As soon as he heard that, Ling Yi reacted even faster than Fang Juexia and quickly turned the laptop away. “Ah—yeah, that’s pretty much the whole story…”
Fang Juexia didn’t really think it was a big deal. After all, on the internet, say something fake enough times and it basically becomes true.
Just as he was about to steer the conversation in another direction, Jiang Miao came out of the kitchen carrying a bowl of soup. “Juexia, Qiang-ge just called. You didn’t pick up. He wants you to go to the office for a meeting. Oh, and,” he added, “Xiao Pei already went over.”
“Right now?”
“Yup.”
Under the motherly glare of their team captain, Fang Juexia obediently finished his chicken soup before rushing to the company.
What he didn’t expect was that even the boss had shown up. Star Chart wasn’t a huge agency, but the boss was usually too busy to show his face around the office.
“You’re here. Have a seat.” The boss, Chen Zhengyun, sat in the middle of the conference room, hands clasped, and gestured for him to sit next to him. Juexia followed the instructions and sat down, his gaze drifting across the long table to the other side.
There, slouched in a chair with a gray knit beanie pulled low over his eyes, looking like he was taking a nap in front of everyone, was none other than Pei Tingsong.
“Xiao Pei, wake up.” Cheng Qiang, seated beside him, nudged him awake. Pei Tingsong groggily pushed up the beanie and yanked it off, ruffling his hair. His sharp, striking features emerged from the sleepy haze and locked onto Fang Juexia across the table.
“Took you long enough,” he said bluntly, the first thing out of his mouth after waking up.
His eyes fixed on Fang Juexia, who instinctively turned his face away, only to realize his left eye—and the birthmark at its corner—was now directly in Pei Tingsong’s line of sight. It suddenly reminded him of a flower he had once seen in a garden when he was little—pale pink, with long slender petals—shaped exactly like the mark by his eye.
“Since last night, the two of you have been trending nonstop. Honestly, we didn’t see this coming either,” said Chen Zhengyun, glancing at his assistant. “Give us the report.”
Although it all happened out of the blue, the company had still managed to assign someone to compile and analyze the data right away. The assistant pulled up a lengthy PowerPoint presentation. Fang Juexia didn’t speak, quietly listening, his eyes occasionally drifting toward Pei Tingsong—who was now lying on the table and clearly about to fall asleep again.
“And that’s about it,” the assistant concluded. “Not just on Weibo and Baidu—the numbers are strong even on smaller platforms that usually don’t get much traffic.” He chuckled, “Honestly, this is more heat than when Kaleido first debuted.”
Pei Tingsong let out a scoff—eyes still closed.
So he wasn’t really asleep. Juexia glanced at him, surprised, only for the guy to open his eyes right at that exact moment, catching him off guard. Their eyes met. Pei Tingsong’s eyes were narrow and deep-set, with stark contrast between black and white—intense and piercing.
“Even though it was unexpected, the traffic is real,” Chen Zhengyun continued. “You both know this—Kaleido hasn’t exactly taken off in the two years since debut.” His gaze bounced between the two of them. “This meeting is to figure out our next steps.”
Fang Juexia had a pretty good idea of where this was headed. To be fair, the boss had always treated his artists decently. Even though the group had stayed lukewarm since debut, he never forced them to take on tons of gigs just to chase clout—unless someone specifically asked for it.
That said, their debut had been rushed. They were even mocked as “five leftovers plus one nepotism baby.”
The group only got the green light thanks to the popularity of their senior group—especially Shang Sirui, who had become a breakout star. Riding that wave, Star Chart wanted to push out a new boy group. As a former top pick from a major label, Fang Juexia naturally landed the center spot.
The main dancer, Lu Yuan, had once won a major street dance competition, but got kicked out of his original dance crew over a dispute about money. After bouncing around, he ended up at Star Chart. Their main vocalist, Ling Yi, was born with an amazing voice. He competed in a kids’ singing competition when he was younger, but only placed second—because the winner had connections. At 17, he joined another survival show but didn’t make it past the finals due to a lack of industry backing. Eventually, a talent scout from Star Chart spotted him and brought him on as a trainee. He trained for three and a half years before finally debuting.
Captain Jiang Miao was a student at the Central Conservatory of Music, a talented guzheng player. Unfortunately, his family background wasn’t great. At one point, he even became a live-streamer playing guzheng to support his younger sister. But because he never showed his face, his popularity remained low—until he was scouted by Star Chart Entertainment and recruited as a trainee.
The group’s two rappers stood out among the idol trainees for being rather “unconventional.” He Ziyan had been part of underground bands since he was young and had experience DJing and performing in bars. He had a real gift for electronic music, though he never mentioned anything about his family or background.
Pei Tingsong, on the other hand, was the only one born with a silver spoon. He was a last-minute addition to the group, which disrupted the company’s previous plans and lineup—an obvious case of nepotism.
Still, no one could deny Pei Tingsong’s rap skills and songwriting talent. In the industry, he was considered top-tier. He’d already debuted for two years and was only nineteen. With that kind of family background, talent, and looks, it was almost unfair—like life had given him cheat codes.
“I’m not doing it,” Pei Tingsong said flatly, resting his cheek in one hand while spinning a pen with the other.
Chen Zhengyun didn’t seem bothered. Instead, he turned to Fang Juexia and picked up the conversation where he left off. “The planning team pulled an all-nighter and gave me a revised proposal,” he said, as the assistant handed out printed copies. “The company’s updating your marketing strategy. To put it bluntly—you and Xiao Pei will be paired up as a CP. Nothing over-the-top. Just act normal, like you’re teammates with a close bond.”
That statement hit a nerve.
The two had never gotten along since debut. They looked down on each other. Fang Juexia’s way of expressing dislike was keeping distance. Pei Tingsong, though, was the type to stir the pot whenever he felt like it.
Otherwise, things wouldn’t have blown up like they did.
“This is a great opportunity,” Chen continued. “If you ride the current wave of attention, it’ll take your careers to a new level.”
Fang Juexia stared at the proposal in silence for a few seconds. His mind replayed every conflict—big and small—he’d had with Pei Tingsong over the past two years. If things went on like before, he could probably keep his distance and maintain a peaceful team dynamic. But if he agreed to this…
The consequences could be unimaginable.
He looked up. “Boss, I think I’ll pass. I’m not really into the whole CP thing.”
Before the boss could respond, someone else lost his temper first.
“You don’t want to pair with me?” Pei Tingsong raised an eyebrow, spinning the pen faster. “Give me a reason. What is it—am I not good-looking enough? Not rich enough?”
The implication was clear as day.
Fang Juexia’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t respond.
“So you do want to pair up?” Chen turned to their manager Cheng Qiang. “Make a note—youngest member agrees.”
Pei Tingsong rolled his eyes, deadpan. “I don’t.”
“You sure seem eager,” Chen retorted, not interested in going in circles with the kid. His attention shifted back to Fang Juexia. “Juexia, this isn’t just about you two—it affects the whole group. You don’t have to do it, but you’ll be giving up a rare breakout opportunity. That said, the fans already dug up your old videos. Now that the buzz has started, it’s only going to grow. Even if you don’t officially promote yourselves as a CP, you’re already tied together by default.”
In other words: better to take control than get dragged by the tide.
“I just don’t want to rise to fame through this method,” Fang Juexia said.
“This isn’t a method, Juexia. It’s a chance.” Chen shrugged. “All six of you have the talent to achieve way more than where you are now. But talent without opportunity? That’s the hardest situation of all.”
He paused, looking Fang Juexia in the eye.
“Or have you already forgotten what you told me when you first joined the company?”
Fang Juexia’s heart skipped a beat.
He had said it. That he wanted to stand center stage.
But now, he had no stage.
Their debut had involved a lot of luck, but the company had truly invested in them. From the beginning, the group’s entire concept had been designed by Chen Zhengyun. Even their name—Kaleido—was taken from “kaleidoscope,” to symbolize endless transformation and potential. They all knew the expectations behind it.
But whether a group made it or not depended on countless factors.
Sweat started to gather on Fang Juexia’s palms. His nerves stretched tighter and tighter. Just then, his phone suddenly buzzed. His hand twitched, and when he saw the caller ID, his frown deepened.
“Sorry, I… need to step out for a bit.”
Chen Zhengyun nodded, simply calling for a break. He stepped out to smoke, leaving only Pei Tingsong and Cheng Qiang in the conference room.
Pei Tingsong, bored out of his mind, gripped a pen and started doodling on the proposal draft. He was about to write his own name, but had only finished the first stroke when Cheng Qiang let out a sigh. Pei glanced up and noticed the storm cloud on his face.
Curious, he asked, “Qiang-ge, what’s wrong?”
“Qiang-ge” was a nickname fans had mistakenly given him. At the airport once, the team kept calling him “Qiang-ge,” and fans misheard it as “Strong-ge.” Pei Tingsong found it funny and started using it too.
Cheng Qiang snapped, irritated, “Fuck, don’t get me started…”
Meanwhile, Fang Juexia had wandered around the floor a few times before finding an empty conference room. He hadn’t wanted to answer the call, but the one phoning him was Assistant Director Yang—not just the AD of the variety show he was filming, but also a mid-level exec at the broadcasting platform. As a barely-famous idol, Fang had already turned him down too many times.
“Director Yang.”
The voice on the other end suddenly switched tones, now gentle and smooth. “Xiao Fang, not busy right now, right? About yesterday—I lost my temper, said a few things out of line. Don’t take it to heart. You know I’ve always liked you. It’s only ‘cause I care, I get a little impatient, y’know…”
That word—liked—coming from his mouth made Fang Juexia feel nauseous. He shoved his phone into his pocket and adjusted his wireless earpiece.
“Director, I believe I’ve already made my stance very clear…”
“Now, now—just hear me out. You were trending yesterday, weren’t you? Felt good, huh? See? You do have potential. You’ve got the looks, you’ve got the skills—just need that last push to climb the ladder.”
The more he spoke, the more repulsed Fang Juexia felt. He could almost see the greasy, arrogant director standing in front of him, heavy-lidded eyes dripping with lechery, a thick, stubby hand sliding over his shoulder. Even the man’s breathing through the earpiece made him want to throw up.
“Director Yang, if you insist on forcing—”
He didn’t even finish before the other side cut in, raising his voice.
“How’s this forcing? It’s mutual benefit! That trending topic—wasn’t that your company buying up the hot search? Not bad! Y’all finally figured out how to hype someone up. Should’ve done that ages ago! But don’t forget—this industry’s got fresh faces popping up every day. If you don’t ride the wave while you’re hot, it’s all wasted. You understand what I’m saying?”
His shrill voice turned into static through the headset, sharp and grating—like needles slicing through the pride Fang Juexia fought so hard to keep.
In that moment, he became a cheap item on a supermarket shelf. Not quite forced, not yet broken, but fully exposed. Someone could pick him up, shake him around, and listen to the pathetic rattle of shattered dreams scraping plastic walls.
The man grew bolder, switching between bragging and baiting. “You know what real exposure is? Reality TV. And let me tell you—your agency doesn’t have the kind of connections I do…”
Disgust, dizziness, exhaustion—it all crashed in at once. He hadn’t eaten properly, hadn’t rested enough. His vision darkened and his legs started to give out. The voice in his ear began to split, multiply, buzzing in overlapping waves.
“What’s a web show? You should be aiming for satellite TV! Instant national recognition. Xiao Fang, relax—stick with me, and I promise, I’ll customize the perfect—”
Suddenly, cool fingertips brushed his cheek.
The source of his revulsion vanished as the earbud was gently removed. Silence flooded in. The chaotic, unbearable world collapsed into a deep, muffled hush—like he had sunk into the ocean.
“Director Yang.”
A hand casually rested on Fang Juexia’s shoulder. He froze up and turned his head in a daze.
The voice on the other end stuttered to a halt, words dying mid-sentence. The cocky monologue disintegrated, clattering to the ground like shattered glass. Because this voice wasn’t Fang Juexia’s at all—it was lower, smooth, with a lazy irreverence that couldn’t have been more different.
“I recorded the whole thing.”
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