The cameras automatically shut off at ten o’clock.
The next morning, at five, they switched back on.
The celebrities cared about their personal time before bed, but mornings were another story—no one really expected to relax that early.
The director had moved all his belongings to the monitoring room. The alarm rang at five, and he sprang up from his folding cot, stretching and yawning as he made his way to the monitoring console. Other directors were already in position, watching the early morning footage collected by the cameramen.
It was late July, almost August. To avoid the three-day celebration of Army Day, the show’s release was scheduled for August 4. That meant it wouldn’t be long before That Summer After the Breakup premiered.
The director washed his face to wake himself up, checked that all cameras were functioning, and saw all the guests still fast asleep. He settled into his private seat to review the footage that editors had worked on overnight.
Outside, a rooster crowed now and then. These chickens were raised by the resort’s inn, mostly for guests to enjoy, and eventually, once grown, they became a staple dish in the kitchen: braised free-range chicken.
Compared to chickens, the feral cats had it much easier—they were fed by tourists every day. The staff, wanting to maintain a pet-friendly image, didn’t chase them away. Early mornings, when there were few guests, were their time to patrol their territory.
When Song Cheng came downstairs, he saw an orange cat passing the doorway. It glanced coolly at the suddenly appearing bipedal intruder, then walked away with calm, measured steps.
Song Cheng: “…”
Stepping out into the courtyard and looking at the deep blue sky, Song Cheng took a long, blissful breath before turning back inside.
The aroma from downstairs gradually woke the other guests.
Song Cheng rose at 5:50, quickly got ready, and by 6:15, Liu Yanchu came down. Compared to Song Cheng’s energetic state, Liu Yanchu looked drained, as if some mischievous sprite had sucked him dry overnight.
Dragging his tired body to the kitchen, Liu Yanchu noticed Song Cheng and asked, surprised, “Teacher Liu, how come you’re up so early?”
Liu Yanchu paused briefly. “Why not? Does that make me the type who can’t open his eyes before noon in your eyes?”
Song Cheng looked sheepish. “No, I just—”
Before he could finish, Liu Yanchu laughed heartily. “Just teasing you. Yeah, that’s exactly me.”
Song Cheng: “…”
Not everyone could get Liu Yanchu’s sense of humor. Song Cheng didn’t find it funny—he just felt Liu Yanchu looked utterly exhausted, as if he hadn’t slept a wink. Noticing this, Liu Yanchu changed the subject: “What are you doing?”
Song Cheng blinked and gestured to the ingredients he’d prepped. “Making a nutritious porridge.”
The show’s catering was brutal. A standard meal of two meat dishes and two vegetables cost fifty yuan. Song Cheng did the math and realized that their 600 yuan allowance wouldn’t last three days. So he bought cheap ingredients himself, planning to cook every meal.
The show offered eight-treasure porridge at eight yuan a bowl, but a pound of rice cost only five. He meticulously selected the cheapest vegetables, four eggs at two yuan each, and two fresh, plump carrots. Feeling protein might be insufficient, he reluctantly added a pound of chicken breast—paying twenty yuan left his heart bleeding.
He felt both frugal and furious.
Low buy, high sell, illegal market manipulation, unlicensed operation—he mentally tallied offenses: multiple penalties, starting at one time over the fine, capped at five years.
Chopping on the cutting board, Song Cheng looked determined, strikingly focused.
After mincing the meat, he suddenly smiled kindly. “I made a bit too much. Teacher Liu, want to try some?”
Liu Yanchu: “…”
Qin Wunian hadn’t slept well. When Song Cheng woke up, Qin Wunian also woke but didn’t move—he continued pretending to sleep.
Once Song Cheng left, Qin Wunian didn’t immediately get up. He thought quietly for a while and only rose when he heard Song Cheng and Liu Yanchu chatting downstairs.
Maintaining his usual composure, he got up, put on his shoes, filmed the requested morning footage for the director, then stayed in the bathroom, refusing to come out.
The show had provided him with a brand-new phone. Qin Wunian logged into his backup account, still wary since the phone technically belonged to someone else. Few friends were on this account. He sent a single “1” to one of them and waited a few seconds. Soon, a voice call came through.
Qin Wunian answered.
Ban Yunfang asked eagerly, “How’s it going?”
Qin Wunian: “Pretty good.”
Ban Yunfang: “Can’t you say more? Did the director make things difficult for you? Are the other guests easy to get along with? How did Song Cheng behave? Are you two getting along? If there’s a problem, tell me now—before the show airs, there’s still room to negotiate.”
Qin Wunian was silent for a moment before speaking: “Ban Jie.”
Ban Yunfang held the phone, paused for two seconds, then sprang up: “I knew you’d gotten yourself into trouble again! Did you make the director bleed?!”
Qin Wunian: “……”
He finally lost his patience. “How many times do I have to say it? I’m not a violent maniac!”
Ban Yunfang snorted silently. Sure, sure—he said he wasn’t, so he wasn’t.
Rubbing his brow, Qin Wunian, sleep-deprived and tired, nevertheless had a clarity of mind he’d rarely experienced. Taking a deep breath, he said, “I want to ask you for a favor.”
Ban Yunfang was taken aback. She had never heard such a serious tone from Qin Wunian before, and a flicker of nervousness hit her. She said, “Go ahead. We’ve worked together for years. You’re my only artist, and I’ll help you with anything you need.”
She added after a beat, “Except for breaking the law—I have a child. I can’t go down that path with you.”
Qin Wunian: “…………”
His expression remained cold. “It’s not that extreme. I just need you to help me promote something.”
Ban Yunfang: “Promote what?”
Qin Wunian: “Promote the CP between me and Song Cheng. Hint to the audience that we’re about to get back together.”
Ban Yunfang gaped, frozen for a long moment, before finally regaining her voice. “Uh… this is something you two discussed in advance, right…?”
Qin Wunian: “Of course I can’t tell him. If he knew, the promotion would be meaningless. I want him to see it, and for everyone else to think we should be together again. Song Cheng’s stubborn, so what others say probably won’t affect him much, but if it nudges him even slightly, it’s worth it.”
Ban Yunfang: “……”
Her mind immediately focused not on the fact that Qin Wunian wanted to get back together, but on how deviously clever he sounded.
It was like being a concubine in the imperial harem: if you want the emperor’s attention, you have to use every skill at your disposal.
She was about to say something more, but a knock came from Qin Wunian’s side—Song Cheng had returned and was calling him downstairs for breakfast. Qin Wunian didn’t even say goodbye, and with a click, hung up the call.
Ban Yunfang stared at the phone for a long moment, then set it aside. She was already at the company, in the parking lot. After heading upstairs to her office, she planned to discuss the matter with Meng Shiyue. No matter how unscrupulous the “second young master” behaved, it didn’t erase the fact that he was about to play the mischievous bad horse, kicking up trouble for the helpless “returning grass.”
Ban Yunfang set her bag down and was about to leave when a junior clerk approached. “Ban Jie, someone called yesterday afternoon looking for you. I said you weren’t in. He asked if Song Cheng is one of our company’s artists and when he joined the company.”
Many people had inquired about Song Cheng, but asking specifically about when he joined was unusual. Ban Yunfang asked, “Did he say who he was?”
The clerk handed her a slip of paper. “No, but he left a number. He hopes you can contact him if you have time.”