From the moment he first started learning to drive, Song Cheng had vaguely held this idea. Now, having shared it with Qin Wuyan, he felt a sense of relief.
Afterward, Song Cheng continued to push himself toward earning his driver’s license, while Qin Wuyan eagerly helped him, pulling him along to discuss the future—where the hospital might be, how big it could be.
Song Cheng: “……”
He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He still planned to focus on graduating first.
But Qin Wuyan felt that once you had the idea, you might as well act on it now. After all, Song Cheng wanted to be the director, not a doctor. Having a diploma wouldn’t affect that much.
Influenced by him, Song Cheng felt a subtle excitement. While Qin Wuyan returned to filming, Song Cheng stayed home researching, adopting the focus he’d once had during the college entrance exams, learning how to run a hospital.
Qin Wuyan, pumped with energy, shortened his shooting schedule from half a month to just ten days. When he returned, the final episode of the variety show had just aired.
The first seventeen episodes were only forty minutes each, but the finale ran for an hour and a half. Knowing it was the grand conclusion, many viewers stayed glued to their screens, and the ratings broke this year’s record, leaving even the director too excited to sleep.
It wasn’t just the director who lost sleep—so did the audience.
Online, there was a wave of wailing. Only Qin Wuyan and Song Cheng’s shipper fans celebrated; joy was drowned out by cries of anger. For a while, it seemed their CP (couple pairing) fans had vanished, replaced by enraged individual fans mourning.
The hardcore fans lamented how difficult life was for their idols, while CP fans mourned their pairing ending in a “BE” (bad ending). This sparked a series of social and ethical debates. The more heated the discussions, the more it proved the show’s success, though the guests suffered criticism mercilessly.
No one escaped critique, including Qin Wuyan and Song Cheng.
The lighter criticism mainly accused them of deliberately acting on the show despite already reconciling. Sometimes, Song Cheng even admired the netizens’ persistence: no matter what they did, it was seen as acting.
Regardless, their initial goal had been achieved.
Their purpose in participating in the show was to replace Zhou Qingge with Song Cheng, erasing rumors about Qin Wuyan. Now, people didn’t just forget the rumors—they barely remembered Zhou Qingge at all.
Hundreds of thousands of comments, none mentioning Zhou Qingge. They were all filled with shouting, excitement, or anger.
Song Cheng sat on the sofa with Qin Wuyan beside him, holding a phone mid-call. They watched the computer screen together, split into three accounts: Qin Wuyan’s, the studio’s, and the company’s.
Ban Yunfang’s voice came through the phone. After hearing her, Qin Wuyan responded with a brief, “Post it.”
Two seconds later, all three accounts simultaneously released the latest video.
Song Cheng’s spirits lifted, and he immediately placed the laptop on his lap. He hadn’t even seen it yet.
Qin Wuyan didn’t watch either—he only cared that the video could help them turn the tide. Its content was irrelevant to him.
Still, when Song Cheng opened it, Qin Wuyan quietly glanced at the screen.
The footage was shot from a tricky angle—not openly, but from a hidden spot. In a chaotic hotel corridor, many people moved about. A woman in a purple dress walked with her back to the camera. Someone passed and greeted her.
“Teacher Zhou! Thank you for your hard work today. How will you get home? Need a ride?”
Zhou Qingge smiled politely and shook her head.
After sending the person off, she glanced at the camera behind her. The shot wobbled slightly, as if the cameraman nodded at her.
Just from this, Song Cheng knew it was stable.
Zhou Qingge clearly knew the cameraman—this was deliberately filmed. No matter what Qin Wuyan did afterward, she could no longer play the “innocent victim” card.
A few seconds later, Qin Wuyan approached, dressed in casual attire. His expression was dark. Someone tried speaking to him, but he ignored them, and they quickly left.
Zhou Qingge, however, acted differently. She briskly caught up to Qin Wuyan, said something unrecorded, and tried to pull him into a side room. Qin Wuyan, losing patience, shoved her against the wall.
This mirrored the previous video, except the earlier struggle had been longer. Song Cheng calmly reasoned that Zhou Qingge had initiated the confrontation—so it wasn’t Qin Wuyan’s fault.
Yet the video didn’t end there. Unbelieving, he watched Zhou Qingge rise from the floor as people around her asked if she was alright. She offered a fragile smile and quickly walked toward the camera.
At this moment, her voice became clear.
“Did you get it all on camera?”
The cameraman’s voice trembled slightly. “Yes… Zhou, what should we do now? Qin Wuyan isn’t… I mean, even if I post it, it won’t help you stir anything up.”
Zhou Qingge replied, “I know. Forget it, I’ll figure out another way later. For now, send me the video. Once you’re done, make sure it’s deleted on your end.”
The cameraman hesitated. “Huh? Isn’t it useless now?”
Zhou Qingge’s tone was calculated and meaningful. “It’s useless now, but that doesn’t mean it won’t be useful later.”
Then the screen went black—likely the cameraman had sent the video to Zhou Qingge.
Even a fool could sense the scheming and layered intent in her final words. As the video ended, Song Cheng started a countdown, ready to replay it. Staring at the blank screen, he was dumbfounded.
“The entertainment industry is terrifying.”
Excited, Song Cheng looked at Qin Wuyan. “She held onto this video for four years—she’s been plotting against you all this time!”
Qin Wuyan: “…”
Song Cheng’s reaction time was incredible—he realized this on the very first day the video surfaced.
“But now, she’s only hurting herself,” Qin Wuyan said with a smug tone, “see? You can’t do bad things without consequences.”
Hearing this, Song Cheng quickly exited the video and refreshed the page. Thousands of comments appeared in just a minute.
Eager to see the reactions, Song Cheng was about to dive in when Qin Wuyan took the laptop from his lap. “You check your phone first. I need this.”
Song Cheng asked, “What are you going to do?”
While swiping the trackpad, Qin Wuyan answered, “I’ll draft a statement announcing nationwide that we’ve reconciled—let Zhou Qingge go to hell.”
Song Cheng: “……”
He hurriedly snatched the laptop back. “No way!”
Qin Wuyan looked shocked. “Why?”
Song Cheng: “…Think about it—posting the video and immediately saying we reconciled? Everyone will think it’s revenge!”
Qin Wuyan replied, puzzled: “I am taking revenge! I want everyone to know it!”
Song Cheng stared at him silently for a moment, then came up with a reason Qin Wuyan wouldn’t refuse: “I don’t want our relationship to be used as a tool to get back at Zhou Qingge. She’s not worth it.”
Qin Wuyan squinted, paused three seconds, then relented. “Fine.”
Song Cheng: “……”
Honestly, Qin Wuyan was very easy to persuade.
With Song Cheng restraining him, Qin Wuyan didn’t post the reconciliation immediately. Instead, the next morning, while Song Cheng fed the dogs downstairs, Qin Wuyan quietly edited a statement and posted it online.
Weibo crashed once last night, and again that morning.
By the time Song Cheng noticed, two hours had passed. Only a congratulatory message from Han Congzhou made him realize what Qin Wuyan had done. He could only laugh and cry at the situation.
Qin Wuyan’s family also called, asking him to bring Song Cheng over so everyone could meet him. His mother was particularly excited, saying it didn’t matter if the whole family saw them—she just wanted a chance to meet him.
Qin Wuyan could leave people speechless; his mother had the same effect, making him feel helpless. Massaging his temple in frustration, Qin Wuyan walked away with his phone, while Song Cheng watched, amused by his flustered expression.
That’s what a mother does—embarrasses you, frustrates you, but makes you feel you can’t be without her.
If Song Cheng’s mother were still alive, she might have been no different from Qin Wuyan’s mother. Even as a child, his mother loved to tease him.
The only memories Song Cheng had of his mother were those dreams. As for her absence, he had inferred that himself. After all, if she were still alive, he wouldn’t have lived with his uncle.
News of Qin Wuyan and Song Cheng publicly announcing their relationship quickly topped the entertainment charts—and naturally reached Ji Xingyuan’s phone.
He had long been following Qin Wuyan’s account. Seeing the statement, he wasn’t surprised, as if he had anticipated it.
Still, he stared at the screen longer than usual. For nearly a minute, he barely blinked. Then, pausing briefly, he set the phone on the table.
Even though he had expected it, he found it incredible.
Now, Song Siyue didn’t think Qin Wuyan and Song Cheng would last, while the past Ji Xingyuan believed they wouldn’t.
The difference was vast: personality, upbringing, future plans. Ji Xingyuan had always thought Qin Wuyan was merely a tool for Song Cheng’s thrill-seeking—at first, that was true.
Song Cheng had hidden it so well that no one at home knew he was friends with a “rebellious and defiant” celebrity. Ji Xingyuan learned of it through family acquaintances. At the time, he was too young to manage his emotions, and even the acquaintance found his shocked expression strange.
Song Cheng and Ji Xingyuan weren’t close.
One was a nephew under strict parental surveillance; the other an orphan trained as a replaceable agent. The Shen family felt like a gladiatorial arena, and they were trapped in separate cages, surviving through disguise, conflict, and sheer effort.
Song Cheng rarely saw Ji Xingyuan because their schedules were completely different. Song Cheng studied a variety of subjects and learned to protect his assets, while Ji Xingyuan learned to manage a family empire and repay the Shen family’s favor throughout his life.
Sometimes, they could go a whole week without seeing each other. This was intentional. Shen Hanshu didn’t want Song Cheng to regard Ji Xingyuan as a brother or for Ji Xingyuan to get too close, potentially creating inappropriate feelings.
But just because something was planned didn’t mean it would succeed. Even though they saw each other so little, they still grew up under the same roof. Those lessons on gratitude and respect had, in the end, made some impression—so he never told anyone that Song Cheng had gained another friend.
He had assumed this friendship would fade over time, or that one day, one of them would no longer be able to endure this seemingly normal yet strangely awkward relationship. He imagined countless scenarios, but none like the one that had unfolded.
When Ji Xingyuan learned that Shen Hanshu had once been mocked behind his back as a useless person, he realized those people had been right.
He had tried to cultivate himself, aiming to create an obedient puppet, only to be turned on by his own creation. He had tried to groom Song Cheng into an innocent, carefree rich kid, but the days Song Cheng spent under his care were anything but carefree.
He wanted Song Cheng to obey, to stay away from men he deemed dangerous, to follow the path he had laid out.
In the end, Song Cheng did none of it.
Looking at his phone, Ji Xingyuan muttered, “Well done.”
He lowered his gaze, smiled faintly, and left a simple two-character comment on the otherwise blank account:
—Congratulations.