The Same Name Beneath the Galaxy

When the running order was handed to Wu Ye, Song Lan’s fingertip pressed down on the line of names at the very top.

“Don’t blow up now.” Her voice was low. Her phone screen was still lit, and the placeholder trending topics had already been posted by the marketing accounts. “The organizers changed the schedule at the last minute. You and Wu Yi are presenting the award for Best Film and Television Song together.”

Wu Ye lowered his eyes and saw the two names printed side by side in black and white.

Wu Ye, Wu Yi.

A tiny comma between them, like the message from three years ago that had never received a reply—clean, cold, and hard, pinning him in place.

Someone ran past outside the dressing room, their in-ear monitor cable whipping against the doorframe with a sharp smack. The stylist was still straightening his cuff links, hurriedly smoothing the wrinkles from his black suit. In the mirror, the lights sharpened his brows and eyes, while his lips looked almost colorless. He appeared more than ever like a product that would never lose control.

Song Lan glanced at him. “The cameras will cut to close-ups. Don’t look too cold, but don’t smile too genuinely either.”

Wu Ye raised a hand, removed the silver stud from his left ear, and placed it in his palm. The metal against his skin was cold and hard.

“Who decided this?” he asked.

“People from Zhou Qiming’s side got themselves onto the organizers’ dinner guest list.” Song Lan pulled the running order back half an inch, as though afraid he might tear it up on the spot. “And the investors for the new film. It’s a mystery romance with two male leads. The production team wants to gauge the reaction today.”

Wu Ye’s fingers tightened, the earring digging into his palm.

Three years ago, the reaction had been good too.

Back then, they had appeared on a variety show together and been edited into compilations of exchanged glances, with fans poring over every frame for hidden details. Then a battle over a major project had drawn both companies into the fray, and the trending topic had changed from “perfect chemistry” to “at odds.” After that, Wu Yi had sent him a message. Wu Ye had seen it—and deleted the chat.

There was a knock at the door. A staff member poked his head in. “Teacher Wu Ye, it’s time to get in position.”

The corridor’s cold white lights shone brightly off the floor, but footsteps made no sound. Wu Ye followed the staff member toward the side of the stage, while Song Lan lagged half a step behind, her phone pressed to her ear, speaking quickly but steadily.

Someone stopped at the corner.

Wu Yi was wearing a black baseball cap, the brim pulled low, and a bulky down jacket over his stage outfit. His makeup was not quite finished, and the upward sweep at the corners of his eyes was picked out by the lights, like a little hook hidden inside a smile. Lin Qiao stood beside him with a backpack and a stack of documents in her arms. The moment she saw Wu Ye, her eyes tightened behind her glasses.

The staff on both sides paused for half a second, then pretended to busy themselves looking down at the running order.

Wu Yi smiled first.

“What a coincidence.” He pushed the brim of his cap up slightly, revealing the eyes that could make an entire auditorium scream from the stage. “Three years without seeing each other, and the first time we’re on the same stage is to present an award. The organizers really know how to make things happen.”

Wu Ye’s Adam’s apple moved, but he did not respond.

Standing just behind him, Song Lan swept a knife-sharp glance over the staff member holding up a phone nearby. The person immediately pressed the phone to their chest, screen turned inward.

Wu Yi tilted his head. The smile remained, but his voice softened. “Still not convenient to talk?”

Wu Ye’s fingers rested against the seam of his trousers, his fingertips rubbing at a loose thread inside his cuff. It pricked his skin, leaving him itchy.

Lin Qiao said quietly, “Brother Yi, you’re going onstage.”

Wu Yi did not move. He looked at Wu Ye as though he had to pry some crack out of that composed face.

“What about that message? Was it not convenient to reply to that either?” he asked in a joking tone, his final words drifting lightly away. “Or did you simply never see it?”

Someone coughed in the corridor. The organizers’ executive director squeezed through, wearing an ingratiating smile. “Both of you have worked hard. We’re about to start the countdown. Having you two in the same frame is definitely going to explode online, so please cooperate a little. More interaction onstage, more interaction.”

Wu Ye lifted his eyes. Over the director’s shoulder, he saw that Wu Yi’s lips were still curved, but the brightness of the stage was gone from his eyes. The smile was like transparent tape stuck over a wound—too thin to conceal the red beneath.

He could say that he had seen it.

He could say that the company’s public-relations department had filled an entire conference room that day, that Song Lan had taken away his phone, that he had been ordered to clear all the chat records. He could say it was not that he had not wanted to reply; Zhou Qiming had already used marketing accounts to release articles claiming that Wu Yi was shamelessly clinging to him, waiting only for a single sentence from him to be screenshotted. He could say he had thought silence would keep Wu Yi out of it.

But the executive director stood between them, countdowns echoed through the staff’s earpieces, and Song Lan’s fingers lightly touched his elbow.

Wu Ye swallowed the words caught on the tip of his tongue.

“Let’s go onstage,” he said.

Wu Yi’s smile faltered.

It was brief—too brief for the cameras to catch, too brief for anyone else to take it as anything but a star adjusting his expression before going onstage. But Wu Ye saw the hand holding the running order tighten for an instant, creasing the edge of the paper.

“Fine.” Wu Yi stepped back half a pace to let him pass. “After you, Teacher Wu Ye.”

“After you, Teacher Wu Yi.” Wu Ye’s voice was as steady as if he had rehearsed it.

The stage lights crashed down, and a wave of heat surged from the entrance. The backstage area, cold as a freezer only a second earlier, was instantly swallowed by applause and screams. The host drew out the introduction of “the historic reunion of the two Wus,” and the big screen promptly cut to a shot of them together, sending a sharp crest of noise through the audience.

Wu Ye held the microphone and read the award introduction according to the script. Wu Yi stood on his right, their shoulders less than half a fist apart. The clean, faint scent of wood from his body mingled with the stage smoke, so familiar that Wu Ye’s tongue went numb.

“This award belongs to everyone who tells stories through music in the play of light and shadow.” When Wu Ye finished, he handed the line to Wu Yi with his gaze.

Wu Yi picked it up smoothly. “And it belongs to those who hide their thoughts inside a melody.”

Another wave of screams rose from the audience.

The camera cut to a close-up. Wu Yi turned toward him, his smile beautiful and harmless. “What do you think, Teacher Wu Ye?”

That line was not in the script.

Wu Ye pressed his fingertips against the microphone handle, the metal casing warmed by his palm. He knew how many cameras were pointed at them from below the stage. He knew how tightly Song Lan’s brows would be drawn as she watched the backstage monitors. And he knew that Wu Yi had not said it for the sake of the trending topics.

“If they hide them too deeply,” Wu Ye said, looking at him, his voice quiet, “the person listening may miss them.”

Wu Yi blinked.

The uproar from the audience grew louder. The host laughed and hurried to smooth things over. “As expected of professional singers—their interpretation is truly profound.”

Wu Yi turned back to the front and handed the trophy to the winner, his movements clean and his smile flawless. But Wu Ye saw the tips of his fingers brush lightly against the edge as he withdrew them from the trophy’s base, as though he had touched something hot.

By the time they came offstage, the trending topics had already exploded.

#TheTwoWusTogether#

#WuYeWuYiHideThingsTooDeeply#

#WasTheirThreeYearFeudReal#

Song Lan shoved a tablet in front of Wu Ye. Comments were refreshing across the screen at dizzying speed.

“See? This is exactly what they wanted.” She lowered her voice as they walked. “Zhou Qiming just sent word. Before the film is officially announced, they want you two to maintain that sense of ambiguous opposition. Don’t clarify the feud, but don’t completely sever the association either.”

Wu Ye stopped at the door to the emergency stairwell. “Is the film confirmed?”

“More or less.” Song Lan said, “Two male leads, mystery romance. The script is good, and so is the director. But the investors want to use your old history for publicity. Today was only a test run.”

There were no cameras in the stairwell, only an emergency light glowing an eerie green. Wu Ye handed the tablet back to her. His fingertips brushed the screen, which felt scorching hot.

“What if I refuse?”

Song Lan looked at him. “The other side will say you’re feeling guilty. Add in whatever dirt they have from three years ago, and they’ll have enough to spin stories for an entire quarter.”

Wu Ye said nothing.

Song Lan slipped her phone into her pocket, her voice softening a little. “Wu Ye, don’t make a decision in a place like this. The car’s waiting on level B2. Let’s leave first.”

He nodded. As he turned, he saw Wu Yi standing not far away.

Lin Qiao stood beside him, holding a phone. She looked as though she had just argued with someone, her round face drawn tight. Wu Yi had taken off the down jacket and was wearing only his stage suit, his cap pulled low again. The light at the end of the corridor fell across his profile, making his skin look even paler. The hint of a smile at his lips had finally disappeared.

The two of them stood several meters apart, neither speaking first.

Song Lan reached out to stop Wu Ye, reminding him that people from the organizers were still nearby. Lin Qiao tugged at Wu Yi’s sleeve too and whispered, “There are people taking pictures in the garage, don’t…”

Wu Yi slipped his phone back into his pocket and looked up at Wu Ye.

“Congratulations,” he said.

The two words fell softly, yet sounded like a coin dropped into an empty glass.

Wu Ye’s hand curled at his side, then loosened. “You too.”

Wu Yi gave a short laugh without any warmth. “That line onstage was pretty good. ‘If they hide them too deeply, the person listening may miss them.’”

The words pressed against Wu Ye’s chest, catching his breath for a beat.

He took a step forward. Song Lan’s fingers immediately closed around his wrist. The pressure was not heavy, but it was enough to stop him. Nearby, a staff member from the organizers pretended to straighten a name badge, though their ears were turned toward them.

Wu Yi saw the hand.

He pulled his cap lower and turned away. Before Lin Qiao followed him, she glanced back at Wu Ye, her look seeming to say: Don’t twist the knife any further.

Wu Ye remained where he was until Wu Yi’s back disappeared around the corner.

Song Lan released him. “Now isn’t the time.”

Wu Ye lowered his eyes to the wrist she had touched. A faint white ring marked his skin, already beginning to fade.

“When will it be?” he asked.

Song Lan did not answer at once. Her phone vibrated. She glanced at it, and her expression darkened. “Zhou Qiming sent an invitation to dinner. The film’s investors, senior executives from both companies, and the two of you. Tomorrow night.”

Wu Ye pulled the corner of his mouth up. “A Hongmen banquet.”

“More troublesome than a Hongmen banquet.” Song Lan held the phone out for him to see. “They’ve already prepared the first wave of press releases.”

On the screen was a screenshot of an unsent marketing proposal. The title was glaring—

《The Three-Year Feud Between the Two Wus Rekindled: Rivals Share the Screen, Mystery Romance Film Explodes Before Release》

Wu Ye stared at the words “romance,” his fingertips slowly turning cold.

By the time the ceremony ended, the garage was packed with fans and paparazzi. Security guards formed a human barrier around a narrow path, while flashes stabbed at him again and again, like shards of glass hurled into his eyes. Wu Ye got into the business van, and once the door closed, the screams outside became a muffled hum.

Song Lan sat in the passenger seat, continuing to take calls. The driver pressed down on the accelerator, and the vehicle began to glide slowly out of the garage.

Leaning back in his seat, Wu Ye finally opened his palm. The silver stud still lay there, its edge having pressed a red mark into his skin. He put it into his coat pocket. When his fingers touched his phone, the screen lit up.

The new message was from Wu Yi.

No emoji. No string of punctuation. Only one sentence.

“This time, are you going to pretend you didn’t see it again?”

“Cut this line.” Wu Yi slammed the script onto the table, the pages striking with a crisp snap. A dozen pairs of eyes rose at once around the conference room.

The director’s pen stopped in midair.

The smile on the producer’s face froze for a moment before he lowered his voice. “Wu Yi, this is a pivotal scene. The characters reunite three years later. That line has to stay.”

Wu Yi stared at the line.

—“I left back then so you could have a better life.”

The black characters on the white page were like a fine needle, stabbing into his fingertip and refusing to come out.

He smiled, lifting the corners of his mouth beautifully, though his eyes did not follow. “It’s too fake. Who would believe something like that?”

Across the table, Wu Ye stopped turning the page.

He was wearing a black turtleneck today. The stylist had combed his hair into sharp lines, and with his brows and eyes lowered, his expression was impossible to read. But Wu Yi saw his thumb pressing against the edge of the page, leaving a shallow crease in the paper.

The director coughed. “It isn’t fake. It’s restraint. This character—”

“Restraint?” Wu Yi leaned back in his chair, his baseball cap pulled low, his voice so light it made him even harder to answer. “Three years without contact, no explanation, then acting like nothing happened when they meet again—that’s restraint?”

The room fell silent save for the hiss of the air conditioner.

Behind him, Lin Qiao reached out and lightly touched the back of his chair. The gesture was brief, reminding him that even if there was no camera pointed at him, it didn’t mean no one was watching.

Wu Yi did not turn around.

Wu Ye finally lifted his eyes, his gaze crossing the long table. “The character has his reasons.”

“Then let him explain them.” Wu Yi flipped farther into the script and tapped another page with his fingertip. “Here too. After they reunite, he doesn’t explain anything. He just holds an umbrella for him in the rain. The audience doesn’t need an umbrella. They need one honest sentence.”

Someone lowered his head and held his breath. Someone else pretended to read the script.

Song Lan sat beside Wu Ye. Her phone screen lit up; she glanced at it, then pressed it dark again. Her profile beneath her short hair was taut with tension.

The director rubbed his temples. “Let’s just get through the text today. We’re not changing the scenes. Wu Yi, save the emotion for the set.”

“If you can’t act it out on set, don’t blame the script.” Wu Yi picked up the script again, crumpling the pages in his grip.

Wu Ye’s voice came from across the table. “You’ll be able to act it.”

Wu Yi looked up.

Wu Ye watched him, his eyes as calm as the blunt edge of a blade laid against skin. “You’re best at playing this kind of thing.”

The words were like a match struck in public.

Wu Yi’s Adam’s apple bobbed, and his smile deepened. “Wu Ye is no slouch either. You’re good at silent scenes.”

The director immediately slapped the table. “That’s enough. Keep going. Next scene: Act Three, Scene Seven, the reunion in the old warehouse.”

The read-through continued.

Every line seemed deliberately modeled on the past. The ambiguity of their youth, the antagonism that came after fame, the text message never sent when they passed each other backstage at an awards ceremony, the contact that had abruptly been severed three years ago. The characters in the script had a rainy night, a misunderstanding, and a letter that was never mailed. Wu Yi pressed his fingertips against the page as it slowly grew damp.

When it was Wu Ye’s turn, his voice was steady.

“That day, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to turn back.”

Wu Yi’s lashes flickered.

Wu Ye paused for half a second, then continued, “I couldn’t.”

The conference room lights were painfully white. Wu Yi stared at the script in his hands, suddenly unable to tell whether the words belonged to the character or to Wu Ye.

His line came next.

“Couldn’t? Then what were these three years?”

When Wu Yi spoke, his voice was lower than he had expected. He heard himself let out a laugh, but his chest felt as though it were being cinched by a wet towel, making it impossible to draw breath.

“Did they count as your victory, or did they—”

He stopped.

The director looked up. “Keep going.”

Wu Yi turned the page, then turned it back. The edge scraped across his fingertip, a fine, sharp pain.

Lin Qiao leaned toward him and whispered, “Wu Yi, have some water.”

Wu Yi did not take it. He simply closed the script. “Sorry. Five-minute break.”

With that, he stood. The chair legs scraped across the floor with an ear-piercing shriek.

No one stopped him.

Movie concept posters lined the corridor. In one, the two leads stood back to back before a black sea. In the corner was the promotional slogan—“All those who miss each other will meet again.”

Wu Yi stopped in front of the poster and stared at it for two seconds before suddenly tugging his cap lower. His knuckles brushed his brow, leaving it tingling.

Footsteps approached from behind.

He knew who it was without turning around.

“The script wasn’t written about anyone.” Wu Ye stopped beside him, his voice lowered. “Don’t force yourself into it.”

Wu Yi turned his face toward him. “And now Teacher Wu Ye is teaching people how to read scripts?”

There was a small patch of red in Wu Ye’s eyes. “That wasn’t a read-through just now. You were tearing yourself apart.”

“Who did I tear apart?” Wu Yi took a step forward, the toes of his shoes nearly touching Wu Ye’s. “You? Does it hurt?”

Wu Ye did not retreat.

Someone passed by at the end of the corridor, paused, then quickly moved on. People in the entertainment industry knew better than anyone when to pretend to be blind.

Wu Ye’s fingers curled at his side. “Wu Yi, not here.”

“Then where?” Wu Yi kept his voice low, but his smile could no longer hold; the corner of his mouth twitched. “The message I sent three years ago went unanswered. My calls were blocked. When we met backstage, you took the long way around. Later, we shared a stage, and the script specifically required us to look at each other, but you spent longer looking at the camera than at me. And now you’re saying not here. So where?”

Wu Ye’s Adam’s apple shifted.

For one second, he looked as though he was about to say something.

But the conference-room door opened, and a stagehand poked his head out. “The two of you, the director wants to try the blocking for Scene Seven. The set’s ready.”

Wu Yi stared at Wu Ye and waited half a second.

Wu Ye only said, “Let’s shoot first.”

Those four words fell between them, and Wu Yi’s fingertips went cold.

He turned and headed toward the soundstage, walking fast. Lin Qiao caught up from behind and thrust the water bottle into his hand, her voice trembling with urgency. “Don’t force yourself. Your complexion’s already off.”

Wu Yi twisted off the cap and poured the water down his throat. The cold made his stomach clench.

“Did my makeup run?” he asked.

Lin Qiao looked at him, her lips pressed tightly together. “No.”

“Then it’s fine.”

The old warehouse set had been built inside the soundstage. Fake dust covered the floor; iron frames and wooden crates were piled against the walls, and an old lamp hung from the ceiling, swaying gently. The props crew was adjusting the ropes, and the metal chains clattered together with a rattling roar.

The director sat behind the monitor. “No kiss in this scene, no crossing the line. The focus is distance. Wu Yi, you enter from the door. Wu Ye grabs you. The light rig comes down, and he shields you. Then the two of you get close, make eye contact, and finish the dialogue. Clear?”

Wu Yi handed his coat to Lin Qiao. “Clear.”

Wu Ye stood on his mark without saying a word.

Before filming began, they tested the light rig once more. The heavy iron frame slid down from above and stopped one meter off the ground. The props master gave an OK sign.

The slate clapped.

“Action!”

Wu Yi pushed open the door and entered.

Inside the frame, he was no longer the top-tier singer seated at the read-through table, but a character driven into a corner by someone from his past. His steps stopped outside the gray line. His breathing was restrained, the corners of his eyes faintly red, yet his chin remained raised.

Wu Ye stepped forward and caught him by the wrist.

The grip was not hard, but it was precise, as though he remembered the position of every bone in Wu Yi’s body. Wu Yi’s fingers tightened on instinct, then loosened before the camera.

“Don’t go,” Wu Ye said his line.

Wu Yi looked at him. “Why not?”

Wu Ye took a step closer. “Because back then—”

A strange cracking sound suddenly came from above.

It was not the designed slide of the chain.

It was sharper, drier—a distinct snap.

Before Wu Yi could look up, Wu Ye had already seized him by the shoulder and pulled him forcefully against his own body. The next second, the iron frame scraped across Wu Ye’s back and slammed heavily into a wooden crate. Splinters flew, cutting across the side of Wu Yi’s face.

Shouts erupted throughout the soundstage.

“Cut! Cut!”

Lin Qiao rushed over, her face as white as paper. “Wu Yi!”

Wu Yi was pinned in Wu Ye’s arms, his nose striking Wu Ye’s shoulder. In that instant, he caught the faint scent of fir from Wu Ye’s collar, along with his hurried breathing pounding against Wu Yi’s ear, one beat after another.

Wu Ye’s hand was still cupped over the back of his head, his palm burning hot.

Wu Yi slowly lifted his head.

Wu Ye frowned, looking first at his face, then at his wrist. His voice was low and hoarse. “Where did it get you?”

Wu Yi did not answer. He only saw that the back of Wu Ye’s black turtleneck had been torn open, the skin beneath reddened and already beginning to seep a little blood.

“Wu Ye!” Song Lan hurried over, her voice tight and hard. “Get medical.”

Wu Ye released Wu Yi, as though only now realizing what he had done, and took half a step back.

That half step hurt more than the falling iron frame.

Wu Yi caught him by the sleeve.

Every sound on set seemed to drop in volume. The director was cursing out the props crew, staff were gathering around, and Lin Qiao was using a tissue to examine the shallow scratch along Wu Yi’s cheek. But Wu Yi only looked at Wu Ye.

“You saw it,” Wu Yi said.

Wu Ye looked away. “Anyone would have pulled you.”

“No.” Wu Yi tightened his grip, wrinkling the sleeve. “Everyone else was still looking up. You had already moved. You were watching this the whole time.”

Wu Ye’s jawline tensed.

Song Lan stepped between them and lowered her voice. “Deal with the injury first. Don’t talk here.”

Wu Yi let go and smiled, though the corner of his mouth was stiff. “Not here again.”

Wu Ye’s gaze darkened. “Wu Yi.”

“Fine.” Wu Yi stepped back and raised both hands, as though cooperating with a silent retreat in front of the camera. “I’ll follow instructions.”

The medic treated the abrasion on Wu Ye’s back. It was not deep, but it was in a conspicuous spot, and his wardrobe would have to be adjusted over the next few days. The props crew apologized repeatedly. The director looked grim, while the producer stood in a corner making calls to suppress the news, terrified that leaked footage would turn the incident into a trending scandal.

Wu Yi sat in a lounge chair while Lin Qiao applied a bandage to him. Her movements were gentle, but the rims of her eyes behind her glasses had reddened.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Wu Yi said quietly. “It’s just a scratch.”

Lin Qiao tossed the cotton swab into the trash bag. “What about him?”

Wu Yi did not answer.

He looked into the distance. Wu Ye sat in a folding chair with his back to him, while Song Lan bent over to speak with the doctor. Wu Ye’s shoulders and back were held unnaturally straight, but every time the doctor touched the wound, his fingers curled faintly against his knee.

Even his pain had to be hidden.

It had been the same three years ago. He had suddenly stepped away, suddenly gone silent, suddenly shut every door that might have allowed anyone close. At first, Wu Yi had thought it was a conflict over opportunities. Later, he thought Wu Ye had simply grown tired of him. Later still, he heard countless people say that there was no such thing as real affection between top stars, only profit. He had smiled and nodded, played along when they traded barbs on variety shows, played along in interviews when he said they were “not close,” played along as fans edited them into rivals.

But when the iron frame came crashing down just now, Wu Ye had not hesitated for even a second.

Wu Yi rose to his feet.

Lin Qiao caught his arm. “Where are you going?”

“To collect a debt.”

“Wu Yi—”

He had already walked over.

When Song Lan saw him, her brows drew together. “This isn’t a good time.”

Wu Yi stopped in front of her. “Sister Song Lan, move.”

Song Lan did not move.

Wu Ye looked up. “Let him talk.”

Song Lan glanced at him. Her phone vibrated incessantly in her palm. She turned to answer it but did not go far.

Wu Yi crouched down, bringing himself level with Wu Ye. The light from the soundstage fell between them, cold and white.

“I’m asking one last time.” Wu Yi’s voice was very low. “Why did you suddenly distance yourself three years ago?”

Wu Ye looked at him, his eyes seeming weighed down by something, fine cracks showing deep within them.

“There was a reason I had no choice.”

A short laugh escaped Wu Yi’s throat. “That line’s in the script too. Is the next one going to be ‘I did it for your own good’?”

Wu Ye pressed his fingers against his knee, his knuckles whitening. “Someone was watching you back then. Watching you very closely.”

“Who?”

Wu Ye fell silent.

Wu Yi’s smile finally collapsed. He stood and looked down at him, the redness at the corners of his eyes made stark by the lights.

“Wu Ye, don’t use half a truth to bait someone.” He said, “Either tell me everything, or don’t stand in my way again.”

Wu Ye raised his eyes. “I can’t do that.”

Wu Yi’s breathing stopped for a beat.

Wu Ye’s voice dropped even lower. “If I see danger, there’s no way I won’t stand in front of you.”

The words offered no explanation, yet they tore open an even older wound. Wu Yi clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to curse at him, to ask how he had the nerve to vanish and then continue acting like his protector, to hurl all the words that had been lodged in his throat for three years straight at him.

But the director’s assistant ran over to announce, “The two of you, we’re wrapping this scene for today. We’ll switch to solo shots later. Touch up in the dressing rooms; we’ll decide again in ten minutes.”

Wu Yi turned and left.

He was afraid that if he stayed another second, everyone would see through the expression on his face.

The corridor outside the dressing rooms was quieter than the soundstage. The water dispenser in the corner gave off a low electrical hum. Wu Yi reached the door and was just about to push it open when a gentle male voice came from inside.

“We can suppress the accident, but Song Lan had better not touch that list from three years ago again.”

Wu Yi’s hand stopped on the doorknob.

He had heard that voice far too many times—at awards ceremonies, investment press conferences, and interviews behind trending searches.

Zhou Qiming.

Another voice, low and cautioning, said, “President Zhou, this isn’t the right time to bring that up.”

Zhou Qiming gave a soft laugh. “What’s inappropriate about it? If Wu Ye hadn’t known enough to cut things off cleanly back then, Wu Yi would have ended up on the blacklist long ago. Young people always think silence is weakness. In fact, silence is the most useful tool.”

The doorknob slowly turned cold in Wu Yi’s palm.

Inside, paper rustled again.

Zhou Qiming said, “Tell Wu Ye not to dig up old accounts. Otherwise, this time, the list won’t have just one name on it.”

The phone vibrated seven times in Wu Ye’s palm. The first trending search on the screen had already bound his name to Wu Yi’s like a blade.

#WuYeWuYiIntenseGlancesOnSet#

#TheTruthBehindWuYisSuddenLossOfOpportunitiesThreeYearsAgo#

#WuYeTheBeneficiary#

The stylist’s hand was still at his hairline, the sticky scent of hairspray clinging to the air. Wu Ye lowered his eyes and watched the behind-the-scenes video that had been reposted more than a hundred thousand times. His fingertip pressed against the edge of the screen until a pale ring formed around it.

In the video, he and Wu Yi were filming a confrontation beneath a rain shelter. The original scene was a brief silence after an argument between their characters. The dialogue had been cut, the camera zoomed in, leaving only Wu Yi looking up at him while he lowered his head to block a falling piece of wooden set dressing from Wu Yi. Slow motion. Suggestive music. The caption read like a verdict—

“Top-streaming archenemies are fake, but rekindled old love is real?”

The next marketing account went even further.

“Three years ago, Wu Yi was replaced just before his new drama began filming, and his endorsements suddenly vanished, while Wu Ye’s career took off. Now that the two are working together, are the old accounts between the capital players about to be settled?”

The accompanying image was from the backstage of an awards ceremony three years ago. Wu Yi wore a black baseball cap and stood at the end of a corridor, half his face pressed into shadow. Wu Ye passed by from the other side in a sharply cut suit, without looking back.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t looked back that day.

Wu Ye remembered Wu Yi’s fingers brushing against his sleeve, so lightly it was almost as if it had never happened. Cameras had filled the corridor then. He had paused for only half a second before Song Lan’s low voice came through his earpiece, reminding him, “Keep walking.” And so he had kept walking.

The screen lit up with another message.

Song Lan: Don’t respond. Get to the conference room on set. Now.

Wu Ye raised a hand to signal the stylist to stop, then pulled off the cloth around his neck. The collar of his black costume was tight against his throat, making his Adam’s apple feel constricted.

People were already speaking in hushed voices outside the door.

“The trending searches have exploded. The fans are fighting.”

“Wu Yi’s side doesn’t seem to have issued a statement yet.”

“Can this drama still be filmed? Haven’t the two fandoms always been at odds?”

Wu Ye closed his fingers around the phone and pushed open the door. At the end of the corridor, beside the monitor, Wu Yi sat in a folding chair, his baseball cap pulled low. Lin Qiao was bent over, saying something in his ear. Wu Yi didn’t move. He merely rolled the script in his hand into a tube and tapped it against his knee, once after another.

As if waiting to see who would speak first.

Wu Ye’s footsteps faltered.

Wu Yi looked up. The upswept corners of his eyes held none of their brightness from the stage, only a thin layer of chill. Their gazes collided across half the corridor, then both locked in place.

Wu Ye looked away first.

Lin Qiao immediately straightened and stepped half a pace in front of Wu Yi, her round face gone pale with tension. “Teacher Wu, President Song is looking for you.”

She hadn’t called him “Brother Ye.”

Wu Ye nodded, his voice low. “I know.”

By the time the conference-room door closed, Song Lan had already pushed her tablet to the center of the table. Her short hair was tucked behind her ears, the shoulders of her dark suit sharply defined, while her phone screen displayed three active calls.

“Someone bought both the pairing tags and the old-story tags.” She opened the data graph. “This isn’t organic. The promotion was concentrated half an hour ago. The footage originated from a camera position outside the set. That angle should never have gotten out.”

Wu Ye remained standing. “Who released it?”

Song Lan looked up. “We’re still investigating. But Zhou Qiming met with the platform’s business team last night.”

Wu Ye’s fingers tapped once against the edge of the table, then stopped.

Song Lan continued, “There are two options. First, the production issues a statement emphasizing that it’s necessary for the plot, then redirects the attention toward promotion for the drama. Second, we cool things down from one side only, cut off every topic involving the two of you, and prevent the fan groups from tearing each other apart.”

Wu Ye looked at the old photos of Wu Yi from three years ago on the tablet. Beneath the image, the comments surged upward like a tide.

“Was Wu Yi replaced back then so Wu Ye could rise?”

“The capital’s favorite darling is still pretending to be innocent?”

“Can you stop treating Wu Yi like a stepping stone?”

Fans on the other side fought back with even uglier words, dragging out and mocking every detail of Wu Yi’s slump back then.

It felt as if a grain of sand were lodged in Wu Ye’s throat, impossible to swallow.

“The second,” he said.

Song Lan stared at him. “Think carefully. Cooling things down unilaterally will be interpreted as drawing a line between you. And Wu Yi’s side may not accept it.”

“Suppress every topic involving the two of us.” Wu Ye set his phone on the table. “Pull the CP tags. Pull the suggestive edits. Delete all content tying us together from the production’s press releases. Suppress the story about Wu Yi from three years ago too. Spend whatever it takes.”

Song Lan didn’t answer at once. Her fingertips tapped lightly against the edge of the tablet.

“Wu Ye, this isn’t just a matter of money. What Zhou Qiming wants is to force you to choose. If you cut ties, he’ll say you’re feeling guilty. If you cooperate with the publicity stunt, he’ll turn the two of you into a commercial sensation. Either way, someone gets bitten.”

Wu Ye raised his eyes. “Get Wu Yi off the trending tags first.”

A slight crease formed between Song Lan’s brows. “This approach again?”

A staff member’s urging voice came from outside the conference room. “Teacher Wu, we’re ready for the next scene!”

Wu Ye didn’t answer.

Song Lan turned over her phone. A new press-release draft filled the screen:

“Wu Ye’s side denies manufactured publicity and states that he and Wu Yi are merely ordinary colleagues.”

Those four words were like nails.

Ordinary colleagues.

Wu Ye reached out and deleted the final sentence. “Don’t make it that final.”

Song Lan gave a soft, cold laugh. “Then how do you want to phrase it? Neither acknowledge nor tie yourselves together, while also expecting the public not to attack Wu Yi. Public relations isn’t wish fulfillment.”

Wu Ye’s jaw tightened. After a long moment, he said, “Write that we’re focused on filming and reject malicious edits.”

“What about Wu Yi’s side?”

“Notify Lin Qiao.”

Song Lan studied him for several seconds, then picked up her phone. “Fine. But if someone gets hurt this time, don’t shift the blame onto the company.”

Wu Ye turned to leave. His hand had just touched the doorknob when his phone screen lit up.

An unfamiliar number.

A photograph appeared first.

In the picture, he and Wu Yi stood by the rear door of an old warehouse in the film city. It had to have been taken three years ago. Wu Yi wasn’t wearing a hat. His eyes were red, and one hand clutched Wu Ye’s sleeve. Wu Ye stood sideways in front of him, half his face cut by the streetlamp. That night, they had argued until Wu Yi finally asked whether he truly dared to stay. Wu Ye hadn’t answered.

The second image was a screenshot of a chat history.

The profile picture and username looked like they belonged to his private account, but the messages were not words he had ever said.

“The deal on the resources has already been made. It’ll be safer if Wu Yi is removed.”

“He’s emotionally unstable. Don’t let him into the negotiations.”

The forgery was crude, but it was convincing enough to ignite a firestorm.

The phone rang.

Wu Ye looked at the number, answered, and said nothing.

Zhou Qiming’s voice was as warm as if he were clinking glasses at a reception. “Did you see the gift?”

Wu Ye walked to the bend in the corridor to avoid the passing crew members. Prop crates were stacked against the wall. A splinter scraped across the back of his hand, leaving a thin red line.

“Your methods are still as outdated as ever, President Zhou,” Wu Ye said.

“Old methods work.” Zhou Qiming chuckled. “The leaked footage is only an appetizer. Audiences like archenemies. Platforms like numbers. Brands like attention. Cooperate, and everyone makes money. If you don’t—”

He paused, as if savoring Wu Ye’s breathing.

“That surveillance video will be much clearer than today’s edit. The forged chat history doesn’t need to be very convincing, either. It only needs to be fast, chaotic, and believable enough for the fans to accept it first. When that happens, Wu Yi will fall all over again, just as he did three years ago.”

Wu Ye pressed his fingertip against the edge of the phone until his knuckles turned white.

“What kind of ability is it to come after him?”

“That’s an interesting thing for you to say.” Zhou Qiming’s tone remained steady. “Wu Ye, haven’t you always been the person most skilled at pushing him away? There’s a business gathering tomorrow night. Come sit in. We’ll follow the platform’s publicity plan for the drama: archenemies become suggestive, suggestive becomes a sensation. Don’t let Song Lan suppress the tags again.”

Wu Ye looked toward the entrance to the set. The lights blazed brightly. Wu Yi stood in the middle of the set, his cap already removed, his fringe tousled by the stylist. He held the script in his hand, but his gaze had crossed the crowd and landed here.

Wu Ye immediately turned sideways.

Zhou Qiming lowered his voice for his final words. “Let me tell you something honestly. The list doesn’t have to bear only one name. It could bear Wu Yi’s name alone. It all depends on what you choose.”

The call ended.

Wu Ye stood there for two seconds, gripping his phone. A bead of blood welled from the thin cut on the back of his hand. He wiped it away with his thumb, smearing the red into a small patch across his skin.

“Wu Ye.”

Wu Yi’s voice struck from behind him.

Wu Ye turned.

Wu Yi stood three steps away, clutching his baseball cap in one hand, his fingertips deforming the brim. Lin Qiao followed behind him, wanting to stop him but not daring to, her glasses having slipped to the middle of her nose.

“Did you have the trending searches suppressed?” Wu Yi asked.

Wu Ye glanced around. Several staff members pretended to organize cables, but their ears were all pricked up. The director sat behind the monitor, his expression darker than the machine’s screen.

“Let’s film first,” Wu Ye said.

Wu Yi gave a brief smile, devoid of any brightness. “That line again. Film first, avoid suspicion first, don’t say anything first, keep walking first. Wu Ye, you’ve been using that script for three years. Aren’t you tired of it yet?”

Wu Ye’s Adam’s apple moved. “This isn’t the place to talk.”

“Then where is?” Wu Yi took a step forward. His voice wasn’t loud, yet all the surrounding noise came to a stop. “Not the backstage corridor, not the awards ceremony, not the hotel elevator, not the set either. So where counts? After the trending searches have finished speaking for you?”

Lin Qiao said under her breath, “Brother Yi, not here…”

Wu Yi didn’t turn around. “Lin Qiao, don’t stop me.”

Wu Ye slipped his phone into his pocket. His fingertips touched the photograph sent from the unfamiliar number, as if he had brushed against a piece of red-hot iron.

“All topics involving the two of us have to be brought down today,” Wu Ye said. “Letting them keep spreading won’t do you any good.”

Wu Yi stared at him. The trace of coldness in his eyes slowly cracked, revealing something deeper beneath. “It won’t do Wu Yi any good, or it won’t do Wu Ye any good?”

Wu Ye didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Everyone around them fell even quieter. The prop rain pipes had not been shut off completely. A drop of water fell from the edge of the shelter and struck the ground, the crisp sound harsh enough to pierce the silence.

Wu Yi loosened the rolled-up script. The pages sprang open, revealing dense annotations. He looked at those words as if they were a scene he had memorized long ago, but could no longer perform.

“Director,” Wu Yi suddenly said.

The director lifted his head from behind the monitor. “What is it?”

Wu Yi closed the script and handed it to Lin Qiao. His voice was clear enough for the entire set to hear.

“Filming is suspended for today. Wu Yi’s side will assume responsibility for any breach-of-contract penalties. Have the team coordinate over the losses.”

The set erupted into a burst of hushed discussion.

The producer stood up. “Wu Yi, this isn’t something you can fool around with. Today’s schedule is packed—”

“I’m not fooling around.” Wu Yi cut him off, his gaze returning to Wu Ye’s face. “I just can’t keep acting.”

Wu Ye’s fingers tightened at his sides, his nails digging into his palm.

Song Lan hurried over from the direction of the conference room. When she saw what was happening, her expression darkened. “Wu Yi, don’t make this bigger than it is.”

Wu Yi ignored her and looked only at Wu Ye. The eyes that could always smile brightly in front of a camera now looked as though they had been ground down by something—clear, but sharp.

“Tell President Song she doesn’t need to write those polished public-relations statements for Wu Ye anymore,” he said. “Wu Yi doesn’t want to keep playing a stranger in Wu Ye’s script.”

With that, he turned and walked toward the exit.

Wu Ye took half a step after him. The phone in his pocket vibrated again.

On the screen was a thumbnail Zhou Qiming had sent of a new video.

In the thumbnail, Wu Yi from three years ago stood in a hotel corridor, one arm raised as he embraced Wu Ye.