The bustling lobby, elevators surrounded by crowds, and staircases covered with thick carpets.
Song Cheng watched his dream-self arrive on the third floor and stop in front of one of the doors.
Outside, lightning flashed and thunder roared. The hallway was empty, eerie. Song Cheng knocked on the door once, then again.
Chill, trembling, and difficulty breathing—the outside world felt like a horror film set. But when the door opened, warmth and light flooded out. Qin Wunian stood inside, surprised to see Song Cheng suddenly appear before him.
Dream-self and present self seemed almost identical; if anything, dream-self looked slightly gentler, lacking that prickly, difficult-to-approach aura.
Qin Wunian opened his mouth: “You—”
Before he could finish the second word, Song Cheng saw dream-self step forward, grab Qin Wunian’s collar, and tilt his head down, as if taking a desperate gamble, pressing his lips to Qin Wunian’s.
It lasted barely a second before Song Cheng released him, eyes shining intensely, breath slightly quickened, as if he himself had been kissed against his will.
Thunder crashed even louder. Anyone could walk down the hallway at any moment and see the popular young star kissing someone here. But Qin Wunian paid no mind. Lightning split the sky outside, bathing the room in daylight-like brightness. In that brief moment, Song Cheng finally saw the way Qin Wunian looked at him:
Sharp, focused, and filled with the unrestrained excitement and joy unique to youth.
Song Cheng heard him ask: “Chengcheng, do you know what you’re doing?”
He didn’t speak, only nodded.
It didn’t matter—this was enough for Qin Wunian.
Bang! The door slammed shut. Thunder finally rolled across the sky, ears filled with a roaring blast, darkness engulfed him, and his breathing no longer felt his own. Tingling heat flowed from Qin Wunian to him, so warm, so dry. Song Cheng felt like an addict, holding Qin Wunian tightly, letting him act as he wished, as long as the warmth continued.
…
Taking a deep breath, Song Cheng woke from the dream.
He stared blankly at the ceiling for a moment, then sat up, checking the time—only ten minutes left of the nap.
After a brief pause, he put down his phone and tapped Qin Wunian’s shoulder.
“Wake up.”
Unlike Song Cheng, Qin Wunian woke instantly at the first tap. He didn’t usually nap, but a few minutes ago he had entered a drowsy state. Being awakened now was the most uncomfortable. He looked at Song Cheng, raised an arm, and covered his eyes with the back of his hand. “Let me sleep two more minutes.”
Song Cheng: “Isn’t it the director telling us to go downstairs?”
Qin Wunian incredulously lowered his hand. “Then why wake me?”
His expression made it seem as if Song Cheng had committed some unforgivable crime.
Realizing he had acted poorly, Song Cheng apologized earnestly: “Sorry. But I want to hear you say something—right now.”
Qin Wunian looked at him, bewildered.
He could no longer sleep. Sitting up and frowning, he asked: “What words?”
Clearing his throat, Song Cheng mimicked the tone of dream-Qin Wunian: “Chengcheng, do you know what you’re doing? Just this line, say it once.”
Qin Wunian found it ridiculous and laughed briefly. But Song Cheng’s serious gaze made it clear: unless he repeated it, nothing else would be done today.
“….”
Leaning against the headboard, Qin Wunian relented, repeating mechanically: “Song Cheng, do you know what you’re doing?”
Song Cheng immediately corrected him: “Not Song Cheng—Chengcheng.”
Qin Wunian hadn’t thought much of this phrasing before. It seemed like Song Cheng’s whim.
To be honest, for Qin Wunian’s personality, the phrase “Do you know what you’re doing?” was almost always a casual jab, sometimes to point out mistakes. He had said it many times to Song Cheng, but only once using the start “Chengcheng” instead of “Song Cheng.”
He fell silent.
The previously relaxed posture straightened. He looked at Song Cheng, and Song Cheng looked back.
Song Cheng’s heart skipped a beat—not out of fear, but because Qin Wunian’s gaze made him feel as if he had done something wrong.
…Strange. Facing Qin Wunian, he often felt this way, as if everything he did was wrong, and in front of him, he had no standing.
Frowning slightly, Song Cheng realized after repeated occurrences that he disliked feeling this humble and guilty—he disliked it intensely.
Knock knock knock.
“Mr. Qin, Mr. Song, it’s time to go downstairs.”
They both looked toward the door. The tense, almost combative atmosphere from before vanished instantly. Song Cheng turned to put on his shoes, while Qin Wunian adjusted his clothes.
Everything was ready. Qin Wunian went out first, but before opening the door, Song Cheng held his arm. Qin Wunian turned back and heard him say, “Ten o’clock tonight.”
Qin Wunian lowered his gaze slightly, muttering a quiet “Mm,” before turning away again.
Everyone’s energy in the afternoon was lower than in the morning. This kind of back-to-back variety show was like that; the director had anticipated it, so the physically demanding competitions were scheduled for the morning, while the afternoon’s could be done seated.
They arrived at a round-table room. Gan Yawen hadn’t said much yet, but Yang Qing jumped with excitement: “I know what this game is—scripted murder, right?!”
Gan Yawen smiled. “Exactly, it’s a scripted murder game.”
Yang Qing: “Hahaha, perfect! I’m an expert—I’ve played hundreds of scenarios. Bring it on!”
Lu Ruosi sighed. “I’ve never played before.”
Liu Yanchu: “I heard it’s a game relying on both brains and acting.”
Lu Ruosi: “Oh, so good acting can win?”
Liu Yanchu: “Exactly.”
Lu Ruosi smiled faintly at Yang Qing; much was conveyed without words.
Yang Qing: “…”
So, acting talent really matters?
Everyone sat around the table—nine chairs, for eight guests plus the host. Gan Yawen explained the rules and then distributed the scripts.
Eight people, eight roles. Each role had two small private tasks and one big task: protect your partner and avoid suspicion as the culprit.
Small tasks were private; the big task was public. In the final round, they voted for the culprit. Correct votes added points, wrong votes subtracted points. Failing a task also deducted points. Rankings were determined by total scores.
First place received 1,666 in prize money (slightly less than the morning) plus two business-class tickets. Second place had the same cash reward but no tickets. Third place got 1,066. Fourth place—the worst—only 666.
The afternoon prizes were visibly lower than the morning, but the difference was minor, only a few hundred. It didn’t stop anyone from wanting to win.
Partners sat next to each other. Song Cheng focused intently on his script, reading quickly through it once, then flipping through it again.
Su Yu, sitting beside him, asked, “Have you played before?”
Song Cheng shook his head repeatedly. “I didn’t even know what a scripted murder game was before the host explained it.”
Su Yu looked surprised. “Really?”
No wonder he reacted that way. The game had been popular for years; almost everyone knew it except retired elders at home.
Song Cheng smiled. “It looks fun. I like it.”
Su Yu: “I… haha, I can’t. My acting is terrible.”
Yue Yuran called to him, and the smile on Su Yu’s face faded slightly, but he still turned to talk to Yue Yuran.
Song Cheng lowered his head and flipped through the script again, habitually glancing at Qin Wunian. He noticed Qin Wunian frowning, barely flipping a page.
Song Cheng couldn’t help asking, “Are you okay?”
Qin Wunian shook his head. “I’m fine.”
He relaxed his posture afterward, seeming truly fine. But Song Cheng felt something was off. Even after the game started, Qin Wunian kept glancing at him from time to time.
Qin Wunian noticed but said nothing, smoothly participating in the game. His role, assigned by the director, was a pure, innocent male college student. He deliberately acted poorly, creating a contrast that made everyone laugh whenever he spoke.
The most engaged players weren’t Yang Qing, but Zhao Feifei and Liu Yanchu. It was the first time anyone had seen Zhao Feifei talk so much, analyzing evidence meticulously, almost like a prosecutor. Liu Yanchu was expressive and dramatic, repeatedly misleading others.
Then the two suddenly argued—one insisted on starting from the earliest timeline, the other thought it was obvious that the culprit was Yang Qing, whom she was supposed to protect.
The room erupted. Yang Qing, furious at being accused, joined Zhao Feifei in criticizing Liu Yanchu for baseless accusations. Song Cheng watched them take turns speaking, unable to help laughing quietly.
Qin Wunian also watched, though his expression was slightly off.
Song Cheng noticed and pressed a hand against his upper abdomen.
Frowning, he looked closely at Qin Wunian and saw his lips pale, a faint cold sweat on his forehead, and his body tense, like his mental state.
Glancing at nearby cameramen, Song Cheng leaned toward Qin Wunian and lowered his voice: “Are you feeling unwell?”
Qin Wunian paused, shaking his head again. “No.”
Song Cheng: “……”
Even without his memory restored, he knew this lifetime, Qin Wunian was the hardest-headed person he’d ever met.
Song Cheng: “What’s really wrong? Stomach? Or somewhere else?”
Qin Wunian: “I said I’m fine. It’s an old problem. I’ll be okay in a bit.”
Song Cheng paused two seconds and straightened up.
Seeing his expression, Qin Wunian knew he was about to call for help. In a rush, Qin Wunian grabbed his hand. Song Cheng was startled—Qin Wunian’s hand was sweaty and unusually cold, with no warmth at all.
“Don’t say anything. Wait until the game is over.”
His voice was low, only Song Cheng close by could hear. Reluctantly, Song Cheng finally murmured an “Mm.”
Now, he had no mood to play the game. The plot that had seemed fun before now felt tedious.
“It’s just a murder case—why are there so many clues? And the victim wasn’t exactly innocent, causing so many families to be ruined. Dead is dead—what’s there to investigate?”
Song Cheng was distracted, while Qin Wunian’s condition wasn’t good. Neither of them managed to complete their small tasks, and when it came time to vote for the culprit, they voted incorrectly.
Yang Qing, the culprit, beamed triumphantly across the room. With her exquisite acting, in the end, not a single person voted for her— even Liu Yanchu, swayed by her “innocence,” changed his vote to Zhao Feifei.
Having rightfully claimed first place, Yang Qing raised her right hand high after the host’s announcement, and Zhao Feifei clapped it with a crisp sound that echoed through the room.
The others exchanged meaningful looks. Yang Qing and Zhao Feifei glanced at each other briefly, then calmly sat back down as if nothing had happened.
After collecting their prizes, Song Cheng had been waiting for this moment. He sprang up to escort Qin Wunian back upstairs to rest. The staff were already prepared—medication, doctor, everything ready.
The director was anxious too; it was only the second day of filming, and already a guest had fallen ill. His concern for Qin Wunian matched Song Cheng’s.
The doctor’s examination revealed acute gastroenteritis. When asked what he had eaten, Qin Wunian recalled the ice cream from that morning.
The culprit was found. His temperature showed a mild fever, but nothing severe. The doctor left a pile of medication and advised him to rest today, considering IV treatment only if he wasn’t better tomorrow.
Seeing Qin Wunian holding medicine in one hand and water in the other, Song Cheng fretted: “Just one ice cream and you got sick? I told you your diet is terrible. From now on, you have to eat properly like me—three meals a day, on time, in the right amount.”
Qin Wunian tilted his head back, swallowed the medicine, and then, eyes half-lidded, looked at Song Cheng: “I told you, it’s an old problem.”
Song Cheng asked, “How did this old problem come about?”
Qin Wunian: “…”
He couldn’t answer. His stomach still ached in spasms, but he was used to it. He could act normally in scenes despite the pain, so facing Song Cheng’s scolding was no problem. Yet soon, he turned to look out the window.
As expected, he still couldn’t get used to Song Cheng’s concern for him.
Even he didn’t know whether this care was genuine.
He gazed at the blue sky, clouds drifting lazily, and felt as cold as those clouds—another side effect of gastroenteritis. Chills, shivering, icy hands and feet—weren’t those supposed to be a female problem? How could a hot-blooded man suffer the same?
He thought about asking the director for a thicker blanket but felt it would be embarrassing.
A soft rustling came from beside him. Qin Wunian ignored it until something warm pressed against his rigid abdomen. Surprised, he turned his head.
Song Cheng knelt beside him, pressing his palm against the upper part of Qin Wunian’s stomach. After a moment, he looked up: “Feeling better?”
Qin Wunian opened his mouth, unsure what to say.
Song Cheng sighed lightly. The kneeling position was uncomfortable, so he stood, moved past Qin Wunian, and sat on his other side, pressing his hands together and rubbing them vigorously.
When he pressed his hands back onto Qin Wunian’s stomach, it wasn’t warmth Qin Wunian felt—it was a heat that made him want to recoil.
Sitting so close, Song Cheng leaned naturally, resting his head on Qin Wunian’s shoulder.
He spoke softly: “You have to get better quickly. I like you warmer—when I’m held by you, I feel happy.”
He raised his eyes to Qin Wunian: “Not like now… like hugging a big ice cube.”
Though complaining, his expression was calm, even slightly dependent. Qin Wunian’s heart skipped a beat.
“If you don’t like it, you can let go.”
The words slipped out unconsciously. Only after speaking did he realize he shouldn’t ruin the moment. He nervously looked at Song Cheng, who was smiling at him.
Sick, weakened, his combativeness drained, Qin Wunian felt he was spoiling the mood. In reality, the tone he had spoken in was unbearably plaintive, though he tried to appear calm. Anyone would assume that if Song Cheng let go, he would shut down entirely.
Song Cheng first pursed his lips in a smile, then buried his face in Qin Wunian’s shoulder, shaking slightly with laughter. Qin Wunian went from confusion to a blank stare, unable to push him away or speak sharp words.
Because it was genuinely warm, just as Song Cheng said—there was a happiness in it he couldn’t give up.
Leaving the room, Song Cheng prepared to go downstairs to make food. Sick people needed something light; vegetable porridge was perfect. As for the big pork knuckle Qin Wunian wanted, he could have that in his dreams.
Song Cheng worked in the kitchen when Yang Qing approached. “How’s Qin Wunian?”
Song Cheng turned to her with a smile. “Nothing serious. He ate something that irritated him. Just needs rest.”
Yang Qing understood immediately. “Gastroenteritis, huh?”
Song Cheng paused. “Yang Jie, you’ve had it too?”
Yang Qing: “No, I get anorexia if anything. Nothing this trivial.”
Song Cheng: “…”
Yang Qing said: “It was two or three years ago, Qin Wunian went through this constantly. I remember he was trending on social media almost every other day, posting hospital selfies. You know he even had a little princess nickname back then? His haters gave it to him.”
She smirked a little. Among people in the entertainment circle, everyone had a few nasty nicknames. But for someone like Qin Wunian, the insults were harmless yet biting—a rare combination.
Song Cheng didn’t comment on the matter; he just looked at his spatula and murmured, “So it really is an old problem.”
It seemed that this “old problem” only emerged after he had left.
Yang Qing blinked, recalling her earlier words—she hadn’t said anything wrong. After a brief pause, she got down to business: “Tomorrow we’re heading to a new place by bus. Xiao Song, Zhao Feifei and I discussed it—we want to use money and the bus tickets to exchange with you for those two passes.”
Song Cheng looked up, a bit dazed.
Yang Qing pulled out the tickets. “I asked the production team just now. Only first-place winners can ride in the business van; everyone else has to take the bus. The bus is cramped and smells bad… and Qin Wunian has that little princess temperament. Well, we don’t care how we get there, so the tickets aren’t much use to us anyway.”
Though she spoke casually, as if it were a simple exchange, the fact she even brought it up showed thoughtfulness and kindness.
Song Cheng was deeply moved. “I was just about to ask the director about this—Yang Jie, thank you so much.”
Yang Qing smiled. “No need to thank me. If you really want to, just go easy on me in the next competition, okay?”
Song Cheng smiled shyly, took the two tickets from her, and was about to go upstairs to hand over the passes. Yang Qing stopped him, saying it could wait until they reached the destination tomorrow. She didn’t want to take advantage of him—she’d make up the difference later.
Because Qin Wunian was still sick, their planned ten o’clock meeting never happened. Song Cheng stayed by his side, avoiding the crowd downstairs. Others came up to check on him, and Qin Wunian remained polite, though not overly warm.
At ten o’clock sharp, Qin Wunian’s face fell—everyone looked like they owed him eight million.
When he was sick, his patience was at its thinnest. These people still tried to squeeze into his room? In all his years in the industry, he had never visited another artist. Wasn’t that proof enough???
Song Cheng silently watched him, unsure what to say. Finally, he could only urge: “Go to sleep, rest up. When you’re better, if you want people to visit, they might not even want to come.”
Qin Wunian: “…”
Was that meant to comfort or annoy him?
Song Cheng turned off the light. Qin Wunian was finally able to sleep; after taking the medicine, his stomach hurt less, though the low fever persisted. Fever was always the most exhausting, draining every bit of energy.
Tonight, he finally experienced Song Cheng’s instant sleep trick. Half-awake, he felt a hand brushing his forehead—a touch so real and familiar. When he sensed the hand retreating, Qin Wunian rolled over and pulled Song Cheng into his arms.
Tightly, like a koala, trapping even his legs beneath him—no escape.
Song Cheng tried to push against Qin Wunian’s chest helplessly. Not only did he not budge, but Qin Wunian hugged him tighter.
After another attempt, Song Cheng finally gave up and settled into a more comfortable position, face against Qin Wunian’s chest, listening to the steady, strong heartbeat. Blinking, his cheeks slowly flushed.
Diary doesn’t lie.
Qin Wunian still likes him!
Hahaha—
By midnight, Qin Wunian’s fever was gone. The next morning, he and Song Cheng got up at six. Song Cheng cooked while Qin Wunian helped; other cast members gradually came down. Their breakfast was nearly finished.
Perhaps due to yesterday’s energy drain, Qin Wunian had a huge appetite this morning—almost as much as Song Cheng.
Yang Qing passed by with her sub-200-calorie breakfast, glanced at Qin Wunian’s plate, and nodded. “Looks like you’re better. Ready to mess with us again?”
Qin Wunian glanced at her. Normally, he would retort, but today he just wiped his mouth and said, “Thank you.”
“Song Cheng already told me—no need to make up the difference. Let’s just exchange it this way.”
Yang Qing: “Oh? So generous?”
Qin Wunian nodded. “Gotta leave you a way out. Every penny counts for you.”
Yang Qing ground her teeth. “I regret it—you should have taken the bus. Give me back the tickets!”
Impossible. Qin Wunian calmly stood, carrying his plate into the kitchen, treating the protesting Yang Qing as if she were invisible air.
Because they were traveling to another city today, the host, who was supposed to arrive at nine, came at eight. Only then did everyone find out the next destination.
To maintain the show’s authenticity, the director never spoiled small surprises. Song Cheng listened to the unfamiliar city name—he had no impression of it.
Seeing his expression, Qin Wunian explained: “Next to the provincial capital, a city made for tourism. I shot a drama there before.”
Gan Yawen chimed in: “But this time, we’re not traveling for work—we’re going to play.”
He smiled mysteriously, still not revealing what kind of ‘play.’ Most people had guesses but played along, asking what ‘play’ meant.
Tempting everyone’s curiosity, Gan Yawen finally announced: “Our next stop is the nation’s largest, most luxurious, and most dreamy destination—Dream Island, Impression·Feiyue Theme Park!”
Song Cheng let out a small “Wow,” then remarked: “That’s quite a long name.”
Qin Wunian snorted lightly: “They named it that to sound trendy. There’s even an English version, but everyone just calls it the theme park. Nobody remembers the rest.”
Song Cheng asked, “You’ve been here before?”
Qin Wunian shook his head. “No.”
Song Cheng: “…”
Then why the attitude like you’re looking down on everyone?
Qin Wunian didn’t explain. Gan Yawen continued introducing the theme park—clearly, this park was one of their sponsors.
The passes Qin Wunian and Song Cheng won yesterday were actually park entry tickets. Retail price was 399 yuan, but for them, they got a 50% discount—just 200 yuan.
The city was less than 200 kilometers away. The bus fare was eighty per person. Yang Qing, slightly frustrated, sent Zhao Feifei to cover the difference. Song Cheng haggled for a while, and they finally agreed that Yang and Zhao would only need to cover an extra hundred yuan, since they were taking the business van, which was more comfortable than the bus.
Qin Wunian was already fine—whether they swapped tickets or not didn’t matter—but the director insisted on the exchange, knowing the audience would enjoy the development.
Even without traffic, the roughly 200-kilometer journey would take over two hours. Song Cheng sat in the van, scrolling through images of the park on his phone.
From the many promotional photos, it was obvious—this was an enormous amusement park.
Every kind of ride, daily events, small theaters, themed areas—Song Cheng got excited as he looked, talking to Qin Wunian beside him. Qin Wunian listened quietly, reminiscing in his mind.
Had Song Cheng liked amusement parks before?
They had been everywhere together—new restaurants, old cinemas, viral photo spots, even oversized aquariums for children—but never a proper amusement park.
Mainly, they hadn’t had the time. These trips usually took a full day, and an amusement park wasn’t a two- or three-hour outing.
Qin Wunian drifted off in thought, not noticing Song Cheng had gone quiet. He closed the browser and opened WeChat, planning to check today’s script.
Although Qin Wunian had said there was no need to worry about the scripts anymore, Song Cheng still wanted to see them, curious what the director had prepared that might be unsuitable.
Reverting to his usual cool demeanor toward Qin Wunian, or confiding in Lü Ruosi, or spraining his ankle during the afternoon game? Song Cheng silently decided he didn’t want to do any of it.
The first option was out—he would never be cold toward Qin Wunian, unless he really did something unforgivable.
Second, was he that close to Lü Ruosi? Among the eight guests, he found her the most mysterious and unpredictable. Confiding in her, even making a friend of sorts, felt as daunting as befriending a strict head teacher.
Third, the ankle—probably added for drama. Qin Wunian had been sick; he had cared for him, so now it was Qin Wunian’s turn. Song Cheng might have liked to see how Qin Wunian cared for someone, but his acting was poor—he might actually hurt himself trying.
Better to stay honest. After all, they hadn’t followed the scripts these past two days, and filming was still on schedule.
He pocketed his phone, pretending he hadn’t seen the new script. Qin Wunian noticed him looking up and casually said, “Actually, my family owns part of this theme park.”
Song Cheng had read online that Qin Wunian was extremely wealthy—a second-generation rich kid—but hearing the details from him directly still surprised him.
“Really? So your family sponsored this?” he asked.
Qin Wunian froze. “No, my family only owns part of it. The real decisions are made by the park management.”
He added: “My brother decided to invest because he’d just had twins. He hasn’t managed it since. But he did help name the park—the name is partly his doing.”
Qin Wunian seemed to harbor some mild criticism toward his older brother. He looked at Song Cheng, hoping for agreement—but Song Cheng wasn’t paying attention to that part. He was just stunned.
“You have a brother?”
Qin Wunian: “…………”
He stared quietly at Song Cheng, then turned to the window, silent for a while.
Song Cheng realized he had misspoken and quickly corrected himself. “No, I mean… so you do have a brother.”
Even that sounded off, so he hurriedly added: “Not that I didn’t know—it’s just you never mentioned him, and I forgot. Yes, you have a brother.”
Qin Wunian: “…”
Even the driver in the front couldn’t help rolling their eyes—this was only making things worse.
Qin Wunian turned back. “Can someone really forget this? Didn’t you see I’ve forgotten your family?”
Song Cheng froze.
“My family?” he asked.
Qin Wunian felt suddenly guilty.
Just as Song Cheng had never met his family, Qin Wunian had never met Song Cheng’s. At least, that’s how Song Cheng remembered it.
It was just a slip of words. Qin Wunian straightened his lips, pretending it hadn’t been him who let it slip. Song Cheng looked at the back of his head, deciding not to press further.
Mainly because he didn’t even know where to start. He never knew Qin Wunian had family.
Song Cheng lowered his gaze, thinking for a while. The green scenery outside flashed past quickly, and when he looked up again, his thoughts had quietly faded.
By ten o’clock, their van reached the theme park first, entering through a secluded gate blocked off from ordinary visitors.
They paid the four-hundred-yuan pass fee and walked in—one focused straight ahead, the other glancing around curiously.
About ten more minutes passed before the bus arrived, and the quiet atmosphere instantly erupted into noise. Spending over two hours on a single bus—even with only six people—was enough to spark new incidents.
Su Yu and Yue Yuran seemed to have had an argument; both wore cold expressions. Yang Qing got off and dashed toward Song Cheng, intending to give him a hug, but was intercepted by Qin Wunian mid-way, and then the two of them started squabbling like elementary school students.
Zhao Feifei, uninterested in standing around with such childish behavior, moved aside and asked Song Cheng how the trip had been.
The married pair came down last. Liu Yanchu shaded his eyes with his hand, squinting into the distance, and asked Lv Ruosi, “It seems different from when it first opened, doesn’t it?”
The park had first opened five years ago, back when they were truly a married couple. They had been invited to endorse and cut the ribbon for the opening. Lv Ruosi, the type of woman who could never get interested in amusement parks, remembered one detail vividly: the park manager had smiled at them and said, “May you have children soon; when they come to play here in the future, it will be free for life.”
Liu Yanchu asked her again, and she gave a neutral, indifferent, “It’s normal that it’s different—it’s been years.”
Liu Yanchu looked at her. As two people who had once been extremely close, he could always sense her emotional shifts. Reflecting on the park and the memories it brought back, he closed his mouth, refraining from any further chatter.
Once everyone was assembled, Gan Yawen led the group to register at the hotel.
There was no dedicated resort area this time; everyone could only stay at the hotel. Fortunately, there were many hotels with a full range of room types, so they could choose freely—though the one drawback was that they had to pay for it themselves.
At the mention of money, all four groups immediately perked up, worried that high fees would eat into the reward money they had just earned.
Luckily, the production team wasn’t that unreasonable. There were four room types, similar to those at the resort: suites, standard rooms, queen-bed rooms, and very small standard rooms.
Finally, no more sleeping on the floor.
The suites cost 800 per night, standard rooms 600, queen-bed rooms 500, and small standard rooms 400.
According to the director’s plan, they would stay three days, meaning that even the cheapest small standard room would cost 1,200 in total, while a suite would cost 2,400. Even the wealthiest group could not pay that all at once.
But everyone calculated differently. Song Cheng hesitated to stay in an expensive suite, whereas Yang Qing was willing, believing that future competitions would bring in money and that they wouldn’t go bankrupt.
Yang Qing wanted the suite, but Zhao Feifei insisted on a standard room. The two began to argue, and Song Cheng looked to Qin Wunian, “Which one do you want?”
Qin Wunian’s gaze swept over the queen-bed room. “Either is fine. Wherever you choose, I’ll go along.”
Song Cheng naturally wanted the queen-bed room, thinking that sharing one bed could help spark their relationship. But choosing it openly would clearly suggest something going on between them.
After a brief struggle, Song Cheng nodded at the standard room. “Then we’ll take this one.”
The rooms all had real photos. Seeing the standard room, he noticed the bed was large enough for two people comfortably.
Those who had chosen could go register. Qin Wunian, having seen the photos as well, said nothing and followed Song Cheng to the front desk. The park knew the production team was coming and had prepared in advance; even the tourists walking around outside were temporary staff.
While waiting for the room key, Song Cheng noticed a tattooed young man wearing a baseball cap at the side of the front desk. The young man kept staring at him. When Song Cheng met his gaze, he quickly looked away, only to glance back a few seconds later, hesitating as if he wanted to speak.
Song Cheng felt a stir in his heart. He said to Qin Wunian, “You go upstairs first. I’ll wait for Yang Jie and the others.”
Qin Wunian replied, “Wait for them? Then you’ll have to sleep in the lobby tonight.”
Song Cheng: “…”
He nudged Qin Wunian into the elevator and then walked a few steps toward the young man.
The young man approached, revealing a face caught between maturity and youth. He hesitated, glanced at Song Cheng’s hair, and asked, “You… are you all better now?”
Song Cheng paused. “What?”
The young man pointed to his head. “The car accident… my dad said it was serious. It’s not healed yet?”
Song Cheng: “…”
Seeing the tattoos, he initially thought this was someone from his past gang days. Realizing his mistake, Song Cheng forced a dry laugh. “It’s been fine for a while. Um… your dad is…? And you are…?”
The young man froze. “You don’t remember me?”
Song Cheng kept smiling, though awkwardly.
The young man clearly couldn’t accept this. “You really don’t remember?! You even held my hand back then, and you don’t remember that either?!”
Liu Yanchu and Lv Ruosi had come over to register and looked over when they heard this.
Song Cheng: “…………”
He grabbed the young man’s arm and gestured for the cameraman to step back. “Let’s skip filming this. I’m puzzled—why would I hold your hand?”
The young man opened his mouth but couldn’t speak.
That day’s events still left a profound impact on him.
He had collided with someone, and crimson blood flowed across the asphalt roads he had walked countless times since childhood. Though he had never been a good kid—usually getting into trouble or playing games—he panicked completely when faced with this.
He hadn’t fled, not out of virtue, but because his mind was blank. Shaking, he unbuckled his seatbelt. Though he himself had been hurt, he still stepped out of the car.
He staggered to the bloodstained spot and sank to the ground. He didn’t even look at who he had hit, just sat there, staring at the blood, forgetting to call the police. It was a passerby who helped.
In fact, he hardly remembered any of these events—they had all been recounted to him by others. What he truly remembered was that single moment.
The instant his hand was gripped firmly by the person lying on the ground.
Startled, he lifted his gaze from the blood to the bloodied face, watching the mouth open and close, forming words that, though strained with pain, were painfully clear:
“Save… save me…”
“I can’t… can’t…”
He saw the eyes—filled with an overwhelming will to survive—that struck him like a hammer on the crown of his head, leaving a memory that had haunted him all these days.
He had to see that person again. That was why he had come today.