Qin Wunian only stayed for two days before leaving again. While most people were still asleep, he had already boarded a plane back to the film set.
Lack of sleep, plus a completely reversed day–night schedule—Song Cheng finally understood why Qin Wunian always looked so irritable. It really wasn’t just his personality; it was his lifestyle.
After seeing firsthand how busy he was, Song Cheng tried not to disturb him.
But even if Song Cheng didn’t bother him, Qin Wunian definitely bothered Song Cheng.
Three times a day, without fail:
“Have you eaten?”
“Have you eaten?”
“Have you eaten?”
And then:
“Have you remembered anything?”
“Have you remembered anything?”
“Have you remembered anything?”
…
Song Cheng was completely worn down. He had hinted several times for him to stop, but Qin Wunian either didn’t notice or pretended not to—he kept asking the same questions every day.
At first, Song Cheng thought Qin Wunian was eager for him to recover his memories as soon as possible. But whenever Song Cheng actually did recall something, Qin Wunian would grow tense—so tense that even through the phone, his emotions couldn’t be hidden.
Whether it was because his subconscious was fed up with being pestered, or because Qin Wunian’s persistence was actually working, little by little, Song Cheng began to remember more.
They came in fragments—mostly from after high school.
There were memories from high school, from university, and even scattered moments from his time in service.
The more he remembered, the more certain he became—
That diary… really had nothing to do with who he actually was.
The protagonist in the diary came from a poor background, barely educated.
But Song Cheng had attended a private high school, with a driver picking him up every weekend.
The diary’s protagonist drifted through life, taking each day as it came.
But after school, Song Cheng still had lessons at home—music, art, history, critical thinking. His guardian didn’t require mastery, but insisted he at least understand the basics. His time was fully occupied. Forget wandering the streets—leaving the house at all was difficult.
The diary’s protagonist fell in love at first sight—one glance, and it never changed.
But as Song Cheng recalled more details, he realized his feelings for Qin Wunian were different.
At first, he was simply drawn to him—he felt Qin Wunian was unlike anyone else.
Later, he discovered that beneath his harsh exterior, Qin Wunian was actually kind. That only made him want to get closer.
As for when that closeness turned into love…
He still couldn’t remember.
He opened the strange diary again and reread its few pages.
After a long silence, Song Cheng thought to himself—
If there was one similarity between him and the protagonist…
It was that they were both cowards.
The protagonist feared that the man he loved would discover his shameful past and reject him, so he carefully crafted a gentle, obedient persona. Even though he played the part well, his heart was never at peace—he lived in constant fear of being exposed.
In Song Cheng’s recovered memories, the feeling was similar.
But what he feared wasn’t exposure.
It was being discovered.
Once a week, without fail, he would go out with Qin Wunian.
Each time, he prepared excuses in advance—turned off his phone, removed his watch, changed into clothes he bought himself. He avoided everyone who knew him, sneaking out to the street corner where he and Qin Wunian first met, waiting quietly for him to arrive.
They went to many places—newly opened restaurants, nearly closing aquariums, private cinemas with strict privacy.
He only used cash. He avoided places near his home and stayed away from high-end commercial centers where he might run into acquaintances.
And no matter where they went, Qin Wunian always accommodated him.
After the initial thrill wore off, Song Cheng stopped going to crowded places. Most of the time, they stayed in Qin Wunian’s apartment.
But no matter how careful he was, the city wasn’t that big.
One day, he ran into someone he knew.
The person was from a family that did business with his—an acquaintance he had only met once. But because Song Cheng was “well-known” in their social circle, that one meeting was enough for recognition.
The moment he was recognized, Song Cheng’s heart nearly stopped.
The fear he felt was overwhelming—like the person standing before him wasn’t human, but a monster that could crush him with a single finger.
The terror was so intense that even now, recalling that day, he could still feel the lingering dread.
Cowardice had another name: weakness.
Song Cheng didn’t want to admit that the person in those memories was himself.
But whether he admitted it or not… didn’t seem to matter.
Usually, whenever he remembered something, he would tell Qin Wunian immediately.
But today, he hesitated.
This memory was too humiliating.
When he finally told him, Qin Wunian reacted strongly:
“You were barely a teenager back then—what could you possibly understand? Of course you’d be scared! That’s normal! No one is born fearless—anyone who isn’t afraid is just missing a screw in their head!”
After saying that, he suddenly fell silent.
Song Cheng listened to the faint sound of his breathing through the phone.
Standing by the window, he watched the soft orange-pink sunset dye half the sky.
After blinking once, he said quietly,
“It’s all in the past. I’m not like that anymore.”
A long pause followed.
Then Qin Wunian gave a low, muffled “Mm.”
He didn’t ask what Song Cheng had been afraid of.
And Song Cheng didn’t ask whether Qin Wunian knew something.
Some things… didn’t need to be said out loud.
After hanging up, Song Cheng lightly rubbed the side of his phone. Compared to himself, it felt like Qin Wunian was the one more affected by those past memories.
He was still lost in thought when the screen lit up again.
An unfamiliar number.
He picked up, and before he could speak, a familiar voice came through—
“It’s me,” Song Siyue said.
Song Cheng paused. “Mm. What is it?”
Song Siyue hesitated. He no longer knew how to talk to Song Cheng.
“The business here is done. I’m heading back.”
There was a brief silence. When Song Cheng didn’t respond, Song Siyue pressed his lips together and added, “My flight is tonight.”
“Have a safe trip,” Song Cheng replied.
Song Siyue knew Song Cheng wouldn’t come see him off. Still, hearing it so plainly, he couldn’t help feeling a flicker of disappointment. But he didn’t dare stay silent too long—he was afraid Song Cheng would hang up.
“I sent you something,” he said. “Make sure you keep it.”
Song Cheng frowned, about to say he didn’t want anything, but before he could, Song Siyue suddenly asked,
“You and Qin Wunian… are you serious?”
Song Cheng paused, then nodded. “Yes.”
After a beat, he added, “We’re going to get married.”
His tone was light, yet utterly certain—as if it wasn’t a possibility, but a fact already set in stone.
Song Siyue, having lived over fifty years, couldn’t share that certainty. He didn’t know enough about them. But whether or not it would truly happen, the fact that Song Cheng could say this now meant something—
At least in this moment, they were in love. They were happy.
“That’s good,” Song Siyue said softly.
“That’s good…”
He repeated it, quieter each time.
It might have sounded humble—almost pitiful—but there was no third person listening. Song Siyue didn’t think he was pitiable, and Song Cheng didn’t think he deserved sympathy.
Being weak doesn’t guarantee compassion.
But doing wrong… always brings consequences.
The next morning, Song Cheng received what Song Siyue had mentioned.
It was a notarized will.
It stated that all of Song Siyue’s assets would, in the future, be inherited entirely by Song Cheng.
After decades of effort, Song Siyue had accumulated considerable wealth. It wasn’t on the level of the Qin family or the Shen family, but for Song Cheng—who just months ago had barely over two hundred thousand in savings—it was an astronomical sum.
Anyone else might have been ecstatic.
Song Cheng simply glanced at the notarization date… then put the document away.
Some people were truly strange.
When he needed care, they were nowhere to be found.
When he no longer needed it, they tried desperately to prove themselves.
But even if they gave everything—everything they had—
What did it matter?
He didn’t need it anymore.
Song Cheng didn’t dwell on the will. Nor did he spare much thought for Song Siyue, who had left in quiet melancholy.
Right now, he had something else to focus on:
Learning how to drive.
With his sharp mind, Song Cheng picked up most things quickly.
Driving, however, was an exception.
The moment he sat in the driver’s seat, his limbs stiffened uncontrollably. Others panicked after the car started moving—he was already breaking into cold sweat before even turning the key.
Even Han Congzhou couldn’t help worrying.
“Maybe… take a break first?”
The car hadn’t even started. It was unclear what exactly he was supposed to “rest” from.
Song Cheng gripped the steering wheel, took two deep breaths, and shook his head firmly. “No. I can do this.”
“…Are you sure?” Han Congzhou asked.
“I can definitely do it!” Song Cheng suddenly shouted.
Han Congzhou: …
That really doesn’t look convincing.
In truth, Han Congzhou was right.
Song Cheng couldn’t do it.
The fear in his memories felt diluted, distant.
But what he felt now—racing heartbeat, pale face, tightening chest—was raw and immediate.
Extreme fear could trigger all kinds of physical reactions. Even if it didn’t, a panicked mind made bad decisions.
If he stayed like this, he really shouldn’t be driving at all.
He’d be a danger—to himself, and to others.
Song Cheng knew that.
Which was exactly why he refused to give up.
Because fear had kept him hiding.
Because he didn’t dare, he stayed within safe boundaries—sneaking out for an hour or two, chasing small thrills to convince himself he was okay.
But like Cinderella’s glass slipper, when midnight came—
The bold, carefree version of himself vanished.
And the coward returned.
He hated that version of himself—the one led by fear.
There were things he could compromise on.
But not this.
Never this.
He would not lose to fear again.
Never.
His fingers trembled slightly.
Biting his lower lip, Song Cheng followed Han Congzhou’s instructions step by step, moving slowly.
At last—
The engine turned over.
The car hummed faintly, vibrating beneath him.
Song Cheng froze for a moment.
Han Congzhou had been watching silently the whole time, not daring to interrupt. Only now did he smile.
“Nice. Now try pressing the gas?”
Song Cheng stared ahead, hands still gripping the wheel tightly.
Then, almost in disbelief, he let out a small laugh.
He turned his head and said, “Wait… let me rest for a second. I’m a little tired.”
Han Congzhou: …
But once the first step was overcome, the rest became much easier.
Even though the fear hadn’t completely disappeared—
At least now, he wasn’t drenched in cold sweat anymore.
Song Cheng’s driving skills were half taught by Han Congzhou and half by Qin Wuyan.
Ever since he found out that Han Congzhou was teaching Song Cheng, Qin Wuyan seemed spurred into action. No matter how busy he was—even to the point of losing sleep—he insisted on taking Song Cheng out for practice regularly.
After yet another session covering all the items needed for the exam, Song Cheng could execute each maneuver flawlessly. If he performed like this during the test, it wouldn’t take long for him to earn his driver’s license.
As usual, he slowly brought the car to a stop. When the tires ceased spinning, it felt as if his soul had returned to his body. He exhaled slowly and turned to find Qin Wuyan giving him a thumbs-up.
“Excellent!”
Song Cheng smiled. “Still a little nervous.”
Qin Wuyan waved it off. “New drivers are always nervous. You’ll get used to it with more driving.”
Song Cheng nodded. “Yeah… once I have my license, I’ll drive every day.”
Qin Wuyan said, “Then I’ll be waiting for you to take me out for a ride.”
In just half a month, Qin Wuyan’s grueling routine of running between two obligations would end. He had already spoken to Ban Yunfang about his semi-retirement plan. Ban Yunfang hadn’t received it well—after all, Qin Wuyan was her cash cow. Now that her cash cow was about to bloom as an old tree, wouldn’t her earnings shrink?
Though frustrated, Ban Yunfang didn’t insist he reconsider. Instead, she immediately began devising new strategies. Compared to her, Meng Shiyue was more composed. The company belonged to her, and while Qin Wuyan was one of the company’s most lucrative talents, he wasn’t the only one.
Together with Ban Yunfang, she drafted a plan to support newcomers, just like Su Yu. Since Qin Wuyan was only semi-retired, not fully retired, he would still act if good projects came along. They would treat him as a mascot—keeping him visible to the public would allow the company to leverage his fame to attract ambitious young talents.
The company agreed, and Qin Wuyan eagerly began making plans for himself. He intended to seek advice from his brother and invest in some projects. Over the years, his spending had outpaced his earnings; it was time to establish his own entertainment empire.
…Calling it an empire seemed exaggerated, but Qin Wuyan didn’t care. With a mind full of ideas, he shared them not with Ban Yunfang or Meng Shiyue—they had their own companies—but mostly with Song Cheng.
Song Cheng watched him speak animatedly, imagining that money he hadn’t even spent yet would return multiplied. In his daydreams, Qin Yinian would call him “big brother,” and Qin Yinian’s ex-wife would call him “sister-in-law.”
Song Cheng: “…………”
Perhaps realizing his thoughts were a little fanciful, he cleared his throat. Qin Wuyan rubbed his nose and glanced at Song Cheng, who had remained silent. “So… what do you think of my ideas?”
Song Cheng: “They’re good.”
A brief pause, then he added, “I… I want to go back to school.”
Qin Wuyan froze for a moment. “Go back… continue studying law?”
Song Cheng quickly shook his head. Law was fine; during that year he had come to appreciate both the allure of understanding the law and its importance in daily life. But he didn’t want to pursue it any longer—not because of the subject itself, but because he didn’t want to follow a life someone else had mapped out for him.
Though he wasn’t even driving at the moment, Song Cheng felt nervous again, fearing he might be dreaming too far ahead, worried Qin Wuyan wouldn’t support him.
Looking down, he said, “Han Congzhou helped me inquire at school. As long as I can return before October, my student status can be restored. If I rank in the top three of my major exams in the second year, I can transfer majors.”
Having checked all this, it was clear Song Cheng was serious. Qin Wuyan sat up straighter. “Which major do you want to transfer to?”
Song Cheng glanced at him and whispered, “Psychology.”
Qin Wuyan: “……”
He was a bit surprised. Law and psychology… the gap between them was not small.
Seeing Song Cheng staring at him, Qin Wuyan quickly adjusted his expression. Having something he truly wanted to pursue was already rare for Song Cheng; he didn’t want his reaction to discourage him.
He softened his voice as much as he could. “Why psychology?”
Song Cheng looked at him oddly. “Why are you speaking in that clipped tone?”
Qin Wuyan: “……”
After a pause, he returned to his usual voice. “You want to be a psychologist?”
Song Cheng shook his head. “Not necessarily… I’m not sure.”
He awkwardly rubbed his face. “I don’t know if I have any talent for this field. Maybe I’ll be bad at it. Maybe the patients I treat will get worse. No one can predict that. I just… want to understand more, and then—”
He pressed his lips together and spoke carefully, revealing his true thought. “I want to open a psychological clinic, or maybe a hospital.”
Qin Wuyan blinked. “There isn’t really a ‘psychological hospital.’ You mean… a mental hospital.”
Song Cheng: “…a psychiatric hospital!”
Glancing at Qin Wuyan, he continued. “Anyway, rather than being a doctor, I think I’d be better as the director—finding the best doctors, the best nurses, making rules both staff and patients can accept. I also understand the law better than most, so if necessary, I can use legal means to protect everyone in the hospital.”
Qin Wuyan imagined Song Cheng in a white coat, and his mind wandered for a moment. He quickly regained focus, neither agreeing nor disagreeing, tilting his head to ask, “Why the sudden idea?”
Song Cheng looked at him, silent for a moment.
Then, his voice dropped, sounding a little embarrassed. “Being a hero on the street… that only happens once in a lifetime. If I open a hospital, then every day I could be a hero.”
He spoke pragmatically, but Qin Wuyan didn’t see anything wrong with it. Looking at Song Cheng, he smiled softly.
“Even without a hospital, you’ll always be a hero in my heart.”
Qin Wuyan leaned closer. Seeing this, Song Cheng also extended his arm, and in the cramped space, they embraced for a moment. Then Song Cheng lowered his gaze.
Hero or not, it didn’t matter to him.
He just didn’t want to reveal the real reason to Qin Wuyan.
Opening a hospital had nothing to do with his pragmatism. He simply didn’t want anyone else to feel the fear and helplessness he had experienced—knowing it was wrong, knowing it was abnormal, yet having to face it alone.
Fear… was truly a terrible feeling. He had never thought of saving people in this way. To be honest, he didn’t even think he could truly help anyone; shadows were lifelong, and outsiders could only help adjust, not remove them like a tumor.
He only hoped he could ease others’ suffering, even a little.