It was inevitable—as soon as public attention turned their way, rumors about the group began swirling again, especially around Fang Juexia, who seemed cursed to bring drama wherever he went. But compared to before, he now had more fans actively pushing back against the negativity and standing up for him. For the first time, posts clarifying the truth and defending him were outnumbering the gossip threads. Still, plenty of haters continued to claim he had a knack for emotionally tormenting his own fans.
At the center of this storm, Fang Juexia had neither the time nor energy to care. Ever since the livestream incident, Kaleido’s commercial bookings had skyrocketed. Brands and major shows were all reaching out. They had way too much on their plates to be wasting time tracking online drama.
The other members were busy with their own schedules, but for now, Fang Juexia’s main task was to shoot a duo magazine cover with Pei Tingsong. It was his first real shot at the fashion world—and not just any cover, but one of the Big Five. If it went well, it could open new doors; if not, it’d be a nosedive right after takeoff.
At 5:30 in the morning, Cheng Qiang arrived at the dorm to wake them up. It was getting colder these days, and a heavy snow had fallen overnight.
Pei Tingsong was in a terrible mood from being woken up. Even while choosing outfits in the styling room, he wore a scowl. The usual image of a kind, hardworking idol? He wasn’t even pretending. He looked like a demon sent from hell to punish people, except he himself had been overworked to the brink. That was the strange metaphor that popped into Fang Juexia’s head.
“Morning~” The door swung open, and in came a tall, burly man wearing a neon-pink puffer jacket. His deep voice was forced into a squeaky falsetto: “Hi~ I’m your head stylist for today. You can call me Andy.” His fingernails were long, decorated with shimmer and rhinestones.
Fang Juexia gave him a polite smile. “Nice to meet you.”
“Wait—are you bare-faced right now, sweetie?!” Andy’s voice was dramatically exaggerated, like a Broadway diva. He suddenly leaned in close, making Fang Juexia instinctively lean back.
“Wow, you’ve got the best skin of any male celeb I’ve ever worked with. So many stars try to brand themselves as having ‘fair porcelain skin,’ but behind the scenes they’re caking on three layers of foundation.”
Just then, he noticed the birthmark near Fang Juexia’s eye and reached out to touch it. “Oh, I’ve always been curious about this little—”
“Let’s not be curious, seriously.” His hand was intercepted and gently but firmly moved away—by Pei Tingsong.
With a half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes, Pei Tingsong said, “Andy ge, maybe we should focus on finding our outfits?”
The moment Andy turned and saw Pei Tingsong clearly, his expression instantly turned a bit shy. He patted Pei Tingsong’s sleeve lightly and chirped, “Ah, right, right, let’s get to the clothes. With a height like yours, you should be on the runway.”
Pei Tingsong clearly wasn’t used to being addressed like that—he broke into goosebumps and quickly let go of Andy’s hand.
Andy shrugged off his coat to reveal a form-fitting black knit top underneath, then fanned himself with a dramatic flourish. “Coco, bring out the styling plan!”
Fang Juexia didn’t have a strong opinion about Andy either way. Back when they were still nobodies, he’d gotten used to the dismissive attitude of stylists. More often than not, the makeup made them look worse than their bare faces. But idols weren’t like regular actors—they relied heavily on styling. In their world, stylists held serious power. Andy had a big reputation, but no diva behavior. That alone already said a lot.
His eyes shifted toward Pei Tingsong, who was clearly much more reactive.
Guess he’s not gay after all, Fang Juexia mused.
Coco, the assistant stylist, was a fast-talking girl. “Since spring’s just around the corner, the magazine chose a ‘Blooming Spring’ theme. The shoot will be in a greenhouse, so our styling will incorporate flowers and plant elements—very natural vibes.”
Just then, the photographer’s assistant, Xiao Zhou, entered to discuss the makeup look with Andy and finalize the design.
Fang Juexia flipped through the planning booklet. It was filled with abstract sketches and color palettes—beautiful, for sure. But he had an annoyingly good memory, and he suddenly recalled that rising actor who snatched a role out from under him—it was the part of a florist that had made him famous. This concept looked like it had been tailor-made for him instead.
He flipped a few more pages. Sure enough, everything from the concept to the visual tone felt lifted from that “florist” theme. Even the sections explaining the “spring” inspiration felt like a last-minute patch job—rushed and forced.
But Fang Juexia knew his place. With his level of seniority, he didn’t have the luxury of being picky. If this were a stage performance, he’d never let a single flaw slide—not even a faulty earpiece. But when it came to work outside the stage, he didn’t have much passion to begin with, so he wasn’t about to start making demands now.
The photographer’s assistant chimed in to support the plan. “Exactly. The magazine team also felt that both of you really fit the spring aesthetic—this youthful, blossoming vibe never goes out of style. And with the recent buzz around your duo appearances, we’re leaning toward a twin concept with similar styling.”
So basically, they were cutting corners—just slapping the leftover floral-themed concept from the previous shoot onto both of them. Fang Juexia closed the booklet, vaguely worried that the flowery makeup might come off too feminine or gaudy on his face.
“We’ll emphasize the shared traits between you two through the makeup—”
“Sorry,” the assistant was interrupted.
Fang Juexia turned to see Pei Tingsong slowly raising his hand. “Mind if I join the discussion?”
It wasn’t unusual for artists or their teams to step in during a shoot—some of them made outrageous requests—so the assistant only looked briefly surprised. “Of course.”
But Fang Juexia knew Pei Tingsong well. He wasn’t just joining the discussion—this was something more. He’d looked off ever since they arrived.
“I’ll just be direct. The concept is solid,” Pei Tingsong said as he sat down on the couch and looked up with a faint smile, “but it doesn’t suit Juexia-ge at all.”
Fang Juexia froze slightly.
“And honestly, he and I don’t look alike. Forcing this ‘twin’ idea would just feel… off.”
The statement wasn’t exactly sugarcoated. Everyone in the room reacted differently. Cheng Qiang, who had been going over the interview outline in silence, sensed the awkward shift in the room. He quickly looked up and smiled to smooth things over. “That’s just how our Xiao Pei is—grew up overseas, says what he thinks. No need to take it too seriously.”
As luck would have it, the door opened again—this time, it was the long-delayed arrival of the photographer, Lin Mo.
Lin Mo had serious clout in the industry, known for his ability to find and highlight a subject’s most striking features. Even the most forgettable faces could be transformed into captivating cover shots under his lens.
The only catch? He was notoriously difficult to work with—temperamental, choosy, and only accepted gigs based on whether he felt a “connection.” They’d gotten him this time purely by chance, after a major international actor canceled due to a schedule conflict.
“Xiao Zhou? You got the lighting ready?” His tone was clipped as he scanned the room. “What’s the holdup?”
The assistant, Xiao Zhou, gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, no issues, I’ll go check with the lighting team now.”
“There is an issue,” Pei Tingsong interjected, turning toward Lin Mo. His voice was calm but firm. “Teacher Lin, I just looked over your assistant’s concept brief. Frankly, it doesn’t feel like your style at all.”
To Lin Mo, this assignment was nothing more than a way to fill a gap in his schedule. His assistant had volunteered to handle the creative planning, and Lin Mo had agreed. In truth, he wasn’t fond of idols.
In his eyes, pretty faces rarely told stories. Their photos lacked voice, lacked soul. And more often than not, their only request was: “Make me look prettier.” That drained all artistic value from his work.
That’s how he had viewed these two up-and-coming idol boys from the start. Hearing Pei Tingsong pick apart the concept only reinforced his assumptions.
Lin Mo let out a faint chuckle and looked at Fang Juexia, who had remained silent throughout. “You feel the same way?”
That single glance told him all he needed—Fang Juexia didn’t even seem like a real person. He was too perfect, too flawless—like a doll crafted by human hands.
Fang Juexia, as always, had little desire to express himself.
But somehow, Fang Juexia felt a quiet, inexplicable sense of understanding with Pei Tingsong. The moment Pei Tingsong cut in earlier, he instantly grasped what he meant by “not a good fit.” At first, he had planned to just go along with it—like he had so many times before. These things didn’t seem worth making a fuss over. Half-hearted input for half-hearted work—it was all mutual.
But of course, Pei Tingsong wasn’t one to just let things slide. He had to speak up, had to rip off the thin veil of pretense.
And as someone who had debuted alongside him, Fang Juexia didn’t actually admire this kind of lone-wolf courage. But this time, he chose to speak up too—even Cheng Qiang looked surprised.
“What Pei said about it not being a good fit isn’t a critique of the plan itself—it’s a solid concept, and it really suits him,” Fang Juexia said, keeping his polite smile in place. “But… if the goal is just to match the current online trends by blending the two of us together, that might not be the best choice. We’re actually very different.”
Lin Mo nodded thoughtfully, his gaze sweeping back and forth between the two idols he barely knew. Then, he casually picked up the concept booklet and started flipping through it.
“The moment I saw this plan, I knew it wasn’t from you,” Pei Tingsong added bluntly. “You’re not the kind of photographer who does cookie-cutter work.”
That line made Cheng Qiang break into a cold sweat. It was practically a direct jab at his studio. He opened his mouth, wanting to mediate, but Fang Juexia gently tugged on his sleeve, silently stopping him.
Lin Mo paused mid-page, lifted his head, narrowed his eyes at Pei Tingsong, and slowly walked toward him.
The atmosphere in the room dropped to freezing. Even the usually lively Andy held his breath and stayed quiet.
When Lin Mo finally stopped in front of Pei Tingsong, he spoke. “You’ve got guts, huh.”
Fang Juexia exhaled quietly.
“Xiao Zhou,” Lin Mo turned, voice flat, “if you can be that sloppy with a proposal, does that mean you think I don’t take my work seriously either?”
It was a perfectly phrased remark—separating himself from the flawed concept while still making a point about professionalism.
Xiao Zhou quickly nodded and mumbled apologies. His boss had a bad temper and yelled at him almost daily—getting off with just a stern comment was honestly a blessing. And to be fair, he had gotten lazy. After seeing the unused concept left behind by that other idol shoot, he simply coordinated with the styling team to repurpose it.
Lin Mo turned back and leaned closer to Pei Tingsong, speaking just loud enough for the two of them to hear.
“You’d still look great in this shoot—so why step up like that?”
“It’s a duo cover, isn’t it?” Pei Tingsong raised an eyebrow.
Lin Mo chuckled. “Just like your sister said.”
Pei Tingsong smirked. “Bet it wasn’t anything flattering.”
Lin Mo pivoted back to the team. “Xiao Zhou, update the plan. Keep the spring theme for Pei Tingsong’s shoot only.”
Xiao Zhou scrambled to respond, already opening his laptop. Meanwhile, Lin Mo walked over to Fang Juexia and studied him carefully. His tone slowed, considering.
“Let’s… skip the spring theme for you. Your features are too fine—piling flowers on top will just make it look tacky, cheap. You’ll lose all uniqueness.” Then he asked, “Got any ideas yourself?”
Fang Juexia stood still, unnaturally quiet for an artist. Even when asked directly, he didn’t show much reaction.
“Winter,” he said.
Lin Mo blinked, surprised. “Why?”
A thought seemed to cross Fang Juexia’s mind. His lips, which had been pressed into a neutral line, suddenly curved just a little. Unlike the polite smiles he wore on set, this one was real—small, genuine, and almost imperceptible.
“Someone once told me,” he said softly, “that I look like ice.”
Author’s Note:
Today’s grape: our boy standing up for his hyung · if he’s not keeping it real he’s dying inside · solid as a tree! 🌳
