faint—a little dry mouth. Does that speak to anything worthwhile?”

Lu Guang’s eyes narrow. “You’re not looking at me straight, and I’d bet anything you’re starting to feel detached from reality.”

Cheng Xiaoshi hums, swaying slightly. “It could be the lack of sleep. Or maybe I'm just really into your body at the moment.”

Lu Guang steps closer, voice sharper. “Tell me we're not method acting murders now.”

“Interesting and tempting. Tell me how I could achieve that.”

“By microdosing on belladonna.”

“And lie to you, Guangguang?”

The edges blur again. The room flickers, like a film reel skipping. There’s a jolt, then a sudden clarity. It feels like someone is gripping his ribcage, squeezing the air out of him. Sweet dreams, Cheng Xiaoshi. Lu Guang is asking something that sounds a lot like, How much did you take?

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. He crouches unsteadily before the bin and offers up the poisoned filter.

“Thought I'd test the theory. Turns out it’s still as effective if smoked.”

Lu Guang is too silent, too still. Then he breathes out an exasperated scoff.

“Charcoal alone won't fix it. If what you've figured out is true—and it is because it wasn’t the food—this is exactly why he died,”

Cheng Xiaoshi is about to tease Lu Guang about worrying about him. He’s about to head to the drawer to fetch the charcoal tablet. But his steps falters. His thoughts are sluggish; he is dimly aware of his body, but it’s all wrong. His mouth is dry and his chest tightens with every breath.

“You're probably fainting in a matter of minutes— How did you even acquire it?”

“You say that like you’re surprised when in fact you should be impressed.”

“No. I say that because I should be worried.”

‘You needed to stop setting yourself on fire just to see who’d burn with you.’

He blinks; it’s Lu Guang’s voice, but it’s distant, like he’s speaking underwater. There’s something in his hand, black liquid. But that’s not Liu Xiao's belladonna. It smells bitter, familiar in the worst way.

Cheng Xiaoshi drops to the ground. He hears footsteps running. He thinks of a two-toned pressed sleeve.

Everything is a haze—too much of something. His mind reaches for a thread, a lifeline, but it’s frayed. Slipping. The last thing he remembers is that something had made him do this, made him swallow, made him dizzy, made him… what?

He feels the temperate rising; he feels cradled into chest. He is in a suitcase and it smells of his body wash inside. It smells like Lu Guang's shampoo.

And then, his breath is caught in his chest again. He can't hear anything, just feels a sharp sting at his arm. Too much pressure. Too much—

Lu Guang’s voice cuts through the fog as the sharp taste of metal lingers in Cheng Xiaoshi's mouth. Something stings, like a needle to the vein. Like a drug seeping through the fog of his mind. There’s something soft over his lips—but his lips aren’t chapped.

Cheng Xiaoshi reaches for Lu Guang’s hand and grips it. It’s there, solid, even as his vision fractures, the edges curling inwards. Something again is familiar but wrong. He can’t focus enough to care about the details anymore.

Focus. Fadeout.

He knew he would wake up. He counted on it.

He didn’t expect to find Lu Guang sitting by his bedside. His eyes are intensely staring Cheng Xiaoshi's unsteady ones. Of course Cheng Xiaoshi smirks.

“You didn’t leave. Hot.”

“You didn’t leave me a choice this time.” Lu Guang raises his hand. Cheng Xiaoshi feels his move. “Can I have mine back now?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t recall holding onto Lu Guang's hand. He doesn’t let go. Instead, he links their fingers and holds their joint hands up.

Lu Guang doesn’t retract his. 

“Did you get off on nearly dying?”

“I get off on being right—and maybe, just maybe, on defiling your neck.”

Then—gently, clinically—Lu Guang lifts Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand from his wrist. Their fingers separate. Cheng Xiaoshi recovers by hauling himself upright in bed. He signals the syringe on the nightstand with his chin.

“I suppose the physostigmine injection is common knowledge. To journalists.”

Lu Guang stands up, expression unreadable. He doesn’t acknowledge what Cheng Xiaoshi has just said, but instead says with some finality,

“If your dreams become too vivid or you hallucinate, don’t panic. It’s the aftereffects.”

“It’ll be fine, Lu Guang. You'll ground me.”

“Don’t get any ideas. I'm not spending the night by your side.”

“Physically. But you're here—you're not a fever dream. I’ll know what to reach for when oblivion claims me and only the roaches remain on Earth. Even if in my memory.”

And like that, the oxygen shifts. Lu Guang’s eyes are wide. Cheng Xiaoshi hears his heartbeat in his ears. Among other things.

For every time loop.

He flashes a flirty smile but Lu Guang is already turning around, shaking his head.

“Not even a goodnight kiss? I did almost die, don’t be so stingy.”

“Almost isn't good enough. I'm leaving now.”

For some reason, Cheng Xiaoshi can't help his smile as he flops back on bed.

And it takes four hours before he slips again.

And this time, Cheng Xiaoshi is falling.

He opens his eyes. The fall stops—not with a catch, but with a thud.

Thump.

The first thing he registers is the sound—not voices, not footsteps, not breath.

Clinking.

Metal on metal, swaying, perhaps from the engine rumble of the ship, perhaps not. He isn't sure, yet he’s on a ship. The hallway is cold. The light flickers and something sterile smells like peach-flavoured vodka and rust. Down the corridor, the cabin door is cracked open. The girl in the mirror isn’t his reflection.

She has pink hair.

She is holding a vial in one hand, a gun in the other. Her mouth moves. Cheng Xiaoshi can't hear. The person across from her is laughing. It isn't happy; it’s like he’s been waiting for this.

Cheng Xiaoshi runs. The carpet softens. His knees catch on the corner of a lounge chair as he skids sideways into the room. She turns.

He knows her name—

Chen Nan.

Or, no. He knows she shouldn’t be here.

She is not supposed to have hair anymore. Or a heartbeat. She should be in a hospital, declared dead.

He rushes forward—

and darkness catches him from behind.

Cheng Xiaoshi thinks of Lu Guang.

 

He wakes.

Or dreams of waking, next to Lu Guang.

There’s light bleeding in from above, white and flickering. His head aches with a pressure that feels like someone else's memory. Across the room, someone’s back is turned: a white shirt pulled off in one motion. Pale skin. Shoulder blades inching in.

A white-haired boy. Cheng Xiaoshi recognises the shape of the silence more than the person.

Lu Guang. He wants to kiss him but he can't move his body. And Lu Guang is a flurry of motions.

Something drags. Stretches.

He blinks. Everything is heavy and the floor is cold. Wet.

A glimpse of a body propped up—too still, too posed.

He blinks.

Now he’s tied to a bed.

With silk ties. They're his. He asked for no slipknots tonight… he thinks.

Soft and pink. They dig into his wrist with the weight of something unforgivable.

He tries to speak. It is a sultry laugh, a name unsaid.

His tongue is thick. His chest feels detached from his body. He smells the iodine of the sea and vanilla petrichor. The scent makes him lightheaded. He wants to soak it in, up.

Then, a kiss—not on the lips. Jawline—neck—feathery then biting—marking. It tastes of a struggle.

No one can ever know.

His heart kicks, but his voice doesn’t follow. His mouth is dry. Someone’s breath—his own, maybe—shudders on contact.

He blinks.

Cold metal against his palm. Teary eyes and wet hair. Her hair was pink. He remembers that now. She wasn’t alone; there were two of them.

Tetrodotoxin, he thinks. He doesn’t know why.

He knows what it does.

But he is crumpling a paper into her hand—her reluctant hands. The words sit on the torn paper as though underlined in blood.

Promise me.

And they have been; it’s just not his blood.

 

Cheng Xiaoshi wakes up with a start. With a dry taste in his mouth like cheap sugar and grief and nothing of the belladonna bitterness.

The watty glare of the screen makes him recoil. He wipes the drool off his mouth, then off the keyboard.

The article title reads, “Shooting Star: Drama Kid Goes Method Before Jumping Into the Sea.”

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. However, he does remember that Lu Guang left him because he vaguely recalls staring too long at the pattern on Lu Guang's still-unreturned umbrella.

But his hands shake when he looks at the pink-haired theatre kid in his screen. His T-shirt bears the same floral pattern on the umbrella.

Li Tianchen. And he looks like the girl from his dream—like the picture Liu Xiao has shown him two weeks ago.

Cheng Xiaoshi is never going to the dark web again. Poisoned or otherwise.

 

◑

 

It is once again one of those days when method acting gets the best of him. Because after all, Qiao Ling wasn’t wrong.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s mood is already off. He’s tired. He has been stuck in rewrites, not sleeping, and the dreams have been creeping into daylight.

They’re walking—Xia Fei and he—through a narrow corridor that stinks. One of those underpasses littered with secondhand book carts and fried tofu stalls. Xia Fei is ranting about some director who doesn’t understand negative space and why Vein is a blessing to contemporary theatre. Cheng Xiaoshi is only half-listening while holding an iced coffee that’s mostly melted.

Then, just past a stack of pulp novels and a cracked mirror, he glimpses a ghost.

Li Tianchen.

Pink hair—twin-tied—hoodie slouched halfway off one shoulder, and face half-swallowed by a surgical mask. No—it’s a young woman no one heeds. She isn’t doing anything; she is only standing, flipping through a romance paperback.

Cheng Xiaoshi freezes, not visibly enough that Xia Fei notices. Not at first.

Something pulls—tugs. Déjà vu with an agenda. But—because Li Tianchen jumped into the sea?

The pink-haired person glances up, eyes brushing past him. The look doesn’t linger and it’s the wrong kind of familia—something not quite recognition. The kind of look you'd give someone you’ve seen somewhere they weren’t supposed to be.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat feels dry. He blinks, but she's still there. He gives it a better look, reasoning with his eyes—with his memories. But her hair is too glossy, her hoodie is too oversized, and the way she turns back to the book—unnatural—as though she wants him to keep looking.

“Oi.” Xia Fei nudges him. “You’re spacing again. That bad of a go, huh?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t answer. His eyes haven’t moved.

“Cheng Xiaoshi?”

He finally looks away. “Yeah. Still here. We can hit the agency tomorrow if you want someone that’s not Vein.”

Xia Fei doesn’t press it. They walk on and Xia Fei starts another story. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t listen.

Behind him, he doesn’t check if the pink haired person is still watching.

But he knows they are.

 

 

By night, he is trying not to spiral.

He’s halfway through a trashy murder e-book with too many footnotes and not enough payoff when something tangles with his peripheral vision: a suggested article.

The Star Who Burned Out Mid-Script: Liu Min and the Unbirthday Party.

He clicks it.

There’s a half-hearted header photo: Liu Min—cropped awkwardly from a film still, eyes not quite looking at the camera. Cheng Xiaoshi frowns. But he scrolls and reads all the same.

“On the night of 12th September, following a ‘90s-themed birthday celebration on the luxury yacht Vérité, rising actor Liu Min was discovered dead in the private lounge adjacent to the main deck screening room. The cause of death was a gunshot wound to the right temple, reportedly self-inflicted.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. He scrolls slower.

“The last person known to have spoken to Liu Min was an unnamed guest at the party, whom authorities briefly held under suspicion. Surveillance footage provided no conclusive evidence, with hallways and lounge access points showing no activity within the estimated time of death save for one person: the key suspect—whose identity remains undisclosed upon the request of his attorney. The suspect was detained but released after 72 hours without charges due to lack of condemning evidence.”

Cheng Xiaoshi frowns, backtracking.

—released after 72 hours.

—Lack of sufficient evidence.

The phrasing is surgical. Someone not just let go—but surgically cut loose. There are no leakage or press leaks. It’s a quiet release, the kind saved for people with excellent lawyers—or connections.

He flips the page.

“Liu Min was said to have watched his own debut film alone after most guests had retired to their cabins. He left a handwritten note: ‘One last round. Winner takes all.’”

Cheng Xiaoshi presses thumb and forefinger to his eyelids, but he doesn’t stop reading.

“The firearm, a period-accurate revolver registered to Liu Min’s legal team as a prop weapon and which had been modified to accept live rounds, consistently bore the late Mr Liu Min’s prints. There were no defensive wounds. A single bullet casing was found on the carpet, resting just beyond the edge of the blood spatter—consistent with a seated discharge and mild recoil. The only suspicious things hinting at foul play are a single glass of spilled red wine that has been cleaned up incompletely, the fact the victim was left-handed, and the presence of an item—a silver bracelet that belongs to the key suspect.”

His mouth tastes faintly metallic.

“According to Detective Wang Juan, Liu Min’s family refused an autopsy and publicly accepted his death as suicide, requesting privacy and the withdrawal of formal investigation.”

There’s a pull-quote box at the bottom, probably meant for drama. It works.

“No one won that round.” – Officer Wang Juan.

And the byline at the end: Report compiled by Lucas Guan.

Cheng Xiaoshi reads it again.

Then again.

He scrolls up to the note again.

For some reason, it sounds like something Lucas Guan would find poetic.

And something Lu Guang would find incredibly, unbearably ironic—if it hadn't also echoed the kind of scene Lumen could fabricate in his sleep.

 

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, the same way he doesn’t remember Li Tianchen’s story. But he dreams of the pretty pink-haired boy, only it’s not Liu Xiao's war criminal of an ex.

He is wearing a very familiar floral T-shirt, and his eyes are that of the young woman Cheng Xiaoshi had glimpsed earlier in the morning. There is a single difference—the gaze is softer; it is not Li Tianchen’s.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t see her mouth but he hears her.

“You looked right at me. Why didn’t you stop me?”

It’s in split frames—two versions of the same burning theatre. One ends in blood. One ends in Lu Guang calling his name. Neither feels like the whole story.

He wakes up in cold sweat.

Chapter 7: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Boy Who Writes Murders Like He’s Remembering Something

In retrospect, Cheng Xiaoshi can pinpoint the exact point where he gave himself away.

Or, cornering Lu Guang into becoming his partner—into admitting who he really is—unfolds in three acts.

 

Act I, Scene II: The Terminal Tryst, or Conversations We Don’t Know We’re Having

When Cheng Xiaoshi learnt that Liu Xiao's flight was delayed, he was trying not to put his homicidal knowledge to good use. Now it is 2h22 and the airport terminal is almost static with the cold lights and flickering flight boards and the muted murmurs of sleepless transients.

The flip side: he isn't alone anymore.

Cheng Xiaoshi spots Lu Guang before the latter can look up. There’s a quiet solemnity to Lu Guang even in neon—head down and scrolling as the blue light of his laptop catches like frost on cheekbones. His umbrella rests to his left as though anticipating rain again.

Cheng Xiaoshi sits a few seats over, in the same bench. He neither asks why Lu Guang is here nor offers why he himself is. He just wraps his hands around his too-hot coffee.

The silence stretches—taut but not awkward. Eventually Cheng Xiaoshi fires a question.

“Not to be out of pocket, but do you ever think about language as a weapon?”

Lu Guang doesn’t look up. “Define ‘weapon.’”

“Something layered—something meant to harm or protect, depending on the user’s intent.”

“Sounds more like a mirror than a weapon.” Lu Guang finally glances over. “You’re working something.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, casual. “Let’s say Ling Chengshi is anonymously sent this voice recording that’s distorted, intermittently so and at fixed intervals.”

Lu Guang closes the laptop with a soft click. “Interference?”

“No. Intentional. The distortions are the cipher, but not white noise or static or reversed speech—all I have are the not’s, not the is’s.”

Lu Guang studies him now. “But you’ve isolated the intervals.”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods. Lu Guang continues, expression serious.

“So the basics are in place: a baseline frequency and an aberration that repeats—but the latter is the anomaly.”

“I'm more inclined to think that the latter is the message.”

“Fair, but it also means that the distortions aren’t blocking meaning but rather encoding it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile is a challenge. “Hypothetically.”

Lu Guang thinks for a moment, then asks, “Are the distortions consistent in sound?”

“Not identical, but they're rhythmically patterned.”

“Consonant-based?”

Cheng Xiaoshi just sips his coffee.

Lu Guang narrows his eyes. “Then vowels. And if it’s not individual vowels… combinations?”

Cheng Xiaoshi taps his cup with one finger. “You have my attention and you're keeping my interest. Go on.”

Lu Guang sits forward now. “If it’s combinations, and they don’t fluctuate but hold structure then—diphthongs.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t speak, but his grin widens. It’s wicked and private and something worth chasing.

Lu Guang exhales once through his nose, not quite a laugh. “Of course it’s diphthongs. They're using the phonetic shift to carry embedded data.”

“Imagine coding a message not in words,” Cheng Xiaoshi muses, “but in the way the words bend. Mad respect.”

Lu Guang leans back. “And the distortion mimics those bends. That’s why isolated segments made no sense for you—since the key is hearing it flow. It is not just reconstruction; it’s resurrection.”

“You make it sound almost romantic,”

Lu Guang’s eyes meet his. “It is. Precision always is because it is intention.”

There’s a flicker—brief, stupid—in Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest.

Lu Guang adds, “They wanted someone to listen, not decode. That’s different. I wouldn’t call it a weapon—or maybe all communication is.”

And there it is: the soft ache of that sentence, not spoken to anyone in particular. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him, unusually quiet.

Then, with a sardonic tilt to his voice, he says, “And here I thought you only flirted with logic—this too is a good look on you, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang smirks faintly, eyes sliding away again. “I'd do it often but logic gets jealous.” There’s a pause before Lu Guang’s gaze becomes cool. “You know a diphthong isn’t just a sound. It’s also a transition.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. Then smiles—small, too sharp. “Like between two people?”

“Like between two identities.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stills. Then he exhales, tilts his head. “Say, Lu Guang, you ever dream something you don’t remember living?”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick away. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him, hunger tucked beneath curiosity. He doesn’t need an answer. Lu Guang offers one all the same.

“I think… some ciphers aren’t made to be cracked. They're just reminders. A Forget-me-not. An I was here, once. A bottle thrown into the sea, if we’re desperate enough.”

“Ah the professional breakup poetry strikes— Let me guess: this super sentimental conclusion is a byproduct of having that ‘tragic backstory, refuses to love again’ thing down to an art?”

“Funny.” Lu Guang doesn’t meet Cheng Xiaoshi’s gaze. “You're doing the very same thing for which you condemned me a couple of weeks ago.”

“While it turns me on to be likened to you, I must say I can't see it. You might just have to spell it out for me, Mr Lucas Guan, the curtains are simply always blue to me.”

A smile—not quite.

“TLDR: You have a lot of opinions for someone who doesn’t know much about me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs, tone deceptively light. “I know you flinch when someone says love. I know the hauntedness in your eyes and I know the way you keep looking like you’ve lost something precious and irreplaceable—like that watch of yours, but worse.”

Lu Guang hums noncommittally. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t want to push further, not tonight.

And so, there they are sitting, side by side, facing a row of empty gates. It feels like a false memory neither of them is ready to call by its proper name. Cheng Xiaoshi is about to speak when a new presence cuts across the terminal floor—light steps, a bouncing silhouette.

Liu Xiao.

Cheng Xiaoshi straightens and waves him over. “Liu Xiao, over here!”

Lu Guang doesn’t turn to look, but the shift in him is instant. The quiet is no longer comfortable.

Liu Xiao is addressing Cheng Xiaoshi when he says, “Thought you'd be gone by now. It’s been three hours.”

“Don’t confuse my characters for my person; I know how to wait. And I had my hands busy anyway.”

Liu Xiao doesn’t reply because his eyes snag on Lu Guang.

Lu Guang’s nod is nearly imperceptible. His fingers tap once against the laptop’s edge, then still. Liu Xiao’s smile is inscrutable; it bears too much wolf.

Cheng Xiaoshi, catching the odd pause, glances between them. “You know. Killing time with my ex-boyfriend discussing distorted love letters disguised as linguistic puzzles. Classic school night.”

It is mainly a joke to get Lu Guang to emote. But Lu Guang smoothly stands. He remains silent but his gaze is unreadable. Before he turns to leave, he murmurs, just for Cheng Xiaoshi, “Be careful with distortions. They only ever hide one thing.”

“Which’s what?”

“The obvious.”

And then he’s gone—steps echoing through the hollow terminal. Cheng Xiaoshi stares after him. He wonders who Lu Guang was here for.

Liu Xiao whistles, low. “Lu Guang really walks like he’s two sighs away from ending the world. Truly makes me wonder if you pick them by vibe or simply by saviour complex, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t smile. He’s still thinking about diphthongs and things that bend. And only when he is in bed does he notice that Liu Xiao didn’t call Lu Guang ‘Lucas Guan.’

But he has to overlook that for now. He needs to carefully and smoothly pitch in his psychopathic detective bit to the EMiB’s scriptwriter.

Without having to get on his knees and beg.

 

Act II, Scene I: Ghostlight, or How Not to Read a Love Letter

Lu Guang was right. It was a diphthong cipher.

The vowel combinations, when properly mapped, gave a message. One line: Find the first missing piece in the place where names are forgotten.

Cheng Xiaoshi thought of the abandoned archive near his old university. He wasn’t sure why—only that it felt right.

Now there’s a small metal box. With a keypad. And an envelope with two notes inside. He keeps one, tears the other in half, and gives Lu Guang only part of it.

For reasons.

Now, they are in the backroom. The rest of the theatre is dark. A single lamp over the table. Lu Guang has bent the neck of it just so. The light cuts in lines so sharp that the paper looks older under it, with the script fragments lying scattered about. Cheng Xiaoshi is more interested in the way Lu Guang’s golden silhouette catches the golden light—almost like the sun.

Lu Guang quietly slides a translucent sheet over one torn piece. He then angles the lamp again and faded letters rise—ink too faint to see without heat and time.

Cheng Xiaoshi whistles, low. “Okay show-off.”

“It’s just thermochromic ink,” Lu Guang murmurs, squinting. “And a decent lamp.”

“No, I didn’t mean this one party piece.” Cheng Xiaoshi shifts his chair until their knees bump. “You in general—Everything is a bit magic when you’re doing it. It’s hot and makes me want to burn.”

Lu Guang just adjusts the lamp.

“This line is still smeared. The heat has distorted it.”

“I’ve seen worse handwriting. Lee Jae started our courtship by sending me love letters... in semiotic code.”

“Not your soft launch, I believe. Did you manage to decipher them?”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, smirking. “No need. He also sent nudes.”

Still nothing from Lu Guang, not even the twitch of an eyebrow.

“So,” he begins, “We haven’t rehearsed that part yet, but let’s say Chen Nan disappears from a locked room. No trace, no footage, no one sees her leave.”

Lu Guang doesn’t look up. “Where was she last seen?”

“In her dormitory in the boarding school. And before you ask, the only mirror in the room is one of those that get built into the wardrobe door.”

“Any broken glass?”

“Nope. Everything intact. The roommate—Wang Qing—swears Chen Nan never left the bed. But when they woke up, girlie was gone and not a single thing out of place—which is exactly why I'm not sure how to go about this.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans his chin into his palm, watching Lu Guang closely. “If someone wanted to disappear someone without a trace—hypothetically—how would you do it?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer at first. He tilts the lamp slightly instead, lets the light bleed over the script. Naturally, his reply is roundabout.

“Wardrobe mirror?”

“Yup.”

“Double-sided?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile flickers. “Nah, that’d be too obvious.”

Lu Guang picks up another piece. Faded ink. “Then the mirror is not a mirror.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s quiet for a second. “I'm listening.”

“Maybe it’s a passage—not a physical one—I meant it as more optical. Like misdirection.”

“You’re thinking angle play, like the luxury train case?”

Lu Guang nods. “Light distortion. Think a second chamber behind the wall through which Chen Nan slips when her roommate is asleep.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts. “That might have been very tenable—and clever—except the timeline doesn’t allow for movement. It’s a ten-second blackout in security footage and nothing more, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang exhales. “Then she didn’t move.”

Pause. His voice goes quieter.

“She was never in bed to begin with.”

Cheng Xiaoshi freezes. “What?”

“If the roommate thinks she saw her, someone else was made to look like Chen Nan. Enough to pass in dim light. Or a decoy, a wig, matching pyjamas. Point it: the Chen Nan is already gone, long before the roommate notices it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi presses his thumb to the page. “No—she’s still in the room.”

Lu Guang frowns. “Behind the mirror—it’s more sinister that way. Intentional too and that’s the freaky part, because then it means there was a reason for her to hide.”

“A reason for someone to hide her.”

They sit in silence, letting it settle.

Lu Guang’s hands fit two torn pieces together. Smooth. Thoughtful.

Then quietly he asks, “What happens to Chen Nan?”

“In the story?”

Lu Guang nods.

“She stays gone,” Cheng Xiaoshi says. “Only one person knows what happened that night. And he never tells.”

Lu Guang’s gaze lingers on him. Then, very softly, he says, “That doesn’t sound like a story.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s breath catches. He then turns back to the fragments which now begin to take shape now. A line here, another there. A passage half-burned, half-erased. The script’s voice is sharp—too polished to be a first draft. And there, near the edge of one page, Cheng Xiaoshi spots it: the unmistakable residue of a red fingerprint.

He stares at it.

“Quick. Reasons why you'd ever leave something behind on purpose?”

Lu Guang steals a sideway glance at Cheng Xiaoshi. “If it’s a clue or a piece of evidence then it’s because I want someone to find it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts his weight. The light’s halo is warm but brittle—fragile like memory. Or guilt. The silence coils between them. Ghostlight.

“You reach all the right conclusion and I can't help but wonder,” Cheng Xiaoshi begins, casually, “You’ve never thought that maybe your ghost is a bit too quiet? I mean, if someone loved you that much, shouldn’t they be haunting the place, trying to find you?”

Lu Guang’s hand stills over the script just for a beat.

“You only want to be found if you make it a chase. My ghost was never loud, not in that sense.”

Cheng Xiaoshi swallows. Tries to mask it with bravado. “Right. The quiet type. Serious. Was just thinking they balanced you, but maybe you lovebirds bonded over mutual interests. If not the chase then did they too love puzzles?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer. Which is, of course, an answer.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans closer, reading the next line in the script without processing it. His mouth moves, but his brain is somewhere else—back in Lu Guang’s silence, the reverence in his voice.

He huffs a breath. “Must’ve been one hell of a person.”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick to him; there’s something unreadable in them. “They were.”

The lamp flickers slightly. Cheng Xiaoshi looks away before Lu Guang can see the expression forming. That thing smaller than any shade of sadness—of jealousy. It’s that meaner cousin: possessiveness.

Lu Guang calmly goes back to the paper. It’s surgical how he rotates a piece slightly-and then he frowns. “I think that’s it. This one fits, but only if we fold it.”

He demonstrates. The torn edge matches another perfectly—but only if the page is creased so it would overlap a few lines of text. Like a simple origami cat.

“Whoever wrote this knew how to hide things in plain sight.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches the fold, watches the script realign. “Intentional omission?”

“Or concealment. It is a chase, but only because it’s not hope but certainty that you'd be found.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back. “So basically foreplay in the detective world. It reminds me of this author. Used to write murder mysteries like he’s flirting with people with superhuman inference skills. All the clues are there from the start, but you never knew what mattered. To red herring or not to red herring—that is the question.”

Lu Guang’s voice dips. “Sounds like a question with which you yourself have long grappled.”

“Probably.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t speak after that.

Later, when he finds himself alone with the pieces, he unfolds the paper Lu Guang folded. This needn’t Lu Guang's decoding; he could’ve cracked it himself using what Lumen has taught him through his deleted fiction.

Still, Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes linger on the overlapping line. winner takes all. He feels the same sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Because following the same method, the rest of the clue—the whole first clue—now spells out: Qian Jin's winner takes all.

And the note he didn’t offer to Lu Guang is even more foreboding: not when the midnight sun set.

 

Act III, Scene IV: Withholding Names, or This Is How You Haunt Someone Without Touching Them

Lu Guang has been loitering a lot after rehearsals, after everyone has left. Cheng Xiaoshi never misses a chance to get closer. Tonight should be special.

Cheng Xiaoshi is humming to himself, except that he isn’t alone. Lu Guang sits a little away, fiddling with the lid of his drink, pretending he isn't waiting.

“Not bad today,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, wiping sweat off the back of his neck. “If Vein yells at us a little less, I might start to worry he’s lost interest in having a ‘booming production.’”

Lu Guang doesn’t comment.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans over, pretending to stretch. “Y’know that trap we built into Act Three? Wang Qing leaves a message—‘Reflections lie only when they’re forced to smile.’ I was thinking about what that meant and it all finally connects—every single loose thread. Sure, the mirror wasn’t a metaphor; it was the trick—but to what extent?”

Cheng Xiaoshi tips his head back and sighs dramatically. The whiplash.

“If I were to make someone disappear, like really vanish, not just poof but vanish, I’d have to improve on your formula, which means I’ll need at least three things—misdirection, and light, and a timeline that breaks itself.”

Lu Guang doesn’t move.

“And if I were staging it, I’d rig the hallway camera with an old burst-delay trick. Make the loop kick in during the 10:17–10:21 slot when everyone thinks they’re seeing a live feed.” Cheng Xiaoshi glances up. “There’s a flash artifact in the footage. That only happens when you overlay the same frame twice to fake continuity—like double mirrors to confuse the distance, the real presence.”

Lu Guang's fingers tighten minutely on his drink. It isn't too visible but it is glaring for someone watching him closely. Cheng Xiaoshi is watching. He continues to fiddle with the cipher in his pocket.

“You know, it’s funny. All these murders I’ve been digging into—oleander on the actress’s lipstick, salicylic overdoses in the greenroom cocktail, rigged a charcoal burner in a sealed hotel room. They aren’t just clever. They’re literary. They quote old cases—echo staging.”

Animated now, he leans forward as though arguing a point in a dream he only half-remembers.

“And if I were—hypothetically—the type of person who used to write crime fiction, I might think this whole thing was a performance. A pastiche. Half taunt, half tribute—you name it.”

Lu Guang’s silence sharpens. The ghost of a frown passes through him.

Cheng Xiaoshi grins, but there’s a twinge behind it. He is needling—fishing—and the line might snap. So, he pushes the image of the metal box away and soldiers on.

“Just hypothetically. If someone had been the suspect—not the killer, not really—but the one left behind with the mess—would they write themselves out of the story, or bury themselves in it?”

“I think it depends who they were trying to protect.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he grins.

“Funny. That’s almost exactly what the next cipher string implies. Hypothetically, of course.”

Lu Guang finally looks at him head-on.

“Is there a point? I'm not really a fan of the ancient art of exposition-as-dialogue.”

“All those cases—they happen over the same stretch of months and the same city. There are no convictions, true, but they all had one thing in common. They’re lifted from somewhere—same blueprint, same logic games, what traces to clean. Except that they linger now with me not because I'm a little deranged, but because I’d read them before.”

Lu Guang’s voice is quiet now.

“That’s part where you tell me you think I wrote those stories—watch how I react.”

“Not exactly. I think you deleted them too fast. That maybe you recognised too much of yourself in the way they thought.”

Lu Guang looks away. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him—testing glass for cracks. There is a beat.

Then Lu Guang breathes in. And it’s just slightly wrong—the way his chest doesn’t rise all the way. The way his fingers flex once against the table, as though resisting the urge to snatch the paper and set it alight.

Cheng Xiaoshi catches it.

“You know where I'm going with this, Lu Guang; there are hardly any clever plot twists in the second act. You’re Lumen.”

Lu Guang meets his gaze then. It is neither denial, nor quite confirmation. Lu Guang sports that look of someone standing still in a room that is already on fire.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs once—dry and small. He tosses a folded printed paper on the table.

“Wasn’t hard to figure—it would be that chase fuelled by certainty and not hope if we were in another timeline, Lu Guang. It’s just—all of it— The deleted posts, the syntax, the way you love your chessboard metaphors—it’s almost like modus operandi at this point.”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick down to the cipher that Cheng Xiaoshi has just tossed before them. Then back to Cheng Xiaoshi.

“Who else knows about the cipher?”

“Is that really what you want to ask me?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer.

“You look worried,” Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head. “Not caught-out worried. Something-else worried. Don’t let me make assumptions.”

Lu Guang sets his jaw. There's a flicker there—concern, yes, but layered with something heavier. Responsibility.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile thins. “So you’re not worried about being found out. You’re worried because someone has used your work—because they might use it again. If I found it, they too might.”

Lu Guang’s fingers twitch again, not toward the paper this time—toward Cheng Xiaoshi.

And it stuns Cheng Xiaoshi, that microgesture—like Lu Guang wants to say something, warn him even, but doesn’t. Can’t.

His gaze meets Lu Guang’s. It is curious and hungry in a way that frightens both of them. Cheng Xiaoshi would've never guessed. He recovers quickly.

“They covered it too well,” He says, low now, the teasing mostly gone. “If that was a Lumen story— No, if someone made it look like one—you’d want to solve it, wouldn’t you? Isn't that why you're really here, Lu Guang?”

Lu Guang exhales—again, neither denial nor admission. But in his eyes, something shudders, like a chord struck too close to the root.

“If you’ve read the stories, then you already know. This isn’t about me.”

And it’s simply this—not I didn’t know—not I don’t understand—not You’re wrong. The stripped-down least simple version of the truth. Cheng Xiaoshi immediately feels something twist in his chest—something too visceral.

“You know something you won't tell me, or anyone.”

Cheng Xiaoshi isn't asking a question. He shifts his weight, shifting gears. He voices the name at the centre of it all:

“Qian Jin.”

Lu Guang’s poker face could be a profession, but there is the slightest of trembles. For those who knew where to look.

Cheng Xiaoshi takes a step forward. Another name, another bullet.

“Liu Min’s suicide— You're cleverer than not to notice it was the same bastard using your work. The burnt-out star didn’t kill himself and I want your take. Tell me Lu Guang how it was really done.”

“Why me, why now?”

Lu Guang’s fist clenches slightly. Another step. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t say what he really means.

“Again, because you didn’t just research the case as a reporter. You could’ve authored it itself, so you must know something worthwhile.”

“You don’t ask for easy requests,”

“You don’t leave me easy options.” Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t release Lu Guang's gaze. “And something is off anyway— Why the reluctance? This should be a child’s play for you and I know you'd enjoy deconstructing a murder.”

A muscle twitches near Lu Guang's jaw, as if he’s just bitten down a reply—or an impulse.

“I just don’t understand. Why does it matter to you? The case is closed anyway.”

“Might be—but someone built a puzzle out of dead people, Lu Guang. Because whoever sent me the cipher knew I’d find it. And because you know how it works. All of it.”

That gets something—a stillness, a tension. Cheng Xiaoshi takes one last step; he is a breath away from Lu Guang now.

Werther, tragic love.

Cheng Xiaoshi forces his eyes up, chasing the voices away.

“Lu Guang… help me figure it out, not for Liu Min but for the fucker who sent me the cipher. While I'm risking sounding like a time loop by echoing your sentiment, I too have to understand why me, why now. I have to know who they are trying to indict. Or acquit.”

Lu Guang looks at the unplugged mirror on the wall behind Cheng Xiaoshi. His gaze lingers there, then he speaks.

“You ever try standing in front of two mirrors at once? Front and back—where you'd be just close enough to see the edges of yourself, but never the whole?”

Cheng Xiaoshi frowns.

“That’s the trick. People forget how easily we believe what a mirror shows. We assume it’s truth, but it’s only a direction—one version of many fluctuating and unstable ones whose varying truths we’re too blue-pilled to work out. Not without risk.”

Lu Guang steps toward the cipher, tapping one character.

“You want to have someone disappear? All you have to do is make sure that person is not seen as they are but as how you think they are. Just ask Ling Chengshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi scoffs. “Too many linguistic acrobats—uncharacteristically—dare I think you’re dodging?”

“No.” Lu Guang meets his eyes again. “The dare is mine; I'm handing the puzzle to you and asking you to reconstruct it. You'd enjoy that, wouldn’t you?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes narrow. This was new—almost thrilling. Lu Guang leans in, voice low and unwavering.

“So figure out what happened that night—the method, the why—then ask again. I’ll give you whatever you want then.”

The room drains out of air.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t move. Because something in Lu Guang’s face—the shadow of a dare masking an old wound—tells him this isn’t a game. That Lu Guang isn’t just hiding what happened. He is hiding why.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him leave the cipher on the table—watches Lu Guang step back because sure he hasn’t just dropped a match in the middle of everything and dared a pyromaniac to burn it down.

And still, somehow, Cheng Xiaoshi wants to pull him in. Because underneath all of it, Lu Guang looks almost scared—even if Cheng Xiaoshi is starting to realise that whatever happened that night wasn't just a crime.

It was personal.

They’re still for too long. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t blink and Lu Guang doesn’t breathe easy and the air between them is thick with all the things they won’t say.

Then it comes—the break in the veil. Lu Guang’s watch chimes a soft, traitorous sound. April 15th.

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales through his nose. Lu Guang glances down, as if surprised the world kept turning. He steps back first.

Turns.

And then pauses—shoulder half-turned, hair catching the light in a way Cheng Xiaoshi will remember later, at inconvenient hours. And the words then are not quiet, but confiding:

“Happy birthday,”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him go.

And watches.

And watches.

Then—quietly, the way you'd pry open an old wound just to see if it still hurts—he says,

“You really can’t say it, can you?”

Lu Guang’s steps slow, just barely.

“What?”

“My name, Lu Guang.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, but there’s no weight behind it.

“It’s always you or eye game. You never once said my name, Lu Guang. It really can't hurt that much.”

Lu Guang doesn’t bristle. He stands there, letting the accusation sit between them.

And then he smiles softly—so softly it’s nearly mercy killing.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't know what it means. But he will be carrying that.

 

◑

 

In the dream, they give him water. It’s always too cold, like poison straight to the jugular.

The room is small, washed in that beige-grey police station lighting. It flickers sometimes. Across the table, a man watches him—a man who has Lu Guang’s face, but his voice is steadier than Lu Guang’s ever was. He looks a version of Lu Guang that hadn’t stayed up for three nights, that hadn’t broken something he meant to protect.

“Tell me what happened on the Vérité,” the not-Lu Guang says.

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles. It feels like his mouth belongs to someone older. Someone guilty.

“I killed him,” he says.

The silence afterward is thick. It waits. Not-Lu Guang doesn’t blink.

“Liu Min,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, testing the name. “He was wearing a white shirt. The buttons were undone. His hand was under my shirt and we kissed, but you saw us. Then I made him pull the trigger. You knew about all of that, didn’t you?”

“I did,” not-Lu Guang says. “But you did neither.”

“Didn’t I?” Cheng Xiaoshi leans forward. “Do I tell you how I saw his head blood up? The blood paint against the wall—the poison ivy kiss, my Russian Roulette game, my revolver, but not my fingerprints, not my DNA. That’s the whole thing, isn’t it? You can’t prove I didn’t the same way you can't prove I did.”

There’s a beat where not-Lu Guang looks more tired than sad.

“You didn’t kill him, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

He shrugs. “Maybe not. But I wanted to. Doesn’t that count?”

“No.”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks at his hands. In the dream, they’re clean; they’re always clean in dreams. That's what Lady Macbeth has taught him. He chuckles and continues.

“He kept crying so pitifully I wanted to laugh. You remember the sound of it? Because I never forgot. He just wouldn’t stop—kept going on about how it was his father’s doing. His lawyer’s undoing. But you don’t care about any of that—because you warned me about him, even before you'd seen him.”

“It’s never been about the older brother.”

The chair creaks when he shifts. Somewhere behind the one-way glass, someone writes something down. Or maybe they don’t. Maybe it's just Lu Guang, watching again, quiet and white-knuckled, pretending he doesn’t want to burst in and end the whole thing.

“I covered it up,” Cheng Xiaoshi tries.

“You were drugged unconscious.”

“I faked the note.”

“You're righthanded. I always had to be on your left.”

“I moved the body.”

“You haven’t touched it. Everything was in its right place.”

“I loved him.”

That stops not-Lu Guang. For a fraction of a second—for a flicker.

“He’s not the one you loved, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi wants to laugh—wants to say, Isn’t he? Isn’t that the story they all agreed to tell? An actor shoots himself. A boy gets stabbed. A girl disappears. And a lover forgets.

He leans forward. The glass of water on the table quakes slightly.

“What if I needed it to be me—what if I needed to know I could be cruel? Do I deserve to love better than him?”

Lu Guang’s voice finally breaks through, ragged, raw.

“You do.”

“That answers only half the question, love.”

“Love answers the entire question—because all those what if are you lying. Again.”

The room tilts. The table fractures. The light goes out. Someone breathes too loud—might be Cheng Xiaoshi.

And before he wakes, he sees himself at the rail of the Vérité, wind cutting into his ears. Someone screams as another slips. And Lu Guang’s hand is on his wrist, pulling him back from the edge.

But in the dream, it’s always too late.

And Cheng Xiaoshi never says thank you.

He just watches the ocean, and wonders if it’s deep enough to hold everything they never said.

 

◑

 

Nothing like weddings to make Cheng Xiaoshi feel all the gaps, in all their glory.

There’s glitter in the air because love never bleeds out—because love doesn’t ruin people. Because it’s a cruel mockery of the better he allegedly deserves.

Cheng Xiaoshi wasn’t going to come to Yu Xia and Lin Zhen’s wedding. It has nothing to do with his plus-one wanting intimacy and drinking chamomile now—though that didn’t help. It has little to do with the metal box possibly locking away a piece of his heart—though it might. And it bears now relevance to how it’s only his cologne perfuming his neck—though it does. It is mostly because the suit feels too empty.

And maybe that too is not the truth in its entirety. Cheng Xiaoshi knows why he came; he just doesn’t like the answer.

From across the hall, Xu Shanshan catches his eye before giving him the look—the stop loitering and pretend to help look. He wanders to the guestbook table—the aggressively festive one with tiny cherry blossom cards, dead pens, a camera that promises memories but mostly delivers awkward blinking.

He reaches for a card.

The hesitation is pronounced. He remembers being the reason Yu Xia and Lin Zhen are getting married. They remind him of that, routinely. He just doesn’t remember what that reason was. Maybe something about shipwrecked memories and cabin 207. He isn’t certain.

God. His undergrad years really should’ve gone easy with the smoke and the haze and that revolving door for a heart. Just remembering it now makes him wince. Cheng Xiaoshi's idea of a fresh start was waking up with a headache and someone’s lipstick smearing the hollow of his throat and forgetting why he feels the way he does. Commitment to him was not sleeping with anyone else that week. Intimacy was holding someone’s wrist instead of their hands. He was like a moth to every flame, but the minute it started to feel like warmth, he bolted out the door.

Until—

Lu Guang has slipped by his side quietly.

No hello. Instead, he offers Cheng Xiaoshi the pen like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t say anything. Lu Guang doesn’t either. They’re excellent at that as it turns out.

The chair creaks under Lu Guang’s lean frame as he sits. He takes his time writing. Left hand curled as though trying to shield the words. His shoulders are angled away but Cheng Xiaoshi can still see the little furrow in his brow.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches as Lu Guang stands. He walks off without a word, leaving the card sitting face-down.

Cheng Xiaoshi lets his eyes follow Lu Guang all the way into the wedding hall. It’s fucked-up, really: he turns twenty-four and immediately age isn't the only thing that increases; the theatrical flair does too. Ever since that delightful little confrontation and Cheng Xiaoshi has been living the past couple of days like a Shakespearean tragedy, treating Lu Guang like a subplot he could conveniently forget. Because anything beyond that was just asking for trouble.

Cheng Xiaoshi picks the card up. The handwriting is sharply unsentimental.

Here’s to being here for the wrong reasons yet staying for the right one.

It’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s him.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares too long. Something in his stomach folds sideways—a homesick sort of ache, the quietly apologetic sort.

He doesn’t realise he’s still holding the pen until it bleeds across his skin.

“Your turn,” someone calls from across the room.

He grabs a new card then writes something poetically forgettable and deeply meaningless.

But his eyes keep drifting back to the first one.

Chapter 8: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Bullet That Wasn’t for Him

As far as Cheng Xiaoshi can recall, lies have never managed to catch up to him. Tonight, a two-year old white lie just might. In a place where he should be getting sick. Of.

The music behind him is too loud—laughter, bass, glass. Xia Fei is good at this—throwing these parties that feel bigger than they should. Cheng Xiaoshi knows how it ends: too much colour, too many strangers, too many drugs of choice. It used to be Cheng Xiaoshi’s scene. But Xia Fei didn’t meet him like that.

Xia Fei met the person who could board docked ships long enough without throwing up.

If liquor is involved.

God, Cheng Xiaoshi hates drinking. It reminds him of Jae Lee, too.

Double yuck.

Cheng Xiaoshi's shirt is untucked, sleeves pushed up, hair messy in a way that used to be carefree. For an hour now, he has been flirting, but it’s a gesture now. A reflex. He turns back to the noise. But the pulse in his chest is different—slow and uneven. Something is off, and he doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol or something else. Tonight should’ve been a breather—a way to leave behind the locked box and the secret it whispers—but the rhythm sways him and the laughter rolls off him, and Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t know why, but he keeps talking, keeps moving as though there’s something to outrun.

But it’s light, all too light.

He slips away quietly. The night air cool against his skin and the bow is deserted. Cheng Xiaoshi is leaning against the railing. The moonlight shatters across the surface; it’s too bright. He is staring at how the ripples in the water mimic the thoughts in his head: hazy, ungraspable, transiently lucid.

It doesn’t last long. Soon he registers slow but deliberate footsteps. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t turn; he doesn’t need to.

“They won't remember.”

By the time Cheng Xiaoshi's smile edges onto his lips, Lu Guang has settled beside him. He doesn’t glance over at Cheng Xiaoshi. Instead, he mirrors his stance: head forward, bare forearms on the railing, fingers casually entwined. The shape of a third person fills the distance between them.

“The person you're trying to outrun. The bodies you buried. The skeletons in the closet. This fleeting moment of existence.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s lips twitch.

“Brief yet gorgeous.”

Only then does Lu Guang turn to look at Cheng Xiaoshi: quiet smile, unreadable eyes.

“The moment, the skeletons, or the bodies?”

“The person I could be running to, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang blinks so slowly that it lands like memory in replay. His collar is undone and wind catches the edge of his shirt like the teased mole on his collarbone isn't criminal. Lu Guang doesn’t look like someone dragged here—more like someone who stopped resisting. There’s something looser about him tonight. Cheng Xiaoshi notices. Tries not to.

Cheng Xiaoshi turns slightly, his most charming smile kindled.

“Lu Guang… what would you do, if I said I missed you in a past life?”

“Depends. Did you do something reckless in that one too that might prompt separation?”

Cheng Xiaoshi clicks his tongue. “So brutal.”

“Not if you think of it in terms of a necessity. Or maybe I was just happier without you.”

He words it so simply—says it so flatly—and Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile almost falters. Almost. Lu Guang is smiling at him in a way that is asking for trouble. Cheng Xiaoshi narrows his eyes playfully.

“You mean there is reason you had to kill me in the previous time loop? Because I certainly can't imagine you just walking away, so this is the Shakesperean note it must’ve ended on.”

Lu Guang doesn’t respond, so Cheng Xiaoshi gives a dramatic sigh as he fans his face.

“I could get behind it too—erasure as healing in a sexy drip. Very Xiaoshi-core. Laughing too loud, kissing too fast, nothing I touch sticks long enough to weigh me down because it’s heavy in all the wrong ways.” He gets in Lu Guang's face and blows, watching the fringe flutter but not the eyelashes—not the heart.

He smirks.

“Because the lightness often feels unbearably light… if we leave it at that.”

Lu Guang narrows his eyes, nothing hostile still. So far. Cheng Xiaoshi taps his lip.

“Hmm, wasn’t it also Milan Kundera who believed forgetting is how we remember best?”

“He literally wrote a whole book against that idea. You don’t preserve a memory by ensuring it doesn’t get tainted in the playback or by the afterquakes of the fall.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s comeback dies in his throat. There’s something in Lu Guang’s eyes—that quiet openness, the way Lu Guang's shoulders have softened, just a little, as if he’s waiting for something. Or someone.

Cheng Xiaoshi feels a strange twinge in his chest—a pulse of possessiveness that he hasn’t felt in… well, ever. It feels mutated—something darker that he hasn’t directed at anyone and certainly not at Lu Guang. Not like this. He shifts his weight to his other leg, smile, like words, flippant.

“It’s always fun when you speak in more than a sentence. I bet your Cathy liked that about you—the cold learnt astronomer vibe.”

“Learn’d astronomer and you’ve got it backwards. They said I was never cruel enough to be cold.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head flirtatiously—Oh?

“They liked the way I cared about things. Quietly, without needing to say it.”

“Let me guess— told you that you hung the moon and stars for them, that you're their centre when they spin away?”

Lu Guang finally looks at him. He doesn’t blink. “Are we really doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This—” Lu Guang gestures between them. “You trying to dig answers out of me by touching places you shouldn’t.”

“You noticed?”

“You’ve been staring at my collarbones for five minutes.”

“Rude to call me out like that. I was trying to figure out if X marks the spot is with this mole or hidden deeper—lower.” A fingers drum. A bullshittier smile. “Introduce me to your wound, Guangguang. I’ll be gentle like a first time.”

“It’s not a wound.”

“The opposite of a wound then. Bare it to me still—I can be as tacky as Mr X.”

“They weren’t tacky.”

“Not, not, not again—very existentialist of you not to define things, Mr Chestnut Tree, though I'd appreciate speaking of things as they actually are every once in a while.”

“Why, will you be taking notes?” Lu Guang flicks an eyebrow and Cheng Xiaoshi sticks his tongue in his cheek before letting it go with a pop.

“If their superhuman power is something I can fuck with. I need to figure out what got to you at last.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smirks, the old sharpness haunts his smile still, but something feels wrong. Lu Guang levels him with his gaze. He doesn’t retract his hand on the railing. Another almost. Another phantom of a smile—amused.

More. Cheng Xiaoshi thinks it’s a chuckle he hears but Lu Guang is already dreaming out loud.

“I don’t know if I'd call it a superpower but don’t you think if that’s the case then it’d be unique to them? For starters they wouldn’t need to do this because they'd already know.”

“Because—”

“Because they could see right through people, even the ones who didn’t want to be seen. They were real in a way I didn’t know how to protect myself from.”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks at him, and for the first time, the words don’t come easily. The idea of anyone seeing Lu Guang makes his blood run cold. It makes his chest burn with a jealousy he can’t understand. Cheng Xiaoshi grins.

“Sounds serious.”

“It was. For me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, almost teasing. But there’s a low burn behind the gesture. Territorial. He’s not sure what he wants.

“Still is?”

Lu Guang just meets his eyes in a way that says enough. For a second, Cheng Xiaoshi wants to lash out. To push the memory away, erase it from Lu Guang’s mind. He wants to bury it in something—anything—that would make Lu Guang look at him like that.

But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns his head away. They're not close again. Once more, he is far just enough to feel the heat from Lu Guang’s body, enough to let the quiet linger.

“The whole thing must’ve been beautiful too, them included. So, any pictures? For reference—or target practice?”

Lu Guang shakes his head softly—None.

“You meant to tell me Icarus fell in love and didn’t even document the downfall?”

“Some things don’t need documenting to leave marks. Just ask the sun.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, too loud, to cover the sting. “Damn. That bad?”

“That good.”

Cheng Xiaoshi steps forward and takes Lu Guang’s left wrist. Even if he wasn’t touching him, Cheng Xiaoshi is close enough that he would've still felt the warmth of Lu Guang's skin—the faint thrum of his pulse.

Lu Guang’s eyes don’t leave Cheng Xiaoshi’s for a beat. It makes Cheng Xiaoshi’s heart stutter in a way he hates to admit. He wants to press his thumb into the vein. To bleed it out. To imprint on Lu Guang. To burn him.

But there’s a watch in the way.

“Bittersweet ending, then?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks, smiling too easily.

“Are we not over this?”

“Not even close. It’s called twenty questions, not two breadcrumbs and expired butter. What forced curtain fall, Lu Guang?”

“I left. I miscalculated the consequences of being loved.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lets go. He runs a hand through his hair and his voice stays light.

“So you’re the heartbreaker in this story.”

Lu Guang turns away again. “I don’t think they’d see it that way.”

“That’s generous of them.”

“No. Just. They were the kind of person who wouldn’t hold it against me even if it hurt. That was part of their superpower too.”

“A masochist then—that’s your beige flag. What's next, psychopaths, cult leaders, cannibals?”

Lu Guang turns to fully face Cheng Xiaoshi now.

“Again. You’ve got it backwards. They asked me out by asking me to eat their heart—or break it, I'm still not sure which part was supposed to be the romantic bit.”

“I can get behind that—cannibalism as a metaphor for love.”

Lu Guang laughs. Cheng Xiaoshi freezes; he’s not ready for that sound. Lu Guang takes a step closer, now sharing Cheng Xiaoshi's gravity.

“Yeah. The Ophelia to my Hamlet, I suppose.”

“Given how her fate was sealed in a waterbed, do I assume we’ve graduated to self-destruction as a love language?”

Lu Guang shrugs. “Guess I like a theme.”

The space between them suddenly feels too warm—air that’s been breathed too many times. Cheng Xiaoshi needs to exorcise all the rampant thoughts—the feelings. So he shifts his weight, rolls his eyes, then flicks a wrist.

“Okay, no face, no name in your forever land of ambiguities, but can we at least assign a pronoun to your Orlando so I'd know which league I'm competing in.”

“What?”

“I’m not judging your character arc—only wondering if you're a classic tragedy or queer-coded from the start or simply using that fine line between the two as bondage tape.”

Lu Guang recoils, smile disbelieving. That shade of smile—the sound—does something to Cheng Xiaoshi’s penile area. Lu Guang doesn’t retake the step forward.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. Clarifies.

“Do you like dick?”

“You’ve been aggressively flirting for weeks but only now you're asking?”

“Consensual flirting. Then was casual. I'm serious about it now.”

“It?”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods. Lu Guang’s mouth twitches.

“Then… now—and every moment in between?”

“Equally horny. So?”

For a long moment, neither speaks. Cheng Xiaoshi wants to fill the space—flirt, push, turn the moment into something else—but something catches in his throat, something too real. Lu Guang’s eyes settle on him, unblinking and amused.

“Why do you even like me?”

“Because being around you is like dancing with a gun to my head and you’ve got excellent rhythm. I won't even need to say sorry if I step on your shadow.”

“Strike one. Typical.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means you keep dressing it up in metaphors because the truth would require honesty. Like the answer might actually matter.”

The blink is flinch-like. “Must there be an answer—must I have a reason, Hamlet?”

“Yes, when you’ve got neither. Yes, when it’s only physical. Curiosity.”

“What else is a better start, Lu Guang? We fall in between the moments—or seeking warmth is no longer enough of a fatal flaw?”

Lu Guang stills. He just watches Cheng Xiaoshi as though trying to decide how much to give. Cheng Xiaoshi offers an option by stepping into Lu Guang's space. He leans in slowly, imperceptibly. He knows what he’s doing; he can taste it in the air—their closeness, the tension, Icarus’ ashes. We’re gonna fall for each other in between all the moments nobody even thinks matter, and we will claim their forever ours. Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyelashes flutter slowly. Never has he ever wanted this. Never has he wanted him like this.

But then Lu Guang’s hand brushes his, barely there, testing—daring Cheng Xiaoshi to do something. Lu Guang doesn’t stop Cheng Xiaoshi when he tilts his head. Instead, he lets the heat hover, lets the breath land warm against his mouth—lets the moment tilt dangerously into something they recognise the taste of.

And just like that, the walls crumble. Cheng Xiaoshi’s lips dare—venture; they brush against Lu Guang’s. It’s nothing more serious than a whisper of contact, a meeting of skin.

But it’s enough to set something off. Enough for Cheng Xiaoshi to pause, to step back, his breath catching in his throat. He wants this—wants Lu Guang. But it’s not just about this. Not anymore. Lu Guang blinks, clearly unsure about whether he has been rejected or spared. It makes two of them.

When Cheng Xiaoshi finds his voice, the words resolve barely a shade above a whisper. Narration under pressure.

“You didn’t kiss me,”

“You didn’t want me to.”

“I wanted you to. But not like that.”

Lu Guang's voice is careful. “Like what?”

“Like I don’t know what I’m asking for. Like I'm offering a broken time loop and not my now.”

Lu Guang blinks at him, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. He doesn’t pull away but instead remains standing there, waiting.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t dare speak it, yet Lu Guang’s gaze softens.

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles. It barely lands. For the first time in years, he makes a silent vow to himself—to them: he won’t just be another moment, not with Lu Guang. Not this time.

He brings two fingers to his temples. It is a mock-salute and still he hears Lu Guang's catch, as though he’s watching someone’s head being blown off.

Cheng Xiaoshi wants to reach out, so he keeps walking back towards the loudness of it all.

 

 

His night is no more sparing.

In the private sanctuary of Cheng Xiaoshi's subconscious, his favourite nightmare in a sexy lingerie plays with agonising vividity.

It starts with Cheng Xiaoshi perched lazily across Lu Guang’s lap, the room soaked in amber light. That twilight haze between a before and after. Lu Guang strokes Cheng Xiaoshi hair, likens him to a cat once he purrs. Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes sharpen—scheming.

Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some… become shirtless in my bed by fate’s design.

Now Lu Guang lies back against the headboard, his shirt half-off, haloed by gold. Vulnerable. His expression is unreadable, which is Lu Guang-code for barely holding on.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi starts kissing him.

He doesn’t ask but it doesn’t land as entitled either. It feels right: his lips pressed to the hollow beneath Lu Guang’s jaw, then slowly trailing down, mapping constellations—little dark pricks of stars in negative spaces.

“Off,” Lu Guang tries to sound firm. Doesn’t. “You're misbehaving.”

“‘Misbehaving’ is foreplay in a Victorian speak,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmurs. “Let me introduce you to you instead”—he is kissing the dip in Lu Guang’s shoulder—“this one is Romeo.”

“He died in a crypt, so not romantic.”

“Roses under the cypresses are very much romantic,” Cheng Xiaoshi says sweetly, then shifts lower. “Foreshadowing,”

He presses his lips to the faint dot on Lu Guang’s sternum. “Mr Darcy.”

Lu Guang’s breath catches. “Didn’t even kiss anyone on-page.”

“Exactly. A yearner. Like someone I know.”

Lu Guang exhales sharply through his nose—either a warning or an invitation. Cheng Xiaoshi is too into it to ascertain, so he just kisses further down, nudging the hem of Lu Guang’s shirt up to reveal another mole just above his navel. “Hamlet.”

“No,” Lu Guang says too quickly. “Absolutely not. Unhinged, depressed, and too in his head.”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks mock-offended. “Fine, condemn the OG gay. Rebranded to Rosencrantz, then.”

Lu Guang huffs a laugh—short, reluctant. “Also a dead man.”

“I like a theme.” He mouths the next one on Lu Guang’s hipbone, warm skin under his tongue. “This one is Franz. Too soft. Loved the wrong person then cried about it in a hallway.”

“You’re not even trying to get them right anymore.”

“I am conducting a literary séance,” Cheng Xiaoshi flicks his tongue over a bruised spot. His handiwork from yesternight. “They say you're close. Get thee to a naked Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Lu Guang’s laugh slips out before he can stop it. It’s breathy and small and sounds like it escaped by accident. Cheng Xiaoshi drawls with a smile.

“There it is… your giggle.”

“It wasn’t a— Shut up.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t. He drops lower, seeking the mole just inside Lu Guang’s thigh; he’s almost reverent now as he touches Valmont.

As he kisses it.

Lu Guang makes a sharp sound. “Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Another kiss. Lower.

“You’re not stopping me,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmurs.

Then he sucks a hickey into Lu Guang's hip. Desdemona.

Lu Guang’s grip on his hair cinches tighter. Cheng Xiaoshi bites his lip, barely flicking his gaze to meet Lu Guang’s. He’s flushed, breathing shallowly. Cheng Xiaoshi would've smirked more if his lips weren’t already busy.

“I kissed thee ere I killed thee. But in my defence, you were asking for it.”

“I’m still calculating the consequences.”

“Of being loved?”

Cheng Xiaoshi draws back. Forearm still pressing Lu Guang down. “You can still say no, you know. Still kick me out of your bed. Or brain. Whichever this is. We haven’t named it… still.”

Lu Guang says nothing.

Cheng Xiaoshi waits.

The seconds stretch too long. Just when he starts to retreat, Lu Guang lies back, eyes half-lidded.

He says, “You misinterpreted Shakespeare. Again.”

“And you, Horatio, didn’t correct me.”

“It’s pointless and you're impossible and I’m tired.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles. “What you are, Lu Guang, is doomed.”

He kisses Valmont again.

“Tragically.”

Lu Guang doesn’t move.

“To me.”

Doesn’t speak.

“For every time loop.”

He just closes his and lets it happen, breath shallow, hands unclenching.

Halfway, Cheng Xiaoshi just grabs Lu Guang's left hand, mouths the tender skin—Swann—whispering the name like it’s part a prayer, part a promise.

Lu Guang doesn’t correct him this time, either.

Then—

The dream ends there—hard cut, no closure. Cheng Xiaoshi wakes up tangled in sheets. Laughing. Hard. Aching.

“God. Could’ve at least waited until I got a nut in.”

Except that the universe doesn’t take requests, but at least it has granted Cheng Xiaoshi one mini-request.

It was indeed rated R and disturbingly poetic.

 

◑

 

There’s something about backstage corridors, the way they breathe when no one’s there—the way silence follows too closely behind.

Cheng Xiaoshi walks them after rehearsal. Makeup still clings around his eyes in ghost traces, and Ling Chengshi is still speaking in the back of his skull like a vanitas prop. He hasn’t quite figured out whether it's the role bleeding into him, or if the rot started elsewhere.

X marks the spot.

The spiral calls too strongly. He pushes against it because it doesn’t taste right. He hasn’t touched the box in days, but it touches him—constantly. Every time he sleeps. Every time he closes his eyes too long and sees numbers flicker behind his lids. Six digits. One truth. He has tried two dozen combinations: birthdays, call signs—even the theatre’s bloody Wi-Fi password. Still nothing.

Cheng Xiaoshi is flicking his lighter open when it hits. Someone’s laugh echoes in the dark behind his eyelids—sharp, delighted, personal like he’s laughing at him. No, not quite. Laughing at how easy it had been.

He turns.

Then comes the hum.

Soft and childish in the way only a lullaby broken by a spoon hitting the floor can be.

摇啊摇，摇到外婆桥

It leaks out from behind the counter. Like memory. Like a hand reaching through time.

Cheng Xiaoshi almost drops his lighter.

He doesn't flinch; he sits there frozen mid-thought. Something inside him is screaming while another is trying to smother it with a pillow. The air smells like lavender, like vanilla, like rotting camphor.

Vein's voice calls out from the far side of the corridor, half-laughing. “Oh—Qian Jin-gē, this’s Cheng Xiaoshi. The gem I told you about.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is halfway to snapping his Zippo in half, so he can't really look up. Which is fine because another voice—polished and practised—answers. “Another fanboy of the dead, or simply a lost lamb?”

Cheng Xiaoshi glances over. The man—tall, clean lines, eyes like old film reels running just a beat too slow—is wearing black. But it’s the quiet kind of black—the kind you forget until later—and his smile doesn’t quite reach his mouth.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember why, but he remembers that tune humming behind him. He remembers blood on the deck. He remembers the sound of his own teeth grinding as a boy smiles.

And then—nothing, not more than the rocking.

摇啊摇，摇到外婆桥

He closes his eyes and wishes someone would stop singing. It’s not even about the song; it’s about what it was tied to.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember—not clearly. Just—

A mouth, smiling. A voice, humming. Blood slicking the deck. His own hand, gripping the rail so tightly the metal screamed and a necklace tore and a lifeline snipped.

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his eyes. The tune is still in there.

Vein nudges him.

Qian Jin extends a hand. “Qian Jin. Legal representative for the theatre’s disciplinary review board.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t take the hand. Instead, he says flatly,

“Cheng Xiaoshi. Not that kind of fan.”

“Oh?” Qian Jin withdraws his hand, clearly not offended. “You have the look of someone who knows the story too well to be romantic about it. I've known someone like that before.”

“I’m an actor. I fake things for a living.”

“Ah,” Qian Jin says, like that explains everything.

They don’t speak after that, not properly. Vein's attention is elsewhere and Qian Jin isn’t lingering. But just before he turns to leave, Qian Jin lightly says, “Don’t let the ghosts follow you off-stage, Mr Cheng Xiaoshi, but if they do, give me a call. I deal with liabilities—past, present, and occasionally breathing. You can be my next protégé if you show the taste for it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi flinches before he knows he has. Qian Jin is already gone.

He doesn’t know why it sticks with him so long after. Maybe it’s how the man walked—too deliberately, with the grace of someone who’s used to stepping around bloodstains. Maybe it’s the strange hitch in his chest when he saw Qian Jin’s face—the not quite recognition. The déjà vu with bloody claws.

That night, Cheng Xiaoshi dreams of wet concrete and a cigarette burning backwards. When he wakes, he tastes sea salt and doesn’t know why.

He sobers up and he tastes adrenaline in the form of an emailed transcript. He only checks the subject: Internal Affairs Memorandum – Magicians kill and tell. Some just learn how to erase the tells.

Same email address, same sinking feeling.

 

 

It takes him thirty-four hours to open the email. Or, alternatively, it takes him bolting out of the lecture hall like he is possessed because he thinks he'd seen Li Tianchen on campus.

He really is being haunted. So he does what any reasonable person would: he lingers in front of mirrors. Bathroom mirrors. Cheng Xiaoshi eventually breaks the spell by unwrapping his vending machine loot from earlier that morning.

By his second reread, he is leaning against the bathroom sink, still sucking on his lollipop.

INTERROGATION TRANSCRIPT — ROOM 3A

SUBJECT: [REDACTED]

INTERVIEWER: Detective Xiao Li

DATE: 13/09/2024

TIME: [REDACTED]

[Begin Recording]

Detective Li: “Too many deaths for a birthday party, don’t you think?”

SUSPECT: [No response]

Detective Li: “First Liu [REDACTED]. Then [REDACTED]. A healthy young man doesn’t just drop dead between cake and champagne—assuming he had a reason to be there.”

SUSPECT: “His partner was there. It’s enough reason.”

Detective Li: “But yours wasn’t?”

[Extended silence noted]

SUSPECT: “I wasn’t there when collapsed. I heard after.”

[Redacted: visual evidence presented]

Detective Li: “People talk, Mr [REDACTED]. They say you’re too clever for your own good. Good at fixing things, too.”

[No discernible response. Subject maintains composed posture.]

[Redacted line]

Detective Li: “Maybe you didn’t kill anyone. But maybe you're protecting someone who did.”

SUSPECT: “You’re grasping at shadows.”

Detective Li: “And you’re too calm.”

SUSPECT: “I’ve always been good at waiting.”

Detective Li: “Like you did before [REDACTED]? In your cabin, alone?”

[Environmental note: Rain audible against windows.]

[Redacted: Subject exhibits brief hesitation.]

Detective Li: “You can sit there all night, [REDACTED]. But sooner or later, even magicians let up.”

SUSPECT: “I’m not a magician. I’m just easily forgettable.”

[Recording disrupted. Footage missing 02:47:23–02:50:02.]

[Recording resumes briefly before final pause.]

Cheng Xiaoshi crushes the last bit of his lollipop between his molars and pockets his phone.

 

◑

 

Every time Cheng Xiaoshi says it’s the last time, he knows it’s a lie. The same way he never liked drinking but still somehow partakes in it.

Cheng Xiaoshi wakes with a headache and the vague certainty he has done something idiotic.

His hair smells like rain, his socks are damp on the floor, and there’s a ghost of a song in his mouth and a taste like vanilla regret.

He remembers applause—lights in his face—the vague thrill of performance still crawling under his skin. And someone waiting just out of frame. Not Lu Guang. Jae Lee? Not exactly. But someone tall, still, withholding. The kind of person who watches storms instead of running from them.

He had an umbrella. He left it on purpose.

And still—someone had walked him home.

He remembers laughter—maybe his. A shoulder he leaned on for too long. Declaration-like words that became too slurred. He might’ve said something reckless—sacrilegious—about why he hates rain—about how it feels warm if you’re next to the right person.

He remembers trying to kiss them.

Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe he just wanted to.

Either way, there’s a heaviness in his chest now—a hollowing, like a sandless hourglass. He remembers standing at a streetlight with someone and feeling, absurdly, like the world could tip sideways if they moved. Like it is a movie scene and he never had to reach end credits because the hourglass would just flip.

Reset. Forever.

When he blinks his phone awake, there’s a message from Qiao Ling: you were embarrassing last night. again.

No reply from anyone else and neither are there any questions about his imaginary flatmate.

He doesn’t ask; he doesn’t want the answer. So he showers—moves on. The memory sours by afternoon. Then softens. Then sinks.

Until now—when it unkindly punches back up through him without warning.

Somewhere behind him, a faint hum continues to loop from the speaker. Familiar. Tuneless. Taunting. Not Lu Guang’s voice.

But it still makes his chest ache.

 

◑

 

Classic theatre kid or not, Cheng Xiaoshi has done enough late-night rewatches of cursed film marathons to know one thing: the phrase ‘We should play a game’ has never—not once—been prelude to anything good.

Especially not after the room has been primed for whatever-mess with an improvised Sarah Kane scene.

He doesn’t know why he feels so viscerally about Blasted. Maybe it has something to do with the jagged rhythm, with the cruelty that doesn’t bother dressing itself up, or the way the metaphors land like bruises. But the violence—he has to admit—felt good. Welcome.

Lu Guang had a lot of thoughts. His pen hadn’t stopped moving through any of it, not even during the silence between lines or when the room fell into that too-thick stillness that follows certain scenes.

Now, the rehearsal hall is still echoing with the last clatter of props when Vein says, “You know what this day further misses? Drama—real drama.”

Qiao Ling doesn’t even open her eyes from where she’s flopped across two plastic chairs.

“You are if drama wore catty eyeliner and couture. We've met out quota—for a lifetime.”

“No, no, no,” Vein waves her off and instead turns to Cheng Xiaoshi. “You know what I mean—the Cheng Xiaoshi type. Real stakes—risk—danger—unbridled fun—need I pitch a better sell?”

“We could play a game,”

Liu Xiao offers it too casually, standing up from the prop crate so suddenly that Cheng Xiaoshi jolts and nearly knocks over his water bottle.

Lu Guang doesn’t look up from his notes. “Maybe reconsider, seeing how we just spent four hours pretending to kill each other.”

“Exactly,” Liu Xiao says, tone syrupy, eyes too bright. “Let’s not pretend, like old times—or for old time’s sake.”

From somewhere—coat? shadows?—he pulls out a six-chamber revolver.

Silence doesn’t fall. It plummets.

“Dear saints—” Shen Miaomiao staggers a tiny step backwards.

“Relax. No one is dying tonight, unless you’ve been very bad… or the script dictates it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s laugh breaks the tension—intrigued. “You're insane and I love it, but is this real?”

Liu Xiao opens the chamber with a click before spinning it. The sound rattles straight down Cheng Xiaoshi’s spine. Liu Xiao holds it out to him, handle first.

“Wanna check?”

Cheng Xiaoshi hesitates, then takes it.

It's heavy—familiar. Like red wine staining white satin. Like the roleplay he and Jae Lee used to take too seriously. Only there are no safe words now.

Liu Xiao gestures—conductor style. “Point it at yourself. Pull the trigger.”

“Liu Xiao—” Lu Guang takes a warning step forward.

But Liu Xiao holds up a hand. “Please. You really think I’d bring live rounds into a building full of actors?”

“Yes!” Vein and Xia Fei twine, only different intonations. Emotions.

“Relax.” Liu Xiao laughs. “It’s all blanks. We’re playing Russian Roulette, yes—but revised. Theatre-friendly—barely traumatic.”

Qiao Ling yawns from her chair-cocoon. “Fun. Trauma revisited. What are our other options if we don’t to participate?”

“You can’t refuse. Because I’ve already picked who’s playing and you know this whole postmodern thing with the author as capital-G God necessitates the scene unfolds exactly as I've envisioned it.”

Liu Xiao snatches the gun back. He spins it again. The cylinder clicks and immediately the smiles flicker.

“So here’s how we play. Each round comes with a question. You pull the trigger at your temple. If it clicks, no bullet, you answer honestly. If it fires, you ask someone else instead—but only after performing a task.”

“Not to be a buzzkill but what kind of task?” Xia Fei asks warily.

“Shouldn’t you be more worried about the honest questions, Felix?”

“Thinking pretty vanilla stuff ranging from, Whitest lie you've told an ex to Worst trust fall partner. We can take it.”

“Maybe. Though it could be anything, really—memory fragments, regrets, theatre trivia, convincing acts. Who here would survive a real murder investigation—hypothetically, of course.”

“And they say I'm the one prone to villain monologues,” Cheng Xiaoshi interjects. “You have my attention, Mr God Complex, but still, what’s the nature of the task?”

“Oh, Cheng Xiaoshi, don’t rush your death. It’s all merely stage business.” A wrist flick. “Mimic a fall, adjust a body, hold your breath underwater, write a line—something simple and straightforward. It just has to be accurate enough, and bonus points for the flair, of course.”

“Accurate enough for what… or who?” Vivian asks tentatively.

“Accurate as in setting a scene, lovie. I'm possessed by the Kane spirit still so say, a bathroom with the aircon turned up to delay time of death. A staged suicide note, hurried handwriting, leftward slant. Or wiping blood with a damp rag—just enough to dilute the spatter but not erase it. It's amazing what people ignore when they see water.”

A beat. Lu Guang finally speaks, eyes fixing Liu Xiao.

“I'm assuming you're the one who gets to set the questions?”

But Vein interrupts, already strolling to the prop table. He holds up a fishbowl filled with blue slips, then points to another, red. “Just what would you all do without me?”

Liu Xiao doesn’t stop looking at Lu Guang. “Lucky you all have a director with foresight. All fair play, too.”

Then, spinning theatrically, Liu Xiao points at Cheng Xiaoshi.

Of course.

Cheng Xiaoshi rolls his eyes, flops back into his seat. “Fine. But if I die, I want it on record I was manipulated by a twink with a tacky suprasternal notch tattoo.”

“You liked it… at one point.”

“The tattoo?”

Liu Xiao shrugs then motions him. Cheng Xiaoshi sighs. He lifts the gun and pulls the trigger.

Click.

Delighted, Liu Xiao claps. “Oho! First blood. Vivian, a paper please.”

Vivian obliges. In four moves, she has unfolded a blue slip. In her Chen Nan voice, under the spotlight, she reads, “If you had the chance to fake a death, how would you do it?”

Everyone laughs—everyone except Lu Guang Cheng Xiaoshi notices. He directs his gaze to Liu Xiao, who is already watching him, the theatrical smile gone.

“Well,” Cheng Xiaoshi taps his lip, eyes flicking briefly toward Lu Guang. “Depends. Are we talking maritime setting still? Bad weather? Optical illusions?”

“I’ll be generous enough to let you choose,”

Cheng Xiaoshi clicks his tongue. “I'd pick poison. Something quiet with little mess but very much dramatic. Tetrodotoxin, maybe.”

Lu Guang’s shoulders go very still. Shen Miaomiao’s grip tightens on Qiao Ling's arm.

Liu Xiao grins. “That’s too specific, Cheng Xiaoshi, don’t you think?”

“Night read. Crime novels. Only the best authors, though. I'd recommend some but I hate sharing, as you already know.”

He hears the sound of water lapping at the hull—smells salt and blood and travel shampoo. There’s a blood on the floor. A kiss that wasn’t real. A girl with pink hair screaming without making a sound. Her reflection is laughing coldly.

He blinks. Liu Xiao is still watching him. Cheng Xiaoshi smiles again before handing the gun back.

“Your gun, your rules—no amendments. I answered—now we move on to the next victim.”

Liu Xiao spins the chamber. He cocks the hammer then pulls the trigger at his temple.

Click.

“Truth,” his eyes sweep the group only to settle on Lu Guang. “Pull one for me? Who knows, it might be a question that gets your detective instincts tingling—like what the most intricate scene you've ever staged is.”

“I’ll pass.”

“You don’t get to pass, Lu Guang. That’s not how the game is played. Were you again ignoring my instructions?”

“I didn’t shoot. That’s not how you stick to the rules you wrote.”

“Ah.” Liu Xiao's smile widens. “Fair. You didn’t—but it’s odd, isn’t it? Rumour has it you never had to. Almost as though someone always pulled the trigger for you.”

Silence flares for a second too long.

“All’s well. I planted one in there myself, so I wouldn’t want to accidentally draw it.”

“Something sentimental about your favourite criminal, Liu Xiao?” Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice is light.

Liu Xiao turns to him pleasantly. “Not mine. But very close—something along the dilemma of saving someone you love or protecting the secret they died for.”

“Same result.”

“Interesting.” Liu Xiao smirks as he turns to Lu Guang. “First you refuse to play, then you answer a question that isn't even yours. Without flinching. It seems like I'm not the only one who tailors the rules to their own liking.”

The quiet turns brittle. Something darker—older—shifts in Lu Guang’s expression. Cheng Xiaoshi notices. Vivian heaves an exhausted sigh. Luckily, Qiao Ling saves them the effort of defusing.

“Boys and their unhealthily-channelled testosterone,” She steps forward. “Let’s move on. Who’s next?”

“Vein-dǎo, by order of standing?” Shen Miaomiao offers.

But Vein shakes his head. “No, no. This round has layers. Liu Xiao still has to answer to the bullet.”

For the first time, Liu Xiao looks slightly less amused. Vein gives him a little smirk but doesn't press. He starts to step away—until Xia Fei grabs the revolver.

He is grinning too brightly. “I volunteer.”

He pulls the trigger.

Bang.

Everyone flinches—even when it’s just a blank.

Qiao Ling pulls a red slip. Liu Xiao reads it.

“It’s one of the gentle ones, it seems. Okay, Felix, To unlock my tragic past, you’ll need to perform a body drop.”

Xia Fei cracks his neck. “Do I too get the luxury of choosing what kind it is?”

Liu Xiao’s voice goes quiet again. Measured. Like he’s testing someone, or himself.

“Not exactly—I was thinking something unplanned. Let’s say the body collapses in the middle of writing a confession and the pen rolls from the left hand while the wrist is relaxed. No drag marks but there’s blood on the inner thigh. No pooling at the head, either—so first you'll need to work out the direction of the wound.”

Xia Fei chuckles awkwardly before guessing: “Left?”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. Right-to-left. Upper femoral. Angle steep. Pulse gone before ink dries. He opens his mouth. Lu Guang catches his eyes. Cheng Xiaoshi purses his lips. Conditioning. Vein is saying something about this being the rehearsal they would always remember.

There is nervous laughter from the assembly as Xia Fei takes the stage.

He doesn’t make a show of it, but he executes it with enough precision—the slump, the limp hand, the stillness—and it’s a beat too perfect.

Lu Guang looks away. Vein's eyes follow Xia Fei—like he would devour him.

Liu Xiao claps once. “Bravo.”

Xia Fei returns to his seat. Qiao Ling narrows her eyes. “This is unhinged, even for someone who reads case files the way kids read bedtime stories.”

“Oh, but I script them,” Liu Xiao corrects. “Stage them, to be more precise.”

Cheng Xiaoshi instinctively glances sideways, seeking Lu Guang out. Lu Guang’s jaw is tight, but his eyes are blank. Xia Fei is unboxing some staged drama—Cheng Xiaoshi knows, because the story Liu Xiao uses is his very own with Jae Lee.

He doesn’t remember if in their three-month arrangement Jae Lee has ever mentioned fucking with Liu Xiao. In either sense of the word.

Whatever. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t care to remember any of those horrors.

The game continues.

Shen Miaomiao is, reluctantly, next. Then Vein. Then Qiao Ling. Vivian goes last. A few more blanks. A few more harmless slips. Questions about betrayal. Worst pickup lines. Memory. Timing. Desperate attempts to hit. They laugh in bursts—nervous at first, then if flows more easily. Even Vein seems charmed by the morbid theatrics—even as Liu Xiao moderates like a game show host who secretly hates his contestants.

Or not hates; he thinks they're inconsequential—fun to mess with.

And then the revolver circles back to Cheng Xiaoshi.

I told you, Cheng Xiaoshi, it likes you.

Cheng Xiaoshi spins. Lifts. Doesn’t flinch this time. Doesn’t smile either.

Click.

Liu Xiao leans back, softer this time.

“Truth, again. That too seems to like you.”

Shen Miaomiao offers a slip which Liu Xiao barely reads.

“Spicy enough. Would you still cover for someone if it meant becoming the only suspect?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s grin wavers but doesn’t fall. His voice doesn’t rise. He looks across the room and meets Lu Guang’s gaze.

“Depends on who and how good their head game is.”

Liu Xiao leans forward. “Want me to narrow down the list of suspects for you?”

That’s when Lu Guang, without moving, says, “My turn.”

He takes the gun from Cheng Xiaoshi's hands. He gives it a casual spin it before pointing it at Liu Xiao because apparently that’s how the game is played. Because apparently it’s a dance they’ve performed before where neither apologises for stepping on the other’s shadow.

Liu Xiao doesn’t blink.

“Who’s the play really for?”

The question sounds simple. Cheng Xiaoshi knows it isn’t—nothing ever is with Lu Guang's economical use of words.

“Oh, Lu Guang, but none of these words are in the Bible.”

“Then we add them. Rewrites as a postmodern choice—we had fun with that before, remember?”

“Bold of you to use that triggering word, Lu Guang. But I suppose the irony is also postmodernist—or was it classical? You know I often confuse my timelines.”

“Don’t look so pleased. Linearity of narrative hardly matters when you’ve always underestimated foreshadowing.”

“That’s my character fault—yours, though, has something to do with always mistaking setups for endings. A pity, really—timing used to be your strong suit.” He leans in until his chest is pressed to the gun. Cheng Xiaoshi’s fist timely clenches with Liu Xiao whispering, “Tell me, Lu Guang… do you still flinch at the third beat?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Lu Guang cocks the hammer. “The audience always leaves a boring play during act two.”

But Liu Xiao only grins. He presses closer.

“Fire it first, then. Recall how the bullet achieves its name, lest we forget which of us wrote the last act.”

“Tragedy for you. Farce for me.”

Lu Guang doesn’t waste another beat. Click. Cheng Xiaoshi is unclear on whether that ensuing sound was a collective sigh of relief or just his own nervous chuckle. But Liu Xiao is smiling—a bored, soft sort of smile.

“Well then, since you're so curious. She’s about everyone… and no one. An acquired taste if you squint, really.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes shift to Vein just in time to catch the edge of a smirk. Something screams murderous intent, and it isn't just Lu Guang's eyes.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him closely—too closely. But Lu Guang doesn’t follow up. He sets the gun down on the table and barely steps back.

The next two rounds are easier but only because they're lighter. Cheng Xiaoshi pulls another blank. Task. Lu Guang does the same. No questions but no truths either. 

Eventually, the game winds down. Xia Fei laughs; he says something about theatre kids being ADAB (assigned deranged at birth). Qiao Ling stands and mutters something about her internship interview. She pulls Shen Miaomiao by the hand and they leave with Vivian. Vein trails after, still chatting with Xia Fei about tomorrow’s schedule. Liu Xiao disappears before the lights even dim.

Only Cheng Xiaoshi lingers.

And Lu Guang.

They sit in the echo of laughter and silence—of everything in between. Lu Guang’s eyes stay fixed—not on Cheng Xiaoshi, but on the table. On the revolver, sitting right where Liu Xiao left it.

He stares at it for a long time, but somehow he won't keep it in for long; the question slips out on their walk home. Cheng Xiaoshi can handle the creeping cold—the bitter feeling eating away at his heart less so.

“So, how exactly do you know Liu Xiao?”

Lu Guang doesn’t flinch. “I don’t.”

“Right. So the silent psychic stare-down back there was just a meet-cute gone wrong?”

They walk a few steps, enough to feel alone—enough to unload the question.

“We’ve never met. Our first encounter was in the theatre—back in March—when I declined something he offered. Politely.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s grin sharpens. “Politely in scare quotes, I assume?”

Lu Guang shrugs. Cheng Xiaoshi sharpens his knives.

“I mean—from where I stand, Liu Xiao didn’t look like he took the turn-down that way.”

“Liu Xiao doesn’t take no in any tone.”

The quiet hangs. Lu Guang’s gaze slices sideways.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“But I didn’t say it was.”

“You implied it.”

“Your reaction proved it might've been more than the alleged implication.” Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile has too much wolf. “Call me an expert in that area, but you two sure exude that ‘exes who agreed never to speak again but still cyberstalk each other professionally’ vibe. Among other things.”

There pause is long enough for Lu Guang to consider not saying anything—an option which he chooses. So Cheng Xiaoshi lightly nudges him—the kind of touch you mean to be a joke.

“You sure he’s not your lost times—Mr. Charles Swann, fake IDGAF-er?”

Lu Guang stops walking for half a beat. He opens his mouth like he might say something. It’s an opening. If Cheng Xiaoshi digs his finger into the bruise, it will bleed.

“Like, I feel like if I Baidu it, I’ll find some CNKI article out there with an angry footnote accusing you of ‘grossly misrepresenting narrative trauma’—which, for you lit folks, is tantamount to flirting.”

Lu Guang breathes out resignedly.

“Third year. He submitted a paper about narrative construction wherein he challenged the moral function of unreliable narrators.”

He says it with the grimace of someone trying not to taste the words.

“I wrote a rebuttal. He replied with a footnote. I annotated the footnote. The footnote got cited. I corrected the citation. He used my phrasing in a conference. I filed a correction with the original journal. He escalated with a published case study—misrepresented me, slightly. So I drafted a response. It got archived.” A beat. “The journal dissolved the following term. Unrelated, probably.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stares.

Lu Guang adds, still too calm, “So to reiterate: we’ve never met. We just annotate each other at a distance.”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods like that explains everything.

“Ah. So it was elaborate academic hate-flirting, not based on simply vibes.” He smiles, but it doesn’t reach anything. “Bloodsport in MLA. It’s a good story.”

Lu Guang says nothing.

They keep walking.

They don’t talk about it again.

Chapter 9: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Necromantic Revival of Mutual Trauma

Tonight's slow burn is for revisiting ghost-infested places. Hunting for the haunt.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches the interview with the volume low enough to hear the shape of Liu Min's voice but not the words.

Liu Min speaks with his hands too much; his co-star in The Star that Burned Out barely blinks. There’s a third voice off-screen but the camera doesn’t bother with him. Not important, apparently.

The timestamp reads two weeks before Vérité.

Cheng Xiaoshi's hands stop fidgeting with the locked box. He rewinds thirty seconds.

Again.

Again.

And then he’s not watching it anymore. He’s there. With Liu Xiao—no, his boyfriend. The room feels like a grainy black-and-white film, even with the red flickering lights. It’s empty save for the three of them—musicless too. The gun sits between them on a fold-out chair. Liu Min picks it up with the reverence of a worshipper or a heretic—it barely differs with him. His hand shakes. Everyone sees it.

Liu Xiao steps forward, chin up and eyes steady—the way someone might reach out to steady a trembling glass only to knock it over on purpose. And then he nudges the barrel enough to make it look like Liu Min pulls the trigger himself. No one notices, or maybe everyone does, but they agree not to.

And the sound that follows is final in its loudness. Cheng Xiaoshi knows what comes next before it happens, yet he doesn't flinch.

He is watching, hardly aware of how he is holding his breath—not until the silence drags too long. Then someone walks past his door—real door, real corridor, real world—and the moment dissolves.

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. The video is paused. His heart is doing something stupid—which he tries to alleviate by rubbing his face.

Everything about the crime scene? None of it adds up.

No one entered the theatre room that night, and no one left. The room was locked from the inside. The timestamps too line up. The cruise event was private; no one came aboard without clearance. Li Tianchen was dead by then, Liu Xiao had left the troupe by then, and Liu Min—

Liu Min’s body was found slumped against the prop cabinet, blood soaked into the stage rug and gun in hand. The cameras show no one but him.

And Cheng Xiaoshi? Cheng Xiaoshi gets seasick just looking at docks. He once fainted during a ferry ride to Zhuhai. Qiao Ling had clowned him for turning green like a cartoon—her words. She had laughed so hard that she nearly dropped him.

So no. He has never been on a ship in his life.

He closes the tab and opens a new one to search something inane—anything. How long does memory last? Can you hallucinate regret?

The search bar doesn’t answer, but it does autocorrect hallucinate to allocate.

Which, somehow, feels worse but also more right.

 

◑

 

Act IV. Scene III

Lights up. Same room. Different air: thinner, colder.

The Detective stands stiffly as the Lawyer enters, dressed not in lawyer’s grey but in a theatrical black suit. A walking blade.

“My client is done entertaining your fairy tales,” the Lawyer’s voice slices through the heavy silence. “Release him. Now.”

He doesn’t spare Ling Chengshi a glance. Ling Chengshi doesn’t look at him either. The Detective shifts uneasily, cowed.

Ling Chengshi doesn’t lift his head. The Lawyer pulls out a folded paper—contract? threat? no one can tell—and drops it onto the table with a whispery slap.

“You have no body, no confession, no case. Think this weighs anything, even outside the court?”

The Detective blusters. “We have footage. The bracelet—”

“A bracelet,” the Lawyer echoes amusedly. “Do you have any idea who you’re trying to crucify? I should let you fall on your own incompetence, but mercy has always been my downfall.”

Ling Chengshi watches with cold detachment, as if he is no longer part of his own body. The conversation runs like gurgling acid. Like saltwater. But the Lawyer is still theatrical, in cues and lines.

“…He has covered well,” the Lawyer says, almost admiringly. “Almost too well. It makes you wonder whose side he's really on. Though I suppose we all get careless, some of us more knowingly than others.”

Ling Chengshi’s eyes flicker—first flicker all scene—but he says nothing.

The Detective slams a hand down the table. “If you know, then tell me—where is she? Where is Chen Nan?”

The Lawyer presses his palms flat against the cold metal, as if anchoring himself, but it is Ling Chengshi who replies.

“I told you,” he murmurs. “People disappear all the time.”

“Like ghosts?”

“Say, Detective, have you ever been to a magic show?”

The Lawyer lifts a brow at Ling Chengshi then—a sugar-coated threat. The Detective doesn’t get to answer. The reply is loud enough, still.

“I'm not banding with him, but sure you know you’re smarter than this,” the Lawyer says softly. “You know where loyalty gets you—but you still want to bite the bullet. Did you think it was a blank—that it always will be if you will it enough?”

Ling Chengshi’s knuckles whiten imperceptibly on the tabletop. The Detective clears his throat, shuffling papers, fumbling.

The lights dim on Ling Chengshi’s face just as he closes his eyes—willing himself to vanish, frame by frame.

 

◑

 

Hypotheticals are only hypotheticals until newspaper articles can back them up, until they can prove them outside dreams and into existence.

Zhou Xun, a friend of Cheng Xiaoshi’s, is a portrait artist. Cheng Xiaoshi has a face he needs to commit to paper. Baidu can search images. It was simple maths, really.

That was easy scheming, really. Now Cheng Xiaoshi knows the pink-haired girl is called Li Tianxi. She went missing three years ago, last seen visiting her brother’s grave. The brother had supposedly died the year before. Li Tianxi didn’t die and there’s nothing about ships or poisons. She is still deeply loved—as proven by the quoted social media posts published by her friends from both the boarding school and the theatre.

He doesn’t have much information on the Li twins, though that won't be the case for long. The only inconsistent bit in this timeline regards whether Liu Xiao really dated a dead guy. Cheng Xiaoshi wouldn’t put it past him. Or perhaps it was simply all an underage thing—puppy love. Liu Xiao did say he often confuses his timelines, which is understandable. Cheng Xiaoshi has come to realise he too loses his sense of time and space around his Ice Prince.

Lu Guang: not yet his.

The real challenge now is how to get Lu Guang to agree to help him, with unlocking the box and with the whole Li Tianxi thing. Because something tells Cheng Xiaoshi these two mysteries aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive.

The library is mostly empty. Lu Guang sits by the window—always left-hand side, always the corner. Cheng Xiaoshi watches him, pen tapping against his lower lip. His hair catches the light differently here—less white, more silver. Less flame, more fog. Something soft pretending to be sharp. Or something sharp pretending to be soft. Cheng Xiaoshi isn't sure which he prefers.

He just watches, counting Lu Guang’s page turns.

Then Lu Guang walks two shelves over, reaching for a book on the top shelf. His watch catches on the chipped wood, making a small sound before the inevitable pause.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi is already there.

His hand closes around the watch, part instinct, part it being born to. Lu Guang’s hand is still suspended mid-air.

They stare at each other over the shelf, dust hanging between them. Cheng Xiaoshi looks down, sees the glass—just slightly cracked. It’s the barely-visible kind of damage you only notice when the light hits it wrong.

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles. It’s crooked and tired—mean, maybe.

“Would've never guessed you—fixer type that you are—were the type to leave things broken. What's the story behind not bothering, Lu Guang?”

Lu Guang doesn’t blink. “Didn’t seem right to tamper with the damage.”

“So it is a metaphor. For what, though—your tragic little heartbreak, your refusal to move on? Or some poetic little self-punishment ritual?” Cheng Xiaoshi angles a grin. “Time stops moving, so you don’t have to?”

“Maybe I just forgot. Give it back.”

Cheng Xiaoshi rolls the watch across his knuckles, then stills. “Reciprocity first.”

Lu Guang blinks as he waits, hand open. Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes linger on the mole resting just below the edge of Lu Guang’s wrist bone, left side. Either it’s residue from old ink, or blood. Cheng Xiaoshi smirks just so his lips do something other than pressing into those marks—other than claiming them.

“I’m not asking for much, Lu Guang. You barely even have to do anything. Just answer the questions I ask you—no more, no less. You can even stay neutral like you have.”

Lu Guang’s expression flattens. “So you’re still on that cipher.”

“I’m still on the dare.” Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “You said it yourself: I figure out what happened, and you’ll give me what I want.”

“Which happens to be what exactly?”

“Don’t play coy, Dante. Lust might be my favourite sin but greed is a close second.”

“I wasn’t part of the game.”

“You are the game.” Cheng Xiaoshi dangles the watch by the strap.

Lu Guang says nothing. His hand drops. There’s a flicker behind his eyes, something measured and careful. He steps back but doesn’t leave.

Cheng Xiaoshi pockets the watch. “Don’t worry. As I said, I’m not asking you to break your silence oath. But I can make the best of it, which means you get to sit there looking tragically pretty while I think at you.”

Lu Guang’s jaw tightens. “And I should play along because?”

“Because you want to. Or because you don’t want me running off with your precious little keepsake. It’s pretty. Expensive too. Is it a gift from the enigmatic Charles?” Cheng Xiaoshi holds the watch back up. “I bet anything there’s an engraving on the backpiece—a hidden message like ‘To the sun and back’ or ‘I’ll haunt you if you forget me’ stamped in there somewhere. Or something more obnoxious—‘Property of your favourite sin,’ perhaps?”

It’s a jab—a quiet, cutting one because Cheng Xiaoshi knows exactly where to strike. But Lu Guang moves. Fast. The watch is gone from Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand before he can blink.

Lu Guang cradles it. There’s a finality to it, something unspoken that says this is mine.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him for a beat. Then, dryly he adds, “Got it. Definitely Charles’. All of it.”

He doesn’t push the smile, but it lingers behind the line of his cheek.

Lu Guang silently adjusts the watch. Cheng Xiaoshi watches as Lu Guang struggles to clasp it back on—the armour worn. Once. Twice. His lips twitch—an almost curse.

Lu Guang glances at him for a second before he turns away. “Text me if you think you're onto something. That’s as far as I'm letting you push.”

Cheng Xiaoshi will take his victories where he can find them. Even if they don’t feel earned.

 

◑

 

If Cheng Xiaoshi said he chose to sit out on Vein's small get-together tonight because he only wanted to dress up as menace detective, he'd be lying.

But the mechanics of EMiB’s crew is something he doesn’t want to get into. The way Liu Xiao's name swirls on his tongue lately is another thing, next to the box’s code, he doesn’t want to discuss.

The previous night, Cheng Xiaoshi realised he had three leads when it comes to what happened on Vérité in winter 2024. The only problem is two of them are either dead or have disappeared—which leaves him with only the option of Emma, Liu Min's secretary.

Not because she’d be easier to break than Qian Jin, rather because Cheng Xiaoshi isn't yet sure how involved the cutthroat counsel is—how much deeper than being a mere attorney.

Now Cheng Xiaoshi is in a luxury hotel lobby that smells so much of secrets buried ocean deep.

Of course, Cheng Xiaoshi lies his way through—naturally—inevitably. He says he’s here for a late meeting with someone important, dropping Qian Jin’s name too casually. Then he appends a smile because of course the receptionist can’t possibly say no to someone with bed hair and a cadence so enticing.

Except that she doesn’t even blink.

One hand rests on the counter, the other taps his lighter—twelve minutes in and Cheng Xiaoshi has cycled through charm, threat, bribery. He’s considering a little friendly stab. To speed things up.

Which is when Lu Guang timely steps up beside him, already halfway bored. Wordlessly, he reaches into his blazer and pulls out a press pass like he’s dealing blackjack. It’s laminated—government-registered—and it matches the monochrome compact umbrella nestled beside it.

“Guest researcher Lucan Guan,” Lu Guang mutters.

The receptionist instantly becomes helpful. Cheng Xiaoshi gapes as they are waved in with polite smiles and a complementary drink voucher. He turns slowly to Lu Guang.

“Thought you were still sulking about what happened last week. Since when does the ice cube melt itself?”

“Since a certain someone needed supervision,” Lu Guang mutters, scanning the grand lobby. “A second later and security will have escorted you out. She looked like she was internally screaming, begging you to stop.”

“Breathplay. A minute longer of my eye-fuck game and she would've ended up in my bed by tonight, screaming my name and begging me not to stop.”

“That’s not the choking game you think it is, which is probably the least of your offences tonight.”

“I am a man of many talents— as I've repeatedly proven to you.”

A breath of laughter—almost, from Lu Guang. Cheng Xiaoshi steps closer, bumping Lu Guang’s shoulder as they begin walking the lobby’s edge, slow, like they're here for ambience. It’s late enough that most of the conference crowd has filtered out.

Cheng Xiaoshi glances sideways. “So. Press pass… genuine?”

“Genuine enough.”

“That's not a proper answer.”

“Neither was the question, not with that syntax,” Lu Guang counters, gaze fixed on the line of art deco columns.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t push, mostly because the way Lu Guang deflects—not defensive, just quietly strategic—is sexier than it has any right to be.

They pass a cluster of exhibition booths. One displays a blown-up timeline of unsolved crimes overlaid with theatrical posters. Another shows props from a stage production adapted from real cold cases. The cynicism makes Cheng Xiaoshi grin. He slows, noting a small photo at the bottom corner of one board. Liu Min, posed beside his debut film poster. Cheng Xiaoshi glances over to gauge Lu Guang’s reaction—neutral. Of course.

They sink into a corner booth with velvet seats and a glass-topped table. Cheng Xiaoshi looks around, impressed.

“This place really screams murder mystery gala. You think someone’ll die before dessert? I'm really hoping to try the food, you know.”

Lu Guang levels him with a look. “You’re not here for dinner. You're here for someone.”

“And they could be dinner, still—supper even. Cannibalism as a metaphor for love, remember?”

Lu Guang doesn’t dignify this with a reply. Cheng Xiaoshi smirks.

“Just admit you’re on to something and let’s call it a tie, Guangguang.”

“No. I admit I can tell you’re trying to trick someone into confessing, which is pointless. Qian Jin will only give you a version of the truth you want to believe. That’s how he wins.”

“That’s not just courtroom cynicism. Is it mayhaps firsthand experience?”

“No. It’s post-mortem. The victim just doesn’t remember dying.”

Pause. Then Cheng Xiaoshi crosses the other leg. He lets a couple of beats drag on before he throws his curveball.

“Let’s say you were writing this story, and the lead character—someone quiet, clever, with something to lose—is at the top of a cliff, holding a rope. The rope is tied around someone else—someone dangling off the edge. Your MC is losing strength. If he lets go, the other person falls. If he keeps holding on, they both fall.”

A pause.

“Does letting go make him a killer?”

Lu Guang glances sideway. “No. But it doesn’t make him blameless.”

“Not blameless isn’t the same as guilty.”

Lu Guang doesn’t yet respond but something flickers across his jaw. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t call it out. Instead, he adds,

“That’s why your life is hard, Lu Guang. You think guilt is a switch when at best it’s a leak. And nothing is an absolute equation, but that’s another conversation you're not ready for.”

Lu Guang sits back, looking up at the ceiling as though reading something written in invisible ink. He clearly wants to argue. Cheng Xiaoshi waits. Eventually, Lu Guang says nothing.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Out with it. You might explode otherwise and I'd rather have this as a private show. Mine.”

Lu Guang purses his lips. He half-turns and fixes Cheng Xiaoshi with an unyielding stare.

“Thought exercises are only easily solvable as long as they remain hypothetical. The trolley problem is always a walk in the park if you don’t consider the journey the people in it have made and you're merely watching the lever.”

“What does that even mean? I'm not judging either party here, Lu Guang.”

“Debatable. But don’t you think it’s easy to say that, to linger in the liminal leeways, when you aren’t the one holding the rope, when you're not sure when and to what end you’ve ended up on that cliff?”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans his head back, voice lighter now. “I think sometimes people let go just to stop hearing themselves beg. It’s dangerous wanting what you can't resist.”

Lu Guang’s mouth twitches. “You might not want to judge, but I will come out and tell you this sounds stupid. For a hypothetical and even more so for a murder story.”

“You entertained it, which means you’d still watch it.”

“No. I engage with poor writing just long enough to know how to fix it,”

“You’d fix me,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, without thinking. And then immediately adds, “its script. Obviously—something about worst pages and authorial rewrites. Anyway. We should get down to business. No use flirting with those what-ifs.”

Cheng Xiaoshi refuses to linger on—in—the beat that follows. And soon, they are stopping by the velvet ropes of a mock stage setup. Lights in the shape of broken hourglasses flicker against a mirrored backdrop and something about it itches at the back of Cheng Xiaoshi’s brain.

He opens his mouth—but Lu Guang touches his elbow to signal something is off. Cheng Xiaoshi follows his gaze: the exhibit’s guide—a slim man with delicate hands and unnervingly calm eyes—is gone. Qian Jin has slipped off somewhere during their conversation. Typical.

“You came exactly for this,” Lu Guang quietly begins. “You were meant to keep eyes on him.”

“Excuse you? You were meant to keep eyes on him. I was too busy being seduced by you.”

“Get real. You and I both know this was deliberate.”

Cheng Xiaoshi flashes a wicked smile. Lu Guang is certainly not wrong. Emma too is nowhere to be seen. And so, he gets into Lu Guang's space and says,

“Me letting myself be seduced by you? I wouldn’t call it deliberate but I would gladly let you ruin me any time of the week, Guangguang.”

Lu Guang holds Cheng Xiaoshi's gaze for too long, then not at all; he straightens the cuff of his shirt. Cheng Xiaoshi narrows his eyes at the minute movement of Lu Guang's thumb against his watch—along the groove of its scar.

Cheng Xiaoshi chooses not to press it. Not tonight. Not in this light.

Instead, he glances back at the lights. At the half-lit shape of Liu Min’s face pressed against the glass. He flicks his Zippo twice in his pocket.

“I’m not betting your fancy watch, but I’d bet my pretty face Qian Jin lands his next scandal before he gets home.”

Lu Guang murmurs, “Personally I would let go of the rope for less.”

He isn't smiling—and for once, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t laugh.

There is no reason for them to stay, but also there is no reason for them to part. Cheng Xiaoshi grabs Lu Guang's wrist and pulls him for a champagne flute. Or two.

Lu Guang lets him. Lu Guang can say what he wants but Cheng Xiaoshi has noticed this: Lu Guang still gives in to him. The same way Lu Guang ended up being his partner in crime.

That night, Cheng Xiaoshi ends up walking Lu Guang right to the door.

And he barely turns around to cross the street to his building when it starts raining. Cheng Xiaoshi finds himself wishing they'd been if only a minute later.

Still. For the first time in years, the petrichor symphony doesn’t drown Cheng Xiaoshi.

 

◑

 

Speedrunning investigations might be May’s first—and not last—gift. It takes Lu Guang helping him three and a half times before Cheng Xiaoshi arrives at the ghastliest of conclusions.

 

SUBJECT : Stakeout Compromised by Excessive Gay Yearning [Code: CXSN-114]

“You know, this is starting to feel dangerously like a date.”

“The practised routine again.” Lu Guang replies flatly. “And it’s not improving, also again.”

In neon jellyfish and muted sea-filtered light and the blue glow of the glass, Lu Guang looks every bit like a dreamboat whose heart Cheng Xiaoshi would've loved to break. Or reassemble.

Cheng Xiaoshi averts his gaze back to Emma—whom they're not quite tailing but more like loitering artfully nearby.

“I’m just saying, if this ends in a romantic dinner by the shark tunnel, do note I fuck on the first date. In bathrooms most unfortunately.”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer. He shifts his weight, eyes still tracking Emma by the coral tank.

“Wasn’t a no,” Cheng Xiaoshi drawls with a smile.

“She’s circling. My best guess for the dilly-dallying is that she wants to talk but hasn’t decided if we’re worth it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans closer, breath warm with too-sweet mints. “So flash your badge. Or your bazoonkas—whichever would be more effective.”

“A press badge does nothing. And it’s not on me now.”

“Then lucky us—bazoonkas it is. Wish it were me.”

Lu Guang lets the silence stretch. Cheng Xiaoshi waits, but the comeback doesn’t come. It is Lu Guang who breaks the silence.

“This could end badly if we’re not careful. She has checked every single exit here. I'm afraid we’ll have to wait some more.”

“Patience. That thing you have instead of normal human emotions.” Cheng Xiaoshi sighs, dramatic. “Oh, to be the product of god pressing ‘sculpt’ and forgetting to add ‘warmth.’ Would still let you sit on my face, though.”

Lu Guang doesn’t even seem to have heard him. His eyes are glued on Emma still.

“She’ll come to us. Just be harmless.”

“I’m always harmless.”

Lu Guang finally glances at Cheng Xiaoshi. “You forced a six-year-old orphan into giving you Emma’s phone number not long ago. In sign language.”

“Shouldn’t you be impressed my persuasive range knows no boundaries, not even those imposed by language?”

“Call it by its name: manipulation.”

“Was not. It was my wounds meeting light. I was relating to little Li Doudou, I was—”

But Lu Guang raises an eyebrow so Cheng Xiaoshi concedes a sigh.

“Fine. Harmless enough it is. No more relaying creepy messages. I’ll take a rain check on being God’s vessel.”

They trail a little closer. Emma clocks them now. She flicks a glance but doesn’t further the distance—which is progress. Cheng Xiaoshi sways a little bit to bump shoulders with his not-date.

“You know, Guangguang, you didn’t have to come. I would have managed.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Liar. You were worried I’d mess it up—and don’t say it’s because I always mess it up. We both know that’s what you like about me.”

“No. What I like is that I’ll get to say I told you so and I’d rather not clean up after your improv interrogations whenever possible.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches Lu Guang watching Emma. There's something calculating in his stare—cold, in theory. Just in theory.

“The reaper grows a heart indeed,” Cheng Xiaoshi lilts. “I'd offer to eat it, but someone called dibs first.”

Lu Guang doesn’t flinch. Cheng Xiaoshi fake-sighs then presses on.

“Though I suppose that’s your thing—coverup stories. Dressing up for sleuthing work and listing very believable reasons for why you let me talk you into an aquarium stakeout.”

Still no reply. Cheng Xiaoshi monologues on. “Guess you just happened to follow me. Through security. Past the jellyfish. Into my favourite metaphor for our relationship. Understandable and totally a journey.”

Lu Guang still doesn’t look at him. “You were going to get yourself arrested. Again.”

“And you thought, what? You’d be my occasional alibi? Sit next to me while I scandalise the sea creatures and much less you? You have a lot of again’s with me Lu Guang that I really have to wonder what you think of me.”

“I thought,” Lu Guang finally meets Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes, “that someone should be here when you realise this isn’t a game. Not all the bullets are always going to be blanks and you're not built to be bulletproof.”

That almost ruins the mood. Almost. The silence following is less awkward kind and closer to standing on a ledge—dancing on it, drunk on happiness.

Emma turns then. She is now walking toward them.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t stop watching Lu Guang.

“If she bolts, I’ll take the front. You cut her off near the stingrays. I refuse to be ghosted before the jellyfish exhibition by anyone less lethally pretty than you.”

“She won’t bolt.”

Lu Guang’s gaze meets Cheng Xiaoshi's. That unreadable look again—the calm but sharp one that derails Cheng Xiaoshi's thinking. And just then, Emma stops a metre away from them.

“You’re here about Qian Jin-xiānshēng, aren’t you?”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles. Lu Guang doesn’t.

Because once again, Lu Guang is right. They didn’t come for nothing. Emma might not have given them much, but she did tell them where to find what Liu Min was last looking into before dying.

Two names. Same person, two halves. The Li twins.

 

SUBJECT: Illegal Records Acquisition via Performance Art [Code: SHAM-402]

Step one was to dig up the buried information about Li Tianxi, which is how they ended up before a building that reeks of endless bureaucracy.

Somewhere between a storage facility and a mausoleum, the old police archives squat at the edge of the city. The signage outside has peeled halfway off; only the characters for ‘die’ remain legible. A fitting omen.

Cheng Xiaoshi adjusts his coat collar and gives Lu Guang a look. “Ready to do something morally ambiguous for justice?”

“This is a bad idea.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head. “Which part?”

“All of it.”

“Please be vaguer. You're telling us too much.”

Lu Guang gestures vaguely at him. “Everything— You. The plan. The way you’re wearing your hair.”

“Careful, Lu Guang. You sound very much like my mother.”

“Your mother would be smarter than this.”

‘She married my father. I could marry you’. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t even blink.

“Not sure what that says about you, then.”

Lu Guang doesn’t dignify that with a response. He is already scanning the building. The windows are small and the problem very human: a retired officer-turned-custodian with a penchant for spite and probably an encyclopaedic memory for anyone vaguely disrespectful in 1998.

They step inside. The lighting flickers overhead. Another fitting omen.

Cheng Xiaoshi plasters on a grin and approaches the front desk, where the custodian, Liu Siwen, sits hunched over a half-finished newspaper and very much frowning.

“Uncle Siwen!” Cheng Xiaoshi chirps. “You look exactly the same. Are you reverse-ageing or are you age-reversing and will you drop that skincare routine already!”

Liu Siwen squints at him. “Do I know you, lad?”

“Not even in a past life,” Cheng Xiaoshi mumbles. Then, louder, he adds, “I’m here doing some research for a theatre piece. It was set in the '00s—tragic—broody—deeply nostalgic. You’ve always struck me as someone who’s lived through more than a few plot twists.”

Meanwhile, Lu Guang slips past the side, casual as a shadow. He doesn’t glance at Cheng Xiaoshi, but Cheng Xiaoshi watches his figure recede between the file stacks and smiles with the charm of a man with no ulterior motive whatsoever.

Liu Siwen harrumphs. “Theatre, huh. Last time someone said that, they stole all the plastic cups around here.”

“Rest assured, Uncle, I am not that kind of artist. I’m the good kind. Pretentious, yes, but principled—my partner regularly keeps me in check.”

Liu Siwen scoffs. “You’re wasting your time with that quicksilver tongue of yours. Files are locked unless you have authorisation.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, lowers his voice. “But surely, you have authorisation. I mean, if I were to write a character based on you, he’d be the kind of man who never needed permission.”

Liu Siwen narrows his eyes. “Flattery won’t work.”

Cheng Xiaoshi rests his elbows on the counter and lowers his tone conspiratorially. “What if I told you the script is loosely inspired by a case from your precinct? A mysterious disappearance in 1999 but in glitter and plastic sunglasses. It’s about an antisocial girl—they called it the blind mirror, remember?”

That gets a flicker. It is absolute crap—was probably some forgettable retro thing: neon lights, stolen jewellery, hair a cry for help. Cheng Xiaoshi has done worse roles. Probably.

“Wait here, sonny,” Liu Siwen grumbles. “I’ll see what I can dig up.”

He disappears into the back office.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes dart to the shelves. The crouched Lu Guang is barely visible between two cabinets. He makes eye contact, gives a small shake of his head: Not yet.

Cheng Xiaoshi stalls. Loudly.

“I mean, a mirror! That’s as symbolic as symbolic can be, right? The duality of identity, perception versus reality—very Kafka meets Sherlock Holmes. Or maybe it was Agatha Christie meets early 2000s government negligence. Either way. True literature.”

The printer sputters somewhere behind the desk.

Lu Guang appears again—faint movement. He mouths something: third drawer, locked, then vanishes.

Cheng Xiaoshi pivots, knocks over a plastic display stand with mock horror.

“Shit! Was this valuable?”

The noise draws Liu Siwen back too quickly. Lu Guang ducks out of sight again and back to the drawers again. Timely, Liu Siwen mutters,

“You’re not just clumsy but also loud. That’s two strikes, lad.”

“I prefer ‘emotionally vibrant,’” Cheng Xiaoshi counters. “My acting coach says I’m a live wire and not just because I'm too hot for my own sake. Speaking of which, any luck on the file yet?”

“No.” Liu Siwen crosses his arms. “And you need to leave if you'll keep touching things.”

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Cheng Xiaoshi steps back from the desk, adopting the stage voice of a scandalised lover.

“Guangguang, lend me the strength!”

A pause. Nothing. Then Lu Guang—hidden out of view—lets out the quietest, most reluctant sigh known to man. So of course Cheng Xiaoshi goes on.

“Tell him we need the file for closure. For catharsis. For—” his voice drops, low and tragic— “for us.”

Liu Siwen blinks, dumbfound. “Who’s Guangguang?”

Cheng Xiaoshi presses the back of his hand to his forehead. “My god, Uncle Siwen. The man I loved. The one who left me. For justice. For truth— GUANGGUANG!” Cheng Xiaoshi drops to his knees, voice ricochetting. “You said I killed you—haunt me then! Be with me always—take any form, drive me mad! I'd trade all my abysses for one night on my knees!”

There’s a small, strangled sound from somewhere behind the shelving. Possibly Lu Guang dying.

Cheng Xiaoshi wipes an imaginary tear.

Liu Siwen looks like he has aged five years in the last five minutes. “Okay, okay. I don’t want to hear your drama. Just wait here and do not touch anything. Don’t even look at anything. I wouldn’t want to risk another person stealing the bathroom sign again.”

He storms off again.

Seconds later, Lu Guang materialises, folder in hand, face unreadable. Cheng Xiaoshi isn't even about to wait for the return of the imaginary case. So they quickly exit with the file under Cheng Xiaoshi’s coat.

Outside, they stop at the corner of the alley.

“‘Reckless’ does not even begin to cover it,” Lu Guang begins.

“All me, baobei, no method acting,”

Lu Guang stares at him. “Hardly. You made us into lovers.”

“Well, you wouldn’t play along and I had to improvise. I narrate under pressure, remember?”

“That wasn’t narration. It was misquoting. Butchering.”

“Admit it.” Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, teasing. “It felt right. If anyone is going to scream for you through a storm, it’s me. I’ve got just the right level of self-destructive longing.”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer. He grabs the file from Cheng Xiaoshi's hands and flips the folder open. A beat passes. Then another.

Birth certificate. Vaccination records. A dental chart from when Li Tianxi was eight. A prop stealing incident from the NCPA when Li Tianchen was nineteen. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t watch the folder. His eyes fix Lu Guang. It’s unusual, Lu Guang thinking this hard. He’s usually two steps ahead or not interested at all.

“Cap,” Lu Guang says quietly.

“Sorry?”

“They gutted it and left only the shell. Look at the stamp here.” Lu Guang points at the red ink. “It’s not the kind you use for internal movement.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in. “Okay. So?”

Lu Guang turns the folder toward him, points. “It’s a sign-off, not for closure but for external transfer.”

“To who?”

“That’s the thing,” Lu Guang says and he does something rare—he rubs his palm against his mouth as though trying to stop words escaping before they’re ready. “No department is listed. Only initials. This accounts for the locked cabinet back there and the whole authorisation smoke mirror.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, looking at the signature. English letters. Again.

“XIA. What, like the magazine?”

“Not unless they’ve started filing things with a typewriter from the '80s,” Lu Guang says. But he’s not joking; he’s still looking, testing the weight of something in his mind before deciding if it’s dangerous.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him with vague amusement. “You’ve got that face again.”

“Which face?”

“The scary one. The chess-playing-one. Makes me imagine you saying ‘checkmate’ with your hand around my throat.”

Lu Guang ignores him. He is muttering a string of names under his breath and his eyes look one XIA away from crashing out. Then his gaze focuses and he turns to Cheng Xiaoshi.

“Have you ever heard of Xiang?”

“Memory is kinda fuzzy but he does sound familiar.”

“He used to be on the inside. Surveillance. He made a lot of things and people disappear when it was useful before he started running parlour tables and collecting favours. Rumours say he keeps files, not for leverage but out of pure compulsion, like little mementos.”

Cheng Xiaoshi whistles. “You really know your corrupt policemen, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang doesn’t smile, which makes Cheng Xiaoshi's flirtation stick awkwardly in his throat.

“But rumour also wonders how you—”

“Not now.”

That’s all Lu Guang says. It isn’t cold—maybe just a little final.

Cheng Xiaoshi lets it go.

They pack up in silence. Papers go back into folders that hold nothing useful—just empty paperclips and misleading dates.

Cheng Xiaoshi taps his fingers against his thigh. Something feels familiar. He’s about to throw his pitch when Lu Guang's voice cuts in.

“Ma Dong. If the file moved off-record, he’s the only name I’d trust to still have a copy. Or the key at least.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stops tapping his thigh.

“Wait… Ma Dong.”

Lu Guang glances over.

“I’ve seen the name. In one of the old case clippings a while ago. Qian Jin’s name was in there too.”

That gets Lu Guang’s full attention.

“It was a serious case—underling choked in his own car while three other witnesses watch. Qian Jin walked with of course no charges, but Ma Dong was on the official reprimand.”

Lu Guang says nothing still. He keeps looking at him like the last puzzle piece clicked.

Cheng Xiaoshi frowns. “You think he did something to the twins?”

Lu Guang just starts walking, calm as ever.

But his knuckles are white on the folder.

 

SUBJECT: Interrogation Under Cover of Recreational Activity [TACT-716]

The morning started with a simple exchange, and it ends with another.

So, we’re hitting a mahjong parlour?

We’re not hitting anything.

Which roughly translates to: Cheng Xiaoshi is going to hit it, and Lu Guang is going to roll his eyes the entire time it’s happening.

Lu Guang would've probably doubled down. But Cheng Xiaoshi might have very convincingly pretended he’s flirting with the idea of seeking Liu Xiao's help and Lu Guang immediately folded.

Ever since their friendly revised Russian Roulette game and Lu Guang seems extra present whenever Cheng Xiaoshi is around Liu Xiao. Cheng Xiaoshi still isn't certain why, but he is not complaining.

Now, the lift stops one storey above the parlour, and Lu Guang is already speaking when the doors part.

“Three rules: Don’t talk too much. Listen carefully. You’re not here to win.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lifts a brow. “Hello to you too.”

Lu Guang doesn’t rise to it. He’s standing just off-centre in the corridor’s amber light, holding something small and black. Lu Guang steps closer and holds it up: a wireless earpiece.

“Put this in.”

Cheng Xiaoshi takes it, amused. “How romantic. You going to whisper sweet nothings while I hustle old farts to get some digits in?”

“I’m going to stop you from embarrassing yourself. Meet point in forty minutes, tops.”

“That is romantic. Might’ve just busted a fat one, Guangguang.”

Lu Guang waits. Still. It’s not indifference; his expression is just difficult to read.

Cheng Xiaoshi fits the earpiece. It slips in with a soft click. “Tell me this wasn’t your idea of our second first date.”

Lu Guang already has his phone out, dialling. A moment later, Cheng Xiaoshi hears him twice: once beside him, once in his ear.

“Walk in. Table Three. Xiang will let up if you entertain him.”

Cheng Xiaoshi turns, swallows a grin. “You say that like I’m not the best player in this room.”

“You’re not. Table Three.”

The parlour’s noise swells as he enters: clacking tiles, muted Cantonese curses, the hum of a fan trying to move soup-thick air. Xiang is already seated—silver combed back over his scalp, gold ring on every other finger. The table is automatic, shiny and whirring—the type seen in heist films.

Cheng Xiaoshi sits, nodding like he belongs.

“Discard the Eight Bamboo,” Lu Guang says in his ear, before he even draws.

“Bossy,” Cheng Xiaoshi mutters, but does it.

Xiang eyes him with the mild contempt of a man who’s seen better players and better hair. Cheng Xiaoshi smiles back, all teeth and charm.

“East Wind.”

“Keep it.”

“I thought the whole point was—”

“Keep it. Trust me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi keeps it. For the next ten minutes, he lets Lu Guang pilot his hand. He draws a One Character—Lu Guang hums. “That’s your key.”

“To the locked box or your heart?”

No reply. Cheng Xiaoshi almost laughs. It’s been a while since flirting felt instinctive. But something about this—about the cadence, the control, the way Lu Guang sees everything three turns ahead—feels familiar. Not just déjà vu. More like muscle memory he isn't supposed to have.

He goes quiet—lets Lu Guang guide.

They play two rounds. Xiang doesn’t say much, but he watches, trying to place Cheng Xiaoshi and not just beat him.

Then comes the hand.

Cheng Xiaoshi is holding a mix of Bamboo and Circles—nothing promising. Lu Guang is patient. Methodical.

“Drop the South Wind. It’s bait.”

Cheng Xiaoshi does, then draws.

“Now the Two Circle. You're being set up for a flush.”

Gone. Another draw.

It continues like that—piece by piece. Then Lu Guang says, “You can go for All Simples. It’s risky. But if he’s playing what I think—”

“He’ll trip himself up.”

“Yes.”

Cheng Xiaoshi almost grins. Almost. Xiang discards a Two Bamboo. Cheng Xiaoshi claims it without blinking. Xiang studies the tiles, then him.

“You play like someone else,” he notes. “Some boy I used to know. He was full of himself, got bored of winning too fast—dangerous, but he liked to pretend it was all just a joke.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, stretching a little. “I get that a lot, but it also proves you're simply in good company now.”

In his ear, Lu Guang murmurs. “Get him talking. Don’t overdo it.”

Xiang draws a tile which he doesn’t look at. “He used to treat every round like Russian roulette. And he never once flinched, not even at the end.”

“Sounds like someone with a death wish, or maybe he just wanted to win so bad that it didn’t matter who he lost in the process.”

“No. He was just someone who didn’t care if he walked out breathing. He had this way of listening… like he could hear your pulse. Not just your words, your fear more so.” Xiang sets the tile down, still unread. “And that’s exactly the kind of person you watch closely. The ones who laugh right before everything goes to hell, because they aren’t just trying to win something off the table. They are trying to prove someone wrong.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t answer. The table creaks a little when he shifts his weight forward. Xiang drums his ringed fingers against the edge of the table, reminiscing.

“Boy like that… he didn’t belong to anyone, not even himself. That’s what made him dangerous.”

There’s silence—the kind that smells like cheap smoke and bad coffee.

Xiang sighs, finally turns the tile over. It’s a Nine Circle. “Anyway. That kind of offspring always gets someone killed. It’s usually himself, but sometimes people who don’t deserve it.”

“Is this the part where you accuse your cocky boy of murdering the actor, or need I pull up the hidden files?”

“Accusation is a bold word.” Xiang doesn’t blink. “And cocky is an understatement for someone like him—someone who was in the wrong room, wrong time. Maybe wrong life, too.”

A pause. Xiang tips the tile back into the pile. “Liu Min was just like their father. He thought he was clever, thought he could bluff his way through anything. That works on stage, not in real life. The dead protégé can tell you that much.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice is dry. “Liu Min's protégé? Li Tianchen?”

Xiang finally lights his cigarette. The flame dances a little too long. “That kid… he was supposed to be an afterthought, a fling. He has a smile like sugar and cyanide—was pretty enough to be overlooked. That’s how he liked it—until someone gave him a reason not to be invisible.”

“And you think that reason was—?”

Xiang exhales smoke. Shrugs. “Could be revenge, could be love. It’s always the same thing, if you’re young enough.”

Cheng Xiaoshi winds the hand on a Two Bamboo discard. Xiang pauses, frowning—not at the loss, but at Cheng Xiaoshi.

In his ear, Lu Guang says, “Ask. Now.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, knocks once on the table with his knuckle.

“So. About the key to the locker—”

Xiang smiles. “You’re too young to be asking about men who no longer talk, lad.”

“But not too young to open old drawers?”

That makes him laugh—a short-lived, dry sound.

“Your one trick was fun while it lasted, but you might need more than this, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

The metal barely clinks on the table, next to the tiles. The question blazes: his name—salt in his throat—iodine in his lungs. Something ancient flares in Cheng Xiaoshi—like a malignant thought surgically extracted. He blinks, flicking his gaze back.

Just then— Something drops. Loud. Across the room, a chair topples. In the split second he turns to look—Xiang is gone. The parlour spins. The win, the tiles, the guidance—it will all mean nothing. Cheng Xiaoshi's head throbs. Blood simmers. He is sinking underwater.

Cheng Xiaoshi bolts to the door. Through it. To something soaked in rain and neon. In his ear, Lu Guang exhales more than a sigh.

“Our priority is not Xiang!”

Cheng Xiaoshi takes out the earpiece. His heart is ticking faster.

Because the alley was a mistake. It’s too narrow, too quiet—too many ways to bleed without a luminol remembering.

And it is as Lu Guang has predicted; Cheng Xiaoshi was being set up for a flush. Reapers in fake black leather materialise. Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes veers between the two ugly men with a cheap fashion sense and he feels like laughing—almost does.

But by then, the first man has already stepped in behind him, the second cutting off the way forward. Both remain silent. Cheng Xiaoshi breathes once. The he shifts weight, voice remaining light.

“I do a lot of things with fans in dark alleys—sadly, selfies isn’t one of them.”

But the first one lunges. Cheng Xiaoshi sighs.

He ducks, pivots. His shoulder takes the brunt, slamming into the wall, but his elbow catches the man’s jaw on the rebound. The other one grabs for his collar. Cheng Xiaoshi lets the jacket go, spins low and kicks his knee out.

Something cracks, a swear ricochetting with Cheng Xiaoshi's clattering lighter. Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes flicks to his fallen Zippo, almost catching an uppercut. But it’s his lucky charm; he sidesteps safely. The first man uses keys—the keys—as brass knuckles but like bad karma stumbles on a lighter.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t wait. He moves like he has danced this before—messy but efficient, a street-learned rhythm. He grabs the dropped Zippo—before even grabbing the keys—slams the heel of his palm into a nose and runs.

One of them tries to follow. Cheng Xiaoshi flings a metal ash bin behind him. It clatters loudly.

The chase dies.

Meet point.

By the time he rounds the hotel’s side entrance, he’s breathless and grinning. His shirt is torn at the shoulder, and there’s blood, but his fingers are tight on the keys.

Lu Guang is already there, standing half in shadow near a row of vending machines. His arms are crossed and his expression is sharp enough to cut glass.

Cheng Xiaoshi slows, smiling. “Miss me?”

“You’re bleeding.”

“Am I?” He checks, squinting. “Well, look at that. I must’ve tripped into a fist. Didn’t know I was worth this much trouble, really.”

Lu Guang steps closer. “What happened? You cut off midway and I didn’t see Xiang leaving.”

“Got what we needed.” Cheng Xiaoshi waves the keys overhead. “You should’ve seen the other guys. Or maybe you shouldn’t. They had really bad pimples. No forehead kisses skincare routine whatsoever.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“This is not how I imagined the first time you'd say my name. Though I'm still kinda turned-on if I'm being honest.”

“That wasn’t funny. Just reckless and uncalled-for.”

“If you're gonna scold me, keep it to the bedroom. Excites me more. Malvolio can be our safe-word.”

Lu Guang just looks like something cracked open in the middle of his chest and now he’s trying to decide what part to salvage first.

“I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation.”

“Enlighten me, then.”

“You could’ve died, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“But I didn’t.”

“You could’ve.”

Lu Guang steps close, not shouting—never shouting. He is furious in the most personal way possible.

“You throw yourself into active volcanoes just to prove they can still breathe out fire.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. “That’s poetic, Guangguang—we journalling again?”

“This isn’t funny.”

Cheng Xiaoshi's smile falters. “No. It’s not. But it worked, and it’s making you worked-up as bonus points—a little Cheng Xiaoshi treat, if you will.”

Lu Guang stares, something breaking behind his eyes—some tiny, worn thread that held up a dam. For the first time, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t want to push him, not like that, not to break him. He tilts his head, the teasing lilt not entirely gone.

“Are you angry because I risked my life, or because I didn’t ask for your help?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer.

“Don’t worry, Lu Guang,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, soft now. “I was careful… ish.”

“Far from it. You can't even fight.”

“Watched enough vids and played enough roles that I'm practically the next Jackie Chan.”

“I know even you must have better sense than this.”

“Yeah, but then you wouldn’t look at me like that.”

The line is flirty, despite bearing the aftertaste of the feeling he has already said sorry for something. Just not out loud.

‘Then you wouldn’t fuss over me like that.’

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks, yet Lu Guang's inscrutable expression doesn’t flag. For a moment, the silence between them isn’t angry. It is full, felt—like the lull between thunder and lightning. Familiar in a way Cheng Xiaoshi can’t name.

He shifts, lifts the file again, teasing. “If you're done being adorably angry at me, can we eat? I burned more calories than I like to admit and running isn't even my favourite form of cardio.”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick down, tallying damage—blood, bruises, a thin scrape of skin near Cheng Xiaoshi’s temple. When he looks back up, something unspoken tightens in his jaw. Then he sighs, an almost-smile breaking out on his face.

“Let’s get something worthwhile into your body, then.”

Cheng Xiaoshi barely takes in his first bullshitty breath when Lu Guang's sharp look intercepts his flirty line. A short laugh. Acquiescence. Lu Guang softens, somehow.

“Not that, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi grins. “Well, a guy can dream.”

Because really, that’s the only refuge left for Cheng Xiaoshi. Dream.

 

SUBJECT: File Recovered. Psychological Damage: Pending. [Code: ENTRY-219]

That following night, after another friendly visit to the police archives, Cheng Xiaoshi ends up grabbing more than the file on his way back home. He dispatches the film reel at his place before ending in Lu Guang's flat.

Lu Guang is reading aloud from the police report, voice detached.

“Mother died in a fire. No witnesses. Cause labelled ‘accidental’, but there are suspicious delays in calling emergency services. The father was charged twice for abuse, acquitted both times. Injuries consistent with belt buckles, boot heels.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back in his chair, eyes on the ceiling and trying not to let the voices win.

Lu Guang continues, “Li Tianchen was sixteen. No forced entry and no weapon found. Blunt trauma to the head. Li Tianxi was asleep next door—didn’t hear a thing since she’s mute.”

“Of course she is,” Cheng Xiaoshi mutters. “Girlie learns early that saying anything gets you burned.”

Lu Guang leafs through another page without commenting. A silence settles. Heavy. Fragile. It isn't quite comfortable: something about the twins feels like seeing things in double and not just because they are twins—not because Liu Xiao has already planted an image in Cheng Xiaoshi's mind.

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts.

“If you think about it, though,” he says lightly, but his hands are too still. “You can almost see how it wasn’t murder. That was extraction—like pulling rot from a tooth. Cleansing, if we dare call the pot black.”

Lu Guang stops reading. He glances over. “You are aware that Li Tianchen was the prime suspect?”

Cheng Xiaoshi lets out a breath that might qualify as a laugh. “Yeah, well. You grow up in a house where the floorboards know your blood type and see how long you last before you start thinking in fire exits. He’s lucky he didn’t develop some kind of Ted Bundy gene and flipped out just for the chaos of it all. His only sin? Real diva. Respect.”

He picks up a report page and flips it, unread.

“If I were Li Tianchen, I would've done the same. Maybe earlier and cleaner, but same flair.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “He bashed the man’s skull in with a prop candelabra.”

“Slay, queen,”

A beat—but then it comes out with the casualness of a passing comment.

“Not to spoil the ending, either, but if I were Li Tianxi, I’d have killed myself.”

Lu Guang’s head jerks.

But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t flinch. He taps a rhythm into the table with one finger, looking somewhere far past the paper stacks.

“There’s a cruelty to silence—less of the quiet kind and more like the one that leaves you unheard in a house where people scream and no one listens. Being mute in a place like that? That’s not survival. That’s sentencing—something other people can leverage. Li Tianxi wasn’t living; she must have only been waiting to die.”

Lu Guang just watches him.  

Cheng Xiaoshi grins like someone lit a match too close to his teeth. “Li Tianchen did what parents are supposed to. He protected his little sister.”

“Careful.” Lu Guang calmly begins. “You almost sound like you're romanticising murder.”

“I’m recognising it. There’s a difference. People don’t choose their circumstances, Lu Guang, we just react. Some of us survive and some of us don’t.”

Lu Guang looks away first. Cheng Xiaoshi stretches, then shrugs.

“They're twins—literally two halves of a whole. When one moves, so does the other.”

“Which accounts for murder, justifies it?”

Smiling, Cheng Xiaoshi dives into his theatrical arsenal.

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day. You're well-versed in literature, Lu Guang, help me with the next line.”

Lu Guang watches him. “Quoting Shakespeare when murder is at stake doesn’t sit well with me. What's the point?”

Cheng Xiaoshi flicks an eyebrow—amused.

“The point is that you already get it. I don’t think one could live without the other.”

A long blink. Then, Lu Guang leans closer.

“I'm asking this against my better judgement, but do you believe in soulmates, Cheng Xiaoshi?”

“You mean in the tragic, pre-destined sense, or the running-late-for-class-and-bumping-into-the-hot-stoic one?”

Lu Guang’s voice doesn’t rise.

“I mean the kind you meet once and never get right again. No do-overs.”

Cheng Xiaoshi falters—but the soon words tumble out too easily.

“I think some people are magnets. Wrong poles, right pull. If it makes any sense.”

Lu Guang tilts his head. Cheng Xiaoshi keeps going, not sure why.

“I also think maybe you only get one person who ruins all the exits. All the afters and somehow all the befores too.”

Lu Guang goes very still.

And Cheng Xiaoshi, not meaning to, adds, “I think I already found mine. Years ago. Idiot probably never noticed.”

It hangs there—unmistakable. Lu Guang watches him a moment longer, then quietly he asks,

“What makes you say that?”

“Context clues. Guangguang.” Cheng Xiaoshi rolls his eyes dramatically, “For two months now I've been nothing but slow burn—I've given you Benedict, Darcy, and Heathcliff in rotation—yet you haven’t so much as swooned. I'm a lot of things but unfaithful isn't one of them. More single than a Hamlet soliloquy—as you can see—but hornier than Richard III as you might get to feel very, very soon.”

Lu Guang looks down, smiling. He shakes his head once.

‘You're unbelievable.’

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks slowly. He leans in smoothly, forefinger ghost-tracing Lu Guang's lips.

“Ah, there it is. I believe I too have earned your smile.”

“It was either that or I risked being bombarded by more literature references.”

“Do you want me carnally yet?”

Lu Guang's smile widens. “For your terrible and inaccurate references? I might need a moment before I get up.”

Cheng Xiaoshi has to look away. He leans back on his palms, gaze tilted toward the ceiling, discerning ghosts in the rafters.

“If we’d met a few years earlier—before him—I think I would’ve won.”

This time, Lu Guang doesn’t move. Cheng Xiaoshi glances over.

“Your Charles.” His voice curls around the name, teasing. “He had his shot. I wouldn’t have messed up mine.”

Lu Guang almost smiles. Cheng Xiaoshi continues, still casual, still a menace.

“I would’ve made you laugh more. Told better lies. Kissed you in crowded places just to see you flustered.” He smirks. “I would’ve ruined you slower—kinder. Slipped notes. Annotated your favourite books. Taken you to haunted rooftops. Picked fights I meant to lose and quoted sonnets at you mid-argument just to drive you mad.”

Lu Guang’s throat works.

“And you still would’ve left,” Cheng Xiaoshi adds, the words softer now. “But maybe not right away. Small victories.”

Something flickers behind Lu Guang’s eyes—recognition, maybe.

Cheng Xiaoshi offers a grin that tries too hard. “But, hey—game recognises game. He got there first. I might just have to live with that.”

Lu Guang looks at him for a long time. The silence folds between them, paper-thin at first, the tearing at the edges.

“He must’ve noticed by the way.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head inquisitively. Lu Guang’s eyes flick to his mouth. He doesn’t kiss him, but he shifts closer, closer than before. Close enough for everything unspoken to feel loud.

Neither says anything for a while.

Then Cheng Xiaoshi narrows his eyes. “Don’t think I've mentioned it enough times, but you always ask the wrong questions, Lu Guang.”

“And you always answer the right ones too late. You don’t know who you're up against.”

“Maybe. But I get you.” Cheng Xiaoshi speaks quietly into Lu Guang's mouth. “You’re the kind of person who doesn’t like things easy. You want things honest. Under all of this, there is someone who—”

It isn't Lu Guang's words that stop him—the elongated Oh, just shut up already—so much as it is the exaggerated and feigned eyeroll.

But for the reeling Cheng Xiaoshi, it is the smile. The way Lu Guang looks at him a heartbeat too long—that slow creeping smile.

Then, only then, does Cheng Xiaoshi lean back in his chair—the physical manifestation of the smile flooring. Because the, only then, does Cheng Xiaoshi’s brain send the signals loud and clear for something that has been extremely loud and close for at least a month, if not more, now.

Oh no. He’s beautiful and jaded and I'm in so much trouble.

Chapter 10: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Mysterious Case of Lu Guang’s Goddamn Unkissed Collarbones

Cheng Xiaoshi didn’t sleep last night. He is tired—so tired that it puts Lady Macbeth's somnambulistic rituals to shame. However, the night did unfold equally theatrically. He sat up with the film reel he’d nicked from the archives last week, held it to the light. He was trying to make sense of the cuts, the missing frames, the soundless flickers that no longer matched memory—if they ever did.

Something in the burnt plastic smell tugged at him: a dream he couldn’t name, one that smells of ashen smoke and salty air and blood-rust—one that recalls a tune half-hummed by someone with sad eyes and a too-familiar laugh. He didn’t know if it was Li Tianchen, or Li Tianxi. Or both. Maybe neither.

But he is here now, pretending to listen, sunk deep into the faded upholstery of a chair and suffering bad lighting among other things. Everyone else is half-sprawled across the rehearsal floor—shoes off and adrenaline crashing. Vein has been waiting all morning for someone to ask why he is grinning.

No one does. So he stands—dramatically. Because apparently he has forgot they’re in a three-star hotel lounge where the only audience is a dusty potted plant.

“Well,” he stretches the word, “since no one here bothers to ask how I’m doing—which, by the way, is a tragic reflection of this group’s priorities among other menu items—I’ll just share the exciting news myself.”

But Qiao Ling doesn’t look up from her phone, Xia Fei yawns, and Liu Xiao has been smiling in that way he does when someone fubs their lines. Cheng Xiaoshi glances just once at Lu Guang—Lu Guang who is looking at the broken clock on the wall, a second too long, stirring his coffee.

He doesn’t blink. Neither of them does. It’s a first: Lu Guang is partial to boba drinks.

Vein clears his throat. “We’re going June twelfth, it’s confirmed. The shimmery lake, the mountain lodge, the entire itinerary that’s come from a PR brochure—graciously sponsored by our very own Qian Jin-gē’s charming little empire of blood money. He insists it’s a team-building exercise—presumably so we can build stronger alibis or practise our own ghost stories. Whichever hits the mark quicker.”

Cheng Xiaoshi arches an eyebrow. He doesn’t say anything, but Vein sees it—that flicker of the almost-smile.

“It’ll be restful,” Vein continues. “Enlightening, if you squint hard enough. A last hurrah before summer ushers in the plague of understudies and before our late July premier. And while we’re at it—costume hunting in Fenghuang will be June fourth too. Felix has got the schedule—ask him about shared bathrooms and mandatory evening walks; he’s been itching to talk about it!”

There’s a short lull where no one claps. Vivian mutters something unfavourable about mosquitos.

Vein doesn’t mind; he’s already looking at Cheng Xiaoshi—just for a beat too long, the way you look at someone when you're checking if they heard what you didn’t say. Something in his gaze curls into fondness, and maybe a warning. But it's quickly gone.

Lu Guang’s chair creaks quietly as he shifts. He doesn’t speak, but he stops stirring his coffee.

 

◑

 

Lu Guang should know better by now. Every time he loiters around after rehearsals and after everyone has left, it is an open invitation to Cheng Xiaoshi. After all, can Lu Guang really not type away at his flat? Cheng Xiaoshi has been to said flat. It is a very lovely flat. Very evidence locker.

No photos, no clutter, no trace—Guangguang, be honest, you a hitman or just on saving mode emotionally?

But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t mind; he has a goal—a theory: if you hit the right frequency, Lu Guang will smile. And that smile is worth repeating. Hourly, if possible.

With no audience, the theatre is stripped to half-shadow, half stage light. Cheng Xiaoshi’s Guangguangism is acting up; he needs to yet again audition for Lu Guang's attention. Maybe tonight he’ll get a callback. Lu Guang is the closest thing to being in a good mood now that he hasn’t expended his murderous aura or glaring quota on Liu Xiao today.

Only because the mad hatter wasn’t here today. He hasn’t shown up for four days now—since Vein's little scenic announcement

Whatever. Cheng Xiaoshi is no longer into twinks.

He tells himself it’s not premeditated, but he’s on the stage again. Because drama demands it. Because Lu Guang, curled up offstage with a laptop, reacts. Because Cheng Xiaoshi has memorised Lu Guang's typing speed by now to clock any hitches.

He steps under the spotlight and he starts slow.

“We are such stuff, as dreams are made on,”

He pivots, conscious he has if not all then some of Lu Guang's attention.

“Out, damned spot!” he shrieks, shaking his sleeve like if Lady Macbeth had a flair for improv. He stumbles forward dramatically, then gasps.

“Et tu, Brute?”

Lu Guang’s fingers falter over the keyboard. Cheng Xiaoshi smirks, dialling it up.

He drops to one knee and howls to the lights. “A horse! A horse! My kingdom for a horse!”

A beat—then he pats his chest as if winded and whispers tragically, “Though she be but little, she is fierce!”

Lu Guang’s mouth twitches. Cheng Xiaoshi sees it so he further raises the stakes: he flings his arms wide.

“What light through yonder window breaks? It is the east, and Juliet is—”

He glances stage left, frowns.

“—probably still ghosting me. Poor Yorick.”

That does it. Lu Guang breaks: it’s a quiet huff first, then the low, reluctant laugh that Cheng Xiaoshi has been aiming for. Cheng Xiaoshi points at him with both hands like a victorious villain.

“Yes! Got him.”

Lu Guang leans back, resting his head against the wall. “You butchered five plays.”

“Six, actually,” He winks. “Tragedy is better when you don’t see it coming. Enough irony already.”

One more prod. Cheng Xiaoshi claps his hands twice then signals the spotlight.

“Your turn, leading man.”

“I'm fine watching.”

“It gets you off, Lu Guang?”

“It gets you off my back.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smirks. A sweep of the hand, a glint in the eyes—Cheng Xiaoshi offers the stage.

“Come on. Don't make me soliloquy alone. Even Shakespeare knew better than that.”

Lu Guang raises a brow. “Did he?”

Cheng Xiaoshi grins. “He knew how to give the lovers too many words, just not enough time. OG Victorian hornies.”

“Elizabethan. Wrong timeline again.”

“Are you going to stand here and correct me all night, or will you cater to my chaos?”

A beat. Then Lu Guang stands. There is an argument, but he doesn't voice it; he only moves. They don’t need to rehearse. Cheng Xiaoshi has done this before—different stage, different play, same choreography of two people trying not to flinch.

He leads.

“Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day…”

The line is too sweet, too pleading. It doesn’t suit his voice. But he tosses it like a dare.

Lu Guang responds, voice low. Unhurried.

“Let me be ta’en. Let me be put to death. I am content, so thou wilt have it so.”

It lands wrong. Cheng Xiaoshi feels it; he doesn’t flinch, but the smile wavers for just a beat.

He continues.

“Yon light is not daylight, I know it, I…” He trails off, forgetting the rest—or choosing to.

Lu Guang steps closer, just a pace.

“It is some meteor that the sun exhales

To be to thee this night a torchbearer,”

It hangs there.

The lights are buzzing. Cheng Xiaoshi’s pulse is louder. He is close to the sun, to burning—under the spotlight, in moonlight.

“And light thee on thy way to Mantua.”

He sees flickers, not fragments—feelings. That was the empty auditorium in ZJU—a cast party with too many drinks and too few words, all of it layered under this scene.

Lu Guang moves a little closer, still in character. Maybe.

“Therefore stay yet. Thou need’st not to be gone.”

Lu Guang is close enough that Cheng Xiaoshi can feel the shape of the air change between them. His head is tilted, gaze growing soft around the edges—not quite grounded in the now.

“Is it selective memory at play, or have you genuinely forgotten the lines?”

Cheng Xiaoshi keeps smiling, but it doesn’t reach as far as it used to. He breaks eye contact and musses his hair before mumbling: “Fuck. This used to be easier.”

Lu Guang looks at him. Long. Cheng Xiaoshi reciprocates. Clearly Lu Guang is going to make him work for it.

Except that he doesn’t; instead, there’s a prickle of a smile like stars failing to hide their fires.

“In another life, you would've made a brilliant Romeo, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi huff-laughs. “Why not this one?”

Something shifts in the space between them. Lu Guang’s gaze drops briefly. He looks up again.

“Because this time, the poison is slow, and Juliet haemorrhages on stage. And blood never made flowers bloom, not even in the loam of memory.”

Even breath feels like sacrilege. Cheng Xiaoshi's lean-in is provocative; he can't afford otherwise.

“You’ve been dressing up so much in metaphors... for a while too. Mother, may I?”

Lu Guang keeps looking at Cheng Xiaoshi like the latter is something half-remembered and half-feared. Cheng Xiaoshi hops onto the edge of the stage, legs swinging. Then he fires another mental exercise.

“Excite me more, Lu Guang, share this dance with me.”

“Are you stepping on my shadow?”

“Not if you're leading. Not if it’s another me that’s following.” A beat. A smile. A flinch. “Or maybe it wouldn’t be me then.”

“Then? Do I read between the lines?”

Laughing, Cheng Xiaoshi exaggerates a face. His reply is indirect, even as he avoids the searching gaze.

“You don’t have to because unlike a certain someone—a very hot-‘just one chance’-someone—I like mansplaining. So, Guangguang, pick me. Let’s say a person rebuilds themselves piece by piece—new habits, new opinions, new hair. No one leaves you, not really. They just leave the version of you they once knew, and you theirs.”

He grins too widely. “Or in layman terms—undressed—if the person you loved has replaced all their planks, are they still the same? Would you still reach for them, or would you mourn the one who vanished?”

It’s bait, but not fully a joke.

Lu Guang doesn’t yet join his side. “There’s plenty that needs to be addressed. First, why do you assume it—that version—is gone?”

“Simple. They—love and or the person you love—go through storms, yet what comes out the other side isn't the thing that went in.” Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “You keep trying to convince yourself otherwise. Foolishly, desperately. You cling to what you think is the same shape. You call it love, even when it’s mostly memory. But if there’s no link left to who they’ve been—what’s in front of you isn’t the thing you loved. It’s just something else wearing its name. So… are they still yours?”

A single blink—a mental buffer.

“It’s not a straight line and you’re not a ship.”

“Sure feels like driftwood sometimes.”

Lu Guang ambles over to him then but doesn’t sit. Instead, he bites his lip.

“This entire premise is wrong—not because it’s unfair, but because we’re not some scaffolding of quirks and chaos someone once fell for.”

“You has graduated to we now?” Cheng Xiaoshi's brow arches.

The spotlight spills over Lu Guang’s shoulders. It turns him into something worth falling toward. Cheng Xiaoshi feels the heat—like a fool who asked the sun for permission.

He doesn’t reach. Lu Guang rolls one shoulder.

“The distinction seems to hardly even matter. You yourself frame it in a way that makes it hard to tell which team you're batting for.”

“Courtesy of a thought exercise conducted by your local flaming bisexual. Raise your flag and all that yada yada.”

Lu Guang studies him with that analytical stillness that drives Cheng Xiaoshi insane.

“I think,” Lu Guang says slowly, “you romanticise forgetting a little too much, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“Romanticise, is that our safe-word now? Do I not get to have the romance without murder, of other or of the self?”

Lu Guang's eyes narrow. “Carnage as a stand-in for love, wasn't it?”

“Says the proofreader of passion—but we keep circling back to the same thing. So support your claim, kind sir; how is forgetting 'poetry'?”

Lu Guang crouches down. Cheng Xiaoshi thinks he’d be petted like a cat. It’s a Pavlovian response, really. Lu Guang's gaze levels him instead.

“You assume it’s about recognition. You think love survives on instinct. But if you don’t have the memories, there’s no anchor or continuity—so what exactly are you recognising then?”

His voice softens.

“Can you really love someone you don’t remember? Or let me rephrase, can you love someone who doesn’t remember you—when it becomes an unyielding process of unlearning, of slowly and willingly downing the hemlock, as though the ending could be changed, as though this very rewriting isn't why the poison spreads in the first place?”

Lu Guang tilts his head. The movement is small, measured. He speaks slowly, as if he doesn’t want to say the words but has rehearsed them anyway.

“Fireworks, that’s how it starts, how it can last—arguably. Sure, you get to have a good go. But then you go to sleep and everything fades. The clock resets and you wake up next to a stranger.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stills. His eyes flick away for a second—just enough to betray how much that thought has haunted him too.

But he rolls his neck and recovers with a half-smile. “Not a total stranger.”

Lu Guang doesn’t miss a beat.

He is sitting down casually as he says, “On the shore, it’s so easy to say that, Cheng Xiaoshi. But what if they don’t laugh the way you remember? What if they smell different? What if their hand feels wrong in yours? How many times does a person get to die—in your memory before in your shared actuality?”

Cheng Xiaoshi tips his head back, eyes on the ceiling fan. He watches the blades blur into each other. A spin. Three. Cheng Xiaoshi believes he can grasp it if close enough. He hums then turns his gaze to Lu Guang: sharp profile, soft edges.

Flying was never the hard part. The corner of Cheng Xiaoshi’s mouth quirks up.

"Funny. Would've guessed you knew better, Guangguang—seeing how you have dappled in Kundera."

Lu Guang turns his head sharply. “What?”

“My core memory. I never read Kundera but I know his works—I know the heart remembers what the mind lets rot.”

There’s a long pause. They are close enough now to count breaths. Cheng Xiaoshi’s pulse kicks against his ribs.

He looks away.

“Memory isn’t the root of love,” A casual flick of the wrist. “It’s just the archive—useful but unnecessary. You don’t need the records to know what you’ve already felt. You just know—in your chest, in your ribs, in the way someone looks at you and everything stills. In the way they know how to make everything stop hurting but only because they offer another sort of hurt. The afterburn. A burn-bliss cycle that you seek because it makes you feel alive, it’s proof you exist. With them. You think memory is what makes love stick? I believe it’s the other way round. You remember someone because loving them leaves marks.”

He finally looks at Lu Guang. Lu Guang’s jaw clenches.

“And if it feels like love, even when your head says it shouldn’t—it probably is. Some part of you always knows and that’s the thing you can't logic away.”

It’s a clean strike—it’s not meant to wound, but it lands hard anyway.

Lu Guang swallows. His voice is even when he finally speaks. “So what you’re saying is… if someone forgot you—forgot everything—all the yours and the ours—you’d just hope they still recognised you anyway, subliminally. Viscerally.”

“I wouldn’t hope.”

“Pick a corner already.”

“I’d make them,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes are holding Lu Guang's. “Even if I had to spend the rest of my life making them laugh again just to see if it sounded right, just to know I’m still here. Was once there. Inside.”

Lu Guang doesn’t move. Cheng Xiaoshi watches as his composure slips by a millimetre. Enough.

So he throws in a grin—a deflection.

“Anyway, your precious Kundera said something like that, didn’t he? That the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.”

Lu Guang flinches. “That’s not about love.”

“It’s not?”

Again, Lu Guang doesn’t answer. But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss the way his hand curls slightly on the edge, like he’s holding something back. Or holding something in.

Cheng Xiaoshi walks to the door. He picks up his bag but he also lingers. Because he looks back; he always would.

“You coming, or do I need to jump off something just to see if you’d follow?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer right away.

But he follows.

 

◑

 

Bang, bang, bang.

Qiao Ling releases another strike with casual violence.

It harkens to something—a whistling sound. Cheng Xiaoshi whistles, leaning on the ball return.

“Can't tell if it’s casual, or you're bowling for Vindictive Olympics?”

She shrugs then picks up her soda. “Been hanging around you long enough, it’s only natural I get addicted to winning.”

“You’re not even being subtle about it. That’s the scariest part.” He turns toward the lane with his own ball—hot pink, wrong size. “Watch and learn. I speak vengeance fluently.”

It’s a spectacular disaster: the ball lurches left, bounces once, then gutters with theatrical commitment.

“Ah,” Qiao Ling says. “Technique: stellar incompetence. Fluent indeed. Perfect score, too.”

“Strategic, actually.” Cheng Xiaoshi picks up another ball like nothing happened. “The slow starter is so you'd underestimate me—then boom! Instant damage, health bar crying, screaming, vomiting.”

“Sounds like a strategy you’ve practised before. Or one that you’ve executed—that emotional damage skit.”

He raises a brow.

She glances at him sideways. “So.”

“Dangerous opener, Qiao Ling.”

“You and Lu Guang.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stares down the lane. “Graduating from dangerous to predictable. Hard pass.”

“You’ve been weird.”

He lifts a brow. “I’m always weird. It’d be weird if I were normal.”

“You know what I mean, Cheng Xiaoshi, it’s happening again.”

“Define ‘it.’ Carefully. Bonus points if you provide examples with accurate timestamps.”

“You know what I mean, stop being a jerk—or stop being too you!”

Cheng Xiaoshi lines up his shot, though he doesn’t yet throw. “I'm being genuine: nothing rings a bell. So either bypass being cryptic, or give me some kind of stimulation for the night. Your choice.”

Qiao Ling rolls her eyes. “Cheng Xiaoshi, you’re doing that thing again. The bit where you flirt for sport but pretend it’s never been a competition you intend on winning—where you pretend it’s only a joke.”

Cheng Xiaoshi throws. It’s marginally better; one pin goes down. He pumps a fist like he’s just won nationals.

She sits beside the console. “And I know he hasn’t been rooming with you. Like ever.”

“Doesn’t make him immune to my charm. Maybe I let him defile me in another lifetime and that’s why I'm taking my time with the slow burn.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“Present.”

“It’s not a joke anymore, is it? You even talked him into coming to Fenghuang in two weeks. That’s some next level shit commitment.”

“It’s a very committed bit.”

She watches him.

Cheng Xiaoshi rubs the back of his neck. His smile is half-formed. “Not to quote one of my greatest friends but let’s just say Guangguang and I are in proximity.”

“Proximity has range. Among other menu items—Liu Xiao can testify to that.”

He flinches. Then he flicks the scoreboard with a fingernail. “Maybe we’re just within blast radius. Might blow him any second now. I do make a habit of jumping into active volcanoes, apparently.”

“Keep them coming—the romantic romance-deflecting lines. It seems like you’ve forgotten I know what love looks like.”

“On you?”

“Fuck you—”

“Relax, Qiao Ling. I’m a known romantic. Just ask my tragic score. Great track record as you can see.”

They let the noise fill the silence—arcade chirps, clatter of pins, some soft ballad wheezing through overhead speakers.

Qiao Ling finally says, “Would've been amusing—how you talk like you’re trying to remember a joke you told once.”

Cheng Xiaoshi exhales through a grin. “Interesting. Was it funny?”

“In the same way tragicomedies are, so you tell me.”

He doesn’t. He just picks up the wrong-sized ball again, cradles it like it might hold an answer. He clicks his tongue then shrugs in Sure, why the hell not.

“You ever feel like everyone’s seen the film but you got handed the script late?”

“All the time. I've been watching you rescript your lines in real time, even when the ending has long been writ in blood.”

“I see you’ve been hanging out with Lu Guang a lot lately, Qiao Ling. Collab on a poetry book, please.”

She just looks at him. Cheng Xiaoshi lets out a small chuckle, as though entertaining a private joke. Then he turns to her, smiling.

“Still. At least I get to act like it’s the first time, so at least I come out on top this round.”

It lands like a joke. But doesn’t sit like one.

The scoreboard flashes: Qiao Ling’s turn. She stands and rolls another strike. This time, she doesn’t gloat.

Cheng Xiaoshi only sits down and sips his drink.

 

 

In his dream, he falls.

Into the cruise ship. Into Liu Xiao's lap. Into the spider’s webs. Between time’s gears. Everywhere and nowhere.

He’s wearing something with shoulder pads and a metallic stripe, a neon blue jacket he picked for the aesthetic and maybe the irony. Or to blend in. He does. Too much. People keep offering him drinks like he’s someone worth forgetting things with.

He is looking for someone. Lost something. Or someone. Or maybe just drunk.

Across the room, Liu Xiao spins the chamber.

The revolver is heavy and ridiculous, an antique Liu Xiao's group had found in a prop trunk below deck. Someone loaded a blank. It’s a party piece—a joke wrapped in tension. The kind that only works when you’re twenty and drunk enough to believe mortality is beneath you.

But Cheng Xiaoshi is closer than he thinks. He’s tagged for identification. He thinks of Xia Fei. Of Vein. Of Jae Lee and—

He has more red flags than the Beijing Olympics.

A man on a mission. Abort mission. Mission control.

Liu Xiao raises his eyebrows. “You don’t trust me?”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “You’re charming. In a way that probably ends in manslaughter if villains were horny enough.”

Liu Xiao smiles. Cheng Xiaoshi spins the chamber.

“Your funeral, or mine. Depends on how much you want to steal your brother’s special night.”

He pulls the trigger.

Click.

Liu Xiao whistles. “Bold.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs, still hearing the echo of it in his skull. “Bold would’ve been spinning it again. Testing my gag reflex, even.”

There’s laughter from the next room. Someone shouts about karaoke. A girl stumbles past with a disco ball earring in her hand and glitter down one side of her face. Cheng Xiaoshi catches a glimpse of blond hair under coloured lights—Liu Min, maybe. Drunk or pretending to be. The two are interchangeable these days.

Now Liu Xiao lights a cigarette and offers him one. Cheng Xiaoshi says he doesn’t smoke. Liu Xiao smiles.

“Have you always been this fun at parties?” Liu Xiao teases. “Or I just never noticed?”

“I peak before midnight. After that I just flirt and bounce.”

Liu Xiao leans forward. English. “So we bounce for tonight?”

“You have a boyfriend.”

“And you don’t?”

The ship sways gently. Or maybe it's him. He smells Jae Lee’s perfume.

In his mouth.

Gag reflex.

The revolver is still in his lap when Liu Xiao says, “Keep it, if you want. I think it likes you. Almost ticks to a certain melody if you listen carefully.”

Cheng Xiaoshi runs his thumb along the grip. The silver bracelet shifts with a tiny metallic sound. He doesn’t answer. Instead, he tips his head back, closes his eyes. The music bleeds through the wall again. It feels like it should mean something.

He thinks he won’t remember any of this in the morning.

He will just find a ten-second audio file sitting in his inbox. And it will sound a lot like a fucked-up serenade sung to a boy who looks sexier covered in blood.

 

◑

 

There is so much on Cheng Xiaoshi's mind lately and he doesn’t think he can afford to run away anymore. Compartmentalisation is starting to feel less like a coping mechanism than a choice. He thinks of Lu Guang and he is overcome by the inevitability of things that never linger—smoke, rain, first love. The ballad of dead bodies and re-murders—might be the only reason he agreed to this Karaoke outing.

Cheng Xiaoshi slouches in the corner booth, elbow on the table, drink in hand. The ice has melted.

He watches Xia Fei use the mic like shakers, Qiao Ling belt a cracky high note, the disco light catch in the lacquer of Lu Guang’s hair. It’s absurd. It's good. It feels almost like a night untouched by consequences. Lu Guang, close but angled away, hasn’t touched his drink. That, more than anything, tips Cheng Xiaoshi off: something is keeping him here.

The lyrics are about leaving—the stupid kind of leaving and the kind that pretends it isn’t.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs once. “Feels a bit on the nose, doesn’t it?”

Lu Guang shrugs, gaze not leaving the screen. He hasn’t looked at the lyrics once. “They always pick breakup songs when they’re happy.”

“Pre-emptive mourning,” Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his drink. “Can't be more fitting that that if it tried.”

The chorus hits and Cheng Xiaoshi's gaze keeps drifting, repeatedly landing on Lu Guang. He throws the question casually, softly, looking sideways.

“Say, Lu Guang, ever wonder if think Icarus knew?”

Lu Guang glances at him so Cheng Xiaoshi elaborates.

“That he’d burn. Or did he think, just for a second, maybe he wouldn’t—thought he would negotiate mercy with the sun?”

Lu Guang considers that but somehow decides to withhold the answer.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him. “Would you still fly up, if you knew?”

“I wouldn’t have gone near the wings for sure.”

“Liar,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, smiling.

Lu Guang raises one brow.

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts slightly. A joke. Perhaps a confession. “Do you think we get to choose the people who hurt us?”

The question lands wrong in the air, like déjà vu in reverse. Lu Guang goes still.

For a second Cheng Xiaoshi is standing on a boat that never docked. For a second he sees white hair, stormlight, blood under fingernails. But then he blinks, and he’s back here: sticky table, warm air and a glass ring where Lu Guang’s drink used to sit. A small, controlled fire arising from a beautiful melting candle.

For the rainy days.

By the time Cheng Xiaoshi has blinked, he sees parallel lines in Lu Guang—Lu Guang who unconsciously reaches for his wristwatch. Cheng Xiaoshi knows the gesture by heart. His anchor too is a matching shade of blue.

“Depends on who’s asking,” Lu Guang swallows. “And why.”

“Why they want to be ruined, or why the premise of the question altogether?”

Lu Guang watches him for a stretch of beats, the quiet settling between them like a shared secret. The bassline kicks up, Qiao Ling is doing dramatic hand gestures now, Xia Fei is laughing too hard to breathe—and there is a dare in Lu Guang's eyes. Cheng Xiaoshi finds himself laughing. He flicks his wrist casually.

“You're right. They're probably both the same thing. It’s just that I've been thinking about our last time again and it made me think that I need to believe change is possible—needed. Because otherwise, it means I owe a lot of people apologies.”

“Funny how you phrase it.” Lu Guang's voice is a little too soft, but his eyes are hard. “Have you been keeping a list?”

“Personally I haven’t. My heart has—”

Cheng Xiaoshi is talking casually, quickly, as though not sure whether he isn't letting Lu Guang react or not letting his very own mind process what he is saying.

“Like how does it go? Yeah. The body keeps the score or whatever.”

Lu Guang blinks. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t read too much into it—into those intense eyes. The song hits a crescendo. Lu Guang seems to still be debating the shape of the words. The answer to the question. When he speaks, his voice is barely audible under the chorus.

“For what it’s worth, sometimes I think we already know. And we dare disturb the sun anyway.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head. “Because we stupid mortals are stupid?”

“Because we want something real. Even if it kills us. The burn is the only thing that makes us feel warm, and we can't help resisting the sun’s brilliance. Not like a moth to the flame, but like a cat basking in sunlight.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles again; it doesn’t reach his eyes. The lights blink purple and blue. Xia Fei howls into the mic. Cheng Xiaoshi turns then, and everything shifts. The lights blur in reds and whites. Their shoulders press. The table feels smaller. Their knees touch. The warmth is immediate—familiar—dangerous—rusty—where saline and saccharine twine.

Cheng Xiaoshi glances at Lu Guang’s mouth. Not for the first time.

Lu Guang doesn’t move.

The song changes.

Cheng Xiaoshi is the one who leans in first, like he is testing gravity—like he might not stop because you can't reason with the fall. Lu Guang shifts like he would’ve allowed it—like it wouldn’t have been the first time. Or the last.

And then Lu Guang’s phone buzzes on the table. Once, a small insistent vibration—then again. Neither of them moves at first. But Lu Guang reaches—checks it. His fingers freeze around the phone. His face shifts.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches his face.

“What?”

Lu Guang hesitates. Then shows him.

Text only: He’s dead. MD. Not an accident.

And a string of numbers—a date or maybe a file code: Q.0325-MD.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s stomach drops. Somewhere in his mind, something knocks—a door with no handle, a door with a stiff latch. A laugh rings in his head—too loud, too close. That breathless, teeth-bared laugh. The one that came right after, “So we fake it. You go down, you come back up. Drama, spectacle, resurrection—I'd do it myself but my boyfriend will murder me if pink touches my roots.”

There’s blood—a name—a sense that someone had wanted to be caught. A—

It vanishes before he can touch it.

Lu Guang is still watching him. He’s too quiet as though afraid of saying the wrong name aloud. Or maybe he’s just waiting for something to break.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs once. It doesn’t sound his. “And here I thought this was going to be my italics Oh night. Tragic.”

Lu Guang doesn’t smile. They don’t kiss. But they could have.

And that’s the worst part.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks away, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. He watches Xia Fei raise his arms, finishing his imaginary world tour.

He steals a sideway glance at Lu Guang, at the collarbone peeking through the open shirt. Cheng Xiaoshi's fingers ache to touch it—to claim the tragic love etched there.

He doesn’t. Because he doesn’t know if it’s there—if he can name it something that would feel his.

His.

Chapter 11: ShiGuang and the Ghost They Pretend Isn’t Between Them

That menacing aura Vein and Liu Xiao have been exuding lately? It only exacerbated over the course of the last week of May. And Cheng Xiaoshi is starting to think it isn't just Lu Guang who’s fluent in Cryptics™.

Or, Cheng Xiaoshi's ‘one chance please’ is directly proportional to Lu Guang's ‘then beg.’

Not in so many words.

 

Chess Protocol MY0524-27: Checkmate Courtesy Violation

Liu Xiao has always had a flair for the theatrics, but if someone told Cheng Xiaoshi they found dead bodies under Liu Xiao’s floorboards, he wouldn’t exactly be giving a dramatic gasp. Liu Xiao never fails to look like someone who wouldn’t hesitate to push you off the ledge—literally and metaphorically, which might be today’s episode.

Which might account for why Lu Guang is in extra satellite mode now, too.

The moment Cheng Xiaoshi steps onto the roof, he is greeted by a strong smell of stone and citrus gin. It almost overshadows the sandalwood recently associated with Lu Guang's perfume. The breeze is too strong for late May; it’s the kind that buffets you and makes you think something is about to fall. Even if nothing does. On a rooftop, given Liu Xiao's unhinged track record (and possibly criminal one), falling is just a euphemism for ‘getting pushed.’

But it is whatever. Again.

Cheng Xiaoshi is marginally a pace ahead of Lu Guang. Lu Guang's hand brushes against his. Cheng Xiaoshi wishes he could take it, but his eyes are fixed on the madman who asked for another friendly game in the weirdest of places. Liu Xiao sets the pieces one by one, hands too steady. He talks the way some people stir tea—slowly and never quite about the tea.

Cheng Xiaoshi slouches into the chair opposite him, pink sunglasses on despite the dying sun. He has been smiling too easily all evening; it would've been a tell had Liu Xiao known him in another lifetime.

Lu Guang, on the other hand, leans against the railing behind Cheng Xiaoshi, arms folded.

Liu Xiao opens with knight to f3 in lieu of a greeting.

“I chose black for you this go. Thought it might be a lovely blast from the past. Nostalgic, even.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks once behind the lenses.

“I see the vision but I have to say, sentimental chess doesn’t seem like my kind of scene. You sure you played chess with me and not my clone before?”

“Not exactly.” Liu Xiao smiles. “But you played here. Three years ago, though not with me exactly. My clone, perhaps.”

Lu Guang’s body doesn’t shift, but something about the quiet does. Cheng Xiaoshi laughs like he always does when a punchline comes late.

“Curious setup. Did I win?”

“You lost. Spectacularly.”

Liu Xiao slides a pawn forward.

“But you played with style, and I respect that, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

The pieces clack, move by move. It’s a strange game. Liu Xiao lets Cheng Xiaoshi attack. Then, with a pawn, he forks both bishop and queen.

“Poetry,” Liu Xiao muses. “Two birds, one sacrifice. It almost begs to be rewritten. Overwritten, if permitted.”

Lu Guang moves closer. He isn't looking at the board. Cheng Xiaoshi grins—tighter now.

“Sure you’re not mixing it up, given your dating history?”

“Would've been tenable.” Liu Xiao smiles. “If I'd ever dated a boy who’d sell himself a lie so pretty he forgot the truth entirely. I've told you, Cheng Xiaoshi. My type is usually chaos agents, boys who speak violence fluently because they’ve never had the chance to learn that not all love must be carnage.”

Lu Guang straightens.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, arms behind his head.

“I don’t recall it being this pretty the first time. I mean, now? Pretty much rehearsed, almost out of one of your scenes.”

“You'd know. You’ve played right into the role’s hands one too many times, I believe.”

“Not to jump the gun, but this—the atmosphere, the game, the setting—shouldn’t have played out this way.”

Liu Xiao barely flicks his gaze up from the board. “Do you think I'm trying to make you nervous?”

“I think it’s not me you're trying to impress here, Liu Xiao. You already know I'd fuck you for less than the King’s Gambit.”

“It’s a shame that the King doesn’t interest me.” Liu Xiao taps his Queen, then without glancing up, adds, “Tell me, Lu Guang, do you get tired of pretending you’re the one who holds everything together? Especially when the truth is you’re just as broken as the rest of us.”

Lu Guang’s eyes harden, and for a split second, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks Lu Guang might snap. But Lu Guang is as controlled as ever, as though he has danced to this mad rhythm before—deliberately choosing to step on their shadow every time.

“Better to pretend I’m whole than flaunt my mess and beg for applause. Don’t mistake silence for guilt.”

“Bravo! Almost as if I'd scripted your lines myself—Cheng Xiaoshi, don’t you think this one too sounds rehearsed?”

Cheng Xiaoshi knows it’s rhetorical, and Lu Guang doesn’t hold Liu Xiao's gaze for long, anyway. However, he does walk over and quietly removes Cheng Xiaoshi’s sunglasses. Unbothered, Cheng Xiaoshi squints up at him.

“I know they look better on you—you'd rock any silly accessory, really—but have my eyes offended you now?”

“No.” Lu Guang sets them down beside the chessboard. “I just want him to see the game he’s losing. Maybe he wouldn’t misremember it this time.”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks at him a little too long while Liu Xiao leans back, folding his arms.

“You’re extra protective tonight, Lu Guang,” he treads lightly. “Have I done something or that’s just pre-emptive redemption arc?”

Lu Guang reaches forward—and with one move, ends the game.

“Neither. I just hate bad metaphors and you're not that good of a writer anyway.”

Liu Xiao blinks at the board. Not waiting for a cue, the smiling Cheng Xiaoshi gets up and dusts off his jacket.

Somehow it feels like he’s just walked away from something messier than chess.

He nudges Lu Guang’s arm on the way out.

“Hot as this was—you sure you still want to stick to the annotation kink story?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer. He just keeps walking. Cheng Xiaoshi looks over to watch Liu Xiao resetting the board, one discarded piece at a time.

 

Director’s Directive MY0528-27: Line 324 Ad-Libbed Improvised Breakdown

If anywhere is festooned for drama, it has to be the theatre’s mezzanine: they’re halfway through Act Two when Vein goes off-script.

The room is all stage light and velvet hush. Above, chandeliers glisten. Disasters in waiting.

Cheng Xiaoshi is reading lines from the stand-in script, lounging too easily in the velvet chair. Lu Guang is behind him, arms crossed, jaw set—watching not the page but Vein.

Meanwhile, Vein circles them like a stage director with an anvil. He’s holding Cheng Xiaoshi's copy of the script which bleeds in charcoal—cause of death: annotation. Cheng Xiaoshi hates the touch, but Vein doesn’t have an eraser this time. It is just Cheng Xiaoshi and his annotated copies, rife with the kind of handwriting that looks like it means something—especially when it doesn’t.

“Let’s take it from the confession,” Vein begins mildly. “Where Li Zhao admits he’s always known, even when he refused to act on his feelings.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lifts an eyebrow. “I don’t remember this part being in this morning’s draft.”

“No. I came up with it just now. I thought we’d see what it opens. Liu Xiao green-flagged it so no worries.”

Something in Lu Guang stops breathing, even when remains still.

Cheng Xiaoshi clears his throat. “So what I'm hearing is that you want me to improvise an emotional breakdown in real time?”

“I know you have the range.” Vein turns toward Lu Guang, as if expecting commentary.

None comes.

“Or just be yourself. That always works better. Or so I've heard—since I wasn’t personally there to supervise it.”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts, amused. It lands crooked all the same.

“Well, I've heard rehearsing villain monologues has gone out of fashion. It doesn’t take well to you, dǎoyǎn.”

“It’s not about me being the villain now.” Vein glances back at the page. “More like a mirror. One that doesn't mind showing a little blood, or predict it. It used to be fun.”

He takes Cheng Xiaoshi non-commentary as a cue to read aloud, “Tell me, did it hurt? Not the fall—everyone expects the fall. But when he didn’t catch you. They don’t train you for that.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes—which’s when Lu Guang steps forward.

Vein doesn't bother looking up.

“Did you hate him for it, wish you'd erased him—hurt him instead?”

Silence sharpens.

Cheng Xiaoshi rolls his neck once. He essays an easy scoff—doesn’t know how it lands.

“What’s this script rated again, PG-Liu Xiao for unaddressed complexes?”

“Rehash the scene.” Lu Guang’s words are low and clipped.

Vein looks at him now. Direct. “Why? Cheng Xiaoshi hasn’t tried any of the lines yet. Maybe he should.”

Lu Guang’s jaw tightens.

Cheng Xiaoshi, still seated, waves a lazy hand. “I can take it. My mother has tried worse and yet I turned out just fine.”

Vein’s eyes flicker. “I know that. Your knight in shining armour, on the other hand, might’ve forgotten—which’s exactly why we’re here. Right, Lu Guang?”

Lu Guang walks over. He takes the script from Vein’s hand—and rips the page out. The tear is soft. Still, it echoes.

Vein watches him, his eyes glittering. “You used to be quieter, Lu Guang.”

“And you used to be irrelevant,” Lu Guang hands the torn page back. “But I suppose the past is back for more.”

Cheng Xiaoshi whistles under his breath. “Ten points to Team Pent-Up. Do it again but this time with swords. Guangguang, I suggest you use your phallic object of choice—alias umbrella—until we find you a suitable prop in Fenghuang.”

Lu Guang doesn’t look away.

Vein smiles at him now. “Good to know he still bleeds for you. It’s a very delicious sort of vampirism, gotta admit. I understand why Liu Xiao keeps poking.”

Lu Guang’s fingers twitch once at his side. A beat. Two. Cheng Xiaoshi considers defusing.

‘Say one more thing that makes him flinch, and I’ll make you the next mystery we investigate.’ The loud image is quicker than Cheng Xiaoshi can blink it away. It doesn’t matter. Lu Guang finally—quietly—says,

“We’re done for today, and for every other future variation of it.”

Final as that—with no room for debate.

Vein bows, mock-formal. “Of course. Wouldn’t want the stage getting too real.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stands; he brushes past Vein with a grin too sharp.

“Thanks for the rile-up, Vein. I’ll invoice you—or maybe thank you. Depends on tonight’s bed—jury’s still out with this one.”

He follows the jury—that doesn’t look back. They don’t speak in the stairwell, but when they hit air, Lu Guang’s hand finds Cheng Xiaoshi’s wrist. The movement seems less to stop him, and more to check he’s still there. Because if anyone can find a loophole in the underworld, it has got to be Lu Guang.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t shake off the touch.

He leans into it, knowing what it costs to look back.

 

◑

 

Like most terrible ideas do, it starts with a joke—a casual Qiao Lingian dare. Cheng Xiaoshi claims he has got Qiao Ling all figured out and Qiao Ling dares him to name five things he doesn’t yet know about her. Lu-‘this is ridiculous’-Guang, on the other hand, plays the reluctant referee only because he has been bribed with alcohol.

Amusing—didn’t realise Qiao Ling outranks me in persuasion.

She doesn't. I just don’t recall you ever offering anything tempting.

Needless to say, Cheng Xiaoshi won. Twice, actually. First by answering, and second because now he gets to take Lu Guang home. Not because Qiao Ling told him to, not because it’s the right thing or because they live across the street—he just wants this memory with Lu Guang.

He’s your problem now. Help him, Cheng Xiaoshi, you practically live next door anyway.

Sure. I’ll carry him home—the only question is fireman’s carry or bridal style?

You're not carrying me and I’m not drunk enough for any of this.

And I’m sober enough to regret nothing, Mr Bridal-With-Protest.

Which is mostly true—not the bridal part. Lamentably so. But Lu Guang is also not sober enough to dodge the look Cheng Xiaoshi throws him—the kind with no edges, all soft mischief. The kind that could gut a lesser man.

They walk side by side, Cheng Xiaoshi on the left and Lu Guang on the right as the cold wind nudges hair into their eyes. Somewhere in the distance, thunder remains a whisper. They’ve passed the same rusted bike rack three times, but Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t admit anything about being lost.

Because they're not—Cheng Xiaoshi is far from lost.

Lu Guang’s pace is deliberate—softened by that hazy kind of tipsy loosening mouths if you let it. Cheng Xiaoshi probably would. Because that is exactly the type of night where nothing happens and everything does. He feels it deep down, viscerally. Subliminally.

And so, he nudges their arms together, because it’s casual and far from a desperate magnetic pull.

“You're weaving like an optical illusion… you know, the kind caused by staring too long at the cuffs of Ming dynasty robes.”

Lu Guang makes a sound in the back of his throat—half-laugh, half-exhale. “You don’t plan ever on stepping up your game, do you?”

“Why should I when you're clearly into it? Plus, you should count yourself lucky I didn’t go with ‘you're waddling like a seahorse looking to get impregnated.’ I can help, though—my sperm is different.”

“I’m still deciding which’s worse—the offer or the similes.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “I'm only trying to work with the atmosphere—almost right, no? Gloomy pre-summer sky, cold wind, tipsy beauty trailing behind me like we’re in an indie film.”

He is teasing, as always. That’s the trick: keep everything in the air. Light. Laughing. Like juggling knives and pretending they’re balloons. Props. But Lu Guang doesn’t reply. He slips his hands into his jacket’s pockets and lets out another soft breath. His footsteps sync with Cheng Xiaoshi’s without him trying.

Then it starts raining.

At first, it’s gentle—the kind that kisses before it bites. Cheng Xiaoshi twitches so subtly that it wouldn’t register unless you were watching for it. Lu Guang is.

He stops. Then, most predictably, he pulls an umbrella from inside his duster. He opens it with a practiced flick and wordlessly holds it.

But Cheng Xiaoshi flinches—weathering a shiver that has nothing to do with the cold. He essays a smile. Sort of.

“It’s been on my mind lately, how you always carry one— Is it perhaps British conditioning of always preparing for the worst?”

“Habit. He hated rain.”

“But surely he loved getting wet with—because of—you?”

Lu Guang may be tipsy, but his glare could still puncture a tyre. Cheng Xiaoshi only laughs. He’s not aiming for forgiveness—just fluster.

“Relax. It was a joke. I only meant it’s hard to hate the rain if he’s in love with you. You're very… water-coded.”

There’s a shift—barely a pause in Lu Guang’s step. He glances sideways.

“Do you not trust the rain?”

“Trust? Most people go for like, Guangguang.” Cheng Xiaoshi blows a raindrop off his lip before grinning. “But guess not. Think about it for a hot second and you'll see how people just romanticise it too much. Like kissing in the rain? Way overhyped—unless of course you're the reason someone forgets their umbrella on purpose then maybe I can reconsider.”

Lu Guang laughs—too freely—but the sound registers as borrowed. He shakes his head at the street ahead, then mutters something too low to catch. It sounds like he's remembering things that haven’t yet happened.

The umbrella dips slightly, and their shoulders brush. Neither pulls away.

“So. What was it like?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks, softly, casually.

“Loving him?”

Cheng Xiaoshi masks his flinch with a smirk. “A night like this— the night you knew— the consequences of L-wording him— Have your pick, Lu Guang. You know, for my method acting.”

“L-wording him… on a night like this, huh?”

“It wasn’t?”

“It was. Down to the standing ovation. Both takes, too.”

“Ooh, cryptic. Gets me going when you do that. Do proceed, kind sir.”

Lu Guang closes his eyes the way you only do when chasing a feeling you know won’t wait. Then he smiles faintly as if he’s just found what he’s seeking, sitting obedient in the past.

“It was a long night—that night. We were heading back together when it started raining. He’d put out his hand to taste the rain, tried to play it off—the silliness, even when it very much wasn’t. It was just him—pure him, always him. He called thunder ‘bolder than God,’ whispered it like a secret. His hair was soaked because he'd forgotten his umbrella again—and he looks me dead in the eye and says we should bottle the thunder and sell it to people who’ve never been kissed in the dark.”

Water collects along the brim of Lu Guang’s umbrella, heavy yet shimmering. It spills in a quiet sheet when he tilts it. Their footsteps sound softer under the rain. Cheng Xiaoshi watches Lu Guang talk to the streetlamp instead of him. It's easier that way.

“You know what I said?” Lu Guang continues. “I said kisses in the rain were only good in theory. That in real life, they’re sloppy and cold and ruin your shoes. But it was only a front. I would’ve kissed him right there—mud, mess, and thunder and all—just to know how he can burn on my lips. But I don’t get the chance, because he pulls me first, whispers, ‘This is the kiss scene and you're the love interest—take a hint already.’ Except that it’s not a hint because he kisses me breathless. And that’s when I realise that for two months he’s been carrying more than a Valentine’s gift he’s never worked up the courage to give me. That’s when I realise he’s been carrying my heart and that I'm forever locked with this impossible idiot.”

“‘Idiot’,” Cheng Xiaoshi repeats, amused. “Is that how you’ve filed him in your heart? Incorrigible Drama-Inducing Over-you Trauma-magnet, IDIOT?”

Lu Guang chuckles; it coaxes a smirk on Cheng Xiaoshi’s part. He doesn’t want to overthink it. He can't.

“Silence as admission. He was a real idiot.”

“He wasn’t—”

“Don’t defend the deceased, Guangguang, your loyalty contract with him won't start burning, I promise.”

“You're an idiot, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Except that it’s soft and it gives Cheng Xiaoshi a pause while the world keeps spinning. He clears his throat. He wants to put his hand out in the rain, weigh the world in a drop—play it off.

So he amps up his smile, making it wrier, and gets in Lu Guang's face.

“Be honest. You just hate to admit it.”

“That you're a menace? I've done so. Repeatedly, unapologetically so.”

Cheng Xiaoshi has won. “Congratulations, me, you’ve just unlocked a major plot point. I knew menace was your type— Charles, you fucking GOAT!”

“I don’t know if it’s a type, but true, he was hard to explain. For lack of better words.”

“Good thing I’m a fan of complicated expositions then. Hit me.”

“What’s the point? You're not sizing up competition.”

“Far from it. Call it vicarious vampirism, surrogate threesoming, distant dating, me trying fall in love with him—like an indirect kiss— Borrowed carnage.”

It was a joke. But Lu Guang’s gaze flicks down, like he’s flitting through memories—like they’re seeping into him. Cheng Xiaoshi swallows. The rain almost tilts the umbrella. A sigh, maybe. Eventually, Lu Guang’s tone drops, as if he has been waiting to answer this question.

“There was just so much of him and he liked to pretend there wasn’t. He made himself easy to dismiss—his little magic trick: laugh enough, lie enough, and no one looks too closely. I thought I’d solved the riddle of him, but then he’d say something—or do something—that would knock the wind out of me.” A smile. An elegy. “Like how he'd given me a present on his birthday just to make sure I’ll never forget the sun.”

The rain patters. The vision doubles. Lu Guang's voice slinks, gaze softening—and the words leave him slowly, like he is giving them a second chance.

“And I guess that was just how and who he was. He was the type to say the wrong thing on purpose, just to watch reactions—to get under my skin just to see if he could—but it gutted me how he said sorry like he really meant it. And it doesn’t take long before I realise he wasn’t hiding behind the performance. The performance was the truth, yes—just not the whole of it.”

Water drips from Cheng Xiaoshi’s fringe into his eyes, but he doesn’t blink; he is too busy watching Lu Guang pretend this isn’t killing him. Three months of half-sentences—puzzles—Cheng Xiaoshi rambles and Lu Guang edits, but tonight, Lu Guang is handing him the whole box, and it still smells like someone else.

Cheng Xiaoshi smile. Breathes. The air smells like everything he forgot to grieve.

“So I was right. Wrong pole, right pull.”

Lu Guang turns to look at him—eyebrows arched, eyes half-lidded. Cheng Xiaoshi kindles the bright smile then clarifies.

“You’re ice and he melted you, and it makes me wonder who ruined who here.”

Lu Guang laughs and Cheng Xiaoshi’s breath catches. Classic Pavlov. Lu Guang tilts his head, and for the first time, the movement doesn’t feel flirtatious to Cheng Xiaoshi. It registers like grief’s kinder cousin—affection, stubborn and stupid.

“I never thought of it like that,”

“Like what?”

“Like it might explain why he used to say that if he was going to burn out, might as well aim for the sun. Like this is why he said that he’d burn out before he ever got old: he was actually daring the world to stop him.”

Lu Guang’s voice cracks a little and it’s not the rain’s fault. Cheng Xiaoshi forces the words out. “Did he?”

“In a way. On his own terms. Typical Charles.”

There’s a pause—past soft, part heavy. Cheng Xiaoshi's ponytail drips on his half-raindrops-patterned shirt.

And then Cheng Xiaoshi says it—conjures it—unthinking.

“I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me.” His mouth tilts into something crooked. “Not to judge your preferences, but if Charles was an Elle instead of a Lui, maybe the story wouldn’t have been misread all this time.”

“Or maybe we only ever read what we wanted to survive, but we end up burning for ghosts if not with them.”

Thunder doesn’t shake the street as much as what Lu Guang is trying not to say. Cheng Xiaoshi watches as a strand of Lu Guang’s hair sticks to his forehead. He doesn’t claim it, but he remembers the burn of the longing—to push it back, all of it. So he tilts his head, catching Lu Guang's gaze—and more than any time before this night, Cheng Xiaoshi is too aware of the distance between them now, how it lingers in the air.

A beat. Three. A time loop. Raindrops catch on Lu Guang’s lashes and he blinks in slow-mo. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t rush it. He stands there, watching Lu Guang with a softness that slips in uninvited. Then he reaches out, takes the umbrella from Lu Guang’s grip, not breaking eye contact.

His voice is lighter than it should be, almost a tease.

“He gets the legend and I get the aftermaths.” A smile, barely. “The only improvement is that I’d never make you relive my memory with strangers in the rain, Lu Guang. I'd still be around. Given you a vow instead of a poetic death wish.”

Lu Guang stares at him.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs because sure he hasn’t just been carved open tonight. “Relax. I'm not looking to compete—let him have the tragic love story. Me, now… I’m only asking for the walk home, Lu Guang.”

Something flickers in Lu Guang's expression. Then he looks up at the sky in the hope it might have an answer. It doesn’t. So he smiles just enough to soften the haunted shape of him. Ice, melting.

Cheng Xiaoshi ignores the little skip of his heart, its tightening.

They keep on walking. 

The rain gentles to a hush, like it knows better than to interrupt. The umbrella tilts slightly: their shoulders knock, then linger.

Lu Guang shifts a little closer, but it’s not for warmth. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t comment.

 

He doesn’t fall asleep, not before midnight and not after the third email arrives exactly as the last day of May rolls in. Because the file he receives isn't a code; it’s the distorted audio file from earlier.

And this time, Li Tianchen's melody is clear. Hauntingly so.

Cheng Xiaoshi just doesn’t know how he knows so certainly that this is Li Tianchen's voice.

 

◑

 

June greets Cheng Xiaoshi with another detonating bomb.

Vein drops the bracelet onto the dressing table like it’s a cursed object he’s done dissecting before casually moving on to the rack.

“Figured this was yours,” he says, brushing lint from a velvet blazer.

Cheng Xiaoshi squints at it. It’s silver, scuffed, with the clasp a little bent. It doesn’t scream anything, just sits there, patient.

“It’s not mine. Wrist jewellery is my nemesis.”

Vein doesn’t flinch. “Your name is on it. I found it in a box of old prop, but it looks too decent to belong to our usual crap.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. He then picks it up and turns it in his hand. The engraving is shallow but neat: Xiaoshi’s.

Except that this isn’t his handwriting, and neither is it done professionally. His throat tightens anyway.

“ZJU auditorium,” Vein says, reaching for something on a hanger. “Old play, maybe. Some shipboard 90s murder thing from a few years ago—you know, the one with too much glitter and not enough blood. Everyone wore suits and pretended not to know each other, but you were there in neon.”

That stops him. He looks up.

“Not sure if dual process at play or it really be sounding familia. Was Liu Xiao involved?”

Vein shrugs. “He might’ve written it. You were the star, though. I think. You had that terrible gelled hair and kept quoting something about smoke and mirrors.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember a shipboard play. Or gel. Or quoting anything. But the bracelet is in his pocket before he can stop himself.

And property of your favourite sin starts to echo somewhere it shouldn't.

 

◑

 

Xia Fei was too busy being sweet on Vein to properly plan their costume-hunting Fenghuang trip. So Cheng Xiaoshi ended up booking it.

He also booked the wrong return date. On purpose.

He announces it with such performative surprise you’d think he’d just discovered acting: hands in his hair, brows up, one tragic gasp followed by a shrug so helpless that even the receptionist sympathises. Not with Cheng Xiaoshi.

Oh no, the tragedy of having to stay the night. How utterly dreadful!

Vein groans. Xia Fei smacks his arm and tells him not to be dramatic about one extra night in the countryside. The others begin discussing bed arrangement and dinner and whether ghosts are included in the package. Cheng Xiaoshi keeps quiet; he has already won.

Lu Guang doesn’t say anything; he hasn’t said much all day, really. He looks tired—it is the more understated kind, the one lurks in his shoulders—and he hasn’t corrected once Cheng Xiaoshi today, which is how Cheng Xiaoshi knows it’s bad. Not even a single glare at any of Cheng Xiaoshi's quirky pencilled lines in Lu Guang’s margins either.

So yes. Cheng Xiaoshi books the wrong return date on purpose.

He can see the light on in Lu Guang's room. He can see Lu Guang's ghost through the window. Cheng Xiaoshi wants to exorcise his very own ghost. The catch: he might actually become a ghost before he gets it on with Lu Guang.

But that’s not tonight’s (ghost) story. Yet.

The way he would tell it in the morning: he had borrowed Xia Fei's moped. The way Xia Fei would remember it forever: the only driving Cheng Xiaoshi can do properly is drive him insane.

It doesn’t matter. It is worth it.

It’s already too late for skewers but that has never stopped Cheng Xiaoshi. Lu Guang doesn’t exactly say yes; he simply gets on behind Cheng Xiaoshi and holds on as though he has always known how.

They don’t talk on the road. It’s not silence—it’s wind and engine and the awkwardness of sharing a seat without sharing a single word. Lu Guang’s hands brush Cheng Xiaoshi’s side once when they hit a sharp turn. Neither of them brings it up again. Cheng Xiaoshi won't have to remember it because it doesn’t leave him in the first place.

A stop. Two. Makeshift plans. The food is mediocre, the service worse. Cheng Xiaoshi says it adds charm. Lu Guang pays anyway.

They should’ve headed back.

Instead, they veer off the main road, guided only by Cheng Xiaoshi’s half-broken GPS and a rumour he heard from a stagehand who takes his cue from Banquo’s ghost—something about an abandoned shrine past the peach grove. Lu Guang raises an eyebrow when Cheng Xiaoshi slows the moped down to a crawl, squinting at the shadows ahead. Except he soon grins, all mischief and firelight.

Lu Guang narrows his eyes.

“Is this where you finally kill me?”

“It’s a ghost tour.” Cheng Xiaoshi grins. “Private. You’re the only guest and tips encouraged of course—of any kind.”

Lu Guang gets off the bike slowly, eyeing the winding path ahead. “It doesn’t look all too promising. I request a refund.”

“Denied. Your guide is charming and underpaid—any maybe, just maybe, a little unhinged.”

They walk. It’s stupid, and muddy, and they’re both wearing the wrong shoes.

Cheng Xiaoshi narrates, gesturing with the grace of a drunken docent.

“Legend says the spirit of the Blind Bride haunts this road. She’s been jilted at the altar—died of heartbreak after reversing time to save her fiancé only to find him unable to recognise her. Very dramatic, very Oedipal, very poetic—you might even call it standard female rage, enhanced by betrayal and scenic tragedy and my stellar narration.”

“She sounds like she’s written by a misogynist who’s well-versed in bullshit.”

It’s the Shakespeare in him; Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs and continues, his torch sweeping trees. “They say if you walk the road with your designated person, the ghost bride gets jealous and curses you to a loveless bitchless future.”

The pause is long enough to notice the night has gone quiet.

Lu Guang says, “Then we should be fine.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles without looking back.

The shrine is just a rock with half a roof and a rusted incense stand. Cheng Xiaoshi climbs it and Lu Guang follows, slower. They sit on the ledge. The town is just lights now—distant, and maybe a little orange.

Cheng Xiaoshi flicks open his lighter, not to light anything—just for the sound. Flame. Click. Flame. Click. The usual. Lu Guang doesn’t stop him.

Eventually, Cheng Xiaoshi says, “When I was a kid, I wished to be possessed or whatever, just because I had this stupid belief that ghosts followed you around for company, not revenge.”

Lu Guang rests his arms on his knees. Once again, Cheng Xiaoshi starts counting the moles on the inside of Lu Guang's fingers.

Three—two asymmetrical ones on the ring finger.

‘Like a heart.’

Lu Guang's voice doesn’t soften, but it reaches all the same.

“Maybe some do. Because they're waiting to be remembered. For anything.”

A pause.

“It makes me wonder if wanting something back counts as haunting, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

The wind picks up. Cheng Xiaoshi watches the lighter while Lu Guang watches him—and for a moment, neither of them speaks.

It’s the closest they’ve been all trip. Not physically. More.

Cheng Xiaoshi turns, finally, eyes half-lidded with a grin that is more tired than smug.

“You’re not a nice tourist, you know—not impressed, didn’t ask questions, barely tipped with kisses.”

“Maybe next time loop, Cheng Xiaoshi.” Lu Guang says.

Quiet. Flame. Click.

They don’t kiss. They don’t even touch.

But when they head back, Cheng Xiaoshi lets Lu Guang drive. And Lu Guang doesn’t ask why Cheng Xiaoshi’s hands are shaking on the handlebars.

Notes:

11chapters and 60kwords to finalise setting up my very heavy-handed plot device(s).
hint/ch13 title: [redacted] and the [redacted] Who Didn’t Know He Was One

Chapter 12: Cheng Xiaoshi and the First Puzzle He Couldn’t Game His Way Out Of

The dream starts with birds, with their shadows flitting past on white walls that don’t belong to anywhere real.  Then a laugh resounds, mischievous—the ways a child caught stealing something whose value they haven’t yet ascertained would sound.

Cheng Xiaoshi turns. Li Tianchen is sitting on a table that shouldn't be there, legs swinging and dressed in someone else's coat. It's too large, its collar stained red.

“You don’t remember me,” he says, grinning. “But you’re trying.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tries to speak, but no words come out. It’s the type of frustrated silence which tastes like faraway familiarity—the type you do your best to avoid. To forget.

Li Tianchen hums; it’s that tune again—slow and deliberate. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t know the song, but he hates it—hates its tangled threads. His spine knows them. His wrists do.

“I've gotta give it to you—made it really fun. You almost had me, too,” Li Tianchen’s voice is too bright. “Your only mistake is that you wrote the ending wrong. You always write the ending wrong. He wouldn’t have fubbed it like that—and I suppose that’s where you and I differ. At heart.”

Then he turns—abruptly—and he’s someone else. Or rather, she is.

Li Tianxi is there now, standing behind the same table. Her fingers are ink-stained. Her eyes—her brother’s eyes, but softer—look straight through him. Her mouth doesn't move, but her hands do—and they're desperate. Pleading.

She is making instinctive shapes—not structured—one finger against her chest. Two hands pulling away. The frantic point toward something—someone—offstage.

She looks so young. She is. She was. Cheng Xiaoshi remembers that; he remembers her tugging at his jacket, eyes wide, as if she could drag a miracle out of him by force.

He remembers promising something he shouldn’t have—something he couldn’t have.

“I’ll get him out, even if he refuses to listen,” he hears himself say less presently. But the memory breathes on its own. Reconstruction. Resurrection.

She starts to cry—the soundless way non-verbal people resort to when the words and the world fails them. When the world gives up first. Li Tianchen’s voice cuts back in, a razor behind Cheng Xiaoshi's ear.

“She thought you were a hero—my sister always thinks the best of everyone, even those who don’t deserve her kindness. Maybe you tried—you just wanted the ending to feel neat. You don’t have to tell me that I'm being a little unfair—I already know you just pushed me to the ledge and it’s all me—how I had the courage to jump. Freefalling is so tempting—especially if your wings have already caught fire.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth to argue, to cough out the panic—the guilt—but he falls off the bed, the smell of ashes in his nose and salt in his mouth. His back throbs with something far sharp and venomous. The box. It sits smugly on the floor. The decrypted note still folded beside it: not when the midnight sun set.

He exhales, inspecting his palm—inspecting the new old bracelet he has slipped on yesternight. Perhaps it is the thing that summoned the dream—basked it in sharper vividness. Fragments resurface again—blurry at the edges, but sharp where it counts: Li Tianxi is pressing something cold into his palm.

‘Just in case you want a future,’ she’d signalled, smiling like any of this was funny.

It’s a flash card, hidden inside the pendant Li Tianchen never takes off.

Cheng Xiaoshi remembers holding it. Li Tianchen's voice cutting in: ‘It’s called leverage. Insurance. Proof, if you’re sentimental about that kind of horny vengeance.’

The weight of it—the chain—that damn necklace Li Tianchen wore like a trophy, not a trap—lands as evidence—as collateral. As something enough to burn Qian Jin down once placed in the right hands.

He looks at the box again, and only then, even if belatedly, does Cheng Xiaoshi realise this isn’t just about Lumen anymore.

Whatever was in there isn’t memory.

It’s motive.

 

 

He doesn’t let go. Cheng Xiaoshi isn't obsessive.

He thinks—

feels it when his mind lets all else rots.

The loose threads—they can be connected. They shape a certain name—a shadow name. Or maybe they double it.

Lu Guang doesn’t knock anymore because Cheng Xiaoshi knows how to leave the door open. So Lu Guang enters quietly, sleaves pushed up and eyes half-lidded from the humidity. He still smells like outside: sun-baked concrete and osmanthus fruitiness and pool water that doubles vision. The kettle has long stopped hissing yet the silence smells like summer rain

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t look up; he’s still listening to the same ten seconds of audio on repeat—over and over—as if this time, Li Tianchen might hum something different in this CCTV footage he has dug up last week about a certain three seemingly random deaths: 2020 through 2023.

“You loop it any longer and I’ll start dreaming about it too.”

Cheng Xiaoshi presses a little harder on the spacebar. He has been waiting for him. He turns to Lu Guang and chirps.

“Guangguang, just the person I need. I've got a puzzle you'll absolutely love!”

“Puzzle or bait? Because it’s often hard to tell with you.”

“That’s half the fun and 90% of my sex appeal, remember?”

Lu Guang leans against the counter, quietly sipping his tea. Cheng Xiaoshi gives a casual shrug. It’s just a flicker of the eyes, but it loudly speaks how Lu Guang has already clocked Cheng Xiaoshi’s mood—the box, the weight behind his grin.

“If Ling Chengshi’s next hint comes in the form of a cryptic message—vaguely poetic, vaguely pretentious—but he’s certain it contains all the keys to open his Pandora’s box, what are his options for figuring out the code? Assume it’s a six-digit lock of course.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow, then lowers it just as fast. “How poetic are we talking, and is any of that metaphorical—hypothetical, even?”

Cheng Xiaoshi grins. “Yes.”

There’s a moment. A long one.

Lu Guang sets down his cup with the carefulness of someone who’s dropped worse things.

Cheng Xiaoshi subdues the voices and gives a theatrical sigh.

“Fine. I’ll help you. It's something about midnight suns rising or waking light’s final bloom or whatever speaks to the vibe. Do we think it's a metaphor for anything worthwhile—or am I chasing moonbeams again?”

Lu Guang doesn't answer at first. His stillness, however, changes—that imperceptible shift one only notices in people one’s once loved and never stopped fearing.

“Well, if it’s midnight sun—that’s something unnatural, polar, an inversion. Something that shouldn’t exist but somehow does. Light where there should be dark, so I’d start by inverting what I know.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him with eyes narrowed. He’s waiting for the slip—will craft it if necessary.

“That’s the logic, not the answer.”

“And if it's rising…” Lu Guang picks up the tea again, without drinking. “You’d look for something backwards, something buried—something deceptively obvious, maybe.”

He thinks a moment longer, pretending to weigh the options.

Then, gently—casually—he says, “You said six digits. Try 240210 or 240401. Both have the right symbolism for me.”

The light falls between them in sharp slants—cutting up the room—and Lu Guang’s profile catches it wrong. He looks too angelic for someone so devastating. Too still—frozen water.

Cheng Xiaoshi, of course, ruins the gravity by laughing.

“Unprompted, Lu Guang?”

“Which part?”

“All of it. You. The answer. The way you're holding your drink.”

Lu Guang's eyes don’t narrow. 

“Cheng Xiaoshi, are we recreating a moment here?”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head and runs a hand through his hair. His voice is as light as his gaze when it resolves.

“It’s just that I've been thinking. There might be more link to the series of poisonings than your Lumen methodology. The motive at last, and it’s been right under my nose—the same way all of it has always been under Ling Chengshi’s.”

A beat followed by casual shrug.

“For example, seven years ago, Qian Jin represented the factory owner—Li Fan, the twin’s stepfather—in the pesticide case, the one with the orphanage kids.”

Lu Guang says nothing, even when something behind his eyes does.

“He wasn’t just the lawyer, you know. He pulled the police out of it—it was Xiang’s name is on the record again. They scrubbed the hospital records, switched autopsy labs. Over and over, Qian Jin's name shows up on all the appeals—to everyone he’s a shadow counsel, buried in paperwork.”

Still nothing.

Cheng Xiaoshi brings up a file on his computer screen. “Three of the victims’ parents ended up dead two years later. Carbon monoxide and a fall from a stairwell with no CCTV footage. Know what else they had in common?”

Lu Guang looks at him. Cheng Xiaoshi swallows, then he smiles.

“They both met Li Tianxi. Every single one of these cases—they look random. But if you take the fictional deaths from Lumen and shuffle the dates, resurrect a supposedly dead boy, the method matches every single one.”

Pause.

“Except one. Li Tianchen's own death in a theatre fire almost four years ago—which by the way was another case Qian Jin represented when Li Tianxi started asking questions.”

Lu Guang sets his drink down, slow and careful. “You sound sure.”

“Half sure. Other half is a desperate stab in the dark, but that’s basically how flirting works, so I’ll dare step on your shadow this time, Lu Guang.”

Silence again.

Lu Guang’s hands rest flat on the counter. He looks at the box atop the counter, then at Cheng Xiaoshi, before with that infuriating stillness of his, adding, “You think Qian Jin is behind all of it—that he’s got to Li Tianchen.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. “Do I?”

“You’re once again waiting to see how I react.” Lu Guang’s voice is soft. Too soft. “To test if I already know. It seems like you and I are forever bound to recreate moments, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head. He tries to smile again but evidently fails.

“It’s tempting—but I’m asking because part of me thinks you’ve known all along, Lu Guang. Because you already knew Li Tianxi and you're the type of person who always says no to risk yet is somehow always the first to step in. Because three years ago, you were too involved. Because you didn’t only report the accident on the cruise ship.” Cheng Xiaoshi looks Lu Guang dead in the eye. “You were the prime suspect, Lu Guang.”

That lands—less like a gunshot and more like the echo after.

Lu Guang doesn’t flinch. It would have been kinder to.

Cheng Xiaoshi shifts and tilts his head. He watches as Lu Guang sips on his drink, very slowly, like someone holding in something sharp behind his teeth.

“That night on Vérité—you were chasing Li Tianchen, weren’t you? He had something on Qian Jin that you wanted because you knew Qian Jin was the one using your work and because you just can't say no to a damsel who can't verbalise her distress or indict an already dead boy.”

Lu Guang doesn’t blink. Cheng Xiaoshi proceeds, because he is still thinking out loud, trying to make sense of all this mess.

“But tell me, Lu Guang, did Qian Jin figure out you were on his trail?”

Lu Guang’s voice is even. “Would it matter?”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. It sounds wrong.

“Probably,” he says. “Because let’s say Qian Jin knew you'd be there and he had Li Tianchen frame you for Liu Min's murder, then it means you saved Li Tianchen for nothing when you took the fall for him.”

“I didn’t take the fall for him.”

“Because you have no reason to?”

“If you think this ends with Li Tianchen, you’re not thinking far enough.”

That. Here. Cheng Xiaoshi was right: cosplay. He tilts his head on one side and blinks.

“Then where did I go wrong? Because I'm not hearing you deny it, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang looks down at his watch. His fingers drum his cup. Then, almost absently, he adds, “You’re not wrong. You're just not entirely right, either.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him. Waits. Lu Guang turns and heads to the door—but this the linger is loud enough to make Cheng Xiaoshi wait. Again.

“You were right not to treat this as fiction, Cheng Xiaoshi, but you're also not treating it as it should be.”

“Which is what?”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s heart throbs as Lu Guang locks gaze with him—skyrockets as he smiles.

“As a nightmare that’s no longer yours.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth, then shuts it. He doesn’t trust what might come out.

And nothing does.

Lu Guang walks out.

 

Later that night, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks not of the twins trading places, not of the intruding memories. He only keys in the second set of the suggested numbers: 2-4-0-4-0-1.

He doesn’t expect it to work. He just wants to prove Lu Guang wrong in peace. Or himself.

The lock clicks.

The box opens.

It’s empty.

Of course it is.

The padded red velvet within is almost a taunt at this point. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t touch it, but it smells like a murder lullaby.

He laughs. Once. Softly.

The box is open, the room is quiet, and the absence inside is as though it were saying something he isn’t ready to hear.

He doesn’t close it. He just lets it be; maybe it would play the wound backwards this time—enough to reconstruct it.

 

◑

 

Ever since June rolled in and Xia Fei has been ignoring everything about the approaching finals for the sake of creating a countdown for their little countryside retreat. Tonight, he has the entire crew at his place—to celebrate—to give the script a different feel—to take off from his place since it is closer.

Unfortunately, he has been in the balcony for most of the night, speaking on the phone with the air of someone who wants to be locked down forever.

Cheng Xiaoshi knows it’s Vein on the other end. He knows that smitten looks on Xia Fei's face, not because he’s made Xia Fei look like that or because he knows Xia Fei well—but because he has been catching a similar look on his face lately.

Cheng Xiaoshi tries not to think about the reason. The person. It is impossible. He is inevitable. Unavoidable.

He wakes up at the middle of the night, a crime done against his sanity less in the name of being thirsty and more in the name of pattering rain. Groggy as he is, he doesn’t miss how two steps outside his room and suddenly the place smells like hot cocoa and Christmases spent alone. Like every single person who kicked him to the curb, left him like forgotten luggage in a train station.

Cheng Xiaoshi finds Lu Guang in the hallway, barefoot and with his hoodie on, watching the rain hit the glass like it hoards a secret that once tried to drown him.

Lu Guang says he couldn’t sleep. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t believe him, but he doesn’t push. They sit in the dark—side by side.

Lu Guang lights a scented candle. He watches it burn.

Something about the scent makes Cheng Xiaoshi think of a projector room and a laugh too boyish.

Neither of them says the name.

Cheng Xiaoshi decides to meet up with Qian Jin before they leave for their retreat.

Maybe even there.

Whatever it takes.

He rests his eyes.

 

 

Cheng Xiaoshi remembers setting up a meeting with Qian Jin. He just doesn’t understand how they ended up back at the theatre, or at something wearing the theatre’s skin. The walls are the wrong shade of grey, the light bouncing off the wrong dull surfaces. Qian Jin sits where he shouldn’t—Lu Guang’s old spot on the back bench, hands steepled like a judge who’s been waiting years to deliver his verdict.

“You never stop, do you?” Qian Jin says.

Cheng Xiaoshi keeps his distance. He neither sits nor blinks. This is psychological warfare and he doesn’t intend to lose.

“Let’s skip the chit chat. What did you do to him?”

“I did nothing to him,” Qian Jin’s voice is calm like still water before it drowns you. “You’re the one who lied to him and got worked-up when he didn’t catch on.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s jaw tightens. “He trusted you.”

“Did he? Or did he tolerate me the way you tolerate everyone who doesn’t orbit around you like you're their sun?”

There it is—the pivot. Qian Jin never defends; he dismantles. Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. Something is wrong; they're not on the same page.

“You’re understandably angry,” Qian Jin rises to his feet, slowly. “Because you don’t remember the ending. Because he never gave it to you. Because you only remember the version you wrote—you as the saviour, him as the wreck.”

“Enough with the theatrics already. I know more than enough to have you burned to less than cinders.”

“If only you were as certain as you were poetic.”

“I was there.”

“No,” Qian Jin corrects, stepping forward. “You were around. You’ve messed up enough times to learn it’s not the same thing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s fists curl at his sides. He doesn’t know when the rain started, but it’s streaking down the theatre walls. Like muddied blood.

Qian Jin gestures lazily with his unlit cigarette. “But maybe I should throw you a bone since you clearly remember it all wrong. I’ll help you—mercy has always been my downfall. Li Tianchen didn’t die because of me—either time, actually. He stepped in where Li Tianxi should’ve died. You let that happen, Cheng Xiaoshi. I might’ve vanished him, but you handed him the key to the unfairest of Pandora’s boxes and looked away.”

“No. Try harder.”

“You killed both of them. One by intent, the other by accident. Do I sugar-coat it, or we tag this act as dead dove, don’t eat?”

There’s a long, ringing pause—the kind that eats space. They weren’t even talking about the same thing, yet somehow, inevitably, it circled back to the same thing.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t flinch. “If you're aiming for dramatic effect, your delivery is weak. You set it up. You used Li Tianchen to bait Lu Guang.”

“And you used Li Tianchen to protect him. Funny how that works.” Qian Jin flicks ash. “The thing is, Cheng Xiaoshi, you just can't bear to relearn that it was your scene—that it was you who lit the fuse. You’re just too scared to read the stage directions—then or now.”

Cheng Xiaoshi steps closer; a breath away from Qian Jin's face now. “What do you think this is, a performance review? I'm afraid regurgitated ideas don’t impress me.”

“Neither a review nor regurgitation. It’s a confession. Even if you don’t know you’re giving it.”

Something cold drips down Cheng Xiaoshi’s spine. He forces a grin. When he speaks, his voice syrup-slow.

“It seems like you're not up to speed, Qian Jin-gē. Or maybe you just haven’t heard the joke about people who talk like they know everything: they always die faster.”

Qian Jin doesn’t blink. “And people who forget what they’ve done? They lose the people who remembered for them.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stills for just a flicker—but it’s enough to have Qian Jin lean in.

“Did he ever tell you what it cost to clean up after you, what he had to burn?”

It lands too cleanly—Cheng Xiaoshi lunges before he means to, hand curling around Qian Jin’s collar.

But Qian Jin isn’t scared. He smiles.

“You didn’t protect him. As I've told you, you just memorised the version of him you liked best. And now you’re angry the real one kept secrets you weren’t special enough to be told. If you think you're upset now, wait till you remember why Lu Guang was holding the gun that night. Maybe I’ll get to show you real soon.”

Cheng Xiaoshi lets go. He wants to laugh. Can't.

“If you come near Lu Guang,” he says, quiet and deadly, “I will show you how a stage really collapses.”

Qian Jin doesn’t flinch. Instead, he flicks his cigarette in Cheng Xiaoshi's direction.

“You flatter me, but I never touch what someone else is already ruining. You're the one who handed him a mess and called it love. Or love-adjacent—since you two never used that word.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s knuckles go white at his sides. He opens his mouth to respond—and realises Qian Jin’s face has changed.

It’s Lu Guang—Lu Guang, in Qian Jin’s seat. Lu Guang, mouth parted like he’s about to say something—

“You want to know what happened to Li Tianchen—what really happened on that ship? Solve your little cipher. Follow the ghost, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stands frozen—breath jagged and mind blank. He is starting to run towards Lu Guang, even when there should’ve been hardly any distance, but the walls are melting now. The bench is no longer wood; it's fabric—it’s satin. It's his bed.

Cheng Xiaoshi jolts awake, drenched in sweat. One of his hands is still curled into a fist around nothing and the rain outside hasn’t stopped.

He sits up and it takes everything in him to fight the urge to call someone. Lu Guang.

His breath catches.

He doesn’t know if the memory was real.

And still, all he hears is the echo:

You killed both of them.

 

◑

 

Somewhere between waiting for tea to steep and trying not to say the wrong thing again, Cheng Xiaoshi says, How’d you figure out the code?

Lu Guang’s voice comes slow, like he’s pacing himself, Because I don’t think the cipher was meant for you.

There’s a pause—something quieter than silence. Cheng Xiaoshi takes a calming breath before about a rainy night.

He asks the date, just the date—nothing about the memory or its consequence. Cheng Xiaoshi addresses only that the tiny, cruel detail, the way he would if it’s a story he doesn’t quite believe but still wants to learn the ending to.

And Lu Guang freezes. It isn’t too noticeable but it is enough that the air holds its breath—that Cheng Xiaoshi forgets to.

Because he never said April, never mentioned a month. He barely even mentioned the memory.

Lu Guang says, First.

And after a beat, as if that changed everything,

April Fool.

Neither of them laughs.

Not because it isn’t funny.

But because it’s the sort of joke life tells you too late.

 

◑

 

The platform is cold in that way only train stations can be—wind cutting between pillars and thoughts alike.

Cheng Xiaoshi barely hears the announcement, his grip looser on his cup as he leans on the stanchion.

Xia Fei is talking—maybe it’s about weather, or theatre, or the idiot two rows back shouting into his phone. But the words are a background hum; Cheng Xiaoshi is still caught in something slower.

It’s not even the line that haunts him. 

It’s Lu Guang’s voice saying it—quiet, almost apologetic. ‘Because I don’t think the cipher was meant for you.’ Cheng Xiaoshi hadn’t let that go. He remembers leaning back, folding his arms, pushing.

‘That rainy night with your Charles—what day in April was it?’

He hadn’t expected the flinch, but he also hadn’t expected the truth, so Cheng Xiaoshi had just sat there, too proud to say anything—too angry to admit he’d felt it, that awful blooming ache in his chest, the one that meant he’d never really stopped hoping.

He watches a girl adjust her suitcase handle. Her trainers are untied and her shoelaces are tangled, but she doesn’t seem to care. He blinks. The pink dissolves into brown, the red into black.

It’s poetry. It’s tragedy. Little difference—this performance.

Xia Fei bumps Cheng Xiaoshi's shoulder. “You’re brooding again. And I've been there so I must warn you, none of those trains would offer deliverance or existential clarity no matter how hard you wish they would.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t deny it. He shifts his weight, eyes still on the tracks.

“We get silences where we need answers, and answers where silence would've been kinder.”

“You're being cryptic again, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“I just think it’s strange… when someone answers a question you didn’t know you were asking.”

Xia Fei gives him a look. “What did they say?”

Cheng Xiaoshi sips his coffee; it’s bitter and cold. “April Fool.”

Xia Fei flicks up an eyebrow—Is that all?

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs—the shrug of someone carrying an avalanche inside their ribs.

The train rolls in. Cheng Xiaoshi stands, but doesn’t move to board. He will be late to his friend, that much he is certain of—but he lingers a moment longer, staring at the faint reflection in the window. He thinks of rainy nights and of codes not meant for him. He thinks of Lu Guang’s eyes, dark with some ancient kind of guilt.

Then the doors hiss, and he goes.

Answers can't be in a train station, but they might lie with Qiao Ling.

 

 

“Was there ever a theatre piece with a body count?” Cheng Xiaoshi casually fires, turning the bracelet round his wrist again.

Qiao Ling looks up slowly. “Are you trying to pitch something?”

“I mean historically,” he clarifies. “Something you and I were in. On a retro ship—fake teak and overpriced drinks and ridiculously ridiculous fits. I'm thinking experimental and murder-themed—Vein changed the script one too many times, I believe.”

She blinks. “You’re more specific than usual. Which means this is a trap.”

Cheng Xiaoshi offers a quasi-apologetic smile. “I’m just trying to place a thing. It’s a feeling, probably not even important because I know I said it’s not important—I remember that much—but that was three years ago and a lot feels like a black hole in the timeline.”

“Because you keep thinking about that ‘a lot.’”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods. “Can’t tell anymore—it feels like a dream but it’s not, because those don’t come with motion sickness and woodsy perfumes. Everything else is fog—faces, conversations. But there was this guy—could’ve been someone I ran into. It might’ve been Lu Guang.”

The name sits between them. Qiao Ling doesn’t pick it up. Then she leans her elbow on the table.

“Well, we did a few murder plays with dramatic exits. Though to be completely fair, only one had a hungover cast member emerge out of a birthday cake and throw up on Xiao Weiying’s recently done gel nails.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s head tilts. “Me?”

“Do I know anyone else with your flair for dramatic entrances-slash-exits?”

“So we were on a boat.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s your big revelation, Cheng Xiaoshi?”

“I was just trying to remember.”

“You don’t remember being seasick for 48 hours and trying to flirt with Jae Lee in zodiac?”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts. “Sounds cap.”

“Everything about you is unadulterated crap until I make it tinselly in my revisionism.” She tilts her head, mock sweet. “Should I reiterate?”

“Please. Not the SparkNotes version—the film montage one. I need to be put up-to-speed ASAP so I can finally reach the chapter where I can finally hit.”

“Aren’t the lows enough, or they don’t get you high anymore?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t give her the satisfaction. He presses a thin smile and Qiao Ling sighs. Then she starts ticking them off on her fingers.

“You weren’t seeing anyone, neither hallucinations nor a therapist. You changed your minor three times before you dropped it altogether. You borrowed jewellery from people like a serial killer collecting trophies. I don’t have the exact timeline of Xiao Weiying— And no—before you ask—you didn’t date a mysterious theatre boy. You flirted with several, kissed maybe two, and broke at least one heart without noticing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi taps the bracelet against the table once. “I don’t believe I’d do that… last one.”

“Exactly.” She smiles; it’s tght-lipped. “Which is why you know you did.”

Cheng Xiaoshi offers a dry smile. Qiao Ling's eyes fall on his fiddling hands then she gives him a look.

“Thank you bubble memory, now back to the present. You think the bracelet is from the play?”

“Maybe. It feels like the sort of thing I’d wear as a prop. Just look at how too shiny and too sentimental it is.” A pause. “The engraving isn't mine and that’s one thing I know for sure.”

That elicits a reaction; Qiao Ling’s silence turns heavier.

He shrugs. “Weird, right? Something that looks like it remembers me more than I do.”

“That’s very you, if you ask me—trying to reason with the part of your body that remembers.”

“Qiao Ling, I can't tell—was that something profound or passive-aggressive?”

Now she looks at him properly. “I'm saying you can just ask what you really want to know and save us the ten chapters of slow burn.”

“And ruin the mystery? Over my dead body. Orgasm denial has always been my go-to BDSM kink.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi.”

He blinks at her, all innocence. “What?”

She taps the table. “You’re not curious; you’re confirming. That’s the difference. Except that I'm not Lu Guang; I don’t enjoy your games.”

He denies none of that.

She sits back. “What did you remember?”

“I didn’t, and that’s why I’m just piecing together things that don’t fit. So it’s the opposite of remembering if we’re being pedantic here.”

“You do that when you’re scared.”

“Asking to be edged?”

“Not asking to be lied to, but wanting someone to lie to you all the same.”

She reaches over, presses the bracelet into place on his wrist. Gently. He stares at it for a beat. Then, softly, still not quite himself, he says,

“Would you?”

Qiao Ling doesn’t answer; she never lies when it matters. Cheng Xiaoshi leans back, exhaling through his nose.

“Guess I just wanted to know if I’ve met him before—before now. Would've been fun—like a Shakespeare subplot written by a mildly caffeinated pigeon.”

Qiao Ling folds her napkin with too much precision. “If it matters, you’ll remember the part that does.”

He watches her for a second before lightly saying, “You used to be less terrible at lying. Did I perhaps miss out on the liar training arc in those missing years?”

She smiles thinly. “I'm keeping a promise, so just accept my kindness, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi watches as she collects her things.

She’s halfway out the door when he says, “Did any of those performances required I fake a death?”

Her hand pauses on the doorframe.

Then she smiles a little too wide. “You faked a lot of things back then. A death wouldn’t have been so far-fetched.”

And she leaves him with that.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t push it. The sea never gives back what it swallows easily.

Chapter 13: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Ghost Who Didn’t Know He Was One

Cheng Xiaoshi decides the only way out is through.

He'd vowed to overcome his little heart’s hitch. He needs to not revert to the sentimental person he'd once been, which means he needs to get back on track with the right font of seducing Lu Guang.

And so, their five-day trip to the mountain lodge ends up being truly unforgettable.

 

D-4: Orange Light, Melting Ice, and That Old Ache

It’s the first evening, and Cheng Xiaoshi says he just wants a view that doesn’t scream ‘Instagram filter.’ So he finds a bar not listed on the lodge’s flyer rack (the kind with creaking wooden chairs and a low glass railing that hasn’t been cleaned since before the pandemic).

He doesn’t invite Lu Guang. He just says, “You coming or do I bypass subtlety straight to faking a coma?”

And Lu Guang (after a pause that isn’t really hesitation, just the echo of one) nods and follows.

The rooftop isn’t empty (Feels like it, though).

Cheng Xiaoshi orders two drinks as though he already knows what Lu Guang wants (he doesn’t, but he’s mostly right), then he drops into a seat without waiting. Lu Guang takes the one beside him, angled slightly away (a little distance, always interpreted too late).

Cheng Xiaoshi says it’s a social study, a way to harness his narration skills.

But after a few half-hearted observations (the best friends who can’t stop touching each other; the sisters mid-argument over some forgotten phone charger; the old married couple touching up on their lost times) Cheng Xiaoshi stops narrating.

The drink is too cold (The ice melts too fast). Lu Guang’s glass drips onto the coaster. The light slips behind the trees (It brushes against Lu Guang’s cheek in this soft, golden way that makes Cheng Xiaoshi forget why he brought them up here in the first place).

They sit through most of sunset without talking (in that hazy stretch of time that doesn’t owe anyone anything).

Lu Guang finally breaks it.

“Are you still doing that thing where you pretend the view is not a pretext for reminiscing?”

Cheng Xiaoshi snorts, then blinks. He hadn’t anticipated the double vision. “What do you mean, ‘still’?”

In lieu of a reply, Lu Guang sips his drink, eyes ahead.

A beat later, Cheng Xiaoshi nudges, “Okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a bit memory-adjacent. But it’s not just that— You know, it’s for ambience.”

Lu Guang smiles. It’s tiny—invisible unless one knows him.

“Yes, her. The ambience of unprocessed emotion. Nostalgia, but a little bruised.”

“Loneliness, but dressed in sunsets.”

He might have not said it. He has thought it, though. They twine a smile (It feels more).

And when Cheng Xiaoshi leans back in his chair, his eyes drift over—not to the couple, not to the sky, but to Lu Guang.

He asks about neither the play nor the box—and more importantly, he doesn’t ask about why his own chest aches a little when he looks at Lu Guang and can’t remember how it used to feel when he looked back.

 

 

D-3: Soft Trails, Reenactment, and the Fantasy of Us

On the second morning, they are on the forest trail.

Everyone else takes the marked path.

Cheng Xiaoshi drifts left, Lu Guang follows (Maybe out of habit; maybe because that’s how it is lately).

The trail is so uneven it barely qualifies as: roots claw at their shoes, the air feeling thin.

Lu Guang stops walking before Cheng Xiaoshi does. He is staring at a crooked tree, bent—bowing to something. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t ask what he’s thinking (Lu Guang wouldn’t answer).

The descent is quieter.

The group is scattered again. It's just Cheng Xiaoshi and Lu Guang (weaving down the trail).

Cheng Xiaoshi picks a twig up along the way. He starts spinning it between his fingers, not realising he’s mimicking the lighter again (Lu Guang notices yet doesn’t say anything).

The trail narrows near a bend. Cheng Xiaoshi steps aside, pressing closer to Lu Guang to let a family pass (twin boys and their parents).

The father notices Lu Guang and Cheng Xiaoshi. Kindly, he says, “Would you like me to take a picture of you two? It’s a nice spot and as you know might already know—the ‘breathtaking’ that doesn’t happen twice.”

Lu Guang blinks.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs—short, reflexive. “We’re not—”

But Lu Guang is already smiling that small, closed-lipped smile (the one that never reaches his eyes yet still softens his whole face).

“We’d love that,” Lu Guang nods politely. “Thank you.”

And the family is gone a moment later, swallowed up by the trees (before either of them can say more).

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t look at him when he shoots it.

“Be honest— That hit a nerve, or did you just feel like you were cheating on a memory?”

It’s a beat before Lu Guang answers. “I'd say it depends on whether or not it felt not weird for you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi scoffs under his breath. “You’ve gotten better at this whole dodging thing, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang stops walking—just for a second—and turns to look at him.

“I’m not dodging. I just don’t think every little assumption has to be corrected.”

Cheng Xiaoshi falters (He wants to say, Like mine about your involvement on the ship?)

They keep walking.

Half a minute later, Cheng Xiaoshi says, “I remember when we first met—when you used to hate being misread. Have I perhaps softened you, Lu Guang?”

Lu Guang glances over. “In the timeline where I killed you or the one where I forgot to?”

Cheng Xiaoshi feels that one land somewhere behind his ribs; it’s lodged, unacknowledged (like most things Lu Guang has been saying lately).

Cheng Xiaoshi turns. He manages one step forward before reaching out with the slow, inevitable pull of someone who has been waiting all night for an excuse to touch the person beside whom they’ve been burning.

He hooks his fingers into Lu Guang’s collar—and he pulls him in.

It’s close enough that Lu Guang forgets how to breathe through his nose—that they both feel it—it’s close enough to want to devour Lu Guang's neck.

But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t kiss him. He doesn’t even move—because this is an argument he’s planning to win without words.

“If one more person mistakes us for a couple,” Cheng Xiaoshi murmurs, “I’m making it legally binding. It’s only fair.”

Lu Guang’s eyebrows twitch. His throat moves. But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t stop.

“You’ll have to see it through. Full performance: holding hands, fond looks over hotpot, emotional support during craft workshops—maybe even a little smooch every now and then.”

When Lu Guang doesn’t respond, Cheng Xiaoshi leans in just a little closer (enough to thin the line between joke and threat).

“You can break up with me when we’re back in the city. Quietly. Mutual statement—of course. You’ll say it was too much, too close, too bright—and I’ll pretend it’s because your cat no longer meows back at me.”

Still, Lu Guang says nothing.

The way Cheng Xiaoshi draws back is controlled (the slow way his hand doesn’t let go is).

Then more softly he adds, “Unless you want to go public earlier—for either scenario. I’ll do whatever you want me to, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang stands still. The wind picks at his shirt and he blinks once, as though that’ll clear the static from the air. Eventually, he says,

“You say that but give me a deadline—five nights because you're not bold enough to ask for forever?”

‘This was never for forever.’

It isn't the chuckle that loosens Cheng Xiaoshi's grasp—but it’s also not innocent either. Lu Guang tilts his head (It is not just flirtation there).

“It’s almost funny, Cheng Xiaoshi. I don’t think you realise how hard you’re trying to lose twice.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s smirk returns. It’s thinner now (Less mask, more dare).

“Maybe I don’t care about winning anymore, not this game.”

Once again, Lu Guang is looking at him like he’s something half-remembered—like a dress rehearsal he watched from the wings (never part of the scene, yet knowing every line anyway).

And then he walks again.

Cheng Xiaoshi follows, grinning because sure he didn’t just hand his heart over with a bow on top.

 

 

D-2: Bad Fish, Old Flames, and Arguments Lit by Candlelight

On the third morning, Cheng Xiaoshi walks into the wrong room by accident.

He knows it isn’t his halfway through the door, but something—something—smells like burnt film (and that old cologne Lu Guang stopped wearing).

Lu Guang looks up from the bed. He doesn’t flinch (and neither does he ask what Cheng Xiaoshi is doing there).

Instead of leaving immediately, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks about Li Tianchen’s laugh—about Li Tianxi's hands—about the film he watched twice (and still didn’t understand). Lu Guang’s voice breaks through the semi-memory.

“It’s that that look again—the one where you pretend you're not remembering the wrong things.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t ask how Lu Guang knows.

By the evening, Cheng Xiaoshi manages to smoothly ask Lu Guang for a meal. Lu Guang agrees. Neither calls it by its name because it is not a date.

Despite not being fancy, the restaurant is dim enough to make everything feel important. A small candle flickers between them. Cheng Xiaoshi is half-listening to the clatter of cutlery, half-watching the way Lu Guang stirs his water without drinking it.

“You ever notice,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, idly, “how every fancy place like this has a bullshitted dish name that’s only code for having too much seashell begging to be used for bowel cleansing?”

Lu Guang doesn’t look up. “Love this whole ‘I see the cliff ahead but would still sprint straight into the fall’ thing you have going on.”

“While it’s yet another fine Lu Guangian observation, I'm inclined to point out it isn't entirely accurate.”

Cheng Xiaoshi props his chin on the heel of his hand, gesturing airily.

“Like, I’m not saying I like falling, but if it’s with you—looking out for me—it might almost be worth it, Guangguang.”

Lu Guang finally glances at him, expression unreadable (but he doesn’t protest when Cheng Xiaoshi nudges his foot under the table).

It’s going somewhere (quietly, as if it always had).

Then a hand claps down on Cheng Xiaoshi’s shoulder.

“Look who it is! I thought I was imagining things!”

Zhou Xun, wearing something loudly patterned and grinning like a man who forgot where neons should be. Cheng Xiaoshi startles; Lu Guang doesn’t move.

“Vivi said you'd be up here,” Zhou Xun begins, sliding into their moment. “I thought she was pulling my leg but apparently not—can't believe Lu Guang is also here. Like what is even this, a reunion?”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs (tries not to look caught). “An interrogation, maybe.”

Zhou Xun leans across the table slightly. “Man. Sur takes me back—you remember those nights, yeah?” His gaze briefly flicks between them before settling on Lu Guang. “Always arguing about something with anyone who’d half-listen—theatre or drama, I don’t even know. I was never sure whether the needle would settle on kill or kiss for the night but I prayed I wouldn’t be in range.”

Lu Guang’s smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “It seems like old habits die hard, seeing how Cheng Xiaoshi nearly strangled me over a Hamlet interpretation a couple of days ago.”

“Sounds about right.” Zhou Xun chuckles, then to Cheng Xiaoshi, winks. “You’ve always had a type. The difficult ones. I've often wondered when you'd finally tip—or worse, lock in. I'm allowed to be sappy so let me just say how glad I am this happened.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs again, automatic. But Lu Guang has already reclaimed the conversation. His words are careful but smooth.

“We’re just catching up, Zhou Xun. The usual dance—old grudges, new fish specials. In-between moments.”

“Sure, sure.” Zhou Xun gets the hint. “I’ll leave you to it. Tell Vivi I behaved if she ever asks. I too need my cookie bad.”

He disappears into the din.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches Lu Guang’s profile. The candlelight doesn’t flicker once as Lu Guang calmly sips his water.

“Every weird thing about this aside, I have to say the weirdest is you not correcting him,” Cheng Xiaoshi says.

Lu Guang sets the glass down, still not looking at him. “I didn’t lie either.”

 

 

D-1: Shared Towels, Late-Night Legends, and Holding Back

On their fourth evening, they sit at the edge of the pool where it’s now quieter. The others have peeled off one by one—their earlier game of Matching Playlist to Person by Vibes long and forgotten. What now remains is the hum of the filter, its soft hypnosis. Cheng Xiaoshi’s legs dangle in the water (and every few seconds, he kicks, lazily, he’s testing whether he still exists).

Lu Guang is beside him—not close enough to touch, but close enough that Cheng Xiaoshi feels his shape the air between them.

Cheng Xiaoshi flicks his lighter open. Clicks it shut.

Again.

Lu Guang leans back on his hands. Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes move quickly—ravenously—over the stretch of him, the curve of his neck, as he tallies all the visible moles (fourteen). He thinks they are ten short—then he looks away before he gets caught in it. It takes a second before he essays a random question.

“Did you always hate hotel pools?”

“I hate the ones that pretend to be natural,” Lu Guang replies. “With rocks and fake waterfalls. This one is honest because it doesn’t bother being what it isn't.”

Cheng Xiaoshi nods, not because he agrees (he doesn’t, not really) but because he enjoys the way Lu Guang sees the world. Even when it makes no sense.

Especially then.

A breeze moves across the surface of the water. It doesn’t touch them. Cheng Xiaoshi shivers anyway. Lu Guang notices. He shrugs off his towel and throws it over both their shoulders without looking.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares at the side of his face—that impossible face. It’s all bones and restraint—all sharp, quiet care.

He looks away again, counting to ten in his head.

Lu Guang is still staring at the water. Cheng Xiaoshi stretches, arms above his head. His bones click.

“I’m not sure about your college experience, but I sure hope you had someone who’d made you let loose every now and then.”

That earns Cheng Xiaoshi only the faintest of smiles, so he tilts his head.

“Terrible segue—and not my finest work—so I’ll spell it out for you, Guangguang, you ever go night swimming?”

Lu Guang side-eyes him. “Innocent question or leading preposition?”

“It’s my pitch and it can be whatever you want it to be. Think real night swimming. Pitch dark, murky lake, someone dares you, someone brings drinks, someone almost drowns—you're just happy you didn’t stay on the shore, even if you end up choking on water.”

“We’re not doing dares, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“Guangguang, there are better things to suck out dry than the fun in the room. Get your head in the game. Literally.”

Lu Guang almost smiles.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him, chewing on something unsaid. It doesn’t come out. Instead, he lets it slip (by accident).

“Ask me already.”

“About?”

“My origin story—the one that perfumed all the exits.”

A pause (barely). Lu Guang then tilts his head.

“Would you tell me?”

“Fuck yes? It’s the tragic backstory that might lure you into thinking there’s a decent person in me. My siren song. My Mr Hyde.”

The joke doesn’t land. Lu Guang still fidgets (with anything that’s not Cheng Xiaoshi's memories). Cheng Xiaoshi keeps flicking his lighter (On. Off).

“It’s just that I don’t remember much from back then when fun wasn’t necessarily this reckless. Like, full-on blank spots. Qiao Ling sometimes offers anecdotes that sound so borrowed from a completely different person that I almost feel like Katherine though I'm not necessarily waiting on my Petruchio.”

Lu Guang’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t reach for it (neither asking, nor filling in the blanks).

Cheng Xiaoshi lets it hang there. He wants to probe—to push.

“You ever just wanna,” he waves vaguely. “Do something insane? Say—skip down to the valley tonight, find a karaoke bar full of drunk uncles, ruin a few marriages, fake-propose to a stranger?”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “That’s oddly specific—should I be alarmed?”

“Statistically? Always.” Cheng Xiaoshi grins. “But this time, it’s not me. Vivian told me about it. She said they sing love songs and drink baijiu like they’re mourning their twenties and longing for their ex-purgatory person. You know, the usual.”

“You already know it’s coming. I’m not singing.”

“No. But you’ll come. I can see it, Lu Guang. You’ll pretend you’re only there to stop me from dying of karaoke-related injuries. The same way you did during our little aquarium stakeout-slash-date.”

The lighter clicks. Lu Guang drawls with a smile.

“There were no singing hazard in the aquarium.”

“You know what I mean. Don’t be difficult.”

“I'm not. You're the one sounds too certain about me giving you a poolside almost.”

“How can I not when I'm a pick-me boy and you can't say no to me?”

“Funny. Which you am I picking when you're driftwood, Cheng Xiaoshi?”

It’s breezy—playful (It hurts).

Cheng Xiaoshi's smirk falters. Lu Guang checks his watch (as though he didn’t just set off a bomb).

It’s still him. Click. Lu Guang's eyes are on the Zippo as he asks,

“Maybe we have time. When?”

“Now. Dry up, Lu Guang. Time to flip through the catalogue of me and choose whatever you like best. It’s all yours.”

He hops up, flicks his lighter closed. Water trails down his legs. Lu Guang stands, slower.

He doesn’t say, No (and Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t say, Told you you're not immune).

They come down for street noodles and local wine. There’s a buzz to the place—the firefly jar sort (There are too many couples, too much hand-holding). It’s sticky with summer romance and everyone is drunk on it (even if they haven’t touched the wine).

Lu Guang buys roasted chestnuts. Cheng Xiaoshi steals half the bag.

They’re halfway through the food stalls when a grinning vendor waves at them and says, “Ah! You two again—finally newlyweds, right? It only took you three summers, or did you go back even longer?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss a beat.

“That’s us lovebirds,” he slips an arm through Lu Guang’s with the casual ease of someone playing a prank. “Baobei forgot our anniversary, though. It would've been heartbreaking if he didn’t know exactly how to make it up for me later tonight.”

The vendor laughs. She presses two charms into their hands and winks.

“This is for longevity and clarity. You’ll need both to forgive and forget.”

Lu Guang doesn’t correct her; he is staring at the charm a second longer than necessary.

They walk a little after that (still arm in arm, still not talking about it).

At some point, they end up sitting in the narrow breakfast nook of the lodge. Cheng Xiaoshi pretends to stir his tea. It has long gone cold. Eventually, he says,

“Second time we’ve been mistaken for a couple. That’s two out of four nights so far. Statistically speaking, Lu Guang, we’re dating—I don’t even have to bribe any children into signalling us out.”

Lu Guang takes a bite of toast. “Is this how you gather data now? Based on drunk locals and trinkets vendors?”

“I’m being scientific. Control group is me. You’re the unreliable variable. Honestly, I think you’ve been leading them on.”

Lu Guang scoffs. “You’re impossible—and no, no ‘but charming.’”

“I didn’t say that… yet.”

“You were thinking it.”

“You were thinking about my comebacks two steps ahead. If that’s not flirting, I don't know what is. Just kiss me already, Lu Guang.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is smiling now (and it isn't the showman grin, but something slower).

“I wouldn’t mind,” his voice is quieter (more honest). “If we kept playing pretend… for tonight.”

Lu Guang meets his gaze. He doesn’t look away.

“Feels good,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s tone is dipped in something vulnerable as though only just realising it as he says it. “Like muscle memory. And let’s face it, it could be worse. You could’ve ended up with Vivian—or Liu Xiao, if you still prefer your partners a little bit questionable.”

“Wrong quantifier and both would’ve murdered me while Vein applauded it.”

“Exactly. My downside? I just yap—which I already do and which you more than tolerate. Strengthens my tongue muscle. You're welcome to verify it.”

They fall quiet again. Cheng Xiaoshi traces a drop of tea down the side of his mug. He then watches it fall (not yet saying what he wants to).

Lu Guang breaks first. Unusually so.

“You're not asking me,”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks up.

Lu Guang’s gaze is still on the mug. “About why I didn’t tell you about Vérité—about what else I might be keeping from you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi says nothing for a while. Then he shrugs.

“I figured you’d tell me what mattered.”

Lu Guang looks at him then.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs again, lighter this time. “Or maybe I didn’t want to hear anything that would make me hate you. I don’t want to give myself the chance.”

The silence stretches—long and loose and honest—until Cheng Xiaoshi breaks it.

“But I’m starting to think I couldn’t hate you even if I tried, Lu Guang. That’s your superpower.”

Lu Guang’s eyes don’t soften, even when they quiet. The words next lack the accusatory bite, although they sting.

“You forget so easily,”

“That’s the thing, Lu Guang, I just don’t.”

The moment hangs. The distance between them shortens by less by movement and more by their breaths. Cheng Xiaoshi’s hand is halfway across the table. Lu Guang’s fingers shift—the faint of hope of maybe meeting him there.

Cheng Xiaoshi has never been this scared in his life. But Lu Guang scoffs and shakes his head.

“Don’t get sentimental, Cheng Xiaoshi, you’re not built for it in this lifetime.”

But his fingers twitch—the way they would when they’re missing something that should be in them.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t point it out.

 

 

D-day: The Ghost You Could’ve Been, the Ghost You Still Are, and the Part That Broke

On their last day, they end up having too much sugar.

That’s Cheng Xiaoshi’s excuse. The cotton candy, the fried dough twist, the rice wine tasting—pick your poison. He’s running on chaos and whatever artificial flavouring they put in the blue slushie. His energy is manic and shining—having been dragging Lu Guang from one place to the next, citing their ‘contractual obligations’ with a grin too wide to fight. ‘Still bound as my boyfriend,’ he chirps whenever Lu Guang slows down (or raises an eyebrow, or looks like he might protest the next stolen moment).

The day becomes a montage of half-stolen moments:

Cheng Xiaoshi handing Lu Guang a melting bingtanghulu with all the hawthorn berries picked off (but one).

Lu Guang retaliating by somehow winning a claw machine (on the first try).

Cheng Xiaoshi stealing Lu Guang’s cat-eared hat (and Lu Guang letting him).

It smells like it might rain. Cheng Xiaoshi has been dragging out the return to the lodge. One more detour. One more joke. One more excuse to be alone with Lu Guang while the town folds up around them.

Cheng Xiaoshi is stalling. He knows it—he knows Lu Guang knows it too. But neither of them names it (Naming it would be the same as saying goodbye).

So Cheng Xiaoshi keeps the game going.

Even now, on their slow walk back to the lodge. Plastic bag of souvenirs rustle between them and stars twinke; above them. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t put much thinking into it.

“You ever think about how weird it is that we’re basically sims, picking up our personality traits from the people we interact with?” A stolen sideward glance. “Like—you start talking like someone, or using their expressions, and one day you realise your habits aren’t entirely yours anymore. They might have never been. Cross contamination.”

Lu Guang’s hands are in his coat pockets, his face tilted toward the night air as though listening to something that isn’t quite there.

“Is that another makeshift Theseus’ ship argument?”

“Again, call it what you want—if it walks like a duck, quacks like a duck—”

‘You're too fixed on the phrasing—as if it’s a nominal word and not an action!’

Cheng Xiaoshi's smile almost sags. Lu Guang never finished what he said—even when he’s silent. Cheng Xiaoshi finishes it. He kicks a rock.

“It is a duck. A very weird duck that wonders why it can't fly if it has already picked the wings up from other birds.”

Lu Guang gives him a sideward glance. His eyes glisten in the moonlight.

“You're being extra weird for a random thought experiment.”

“You sound like Qiao Ling. But at least she’s never been so shameless about avoiding enabling my brain farts. Yeah?”

“I'm not not enabling.” It’s a small smile. Sweet. “And I wouldn’t call it weird. That’s just how people leave marks.”

“I burn through all nine circles of hell for you Guangguang and you still manage to make it sound clinical.”

“It is.” Lu Guang's eyes soften. “Sometimes it’s beautiful. Sometimes it’s not. Either way, it’s gutting and we end up carrying pieces of people with us. The way they taught us to phrase things, what they laughed at, the way they looked at us when we cried—all are things that embed to memory, like shrapnel.”

He stops.

Cheng Xiaoshi does too, because Lu Guang never talks like this unless it costs him something.

And it’s costing him now. His eyes are not the only indescribably beautiful and real thing under the moonlight tonight. Lu Guang continues.

“We think we get over people. But really, we just move them to a quieter corner. They’re still in the house—their heart-shaped home. You hear them in the walls sometimes. Not all the time—just when it’s raining. Or when someone new says something ancient in you—dormant—the exact same way.”

Cheng Xiaoshi feels it then—a quiet break beneath his ribs. Perhaps it’s a snap, perhaps something slowly folding in on itself.

Because he knows who Lu Guang means. And he knows Lu Guang doesn’t just mean them.

Lu Guang sighs almost dreamily.

“The worst part isn’t that they changed us—how we carry ourselves, what we believe, the flavour of the sun and the moon and every star in between. It’s realising we’ve been carrying the parts of them they left behind—our little inheritance, the small ghost—which we can’t give them back.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice is too soft now. It slips out. “You mean the good parts?”

Lu Guang looks at him. And there’s that pause—that unforgiving silence where something like a kiss might’ve lived.

And died.

“No,” he swallows. “I mean all of them. No filtering—because the heart doesn’t categorise. It’s all filed under Theirs.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t speak. Can’t. His pulse is a steady, traitorous drum.

Because he doesn’t just want to kiss Lu Guang anymore.

He wants the rest of it, the real thing—the sleepless nights, the quiet mornings, the petty arguments, the way Lu Guang makes space even when there isn’t any. He wants Lu Guang in his house, not just in the walls.

Cheng Xiaoshi clenches his hand, then he essays a smile.

“Funny how life works. We all become someone’s ghosts just because we carry pieces of them within and it suddenly feels less empty—more unbearably light.” He laughs—small. “Kinda pathetic too—the pre-ghost liminality. To the ghost you could’ve been and the one you had been. Because haven’t we all forgotten to exist—briefly—impossibly? Sometimes we wake up in a hospital and we’re supposed to be grateful we lived. But there’s this— lull. Like someone ripped out a page and we keep rereading the chapter trying to figure out all the empty speech bubbles.”

Lu Guang’s eyes are on him now. Entirely.

“And now I’m here—with you. Wanting things I shouldn’t want, saying sappy shit I probably shouldn’t feel— and all I can think about is how this feels familiar. You feel familiar, Lu Guang, like a word I used to know by heart.”

He steps closer.

Lu Guang doesn’t move, but there’s a flicker in his eyes—something caught mid-step.

And it hits him.

A flash—

Li Tianchen, laughing, mouthing something across the bar, smug and wild and too much. Someone pressing a drink into his hand. Lu Guang’s voice in the background, “Careful with Liu Xiao's group.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks slowly. His gaze slants, voice dips.

“It’s just that… you remember something I don’t, don’t you, Lu Guang?”

Lu Guang doesn’t blink. That’s all the answer Cheng Xiaoshi needs.

His voice softens. “Because I’ve been trying, you know. To remember. And it’s like—there’s this version of me that got left behind somewhere. Someone I can’t get back to. Every time I laugh too hard or get a little too happy, there’s this echo of something—like guilt— or grief— or maybe both or a third I never got to name properly—to mourn— And still I think I lost something crucial that night a lifetime ago, even when I decided it’s not worth grieving because it’s already lost. But lately I keep thinking—what if it was you, Lu Guang, what if you were mine in a past we can't remember?”

It lands with the weight of a an wound; it doesn’t even make a sound.

Cheng Xiaoshi is close now—too close. His fingers brush Lu Guang’s wrist. He could kiss him. God, he wants to.

And Lu Guang lets him—lets the moment hang there between them, dangerous and burning and tantalising.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, brittle. “Fuck, I've been downgraded from sonnets to slam poetry. You deserve better than this.”

Lu Guang flinches, almost withdrawing his hand.

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks and it is split frames all over again.

The ship deck and the cold metal railing. The smell of salt. Li Tianxi’s eyes wide and urgent. Lu Guang's disappointed gaze—“What have you done?”

He forces the image to still—to superimpose—then he leans in.

“What I'm trying to say is,”

Whispers, “I think I’m falling—”

“Don’t.”

Lu Guang cuts in, softly—the blade beneath the bandage.

“Don’t make this any harder than it has been, Cheng Xiaoshi. Please. If you remembered what happened on the ship, you wouldn’t be here telling me that.”

That freezes Cheng Xiaoshi. In time. In memory.

Lu Guang’s voice doesn’t waver. “You wouldn’t be standing this close. You wouldn’t be careless enough to offer your heart like that. Not to me, not again.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t move at first. Not for a full breath, maybe two. Maybe a lifetime’s worth of breaths.

He can still feel the shape of it in his mouth—what he nearly said. He still feels Lu Guang’s gaze on him—the way it’s trying to hold something back. And for a second, just a second, he imagines what it’d be like if he had said it—if he had just thrown himself off the edge and watched what Lu Guang would’ve done with the wreckage—what he would've done to save him—catch him—break his fall.

Instead, Cheng Xiaoshi says nothing. Because Lu Guang is quiet. And it is raining and he is wearing white and there is a muddied book and time that’s not lost but broken.

‘I never stopped. That’s not the part that broke.’

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. The lump in his throat doesn’t dissolve. The rain doesn’t come, and neither do Lu Guang's words.

Because he exists. Everywhere.

Light bounces off mirror, off glass, off something wrong. A silhouette jerking, collapsing—but the angle—no one’s there. It's an illusion. It has to be.

Cheng Xiaoshi runs anyway. Of course he runs. The door swings open.

A body. Not the one from the mirror.

Li Tianchen?

No, no. It's a trick. It's—

A sharp pain behind his ear. Blackness.

Lu Guang’s voice starts slow, dangerous in the way falling is dangerous: calculated until it’s not.

“I didn’t mean to lie to you for this long, Cheng Xiaoshi. But when you lost everything, it felt cruel to hand it back in jagged pieces. It felt cruel to expect your hands not to bleed.”

Cheng Xiaoshi is already two steps behind. Not physically, but mentally—emotionally—his brain trying to follow the map while the terrain keeps shifting. There’s the sound of thunder again, though he’s indoors. No, not thunder. A boat engine. Railing. Iodine. His eyes fall to his wrist.

There’s the silver bracelet. Lu Guang’s. Not now. Then. There is a then. He’d taken the bracelet off Lu Guang two days prior in the middle of an argument that wasn’t an argument—the kind that ends in silence but not distance. Lu Guang hadn’t asked for it back. On it had stayed.

Xiaoshi’s. Property of your favourite sin. Mine.

And it clicks—finally, horribly—that Lu Guang isn't warning him to be careful because he’s cruel. He’s warning him because he remembers.

All of it.

Clicks. Crashes. Breaks—like waves, like bones, like bonds, like—

How Lu Guang had known things he never should have known—favourite drinks, plays, birthdays, that one line from Phantom Cheng Xiaoshi never said aloud. The way he disliked Liu Xiao without needing to meet him. The way he’d never once said, ‘I forgive you,’ because it would mean admitting he’d been wronged.

Lu Guang remembers. And Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t.

Which means Lu Guang’s been carrying both their halves this whole time. Silently. Steadily. Waiting for him to catch up, or maybe waiting for him to give up.

Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his head and forces himself to look at Lu Guang.

But Lu Guang is undoing his shirt slowly. His fingers steady. His kiss gentle.

‘No one can ever know.’

Cheng Xiaoshi’s body limp, his eyes half-lidded. He tries to speak. Tries to say—

Thank you?

I’m sorry?

Don’t?

Stay?

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. He tries to register Lu Guang's words, so he closes his eyes and he sees Lu Guang’s smile in the wings of a stage. He feels the phantom weight of a vial in his palm—a kiss that tasted like something real—and worst of all—most real of all—he remembers thinking he’d never get another like it.

He doesn’t know how to breathe through that.

Tries. Tires. Lu Guang still forces him underwater. Cheng Xiaoshi looks up through the murky rain—Lu Guang's face—words—blurred.

“You know, I spent months convincing myself it didn’t matter. That you didn’t remember me. That whatever we were—whatever I was to you—wasn’t enough to stick. I thought maybe that was the point—then, now—all the moments in between—that maybe I was meant to forget you too, especially after everything we’ve cost one another.”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth but nothing comes out. There’s a buzzing in his ears—no, not buzzing. Applause. A stage. A moment just before blackout when Lu Guang had whispered something only Cheng Xiaoshi was meant to hear.

The memory hits—a bruise being pressed: Lu Guang’s smile is unsure but soft in Cheng Xiaoshi’s flat. Rain-soaked. Lit by streetlight. A kiss he barely remembers initiating.

Cheng Xiaoshi almost laughs, but the breath catches on something. He breathes too shallowly.

Then the silence in his mind begins to fill—with sounds—with images.

A room full of mirrors. A body collapsing—no, a trick of the light. That was performance—angles and reflections. A murder rehearsed in fiction made real.

Lu Guang is speaking still.

His voice is soft in the way broken things are when they’ve stopped pretending they’re whole. Cheng Xiaoshi hears him only in patches, like a radio losing frequency. Every few words land while the rest floats.

“…I didn’t want to take that from you too…”

There was a then.

“…You wanted to fake a death, but Li Tianchen turned it real…”

They had a then.

“…I didn’t know about your deal with him…”

They could’ve had a now.

“…you were the one lured…”

Cheng Xiaoshi stares past him, not at anything, really. The world is starting to move again, but too slowly. A silent reel of intruding fragments plays behind his eyes: a bracelet slipped off his wrist; Lu Guang’s hand cradling his face; Liu Xiao knowing the right button to push with his cryptic words; Zhou Xun’s comment during their restaurant run-in; Qiao Ling’s expression at the readthrough when she looked at Lu Guang instead of Cheng Xiaoshi; Xu Shanshan’s warning about getting obsessed.

All of them knew.

His stomach is a cold pit.

Why did no one tell me—stop me?

He didn’t miss the part where he was Lu Guang's; he is missing the part where he was Lu Guang's.

Lu Guang has taken a pace backwards. He's saying something about how he thought time would dull the edge of it. That maybe, if he stayed away long enough, Cheng Xiaoshi would forgive himself without ever knowing what needed forgiving.

Cheng Xiaoshi is still stuck on the sound of his own voice three years ago—cruel, slurred, weaponised. He can’t hear what Lu Guang is saying because memory has become louder than truth. He remembers engraving the watch—he remembers throwing it—having it thrown—not realising what it would break. Because it is not just the glass, not just the gift.

He'd broken the only person who ever truly looked at him and didn’t flinch.

The cap falls to the ground. Someone must have moved. Something must have shifted.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares at Lu Guang—he really sees him. Because he knows now—knows Lu Guang has been hiding the one thing that explains why Qian Jin has always been two steps ahead. Cheng Xiaoshi now knows who Lu Guang thought he was protecting that night.

It comes out slow. Inevitable.

“You didn’t frame yourself for either Li twin. You framed yourself for me.”

Lu Guang nods just once and it’s the quietest kind of confession.

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. His voice doesn’t come right away. He doesn’t trust it.

“But that’s not what broke us.”

This time, Lu Guang says nothing.

It’s all the answer Cheng Xiaoshi needs. Lu Guang steps closer. It’s imperceptibly but Cheng Xiaoshi flinches all the same. Something in his chest actually hurts as if remembering is tearing something healed the wrong way.

Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t ready to accept anything. Forgiveness? No. Guilt? There has been a time, maybe.

But not love.

Except that it was never love.

It was carnage.

So when he finally speaks, he doesn’t ask why Lu Guang left, or why he came back, or what he wants now. Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his gaze and watches Lu Guang's pleading eyes—an image negative of his own.

He doesn’t ask, How much did we have? Because he already knows the answer is, Everything. Even if he sees it in fragments now. He sees it in the Lu Guang's eyes, between his words. Instead, he quantifies the damage differently. Very quietly, Cheng Xiaoshi asks,

“How did I hurt you?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer at first. There’s a breath—a minute pause where the world hesitates.

Then, simply, Lu Guang concedes, “You stopped being you. You forgot that love didn’t have to be earned through pain—yours or others’.”

Cheng Xiaoshi had trusted Lu Guang with his life, and Lu Guang had trusted him back. With something bigger. He opens his mouth.

‘Don’t expect me not to step on your shadow when you give me answers like this. Love—’

‘Had been the answer, Cheng Xiaoshi, but you turned into a question—constantly questioned it!’

Lu Guang's face in his memory cuts. He looks so tired—sounds it. He hears a crack in the memory—a thud—like a hardcover hitting the floor.

It hurts. All of it. It shouldn’t hurt. Any of it.

Cheng Xiaoshi had been someone different, once.

And Lu Guang had loved him.

And then he hadn’t been that person anymore.

And Lu Guang still did.

Cheng Xiaoshi presses the heel of his palm to his eye, as if to stop what’s leaking out. It doesn’t work.

But now Lu Guang is talking again; he is explaining something that doesn’t need explaining anymore.

“It was never about the murder on the ship, Cheng Xiaoshi,” he says more to the ground than to Cheng Xiaoshi. “It’s always been the two after. Yours and mine.”

And for a moment—just one—Cheng Xiaoshi becomes someone softer again: the boy who bought a watch, who loved Shakespeare, who kissed Lu Guang in the rain and meant every second of it.

Then the moment passes.

And all that’s left is the man Lu Guang broke to protect. And who, in turn, broke him back.

“I hated you,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, but it sounds like I miss you—but then his voice—his words—are softer, more broken, “No. That’s not true, Lu Guang. I just—I don’t understand why you let me forget, why you didn’t bother with me.”

Lu Guang finally falters.

“Because remembering is tantamount to destruction.”

He steps forward—not exactly closer, but just enough to make it hurt.

“Mine, or yours?”

Lu Guang steps back, that half-second recoil of someone who wants to stay close but knows what it will cost. “Yours, Cheng Xiaoshi, yours. You keep forgetting the part where you died too. You just kept walking after and I had to watch you, knowing I too was responsible for killing you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s throat burns. “I didn’t choose to forget.”

“You’ve made that clear. But you still haven’t asked why you did.”

Cheng Xiaoshi stiffens. He wants to ask—want to scream at Lu Guang, Then tell me—what did I forget that was so bloody horrible it broke you? But he isn't certain he is yet ready to unearth that.

So Cheng Xiaoshi bites the words down.

And Lu Guang looks tired—older, somehow. Cheng Xiaoshi can't help but wonder if grief is the only thing keeping him upright now.

“I’m not doing this with half of you again, Cheng Xiaoshi, so figure out what part of you buried in the aftermaths of that night on Vérité, then maybe we can address all my silent ghosts.”

Cheng Xiaoshi wants to laugh. Or cry. Or vanish. They are so close; he can feel Lu Guang's teeth in his own mouth, his own heart squeezed in Lu Guang's heart.

He doesn’t even think he tries. The words are dug up—quietly, so quietly.

“Is that why you’ve wanted me to solve it? So you don’t have to say it out loud—so you can pretend your hands are clean when they’re the ones that ripped me open?”

“Did it ever occur to you that maybe it is because my hands are familiar with your wounds that I dared not touch you again?”

“Dressing it up in poetry doesn’t make it any less tragic, Lu Guang. Everything is a choice and you’ve clearly made yours. Twice.”

A flinch—a hitch. Lu Guang doesn’t reach out. His voice doesn’t crack.

“You say that so carelessly now and all I see now is the you I had to leave three years ago.”

“You make it sound like it’s been the correct choice.”

“It’s part of the consequences of loving someone, Cheng Xiaoshi, even if they no longer remember why or how, or even manage to unforget eventually.”

Cheng Xiaoshi wants to undress Lu Guang's sadness—to dress up his wounds—theirs.

Instead, he tilts his head and takes an imperceptible step forward. There it comes: the gutting smile, the reiterated sentiments—the worse words.

“No, Lu Guang, this’s beyond fucked-up—you don’t get to love me in silence then punish me for not remembering. Murder takes two.”

“And other things take less. You don’t get to act like you’re the only one who lost something, Cheng Xiaoshi. I had to mourn you. Twice.”

That’s the moment Cheng Xiaoshi breaks. It isn't dramatic; it lacks the shouting—the theatrics. All is there is a breath that catches—a sharp turn of the head—a sound resembling the start of a sob, but quieter. More private.

He clenches his fist, then he looks Lu Guang dead in the eye.

“A third time wouldn’t do you any damage, then. Might even have a certain charm to it.”

He doesn’t mean it; he knows he doesn’t. Cheng Xiaoshi has meant none of that. These are only negative feelings he’s cycling through, belonging to a non-him. He has tried them on and they fit, but he hates how they look on him. They taste wrong, bloody, unfair.

But Lu Guang is laughing—a short, dry sound—and shaking his head. Cheng Xiaoshi sees the image in two timelines; he lets the sound bite into his memory in two timelines.

And he watches Lu Guang turn and away in two timelines.

 

 

The sun rises too cleanly, slicing through the mountain fog as if the previous night was only a bad dream.

Everyone piles onto the bus, dragging duffel bags and sleep-heavy limbs. Someone yawns loud. Someone is laughing at something that isn’t funny. Everyone clatters in, oblivious.

Cheng Xiaoshi boards last.

Lu Guang is already seated: left side, window, second row. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t look. He walks the aisle, counting his footsteps in the vain hope they might account for something. He drops into the backmost seat: right side, aisle.

Their eyes don’t meet.

Qiao Ling sits next to him in the rest stop.

He gets up, then silently walks to where Liu Xiao is in the first row.

He doesn’t have to tell Liu Xiao to move his bag.

Cheng Xiaoshi sits. He feels like strangling someone. He closes his eyes.

Notes:

click me :'D

Chapter 14: ShiGuang and the Shared Custody of One (1) Unwhispered Confession

Notes:

ok so since the chaos has begun, let me help clarifying the structure a bit
~ signals a flashback/THEN
the three aestrisks ( *** ) mean we're still in THEN. our usual halfmoon ( ◑ ) line break is a new scene in NOW as always.
those last 5chapters will feature LGs POV as well and at some point the days/narrative will overlap (seeing how the events will cover the short span of two weeks or so). it makes sense and reads smoothly, i believe, but i'm just making matters explicit so the experience would be marginally less confounding (the timeline and their memories and [redacted] will be confusing enough so no need for my writerly shenanigans)

good luck figuring out whose POV it is in the first couple of sentences!

Lu Guang never understood how people spoke about falling in love again.

He has never once fallen out, not when Cheng Xiaoshi smiled at him like fresh blood on the first day back, and not when he himself smiled at Cheng Xiaoshi like he had lost him before—only to mean something else entirely. It has always been Cheng Xiaoshi, in the most boring, inescapable, everyday way—in the way grief doesn’t soften even when you wear it out.

Because what did he even expect? They have always been delaying time—stealing moments. The confrontation had been a long way coming; it had gone exactly as it had in every nightmare—and also not at all. Because in Lu Guang's worst dreams, Cheng Xiaoshi had never looked so wrecked in the light.

Lu Guang hadn't meant to see him again, not like this, not so soon—not ever, maybe—but there had been reasons. Rational ones. Qian Jin had started to lose grip on his empire—too many hands reaching upward from the mire, from graveyards. Lu Guang's silence was no longer imperative. He’d watched Qian Jin teeter from afar, and knew the moment was right. The research grant had perfectly lined up, and returning to China—to Hangzhou—had seemed strategic.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi had already forgot everything. This meant that all of it was gone—the trail of threads he’d followed, how close he came to toppling Qian Jin, every audio file, every timestamp, every log entry, every desperate plea—every weighty piece of evidence Cheng Xiaoshi had tucked away behind passwords that were meant for Lu Guang. The one birthday gift he never got.

Another one he thought he'd get belatedly. And he did.

The irony.

Lu Guang had meant to keep it brief: let go cleanly and protect Cheng Xiaoshi from the weight of what he almost remembered—what Lu Guang had done to make sure he'd be safe. Because to Lu Guang, it was simple; it was safe now—safe enough to return. Qian Jin wouldn’t waste his leverage on a boy who no longer remembered why he was dangerous. Lu Guang had convinced himself of that. There were no legal or moral risks anymore.

Just the emotional ones.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi had looked at him like Lu Guang was the one flickering into memory. And that had ruined him. For months.

Four months. That was all. Four months of watching Cheng Xiaoshi become himself again—same cadence, same terrible humour, same stubborn tilt to his jaw when he knew he was right but wanted Lu Guang to say it first. Still all the same—same hands, still warm; same scent, still glitter and smoke and something unnameably his.

Lu Guang made quiet lists—not of the pain seeing how that memorised itself but—of the details. How Cheng Xiaoshi still annotated in pencil, margin notes spiralling into indecipherable confessions. How he still touched things without realising—claiming them, reminding them he exists. How he still butchered literature on the fly as though making it uniquely his, specially giving it away. How he laughed with his whole body, because he never gave grief a second thought, never let it settle.

And then—the more terrible things that have also always been uniquely Cheng Xiaoshi: how he talked to mirrors; how he made jokes when he was hurting; how he didn’t know who had held him as he cried that morning after on the ship; how he looked at Lu Guang like he was the ghost.

Emotional wounds. Emotional wounds.

Because that was it, wasn’t it—? Wounds that hurt and wounds born of the hurt and wounds borne in the hurt. Emotional, emotional wounds. The part where Lu Guang's heart still surged the way it did whenever it recognised home the moment Cheng Xiaoshi walked into a room. The part where Lu Guang's voice still softened reflexively when Cheng Xiaoshi laughed. The part where every cell in his body still knew that Cheng Xiaoshi was the only person he'd ever loved.

Lu Guang had planned for everything—Qian Jin, the grant, the guilt, even Vein.

Except this—except standing here now, in the echo of Cheng Xiaoshi’s devastation, with his own apology still warm in his throat, heating up to the point it no longer knows if it was meant to melt or to burn. Or whom.

Because it doesn’t matter that Cheng Xiaoshi forgot.

Lu Guang never did. He just wished he’d turned away before Cheng Xiaoshi could see him, because he wasn’t ready to be seen by someone who didn’t know what he’d done.

He thinks of the stairwell. Then. Cheng Xiaoshi cornering him, angry and confused, trying to pin him to a wall with words. You think I did it. You were relieved when I forgot.

And Lu Guang had said nothing, not because he didn’t care, but because he did.

Because the truth would have meant saying I covered for you, and Cheng Xiaoshi would never have forgiven that; he would've never forgiven Lu Guang bleeding for him.

But that wasn’t the only part that bleeds. Because then there was the party.

Cheng Xiaoshi in a crowd, laughing with people who wouldn’t notice if he shattered; Liu Xiao’s name in the air; Lu Guang watching in the aftermaths, hating how Cheng Xiaoshi’s brightness had been weaponised—how he burned as if trying to prove he was already ash.

Cheng Xiaoshi had accused him of trying to fix something that couldn’t be saved. Lu Guang remembers the look on his face when he said, I can’t fix this. Not for you. He hadn’t meant it as cruelty; it was surrender.

And then there was the hotel room.

Lu Guang still doesn’t know what he saw when he walked in that night. All he could register was that Cheng Xiaoshi had looked up, dazed and hurting, and Lu Guang had thought, Not again. Not like this.

He’d come for the envelope. He left with the ghost of what they used to be.

But the hardest moment—the one that kept him awake at night—wasn’t any of those.

It was the last stand before he left.

Cheng Xiaoshi, furious. Cheng Xiaoshi, convinced that Lu Guang was afraid of who he’d become. Cheng Xiaoshi, throwing Lu Guang's book out the room like it meant nothing—the book he hadn’t borrowed—the book he had initially come to return.

The heart he hadn’t borrowed. The heart he had to break.

Cheng Xiaoshi had insinuated that it’s intentional—the blackout—that Lu Guang is cold because he’s disillusioned. Scared. And Lu Guang had cut him, maybe not unintentionally.

You want the feeling without the fallout—you want to be in love like it’s theatre.

It was unfair, and it was nothing like their previous fights—no stolen bracelets, no silent apologies, no stronger emergences. Those who walked through fire, and burnt.

And both of them knew it. Lu Guang just didn’t know that in five nights, he’d be the only looping this memory forever.

Yet that wasn’t where it went wrong—because Lu Guang hadn’t been afraid of Cheng Xiaoshi. He’d been afraid for him.

You play it one too many times before and you come to anticipate the rain before the first couple of clouds darkened the sky. He had seen it dozens of times—even after the accident. The way Cheng Xiaoshi softened when no one was looking. The way he’d bandage a stagehand’s ankle without being asked. The way he always knew when any of his friends needed water, or space, or a joke.

That had always been the truth of him. Before and after. Even when the violence came, even when the memory loss made everything slippery—Cheng Xiaoshi had still been that boy underneath. Kind. Reckless. Terrifyingly real.

The problem was that he’d stopped believing he was. Instead, he had chosen Liu Xiao, chaos—he had chosen to hurt himself before anyone else could.

And Lu Guang had walked away not because he didn’t love him, but because he did—and he couldn’t watch the person he loved keep trying to die a little more each day.

Even before his deal with Qian Jin was forcing his hand.

Lu Guang doesn’t know what would have happened if it weren’t for the deal he cut with the devil. If he could have weathered the storm.

He would have loved to learn.

Now, standing alone in a room that smells like Cheng Xiaoshi’s cologne and old stage curtains, Lu Guang realises something brutal:

The past four months hadn’t been a second chance. They had been a test: could he stay in Cheng Xiaoshi’s orbit and not be pulled back in?

But he'd asked the wrong question—how could he be pulled back when he never once left?

 

***

~

Maybe you didn’t kill anyone, Mr Lu. But maybe you're protecting someone who did.

Lu Guang feels it then, a hairline crack running straight down the centre of him. He thinks about Li Tianchen—about how fast it had all happened: a body dropping into water the way a puppet cut loose would. He thinks about Cheng Xiaoshi's strange distance earlier that week, the way he'd vanished yesterday. The longer he thinks about it, the less it makes any sense.

He knows there must be a trick, even when he doesn’t know what it is. What he knows is that Cheng Xiaoshi had blood on his cuff when Lu Guang found him behind the theatre curtains. What he knows is that Cheng Xiaoshi had smiled too lightly when he came about, like a man walking barefoot over colour-stained glass.

He wants to believe it—he wants to believe Cheng Xiaoshi didn't do it. But certainty has never been a currency he could afford.

Lu Guang folds his hands neatly in his lap. “You’re grasping at shadows.”

“And you’re too calm.”

“I’ve always been good at waiting,” Lu Guang almost smiles.

Outside, rain beats at the window in rhythmic thuds. Inside, Lu Guang steadies himself against the swell of panic rising in his throat. Cheng Xiaoshi hadn't killed Liu Min. Of that, Lu Guang was sure.

But Li Tianchen—?

His minds cuts back again to Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes that night—those wide and dark beautiful eyes of his. But the pupils were blown out and all Lu Guang could think of is the absence in Cheng Xiaoshi's voice—that aching blankness. He can't help but wonder why Li Tianxi sought out his help. There must be a reason why she never told him about already having met up with Cheng Xiaoshi.

It all must be for some reason, but Lu Guang thinks of a dozen possibilities and lands on none.

Detective Li leans closer.

“You can sit there all night, Mr Lu. But sooner or later, even magicians let up.”

Lu Guang breathes deeply.

“I’m not a magician. I’m just easily forgettable.”

If only he knew.

He is released three days later for lack of anything solid to detain him.

Outside, the rain has stopped but the city still smells like something drowned.

Lu Guang stands under the buzzing streetlight, fingers curled tight around nothing, and thinks: If I’m wrong about you, Cheng Xiaoshi, I’ll never forgive either of us.

 

***

 

The plan has been to call Cheng Xiaoshi here for a clean break. But although it has been four days since he has been released, Lu Guang can't come to terms with his decision.

Now he is sitting on the edge of the sink in the café’s bathroom.

He checks the date in his wristwatch. It stopped working for some reason. He wants to give it back to Cheng Xiaoshi; he’d know how to fix it. He checks his phone. Twenty-six days before the hourglass runs out of sand, before Qian Jin buries him under the grains.

Lu Guang blinks then focuses his vision. It’s ridiculous, really, practising something like this.

But he knows himself; he doesn’t improvise well when it comes to Cheng Xiaoshi. So he clears his throat and stares at the mirror.

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” he begins softly. “I can’t stay.”

It’s flat. Lifeless. He tries again.

“I have to go. It’s not you.”

He drags a hand through his hair, breathing out hard. Pathetic. Even now, even whilst lying, he can't make it sound like he wants to leave.

His reflection looks back unimpressed: white hair, colourless eyes—he already looks halfway to being a ghost.

“You're going to be fine without me.”

Laughter bubbles up. It’s hollow.

Cheng Xiaoshi—fine? Cheng Xiaoshi, who folds himself around the people he loves like they’re air and he’ll suffocate without them?

Lu Guang grips the sink so hard it creaks.

It’s not even about whether Cheng Xiaoshi will survive it. It's about whether he will.

He imagines it. Cheng Xiaoshi, blinking at him, confused first. Hurt later. Maybe reaching out, stubborn to the end, asking him to stay.

Lu Guang imagines stepping back—imagines becoming one more absence Cheng Xiaoshi can't explain but somehow has to survive.

That’s the real trick Qian Jin taught him—it has nothing to do with disappearing; all that’s needed is staying silent long enough that leaving looks inevitable.

Lu Guang closes his eyes. He practises the silence—perfecting it until it feels normal in his mouth.

When he opens them again, the mirror is fogged up with his breath. He wipes it clean with the sleeve of his jacket. His watch squeaks against the glass. He doesn’t flinch.

Then he leaves without looking back.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi sits on the floor, back against the bedframe, knees up, flicking the flameless lighter against the seam of the box. Lu Guang’s name isn’t written anywhere on it, but he sees it anyway.

Because there is only one person who could have sent him this cipher.

Lu Guang's name twists like a knife in his heart. He wants to throw up—to break something—to break his heart open just to hear Lu Guang's name echo back. To see him come back.

Instead, it keeps coming back to him in pieces that way it has for the past two days.

Cheng Xiaoshi is pretending not to know how to use chopsticks correctly. Lu Guang is silently reaching over, adjusting Cheng Xiaoshi’s grip, saying, I know you know how to do this.

But Cheng Xiaoshi is grinning. Yeah, but then you wouldn’t touch my hand like that.

Lu Guang goes back to eating without a word. He doesn’t pull away.

But no; it goes further back—right to the start. Cheng Xiaoshi twirls the bracelet around his wrist as if his skin remembers.

And it does.

There had been a party on Lunar Year. It wasn’t anything official or big: a couple of drinks on a roof with good company. They were already drunk on the giddiness of their pirate ship escape room earlier escapade. Cheng Xiaoshi didn’t even once feel seasick—just lovesick. Or at least that would be his excuse. Because someone’s cheap speaker was playing love songs and Lu Guang had been leaning against the rail, collar unbuttoned, laughing into his drink. Cheng Xiaoshi had said something stupid. Bold.

If there’s ever such a thing like missing someone backwards—like an ache from the future—it would be me in this moment. With you.

And Lu Guang had looked at him like he already knew what Cheng Xiaoshi hadn’t figured out yet—why the songs were taunting him.

They’ve been close for a little over year by then, yet that was the night Cheng Xiaoshi first wanted him. Fully. Irrevocably. The night something irreversible started ticking.

That was before The Phantom of the Opera’s performance and the kiss in the rain—before he’d decided Lu Guang's wrist needed ornament other than the silver bracelet. Something his.

For two months he’s been carrying more than a Valentine’s gift he’s never worked up the courage to give me.

He blinks, trying to breathe. Lu Guang's face intrudes. Stage lights still in his own eyes, sweat cooling beneath costume layers, and Lu Guang—still in black, eyes brighter than the slick metal he’s pressing into Cheng Xiaoshi’s palm.

Cheng Xiaoshi kisses him first, half a breath and unsure if it counts. Lu Guang kisses him back like it does.

And it did. Until it didn’t.

Until he spiralled.

Liu Xiao. The party. The Incident. The increasing body count. Lu Guang, pulling away. And Cheng Xiaoshi, too proud to ask why—too insecure to trust it wasn’t personal. He’d lashed out. He remembers yelling. The words don’t return but neither does the sharpness dull. He remembers the sound the watch made when Qiao Ling hurled it—metal against concrete, like something cracking. Like himself.

Cheng Xiaoshi flinches. He trains his gaze on the desk. He doesn’t know how many more memories he can handle.

But it still slips in without warning.

He sees Lu Guang sitting there, some years ago. The scene builds itself naturally: the scratch of pencil on paper; a lamp casting soft gold on Lu Guang’s hunched back; the room smelling like charcoal and too many late nights with unempty speech bubbles.

“You should get published,” Cheng Xiaoshi says from the bed. “Instead of letting your mind-railing fiction rot on the dark web. Hashtag get Lu Guang's murder babies out of the dungeon.”

Lu Guang doesn’t look up. His pencil scratches on. He always drafts in pencil. This accounts for why all Cheng Xiaoshi's annotations are in pencil. You really pick them up in your skin.

“They’re not babies.” Lu Guang says.

Cheng Xiaoshi is now twirling the pencil he stole five minutes ago. “Right. Sorry. Your emotionally repressed murder children—probs if Frankenstein’s monster and Heathcliff mated. They're still really good—in the sense that they make people question their morality. Or yours.”

A pause. A soft scoff from the desk.

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, watching him. “What is it called again? That one with the poison ring and the blind pianist?”

Lu Guang shrugs, eyes on his page. “It doesn’t have a name.”

“Fine. I’ll do all the naming for you, starting from your penname. Lux.”

Lu Guang hums noncommittally.

“Lucent?”

Nothing.

“Lumen, then. Light in the dark. You love that pretentious crap.”

A pause. Lu Guang's pencil stills.

Cheng Xiaoshi grins triumphantly. “You already go by Lucas for your fancy English webinars anyway. Might as well commit. Embrace the imperial spirit, Guangguang.”

Lu Guang doesn’t look up. Instead, absently he says,

“Charles,”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks. “Huh?”

“Your English name. I've been thinking and it has to be something classic yet it can't be Edward or William. You’d be a Charles.”

“Too noble,” Cheng Xiaoshi snorts.

Lu Guang keeps writing. “Would you fancy a Richard, then?”

“So you'd call me Dick? I just might.”

No answer comes, but the corner of Lu Guang’s mouth quirks—quick, involuntary, a muscle forgetting it’s supposed to behave.

Cheng Xiaoshi sits up and rests his chin on his knees.

“Fine. I’ll be Charles. But only if you take me to London someday. We can haunt used bookstores and bully small-town professors in our colonial cosplay. Among other fun activities, of course.”

“Like?”

The eyebrow flick is asking for trouble. Cheng Xiaoshi shifts then clears his throat.

“Ghost tour. Private and you’re the only guest. Tips encouraged. Unless you're willing to pay your charming and underpaid guide differently.”

Once again, there is a falter in the pencil’s movement, the it follows—the laugh in Lu Guang's not-question.

“A pound of my heart, Shylock?”

Cheng Xiaoshi only flicks a wry eyebrow. They don’t touch, but there is no need because something brushes, right under the quiet.

The memory fades where it always does—on Lu Guang’s half-hidden smile, the kind that signals it has always been borrowed time.

Cheng Xiaoshi closes the box with a loud snap. He isn't sure if sleeping can drown his demons.

And naturally, they set free his ghosts.

The dream doesn't open with a kiss; it starts backstage with the flick of a lighter. Lu Guang hands it over without looking. It is a slim, blue little thing, engraved in silver: For the rainy nights.

Cheng Xiaoshi turns it in his palm. It’s warm, clearly held for a while. It feels like an old gift, passed down like a secret.

“That’s it?” he says, softer than he means to. “Antonio has to surrender a pound of flesh and you—you hand me fire?”

Lu Guang’s mouth twitches. “He didn’t have to—that’s the whole point. But I’ll keep it in mind how you're into that—flesh, I mean.”

“Hm, I’m more partial to something less flammable, though.”

“A pound of what then?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t mean to answer, but it slips.

“Not just a pound. All of your heart. For starters.”

Lu Guang pauses. It’s too long to be casual.

“Bit consuming. Self-destructive, too. What's your angle here, Cheng Xiaoshi?”

“Cannibalism, as a metaphor for love,” Cheng Xiaoshi makes a face—dramatic, teasing, something safe.

The silence after is less awkward and more knowing. Cheng Xiaoshi pockets the lighter, next to the jewellery box of a watch that remains in Erik’s pocket. He lets his eyes roll over Lu Guang, resisting the urge to devour him. It takes considerable effort for him to tear his eyes away from Werther. He steps closer and bites his lip.

“So, Hamlet, do you want to eat my heart?”

“Are there other roles you can assign me tonight? I don’t feel like being written by a postmodernist.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss the breathless undertone to Lu Guang's deflecting question. He takes a confident step towards Lu Guang, belying the chaos within.

“Well, since you're already dressed the part with a neckline like that, you can play the heartbreaker tonight and every night. Break my heart, Lu Guang—I would enjoy nothing in the world so well as that. Is not that queer?”

“You’re really misquoting me Shakespeare in a moment like this?”

“You love drama.”

“In the literature sense. The proper kind.”

“It was proper drama—true literature. Even if it was mine.”

“Yours is anything but, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi links his pinkie to Lu Guang's. “You gonna correct me all night?”

“God, I hope not.”

He kisses Lu Guang just to shut him up. It’s reckless, off-rhythm, and definitely not what he rehearsed. But Lu Guang doesn’t pull back. He leans in—deliberately and inevitably.

When Cheng Xiaoshi wakes, he is sitting by the windowsill, legs pulled up and fingers worrying the edge of something hard in his palm. His mouth still tingles. He smells smoke, but there’s no fire.

The lighter is in his hand. Still it doesn’t work.

But Lu Guang isn't there. And Cheng Xiaoshi has no idea if that memory was a dream or the one night they stopped pretending.

‘You think I don’t want to remember?’

‘I think you want the feeling without the fallout. You want to be in love like it’s theatre. Like you can bow out when the act ends regardless of how your scene partner feels.’

Which wasn’t fair. But as Lu Guang has told him, It’s not meant to be.

None of it. All of it.

The morning is pale. It’s more than a little washed out as if trying to apologise for being too late—or too early. He is coming to terms with it—coming to pieces—Cheng Xiaoshi is sitting with the lighter in the hope it might say the rest out loud if he looks too long.

Because before the lighter, there has been the bracelet. And before it, there has been the book. The look.

Lu Guang, in the corridor with his pale face drawn. He just stands there, as though saying, If you don’t want me to stay, I won’t.

And Cheng Xiaoshi had laughed before saying something cruel. He can’t remember what. He probably didn’t mean it. Probably meant every word.

And that was when Lu Guang broke quietly—privately—the way something collapsing inwards inevitably does.

He didn’t leave that night. Not physically. But Cheng Xiaoshi had known it then: he’d lost him. Because after all those befores, there has been the watch. A thing ungiven, a promise unbroken.

But Cheng Xiaoshi had broken the watch. Then Lu Guang.

Then, much later, himself. And now he’s sitting with all the pieces, realising they’ve been there the whole time. Buried. Waiting.

He presses the Zippo to his forehead. His eyes ae squeezed shut, but he can't figure out how to stop the memories from forcing the insides of his chest to contort.

 

◑

 

It costs Cheng Xiaoshi three nights before he thinks he is in control of his emotions enough to confront Qiao Ling. Now he is fifteen minutes late to the café and this time I has nothing to do with how he was debating which outfit to put on.

Qiao Ling looks up as the door clicks shut behind him. For a stretch of beat, Cheng Xiaoshi stands there, arms loose by his sides. She says his name. He doesn’t flinch; instead, he says,

“You knew.”

It’s a statement, not an accusation—yet.

Qiao Ling says nothing. She keeps fiddling with the ring on her finger. Xu Shanshan's.

“I could’ve handled it. Or no—maybe I couldn’t. But I should’ve been allowed to try at the very least.”

“It’s— You said it wasn’t important.”

“I lied. You let me forget him.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi,” she tries.

“You let me forget me, Qiao Ling.”

He leans against one of the chairs, uncertain about what it is that’s keeping him up.

“You knew,” he continues bitterly. “You knew all of it. And you still stood there while I tore myself apart trying to decode a past you had memorised.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi—”

“I asked you. About the bracelet—the play—about that damned ship.” His voice is trembling now. “And you danced around it like it was a game. You let me walk into it blind like I hadn’t already lost enough. You just smiled and said I used to overthink everything, Qiao Ling— Was that your way of saying yes, but not in the way you think? Did you think I wouldn’t find out, that I’d just keep bumping into ghosts and never ask where the blood came from because surely what doesn’t exist doesn’t bleed?”

Qiao Ling is pale. Her mouth opens as though to protest, then is soon closes.

He laughs once. It sounds ugly—probably looks it.

“Do you know what it feels like seeing someone and your body says yes but your mind just doesn't have the file? To see someone you know you’ve loved and not remember why? To know they look at you with heartbreak and you gave it to them but you can’t even remember doing it? Do I not deserve to suffer my sins?”

Qiao Ling whispers, “You're not worth your guilt. They're not the proof you believe they are—”

“But that’s for me to decide, don’t you think.”

“You were doing better, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“I wasn’t. I was just quieter. Ignorant. We both know it’s not the same thing.”

Qiao Ling bites her lip hard before looking away altogether.

Inside—outside—the stabs are sharper. And so is Cheng Xiaoshi's voice as he presses forward. He shakes his head and crosses his arms.

“You know what sucks even more? I don’t even know if I touched him that night or just stood there watching him walk away. I don’t trust the person who has hurt him—I don’t trust the person I was.”

Qiao Ling finally meets his eyes; her own are shining.

“It was you—this you, Cheng Xiaoshi. Don’t be like that.”

“Somehow that doesn’t make it better,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s fist curls, his breath catching. “I know I've hurt him— I didn’t mean to. And now I remember all of it, and I feel like I’m dying—and all this poetry is just blood and I'm angry and it fucking hurts.”

Qiao Ling’s chin trembles. Cheng Xiaoshi's fist stops pounding his chest. His eyes turn sharper; his pain turns sharper.

“I could kill Liu Xiao. Do you understand that, Qiao Ling? I could. Right now. If he was in front of me, I’m not sure I wouldn’t.”

It lands like a confession, not a threat—which surprises not only Qiao Ling. But Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t have the luxury of lingering on that; instead, he scoffs.

“But I won’t. Because that would be too easy. And I don’t get easy—I get locked rooms and erased years and Lu Guang looking at me like I’ve gutted him and don’t even know it.” His teeth grit. “You should have told me, Qiao Ling.”

Only then does Qiao Ling walk toward him slowly—tentatively—as though approaching something fragile. Or dangerous. A counting-down bomb she yet hasn’t defused. She stops a breath away from Cheng Xiaoshi. She can probably feel the raggedness of his breath, the brokenness in deeper than his bones.

And her voice breaks as she says, “I know it doesn’t explain it and I know it doesn’t absolve me but— You said the past was a cage, that you didn’t want it back. You never wanted the truth, Cheng Xiaoshi. You wanted the version that didn’t hurt.”

“No,” Cheng Xiaoshi's voice catches on something raw. “I wanted the version where I didn’t hurt him, but somehow that meant double the pain eventually.”

She reaches out, but he doesn’t move. Cheng Xiaoshi is breathing hard.

“I'm not even sure if you have the entire story of us—if I ever can re-have it, Qiao Ling. But I think I’ve broken us. Over and over. And now the memories are starting to crawl back and it’s me. I’m always the one pointing the gun—with a bullet in every bloody canister.”

Qiao Ling wraps her arms around him then, trying to catch something that is about to fall. And Cheng Xiaoshi slowly leans into it because it can't cost him more than he has already lost.

“I didn’t mean to forget. I didn’t want to. Not him, Qiao Ling. Never him.”

“I know,” Qiao Ling murmurs, and holds him tighter. But Cheng Xiaoshi isn't done exorcising his ghosts.

“And I think that was supposed to be the case—it could’ve bee— If only it weren’t for that stupid cipher—that cataclysmic little puzzle he sent me. He had me play detective in a murder I was in—just a whisper to come find him—he wanted me to play.”

Qiao Ling pulls back just enough to see his face. “Cheng Xiaoshi—”

“He baited me—dragged me into that theatre like I was a string on his marionette. He made me remember things I thought I've long lost.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi, hear me out. Lu Guang didn’t send you anything.”

He blinks. Then he reels back a little.

She is firm now. “He couldn’t have. Last week he'd asked if there was any other thing with the wristwatch you'd given me, like a note or a key or something of that sort.”

Qiao Ling’s eye narrow. She too is trying to put twos into fours. But Cheng Xiaoshi is already somewhere else—somewhere deep.

Because he sees it.

A desk lamp burning low. His own handwriting, scrappy and obsessive, cluttering index cards. A soldering kit beside a dismantled wristwatch—parts small enough to lose in the fibres of a sweater. He’s humming, an old Faye Wong track he always said he hated. His fingers ache, but he’s smiling with the ease of someone who knows stitching a little monster might just be the thing that stiches them together.

The cipher wasn’t supposed to be hard; it was supposed to be theirs.

“The cipher… it wasn’t a trap or a bait. It was a—” He swallows. “A gift.”

Qiao Ling doesn’t say anything. Cheng Xiaoshi's eyes are still distant. He’s coming down slowly, trying not to crash.

“I wrote that cipher. It was never meant for me. It was for him. I left it for him to find—for me to find him. I left him a mystery to prove I knew him better than anyone else—one whose final answer only he could figure out.”

There’s a long pause, and he repeats it like it’s killing him.

“The cipher was never meant for me, Qiao Ling. I had to make sure I'd never lose my way to him. In every time loop.”

Cheng Xiaoshi sinks back in his chair. The weight of the realisation heavier—roomier—than any other feeling crowding his heart right now.

 

***

~

The first thing he notices is how quiet Lu Guang’s footsteps are now. Not that Lu Guang ever stomped, but there’s something cautious in the way he enters a room as though now he is measuring the air for landmines. For a while, Cheng Xiaoshi convinces himself it’s guilt. Maybe Lu Guang saw something he wasn’t supposed to, maybe he knows more than he’s saying. That’s fine.

It’s not until a week later, when Lu Guang flinches at a passing comment—something throwaway, something sharp—that Cheng Xiaoshi starts to wonder if maybe he’s the landmine now.

He laughs more than he used to, but it’s the wrong kind of laugh. People think he’s joking when he says awful things in a charming voice. Maybe he is. The line keeps slipping.

“Are you okay?” Qiao Ling asks once, frowning.

Cheng Xiaoshi says, “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

He isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.

The official diagnosis, when it finally arrives, is almost disappointingly sterile. Minor temporal lobe concussion. Possible behavioural dysregulation. Emotional inhibition.

The doctor says the scan lights up differently now: a little more activity where there shouldn’t be and a little less where it used to be. It almost feels like someone rearranged the furniture in his head while he was sleeping.

Lu Guang reads the report in silence, neither commenting, nor looking at him.

So Cheng Xiaoshi jokes, “So that’s why I keep wanting to strangle people I used to like. It’s not just an unlocked kink as it turns out.”

Lu Guang doesn’t laugh. He just nods, and it is measured enough to let Cheng Xiaoshi know that even Lu Guang isn't sure if he is joking either.

That’s when it clicks: Lu Guang isn’t distant out of spite. He is careful—and Cheng Xiaoshi starts to understand why.

It terrifies him more than it should.

He still flirts, still smirks, still leans in too close sometimes just to watch Lu Guang tense under it. But there’s a coldness curling under the surface now—something less rage and more clarity.

Lu Guang won’t look him in the eye when the latter says, “I’m fine.”

And Cheng Xiaoshi realises it’s not because Lu Guang doesn’t believe him.

It’s because Lu Guang does.

 

***

 

Cheng Xiaoshi corners him at the stairwell. Somewhere in the back corridors of the theatre, beneath the stage lights cooling and footsteps echoing like ghosts.

“You’re avoiding me,” Cheng Xiaoshi says lightly. But Lu Guang doesn’t see the joke, and Cheng Xiaoshi resents him for it. He resents the way Lu Guang always knows exactly what not to say.

Lu Guang adjusts his sleeve without meeting Cheng Xiaoshi's eye. “You’ve been busy.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Silence.

He steps closer, too close. Lu Guang doesn’t flinch, which annoys him more.

“I can’t decide what’s worse. The way you look at me now, or the fact that you don’t at all.”

Still, nothing. So he keeps going; it’s a sickness now, this pushing—this need to break things before they can be taken from him.

“You think I did it, don’t you?” Cheng Xiaoshi asks. He’s tired. Too tired.

Lu Guang doesn’t look surprised, but neither does he answer. Instead, he instinctively checks his watch—the phantom of it. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t want to read too much into how it’s broken and resting in a drawer for days now.

Which might also be why he doesn't mean to say it—especially with how his mouth has been moving faster than his heart lately.

“Don’t pretend you didn’t have to think about it and don’t pretend you weren’t relieved I couldn’t remember. You barely even say my name now.”

That lands. Lu Guang looks up. He looks older than he should—nursing the kind of tired that dwells in the bones. Cheng Xiaoshi looks at Lu Guang and all he sees is someone who has been rehearsing goodbye in his head for days now.

It doesn’t get any better when Lu Guang's words finally resolve.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. It’s hollow and it scrapes his throat on the way out. He ventures a step closer.

“Was it easier to love me before? In the previous time loop, before I became—whatever this is.”

Lu Guang’s jaw tightens. That’s something.

“I haven’t changed,” Cheng Xiaoshi lies. “I’ve always been like this, Lu Guang. I just stopped pretending to be better for your sake.”

He doesn’t mean it, but he’s furious enough that it sounds true.

Lu Guang looks at him then. He is appraising him with the kind of look that turns the floor inside out beneath a person.

“You think I don’t want you anymore,”

Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth. Immediately, he stops because he just doesn’t know what to do with that.

Lu Guang’s expression doesn’t waver. Cruelty would've been kinder than the gentleness embedded there.

“I never stopped. That’s not the part that broke.”

And just like that, Cheng Xiaoshi can’t breathe. Because what the hell is he supposed to do with that? It has never been about want—choice—it has been about everything else.

“But you’re not the only one who’s lost something, Cheng Xiaoshi, and I don’t think that you want to be helped anymore. Or that I'm enough to hold you together.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t answer. Can’t. Because somewhere in that sentence is a truth too big to hold—and beneath all the anger, all the show, is a boy wondering if he did something unforgivable.

Lu Guang takes a step back.

And Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t follow. He’s too afraid that if he does, he will fall apart in front of him. He already has. Lu Guang just hasn’t noticed yet—or maybe he has, and that’s why he’s staying away.

Either way, they’re both bleeding.

And neither of them knows how to stop.

 

***

 

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs too loudly that day.

He knows it, because even he flinches at the sound. It’s not joy. It’s not even fun. It’s pure performance.

At first, Lu Guang says nothing. Once again, he is silently watching the group from the corner of the room, arms folded. Cheng Xiaoshi almost sees how Lu Guang is holding something heavy and breakable against his chest because he doesn’t even know why he’s still here—probably doesn’t want to be.

“I know you still think he has more red flags than the Beijing Olympics, but they’re not that bad,” Cheng Xiaoshi says later, shrugging too fast.

Lu Guang’s eyes don’t move. “I didn’t say they were.”

There is a long, heavy silence. Cheng Xiaoshi hates that Lu Guang won’t name names. He hates it more because it makes it worse—makes him the one dragging Liu Xiao into the light, as if Lu Guang’s passive gaze forced his hand.

“They don’t judge me for the mess I leave behind,” he says, falsely casual, “unlike some people.”

Lu Guang tilts his head and blinks once. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t read it then, how that sentence cost more than he thinks it did.

“Is this why you started acting like them—like you want nothing that touches you to stick long enough?”

“Maybe I just like myself better now. Unweighted down.”

It’s a low blow. It hits like one too.

Lu Guang nods in that slow manner of someone finally getting that confirmation of something that they were hoping wasn’t true. Then he exhales wearily—the weight of the breath he’s been holding for weeks finally taking a toll on him.

“I tried, but I can’t fix this. Not for you.”

It could’ve been cruel. It might've been cutting. But it was neither; it was only honest. Cuttingly and cruelly honest. Which somehow makes it more gutting.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks away. He pretends his smile didn’t crack a little—that his heart hasn’t.

There’s a beat before he manages: “So stop trying. Give me up, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang doesn’t reply.

And that silence—long and heavy and sterile—is somehow the cruellest part of it all.

 

***

 

Cheng Xiaoshi tastes blood; he must’ve bitten the inside of his cheek again. Or maybe it’s just the hangover clawing back into his skull.

The door opens. He’s late, or early—depends on whether they’re counting Cheng Xiaoshi’s self-destruction from midnight or just post-regret.

Lu Guang steps in—and instantly stops.

Lee Jae—shirtless, drugged, smug and reeking of Liu Xiao's brand of ruin—lazes half-curled at the edge of the bed, half covered by another’s jacket. Cheng Xiaoshi is still mostly dressed, belt askew, shirt untucked. His limbs feel borrowed and images—planted memories—swirl in his head.

Lu Guang doesn’t even look surprised. His gaze sweeps once across the room. Then circles back to Cheng Xiaoshi, lingering there.

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs.

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, voice dry. “If you’re here to join, we’re fresh out of ecstasy, but I do hope you’ve brought at least some decent painkillers.”

Lu Guang’s eyes flick over the room: the bed; Jae Lee half-covered in Cheng Xiaoshi’s jacket; the bruises blooming beneath Cheng Xiaoshi’s collar; his very own yet-unfixed watch acting as paperweight on the table.

Cheng Xiaoshi swallows before loosely gesturing. “It’s a joke, Guangguang, you don’t have to take it so hard. At least no one died this time.”

Still, Lu Guang says nothing. He just walks in calmly and picks up the thick manila envelope from the table—the one Cheng Xiaoshi had texted about before the vodka; the one with Qian Jin’s travel logs and the name that made Lu Guang’s hand tremble last time they spoke.

Business. Always business between them now. Cheng Xiaoshi wants to grit his teeth.

Jae Lee groans from the bed before falling down to the floor. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t bother to look, but when Lu Guang turns, something is cracked open in him. It’s not rage—Lu Guang rarely gives people the satisfaction. It’s quieter and much, much more intimate. But nothing emerges.

So Cheng Xiaoshi fills the silence with noise.

“Seriously? You came all the way here just to—what, collect homework? You can’t even yell at me like a normal person?”

Lu Guang finally turns back. That look is back again—cold, but not dismissive; angry, but not loud.

“Yell? Would that make this feel more real to you?”

Cheng Xiaoshi flinches. He hates that Lu Guang sees it. So he tuts his tongue and wags his finger.

“Lu Guang, Lu Guang, Lu Guang—never asking the right questions. Don’t resist it—ask me before I'm sober enough to spin a half-decent alibi.”

He tries for a smirk. It hurts his face.

Lu Guang’s grip tightens around the envelope. “You don’t remember, do you?”

Cheng Xiaoshi stiffens. “Not all of it.”

Lee Jae on the floor starts to mumble something smug, but Lu Guang doesn’t even glance at him. He keeps looking at Cheng Xiaoshi, his gaze flat and level.

“But you still choose this, even while knowing you don’t trust the person you’ve become.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s breath catches just a little. “Guess I can die a thousand times but I do like a theme: still disappointing you in new and exciting ways. Do you still think I'm hot?”

Lu Guang exhales, clearly tired of arguing with a wall—clearly tired of caring.

He turns to go, but something makes him stop. His shoulders tense, just a fraction. Then, very slowly, he says,

“I thought if you’d forgotten the worst of it, maybe you’d remember the rest. Turns out it’s the other way around.”

He doesn’t look back, and he doesn’t have to, because these two sentences raze the air. Then the door shuts behind him. Not slammed—Lu Guang would never be that theatrical—but it clicks into place like something final.

Cheng Xiaoshi stares at the space Lu Guang left behind, at the cold stink of cologne still clinging to the hotel walls. He reaches to his own wrist. He has forgot that the bracelet is no longer there.

He has lost it.

And for the first time, he wonders if maybe Lu Guang was right.

Maybe this version of him really is capable of destroying the only thing he never meant to break.

 

***

 

Cheng Xiaoshi hears Lu Guang’s footsteps before he sees him. He always hears him first—always recognises the cadence, the caution. Lu Guang always walks like he’s thinking too hard.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t look up. He is leaning against the wall, arms folded, already rehearsing his lines. While note drunk, everything—every word, every silence—buzzes enough for everything to echo inside him.

Lu Guang stops across from him. He doesn’t ask, Where were you or, Why do you smell like smoke or, Are you okay.

Cheng Xiaoshi hates that. He wants the questions; he wants the ache—wants anything that means Lu Guang still cares enough to pry.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says instead, keeping his voice loose, careless. Keep it cool, or it’ll crack.

Lu Guang says, “I’m tired.”

Cheng Xiaoshi smiles at a joke only he hears. “Of me?”

He wants Lu Guang to say no. Immediately. Unequivocally. Of course not. Never you. Never, ever you.

Lu Guang doesn’t.

“Of watching you destroy yourself.”

Cheng Xiaoshi almost folds. He doesn’t expect it—not that straight of a cut.

So he laughs.

It’s a horrible sound.

“You think this is new, you think this started after the incident?” Cheng Xiaoshi says. “You’re adorable, Guangguang.”

He watches Lu Guang, waiting for him to argue.

Lu Guang doesn’t.

So Cheng Xiaoshi steps forward—closer now. It’s always been a game—how near can he get before Lu Guang steps back? Quietly, he asks,

“You were relieved, weren’t you? When I forgot.”

Please deny it. Please look horrified.

Lu Guang just says, “You never needed to be scrubbed down. You needed to stop setting yourself on fire just to see who’d burn with you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi goes still. He feels it—something lurch, something pull. It sounds too much like love. Hurts like it too.

So he goes for blood instead.

“What's the point. You’re not staying, are you?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer—which is exactly the answer. So Cheng Xiaoshi nods. It’s mechanical.

“Thought so.”

The silence that follows stretches too far. Then Lu Guang says it, so quiet Cheng Xiaoshi almost misses it:

“If you don’t want me to stay, I won’t.”

And that’s it; that’s the moment. Cheng Xiaoshi waits for Lu Guang to step closer—for him to say, You don’t mean that. For him to fight.

He doesn’t.

He waits a second—just one—then he turns.

And walks.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him go. Every step.

And when the corridor is empty, he slides to the floor and presses his forehead to his knees. His hands shake. Because what he said was just noise—because he told him to go.

And Lu Guang listened.

And that—that—was the part that hurt the most.

 

 

That night, it rains and Cheng Xiaoshi tries. One last time. He goes to return a book to Lu Guang. It seemed fitting, poetic even.

Except that it was a plea.

Even if it blooms into a full-blown fight.

But Cheng Xiaoshi has stood in Lu Guang’s doorway holding Dream of the Red Chamber like it meant something. Like it still could.

They’ve said everything they shouldn’t have—everything they had been holding.

He names it what it should have always been. Love. Then disowns it.

Lu Guang makes it sound like a mere word instead of an action. Cheng Xiaoshi speedruns breaking his promises.

The lines don’t echo. They stick with weird heaviness. Cheng Xiaoshi could no longer see Lu Guang in white. He is so heavy, but it is in the same way one would dress a wound before it happened.

Lu Guang tells Cheng Xiaoshi that he always bowed out when it was convenient.

Cheng Xiaoshi says it wasn’t forever. That was what hurt most—the fact that they came after Lu Guang finally called it by its name.

Cheng Xiaoshi buries it right after. Hurt, he steps on Lu Guang's shadow.

And Lu Guang snaps too, but only because Cheng Xiaoshi has cannibalised his heart. Questioned it.

They've said terrible things. True ones.

None of this was fair.

The book hits the ground before the sentence tapers out—not even dropped but thrown. End punctuation. Blame.

Lu Guang doesn’t dodge it. He flinches—as if he has been expecting something sharper.

The argument ends there, not because they’re finished, but because there’s nothing left worth hurting.

Cheng Xiaoshi leaves. He refuses to feel anything—most of which time. Slow. Fast. Nothing.

The rain starts somewhere between the lift and the book kicked to the muddy curb.

He doesn’t notice.

The rain.

The ache.

He doesn’t look back.

At the light still on in Lu Guang’s window.

At the ghost he left sitting in the carnage.

At how Lu Guang doesn’t move from where he’s standing.

He doesn’t turn back, not even to save the book.

 

***

 

The theatre’s side alley smells of rain, of damp stone, of dust—rust—Masked Heartbreak.

Cheng Xiaoshi is pacing. It makes Qiao Ling nervous.

The wristwatch gleams sleek blue—its band still stiff from care, ironically.

Cheng Xiaoshi still hasn’t returned it. He wanted to fix it—ten days ago. Pretext. He wanted Lu Guang to never forget. The back engraving hides: for every time loop, even if i break. Lu Guang’s idea; Cheng Xiaoshi’s tweak—his feelings. It’s a gift that never made it past his jacket pocket after engraving.

After the million fights.

Qiao Ling watches from the step, her takeout box balanced on one knee. The rice is going cold.

Then he stops. He digs into his pocket and holds something out: the watch.

“Do me a favour, Qiao Ling. Chuck it. Toss it. Over the wall. Into the bin. Wherever. It’s dead weight now.”

Qiao Ling blinks. “The watch you were going to engrave for Lu Guang? Thought you wanted to mend things, not end them.”

“Guess I changed my mind.”

She eyes it. “Changed your entire brain, apparently. This was for Lu Guang and he didn’t take it—it was his. You can't do that.”

“I too was his, once.” Cheng Xiaoshi’s jaw tightens. “And look where we're at. Just throw it.”

She doesn’t take it. “Let me guess. Because he didn’t kiss your forehead and enable your compulsive making of bad decisions?”

“I mean it, Qiao Ling.”

“Oh, I know you do. That’s the problem.”

The blue face catches what little light there is. Qiao Ling stands resolutely.

“Is this because of Jae Lee’s party last week—because he thought you've—?”

“Because it’s pointless.” He exhales sharply. “He’s made it pretty clear what he thinks of me now, in different ways and on different occasions.”

There is a beat of silence before the attempts resolves.

“You’re not seriously suggesting Lu Guang doesn’t want you anymore.”

“I’m suggesting he thinks I’m dangerous.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi.”

“I mean, look at me. New personality, darker jokes—more flair for chaos, to put it mildly. Maybe I should’ve worn a name tag. Hello, I kill people now. I've turned into something so unlikeable that even my forever person wants to escape the time loop.”

Qiao Ling sighs. “You didn’t turn into anything, Cheng Xiaoshi. You’re still you. Just darker in places—not even the ones that matter.”

“Exactly. And maybe he doesn’t want the darker version, no?”

“Lu Guang knew what he was getting into. Last year. This one. Forever. Please stop doing this.”

“Maybe he hoped I’d grow out of it—the little tinkers in my silly little brain, that is.”

She studies him, one scoff after the other. “Or maybe he hoped you’d grow through it. Didn’t you say you were going to talk to Lu Guang—wasn’t this the whole point of engraving the watch?”

Cheng Xiaoshi looks away. “Doesn’t matter. He barely looked at me that night—just turned around and left. Didn’t even ask what happened. What he saw—what he thinks he saw—he didn’t even blink.”

“And you believe Lu Guang walked away because of that?”

Cheng Xiaoshi's smile is crooked. “What, you think he walked away in spite of it? Must be a curious quirky trait he’s developing.”

She doesn’t answer. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t speak of two nights ago. He doubts Lu Guang will have mentioned their last stand. It still curls like smoke in his throat.

He laughs, but there’s no air in it. “Even if you overlook our heated encounters, Lu Guang has been cold for a month now. He’s too careful with me, like if he breathes wrong I might fall apart, or explode. Or confess. Fuck it, Qiao Ling.”

Qiao Ling takes the watch from his hand. Instead of throwing it, she now carefully studies it, thumb brushing the backside, sensing the engraved words.

“You know, he told me once he didn’t believe in omens, that everything has a reason, but reasons are just what we call feelings we’re too proud to admit.”

He sits down beside her and rubs his forehead. “Maybe he does believe in omens now. Maybe I became one of them for him. Everything I touch dies—either fucked or killed. Fitting.”

“Cheng Xiaoshi, I'm not sure what happened with Jae Lee or in the party before it, but Lu Guang warned you about that crowd.”

“Yeah, he did. And I ignored him. And he saw me half undressed in a hotel room with someone I don’t even like.”

“Maybe he’s trying not to break you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi shakes his head. “That’s not his job.”

“Still doesn’t mean—”

“It doesn’t matter what it means. He isn't talking to me. He’s leaving. He warned me—about them—about me. Lu Guang has foreseen the entire future, my fall and my downfall—none of it matters now.”

“And now you think you’re confirming his worst fears?” She folds her arms. “Tell me, was it the half-remembered hotel makeout session or the melodramatic self-loathing that finally did it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I swear to god, if you throw this watch, I’m going to make you dig it out of the landfill yourself, Cheng Xiaoshi. Get your act together and give it to him.”

“I can’t give it to him. Not now.”

“Then put it in a box. Shove it in a drawer—but don’t pull me into your tantrum just because he didn’t break your fall fast enough.”

“I don’t want a keepsake of a maybe, Qiao Ling, especially from a ghost-in-the-making.”

Qiao Ling’s voice softens. “It’s not a maybe. It’s a mess and you can make him stay. Big difference.”

“Yet same outcome. I really want to stop waiting for someone who’s already decided. Please don’t make this harder than it already is.”

She shakes her head then laughs once. “You're making it harder for yourself, Cheng Xiaoshi. Lu Guang didn’t stop loving you. He just got tired of being the only one trying to keep you from hurling yourself off a cliff. Take a moment to look at it and you'll see him—you'll see he isn't mad or disappointed, and sure as hell he didn’t give up on you. Lu Guang is scared because you’re still trying to burn down the house just to feel the heat. He never wanted you sweet, Cheng Xiaoshi. He wanted you safe.”

“Safe is boringly overrated. That's not who I am—never has been.”

“No. Safe is his. You were his. Still are.”

Cheng Xiaoshi grinds his jaw.

She turns toward the alley wall. The concrete is cracked, the ground is uneven, and her hand trembles.

“Fine. It’s your tragedy, Romeo. I’ll get rid of it my way, but you’ll remember this. Even if you forget everything else.”

She throws it just far enough to make a performance of it. The metal clinks against the ground. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t flinch.

It means something. It still works.

In less than an hour, he’ll be bleeding behind a dumpster. Cold concrete. Head wound. Name forgotten.

But Lu Guang’s silence—his restraint, his heartbreak—will echo even in dreams.

Even when he doesn’t have a name for it—the face, or the heartbreak.

Chapter 15: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Boy Who Never Left the Crime Scene

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss rehearsal the day after they return, but he leaves quickly, avoiding everyone and everything in a speed that forces the hallway walls to blur on the edges. He doesn’t slow down his pace. What was it about forgetting being linked to speed? Something Cheng Xiaoshi remembers very clearly, not because he loved Milan Kundera, but because he loved the boy who did. Wholeheartedly.

It doesn’t matter.

He slams the stairwell door behind him and just stands there, fingers twitching at his sides. It was right there. The words were right there, teetering on the edge of his tongue.

I think I’m in love with you.

And Lu Guang saw it, right before he cut him off. Mercy killing, wasn’t it?

Cheng Xiaoshi wipes at his face—tears or humiliation, he isn't sure. Cheng Xiaoshi is used to humiliation. He weaponises it sometimes, turning it sharp-edged and smiling. But this isn’t that; this is raw. This is something splintered. Because whenever he plays it back, the image doesn’t rearrange itself to something kinder; it remains the same painful splinter in his heart: Lu Guang not looking angry or sad, but tired—the way someone who already knows how this ends and has been mourning it in advance.

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs. It’s dissonant. “Not when the midnight sun set, huh?”

The line from the box’s note flashes again in his head.

And he knows now—the weight of the memory: the gravity of whatever he lost—whatever he broke—whatever he became.

His stomach turns. He pictures Lu Guang back on that ship: the way he looked tonight—that goddamn quiet; that kindness-turned-weapon; that don’t say it stare that said more than anything else.

He thinks—he knows—Lu Guang loved him. Still might.

But Lu Guang also remembers the part that Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t, the part that made everything unlovable.

He leans forward and braces his palms against the metal railing.

For a little over two years, he thought the amnesia was a mercy. A reset. Now it feels like a lie someone told him so he’d keep walking in circles without ever seeing the pit.

He looks down at his trembling hands. His knuckles are split from punching a few days ago. He doesn't remember that either—not as much as the ache. Those were bandages he did himself.

Some place out there, there is a version of him, one that is in pieces—and every time Lu Guang looks at him, Cheng Xiaoshi sees the mirror tilt. A flinch in Lu Guang’s eyes he keeps misreading. This silence isn’t distance; it’s grief.

Cheng Xiaoshi is still staring at his hands when he whispers, “You believe me, right? When I say I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

No one is around to hear it—least of whom Lu Guang. Which makes it feel exactly right. Almost just, too.

They’ve been coming in pieces. Their our—the memories, as though daring him not to go to pieces himself.

This one, it splinter catches him like most memories do—sideways—somewhere between the third stair and the fourth to the rooftop, with the smell of osmanthus tea perfuming the breeze and the dull ache of a day that went nowhere sitting in his chest.

Because in his memory, the scaffolding groans. And so does he.

He is halfway up the frame, sneakers slipping, trying to wedge himself into a place no sane person would think was stable, all because Lu Guang had mumbled something—something—about needing a better angle for the shoot. It wasn’t even a request—barely qualifies as thought—but Cheng Xiaoshi had heard it.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi had long decided: anything Lu Guang wanted, he would find a way to offer him.

“If I die right now,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, arms trembling with the effort, “tell the world I went out heroically trying to impress the emotionally unavailable love of my life.”

Lu Guang stiffens. His hands clench in his sleeves.

“You’re not dying,”

Cheng Xiaoshi isn't sure if it’s an order or a plea.

So he grins, but he’s tired, and his heart keeps beating wrong in his ears.

“Don’t ruin the drama, Lucas.”

Lu Guang’s smile breaks through anyway—sharp and reluctant and trembling at the edges—and he hauls Cheng Xiaoshi down by the wrist.

Cheng Xiaoshi stumbles, landing hard, scraping the skin off his palm. He laughs anyway.

They stand there, breathing too fast but not saying anything. Then Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, sky-drunk, Lu Guang-intoxicated, almost offhand.

“It’s early—in the morning, in us, in this time loop—but we’re gonna fall for each other. We’re going to fall in between all the moments nobody even thinks matter.”

“You seem to have it all sussed-out so I have to ask, when?”

Cheng Xiaoshi drawls with a smile. “Then, now—and every moment in between. I have all the time in the world for you, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang looks at him like he’s trying to memorise the moment before it slips through his fingers too. It makes Cheng Xiaoshi wonder if he has already fallen too far to be saved—if that scared and pleading look is anything but Lu Guang considering whether he should jump after him anyway.

And somewhere between the laugh and the bruised ribs, Cheng Xiaoshi thinks: I'm in trouble.

 

◑

 

If Cheng Xiaoshi's semi-fit yesternight yielded anything good, it’s the realisation that the metal box which he thought was empty, is in fact not.

He’s at his desk, hands clutched tight around the pendant he dug out of the box’s lining—Li Tianchen’s. The thumb drive. It clicks open too easily, with a folder flickering into place: ‘KAIROS.’

Li Tianchen always did have a flair for the dramatic.

Inside were timestamps, audio files, stills of Qian Jin in rooms he shouldn’t have been in, saying things no one should’ve heard. Dozens of files. Some marked only with numbers while others have clipped phrases like, ‘Insurance,’ ‘If Qian flips,’ ‘Just in case,’ ‘ty Lumen.’

One clip plays automatically. Li Tianchen’s voice is calm and colder than Cheng Xiaoshi remembers.

‘If I disappear, you still get what you want. But if I talk, you lose everything. I wouldn’t mind going down if it means dragging you with me—so leave her alone.’

Qian Jin doesn’t answer in words.

Cheng Xiaoshi swallows and clicks the second video anyway.

It is some anonymous hotel room where Li Tianchen is sharply-lit. He looks younger—hungrier. The camera is on a tripod, and he is pacing.

“Qian Jin thinks I don’t know what he's planning. He forgets I taught him half of it.”

The video cuts.

Cheng Xiaoshi scrolls; he finds a file labelled simply: ‘Poison.’ He clicks it.

It’s Li Tianchen again with rolled sleeves rolled and measured vials in the corner. One of them is labelled salicylic.

“I don’t enjoy this,” Li Tianchen is saying. “But that woman wasn’t going to last much longer. Qian Jin wanted her to turn on Liu Min. He called it leverage but we all know it’s cruelty at best—though I guess them is better than the alternative.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t realise he’s holding his breath until his vision starts to tilt.

There’s another clip—this time with audio. Qian Jin’s voice is blurred by static, but unmistakably him.

“I don’t care how it’s done. I want them gone. He will be on the ship too.”

Li Tianchen laughs. “That’ll cost you extra. I'm risking more than getting caught here, in case you haven’t noticed.”

Cheng Xiaoshi presses pause. He’s shaking and he feels it in his teeth. The box is real; the monster always had a name.

He clicks a final file. It’s labelled ‘Ship.’

This one he doesn’t want to watch.

But he does.

The angle is warped, tilted—the byproduct of a camera that got dropped. It is nighttime and there’s rain on the lens, rain that’s distorted by the howling wind. There are two figures grappling—one of them is Li Tianchen, backing away with blood at the corner of his mouth.

The other is furious-bruised—screaming something soundless. It cuts worse than a jump scare. This time, Li Tianchen's laugh resounds.

You don’t have to do this anymore, Li Tianchen. Think about your sister.

Then, a loud clack echoes. Cheng Xiaoshi hears it in two timelines before the screen goes black.

Before he goes back on that ship.

 

They meet on the upper deck two hours before Liu Min's shows up, the wind biting as fog inches up from the harbour.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s breath comes out white. Li Tianxi tries to light a cigarette. She doesn’t even smoke. Her hands are too steady for someone about to fake her brother’s death, but the wind is too strong and the flame is short-lived. Cheng Xiaoshi fishes out his good luck charm. He strikes the flint with one hand and nurses the flame with the other, then he offers a confident smile.

She had told him it’s insane—this whole plan hinging on Qian Jin's being short-sighted. Cheng Xiaoshi had told her it’s about Qian Jin being arrogant—about wanting Li Tianchen gone and not caring how it happens as long as it’s irreversible.

Irreversible: that has always been operative word.

It’s all an act, though. He'd wanted to say she didn’t really have to do this, that he could find another way where she shouldn’t have to lie in a morgue fridge while the real threat still breathes. Or while her brother dies, again.

But they’re out of time. And Li Tianchen refused to cooperate.

Qian Jin's game was always cruel in its elegance. Li Tianchen’s method of killing—slow poisons, untraceable—was the same technique Lu Guang elegantly rehashes in his Lumen stories. If Li Tianchen turned on Qian Jin, the blowback would land on Lu Guang.

“You do know how suspicious it would be,” Qian had said, voice smooth over his drink, “if it comes to light that Li Tianchen’s method of killing is Lumen’s… or should I say Lu Guang’s? Even if it doesn’t ruin him, it will ruin his literary prospects.”

Cheng Xiaoshi had kept his face still, but his had hands clenched. That was Qian Jin's leverage: let Li Tianchen die, and Lu Guang walks free.

Or protect Li Tianchen, and Lu Guang goes down as collateral damage.

Cheng Xiaoshi looks her over. Li Tianxi is already dressed like her brother—oversized jacket, face mask, a similar thumb drive on a chain around her neck. The resemblance has become uncannier once she cut off her hair.

She unhooks the chain from her neck, fitting it around her throat again, this time lower—the way Li Tianchen wears it.

He offers her the vial. It’s a pale, murky thing—so ordinary-looking.

“Tetrodotoxin. Not a sip more than half the dose, which should be enough to drop your vitals.”

She takes it without hesitation.

“The ambulance will arrive in five minutes out—I’ve already arranged the call. They’ll think Li Tianchen collapsed mid-argument with me, which’s fitting enough to be credible.”

She nods. Then she tosses the cigarette into the sea, downs the vial, and walks away.

 

It’s raining when he leaves the casino. It wasn’t meant to be. But he stands at the deck now.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s neon jacket is too thin. He tastes metal at the back of his throat, yet he tells himself it’s nerves.

The corridor in the second level is already staged. Li Tianxi should be lying motionless on the floor in a way real enough to fool Qian Jin. She won't be breathing, but her heartbeat is slowed down to less than a whisper.

Li Tianchen did good work by not showing up. For once, he had listened to his sister.

Cheng Xiaoshi sighs. He is keeping an eye for Qian Jin. He has to make sure that Qian Jin’s route is clean, that the timing is tight.

Then the scream comes. It’s not that it is sharp; rather, that it didn’t come from cabin 207.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

Cheng Xiaoshi moves before thinking. His sneakers echo down the corridor—everything smells of salt and rust. He barely turns a corner when the scream resounds again—shorter now, clipped, like it’s being cut off.

The room he bursts into isn’t a real room. Immediately—though not quick enough—Cheng Xiaoshi knows it’s a trap: glass and light—that’s all.

He sees Liu Min with a gun to his head, Li Tianchen behind him. He shouts something—doesn’t matter what—but nothing moves. And then Liu Min disappears.

It’s mirrors. Of course it’s mirrors.

He turns. Someone else is there. A shadow, no—hands, reaching. Then everything tilts. The floor isn’t where it should be—but neither is his balance.

The last thing he sees is a pair of shoes: white suede. Blood on the sole.

 

When he comes to, it’s quieter than it should be.

He’s lying on his side, something sticky against his cheek. It could be his blood—might be someone else’s—but it doesn’t matter.

He hears the scrape of something being dragged. It’s rhythmic, albeit faint—then it’s Lu Guang’s voice, muttering to himself in something that is more calculation than fear.

Even in the dimness, the smear across the floor, darker than the rest, is clear as day. Liu Min lies still in the corner, head at the wrong angle and eyes wide open.

Lu Guang crouches beside him. He isn't shaking, not one bit.

Cheng Xiaoshi tries to speak, but it comes out as breath. He wants to tell him he has lost something precious. That his wrist feels light. Empty.

Lu Guang doesn’t hear him.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches as Lu Guang presses Liu Min’s fingers around the gun, as he wipes the handle—adjusts the placement. He is wearing his jacket now.

Everything is methodical—the way Lu Guang would assemble a solution from contaminated pieces.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s vision swims. A throb rises in the base of his skull. Somewhere, someone coughs—or maybe it’s just the sound of the sea outside.

He blinks, and Lu Guang is closer: the ghost in this theatre, crouched over him in the dark with one hand pressing Cheng Xiaoshi’s wound while the other brushes his hair.

“I’ll fix it, and it’ll all be but a terrible nightmare when you wake up.”

It should feel shocking—horrifying—yet it only feels inevitable.

Cheng Xiaoshi involuntarily closes his eyes again as his body just gives up.

The lights flickers and the ship rocks. Rain, still—always the rain.

 

***

~

The room smells wrong—salt, rust, and something sharp beneath the air’s stillness. Lu Guang steps inside and closes the door behind him with the care of someone who already knows they’ll need an alibi.

The first thing he sees isn't the body or the blood; it’s Cheng Xiaoshi—collapsed near the far row of seats, curled as though half-asleep.

Lu Guang leaves the empty suitcase by the entrance. He walks in slowly without panicking—that part comes later, in pieces.

Now, he watches—notes.

The body under the spotlight is Liu Min. It’s slumped in a mock-theatrical pose, a scene staged but unfinished. A revolver on the floor. Lu Guang's eyes flicker, cataloguing. Temple wound. Immediate kill shot. Blood pooled around his shoulder, but no splatter on the walls. Closer-range than expected. Not irreversible.

Lu Guang draws a breath and counts backward from five. The panic wants to rise; it has been waiting for this. But panic is still a luxury.

He crouches beside Cheng Xiaoshi and touches his pulse. It’s strong and slow—no signs of seizure. Lu Guang tallies the damage on the unconscious Cheng Xiaoshi: scratch at his temple—blunt trauma—knocked out.

Not a killer.

Lu Guang exhales, almost relieved, which is too cruel.

But Cheng Xiaoshi is still alive. That is all that matters. And Qian Jin has already set the scene—Lu Guang recognises it immediately for what it is: a trap. It is simple, brutal arithmetic: Cheng Xiaoshi framed and Lu Guang implicated. Either he saves Cheng Xiaoshi and takes the fall, or he doesn’t—and loses him anyway.

There’s no version where Qian Jin doesn’t win.

Unless Lu Guang rewrites the ending.

Lu Guang doesn’t waste time mourning the setup. He moves.

First: time.

Time of death is malleable. You control it through what you leave and what you remove.

Lu Guang takes his own pulse, calibrates the room’s warmth, then walks straight to the thermostat and dials the air down to sixteen. It will slow the clotting, let the scene cool—something an ME won’t notice if they’re rushed.

He crouches beside Liu Min, checking for pulse. On touching the back of the neck, he feels the faint warmth, the blood spread wide, congealing at the edges. It is not recent, but not old either.

He notes all of it and feels none of it—because if he lets himself feel, he’ll scream. Instead, he next checks Liu Min’s limbs, testing resistance in the joints. There’s give—rigor isn’t complete.

Good—not because Liu Min deserves grace, but because Cheng Xiaoshi does. Rigor that hasn’t fully set means things are movable.

He moves him slightly—closer to the reel projector, where the light frames him. He brushes the fingers into a loose curl.

Then he kneels and presses lightly into the blood pool. He dilutes the centre with bottled water from the side table—less congealed blood will read as fresher. His hands move calmly. Inside, his chest is buzzing.

Cheng Xiaoshi. Stay asleep. Please.

He takes Cheng Xiaoshi’s hands to wipe each finger with a cloth he’d kept in his pocket. He then holds it in his own bare hand and grips it as if firing. This leaves his sweat, his oil, the smudge of his thumb on the chamber

Then he turns and places the gun back beneath Liu Min’s hand—wrong one. Left-handed man, right-hand wound. No blood on his palm. Let the forensics question the angle. It needs to be ambiguous, not perfect. Perfect is suspicious.

Now he just needs to erase Cheng Xiaoshi.

Lu Guang lifts him—slowly, methodically, the way you carry someone you’ve already lost. Cheng Xiaoshi groans, once. Then goes quiet. Lu Guang lays him on the couch near the back wall and strips his jacket.

He pulls off his own shirt. Cheng Xiaoshi’s is soaked—blotchy. He switches them quickly—the movement still mechanical—before he feels the heat still in Cheng Xiaoshi’s skin. His pulse, still steady but slow. Briefly, he presses his palm against Cheng Xiaoshi’s chest.

Just to make sure—just to feel something alive.

He stuffs the bloody shirt into the false-bottom compartment and seals it. Later, there will be no Luminol or trace—something he had rehearsed weeks ago, in case everything went wrong.

He is thankful for his own paranoia.

There’s no blood trail yet he still double-checks the floors. Then the wiping begins: the projector bench; the seat back; the chair rail; the inside of the theatre door handle. He wipes everything—even the small table with the wineglass.

He adds water to the thickest plot—just enough—then he smooths Liu Min’s sleeve and straightens his collar. His eyes still open and his mouth is slack. Lu Guang doesn’t flinch.

Don’t name the body. Don’t apologise. Later.

He’s thinking in checklist mode. His own voice, flat in his head: AC—done. Shirt—done. TOD—drifting. But just underneath, another voice is louder.

You shouldn’t be alone in this room. He shouldn’t have been here. You should’ve come sooner. You should’ve—

Lu Guang shuts it out. He has a suicide to write.

The film reel is already spinning—someone cued it earlier. Li Tianchen, probably.

Lu Guang rewinds it, threading the last half-metre of reel through a near-invisible strip of tape, which he adheres to the inside of the door lock. When the film plays out, the reel will tighten, pulling the bolt shut from inside.

It will be a locked room, neat and impossible—core Lumen lore.

He stares at the projector for a beat, then he adds the suicide note. Blood—enough for a signature—on a folded napkin: One last round. Winner takes all.

He places it under Liu Min’s left hand. Thes audience will believe it. Police will believe it. They're meant to.

He sets a timer on Liu Min’s phone—scheduled message to his manager. It will be sent at 23h17, thirty minutes after Cheng Xiaoshi is seen heading to his own cabin. Witnesses will confirm it. Security cameras will show a figure in a neon jacket leaving this room. The cat ears will make it memorable—ridiculous—plausible.

He picks up the jacket. The cat ears—Cheng Xiaoshi’s favourite and Lu Guang's ridiculous claw machine loot on the first try.

Lu Guang pulls it on.

Because when the footage is reviewed, someone will see the fluorescent duster and they’ll remember Cheng Xiaoshi. But they won’t know it wasn’t him.

He walks to Cheng Xiaoshi. Then he kneels and brushes a lock of hair from his forehead, fingers trembling now.

“I’ll fix it,” he whispers, “and it’ll all be but a terrible nightmare when you wake up.”

He lifts him—he’s heavier than he looks—but warm—still warm.

A final sweep. Lu Guang then opens the door.

The hallway beyond is dark, no one waiting.

He breathes in.

Steps out.

And closes the door behind him.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Patter.

Patter.

Patter.

Inside, the reel spins its final frame. The sticky tape burns with it.

It’s almost beautiful—if you don’t know what it cost. He swallows and makes his way back to Cheng Xiaoshi's cabin. The door clicks shut with a sound louder than it should be. Lu Guang exhales—the sound more careful than it should be.

The room smells of antiseptic and sweat and Cheng Xiaoshi—of the cheap lemon shampoo he always insists on. It’s the same one Lu Guang had made sure was stocked in the bathroom, before accepting Vein's invitation to this cursed boat.

Cheng Xiaoshi remains unconscious. For now, he’s folded awkwardly into the bottom half of the suitcase until the corridor clears. Where Lu Guang had carried him like a broken thing through service doors and staff blind spots, he now lays him gently onto the bed. He untangles limbs and again checks his pulse.

Still steady, still his.

In clearer light, Lu Guang notices all he’s missed earlier. There’s a knot on Cheng Xiaoshi’s head and faint bruises blooming under his chin—Li Tianchen’s handiwork, probably—but they look too much like fingerprints. They look too much a thing neither he nor Cheng Xiaoshi can explain if asked.

So Lu Guang finds the silk ties he’d packed. He slips them around Cheng Xiaoshi’s wrists convincingly enough and loops another under his collar. Feigned restraint, breath play—a kink Cheng Xiaoshi has never once shown interest in, but that no one will question.

Better a blush than a body count.

Lu Guang works efficiently. Cheng Xiaoshi laughs at some point.

A soft knock comes—room service.

Lu Guang loosens his grip on Cheng Xiaoshi's throat, getting off him.

He checks his flushed face in the mirror—his wet hair. He opens the door with a towel around his neck and half a shirt on.

The staff member looks startled, then amused. Her eyes flick behind him, to the dishevelled bed. Cheng Xiaoshi is facing away, limbs splayed just right. One wrist still tied.

“Dinner,” she chirps.

Lu Guang nods. “Thanks. Needed to refuel.”

She leaves while laughing. That’s good. People remember laughter; they retell it without being asked.

He sets the tray down and checks the time.

23h9.

Perfect.

He’d left the order note hours ago with the concierge—Send dinner at eleven—in case he wasn’t back by then. It is subtle enough to be plausible—firm enough to be timestamped.

Lu Guang sits at the edge of the bed. He looks at the flushed—drugged, intoxicated, impossible—Cheng Xiaoshi and tries to breathe regularly.

Because somewhere, very softly, Lu Guang’s heart begins to break in a way from which it might never recover.

 

***

 

He has been at the police station for three hours and thirty-three minutes. He knows because he checks his wristwatch, which is still intact.

He doesn’t know why he has been stalling for that long. Cheng Xiaoshi should be safe by now—not that he can recall what has happened. Which might exactly be the problem.

But Lu Guang is tired, for more reasons than he can admit.

The door clicks open.

Qian Jin steps in, tailored suit immaculate, umbrella dripping faint trails of rainwater behind him.

Lu Guang doesn’t lift his head. The scent of Qian Jin’s cologne—sharp, clean, designed to cover the rot underneath—is still the same like a month ago. A year ago.

“Quite a mess,” Qian Jin says lightly, setting down a dry briefcase with a click loud enough to be a threat.

Detective Li steps aside without protest. Qian Jin always gets what he wants.

He sits across from Lu Guang, crosses one leg over the other, and smiles. “Fortunately, I'm here to clean it up. Or maybe to grant you three wishes—if you don’t rub me wrong this time, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang meets his eyes at last. His gaze is careful and his eyes are blank—a thousand walls erected behind a single look.

“I have to commend you for a job well done, too,” Qian Jin’s voice is pitched for intimacy. “You covered well. It would’ve been so much easier if you’d just joined me, you know. A mind like yours… utterly wasted playing knight. Especially for a piece as useless as the King.”

Lu Guang says nothing. He remembers the offers Qian Jin made last year: protection, power, a seat at the table where the meat was carved. He remembers saying no, quietly but firmly enough. And he also remembers the glint in Qian Jin’s eyes—something more dangerous than anger.

Lu Guang knew he'd live to remember the consequences, too. He was just delaying time.

“You’re lucky,” Qian Jin continues, flipping open the briefcase to pull out papers Lu Guang doesn't bother to look at. “One or two threads looser and you’d be charged with obstruction, if not worse.”

Lu Guang lets the words bleed into the room and die there.

Qian Jin leans in, voice soft. “You’re lucky because I still like you.”

Lu Guang folds his hands on the table. Qian Jin smiles wider.

“And because you’re still useful.”

There it is, there laid bare—no needs for the theatre now.

Lu Guang could walk away. He could drag Cheng Xiaoshi out of the mess, run until the city’s skyline crumbled behind them.

But he thinks of Cheng Xiaoshi’s golden ticket to the NCPA. He thinks of the offer Vein pulled strings to secure—an acting programme of which Cheng Xiaoshi had dreamed for years, the kind of opportunity that doesn’t come back around once shattered.

His mind drifts to the way Qian Jin had quietly tied it all to Lu Guang’s silence: One wrong move, and your King loses everything. Qian Jin continues, voice deceptively sympathetic.

“You’ve made your choices. You want your star boy to have his future? Good. Let him have it. But it’s a shame, Lu Guang, how you don’t get to stay and watch it.”

Lu Guang breathes once. Twice.

“And if I do?”

Qian Jin shrugs. “Then I suppose accidents happen. Sponsors back out and doors close, no? It’s such an unpredictable industry, you understand that.”

Lu Guang looks down at his hands. His knuckles are pale.

Qian Jin’s voice is almost gentle. “You’re protecting him, Lu Guang. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? And you considered leaving anyway. I'm not a horseman of the apocalypse. At best I'm just a catalyst—so don’t look back this time and he will still be there.”

He thinks of Cheng Xiaoshi’s bright smile; of the way Cheng Xiaoshi had once said, ‘As long as you’re with me, I’m never ashes—forever phoenix for you, Guangguang.’

Lu Guang closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he is colder. He feels the walls close around his ribs until he can barely breathe. Finally, the concession arrives.

“What do I have to pay?”

Qian Jin smiles, satisfied. He rises and snaps the briefcase shut. “You’re smart, Lu Guang. Smarter than most.”

He pauses at the door.

“Shame you’re such a romantic,” he adds as an afterthought.

Lu Guang doesn’t watch him leave. He sits there, the buzz of the fluorescent lights filling the emptiness Qian Jin left behind, and thinks:

Protect him. Hurt him. Protect him. Hurt him.

It has always been like that—the way love sometimes feels like drowning someone just to keep them from burning.

It has always tasted of the impossibility of keeping yourself from looking back.

 

◑

 

Lu Guang stares at his boba, hoping it might rearrange itself into answers.

It doesn’t.

Across from him, Xu Shanshan is mutilating a slice of strawberry cake. “You’ve been moping for almost a week, which would've been impressive if it weren’t alarming.”

“I’m not—”

“You are,” Qiao Ling says smoothly. “Even your neutral face looks abandoned. I expected to find ‘if found, return immediately to owner’ label at the back of your neck.”

Lu Guang exhales through his nose. They don’t mention Cheng Xiaoshi by name. They don’t mention the look on Lu Guang’s face when Cheng Xiaoshi remembered everything, either. That too is off-limits.

Qiao Ling stirs her tea. “We’re not asking for a confession and neither are we here to dissect what happened during the retreat. We know you won’t talk about the Incident™. Or the breakup. Or the vanishing act that followed.”

Lu Guang remains silent.

He doesn’t mention how he still hears Cheng Xiaoshi laugh—really laugh, that stupid wheezy one—every time someone says baobei. Or how he can’t walk past vending machines without remembering the time Cheng Xiaoshi made him try ten different canned coffees because ‘palate calibration is a form of intimacy.’

He doesn’t say how over the past four months Cheng Xiaoshi had looked at him like he was the ending to a sentence he had forgot how to start—and most of all, he doesn’t say how, six days ago, he had remurdered Cheng Xiaoshi by intercepting his confession. How he had remurdered his own heart.

So no. He doesn’t talk. Because if he does, he might not stop; he will leak and leak and leak and—

 “We’re not trying to corner you, Lu Guang. This isn’t a trial.”

Xu Shanshan punctuates her words with a sigh. Qiao Ling picks up the thread, voice softening.

“But if it were, Lu Guang, you’d lose. You keep building your case for why this hurts, and none for why you’re still here. Because from where we’re sitting, it looks like you’re just waiting again. Like last time.”

He says nothing.

Because he is still here, despite every quiet reason not to be and despite the fact that, again, Cheng Xiaoshi hasn’t reached out—no call or message or knock at the door.

Exactly like last time.

And Lu Guang is tired of pretending he doesn’t feel that.

“It’s not something to blame him for—not reaching out, I mean. If anything, it makes sense… that he wouldn’t.”

Xu Shanshan arches an eyebrow. “Sure. If this were chess.”

Qiao Ling leans in, gentler now. “You’re angry he didn’t reach out. That’s fair.”

“I’m not angry. I’m—”

Lu Guang doesn’t finish, because the truth is softer. Worse.

He’s hurt. Because once again, he made the mess easier for Cheng Xiaoshi to walk away from. And Cheng Xiaoshi did.

Xu Shanshan sips her coffee, then too casually adds, “Ever wonder why the cipher was programmed to be received now—after all this time?”

Lu Guang blinks.

“And why the password is that day, as you yourself have pointed out?”

Qiao Ling tilts her head. “He set the trigger years ago, before he lost his memories—among other more important things, of course. That box was meant for his future self—a little time capsule.”

A pause.

“It was entrusted to a version of him that might forget, but still needed to remember the day he couldn’t stop loving you. It was for someone he trusted more than he trusted himself, Lu Guang. Not even a time capsule—I'd this point, I'd call it more a love letter.”

Lu Guang’s mouth goes dry.

He thinks of that moment in rehearsal when Cheng Xiaoshi, unprompted, quoted Duras back to him, of how Cheng Xiaoshi always narrated under pressure because he picked up monologuing to make Lu Guang laugh—how he’d asked Lu Guang, once, if there was such a thing as missing someone backwards, like an ache from the future.

Now Lu Guang sees it for what it was.

It wasn’t just the confrontation or the silence after. It’s this, this crack in logic—this impossibly sentimental breadcrumb left by a boy who pretended for years that he felt nothing.

He’d thought Cheng Xiaoshi wanted to forget him.

But Cheng Xiaoshi had planned for remembering.

Before it all.

He'd told Cheng Xiaoshi himself: the cipher was never meant for him. Even now, Lu Guang doesn’t know what to do with that.

“You thought he stopped loving you,” Xu Shanshan prods gently. “But what if he never did, are you willing to sit with that softness the same way you’ve self-flagellated for years?”

There’s a silence then—one that is of everything Lu Guang has never said, and everything he almost believed. If Li Tianxi comes back and she has Li Tianchen’s thumb drive, Qian Jin is finished. That’s why he wanted Li Tianchen gone. That’s why Cheng Xiaoshi was dangerous.

Lu Guang closes his eyes.

He remembers the night Cheng Xiaoshi knocked on his door just to return a book he hadn’t borrowed. It seers even no—how Cheng Xiaoshi lingered in the hallway as though trying to ask for something he couldn’t dare taint.

How Lu Guang let him leave.

Again. Only to regret it three nights later, in the rain, alone with a book. Four, in the hospital, alone with the memories.

He presses his palms against the paper cup. It’s cold now. Also like before.

And suddenly, he wants nothing more than to warm something. Anything.

Even if it’s just the space between them.

 

***

~

Lu Guang never meant to avoid him. He just started measuring each interaction like an equation: risk, reward, damage output. Every glance from Cheng Xiaoshi now lands as a test he’s going to fail regardless of having come prepared.

Regardless of it being his favourite subject.

Now, he’s heading to the auditorium, unsure what he wants. He can't write. He can't study. He can't get rid of Qian Jin. All his mind does is replay the tainted interactions he has been having with Cheng Xiaoshi lately.

You’re avoiding me.

Was it easier to love me before?

Give me up, Lu Guang.

Lu Guang was bracing for impact when Cheng Xiaoshi has cornered him. But he didn’t argue—because he'd resigned himself to the fact that even the truth won’t help.

Lu Guang could’ve said, I know you didn’t do it.

He could’ve said, I saw it. I covered it.

He could’ve said, You were trying to save someone.

But he didn’t.

Because none of those things matters next to the truth clawing at his ribs: You’ve stopped trying to save yourself.

And that is the part that breaks him: Cheng Xiaoshi dancing on the edge of self-destruction as though it’s been the role he’s been waiting to perfect for all those years.

Lu Guang almost left then, because staying has started to feel like bleeding with purpose. But his heart moves first.

I thought, if you’d forgotten the worst of it, maybe you’d remember the rest.

He means: the good parts.

The tenderness.

The rain.

The watch.

The love.

The everything in between.

Everything they have been building for two years. Over one year as friend, six months as more. The ups and the downs, the tragedy and the comedy—and somehow they still circle back to one another.

Even when Vein's group entered the picture—when Cheng Xiaoshi started flirting with enrolling on a postgrad programme in another university.

But somehow it runs deeper than that. His inherent dislike for Liu Xiao? It isn't because Lu Guang is possessive. It’s simpler and much cleaner than that: he doesn’t like the way Cheng Xiaoshi changes around Liu Xiao. It’s like watching someone wear their own face wrong—like watching kindness folded into cruelty so carefully that even Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t realise it anymore.

And when Cheng Xiaoshi laughs too loud, it’s static—white noise trying to drown something out. So Lu Guang just stands across the room and counts the seconds between smiles.

Later, Cheng Xiaoshi dares him to say it—that he disapproves, that he’s judging him.

But Lu Guang won’t give him that; he won't tell him, You want me to name it. You want me to be the villain.

So now Lu Guang finds Cheng Xiaoshi in the corridor outside the dressing rooms.

It’s late—maybe early. It is one of those in-between hours where the lights buzz louder than the silence. Cheng Xiaoshi is leaning against the wall. There’s something reckless in his posture—elbows sharp and smile already forming. It’s the kind of smile that says, Go ahead; make it hurt. I’ll just laugh.

Lu Guang wants to say something simple—anchoring. Come home. You haven’t eaten anything substantial today. Let’s just… stop this for a night.

But Cheng Xiaoshi beats him to it.

“Lost, Lumen?” His voice is stretched thin, drunk on something worse than liquor.

Lu Guang watches him, trying his best to level the memories. But it has been weeks of this—Cheng Xiaoshi burning through himself, trying to run out of fuel. The parties. The whispers. The bodies. Liu Xiao’s shadow stitched to his side. And Cheng Xiaoshi’s eyes—those beautifully earnest eyes that never learnt to hide anything—haven’t looked at Lu Guang straight in days.

“Or maybe it’s because you shouldn’t be here,” A beat. Then, softer, almost amused, Cheng Xiaoshi tacks on, “Wrong script, wrong cue, yeah?”

Lu Guang leans against the opposite wall. He can't even bring himself to speak his name, so he just says,

“I’m tired.”

“Of me?” It’s too fast to be this light—not with the way he’d had it ready.

“Of watching you destroy yourself,” Lu Guang counters.

And Cheng Xiaoshi laughs, properly this time—a joyless, brittle thing.

“You think this is new? You think this started after the incident? You're adorable, Guangguang.”

Lu Guang flinches. Cheng Xiaoshi sees it—then he twists the knife.

“I’ve always been like this, Lu Guang. You were just too busy playing saviour to notice.”

Lu Guang stays quiet. He knows anything he says will come out wrong. Or worse—it might come out honest.

Cheng Xiaoshi steps forward. He’s close enough for Lu Guang to register the smell of theatre dust and cheap cologne—the same scent that used to cling to Lu Guang’s pillow.

“You were relieved, weren’t you? When I forgot. Clean slate, no guilt—just me, scrubbed down.”

Lu Guang shakes his head. “But that’s the thing, Cheng Xiaoshi, you never needed to be scrubbed down. You needed to stop setting yourself on fire just to see who’d burn with you.”

Cheng Xiaoshi goes still. And then, slowly as though choosing the words from a shelf, he says,

“What's the point? You’re not staying, are you?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer.

Cheng Xiaoshi nods once. It’s too sharp. “Right. Thought so.”

Lu Guang doesn’t want to say it, but it’s there already, between them. So he just quietly breathes out; it feels final somehow.

“If you don’t want me to stay, I won’t.”

Cheng Xiaoshi laughs again and it lands wrong; it’s too cracked.

“You say that like it’s up to me.”

Lu Guang meets his eyes. “It is.”

Cheng Xiaoshi holds his gaze for too long, then he looks away. A few months ago, he’d asked Cheng Xiaoshi, Do you think we choose the people who ruin us?

Now he knows: we don’t. But we do choose to stay. Lu Guang wishes he had that luxury.

But Cheng Xiaoshi's mouth is working into phantom of a smile.

“You should go. I wouldn’t want to hold you down anymore. This was never for forever anyway.”

Lu Guang waits a second—just one.

And then he does; he walks away.

He doesn’t look back.

Which is, of course, the part that breaks him.

 

***

 

Lu Guang reads the report three times. The first time, he reads it like a student—controlled and logical and with zero emotions. The second time, he reads it like someone trying to find proof of a ghost he'd repeatedly kissed. The third time, he doesn’t really read at all; he only stares at the highlighted parts—the parts where Cheng Xiaoshi’s brain is more than a little concussed and the implication that something has broken in him, subtly, irrevocably.

He doesn’t tell Cheng Xiaoshi how hard that words psychogenic amnesia hit him, as if something once contained has now spilled out. Not because he couldn’t, which is also true, but because it wouldn’t have mattered. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t even glance his direction as he walks out of the hospital. He doesn’t tell him happy birthday.

 

Lu Guang doesn’t speak on the walk home. They’re not even walking together; they just exist in one another’s orbit—an accident of non-proximity. Cheng Xiaoshi wouldn’t notice anyway; he’s busy texting someone who still exists in this version of his life—the one where he doesn’t forget them.

By the time they reach the flat, Cheng Xiaoshi looks at Lu Guang like he’s a stranger borrowing someone else’s umbrella. Lu Guang doesn’t offer to stay. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t ask him to.

Because Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember that six nights ago, Lu Guang ended up alone in the rain. Because Cheng Xiaoshi had returned—flung—a piece of Lu Guang's heart at him.

Like it meant nothing—like the past three years they shared—like the memories only Lu Guang has to bear now.

 

Two days later, alone, Lu Guang sits on the edge of Cheng Xiaoshi’s bed. It still smells faintly of bergamot and something sweeter—probably spilled boba from a week ago, or maybe the lemon shampoo Cheng Xiaoshi pretends he doesn't like.

Lu Guang unlocks the phone without hesitation.

The passcode is a six-digit date.

I can simply tell you. Or I can let you guess the exact date of when you became my favourite sin, Guangguang.

It’s the date Cheng Xiaoshi has figured it out—when Cheng Xiaoshi leaned over the railing of that ridiculous escape room pirate ship—Midnight Sun—and said, ‘You always know what I’m thinking before I do. It’s disgusting. We should be married.’

Lu Guang had laughed, and Cheng Xiaoshi had stared, like he knew he was in trouble—a reversal of an earlier moment. It was a recreation of the prophesised moment on the rooftop before they even started dating.

Lu Guang hadn’t known what to say but he wanted to kiss him then. Probably even before that.

He types it in. 2-4-0-2-1-0.

It works. It was either that or the Phantom’s closing night. God, they had twice the number of firsts: kisses, realisation, confessions—all because Cheng Xiaoshi forgets. All because Cheng Xiaoshi does it loudly for Lu Guang's quiet.

No time to mourn the past. That comes later. In pieces.

Lu Guang gets to work.

One by one, he deletes them—the photos, the voice notes, the playlists. The dumb shared calendar reminders that said things like ‘softcore night 💀💅’ or ‘make Guangguang cry with spicy food.’ The half-written notes in Cheng Xiaoshi’s own handwriting. The ‘don’t forget this’ lists that always ended in jokes only they understood.

He wipes the shared cloud. The backups. The synced browser history. The folders. He erases himself like he was just a badly-written chapter.

It’s methodical. He’s good at methodical.

Which means he doesn’t cry. Not when he deletes the blurry video of Cheng Xiaoshi mumbling half-asleep, ‘Don’t forget to pick up the thing for Lu Guang,’ before knocking the phone off the bed. Not even when he finds the secret album labelled ‘WHEN OBLIVION CLAIMS ME’ and scrolls through all the photos Cheng Xiaoshi had taken of him when he thought Lu Guang wasn’t looking—the one where he smugly holds Lu Guang's copy of The Lover while Lu Guang sleeps soundly next to him in bed.

Lu Guang just deletes them all—even the one where Cheng Xiaoshi is holding a blue watch with a smug look, like he’s finally solved something meant only for him.

At the end, Lu Guang goes to the mirror, stares for a second too long, and says nothing.

Because ghosts don’t talk; they just make sure the living forget them properly.

 

***

 

Lu Guang doesn’t notice her until she’s right in front of him.

There is just too much noise and too many strangers, and he is still not used to how different silence sounds in English.

She is wearing a mustard coat and carrying a coffee she won’t drink. The badge on her chest says ‘Qiao Ling, Producer,’ but the way she’s standing tells him this visit isn’t about film.

They don’t hug. She clearly wants to, but he just nods and she smiles, tight-lipped. Instead, they talk about safe things for two minutes—projects, travel, how rainy this city is even in May—before she pulls something from her coat pocket, a little thing wrapped in an old folded napkin.

She holds it out without speaking, and even before opening it, Lu Guang knows its contents. He’s carried it like his own heart—like Cheng Xiaoshi's—for months.

The watch is still the same shade of midnight blue, with its face cracked down the centre, a hairline fracture in time. The band’s leather is worn at the clasp—still fitted to someone else's wrist.

Lu Guang stares.

Qiao Ling clears her throat once. Then again.

“The little break might be partially my fault,” she says. Then adds, quieter, “He asked me to throw it away. But I've been carrying it around, I'm not sure why. Maybe I just hoped I'd run into you… you always knew just—”

She looks away, biting off the rest of the sentence. Lu Guang nods, but he still doesn’t take it.

“You refuse to tell me what happened,” she continues. “And he’s forgotten all about it—that idiot refuses to even remember because ‘The past is past, Qiao Ling.’ I won't ask you again, and he doesn’t bother wanting to know again.”

He looks up.

Her eyes are glassy but steady.

“I thought if anyone should hold the weight of that pain, it should be you. Because it should mean more… or at least it should mean more than just pain. And I'm sorry the roles have decided its your brunt, Lu Guang. That it’s only yours.”

He takes the watch.

It’s cold. It should be: time, after all, is a cold thing.

He turns it over in his hand once, twice. Then without a comment, he slips it into his pocket.

“Thank you,” he says eventually. It sounds like someone else is speaking.

She looks like she wants to say more. She doesn’t.

They part without saying goodbye. She hugs him—long, they way someone who had let go before would.

He understands.

Later that night, he will sit alone in his flat with the watch beside him on the table, watching the hour hand limp across the broken glass, desperately trying to go back.

It doesn’t. Can't. Won't.

It only ever moves forward, even when the sun forgets to rise.

Chapter 16: Cheng Xiaoshi and the Boy Who Said Nothing but Meant Everything

The theatre office being empty doesn’t deter Lu Guang; he is only here because he has forgot his notes and he didn’t want to go earlier while rehearsals were going.

It’s been eight days—eight days since and Lu Guang is no longer sure of the ‘until.’ Which is funny, because come to think of it, he never was—not when he once again miscalculated the consequences of love.

Lu Guang forces his gaze away from the memories. He doesn’t mean to touch the books piled on the side table, but he finds himself straightening one, then another.

The third is The Lover, which is familiar but now soft at the spine from rereading. Dong Yi has kept it well.

Lu Guang flips it open.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s messy handwriting stares back. The margins are overcrowded—circles, scrawls, one page is almost obliterated. It is a war zone of thoughts: ‘what does it mean to choose the person who can’t love you back?’; ‘does knowing it’s doomed make it romantic or just an advanced case of being down bad?’; ‘god this is so guangguang-coded it’s disgusting’; ‘mandatory kiss xiaoshi stop here pls cooperate’

The ramblings are everywhere, in the margins and between paragraphs. Cheng Xiaoshi annotated like he was drunk or in love or both. One scrawl across a page margin attests to that; it reads: ‘she dies for love and for what? he was mid.’ Another reads, ‘he didn’t even notice her hair changed. my guy deserved to suffer.’

It’s a retaliatory move, clearly—a continuation of that long-past, no-longer-funny argument where Lu Guang had without mercy annotated Cheng Xiaoshi’s copy of Phantom during finals and Cheng Xiaoshi nearly committed murder in the cafeteria.

Lu Guang had written: ‘Raoul is a labrador. And you are biased.’

Cheng Xiaoshi had responded: ‘and you are wrong. I am never biased. (except about your stupid neck mole. shut up.)’

Lu Guang exhales through his nose. That sound that isn’t quite a laugh.

There’s another note, tucked in sideways—a strip of receipt paper, scribbled in a rush: ‘someone said i only go for unavailable men. that’s not true. you kissed me first.’

Lu Guang closes the book gently. He holds it too long. There is no need to pocket the note now—not when he has it memorised, along with the handwriting—with the quiet, stupid ache of it.

Somewhere beneath all that snark, Cheng Xiaoshi had been watching him—closely enough to know what Lu Guang was too careful to say. Lu Guang's hand instinctively reaches to feel his wristwatch.

Except that this wasn’t the devastating part. Even now, remembering the engraving on the inside of the backpiece hits him as sharply as the first time.

The watch is solar-powered. It has always worked, never needing repair—which was the point. Cheng Xiaoshi had said so—‘Midnight blue so you'd never forget the sun.’

Lu Guang never opened it simply because there was no reason to. All until it becomes the most natural thing to have done. Once. Before.

‘Let me guess. Secret engraving hidden on the back piece? Hidden message like ‘I’ll always love you’ or ‘I’ll haunt you if you forget me?’

Because only Cheng Xiaoshi knows how to wrap a devastating truth in the form of a passed-off comment. A joke.

The memory makes Lu Guang's breath catch. He didn’t use to be this sentimental—so easily swayed—but his world needs a moment to steady. So he just sits there, stupid watch in his palm, understanding all at once that Cheng Xiaoshi never meant to forget him.

for every time loop, even if i break.

Even in the rewound reel of his mind, even when everything else blurred—Cheng Xiaoshi had tried to remember. He had tried to leave behind a trail of love-laced breadcrumbs. For Lu Guang. Only for Lu Guang.

And Lu Guang had worn it every day. Obliviously, he had worn it like a reminder of the one person he could never forget.

Now he knows—now he knows and it hurts like hell. Because even if Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t remember loving him, Lu Guang remembers being loved.

In every time loop.

Broken or not.

Lu Guang collects his notebook.

He doesn’t put the Duras back where it was.

 

◑

 

One of the softest memories that hit Cheng Xiaoshi is, ironically, when he remembered Lu Guang would have left him anyway. It would've been one of the sweetest memories if it didn’t unfold in five tragic acts.

It starts with the devil giving him all he has ever wanted in the form of a golden opportunity.

‘You don't know how good you are yet. Lucky for you, I do—which’s why you get an audition in NCPA next month. It’s full ride, if you survive it.’

Cheng Xiaoshi says yes before his heartbeat catches up.

Across the hall, Lu Guang watches from the shadows, arms folded and expression unreadable. It’s the first time Cheng Xiaoshi realises luck sometimes feels exactly like fear.

A week later, he’s banging on Lu Guang’s door with the maniac energy of a madman.

“Lu Guang! Lu Guang, I got it! I— I mean I might get it, but—”

Lu Guang can barely keep himself from smiling. “I see we’ve skipped ‘hello.’”

Cheng Xiaoshi grabs him by the shoulders, grinning too hard. “I mean— Beijing— Vein's program. I'm shortlisted—if I don’t screw it up. It’s real, Lu Guang—”

He’s shining so brightly that he doesn’t even see the quiet sadness forming in the corners of Lu Guang’s mouth.

“Careful, Cheng Xiaoshi. You're going to set the city on fire,”

Cheng Xiaoshi already misses the way Lu Guang says you, as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever hold.

A week later, they’re walking back from late-night dumplings, stuffed and stupid with happiness. Cheng Xiaoshi pitches it too casually for something he has been overthinking for ten days now.

“Hey… you ever think about, like, moving? Like, Beijing’s got better food, moodier atmosphere too. It can fit your whole mysterious writer aura.”

Lu Guang glances at him. “It does have worse rent too.”

“Yeah, but—” Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “It’s... it’s not forever.”

He tries not to look like he’s asking for anything. Lu Guang tries not to look like he’s already bleeding.

Two days later, Cheng Xiaoshi is cursing over scholarship video instructions.

“This lighting sucks,” Cheng Xiaoshi huffs before throwing himself backwards onto Lu Guang’s bed. “I look like a corpse.”

“You look fine,” Lu Guang says, adjusting the camera again. “Just stop moving and it’ll come out well.”

“I’m gonna blow it— They’re gonna see the video and blacklist me from every theatre in the country. I just wanted to be this cool tragically-in-love-boyfriend who wins a provincial theatre award and uses the entire speech to talk about his boyfriend’s moles and how they shaped him into the genius method actor he is.”

Lu Guang crouches down until they’re eye-level.

“Cheng Xiaoshi. You don’t need to be anyone else.”

Cheng Xiaoshi blinks at him, stunned silent for a beat.

“You'd let me proposes with stage blood still on my hands and agree it’s metaphorical?”

“There are less traumatic ways to make me say yes.” Lu Guang smiles. “But metaphor or not, I'd still kiss you while the audience clapped and while thunder rolled and the sky fell, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi makes a small sound. He doesn’t push it further and somehow he manages to sit still long enough to get the recording done. It’s the first time Lu Guang lies to him: he promises they have all the time in the world.

Afterwards, they sit outside, splitting a terrible bag of convenience store popcorn. Cheng Xiaoshi is tossing popcorn at Lu Guang’s forehead.

“If I bomb the audition, I’m moving into your attic and I’ll haunt you like a tragic little theatre ghost.”

“We don't have an attic.”

“I’ll make one. I'll dig a hole under the floorboards. You'll hear my heartbeat—nevermore, Lenore, nevermore.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “You’re oddly committed to homelessness and Poe is never romantic.”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans back against the bench, mouth full of caramel and salt. The sky above them is the kind of black that melts.

“You'd still let me stay, though,” he says, pretending it’s a joke. “Right, Lu Guang?”

Lu Guang doesn’t answer immediately. When he does, it sounds like the worst promise he’ll ever keep.

“Yeah. Always.”

Weeks blur into each other: nights get colder and futures grow louder. They’re drunk on cheap beer, exhaustedly slumped against each other on a rooftop students aren’t supposed to access.

Morning comes like a hangover neither of them can shake.

Cheng Xiaoshi is hunched over his scholarship forms, chewing his pencil—Lu Guang's, actually—and muttering curses at bureaucratic language.

“This is basically a threat letter. ‘Dear sir, let me in or I'll cry and ruin your carpet.’”

Lu Guang smiles faintly behind his book.

Cheng Xiaoshi jots something down, pauses, then adds brightly, “First paycheck, I’m buying you the ugliest watch in Beijing for your birthday.”

Lu Guang hums without looking up.

And Cheng Xiaoshi can hear it now—the nature of that hum. Because there are things you don’t say because you love someone too much to make them choose.

 

◑

 

Lu Guang knows there have been more than just that one missed call or the almost run-in in Shanshan’s—in the same way he now knows leaving will, once again, be inevitable.

Because now, too, he knows Vein roped him into late rehearsals as a pretext; the doors to the stage are propped open and echoes of laughter cling to the rafters, and Lu Guang just had to leave a single folding chair abandoned on the edge of the spotlight, still warm, as he bolts out of the theatre—right before Cheng Xiaoshi arrives.

It is also right before he can't resist but still watch Every Moment in Between again—right before he fall into it. She is named Every Moment In Between, but it doesn't feel like a story about strangers. It feels like someone cracked open a chest Lu Guang had nailed shut years ago and turned its contents into dialogue.

First time he has watched the full run of Scene Four, Lu Guang has been sitting near the back out of sight. Always out of sight. He doesn’t even know why he’s back in the theatre, not when he has already confirmed it the first time: memories feel like bruises you press on to check if they still hurt.

Still, he pokes the tender bruises. Maybe just to feel something, maybe so he’d mistake the burn of the pain for something tenderer. But still, he watches Cheng Xiaoshi with a stillness that hurts to hold.

At first, he tells himself it’s the script—the words—the cleverness of it.

But it’s not.

It’s the way Cheng Xiaoshi says half a life with a crack in his voice that no one else hears. Every time, without fail, it made Lu Guang finger the watch as though holding onto something too small and too holy to survive daylight. Then Cheng Xiaoshi smiles when he talks about staying—and his hands shake just enough to betray the lie.

Maybe those two Lu Guang could survive somehow, but not when Cheng Xiaoshi says ghost—then Lu Guang almost flinches. Because that’s what he became for Cheng Xiaoshi: a ghost—a wound too old to bleed cleanly. And Lu Guang realises, sitting there, breath held like a coward, that he isn’t just watching Cheng Xiaoshi play Ling Chengshi.

He’s watching Cheng Xiaoshi grieve—not for the character or the scene, but for him. For them.

There just isn't a goddamn thing he can do about it, not when it’s too late to reach across the space between them and not when the play is already written.

Because the words are already said.

And because—most brutal of all—Lu Guang knows: Cheng Xiaoshi is still bleeding. And he’s still too proud to ask anyone to stop the bleeding.

Even him.

Especially him.

 

◑

 

It doesn’t take much moping before Cheng Xiaoshi decides he needs to rewrite the ending. It takes a couple of rehearsals while June breathes its last breaths and while Cheng Xiaoshi tries not to.

 

The first time, Cheng Xiaoshi tries to call.

He drafts the message three times before giving up and just hitting the green button instead.

It rings. And rings.

He knows Lu Guang’s phone is on—he saw him check it earlier.

Still, there is no answer.

The line dies with a polite click.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t try again that night.

 

The second time, Cheng Xiaoshi finds himself outside Lu Guang’s flat with no plan or good excuse. It is just him: a paper bag of dumplings in his hand and a head full of things he can’t unsay.

He raises a fist to knock—only to soon let it fall.

Then he stands, pressing his forehead to the door instead for a second, feeling the cool wood against his skin.

Footsteps approach inside—then veer away.

Cheng Xiaoshi takes the dumplings and doesn’t look back.

 

The third time, they almost meet by accident.

Cheng Xiaoshi is turning the corner of the theatre when Lu Guang steps out the back entrance, head down and earbuds in.

For a moment, they’re breathing the same sharp winter air.

For a moment, it could happen—a word, a glance, a something.

Then Liu Xiao spots him from the loading dock. He then catches his wrist with two fingers and a smile too sharp to be friendly.

By the time Cheng Xiaoshi shakes free, Lu Guang is already gone.

 

The fourth time isn’t even a chance.

Vein’s text says: Everyone’s at Shanshan’s. Come be your best self.

By the time Cheng Xiaoshi gets there, it’s last call and only the regulars remain.

Vein shrugs, drink already half-finished—Timing, you know. It’s a tricky fickle thing.

Cheng Xiaoshi just nods, the hollow in his chest definitely not widening with every missed step.

 

It is on the walk home from the bar that Cheng Xiaoshi understands: there is no right moment coming. There won't be any miracle lining up the stars. If he wants Lu Guang back, he’ll have to go into the dark and find him there—no map and no promises.

All there is are both hands open, ready to lose again if he must.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi stumbles out into the side alley behind the morgue, jacket half-zipped, hair flattened stupidly on one side from where he earlier passed out. His breath hangs white in the night air; the world still tilts slightly when he moves.

He’s late. He knows he’s late. He just can’t remember what for.

The first thing he sees is her: Li Tianxi, crouched by the service door, wrapped in a ridiculous patchwork coat that renders her into a little thing quilted together out of old theatre props.

She’s alive—he thinks.

Her hands fly the moment she spots him. The sharp movements are fast—a sign language learnt with blood.

Dead. Li Tianchen. Her fingers cut across her throat, then press flat over her chest: grief.

Cheng Xiaoshi just stares; it doesn’t make sense.

“Xixi—wait—” His voice cracks. “Li Tianchen—what do you mean? He was fine. He—”

Another flurry where she points wildly at the morgue behind her, then at the moon overhead, then curls her fingers tight into a fist: gone.

Cheng Xiaoshi presses his palms into his eyes hard enough to see fireworks. Something about this doesn’t add up, but his brain is playing hide-and-seek with the patchwork moment and every thought slips out of his grasp before he can pin it down.

“I—I was supposed to meet you somewhere,” he says, but it sounds wrong even as he says it. “Right? You said—”

He’s babbling. She’s already tugging at his sleeve—an urgent, Move. Now.

Cheng Xiaoshi stumbles after her, into the wet city shadows, heart hammering arrhythmically against his ribs.

 

He doesn't remember exactly how they get to the station, or how she slips away before dawn just as the train’s first rumble claws at the tracks.

All he remembers is the look on her face when she signed it the last time, before vanishing into the crowd: Not safe.

 

 

Cheng Xiaoshi jerks upright at the memory slamming into him mid-conversation with Liu Xiao.

Liu Xiao is smirking, playing with his silver necklace. Only now does Cheng Xiaoshi clock it’s almost a replica of Li Tianchen's—the one he has personally unsewed from the belly of a supposedly empty box.

“Accessories have always been a fickle thing,” Liu Xiao quips. “I might just be in luck, seeing how dead boyfriends don’t need their necklaces back.”

It’s too flippant, too deliberate—and just like that, something snaps into place.

Not safe. Not gone. Hidden.

Li Tianchen didn’t die that night. Li Tianchen was hidden.

By her.

Cheng Xiaoshi's stomach turns over.

He has been protecting the wrong secret all this time.

 

◑

 

Lu Guang finds her sitting on the bench under the old train station awning, where the timetables have long since been stripped off the walls.

Without calling her name, he slows his steps. She is already watching him—that’s hear thing, less listening and more of reading the shape of the air.

Li Tianxi nods once. There is no invitation, but her hands rest openly on her knees, and that’s as much welcome as he’s ever needed.

Lu Guang sits.

For a minute, neither of them says anything. The music in the station seems to lull. It is reminiscent of the first time he spoke, really spoke, to her—his ambivalent return from Beijing after Cheng Xiaoshi's audition.

He remembers when they met—Beijing, backstage at the NCPA, all sharp lights and softer promises, six months before everything went to hell. The bright-eyed Cheng Xiaoshi had pulled him aside, dragging him into a conversation he hadn’t planned on having with a girl who spoke only through glances and the clever tilt of her fingers.

Lu Guang hadn’t particularly paid her any attention—not until he'd later met her in the train station and realised they were similar in more ways than they could account for. Both are roped into drama, literally, because of and by the people they love—and both are ready to give all flesh and every single drop of blood of their heart for those people, just so they wouldn’t hurt.

Lu Guang never asked why she didn’t call him when it fell apart. Back then, he thought it was because she knew better. Now he knows it was much worse: she didn’t think he could help.

Li Tianxi shifts beside him. She takes something from her jacket pocket—a battered flash drive—and places it lightly between them.

Her fingers brush the surface, the movement deliberate. Sorry, she signs slowly enough for the weight to bleed through.

Lu Guang watches her hand a moment longer before answering. “I know you are.”

She looks at him, questioning, maybe even a little doubtful. So he sighs, scrubbing a hand through his hair.

“You did what you had to, Li Tianxi. I get it.”

A pause.

“You’re not the only one who made a stupid choice thinking it was for the right reasons. We often miscalculate the obvious—probably because we’re too close to how it feels.”

The words taste bitter but true.

He doesn’t have to name the memory dragging behind the words: the retreat, the intercepted confession, himself—stupid, proud, terrified—breaking everything before it could break him.

Li Tianchen signs something faster this time, her expression tightening: If there'd been any other way—

“I know,” he says again, cutting her off gently. “I really do. But it is what it is and we can't turn back time, especially when neither of us is sure we will make a different choice.”

She exhales; it part laugh, part sob.

Lu Guang reaches for the flash drive. It’s lighter than it should be, considering what it probably contains. The leaked video a day ago won't be enough to drag Qian Jin down, even if he’s already hanging by a string.

Lu Guang swallows. He almost says Cheng Xiaoshi’s name, which still feels like barbered wire in his throat. The best he could afford right now is:

“He emailed you what he recently found?”

Li Tianxi nods cautiously, then she tells him all about it.

There was no explicit deal. Three years ago, it was more of a moment of standing on opposite sides of wreckage, where Cheng Xiaoshi had tossed her a life raft. If things ever get wiry. If you can't reach me—send this and I will find my way home.

Li Tianxi had waited—long enough to see a crack open.

Lu Guang flips the drive between his fingers, once.

“Right. A gamble. Which makes what the big emergency now?”

Li Tianxi hesitates, then taps out a few sharp words against her thigh. Qian Jin is flailing hard according to Gēge. Worse than before. The drive has the missing pieces. He too had to wait and make sure.

Lu Guang frowns.

“And Li Tianchen?”

Li Tianxi blinks, almost smiling—sharp and exhausted.

Liu Xiao’s keeping him tucked away for now. I'm glad he’s happy; it’s been so long.

Lu Guang doesn’t hide his disbelief. “Liu Xiao?”

Li Tianchen nods; it’s a crisp and unbothered movement. Lu Guang leans back against the bench, staring at the rotten awning beams above.

Of course. Liu Xiao, not a king, not a knight, and certainly not a rook—just a pawn that makes its way to the end of the board. He’s probably the one who had probably nudged Li Tianchen into silence and into patiently not breaking until Cheng Xiaoshi was ready to break himself open.

He looks down at the drive. Three years late, and somehow still right on time.

“Guess we’re all still playing stupid games,”

Li Tianchen reaches out and taps two fingers against the back of his hand. Lu Guang looks up.

She signs carefully: Not games. We’re trying not to lose again.

Lu Guang smiles, but it’s a tired thing.

“God. That sounds like something he'd say. Do you think that’s still possible?”

Li Tianxi doesn’t answer.

Lu Guang doesn’t think there is an answer.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't come here because he wants to. He comes because some things don’t heal until you drag them into the light and leave them there—and walk away before they can claw back into your hands.

It’s not about revenge, barely even about pride. It’s because somewhere between the wreckage and the forgetting, he promised himself one thing—that he would make it right; he would drag Lu Guang free of all of it, even if he had to claw through every lie, every ghost, every hand trying to hold him back.

Cheng Xiaoshi knows better now. Fixing things doesn’t mean putting them back the way they were. It means making sure the rot doesn’t further spread.

So tonight isn’t about winning; it’s about ending it.

 

When the door swings open without a knock, Qian Jin doesn’t bother looking up though his pen stills mid-signature. There is a little twitch at the corner of his mouth belying how he knows exactly who it is.

So Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t explain himself. Instead, he slouches against the wall, rolling in his palm the glass paperweight he picked from the side table. It makes him wonder, how heavy a man's life really is.

Qian Jin exhales a long sound—the beginning of a storm.

“If you’re here to gloat for one leaked clip, then save your breath. You won't have you victory lap, even if you remember all of it, because you're not the only one with a story to tell.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, almost curious. Qian Jin leans forward with his elbows on the desk, the way cornered men do when they think bluffing harder will save them.

“Or let me lay it in terms you'd understand. If you think you’ve cleaned up your mess—buried all the bodies—then you're still just a kid playing at wars you can't win, Cheng Xiaoshi.”

Cheng Xiaoshi taps the paperweight against his palm thoughtfully, keeping time to a song only he can hear.

“Lu Guang,” Qian Jin presses in deliberately. “He’s not untouchable—never was as you’ve found out the hard way. Do you think if you leak what Li Tianchen pulled on that ship, the police won't jump at a neat little narrative? Pretty boy loses it, kills two men in cold blood. It's practically gift-wrapped—so, tell me, can you really shield him from that once I feed the right narrative?”

Cheng Xiaoshi flicks an amusedly patient glance at him, waiting for the performance to finish. Qian Jin's voice starts climbing.

“I could paint him a monster and no one would even blink. They already suspect he snapped once. There’s no scenario where you’re walking out of here with him clean, Cheng Xiaoshi. If I drag him down, no one is coming to dig him out. I won't dig him out this time.”

A beat. Two.  Then Cheng Xiaoshi smiles softly—kindly. He sets the paperweight down with a click.

“You know what’s funny? I used to be scared of you.” He tilts his head. “But it’s almost sad how much you're working for a checkmate that you don’t even see the board has already burned.”

Confused, Qian Jin’s mouth opens. Cheng Xiaoshi grins.

“So let me toss back one for you? Do you think Li Tianchen ever needed saving—that any of us did?” A beat. “You should’ve paid closer attention, Qian Jin. While you were so busy stitching together your little horror story, you didn’t notice what was missing.”

Qian Jin blinks. Cheng Xiaoshi leans in, voice dropping to a mock whisper.

“You staged a body, remember? You staged a death scene with a pawn or two. Except you didn’t stage it. We did.”

The silence that follows is thunderous. Qian Jin's face drains colour. Cheng Xiaoshi tilts his head, mock-thoughtful.

“Thing is, the twins are very talented, very interchangeable. Trick mirrors, fake blood, staged wounds. Theatre kids, right? They know how to put on a show—a good one at that. Bit of borrowed tricks from the Lumen playbook, and voilà! Dead enough for you to buy it—dead enough for everyone not to question who’s who, really.”

Qian Jin is frozen; he is sinking without even the dignity of a fight. Cheng Xiaoshi’s smile softens, cruel and sad at once.

“And me? I didn’t even need to pretend. I forgot—for a while. Gift from you, really. Grief makes a great alibi.”

He pushes the paperweight a little bit in Qian Jin's direction, giving a little private—amused—huff. He would've said it before even meeting Qian Jin's eyes, but the visual accompaniment is sure satisfactory.

“You seem confused, Qian Jin, so let me help you. You didn’t kill Li Tianchen. You didn’t break me. You just gave us the perfect story to disappear into. I'd applaud you—you did have a good run and you really had me, once. But the thing about getting dragged through hell twice is—you stop fearing the devil.”

Qian Jin's eyes narrow. His hand twitches towards the drawer. Cheng Xiaoshi clocks it, barely flinching. When the words resound, the echo despite how low Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice is.

“I know you want to use him against me, like you did back then. Dangle him like bait and make me tear myself apart to save him. Problem is, I already lost him once. I have taken the worst you had to throw.”

He leans in slightly, not enough to crowd, just enough to lower his voice and still be heard.

“And I’m still here.”

Qian Jin's face twitches, a muscle jumping at the corner of his mouth. Cheng Xiaoshi lets him stew in it a moment. Then, all lightness, he taps a finger against the desk.

“Oh. Forgot to mention. Li Tianchen sends his regards.”

Qian Jin’s breath hitches. He shoves up from the chair, hands braced flat on the wood.

“You’re bluffing,” he hisses. “He’s dead. I saw—”

“You saw what we wanted you to see,” Cheng Xiaoshi cuts in lazily. “You’re good at stepping over corpses, Qian Jin. You never did check if they were breathing—and I wondered if you'd guess, really, but you were too busy making sure I stayed broken.”

The blood drains from Qian Jin’s face. Cheng Xiaoshi straightens, stretching like a cat—unbothered and loose.

“Don't worry. You’re not special. Li Tianchen’s been sending love letters to a lot of people over the past week. Think thoughtful photos and little souvenirs from all your extra-curriculars over past ten years—the ones that make even your little pet judges squirm. Yours, though? They're particularly colourful. In all the copies.”

He flashes a wicked smile—maybe for the flair, maybe for the heck of it all.

“I’m not here to tell you to confess—I’m not that naïve, not anymore.” Cheng Xiaoshi turns toward the door, casual again. “But I suppose none of this matters. You’re already falling, and it has nothing to do with me anymore.”

He lingers a second longer, watching the moment Qian Jin realises he’s alone.

He watches it hurt, then he smiles—a slow, merciless thing—and steps out without a glance back.

 

 

Cheng Xiaoshi is barely outside the fancy law firm and into the sweltering July sun before a soft clap breaks the dead air.

It is slow mocking applause—the theatre kind Vein sarcastically dishes out.

He turns.

Liu Xiao leans against the pillar with an easy smile twisting his mouth. Immediately Cheng Xiaoshi can tell Liu Xiao has been waiting there for hours.

“You finally solved it—congratulations! Only took you, what, three years?”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t flinch. Liu Xiao tilts his head then shrugs.

“But I suppose if there was one thing I could bet on in this world, it’s that you’d always find your way back. It’s kind of sickening—romantic, too, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

Cheng Xiaoshi keeps watching Liu Xiao with the kind of patient detachedness you'd use while watching a lit fuse.

“You set this up,” Cheng Xiaoshi says finally; it’s not even a question.

Liu Xiao spreads his hands. “Guilty—of... lighting a few fires. Opening a few doors—nudging a few destinies—d You needed a push. You and Lu Guang. You always did.”

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't rise to it. After a beat, he asks, “And Li Tianchen?”

“He’s messy as I've told you. But he’s mine—always has been. Tale old as time: I thought maybe if I broke the world open a little, it might be big enough to keep him safe. That he wouldn’t have to fight his way out of the egg anymore.”

He says it so simply it almost sounds reasonable. Cheng Xiaoshi takes a step closer. His voice, when it comes, is almost curious.

“So this whole mess wasn’t revenge—for your older brother?” He watches the flicker of something real cross Liu Xiao’s face—gone as quickly as it came. “For Li Tianchen? For how Qian Jin used him?”

“Come on, Cheng Xiaoshi. You know better by now. What I like is chaos. It keeps the blood pumping.”

Liu Xiao pushes off the pillar and saunters closer, circling Cheng Xiaoshi as if they’re in some theatre piece only he knows the script to.

“But, sure. Maybe it was revenge. Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe I was just bored. Maybe I just enjoyed your company too much back then.”

Cheng Xiaoshi’s expression tightens. It’s subtle, that flicker under the skin. Liu Xiao, though, catches it. He leans in, dropping his voice to a mock-confessional.

“Or maybe, I had a tiny, inconvenient crush on your terrifying little boyfriend. He’s got killer eyes, literally.”

The temperature around them drops—even when Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t make a grab for Liu Xiao's neck.

Liu Xiao catches the murderous glint in Cheng Xiaoshi’s and laughs outright. Then he straightens, brushing imaginary dust off his sleeves.

“Relax, Romeo. You’re safe. I’ve got enough on my plate already. I'm already too busy writing a Lazarus act into my father’s script. A lot goes into manipulating him to accept Li Tianchen—or at least believing that, tragically...” He pulls a face of exaggerated sadness. “The liability is still alive, and very twistedly in love with his least favourite son.”

He starts to walk away, tossing the rest of his villain monologue over his shoulder.

“Sweet dreams, Cheng Xiaoshi. You'll need everything for tomorrow’s curtain call.”

It’s not even evening yet, but Liu Xiao doesn’t wait for a reply. He just vanishes round the corner like he was never really there, leaving Cheng Xiaoshi standing alone—seeing it finally for what it is.

It was never about framing Lu Guang, or saving Li Tianchen, or even bringing Qian Jin down. It was always about Cheng Xiaoshi. Always about whether he could pick up the pieces—whether he would. Somewhere along the line, Liu Xiao must have decided the world was more interesting if Cheng Xiaoshi fought for it.

Cheng Xiaoshi breathes out a laugh without sound.

Because he did—of course he did—the only way he knows how to move is toward Lu Guang, even when he didn’t remember.

Even when the road was ash and ruin.

 

◑

 

The old art room on the west side of campus is technically condemned, which means it's perfect for Lu Guang's Byronic brooding.

He’s still reliving yesterday’s Qiao Lingian intervention: the way she’d been blunt and emotionless—the way only someone who still cared enough to be furious could be.

You think disappearing is mercy? You think he won’t bleed anyway—haven't you learned better already?

He’ll be fine.

He’ll survive. That’s not the same, as has been proven. You guys need to stop with this fuckery—what's wrong with you?

He’s been reciting the same lie he told himself, so he knows Qiao Ling is right. She didn’t raise her voice when she continued; she didn’t need to. If he was going to leave, he should do it properly—Don't half-ghost him, she’d said.

You know he’s waiting for you to fight for him. He’s stupid like that—and you were the fighting sort before you decided losing was safer.

Lu Guang knows this time leaving is a choice he is making. It is not forced on him now. He is in the middle of fighting his demons when Vein props the door open with the heel of one expensive shoe. Instead of sitting, Vein leans against a desk, arms loose and posture casual in a way that never quite touches his eyes.

“You’re running,” he says with the casualty of stating the weather.

Lu Guang is standing by the window, hands in his coat pockets.

“I’m finishing what I started,”

Vein smiles slightly. “That’s a very pretty way to say running. Wish Liu Xiao were here so he'd include it in our next production.”

Dusk thickens across the glass. Lu Guang doesn’t rise to it.

Vein shrugs, straightens his cuffs. The gesture gleams wealth in places where everything else has been left to rot. “But I suppose it’s none of my business, since I'm not one of your little epics.”

Lu Guang's gaze flickers. “Then why are you here?”

Vein tilts his head. “Curiosity. Because it’s too delicious to resist and because it’s a shame. Cheng Xiaoshi is born for the stage. He’s a rare find with better instincts than most actors twice his age—which’s something I believe I told him over the phone when we first met.”

He did. Cheng Xiaoshi had taken the call on speakerphone. Lu Guang says nothing.

Vein laughs under his breath. “I think I was the one who introduced him to Liu Min. It was two weeks before the Night That Shall Not Be Mentioned—that damn invitation—give or take. First outing he actually showed up to instead of faking pneumonia or remaining tied down by his insufferably pretty boyfriend.”

Lu Guang’s throat tightens, but he keeps the tension buried somewhere too deep to reach.

“Had a lot of ambition,” Vein muses. “Still does, underneath the mess and among other things. Even Felix doesn’t have this particular flavour.”

He picks a paint chip off the desk it onto the floor. “It’s cute—watching Cheng Xiaoshi try to balance the wreckage without realising he’s holding smoke. Or maybe he knows it, that the muse is made of smoke—a simple vanishing act away from curtain call. Again… or so I've heard. I don't know. I wasn’t personally there.”

Lu Guang looks back at the window. He watches students cutting across the quad, shoulders hunched against the evening chill.

“Don't worry,” Vein adds lightly. “He's got help this time.”

Lu Guang’s mouth dries. “From whom?”

Vein smiles like a man who knows exactly how sharp he's being. “Liu Xiao has been meddling. It’s subtle, but anyone who knows him can tell. And Li Tianchen's back in the picture, so—”

A shrug.

“As long as someone is keeping an eye on the wolves. Liu Xiao doesn’t look the type, but he softens. Ask him about the necklace around his neck—almost like a tag. Property of someone, yeah?”

The crack barely shows in Lu Guang’s composure, but Vein catches it anyway—pockets it.

“You don't have to answer,” Vein is now moving toward the door. “But you should ask yourself—” A hand on the frame. A glance back. “Is it really better if you leave him trying to build something while you’re still holding the last brick? And I'm not saying that because I want him. The breakdown will give him better range—as a method actor of course. So yeah. Food for thought, Lu Guang.”

The door clicks shut behind him. Lu Guang stays frozen a moment longer, feeling the weight of it all: the silence, the choice.

Two more weeks, he tells himself, then it will all be over. He doesn’t even have the stomach to renew his now-expired passport yet.

Because if Cheng Xiaoshi’s heart is still screaming by then—

Maybe.

Maybe Lu Guang will finally be foolish enough to listen.

 

◑

 

Cheng Xiaoshi lies in the dark and counts mistakes instead of sheep. The ceiling is cracked with thin fractures he can't fix. Every time he blinks, the cracks run deeper. Every time he breathes, Lu Guang slips further out of reach.

Two weeks left until the term ends. Two weeks until Lu Guang packs the last of his silences into a suitcase and leaves without asking Cheng Xiaoshi if he should stay, without giving him the option this time.

Cheng Xiaoshi tells himself that there’s still time—that he can still shout loud enough to stop Lu Guang. But the words taste like metal in his mouth, useless and rusted through.

The non-hibernating laptop whirrs weakly at the foot of the bed. The email he sent—all the files, all the evidence, everything Qian Jin had buried—has been answered with a video attachment, short and almost clumsily filmed: Li Tianxi pulling her brother into the frame by the sleeve, both of them grinning at the camera the way kids who’ve cheated death and think it’s funny do.

Cheng Xiaoshi had laughed when he first watched it—a single, sharp bark of sound that made him hate himself a little more.

The twins are safe. Qian Jin's empire is rotting from the inside. Tomorrow is marked not because of Qian Jin's preliminary hearing. It’s fourth of July, the play’s premiere. By tomorrow, the cracks will start to show, and Cheng Xiaoshi will have done at least one good thing in a life full of near-misses and not-quite-enoughs.

But none of that wins Lu Guang back.

Cheng Xiaoshi leans forward, scrubbing his palms over his face until his skin burns. It’s all of his back thens returning to ask for their dues. All the feelings. Full force.

It’s not just the fights, not just the stupid, barbed words he hadn’t swallowed in time. It's that he had needed Lu Guang. Expected him. He assumed Lu Guang would endure everything—the silences, the sharpness, the ugly pieces—because Cheng Xiaoshi hadn’t known how to live without someone waiting for him.

He hadn’t meant to be careless. He had just thought—naïvely, selfishly—that Lu Guang would always be there, orbiting him like some small, inevitable planet.

Now he knows: people leave, even the ones who swear they won't. Especially the ones you think you deserve.

He lies back down again and stares at the blank ceiling, letting the hurt will fill up all the hollow parts of him that used to be hope.

Maybe Lu Guang will still hear him if he’s loud enough, if he stops trying to be clever about it—if he finally lets the stupid, panicked love claw its way out of him without trying to dress it up as anything else.

If he’s bold enough to let it.

He turns off his laptop. Then he swings his legs over the side of the bed, feeling the room tilt slightly under the weight of what’s coming.

Soon, he tells himself.

Soon.

Now he has a play to rehearse one last time.

One last chance.

Chapter 17: Lu Guang the Scene Partner Who Wasn't Acting

Cheng Xiaoshi didn’t expect the heat to ruin him as much. He has flown close to the sun, which means that this should be a child’s play. But the theatre is sweltering with the kind of heat that doesn’t lift even when the lights dim. It’s supposed to be a relief—the fact that he’s now on stage, already burned through Act Four—yet there’s something suffocating about tonight.

Cheng Xiaoshi’s gaze flits across the sea of faces. This too, he’s done many times—scanning the crowd, trying to pinpoint that one familiar pair of eyes. Except that he can’t find him. From the moment he steps on stage and he grows all too conscious of it; every line of script—every movement—becomes a sort of crawling.

Lu Guang—that’s all he’s thinking about.

But Lu Guang isn’t here—not until halfway the fourth act, maybe. Cheng Xiaoshi trusts this: Lu Guang came in late last time, right when the crowd was softening into the rhythm. His fight now should feel different, even when he should be used to inhabiting Ling Chengshi’s skin. The only problem is that right now it doesn’t feel like second skin. Yes, the lines are rehearsed, but they don’t feel like it.

It doesn’t matter. The curtain rises, and there’s Chen Nan standing across from him as the lights dim.

 

---

 

The lights dim and all at once the crowd hushes.

Cap still on, Lu Guang sits in the last row, his hands almost not clenching the armrest. He told himself he wasn’t coming—he told himself a hundred things that didn’t matter the second Cheng Xiaoshi stepped onto the stage because Cheng Xiaoshi plays Ling Chengshi like he’s remembering a life that never happened. Or maybe one that did, but only in fragments and half-said things. Lu Guang looks and all he sees is a man unravelling beautifully, stubbornly, at the seams. He watches with a kind of sick admiration—the precision of it. The cruelty.

And there are moments where he forgets to breathe, like when—

 

---

 

Cheng Xiaoshi forgets half the lines by the end.

Or maybe he remembers them too well yet chooses the ones he doesn’t say. It’s hard to tell the difference anymore when the stage is a blur. The noise of the crowd, the lights, Vivian’s carefully broken voice—none of it matters. There’s only one thing tethering Cheng Xiaoshi to the world: Lu Guang, sitting in the back, looking like he's trying not to shatter.

Cheng Xiaoshi watches him from the corner of his eye as he speaks words that don't belong in the script. He watches Lu Guang sit still as though moving would be too dangerous. Even then, he clearly sees it again—the way Lu Guang's mouth tightens around things he’ll never say out loud.

And maybe that's the thing that snaps something loose in Cheng Xiaoshi: the fact Lu Guang's still here at all.

Cheng Xiaoshi crosses the stage without seeing it. The reason why—

 

---

 

Lu Guang still doesn't know why he came. Maybe he just got tired of running; maybe he was always going to end up here.

Somewhere in the middle of the final act, the lines start to slip. Cheng Xiaoshi steps out of the role, shedding a second skin, but it’s not to become himself again; it’s to become something rawer—something older than both of them that hurts to look at.

He’s supposed to be speaking to Chen Nan—to Vivian, whose eyes shine under the harsh white of the stage lights. Yet, when Cheng Xiaoshi lifts his head, something about the way he looks at her reminds Lu Guang of things he buried in the sea three years ago. It isn't wishful thinking, less projection too—because what Cheng Xiaoshi says is not the line in the script. It’s something cracked open and bleeding and can't heal except when it’s emptied out all the poison in its system.

“If I could erase you, I would,” Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice is low and steady—terrible in its honesty. “But if I erased you, I'd have nothing left to survive you with.”

The whole venue feels tilts enough that a few audience members shift in their seats, sensing the change without understanding it.

Lu Guang can’t move—can't breathe properly.

Cheng Xiaoshi keeps going, voice softer now, barely bothering to hide it anymore.

“I told myself I'd forget the details. Your voice. The way you frowned when you were thinking too hard. I told myself memory fades. But I lied because—”

 

---

 

“I wanted you to stay, even when it wasn’t fair.” Cheng Xiaoshi moves through the scene like it’s a fever dream he must survive. “I didn’t know how to hold you without dropping everything else. I know this wasn’t the person you wanted—it wasn’t the version of me your love made me grow into.”

That’s not the line. He’s gone off-book, and Vivian knows it—everyone probably does by now. He sees it in the way Vivian’s shoulders hitch, also not part of any script. None of it matters; Cheng Xiaoshi barely notices the stunned quiet falling over the audience.

In an attempt to save the scene, Vivian shifts, her hand flinching toward Cheng Xiaoshi’s sleeve before hesitating. Cheng Xiaoshi steps back, but slower than the script says. Ling Chengshi was supposed to leave immediately, severing it cleanly. Cheng Xiaoshi leaves the door open instead, his low voice splintering through the hush.

“I didn’t know how to stay without making you drown with me. I knew I wouldn’t stay long enough to finish the story even when without you, it’s already a story unfinished. Unsung.”

He can feel Vein watching from the wings, tense and probably ready to dismember him for derailing the final performance. Xia Fei too is no better:  he is waiting for his next cue, frozen mid-entrance. Qiao Ling’s hand clamps over her mouth backstage, eyes cutting to—

 

---

 

Lu Guang watches the rest of the scene in a trance, overcome by the ghost of Cheng Xiaoshi still. Cheng Xiaoshi who was standing centre stage, stripped of every mask, speaking words that have never been in any script—words that would have simultaneously bruised and balmed his heart in their last act.

But the play—this walking through the fire in real time—barely lets him breathe. Lu Guang watches the scene between Vivian and Shen Miaomiao. He forgets how to properly breathe during the scene with Xia Fei trying to knock some sense into the bestfriend with whom he’s in love. Lu Guang watches the moment where Xia Fei, across the stage, says something soft and shattering, and Cheng Xiaoshi answers in a voice that doesn’t sound like acting at all.

It is these moments that blur the line for Lu Guang—that prove that time never stood a chance against. Or rather, these moments, where the spotlight catches the sharp bones of Cheng Xiaoshi’s face, make Lu Guang very conscious of the thought: I never stood a chance.

The moment Cheng Xiaoshi blinks, Xia Fei braces for impact—even Lu Guang register it, the way Xia Fei's breath catches when Cheng Xiaoshi smiles at him, as he delivers yet another unscripted line:

“It’s beautiful—you smile the way she used to. And for a second, I forget that you're not her—that I can keep looking for faces I've long forgotten in places I can never call home because my heart patched your memory and now I have to survive the gaps. I'm sorry: that's not fair. None of this is.”

None of it matters now.

Even long before Cheng Xiaoshi said, I’m tired of pretending I know how to leave her, of naming the restlessness within as what it can never be just for the hope of surviving the wreckage. Somewhere at the point where Cheng Xiaoshi looks straight at Lu Guang and says, I wanted to forget—God, I wanted to—but everything I am remembers her and that patchwork of a heart stops resisting.

And Lu Guang doesn’t know if the breath he lets out is a sob or a laugh or something uglier between the two—but the world tilts—the room tilts—Cheng Xiaoshi keeps talking, and somewhere in the marrow of Lu Guang’s bones, something comes undone, before—

 

---

 

Xia Fei lingers by the prop doorframe, hands balled at his sides, clearly clueless on how to finish this half-improvised scene. Cheng Xiaoshi knows he’s supposed to say something here—a line about promises broken, or forgiveness being a house too brittle to rebuild or hearts that learn to beat through the pain.

He forgets it. Instead, his mouth works out something else—yet another line that isn’t in the script.

“It’s foolish, I know—how told myself I'd forget the details. Her voice and the way she frowned when she was thinking too hard, or, God, the way she looked at me like she’d push me off of a cliff but only because she is the only one who can catch me. I told myself memory fades. But I lied.”

It’s too quiet. The stage lights buzz.

“And I'm tired of pretending I know how to leave her, of naming the restlessness within as what it can never be just for the hope of surviving the wreckage I created myself. I'm tired of being brave for all the wrong reasons when she’s never asked for the version of me who laughed in the eye of the storm—when she always made it feel safe to fall apart because the hourglass always resets and we always get to try again.”

The ensuing pause is long enough that Xia Fei thankfully realises this isn’t something he can save because he is not part of the wreckage. Against that shedding, he simply stands there, real, present—bearing witness.

Cheng Xiaoshi feels the weight of the audience beyond the lights. He is still conscious of Lu Guang somewhere in that darkness, watching him. Even then, he doesn’t plan the next words; they’re just there, alive under his ribs, waiting.

“It’s beautiful—you smile the way she used to.” He gives a little wistful smile, eyes briefly downcast. “And for a second, I forget that you're not her—that I can keep looking for faces I've long forgotten in places I can never call home because my heart patched your memory and now I have to survive the gaps.”

As he clutches his shirtfront, Cheng Xiaoshi’s voice cracks, barely registering Xia Fei's overwhelmed expression through the blur of his feelings—but he’s not yet done.

“I'm sorry: that's not fair. None of this is. I can't control the damage my heart causes, and I'm sorry you could never be the one who kept it from falling apart.”

And he never thought it would all come back this full circle.

“Because no matter how hard I tried, I never stopped falling. Not once. Then, now—and every moment in between.”

It’s a stab in the dark. It’s a—

 

---

 

A shot fired straight through him, and Lu Guang doesn’t even try to move; he can't blink—fight it—because all he can think of is: You idiot—you beautiful, stupid, impossible idiot. I didn’t fall again; I just stayed.

The lights tighten. Unable still to say anything, Xia Fei's collapses into something broken. Cheng Xiaoshi’s expression shifts into something familiar—something so his that immediately it opens in him a wound so old that he’d almost forgot it was there.

Then softly enough that only the front rows can really hear, Cheng Xiaoshi says, “Because no matter how hard I tried, I never stopped falling—not once. Then, now—and every moment in between.”

Vivian steps in for the last scene. Tentatively approaching—

 

---

 

Cheng Xiaoshi breathes out slow, letting it crack him wide open. His voice splinters into the half-darkness

“I don't want the right moments anymore. I want all the wrong ones. I want the broken pieces.” His throat tightens; his eyes sting. “I want every moment in between.”

The stage blurs around him that he can barely register how Qiao Ling is crying too early again. with deafening heartbeat, Cheng Xiaoshi lets his gaze slip backstage. Vivian’s hand is shaking where she holds Xia Fei's sleeve. Somewhere backstage, Vein is whispering urgent things into a headset that no one is listening to while Liu Xiao stands frozen by the curtain, like he knows exactly what's about to happen and has decided not to stop it.

All of this and Cheng Xiaoshi still only sees one thing: Lu Guang, standing up at the very back of the house, fingers moving to his collar as though making space for air because breathing now costs too much.

He can fix it—he broke it—one too many times—and he will fix it. The final lines of the play fall out of his mouth automatically.

Cheng Xiaoshi is half-sure he says them wrong, but it doesn’t matter.

None of it matters.

Only Lu Guang does.

Only Lu Guang.

 

---

 

Lu Guang squeezes his eyes shut for half a second, willing himself not to believe it.

When he opens them, Cheng Xiaoshi is still there, looking at him like he never once learnt to look away.

The scene ends—the entire play ends, hailed by applause so thunderous whose roar feel too big for the tiny theatre.

People stand as Vivian bows and as the rest of the cast spills onto stage. Lu Guang is certain Vein is saying something, but he just stands there, hands numb, the whole world narrowed to a single, irreversible truth: Cheng Xiaoshi isn’t waiting for permission anymore.

He is coming for him.

---

 

When the curtain falls, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn't wait, barely letting the noise settle and certainly not letting anyone stop him.

He cuts across the stage while the rest of the cast take their bows, ignoring the confused claps, the half-laughter. He jumps off the edge, heavy boots hitting the floor harder than he means them to. He crosses the room with the resolve of a man who has stopped believing in bridges because he’ll burn every last one behind him if that’s the price.

As he slips through the back exit, the inevitability of it all cracks him open. For the first time in years, he’s not running away. He’s running towards something.

He reaches Lu Guang like he always has—recklessly and without thinking. Lu Guang freezes, as if bracing for impact.

Cheng Xiaoshi stops close enough to see the lines under Lu Guang’s eyes, the way he’s holding his breath. He is now close enough that leaving would be a betrayal worse than any they survived.

“I know we can't go back,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, voice rough and shaking in ways he can't quite control.
“I’m not trying to—” He stops, running a hand through his hair. “I'm sorry you had to carry two broken hearts and I’m sorry I'm not the person you loved anymore. I'm not even the person you had to leave. I’m worse—I’m better. I’m—” He lets out a single helpless laugh. “—a complete mess who broke you twice and blamed you as many times. But I still want you, Lu Guang.”

Lu Guang opens his mouth, but Cheng Xiaoshi talks over it. He has to keep going lest he can never start again.

“I want the broken loop—the wrong timeline—the version where you'd most forgivingly let me ruin you again, where we crash and crash and still choose each other anyway because I'm fated to die in your arms and you have to rewrite reality to save me each time because your devoted heart—that beautiful, beautiful heart—is just this level of stubborn.”

He laughs again, trying not to mull much over Lu Guang's wide eyes and parted lips.

“I know it sounds wrong, but I want you even if all we ever get are the broken pieces, even if we have to spend all every next time loop trying to figure out how to put them back together. I want you, Lu Guang, even if you had to fall for me again and I had to earn you for every forever you'd be kind and foolish enough to grant me.”

For a long second, Lu Guang just looks at him. And Cheng Xiaoshi wants to say he doesn't care about the silence, but he does. He cares about all of it too much.

Then Lu Guang moves—except that it’s not away, but towards.

He pulls Cheng Xiaoshi in by the front of his shirt, almost clumsy with it because anger and hope and forgiveness got all tangled up on the way to his hands.

“You,” Lu Guang says, quietly enough that Cheng Xiaoshi has to lean in to hear. “You idiot. You’re the same—you can never be anything different to me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi tries to pull back, to argue, to point out all the ways he is not—the blood, the mistakes, the words he can't take back, the time he can't overwrite—but Lu Guang cuts him off without ever raising his voice.

“And I told you, the version where you come back is enough. I don’t do this for clean timelines, Cheng Xiaoshi—if you're doomed to repeat mistakes, I might as well be the one you stick to.”

And Cheng Xiaoshi—stupid, stubborn, hopeless Cheng Xiaoshi—lets himself believe it. He lets himself be caught—lets himself, finally, come home.

And he knows, as he takes Lu Guang's face in his hands, that this, here, is the kind of kiss you didn’t get back from.

Chapter 18: ShiGuang and the Plot Hole That Looked a Lot Like Love

For someone who has finally earned his happily ever after months ago—or at least been set off on its path, again—Cheng Xiaoshi shouldn’t feel this shackled. Yet memories still crawl in at the corners and there are mixed feeling fighting to a draw within him, which should make sense too. Cheng Xiaoshi figures that it’s just the price of waking up for real—and to what? Not a nightmare.

One of the things that he remembers most vividly is how he never told Lu Guang he loves him, not explicitly at least. He recalls the night he almost did—which might have something to do with the timing given how it was also around this time: the second week of July with a sky too hot not to cradle the sun anymore.

And this time, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t plan it. He tries to; he even rehearses the words three times under his breath outside the dorm building that Lu Guang for some reason has been haunting for the past week. Then Lu Guang meets him wearing that cat-ear hat—and Cheng Xiaoshi’s immediately brain short-circuits.

“Fifteen minutes late, was it?”

“The earth spun too fast for me to catch up but not for you to stop waiting—so who’s the real winner now, Guangguang?”

Lu Guang smiles mildly, stepping aside to let Cheng Xiaoshi in. Heart rattling in his ribs, Cheng Xiaoshi is confident he’s going to be sick—or stupid. Possibly both. In terms of planning, it’s simple; in terms of execution, not so much. Step One: Sit Lu Guang down and try not to jump him; Step Two: Say something heartfelt and borderline gross; Three: Kiss the love of his life.

What actually happens: Cheng Xiaoshi opens his mouth and nothing comes out except, “Nice hat. It totally accentuates the adorableness you might have to take responsibility for my oncoming cuteness aggression.”

Naturally, the unimpressed, immune Lu Guang blinks. “You've seen it before. We were together when I won it in the arcade.”

“I remember that,” Cheng Xiaoshi says totally not defensively. “It’s still nice. Worth commenting on every time, you know.”

There is a beat where his palms feel extra sweaty, and the tilt of Lu Guang's head is not helping either. Cheng Xiaoshi refrains from sighing, though loudly he adds,

“This is going terribly,”

Lu Guang just raises an eyebrow, the ghost of a smile catching at his mouth. It’s infuriating, and it's everything. Cue the panic—so naturally, Cheng Xiaoshi does the only logical thing and idiot in love would do: he lunges forward and yanks the hat straight off Lu Guang’s head.

“Cheng Xiaoshi—what on earth—”

“I need it for reasons!” Cheng Xiaoshi shouts, already halfway to the door. “Not that your subterranean mind would grasp, but I do need it. Trust!”

Lu Guang recovers fast. “Cheng Xiaoshi, that’s not how it works! You cannot steal your way into a confession.”

“Watch me!” Cheng Xiaoshi calls triumphantly as he barrels down the hallway.

Behind him, Lu Guang’s voice floats after. “You already had me, idiot.”

Cheng Xiaoshi trips over his own feet, nearly eating floor—and still, it’s worth it, especially that two storeys down, Qiao Ling sticks her head out of a window and watches Cheng Xiaoshi sprint by, arms full of stolen clothing and hair flying everywhere.

“I don’t want to know,” she mumbles before shutting the window down again.

Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t blame her. She has seen worse, even before he and Lu Guang became official (again) three months prior. By the time Lu Guang catches up with him, Cheng Xiaoshi is crouched by the vending machines, clutching the hat for dear life still.

“You really are the stupidest genius I’ve ever met,” Lu Guang says.

Cheng Xiaoshi beams, feeling ridiculous. “You’re stuck with me now and I will make it—me, my stupid genius, and stealing you most cherished items aka you heart—your problem in every time loop. No take-backs.”

Lu Guang leans down, not just to steal the hat right back.

But to kiss his stupid genius breathless.

 

So, again, Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t plan it—for three unfortunate times because of course the hat incident is just a prelude to disaster.

The first of his impromptu confessions plays out in a laundromat.

Because, apparently, after saving the world—or at least surviving it—life still demands clean shirts. Lu Guang feed coins into the washer, and Cheng Xiaoshi watches his hands—those familiarly steady one—whilst trying not to imagine all the unholy ways they have made him feel.

Before his mind much derails, he finds his mouth working out the words.

“I missed this,” Cheng Xiaoshi immediately winces because, what does that even mean? Folding laundry? The smell of detergent? Lu Guang standing two feet away, pretending he’s not worried Cheng Xiaoshi will disappear again?

Lu Guang glances at him, eyebrow raised. “This?”

Cheng Xiaoshi shrugs. “Yeah. Industrial-grade romance. In the afterhours. The liminal spaces. The in-betweens.”

The machine starts its slow, rumbling churn. For a while, they just sit there, the minutes ticking by loud and small. Cheng Xiaoshi shifts, stretching out his legs in front of him.

“I think—” he starts, then stops.

Lu Guang looks properly at him then, watching the way Cheng Xiaoshi fiddles with the hem of his sleeve.

“You're thinking that if you say it out loud, it might turn into something stupid, especially that you don’t think anything would make up for lost time.”

Cheng Xiaoshi startles at how specifically accurate that is, which makes Lu Guang’s mouth quirk up.

“No, I'm not a mind-reader, in case you're wondering. It’s not my superpower.”

“A more exclusive, more devastating power, then? A Cheng Xiaoshi-reader?”

“Not exactly. You just like a theme. And we might’ve had this moment in the previous time loop.”

Cheng Xiaoshi chuckles. His smile turns sly, eyes dark.

“You know,” Cheng Xiaoshi begins quietly, “technically, this makes you an accomplice.”

Lu Guang raises an eyebrow. “To what, exactly?”

Cheng Xiaoshi leans in until they’re nose to nose.

“Grand theft idiot… if you're bold enough.”

Instead of offering a verbal reply, Lu Guang's lips work into a smile—one that makes Cheng Xiaoshi believe maybe he got one thing right after all.

 

 

The second time, it starts with a passport photo. Well—not exactly. It starts with Lu Guang trying to take a normal passport photo.

He has already erased one set because Cheng Xiaoshi, mischievously standing just off-camera, kept making faces behind the photographer and Lu Guang, as established, isn't quite immune to Cheng Xiaoshi cham. The mischief is always easier than having to think about the inevitable departure, even if this time he remembers Lu Guang and even if this time, they are properly tethered.

So yeah, the shenanigans persist and so does Lu Guang.

The poor clerk becoming somewhere between resignation and prayer was probably the least damage that could have happened. Now, a little seriously, Cheng Xiaoshi says,

“Smile a little, Lu Guang. Or you’ll look like you’re here for a hostage negotiation. A second best to being put into witness protection. Ask me where the shelter is and if my heart is spacious enough to fit all the things you love.”

Lu Guang just sits there, stiff in a short-sleeved black shirt, the edges of a migraine pressing against his skull. Cheng Xiaoshi lets out a dramatic sigh.

“Tough audience, fine.” Cheng Xiaoshi hums under his breath before perking up, startling the resigned clerk in the process. “I have an idea: what if I stood behind you? Like a guardian angel.”

“Try goblin. Maybe we can be done with this sooner.”

Cheng Xiaoshi grins anyway. Whether he calls Lu Guang’s bluff is moot. However, later, when the photo finally prints, Lu Guang sees the damage: his own face is barely composed—and a reflection of Cheng Xiaoshi is in the glass behind him, half-laughing.

The clerk sighs.

“I’ll allow it, but if immigration drags you into a room for questioning, don't blame me.”

Cheng Xiaoshi drapes himself over Lu Guang’s back while Lu Guang signs the forms. Timely, he leans down, close enough to read as Lu Guang writes:

Emergency Contact: Cheng Xiaoshi.

Relationship: Partner.

Cheng Xiaoshi whistles low under his breath, because it is easier than the alternative.

“So official,” he says because to him Lu Guang just proposed marriage in the middle of a DMV. “Do we seal the deal or would you rather we skip to the honeymoon here? A lot of kinks to test, too.”

“I'd rather you got off,” Lu Guang mutters, ears going pink.

He doesn't shove him away, not even when Cheng Xiaoshi leans enough to whisper, Get thee to a naked Cheng Xiaoshi in Lu Guang's ears—totally not worsening the blush. Cheng Xiaoshi laughs: a blushing Lu Guang is a rare sight, but Cheng Xiaoshi enjoys it every time.

Later, when they walk out into the street with the passports and papers safely tucked in Lu Guang’s backpocket, Cheng Xiaoshi bumps their shoulders together most casually—most deadly.

“You know, I’m still legally single, even if I am psychosexually obsessed with you. We could fix that—not the obsession, I wouldn’t trade it for the world, really—but the legality.”

Exhales slowly, Lu Guang looks at him. Cheng Xiaoshi’s face is all mischief and something worse that he tries—badly—to mask: hope.

And when Lu Guang smiles, it is certainly not a dismissal; if anything, it sounds like a promise.

They cross the street together, Cheng Xiaoshi’s heart kicking up a few notches as Lu Guang slips his fingers into the spaces between Cheng Xiaoshi’s.

 

 

The third time, Cheng Xiaoshi straight up does it—the wine and dine, the ring, the whole nine yards.

After a disaster of a get-together in the arcade, Qiao Ling, by virtue of the get-together being in her honour, refuses to let the night die.

I have everyone I love here… plus Xiao Weiying, of course. We should make the best of my send-off party.

Ironically, it is Vein who steps up. He produces an ancient, battered tripod by which time Xia Fei insists they have to commemorate the night. The group groans but shuffles into a loose cluster all the same, Liu Xiao setting the timer before Qiao Ling pulls him into the picture—Trauma tax and long live the drama!

Naturally, Cheng Xiaoshi drags Lu Guang by the wrist into the middle, and he absolutely refuses to budge.

The timer beeps: everyone is mostly smiling, fidgeting, looking vaguely alive—except for Cheng Xiaoshi, who turns his head at the exact last second and catches Lu Guang full-on staring at him. The camera flashes.

Once the preview pops up, Xia Fei squawks. “Why does it look like they're getting engaged and how do I crop them out in real time? It’s not that I'm tried of being single, I'm tired of them being grossly in love!”

Sharing the sentiment—seconding it—Vivian practically folds over laughing. The smirking Cheng Xiaoshi is still eye-fucking Lu Guang as Vein appeases—hand under chin, bedroom voice—Xia Fei into taking another picture. It has been months—years—and Lu Guang is growing worse at being able to fight off his Cheng Xiaoshi-induced smiles. They take position again, and this time, Qiao Ling flips them off behind their heads, immortalised forever.

Vein purrs dramatically. “Pathetic—utterly and pathetically pathetic. I love it.”

From the corner, Liu Xiao solemnly gives two thumbs up. Cheng Xiaoshi doesn’t miss Lu Guang's mumbled, Kill me.

Which, of course, is his cue to hook an arm around his boyfriend’s waist and say that it is simply too late—a lifetime or two too late. This time, like so many precedented times, Lu Guang doesn’t try to move away.

A couple of mocktails in—hard liquor for Vein and Xu Shanshan—and Cheng Xiaoshi is buzzed enough though it has little to do with the alcohol. And it isn't long before he strong-arms Lu Guang before the claw machine. He stands before it as it blinks with the cruel indifference of an ancient god, cracking his knuckles. Let the war crimes begin.

“Let’s get this straight though I'm anything but when it comes to you,” Cheng Xiaoshi flicks a flirty eyebrow at a drawling-with-a-smile Lu Guang. “If I win, you owe me your life.”

“Downgrading to bets of this tier already? You used to be more creative, Cheng Xiaoshi. Have I gotten you too soft, perhaps?”

Cheng Xiaoshi pretends not to hear; he’s used to a bolder Lu Guang when intoxicated (though he will never admit it does wonders to more than just his heart. Lu Guang has tested the physical aspect it that passport photo night. Cheng Xiaoshi would 5/5 repeat again).

Not that Cheng Xiaoshi needed the bet, but he does win on the first try. He puts all his years of drama and pulls out a cheap cat keychain, solemnly presenting it to Lu Guang.

“Binding contract, no backsies. Take it however you want.”

From somewhere behind them, Liu Xiao comments on how Lu Guang shouldn’t fold before anything less than a forty carat. Vein promises he’ll make an actor of that tier of Cheng Xiaoshi soon enough that by the time Lu Guang is back, he will be pleasantly surprised. Barely heeding either, Lu Guang wordlessly pockets the keychain. Although he doesn’t smile, he holds onto it, cherishingly so.

 

◑

 

It’s the last day of finals and Lu Guang still hasn’t packed. Cheng Xiaoshi is starting to think the new passport wouldn’t be getting a new stamp any time soon.

Curled up on the couch, Lu Guang is thumbing through Cheng Xiaoshi’s beat-up laptop, dressed in a Pokémon graphic tee he probably stole from Cheng Xiaoshi’s wardrobe two hours ago. No sooner than Cheng Xiaoshi shuffles into the room, dripping rainwater, than Lu Guang looks up.

“You’re leaking—assuming your last resort isn't getting me to contract pneumonia to keep me here.”

“It was more of hydrating the atmosphere. And the carpet.” Cheng Xiaoshi grins unrepentantly. “But now that that’s on the table, a little reframing might be welcome.”

Lu Guang hums noncommittally, but Cheng Xiaoshi catches the edge of his mouth trying not to move. It’s stupid, how easy it is now. How the hard parts—the years of missing each other wrong, at the wrong time—have boiled down to this. He has barely sat down when a foot nudges his knee under the coffee table with the kind of quiet that doesn’t scrape anymore.

“So,” Cheng Xiaoshi says, stretching dramatically until he’s basically halfway across Lu Guang's lap, “put me up to speed. What's tonight world domination plan, baobei?”

Lu Guang tilts the screen toward him wordlessly. It’s an email—a thread of updates from Liu Xiao: Li Tianchen’s testimony, court dates, cases Qian Jin buried clawing their way back into daylight. It is a long thread with a dozen knives lined up so neatly that there is barely any need for Cheng Xiaoshi to lift a finger.

Or since a little reframing wouldn’t go astray: it’s closure—if Cheng Xiaoshi cared for that kind of thing.

He leans his head against Lu Guang's shoulder, then lightly nudges him.

“Be honest, do you think if I wrote 'lol, get wrecked' that'd be too unprofessional?”

“Only if you forget to send it with a glitter GIF. Maybe add the confetti effect for good measure.”

Smiling lazily, Cheng Xiaoshi closes his eyes. The couch dips under Lu Guang’s slight shift as he sets his laptop aside. There barely has any time for this thought to drift; a warm hand finds Cheng Xiaoshi’s—fingers fiddling, tangling, staying.

For a second, Cheng Xiaoshi lets himself be carried over—to the ship, the rain, to Lu Guang pressing a crumpled confession into his hand, voice shaking, and to himself Xiaoshi handing it back too late. His mind flits through all the years between, all the wrong moments. He finds his lips shaping a smile—and before he overthinks it, the words are out.

“I keep thinking… if I just looked back enough, maybe I'd figure out the exact second I lost you. Before the ship and all of that, I mean. It’s not about gratuitously channelling Proust, but sometimes I don't even know what I'm doing, Lu Guang. Like, I don’t know if—”

That’s when Lu Guang’s thumb brushes across Cheng Xiaoshi knuckles—quickly, certainly. “It doesn’t matter. We’re not there anymore, Cheng Xiaoshi. You don’t need to relive your worst moments all over again just to prove anything. To anyone—even if you think that person it’s me.”

Lu Guang phrases it like it’s simple—like it’s obvious—and leaves Cheng Xiaoshi to sit with that. Cheng Xiaoshi rolls it around in his mouth, tasting something simultaneously bitter and sweet.

He doesn’t—he shouldn’t—cognitively it is so easy, but emotionally he wants all that time back, all those missed trains that have waited for him. Time and time again, Lu Guang has made it clear that he cares not for what never happened—the past barely weighs to him when he is certain their present will always be a future. But still, it is taking some time for Cheng Xiaoshi to unlearn—to overwrite—all his worst habits, and Lu Guang's patience is making his heart restless. Greedy. Love with teeth: to kiss and not to draw blood.

He cuts himself off before he says something irreversible—before he says forever and it cost me you and I missed you like missing a lung even when everything tried to convince me I'm breathing fine.

Cheng Xiaoshi blows out a breath, sinking further down until he’s basically sliding off the couch. He attempts at a lighter tone—which might work seeing how at this point, he’s mumbling into Lu Guang's thigh.

“I’m still a mess. Like, clinically. Objectively. Pick your adverb, Lu Guang.”

“Subjectively too, since you insist we be pedantic.”

Cheng Xiaoshi kicks him, weakly. Lu Guang doesn’t even budge. Instead, he slouches down so they’re level: shoulder to shoulder, and sock to sock. Now they are close enough that if Cheng Xiaoshi turns his head, Lu Guang is right there, steady as gravity and within kissable distance. Yet, it’s not the less-than-innocent thought that steal Cheng Xiaoshi's breath; it is the confident warmth emanating from Lu Guang's unwavering eyes.

“In case your inference skills have gone rusty, let me reiterate, Cheng Xiaoshi.” Lu Guang smiles. “You… are not a project. Mess is acceptable and this is not theatre.”

“You literally called me a performance. Or you called Charles that— Whatever, I'm not jealous.”

“I also said that wasn’t all you are. Not everything has to wrap up nicely by curtain call—and if you insist it does, then remember postmodernist theatre is a personal favourite precisely for the reason that time doesn’t flow linearly there.”

His voice is even, bearing the steady mark of a hand on your back when you're too proud to ask for help. Cheng Xiaoshi swallows. The words catch somewhere under his ribs.

“I… I don’t want you to fix me, Lu Guang.”

“I know.”

Cheng Xiaoshi breathes out shakily. He wants to say something reckless, to fall back to an old rhythm, to take control of the narrative, to further earn his happily ever after. His lips tremble—his heart fills—with the words unsaid—with the want and he longs to say, Stay. Stay longer than last time. Stay until you’re bored of me, until you hate me, until you can't leave even if you tried.

But he doesn’t. Because the only way out is through. As always. So he straightens up and checks his phone. It’s conveniently 22h10. He nudges Lu Guang’s knee with his own, half daring, half reckless.

“Fine—no declarations on my part, but do get up, Guangguang. We’ve got somewhere to be.”

Lu Guang looks at him, part sceptical, part way too familiar to be distrusting.

“Do I ruin the magic and dare ask where?”

“Thought we could go ruin our lives properly. Together, this time.”

For a stretch of seconds, Lu Guang looks at him—deeply—then the corner of his mouth lifts, almost unnoticeably so.

“Don’t get full of yourself, Cheng Xiaoshi. The ruin wasn’t yours to give; you’re simply the only part I wanted to stay for.”

Cheng Xiaoshi goes very still. All the air in the room shifts sideways.

Then Lu Guang moves; bumps Cheng Xiaoshi’s shoulder lightly as he stands, because that isn't a declaration. It reads—tastes, lands, feels—as something inevitable. And even then, Lu Guang doesn’t look back to check if Cheng Xiaoshi’s following.

He doesn’t have to, not even when the temptation is unbearable, not even when he is forced to think—mistakenly, foolishly—that they wouldn’t be able to find their ways to one another. Because this time, they’re not surviving it—their story. They’re choosing it—wrecking it—gloriously, stupidly—together. Yes, the myths were done wrong, but their hearts were all in the right place: awaiting someone to eat it, to hold it, to heal it, to become one with it without encroaching on everything for which it bled. You get a hundred wrong versions of yourself, and someone still chooses to come back, over and over.

For every stolen second and every suffocating breath and every stupid mistake.

For every moment in between.