He didn’t even need a script to bluff.
Fang Juexia could never pull that off.
“You—who are you?”
“You seriously don’t recognize me?”
His voice dragged out lazily, especially at the end of the question. The hand draped over Fang Juexia’s shoulder gave a light shake, fingertips tapping against him.
“I’m Pei Tingsong.”
The person on the other end suddenly paused. “Pei…”
“Yep, the same Pei Tingsong who turned the tables on you and your trash crew last time.”
He planted a hand behind him on the table and hopped up to sit on it, casual as ever.
“Heard you tried to blacklist me after that? How’s that working out for you?”
“Looks like the broadcast didn’t even dare to cut me out.”
Fang Juexia knew exactly where his confidence came from, but he hadn’t expected Pei to actually use that confidence for his sake.
The man on the other end fell silent, realizing he couldn’t afford to offend this brat. So he tried to change tactics.
“Put Fang Juexia on. I have business with him.”
“Oh? Your ‘business’ being grooming young male artists? Not bad. Perks of your job, huh?”
He knows.
Fang Juexia frowned.
Pei Tingsong had always been blunt, and after two years of working together, Fang Juexia knew him well enough. But even so, the word grooming struck a nerve.
He tried to pull away from the overly intimate grip.
But the moment his shoulder slipped out of Pei’s hold, his wrist got caught.
Pei didn’t even look up fully, just raised his eyes a bit from the phone call—sharp gaze locking onto Fang Juexia’s—and kept talking.
“If I wanted to drop a bombshell for the media, I’ve got material ready and waiting.”
Fang Juexia couldn’t tell who that last “right?” was meant for, but his wrist now felt like it was pierced with thorns.
“What the hell’s it got to do with you?”
He was genuinely curious—this really had nothing to do with Pei.
“It does.”
The grip on his wrist tightened.
Pei stretched out his long legs, looking completely at ease.
“Haven’t you seen the trending topics? The company’s pairing the two of us up as a couple. So until the fanservice campaign is over…”
He turned to face Fang Juexia, flashing a mischievous grin.
“Everything about him is tied to me.”
“His reputation affects mine. His private life shapes the public’s view of my private life. We’re a package deal now. As far as everyone else is concerned, it’s all one and the same.”
His tone dripped with sarcasm.
“Do I look like someone you could keep as a sugar baby?”
The voice on the other end had gone from indignant to completely frozen.
In this industry, some people have fame, others have money, or connections—but they all play by the unspoken rules of the game.
But Pei Tingsong?
He was the kind of freak who loved breaking the rules.
And worse?
He had a powerful backing that let him get away with it.
He wasn’t just reckless—he was untouchable.
When the other side still didn’t respond, Pei clicked his tongue.
“Well, goodbye then, Deputy Director Yang.”
And just like that, his tone dropped cold again.
“Be good. Stop dreaming.”
He lifted a hand to end the call and took out his earpiece, still wearing that smug tilt of his chin.
Then he stared at Fang Juexia without saying a word, eyebrow raised like he was daring him to speak first.
Fang Juexia knew he should say something.
But when he looked down at Pei’s hand—still firmly gripping his wrist—he hesitated.
Pei noticed, and his lips curled again. His long fingers started fiddling with the earpiece.
“Thanks.”
Pei tilted his head, eyes tracking Fang Juexia’s evasive gaze.
“You don’t sound all that thankful.”
But Fang Juexia suddenly turned serious.
“I really am. But I don’t want anyone getting involved in this kind of thing… especially not my teammates.”
That serious, huh.
Pei gave a lazy double-nod.
“Especially not me, right?”
Fang Juexia’s calm eyes stared at him for a few seconds—then, surprisingly, he nodded.
“Yeah. Especially not you.”
“But I still appreciate it.”
That made Pei smile.
Of all his features, his eyes were the most deceptive.
When he wasn’t smiling, they were sharp and intense.
But the second he did, they curved into cheerful crescents—like a mischievous kid who could get away with anything.
And just like that, his whole vibe flipped in an instant.
But Fang Juexia knew—
Even if Pei Tingsong was smiling right now, he was just having fun at his expense.
Pei tilted his head, genuinely curious, like a student eager to learn:
“Why would anyone want to sleep with you? I can’t picture you in bed at all. Are those people into… what? Ice? Wood?”
He was so blunt, but Fang Juexia didn’t even get mad. He just said calmly,
“Then maybe let go of that piece of wood’s hand?”
Only then did Pei Tingsong realize he was still holding his wrist. His wicked streak kicked in.
“Nope.”
While they were still deadlocked, they heard a voice from outside.
“Juexia? Xiao Pei? That’s weird…” It was Cheng Qiang.
“You told him,” Fang Juexia said, instantly understanding.
Pei just shrugged, not confirming or denying,
“Who cares who told me? The way this is going, the whole company’s gonna know soon anyway.”
“And so what?”
Pei looked at him, amused by how fearless he was acting.
“True. It’s not like this is the first time.”
“Then why’d you turn him down this time? I mean, before—”
At that moment, Cheng Qiang spotted them through the glass and pushed open the door.
“What are you two doing? I’ve been looking all over for you.”
Fang Juexia smoothly pulled his hand back. A glance down revealed the red marks on his wrist.
Pei hopped down from the table, still relaxed as ever.
“Nothing much. Just… building chemistry early.”
“Oh please,” Cheng Qiang rolled his eyes.
“Two years and no chemistry—suddenly now you’re faking it?”
He caught something in Fang Juexia’s expression and asked deliberately,
“What happened?”
“I took care of it,” Pei Tingsong cut in.
“I’ll tell my sister later—if that Yang Chenggang keeps this up, we’ll pull our funding. With a guy like that, once the truth comes out, people will boycott the show. She’ll lose even more money.”
Cheng Qiang nodded. The reason he’d told Pei in the first place was because he knew about the bad blood between him and the deputy director—and he knew Pei Tingsong wasn’t the type to let something like that slide.
“You really should thank Xiao Pei properly,” he said, throwing an arm around Fang Juexia’s shoulder and steering him back toward the conference room.
But Fang Juexia stayed stiff and only muttered a quiet reply.
Pei followed behind, watching his back.
People are complicated, and Pei knew that better than most.
But Fang Juexia? He was the strangest contradiction Pei had ever seen.
Cold on the surface, like he was always keeping everyone at arm’s length…
And yet, he was somehow wrapped up in these kinds of scandals.
But seeing the way he carried himself—like he’d rather shatter than bend—Pei couldn’t help but wonder…
PTSD, maybe?
Pei had no respect for people who used their bodies to climb the ladder.
But high-level talent? That, he did admire.
And Fang Juexia was pure talent.
His dancing was top-tier—arguably the best in the whole industry.
Not to mention that stunning voice of his.
After two years of working together, the disgust Pei once felt when he first heard the rumors had gradually faded.
Now? He mostly just felt… nothing.
Well, mostly.
There was still a hint of curiosity.
Because Fang Juexia was just that contradictory.
The second half of the meeting flew by. Pei Tingsong was distracted the whole time, completely forgetting his original reason for coming—to object to the company’s CP (couple-pairing) strategy.
Eventually, the door opened and the other four group members came in one after another.
The boss motioned for everyone to sit and had the assistant hand out a new project proposal.
“Since Kaleido’s debut, you’ve only put out two albums,” Chen Zhengyun began.
“And the last one was a mini-album a whole year ago. Honestly, this comeback is long overdue—I’m sure you’re all feeling the pressure.”
He scanned the room before continuing,
“We discussed it earlier. To make the most of the current buzz, the company’s decided to push ahead with production and release of a new album.”
Team leader Jiang Miao raised a concern,
“But producing a whole album takes time…”
“Exactly,” Chen Zhengyun nodded.
“We can’t rush out a half-baked album just because you’re trending. You’re idols. Singing and dancing is your job—and that’s not something we can let the fans down on. So if we want to balance production quality and timing, we’ll need to keep your popularity up some other way in the meantime.”
“Ziyan and Jiang Miao—you’ve got variety shows lined up. Lu Yuan’s still recording that dance competition, Ling Yi’s working on an OST… and Juexia’s got—”
Cheng Qiang cut in, “Juexia’s show is gone.”
Chen Zhengyun looked momentarily puzzled, but didn’t press.
“We’ll come back to that. Anyway, we’re still negotiating on resource access. If talks go well, we might land guest slots on some big-name variety shows.”
He nodded to his assistant to hand out another proposal.
Ling Yi flipped through it quickly and lit up.
“We’re doing a group reality show?!”
“This time, we’re going to focus on showing your real lives,” Cheng Qiang explained the group variety show plan in detail. “We’ll mix in some entertaining segments too, just to keep things from feeling monotonous. It might be a ‘record and air at the same time’ format, with a few live streams in between to save time.”
Right before the meeting ended, Chen Zhengyun stood up. “You’re all talented. After these past couple of years, I’m sure you understand just how brutal this industry can be. I won’t sugarcoat it—you already know.”
“I’m looking forward to seeing you shine like real idols.”
When Fang Juexia heard those words, for a split second, he felt like he’d returned to the very beginning—back to the stage he had once dreamed of. Even if it was in such a bizarre way, it still felt like that stage was inching closer to him once again.
That same day, the six of them stayed back at the company to rehearse for their new album.
These days, the entertainment industry offers plenty of opportunities to individuals, but very few to idols as a profession. The irony is that many of these young people entered the scene with dreams of singing and dancing, only to end up doing everything but that.
Labeled as “idols,” they’re subjected to bias and scrutiny, yet never given the proper stage to prove themselves.
Over time, they drifted further from music and dance—rushing between film sets, burning the midnight oil in cookie-cutter studios, forgetting why they started. And in the end, all they get is a dismissive remark like, “Too greedy” or “If you don’t have the skills, don’t take the job.” Then they’re quietly swept away by the tide of newer, shinier faces.
The chaos in the industry’s talent divisions has reduced so many vibrant lives to scraps under the relentless gears of the entertainment machine. Day after day, a fresh sacrifice gets pulled in.
“Juexia’s going way too hard in practice today,” gasped Ling Yi, slumping against the wall. He unscrewed his thermos filled with throat-soothing tea. “Ugh, my vocal warmup was a total fail. Cough cough.”
He started goofing around, croaking dramatically as he stretched out his hand. “Huo Huo, my voice… What’s happening to my voice? I’ll never be in favor again…”
He Ze Yan, who was holding Jiang Miao’s legs for sit-ups, used one hand to clamp Ling Yi’s mouth shut. “To the cold palace with you, Consort Ling. You’re too weak to stay in favor.”
“Lies! Even Yuan-ge can’t keep up today! And he’s a main dancer!” Ling Yi elbowed Pei Tingsong. “Right, Xiao Pei?”
“Mhm.” Pei Tingsong responded half-heartedly, hands tucked into his hoodie pocket, eyes fixed on Fang Juexia in front of the mirror.
There was something about him today—like he was burning with this intense drive.
It was hard to put into words. According to society’s beauty standards, this man’s looks were fragile, delicate even. But to Pei Tingsong, he looked like a thorn.
A thorn—unyielding, refusing to bend or soften.
This was the second time now. Fang Juexia had been dragged into the filth of unspoken rules. The first time could’ve been dismissed as a rumor. This time, Pei Tingsong had seen it with his own eyes—an attempt at a deal that didn’t go through.
What were these men after? His looks? His youth?
Honestly, Pei Tingsong didn’t get it.
He’d never been in love—not because he was too young to understand feelings, but because he just couldn’t be bothered. The idea of having his thoughts and emotions tied up in something sticky and trivial felt like such a waste.
Love, to him, was like a high-stakes gamble—when it’s good, it’s euphoric; when it’s bad, it’s hell.
But those men… they weren’t trying to date Fang Juexia. They were all middle-aged and married. They just wanted something fresh.
And the whole physical attraction thing? That was even more absurd to him. He couldn’t comprehend what it felt like to be aroused by a man’s body.
He’d grown up abroad, surrounded by all kinds of friends, and he fully supported LGBTQ+ rights. But he wasn’t gay—and he couldn’t relate to that kind of craving.
Two things he couldn’t wrap his head around, both hitting him at once. And the worst part? Pei Tingsong’s mind didn’t work like other people’s—he couldn’t stand ambiguity. He had to figure things out.
So, he looked to Fang Juexia for answers.
“Damn, Juexia’s insane. How long has he been going at it nonstop?” Lu Yuan came back over, hands on his hips, breath heavy. “I’m never practicing with that lunatic again.”
Jiang Miao finished his last sit-up with a laugh. “My abs are on fire…”
“Let’s eat—I’m starving~” Ling Yi whined as he tugged on Jiang Miao’s arm. “Captain, I need food!”
“It’s about time,” Jiang Miao said, glancing at his watch. He called out to Fang Juexia across the room. Only then did Fang finally stop. Breathing heavily, he said, “I’ll come in a bit.”
“Alright, then.” Everyone knew what he was like—this guy trained harder than anyone else in the company, and no one could stop him. Ling Yi tugged at Pei Tingsong’s sleeve. “Come on, Xiao Pei, today your big bro’s taking you out to the countryside—that is, the company cafeteria. My treat!”
To everyone’s surprise, Pei Tingsong shook his head for once. “Yi-ge, you guys go ahead. I’m gonna stick around and train some more.”
They all froze in place.
Wait—did the guy who always treated idol life like a game just have a change of heart?
Jiang Miao, quick to read the room, smiled. “Alright, we’ll head out first. Don’t train too long and miss dinner.”
Even as they walked to the cafeteria, Ling Yi was still fretting. “You don’t think those two are gonna end up fighting, do you?”
“This fight’s been a long time coming.” He Ziyan looked oddly serene, like some all-seeing Buddha—which really clashed with his edgy slit eyebrow. Lu Yuan took the chance to swipe a chunk of beef stew from his tray and stuff it in his mouth. “Not gonna lie, I think I’ve been brainwashed by all those girls online. When I look at those two now, they just look like a couple.”
Ling Yi clamped a thick-cut potato strip between his chopsticks, puffing like some boss with a cigar. “Xiao Fang and this little Pei, always acting like they’re a second away from throwing down. You think those little fangirls will still ship them once they see what they’re really like?”
“They will.” He Ziyan calmly batted away Lu Yuan’s second attempt to steal food.
“Why?” Ling Yi blinked.
“Just eat.” Jiang Miao said with a knowing smile that didn’t give anything away. “They’re not gonna fight.”
Back in the practice room, only two people remained. Fang Juexia had stopped dancing. Two years of habit had conditioned him to instinctively back off whenever he was around Pei Tingsong—to avoid trouble.
He pushed his sweat-damp hair back, revealing a clean, smooth forehead, and turned to leave.
Pei Tingsong suddenly noticed the natural hint of red at the corner of his eye, and it brought back a memory—his very first time seeing him.
Back then, Pei had been a last-minute addition to the group, led in by Cheng Qiang to meet his future teammates. Same practice room. Also winter. The moment the door opened, most of the guys had turned to look—but one, wearing a black baseball cap, had kept dancing in front of the mirror until Cheng Qiang finally spoke.
That was when he stopped, breathless, and turned around—just like now. Sweat rolled down his jawline, like a single drop of water melting off an icicle.
Naturally, he was the last to introduce himself.
He was twenty then. Took off his cap, pushed his damp hair back just like earlier, revealing his full face. Pale skin, delicate features—and a long, faint red birthmark. In Pei Tingsong’s mind, it abstracted into something poetic.
Cherry blossoms in the snow.
That was the closest image he could find.
“Hi, I’m Fang Juexia.”
‘Unaware that spring has passed in the long rain;
Only when the sun comes out do we realize summer has come.’
A name that spoke of summer—yet he exuded the chill of deep winter.
Pei had nodded and smiled back. “Pei Tingsong.”
Naturally curious, Ling Yi had asked, “That’s such a unique name! How did you get it?”
“I was born on Lunar New Year’s Eve. ‘Fiery braziers blaze as bamboo cracks in the night; festive feasts begin, and we hear the peppery chants.’ My grandfather picked two characters from that poem.”
“Wow, it’s a beautiful name. But you really don’t look like a winter baby, you know?”
“Is that so.”
As the haze in his memory slowly cleared, Pei Tingsong’s gaze returned to the present, fixing on Fang Juexia in the mirror.
His eyes fell on the half-rolled sleeve of Fang Juexia’s hoodie, revealing a stretch of fair, lean arm. Veins pulsed faintly beneath the skin. His sweat-dampened loose clothes clung unconsciously to his frame, moving subtly with each breath. The contours of his body trailed downward—ankle bones and the delicate hollows beside his heels were lightly hugged by the gathered cuffs of his pants, brushing against his snow-pale skin.
For some reason, Pei Tingsong suddenly recalled the feeling of holding his wrist.
“What are you looking at?”
Fang Juexia caught his gaze through the mirror and turned to stare coldly at him.
Pei Tingsong relaxed the hand he’d unknowingly clenched, then lazily hooked up a smile, meeting Fang Juexia’s face head-on.
“Just looking to see what exactly makes you so good-looking.”
Author’s Notes:
Name origins of the two characters:
- Pei Tingsong (裴聽頌):
“The bonfire crackles, bamboo bursts with thunder; the feast begins, listening to songs and spices.”
—《除夜》(“New Year’s Eve”) by Song Dynasty poet Dai Fugu (戴復古) - Fang Juexia (方覺夏):
“The continuous rain makes one forget spring has passed; only when it clears does one realize summer has come deep.”
—《喜晴》(“Rejoicing in Clear Weather”) by Song Dynasty poet Fan Chengda (范成大)
Both poems actually reflect their personalities quite well.
Regarding criticism of Fang Juexia’s personality at the start:
If you can’t stand how he acts early on, feel free to stop reading—please don’t insult him in the comments with things like “spineless” or saying degrading things like “he might as well wash himself clean and offer himself up.” Fang Juexia is not weak—he’s incredibly strong, rational, and brave. Don’t judge him maliciously based on just three chapters.
Yes, the dynamic between the gong and the shou at this point is cold and distant. No need to slam the gong for not being affectionate—it’s clearly stated in the summary that their relationship starts off badly, and the shou ignores him too. If you don’t like this kind of setup, you’re free to stop reading.
And finally, once more for the people in the back asking “why didn’t he record it?”
Do you really think a small-time idol can change anything just by recording a conversation? Do you really think that’s enough to stand up to capital and powerful connections? And what happens after the recording is leaked? Who’s going to bear the consequences—him and his entire group of teammates?
They have no backing, no resources. The whole team would just get blacklisted by major networks and buried by capital.
This novel starts with a flopped group and flopped idols struggling upward. If that’s not your thing, please don’t force yourself to read it.
This story is not angsty. Not angsty. NOT angsty.
