Chapter 90
From the moment Ye Yuyuan stepped out of the car, many eyes in the crew subtly drifted toward him and Fang Huai.
His usual Maybach had been left in China. In New York, he drove a low-profile Bentley—though for many on set, that was still the kind of car they had only ever seen in automotive magazines. Aside from Xu Tuanyuan and a few older actors, most people simply couldn’t afford such luxury.
For someone of Ye Yuyuan’s status, wealth and price tags had long since lost significance. He had no need to flaunt his status through his choice of vehicle.
Some people were aware of Fang Huai and Ye Yuyuan’s relationship; more were not.
Many remained silent, only occasionally whispering to each other, exchanging glances filled with a mix of condescension and knowing amusement. It was the look of people who thought they had seen it all before—watching what appeared to be a couple of vastly different social standings.
A handsome, aloof, and powerful older man.
A delicate young man dressed in an oversized hoodie with a comic book logo on the front.
It was hard for anyone to see them as a normal couple. If anything, people found it much easier to believe their relationship was something more transactional, something more… materialistic.
Some even began drawing connections to Fang Huai’s recent streak of extraordinary luck.
A sudden explosion in album sales.
Landing a film deal with Xu Tuanyuan as if by sheer miracle.
Who would believe it was just talent or pure chance?
“If I remember correctly, Mr. Ye has a fiancée, right? Does she know about this?”
“So he’s actually a closeted gay man lying about his marriage? Kinda disappointing.”
“Nah, it’s not deception—just fooling around before marriage. Keeping a little… you know.”
The ones gossiping were mostly crew assistants and production staff—people with little power of their own. They had just finished freeloading off a Michelin three-star meal and were now squatting off to the side, whispering their speculations.
Most others simply kept their thoughts to themselves.
Time was tight. After finishing their meal and taking a short break, filming had to resume. Fang Huai had already dried his hair, taken off his hoodie, and returned to his Lin Xiao look—his natural features were excellent, requiring almost no makeup, which saved the makeup artist a lot of trouble.
It seemed that he and Ye Yuyuan had disagreed on something. In the end, Ye Yuyuan stood up first and walked toward the artificial lake.
The people gossiping nearby caught sight of him in their peripheral vision and immediately fell silent, lowering their heads.
Ye Yuyuan still had that same indifferent expression.
Except when speaking to Fang Huai, he was always like this—cold, serious, meticulous. His striking good looks carried an air of detachment, like a deity placed high on an altar, gazing down at the world.
He crouched down and dipped his hand into the artificial lake, testing the temperature. After a moment of silence, his brows furrowed.
Just earlier, Fang Huai had sworn to him that the sun had warmed the water, keeping it well above 20°C.
Now walking over, Fang Huai felt a little awkward as he heard Ye Yuyuan murmur, “All grown up now. Even learned how to lie.”
His gaze lowered, expression unreadable. The unspoken implication was clear: Did you really think I’d believe that?
Fang Huai felt a pang of guilt but still stubbornly insisted, even telling a lie he himself didn’t believe, “It was warm when the sun was out. It just cooled down now.”
Ye Yuyuan: “…”
After a moment of silence, Ye Yuyuan suddenly reached out, his thumb brushing along Fang Huai’s nose bridge, down to the tip, and lingering at the corner of his lips.
Fang Huai had the sudden urge to kiss him but barely held back. “What?”
From behind Ye Yuyuan, Fang Huai could see a few people watching them with curiosity and faint mockery. But the moment their eyes met his, they quickly averted their gazes.
The weather that day wasn’t great, as if a heavy storm was brewing. Weak afternoon light filtered through the gaps in the trees. Ye Yuyuan lowered his eyes, and as if recalling something amusing, the corners of his lips lifted ever so slightly.
“Your nose isn’t getting any longer,” he said in a voice only the two of them could hear, making a rare joke. “My little Pinocchio.”
The joke wasn’t particularly funny, but it was so unlike Ye Yuyuan. His fingers rested lightly against Fang Huai’s nose, and for a few fleeting seconds, his gaze was indulgent and affectionate—before quickly returning to its usual calm.
Fang Huai stared at him, his heart racing.
He loved Ye Yuyuan too much. Especially when Ye Yuyuan looked at him like this, spoke to him in ways he never had before.
He kept reminding himself that they were on set, but in the end, he could only declare, “I’m going to kiss you when we get back.”
Ye Yuyuan lowered his gaze.
“Mm.”
A moment later, his voice turned slightly husky as he added:
“Remember. Don’t forget.”
*
Fang Huai had something buried deep in his heart, something he hadn’t told anyone. Sometimes, he felt like it was just his own illusion.
After filming, he often found it hard to detach himself from the role of Lin Xiao. He would zone out for long periods, his mood frequently sinking into gloom and despair. Especially during today’s first take of this scene—when he went underwater, there were a few seconds where he truly believed he was going to die.
He was a little scared, but he thought he was probably overreacting, so he didn’t tell anyone.
After a short break following their meal, they started shooting the final take.
Soon, the lighting would begin to change, shifting away from what was needed in the script. If they didn’t get it this time, they might have to delay or find another solution.
Before Ye Yuyuan arrived, Fang Huai had been a bit anxious. But at this moment, he suddenly felt calm.
The anxiety and frustration were still there, but Ye Yuyuan was like the perfect tranquilizer for him—effective, yet gentle. At least this time, standing under the camera, Fang Huai’s palms weren’t sweating, and his heart didn’t feel weak.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently ran through his well-memorized lines and movements once more.
Xu Tuanyuan signaled with his hand. The cameras all moved into position.
This was a rain scene. The artificial rain system was slowly starting up, but just then, a low rumble echoed across the sky, and raindrops began to fall in seamless streams.
It had started raining.
Natural rain was harder to control, but it added a stronger sense of realism and enhanced the effect. Xu Tuanyuan estimated the intensity of the rain, briefly discussed it with the assistant director, and decided to proceed with the shoot.
He raised his hand toward Fang Huai, signaling “Get ready.” Then, taking a breath, he called out in a powerful voice:
“Action.”
All conversation stopped at once, and everyone’s attention turned to Fang Huai. Many faces grew solemn.
The artificial rain scattered in all directions. A secretary tried to hold an umbrella over Ye Yuyuan, but he shook his head, declining. He remained silent, Fang Huai’s hoodie draped over his elbow, his gaze fixed in Fang Huai’s direction. His fingers unconsciously clenched, then slowly relaxed.
Meanwhile, Xu Tuanyuan kept his eyes on the viewfinder.
Fang Huai was performing better than expected—better than in all previous takes. During the fifth attempt earlier, he hadn’t even made it to the water before the scene was cut.
The camera first captured the entire scene—the gray, overcast sky pressing down, high walls and towering buildings looming like ghostly shadows, faded billboards barely visible through the rain. The world was void of sunlight.
Then, the microphones picked up the sounds of wind and rain, and the camera slowly zoomed in.
The young man stood at the edge of the artificial lake as if he couldn’t feel the raindrops. One hand rested on the railing, the other clutched his stomach, as if invisible wires were tightening around his organs. He was clearly in pain, yet his face showed no emotion.
His naturally wavy bangs were dampened by the rain. His skin was pale, his dry lips devoid of color. A layer of white gauze covered his eyes, but now, he slowly unraveled it.
The gauze was crumpled and carelessly clenched in his palm—
Revealing a pair of strikingly beautiful eyes.
His eyes had slightly drooping corners, and their light amber hue suggested that, before the accident, they must have been pure and clear.
But now, those eyes held no focus, no light.
From beginning to end, they were like a still, lifeless pool of water.
His entire presence felt sickly and despondent. His spine curled inward as he sluggishly reached out and waved his hand in front of his eyes.
Nothing. There was nothing in front of him.
He could only tell it was raining through his sense of smell and hearing. The rusted railing beneath his fingers had a faint artificial lake emblem. He hadn’t lost his sight just today, but it was only now that he truly understood—he would never recover.
From now on, he would live like this, neither fully human nor ghost. For the rest of his life.
It was ironic, laughable even—like a surrealist tragicomedy where the curtain finally lifts, only for him to realize he was the clown in the spotlight.
In the camera’s frame, the boy suddenly laughed—a jarring, breathless laugh that grew more frantic by the second. He was thin, his ribs faintly visible through his worn-out T-shirt, trembling with every breath and laugh in a way that seemed almost unnatural.
“Lin Xiao…” He stumbled back a few steps and fell into a shallow puddle, mud splattering over his body. Lowering his head, he murmured to himself, “Lin Xiao, you’re so disgusting.”
A blind homosexual. No one would ever like him.
People said that when he walked with his cane, head lowered, he looked like a stray dog. And all he ever did in response was sluggishly lift his head and smile.
But his smile quickly faded, replaced by shallow, rapid breaths—as if he were about to suffocate. His organs felt like they were pressing against each other, squeezing so tight they would crush every last bone and vein inside him.
He sank to his knees. The rain intensified. His skin was a sickly shade of pale, veins visibly bluish under the surface. He gasped violently, coughing, and when he lowered his head, his lips seemed to shape the words “help me.”
Behind the camera, the assistant director exchanged glances with the others around him, all of them a little stunned.
At this point, Fang Huai was performing far better than anyone had anticipated—almost at the same level as his original audition.
There were no strict rules for acting or emotional expression, but the difference between good and bad was instantly recognizable. Xu Tuanyuan had always known that Fang Huai was a talented actor. The cameras at multiple angles were running, and the lighting had long since been adjusted for the scene.
No one was speaking anymore. They were watching, completely absorbed.
Up until yesterday, all the scenes had been about Lin Xiao’s life before his blindness—his time abroad, the transitional events, and interactions with supporting characters. The storyline had been relatively mild and uneventful.
Many people were witnessing Fang Huai’s sheer emotional intensity and ability to evoke empathy for the first time—and just like that, all the previous gossip had vanished.
“This take might pass,” the assistant director murmured to the crew member beside him. “Hopefully.”
But Xu Tuanyuan didn’t relax. Neither did the scriptwriter.
If anything, their expressions had grown even more tense than before.
Fang Huai’s performance was undoubtedly impressive. But something about it felt… off. If he continued down this path, he might end up losing control.
In the camera frame, every bit of emotion had now drained from the boy’s face. His breathing gradually steadied. Mud clung to his cheek as he absentmindedly pushed back his rain-soaked bangs.
His fingers trembled as he redialed a number on his phone. This time, it finally connected. His unfocused pupils shifted slightly, breaking through the emptiness with a flicker of clarity and hope.
“Mom, it’s me…”
“Why don’t you just go die?” The voice on the other end cut him off impatiently. Then—click.
Beeeeep—
The boy sat there in silence. After a moment, he reached for his wristwatch and gently hung it on the railing.
At that moment, he didn’t even know what he was thinking.
He didn’t really want to die. Things were bad, but not so hopeless that he would give up entirely.
His unfocused gaze dropped downward. He couldn’t see the artificial lake. He couldn’t see anything at all.
How deep was the water?
The thought came out of nowhere. But now, he suddenly wanted to know.
His lips pressed together, but his eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. He lightly gripped the railing and swung himself over. The hem of his old white T-shirt fluttered briefly before getting drenched—then sank limply into the water.
The underwater cameras started rolling. Xu Tuanyuan adjusted the equipment, his gaze fixed on the viewfinder.
The water was deep. Silt and gravel settled at the bottom, casting a stark and realistic shade of gray.
Fang Huai could hear the sound of water vibrating against his eardrums, pushing all other noises far away. It felt like he was plummeting from a sky tens of thousands of meters high, falling toward the earth.
From the very first second of filming, he had realized something was wrong. But he couldn’t stop.
The gray, suffocating emotions belonging to Lin Xiao clung to him like vines, creeping up from his ankles, darkening, bleeding, tightening around his entire body—trapping him with no way out.
He was a method actor. The price of empathy was steep. The tide, tinged with the metallic taste of rust, kept surging over him, submerging him completely. His palms and breath were ice-cold.
What did Lin Xiao feel? He must have been in complete despair.
Just like he was now.
But despair wasn’t something that overwhelmed all at once. It started as a tiny, invisible mold spot, then slowly spread, soaking into everything, wrapping around a person until there was no escape.
As the water closed over his head, Fang Huai’s emotions completely took over—severing him from his rational thoughts.
He didn’t want to die.
But he couldn’t hold his breath, and he couldn’t struggle or call for help.
He could only watch, wide-eyed, as the water—laced with the acrid taste of rust and paint—flooded into his nose.
No one noticed anything wrong.
Everyone still thought it was just a brilliantly immersive performance—that Fang Huai was simply an actor devoted to his craft.
The water was deep.
Deeper than anyone would expect from an artificial lake in a city.
As if it had existed from the very beginning, waiting to become someone’s burial ground.
Water pipes and discarded trash tangled together, the scent of paint growing more pungent. The deeper it got, the dimmer the light became.
He kept sinking.
Xu Tuanyuan stared at the viewfinder.
Just as he feared—exactly as he had predicted.
Fang Huai’s emotions had burst out like a flood, surging wildly until they burned out completely.
What was left was nothing.
A hollow shell. A lifeless, gray void.
He had made the same mistake as before.
This wasn’t what Xu Tuanyuan wanted.
A heavy silence filled the set.
Then, suddenly—
The assistant director hesitantly muttered, almost in disbelief:
“Is it just me, or… has he not moved for a long time?”
“……”
Xu Tuanyuan’s chest tightened. A sharp sense of dread shot through him. He immediately zoomed in on the details in the viewfinder. And there—he saw it. Fang Huai, completely motionless. Letting himself sink.
There was no struggle, nor did it seem like he was holding his breath—no bubbles escaped from his nose or mouth. His eyes were open, and a faint light filtered through the water, resting on his irises.
“Lifeguard!” Xu Tuanyuan sprang to his feet.
Everything happened so suddenly that almost no one realized what was going on, not even the lifeguard who had been prepared on the shore. He hesitated for a few seconds.
But someone was even faster than the lifeguard.
The secretary, holding Fang Huai’s hoodie that Ye Yuyuan had thrown to him, called out anxiously, “President Ye, wait—”
A jade ring slipped out of the hoodie. The secretary hurriedly caught it, freezing in place, afraid to move.
Inside the ring, there was a tiny engraving of the character “Fang.” The jade ring was meant to be passed down to a daughter-in-law, so its size was much smaller than a man’s finger. When removed, a dark red mark was visible around the base of Ye Yuyuan’s middle finger, where the ring had been tightly pressed.
Yet he had stubbornly worn it, enduring the discomfort with restraint, as if a little pain meant nothing. Even though it didn’t fit, he had never taken it off, not for a second.
Just like how he and Fang Huai had never been a perfect match in others’ eyes. If not for one person stubbornly refusing to let go, they never would have made it this far.
Everyone was stunned. In the chaos, even the lifeguards had no time to react. In the downpour, the only sound that cut through was the heavy crash of someone plunging into the water—like a clap of thunder.
Ye Yuyuan was never good at expressing emotions. He often seemed indifferent, and it was hard to imagine him truly loving someone—to what extent, no one knew.
Only when the ring was removed could one see the deep, bone-cutting mark it left behind.
The entire scene descended into chaos. Lifeguards rushed into the water. Screams, shouting, and disorder filled the air.
“Who just jumped in?” someone asked in disbelief. “President Ye?”
“It looked like him…”
“Would he really go that far?”
No one cared about the filming schedule anymore, but the camera, oblivious, continued to roll, faithfully capturing everything happening in the water.
Fang Huai’s consciousness had already detached from his body, floating above the surface, staring down coldly at himself sinking deeper. He could see black thorns growing wildly from his body, bearing the name “Lin Xiao.” They spread uncontrollably, piercing his skin and oozing dark, infected blood.
But soon, an unknown force pulled at him, urging him to open his eyes.
“I love you.”
“He is the gift the world gave me.”
“My little Pinocchio.”
“……”
The sky broke through the clouds, sending light through the murky depths, reaching the boy’s pale irises.
Fang Huai’s eyes snapped open.
His face was still deathly pale. He parted his lips slightly, and a small stream of bubbles escaped. The water stung his eyes, turning them red.
He didn’t want to die. He still—
He still hadn’t truly been with Ye Yuyuan. He had filled an entire notebook with plans, but hadn’t even completed the first page.
He hadn’t told the world.
He hadn’t even told Ye Yuyuan—had never once said “I love you” to him.
He…
His lifeless body was slowly infused with vitality. Color spread from his fingertips, and the black thorns binding him withered and crumbled away. Slowly but determinedly, he tilted his head upward and reached toward the surface.
A moment later, someone grasped his hand tightly beneath the water.
That person pulled him into their embrace, breathing oxygen into his lungs while pressing trembling kisses against his lips.
Fang Huai closed his eyes.
*
Xu Tuanyuan finished handling everything and only opened the camera late at night, dragging his exhausted body.
He had negotiated with Ye Yuyuan for a long time, but Ye Yuyuan remained resolute.
He didn’t want Fang Huai to continue acting—no matter how much the penalty fee was, he was willing to pay it. Fang Huai’s state after getting too immersed in the role was too dangerous, and Ye Yuyuan simply couldn’t agree to it.
As a director for so many years, Xu Tuanyuan had encountered similar situations before, and there were always ways to handle them. The problem was that Fang Huai hadn’t communicated with him in advance and had trapped himself in a dead end, leading to the situation escalating like this.
Besides, after this scene, there were no more dangerous stunts that required Fang Huai to perform personally—post-production editing could achieve the desired effect.
They had confronted each other for nearly four hours. In the end, it was Fang Huai who woke up and made the decision—he wanted to continue acting.
Fang Huai wasn’t someone who didn’t know his limits. He repeatedly assured and apologized to Ye Yuyuan, but on such a fundamental issue, Ye Yuyuan refused to compromise. He never relented.
“I can’t take any risks.”
Xu Tuanyuan remembered the expression on Ye Yuyuan’s face when he said those words, his eyes lowered, voice hoarse. His fingers were interlocked with Fang Huai’s, his spine held straight, yet he didn’t seem as unbreakable as he appeared.
Because he was afraid of losing him—terrified, even.
At that moment, both Xu Tuanyuan and Fang Huai fell silent.
In the end, Xu Tuanyuan stepped out, leaving the space to them. He could hear the sounds of their argument and conversation continuing deep into the night. When Ye Yuyuan finally emerged, he cast Xu Tuanyuan a silent glance.
Xu Tuanyuan knew he had given in again, but Fang Huai had only barely won.
When it comes to the person you love the most, you never have many bargaining chips.
“I’ll come over once a week,” Ye Yuyuan told Xu Tuanyuan. “My private doctor will stay with the crew. I need to monitor his mental and psychological state at all times. If anything seems off, we stop immediately.”
“……”
Xu Tuanyuan sighed as he pushed open the door, exhaustion weighing on him.
The assistant director was sorting through the footage from the day. Seeing him enter, he called out, “Director Xu, come take a look at this.”
Xu Tuanyuan lowered his head and saw the scene from the accident that afternoon.
On the screen, Fang Huai sank deeper and deeper into the water, completely unaware. And then—
Five minutes later.
“This take is good.”
Xu Tuanyuan replayed the scene again. His furrowed brows gradually relaxed, and he announced, “This take is approved.”
*
Three Months Later
By the time The Song of the Nameless officially wrapped up filming, it was early summer. Fang Huai didn’t let Ye Yuyuan pick him up; instead, he quietly took a flight back home on his own.
Coincidentally, Qiao An was traveling to China for vacation and ended up on the same flight as Fang Huai.
Fang Huai had been looking at his phone but dozed off at some point. Just as Qiao An was about to ask a flight attendant for a blanket, he caught a glimpse of the last pages Fang Huai had opened on his phone.
“Proposal strategies”
“How to propose romantically”
“Foolproof proposal tips”
Qiao An: “……”
When they got off the plane, Fang Huai yawned. Qiao An had been holding back for a long time, but in the end, he couldn’t resist asking, “Uh… are you planning to propose?”
Fang Huai looked a little surprised. He glanced around to make sure no one was paying attention before lowering his voice and saying, “I’m thinking about it, but I haven’t started preparing yet.”
Qiao An gave him a strange look, sizing him up before whispering even more quietly,
“Uh… have you guys, you know, done it? If it’s not a good fit, you might regret it later.”
Fang Huai was confused. “Done what?”
Qiao An, being a straight guy who wasn’t very familiar with gay relationships, scratched his head.
“You know, that,” he said, mimicking a steering wheel grip and pressing an imaginary gas pedal. “You don’t get it?”
Fang Huai: “……”
What the hell???
