Suddenly hearing the sound of “Happy Birthday,” Fang Juexia turned around to see Pei Tingsong holding a tray with one hand, shielding it from the wind with his right palm.
Fang Juexia burst into laughter, though tears still glistened in his eyes. He felt utterly ridiculous, wondering why he was crying when he never used to be one to shed tears.
After singing the final line, Pei Tingsong placed the tray on the table. It held a bowl of longevity noodles and a small cupcake—red velvet with strawberry cream frosting—topped with a tiny candle, its flame flickering in the breeze.
“I baked this cupcake myself. It’s my first attempt. That giant chiffon cake drove me crazy, so I settled for cupcakes. But out of the whole tray, this one turned out the prettiest. Don’t be picky.” After that, Pei Tingsong gestured toward the bowl of noodles. “Same with the noodles. Just eat whatever you like. It’s all about the festive spirit anyway.”
Fang Juexia couldn’t help but laugh.
Those words sounded nothing like something a philosophy student would say.
When did she cook the noodles? Could it be during the time he was in his room?
What a painstaking effort.
“Eat quickly, they’ll get soggy and taste worse.” Pei Tingsong picked up his chopsticks and offered them to Fang Juexia, only to be embraced by him.
“Thank you,” he heard Fang Juexia whisper softly.
A cool sensation brushed his neck—likely tears slipping down. Pei Tingsong’s heart suddenly tightened, as if something had clenched it.
He wasn’t a gentle person by nature, yet whenever he was with Fang Juexia, he wanted to give him the whole world. Even knowing these tears came from happiness, he still couldn’t bear to see him cry.
“You don’t need to manage your emotions around me. Cry if you want to cry, laugh if you want to laugh.” Pei Tingsong patted his back. “But when you cry, it still hurts me a little.”
Fang Juexia nodded, sniffed, and repeated his thanks.
“Don’t thank me,” Pei Tingsong said.
So Fang Juexia, buried in his neck, kissed his jawline again. “I love you.”
There was simply no helping it.
His cake was admittedly mediocre, the sponge lacking much flavor, but Fang Juexia ate it with relish.
When he complained of a sore waist, Pei Tingsong reached out to massage it while watching him eat. “You’re that hungry? I’ve got a bunch of mini cakes over there. Want me to get you a couple more?”
Fang Juexia replied, “This is my first time eating such a tiny birthday cake. You can finish it in one bite.”
Pei Tingsong felt more and more certain he’d spoiled Fang Juexia’s temper. “You’re still not satisfied, huh? If you keep this up, next time…”
Fang Juexia lifted an eyelid. “Next time what? Stop making them for me altogether?”
Pei Tingsong chuckled, wiping cream from his lips. “Next time I’ll make a big one—a huge one. That’ll do, big bro.”
Fang Juexia nodded contentedly, stealing another kiss before their teammates returned.
They watched that video together again. Fang Juexia kept hitting pause, demanding answers for every frame: Where was this? Who filmed it? What happened then? Why were they laughing so hard? He asked these questions endlessly, and Pei Tingsong patiently answered them all.
It felt as though, in this way, Fang Juexia was truly becoming a part of Pei Tingsong’s past.
This was the best gift he had ever received.
After being with Pei Tingsong, he felt like he had returned to his childhood—a time when he was easily satisfied, when he was very young. Life wasn’t just the pressure of chasing after things, the fear of being alone, the mechanical drills day after day, or the constant avoidance of risks and mistakes.
He was no longer that person gritting his teeth and charging blindly forward in the dark. Someone had taken his hand, allowing him to savor the present instead of being driven forward by time.
People aren’t plants.
Fang Juexia wasn’t a dead branch either.
He would eventually revive for spring and bloom.
July was green, and the biggest winner of the entire month was Green Wave. Both leads gained immense popularity from starring in this drama, and the hashtag #GreenWaveFinale exploded on trending searches.
In the final episode, when the female lead finds the diary buried beneath the jacaranda tree, she learns she was merely a “perfect friend” conjured by her own mind after a mental breakdown. As her memories flood back, the silent, profound love she held for the male lead engulfs her like a tidal wave. When she awakens once more, she finds herself lying in a hospital bed—reborn before her suicide attempt. She thought it was all a dream, but when the male lead visited her holding a jacaranda branch, he called out the name of the imaginary female lead—not her original name before the suicide attempt. Tears finally fell from her eyes.
None of what they experienced was forgotten, yet the ending abruptly ended.
The two climaxes in the final episode both featured “Night Walk” as BGM. Especially during the hospital room reunion at the end, paired with the protagonists’ masterful acting, the effect was extraordinary.
Online discussions raged after the finale, and “Night Walk” once again trended, hailed as a divine song.
[@weareyoung: The moment the intro to “Night Walk” played at the end, my tears just fell. This isn’t a dream—everything you’ve been through is real.]
[@OrangeAndBanana: The diary-digging scene gave me goosebumps. So powerful. Whenever “Night Walk” plays, it’s guaranteed to be a legendary scene. Absolutely brilliant.]
[@GreenWaveFan: fjx’s cool, detached voice is so infectious—it’s packed with youthful regret. Hearing the lyrics “Summer is so long” paired with the male lead’s final line, “You said we’d watch the sea together one last time before summer ends. Are we still going?” made me burst into tears.]
When the Green Wave crew appeared on a variety show, they specially invited Fang Juexia. However, due to scheduling conflicts, Fang couldn’t attend in person. Instead, he recorded a video with the song’s other main creator, Pei Tingsong, which was played on a large screen during the show’s recording.
Their simultaneous appearance on screen absolutely ignited the venue—the screams nearly drowned out the host’s voice, showcasing their immense popularity.
Only after watching the show did Fang Juexia learn that the screenwriter for Green Wave was none other than Xu, the writer from their drama Escape. What an unexpected delight!
With smash hits like “Night Walk,” Fang Juexia and Pei Tingsong have firmly established themselves as rising stars in the music industry. As the two standout members of an already popular boy band, and with the added boost from the hit reality show Escape, their popularity now ranks among the top tier of young male artists. Countless brands have extended olive branches to them, Numerous music programs have also extended invitations.
However, Fang Juexia has always believed this success was largely due to luck. He declined many commercial activities to focus on learning composition, traveling to the US multiple times for studies alongside Pei Tingsong.
Though they didn’t participate in promotional stages for their single “Last Summer,” overwhelming digital sales and record-breaking album sales secured them seven No. 1 spots without live voting. Releasing two massive albums within half a year is nothing short of a miracle in the male group scene.
He Ziyan joined a production team, Ling Yi participated in a new music competition show, and Lu Yuan continued mentoring on a street dance program. Each member’s solo career was at its peak, leaving the once-crowded dormitory now largely empty.
Summer seemed to be a season of harvest for Kaleido, and perhaps because of this, time flew by even faster. Busy people rarely notice the passage of time; it wasn’t until one day when the summer heat faded and a hint of coolness brushed against their arms that they realized autumn had arrived.
After systematically studying composition, Fang Juexia’s progress accelerated rapidly. He already had several promising demos in hand and grew increasingly adept at music creation, beginning to truly enjoy the process. Sometimes, when working alongside Pei Tingsong in his small studio, Fang Juexia could easily spend an entire day there.
Everything seemed to be moving in a positive direction. Yet unexpectedly, Zhai Ying—who had collaborated with him on recording “Escape to Freedom”—became embroiled in negative news. First came rumors of her privileged background and sudden rise to fame, followed by unsubstantiated speculation about her sexual orientation. Her girl group had already been delayed in making a comeback for a long time. Rumors of their return surfaced repeatedly, only to be dashed time and again. Speculation was already rife among fans, and now this negative news further tarnished her public image.
After recording so many episodes together, they had become close friends. Fang Juexia knew Zhai Ying’s character better than anyone. Yet few online spectators think independently. Most just gawk at the drama, joining the mob to condemn without caring if the rumors are true. As long as they vent their emotions, they feel satisfied.
Over the past few days, the rumors have escalated to the point of claiming “Zhai Ying is leaving Escape Room.” Despite enduring months of rumors, Zhai Ying had remained silent. This time, however, she posted a Weibo with a photo—taken after the first episode’s recording—showing her standing before the final exit door. Many interpreted this as her declaration that she wouldn’t leave the show.
It was Pei Tingsong who told Fang Juexia about this Weibo.
In that moment, whether driven by friendship with Zhai Ying or remembering Li Luo’s early recognition of his talent, he unexpectedly felt compelled to stand up for her. To many, this might seem insignificant. But for Fang Juexia—who had once retreated from the internet due to cyberbullying—it was an act he would rarely have considered in the past.
But he did it anyway.
Fang Juexia logged into his account himself and reposted Zhai Ying’s Weibo.
[@Kaleido Fang Juexia: The most terrifying thing in the world—the escape door. (Bring me along for the group photo next time)]
He was the first industry insider to repost the Weibo, without even informing Zhai Ying beforehand. Following him, Pei Tingsong also reposted Fang Juexia’s Weibo.
[@Kaleido Pei Tingsong: And me too. By the way, refuting the right side—the most terrifying thing is the “mental arithmetic brute force attack” on the right. //@ Kaleido Fang Juexia: The most terrifying thing in the world—the escape door. (Please include me in the group photo next time)]
Upon discovering her Weibo had been reposted, Zhai Ying immediately messaged Fang Juexia on WeChat, saying he clearly didn’t have to get involved.
Fang Juexia simply replied: It was necessary.
Following them, the entire Escape crew retweeted Zhai Ying’s post one after another, like a queue forming, until even screenwriter Xu Qichen joined in.
[@Xu Qichen: Delighted to learn I’m not the scariest thing in your minds after all.]
The withdrawal rumors were thus debunked without effort, and the team spirit of the Escape from Heaven crew earned widespread praise.
Upon learning of this, his teammates joked that Fang Juexia was becoming more and more like Pei Tingsong.
But Pei Tingsong knew Fang Juexia must have had other considerations for doing this—after all, he wasn’t an impulsive person.
Nothing new under the sun—the entertainment world churns out endless gossip and scandals daily. Fang Juexia never imagined this time it would land squarely on his own teammate, He Ziyan. The news broke the very day He Ziyan wrapped filming and returned to Beijing.
They were celebrating He Ziyan’s wrap party at a restaurant, enjoying a cheerful meal, when Cheng Qiang stepped out to take a call. Only then did everyone learn about the online rumors.
Online rumors about He Ziyan’s family background circulated from anonymous forums to verified sections, their origin now impossible to trace. The exposé claimed his mother was a corrupt public official in the police system, explaining why netizens had previously failed to uncover his background—all due to her connections.
The exposé painted a vivid picture: strained family ties, a rebellious childhood marked by fights and trouble, even dropping out of school and running away due to family discord. After a tumultuous journey, he eventually entered the entertainment industry.
Between the lines, the exposé repeatedly emphasizes He Ziyan’s allegedly tainted family background, using vague and unsubstantiated claims. Paid commentators amplify the corruption angle, stoking malicious public sentiment.
“What kind of nonsense is this? Utterly baseless!” Lu Yuan slammed his chopsticks down in fury. “People actually believe this garbage without a single piece of evidence? Does claiming to know someone’s friend suddenly make you a credible source?”
Pei Tingsong read the news and found it laughable. “Just a smooth-talking mouthpiece, and people swallow it hook, line, and sinker.”
Fang Juexia, however, sensed malicious intent. Why spread rumors now, right after He Ziyan wrapped filming?
Ling Yi was furious. “Could it be Astar again?”
Between the leaked song incident and their repeated conflicts, Astar was their most feared rival.
But Fang Juexia, who harbored old grudges against Astar, shook his head. “Probably not. This timing is suspicious. Zi Yan’s popularity is high now, but it peaked when his casting was officially announced. That’s when he should’ve been at his most visible.”
Fang Juexia, who harbored old grudges against Astar, shook his head. “Probably not. The timing is suspicious. Zi Yan’s popularity is high now, but it peaked when his casting was officially announced. They didn’t spread rumors then, nor did they capitalize on the buzz before the show aired. Instead, they deliberately waited until filming wrapped to release this rumor…”
He glanced at He Ziyan. “The only motive I can think of is to discredit the actor. After all, the rumors this time are particularly sensitive and controversial. They’re bound to go viral, potentially sparking a boycott among unaware netizens. If it came to that, the production company might replace Ziyan to save the show, but the backlash would still severely damage ratings. If they kept Ziyan, the show would essentially be ruined.”
Pei Tingsong nodded. “If the accusations stick, it’s a lose-lose for both the actor and the production company. So if we’re talking about the source of the rumors, I suspect it’s capital with competing interests against the production company.”
This analysis sent a chill down one’s spine.
Cheng Qiang’s mind raced as he contacted several reliable PR professionals in his network. Yet he felt deeply uneasy—resorting to PR tactics for baseless rumors had reached an extreme.
At the dinner table, He Ziyan, who had remained silent throughout, suddenly smiled. “That’s a ruthless move.”
He was right—it was ruthless. Fang Juexia thought to herself that corruption wasn’t something ordinary netizens could uncover the truth about. The sensitivity of such incidents provided ample opportunity for online rumors to thrive. Anything that couldn’t be verified was conveniently dismissed as “too sensitive.”
Add to that the longstanding curiosity about He Ziyan’s background—his silence about his parents, his turbulent past, his air of mystery—and now the revelation of his powerful “mother” backing him up. It all fit the narrative perfectly. These coincidences played right into the rumor-monger’s script.
In truth, the members themselves didn’t know He Ziyan’s family background. Though they shared a close bond, they maintained boundaries. Everyone has the right to keep secrets; sometimes, not prying is the truest form of care.
Yet at this moment, Fang Juexia couldn’t help but wonder: regardless of He Ziyan’s actual family background, unless he came from a privileged lineage like Pei Tingsong’s, he could scarcely imagine a peaceful resolution to such rumors.
Because even if he simply revealed his family circumstances, dragging his parents and relatives into it, there would still be skeptics.
“But in this matter, they did leave themselves open to attack.”
He Ziyan’s sudden remark left everyone puzzled.
Fang Juexia looked up at him. He lifted his glass, took a sip, then smiled with remarkable candor. “Don’t worry, everyone. I have a way to clear this up.”
His certainty only deepened Fang Juexia’s confusion. Though he didn’t know much about He Ziyan’s family, after spending so much time together, he could sense a certain emotional detachment. Perhaps He Ziyan was like him, or perhaps like Pei Tingsong, having almost no contact with his family.
Fang Juexia couldn’t help but say, “Ziyan, wait a moment. If you clarify this, what about your family…”
“I have no family,” He Ziyan replied with a smile. “I’m an orphan.”
This statement stunned everyone in the private room.
It was impossible for teammates to never speculate about each other’s families when they refused to discuss them. Yet none had imagined the truth would be this stark.
His casual admission that no family guided his choices wasn’t born of indifference—it was simply the truth.
Jiang Miao, who shared a similar fate of losing parents early, looked at him with a complex expression.
Ling Yi couldn’t help but ask, “Brother Huo, so back then…”
He Ziyan’s expression remained as relaxed as ever, as if recounting something only tangentially related to himself. “I grew up in a welfare home—basically an orphanage. I’ve been there for as long as I can remember, with no father or mother, only the aunts and the director. Things were actually pretty good at first. We could attend school there, young volunteers came to teach, and those who were adopted could leave. But I couldn’t bear to leave the director behind, so I never did.”
“Later, the director fell ill, and the orphanage ran out of funds. It closed down. I was fourteen then. I was adopted by a family, but because the father in that household often beat me, I ran away.”
Fang Juexia couldn’t fathom his life back then—fatherless, motherless, the orphanage that sustained him vanished, then abused by his adoptive father, finally forced to flee, left to fend for himself at such a young age.
Lu Yuan sat beside He Ziyan, his hand resting on He Ziyan’s shoulder, but he said nothing.
He Ziyan’s fingers traced slow, gentle circles on the table. His eyes were lowered, yet his voice remained calm. “Later, I started working odd jobs secretly—restaurants, bars. I loved music, so I saved every penny I earned to buy the instruments I wanted. Sometimes I’d sing in bars for a whole week straight, performing all night long.”
He lifted his head and smiled. “It’s been so long. Asking me to recall it now, I honestly can’t remember much.”
Seeing the smile on his face, Fang Juexia felt a pang of sadness. He Ziyan, who was always joking around, could smile like this too.
“It’s all in the past.” “Cheng Qiang recalled when he first recruited He Ziyan to the company. He hadn’t asked if he could debut; he’d only inquired if the company would arrange vocal and arrangement lessons.
Cheng Qiang said yes, and he came.
“Yeah, it’s been so long. Don’t worry about it,” He Ziyan raised an eyebrow. “Luckily, I kept my orphanage ID all this time because I couldn’t bear to part with it.
These can all serve as proof of clarification. Yes, they’re counting on how difficult it is to clear my name. They think that no matter what my family background is, without connections, it’s impossible to extricate myself from this mess. But honestly, it’s a shame.” These can all serve as proof to clear my name. Yes, they targeted me precisely because they knew clearing my name would be difficult. They figured that no matter what my family background was, without connections, it would be nearly impossible to extricate myself from this mess. But honestly, I feel a bit embarrassed about it.”
He Ziyan smiled. “I truly don’t have a family.”
