After all, they’d worked together for two years. Fang Juexia was already used to Pei Tingsong’s teasing. He showed no reaction, calmly picking up his jacket from the floor and draping it over himself, ready to leave the practice room.
But Pei Tingsong wasn’t used to being ignored. He grabbed his arm.
“Hey, is this how you treat someone who helped you out?”
Fang Juexia paused and glanced at him, his voice flat and emotionless.
“I don’t want to, but the way you keep flirting with me, you hardly look like someone doing a good deed.”
He pulled his arm free, and the jacket slipped off his shoulders again, landing on the floor.
“And what do I look like?”
Fang Juexia’s gaze turned cold.
“A john.”
He turned to leave, but Pei Tingsong wasn’t about to let him off that easily. This time, he didn’t grab him—he simply stepped forward and blocked his path. Fang Juexia nearly walked straight into him.
“You know,” Pei Tingsong said, lowering his eyes, a sly smile playing on his lips, “that actually reminded me.”
“I can’t just help you for free.”
Fang Juexia raised his eyes to meet Pei Tingsong’s without a hint of emotion. He stared down the teammate who never missed a chance to trip him up.
“As a client, shouldn’t I get something in return?” Pei Tingsong smirked. “Wouldn’t you say?”
Fang Juexia had thought he’d long since grown numb to this kind of provocation—but when it came from Pei Tingsong, his calm started to slip.
“I don’t have time for your stupid games.” He stepped to the side, trying to walk past, but Pei Tingsong moved just as easily to block him again.
“Relax. I’m not interested in your body,” he said, eyes sweeping him up and down without even trying to hide the mockery in his tone. “But since we agreed to this whole performance, someone’s gotta play along, right? And with that face—” he bent down, picked up the jacket again, and draped it gently over Fang Juexia’s shoulder, “—you could at least try a little harder. You’re not exactly selling it.”
Fang Juexia stared at him in silence. That was just like him—cold, unwavering, direct. His eyes never flinched, never avoided. Like he didn’t fear anything. Like he didn’t care.
It reminded Pei Tingsong of winter.
He liked the smell of winter. Cold, faintly scented with the last breath of dying leaves. Even though it rarely snowed in Atherton, where he lived, he still loved winter.
Pei Tingsong had always had a strange habit since he was a kid.
In the garden during winter, the gardeners would trim the sycamores, cutting off the half-dead branches. Gone was the lushness of summer. That was his favorite time of year. He’d squat on the ground, carefully picking out the straightest sticks, then hold them at both ends and snap them clean in half.
The broken twigs were straight and stiff, with no give. They looked like they’d never bend. And when you broke them, you could feel that last bit of stubborn resistance. But it never mattered—they’d still break. The sound was crisp and final. The fractured edges would flash with one last burst of life, releasing a scent of fresh sap mixed with the rot of dead wood. It was intoxicating.
That snap gave him a twisted kind of satisfaction.
And right now, that familiar satisfaction was inching closer.
He felt like he’d found another perfect little twig.
“No need to act like we’re mortal enemies,” Pei Tingsong said lazily. “I’m really not into you like that. But since we’re putting on a show, we might as well make it look real. And if you’ve got no idea how to play your part…” he smiled sweetly, innocently.
He reached out and brushed Fang Juexia’s damp bangs away from his forehead, voice low and coaxing.
“Then just be good and do as I say, Gege.”
It was the first time Fang Juexia had ever heard this guy—three years his junior—call him Gege out loud.
For two years, they’d lived what seemed like parallel lives. On the surface, they shared space, but in truth, they existed on two entirely different planes, never once intersecting. Fang Juexia’s emotions were always even and composed. No matter how difficult someone was, he could deal with them calmly. Because, to him, people followed rules—just like animals, just like physics. They were predictable, bound by the laws of nature.
But Pei Tingsong was the exception.
He was a volatile element. Combustible. Unstable. Dangerous.
Fang Juexia kept his usual silence, eyes steady and straightforward as he looked at Pei Tingsong. After a few seconds, he reached out and neatly straightened the flipped-up collar of Pei Tingsong’s shirt—like a proper older brother would.
That pretty mouth of his never said a word in the end. He just tugged at the corner of his lips in a faint, unreadable smile and walked off.
In the days that followed, they were holed up in meetings and the practice room. The concept for the new album was still a little vague, no matter how much they refined it.
Until Cheng Qiang cracked a joke halfway through one of the meetings.
“This is such a headache. Worst comes to worst, we get Jiang Miao on the guzheng, Ziyan on the turntable, Yiyi wails something, Juexia and Luyuan dance, and little Pei throws down a rap. Boom—done.”
It was clearly a joke. Everyone laughed.
But unexpectedly, two people at the table didn’t just laugh—they took it seriously.
“Hold on.” / “I have an idea.”
Fang Juexia and Pei Tingsong spoke at the exact same time. The room fell dead silent. That sudden, bizarre synchronicity stunned everyone into silence. The atmosphere immediately turned awkward.
Just as everyone was waiting for either of them to explain further, the two suddenly clammed up—as if neither wanted to be the first to back down.
Cheng Qiang rapped his knuckles on the table. “You two are unreal. Fine. Fourth, you go first.”
“Why him?”
Knowing Pei Tingsong wouldn’t be happy, Cheng Qiang smoothly replied, “Alright then, you go.”
“…Fine, I’ll go.” Pei Tingsong cleared his throat and spun his pen a few times. “We should take part in the production of this new album.”
It didn’t sound like a suggestion—it sounded like a decision.
Cheng Qiang rolled up his sleeves. “Hey, you little punk—”
“I agree with him,” Fang Juexia cut in calmly.
Everyone whipped their heads around to stare at him in shock.
Ling Yi leaned back in his chair and whispered to Lu Yuan, “Is it just me, or does this feel a little… weird?”
“You’re not alone.” Lu Yuan nodded seriously, eyes flicking between the two. “Why do I suddenly think the two of them are… weirdly compatible? What’s wrong with me?”
Ling Yi rolled his eyes. “You’ve been hexed.”
Fang Juexia didn’t hear the team’s gossip. He said, “We put a lot of effort into conceptualizing the last two albums, but the results were just so-so. That might be on us—not fully digesting the ideas. So I was thinking…” He turned toward the boss, tone sincere. “Instead of forcing everyone to adapt to a brand-new concept again, what if we—”
His signature math-major habit kicked in, and his teammates burst out laughing.
Ling Yi jumped right in with a tease: “What if we define a variable X? Then obviously—”
The room laughed again. Pei Tingsong turned his head slightly and noticed Fang Juexia’s fair neck starting to blush.
Fang Juexia cleared his throat and pulled the conversation back. “I mean, let’s just throw out the old format entirely and contribute creatively. Like Qiang-ge said—everyone has their strengths. Sure, it’s not as simple as just stacking everything together and hoping it works, but the process of mixing it all could spark something new, right?”
He didn’t usually speak this much, which made his words all the more serious.
Chen Zhengyun looked a little surprised but nodded. “Give us something more concrete.”
“Traditional Chinese instruments fused with EDM,” Pei Tingsong answered, stopping the spin of his pen. “It’s not a new idea per se, but it’s still rare in boy group concepts. Miao-ge’s guzheng could be used as a pluck or lead element. For example, in a trap beat, pairing a deep bassline with the guzheng’s crisp timbre could create a great sense of vertical space. Add in a catchy drum set, and I think we’ve got the foundation for a killer dance track.”
Pei Ziyan, the group’s resident EDM head, quickly jumped on board.
“I’ve actually been thinking about this for a while,” he said. “Honestly, I’ve got a few demos on hand already—some trap, some future bass. If we’re not using them as title tracks, imagine laying a guzheng base under a vaporwave track. That’d be sick. Plus, the guzheng has super versatile fingering, so you can do insanely fast rhythms—perfect for a build-up right before the drop.”
He turned to Jiang Miao. “What do you think?”
Jiang Miao smiled. “Sounds fun. If we’re serious about this, I’d like to throw something out there too.” He looked at Ling Yi. “Yiyi, you should try singing in xiqu style. You’ve got a high range—if you push it with traditional instrumentation and EDM, I swear it’ll give people goosebumps.”
Ling Yi rubbed his arm. “I think I already have them, Captain. But seriously, I’ve never tried that before. Juexia, what about you? Wanna give it a shot?”
Before Fang Juexia could answer, Pei Tingsong cut in,
“His voice already has a built-in mix effect. He’s perfect for the hook.”
Ling Yi snickered. “Tsk tsk tsk, look at you—already reserving the hook for yourself.”
Pei Ziyan nodded solemnly. “Hey, the hook is the soul of hip-hop.”
“Wooow, the soul~.” Lu Yuan chimed in, dramatically dragging out the word. “I’ve been binging your CP edits these past few days—I’m in deep.”
“What deep?” Cheng Qiang gave him a light bop on the head. “Focus. What about the choreography?”
Ling Yi instantly launched into a fake Dongbei accent. “Don’t go smacking his dome like that!”
“Dome?” Lu Yuan shot back, rolling his eyes. “That’s not even the right word. It’s called a tianlinggai—your crown chakra, bro.”
Then he sat up straighter, getting serious. “Finally, my time to shine. For boy group choreography, it’s all about memorable moments and stage impact. Since we’ve got our concept set, I say ditch the usual idol routines. We can do two live versions—one as a band-style setup with live guzheng and DJ, and another as a full vocal-and-dance performance.”
“Solid idea.” Seeing everyone’s creativity ignite, Chen Zhengyun broke into a smile. “Anyone else?”
“I have a suggestion,” Lu Yuan grinned and turned to Juexia. “When it comes to leaving a visual impression, we need our Juexia front and center.”
Fang Juexia blinked, confused. “Me?”
“Well yeah. Since this is all about the fusion of tradition and modernity, our choreography needs traditional elements too. I just had this scene flash in my mind—Juexia dancing classical. Just a short solo during the bridge. If we can shoot it live in one continuous take, it’ll be chef’s kiss…”
As Lu Yuan spoke, a vivid image formed in Pei Tingsong’s mind without warning.
The guzheng solo plays under a pitch-black stage. A single spotlight cuts through the darkness—focused only on him. A deep bow, a flick of the sleeve. An open fan in hand. His long, graceful frame flows through the air, limbs curving and twisting. The stage lights skim the sheer fabric of his costume, tracing the flex of bone and muscle beneath. Moonlight chases the ripple of silk.
At the final zheng of the string, his pointed toe lands softly on stage. The fan snaps open with a sharp flick, and beneath lowered brows—just a touch of red.
“Xiao Pei? Pei Tingsong?”
Cheng Qiang’s voice yanked him out of the vision. Pei Tingsong blinked and looked up to find everyone staring at him.
“What are you all looking at me for?”
“What were you daydreaming about so intensely?” Pei Ziyan had already stood up, stretching. “Come on, meeting’s over.”
That fast?
It had only been one dance.
“So? What do you think of my idea just now?” Lu Yuan slung an arm around Fang Juexia’s shoulder. “I remember you once said you learned both classical and modern dance as a kid.”
Fang Juexia nodded. “Yeah. I danced when I was little.”
“When you were little?” Ling Yi, always ready to jump in, added, “You’ve been dancing since you were a kid? You never told us that.”
Behind them, Pei Tingsong walked with his hands stuffed in his pockets, silently thinking: Forget childhood—has this guy ever shared anything about his past?
“Mhm.” Fang Juexia’s gaze dropped involuntarily. The blindingly white hallway tiles reflected the fluorescent lights overhead, and in one glowing square, he saw a stage. A man stood on it, moving with effortless grace—each movement open and fluid. A few steps later, the image shifted. He saw a much younger version of himself standing offstage, holding his mother’s hand and looking up.
“Mom, I wanna be just like Dad someday!”
“Of course you will, sweetheart. Our baby’s gonna be even better than your dad—you’re going to be the best dancer ever.”
“I trained for a few years,” he said, lifting his head and looking straight ahead as they walked together to the elevator. His tone was calm, almost as if to stop any further questions. “I quit after that. But the foundation should still be there. I can give it a try.”
Jiang Miao glanced down at his own hand, inspecting it. “Man… guess it’s time I got back to my old tricks too.”
Before he could finish, Pei Ziyan grabbed his right hand and mimed spinning a disc, grinning. “Back to the grind—version 2.0.”
Lu Yuan laughed. “Then hurry up and drop a demo already! I’m dying to start choreographing.”
Ling Yi immediately buttered him up. “Yuan-ge! Dalian’s finest! Gimme a super cool part!”
As the group bantered, Fang Juexia felt a rare, long-lost warmth spread through him. It reminded him of their debut days—everyone pushing toward their dreams, working hard to put on the best stage they could. Everyone… except one.
His gaze shifted. The polished metal walls of the elevator reflected Pei Tingsong’s figure—head slightly lowered, looking deep in thought.
Fang Juexia remembered clearly: when Pei Tingsong joined the group, he’d just turned seventeen. Truthfully, Juexia had no real opinion about the sudden addition. A new member was still a teammate—he treated him like anyone else.
But Pei Tingsong had been impossible to manage back then. One time, during practice, his attitude crossed a line, and for the first time ever, Fang Juexia snapped. That was their first real clash. Two hot-headed guys throwing punches—no one could pull them apart.
“You think I came here to be some idol? Screw training! I’ve got nothing to say to people like you—people who’ll do anything to climb their way to the top!”
It wasn’t until he heard that that Fang Juexia finally understood why Pei Tingsong’s attitude had shifted so drastically after their first—surprisingly friendly—meeting.
But even then, he hadn’t gotten angry. On the contrary, he was eerily calm.
“I heard you want to be a rapper.”
By Pei Tingsong’s second day at the company, everyone already knew the story: how he’d been sent back from the U.S. by his parents after messing around in underground scenes, how his older sister had dragged him into Xingtu—this tiny company—probably just to teach him a lesson about what life in the entertainment industry was really like.
No matter their intentions or methods, it wasn’t the same as those who fought tooth and nail to get here.
[Dreams aren’t noble or lowly. They’re either attainable or they’re not.]
Fang Juexia let go of his grip on the other’s collar.
[There’s really nothing to say to someone as immature and prejudiced as you.]
A rumor-ridden obsessive and an arrogant, defiant rebel—people like them were always meant to walk diverging paths. But somehow, fate had other plans. Their collision turned into a wreck that still hadn’t been cleared up, even two years later.
Neither of them cared to understand the other. So long as they kept a safe distance, surface-level peace could be maintained.
“By the way, Miao-ge,” Pei Tingsong said as he stepped out of the elevator, “you guys go ahead and start practice—I’ve got to move.”
“Move?!” Ling Yi’s eyes lit up. “Back to the dorms? Today?”
Pei Tingsong nodded. “Tomorrow. Qiang-ge’s been nagging me about it for a while now. We’ve got to start filming the group variety show.”
Fang Juexia was watching him in profile, and right at that moment, Pei turned around and met his gaze. Everything about it felt so coincidental—just like their second real encounter had revolved around unspoken rules. He had stumbled upon it. He had gotten involved. If it hadn’t been for that coincidence, they might’ve gone on never crossing paths. Maybe even until the day the group disbanded.
Pei Tingsong smiled—there was something wickedly boyish about it.
“Looks like not every gege is happy to have me back.”
They say a lot of killers enjoy returning to the scene of the crime—it gives them a certain thrill. Funny thing was, Fang always thought Pei Tingsong was that kind of person. But now, in this moment, his own ordinary body seemed to be secreting some chemical—something like a thrill-inducing neurotransmitter—like it was expecting something.
Once that safety distance is broken—
This accident is bound to play out again. And it won’t end gently.
“Welcome back,” Fang Juexia said with a smile.
Author’s Note:
This chapter includes some music production terms—explained below (I’m just a half-baked amateur, so feel free to correct me or discuss~)
- Trap: A subgenre of electronic music. The term “Trap” originally came from Atlanta slang referring to places where drugs were sold and the harsh environments people couldn’t escape. Over time, it evolved into a style of hip-hop influenced electronic music, often with a hazy or hypnotic vibe, featuring rap or melodic rap. A well-known example would be The Weeknd’s “The Hills,” which I’ll post on Weibo—perfectly fits the mood of this chapter.
- Pluck: A type of sound in electronic music production. Think of it like the different instrument sounds you hear in a song. “Pluck” refers to a plucked-string style sound (from the guitar technique of “plucking”). It has a melodic quality and fades out gradually after the note is played.
- Lead: Like pluck, it’s a type of sound. A lead is usually strong and prominent—something that grabs your attention. It’s often used at the start of a song. (You can hear a clear example of a lead in the beginning of that Weeknd track.)
- Drum set: As the name suggests, it’s a set of percussion instruments. Western music puts a lot of emphasis on rhythm, so the quality of the drum set often determines whether a song becomes a hit or not. Try listening to the top Western tracks each year—almost every one of them features an outstanding drum set.
- Demo: A demo is a rough version of a song. What we usually hear are the polished, mixed, and mastered final tracks. A demo is basically the early version, like a song’s prototype.
- Future Bass: This is another genre of electronic music that’s super popular right now, though it doesn’t have a super clear definition yet. Chances are, you’ve heard it already—songs like “Faded” or The Chainsmokers’ “Closer” fall under future bass. Even some vaporwave-style EDM tracks count too. That’s why future bass tends to have a wider audience.
- Drop: You’ve probably heard it before—when the buildup in a song ends and someone yells “DJ, drop the beat!” That high-energy moment is the drop. In EDM, it’s the climax you’ve been waiting for—the buildup teases you, and then boom, the drop hits and you just have to move with the beat.
- Hook: A lot of people confuse this with the chorus, especially in hip-hop where there’s usually a sung section between verses. The hook is literally the “hook” of the song—the catchiest part that grabs you. It often is the chorus, or a melody within it. (Xiao Pei once said Jue Xia is perfect for the hook because his voice is super unique—when mixed into rap sections, it really stands out.)
Other terms:
Bridge: The part that leads into the final chorus. Using “The Hills” as an example, the section that goes “Hills have eyes… only you.” is the bridge. It usually brings a shift in the song’s atmosphere.
One-take shot: A scene that’s filmed all the way through in a single take, with no cuts. Start to finish, it’s one continuous shot.
