In truth, the director’s intentions were well thought-out. Though Qin Wunian and Song Cheng were assigned a “zero contact” ending, it wasn’t just any zero contact.
On the show, through various small games, their issues would gradually surface. Qin Wunian would notice that Song Cheng was no longer the person he used to be, and Song Cheng would realize Qin Wunian had matured emotionally and in status, unable to give him what he wanted.
Step by step, conflicts would explode. After a heart-wrenching argument, each would analyze their feelings on camera, realizing reconciliation was impossible. And because of their shared history, friendship was impossible as well—they would decide never to meet again.
In the director’s vision, the final farewell scene would be deeply moving.
Hearing the explanation, Qin Wunian felt neither touched nor impressed—he even felt like hitting someone.
Ban Yunfang looked at him, puzzled. “I already said it’s scripted. Why care so much? Or… do you have another idea?”
Her voice trailed off as Song Cheng, sitting nearby, perked up his ears. Though he didn’t look up, he was fully attentive to the conversation.
Qin Wunian’s voice was cold: “You’re overthinking. I just don’t like being treated differently.”
Song Cheng slowly lowered his gaze, his previously clenched hands relaxing.
After a second, Qin Wunian secretly glanced at Song Cheng on the sofa—but he couldn’t tell if Song Cheng had any reaction, as if he didn’t care at all about what had been said.
Qin Wunian felt a tight knot in his chest. He pressed his lips together and sat back down. Ban Yunfang, still troubled by the paperwork, looked up after a moment. “Do you want me to talk to the director again, see if he’ll change your ending?”
“No need.”
Ban Yunfang blinked. “Really?”
“Really. It’s acting anyway. Acting is acting—sometimes it’s real, sometimes it’s not.”
Finally, Song Cheng looked up to meet his gaze. Qin Wunian, calm, countered with a question: “What, you’re not planning to linger in my house after filming, are you?”
The word linger struck painfully. Song Cheng’s chest tightened for a moment. He answered quietly, “No.”
“I won’t trouble you anymore from now on.”
Qin Wunian: “……”
This time, the tightness was in his own chest.
Ban Yunfang watched them, puzzled. The energy between the two was strange; as an outsider, she decided to focus on her work.
With the script settled, she went over the contract clauses. She explained them all to Song Cheng while Qin Wunian merely listened. Song Cheng followed carefully, nodding at each point.
Seeing him so serious, Qin Wunian slowly diverted his eyes.
There were eight guests, each with different compensation. As a non-celebrity, Song Cheng’s pay was the lowest—but still over a million.
Staring at the numbers, his otherwise timid heart began racing.
So much money… so much money!
The sudden thrill of wealth nearly erased the lingering sadness Qin Wunian had stirred. Song Cheng couldn’t help but glance at Ban Yunfang, who smiled at him.
“No problem, just sign it. Don’t worry. This contract has been personally revised by Qin Wunian—there’s no clause that will disadvantage you.”
Qin Wunian, who had been sitting casually, nearly jumped.
He reflexively wanted to protest, but Song Cheng had already looked at him in surprise. He straightened his expression and said firmly: “You’re bound to me now. If it’s a trap for you, it’s a trap for me. You can take a loss, but I cannot.”
Song Cheng blinked once, simply saying, “Oh.”
Ban Yunfang: “……”
Clearly, the fans weren’t wrong to think he would end up lonely forever.
After signing, they left. Ban Yunfang said filming would start soon, probably next week.
Qin Wunian strode toward his car as soon as they exited the elevator, but Song Cheng called after him, “I’m not going back with you.”
Qin Wunian stopped mid-step and turned. “Changed your mind?”
Song Cheng asked curiously, “We already signed the contract. How can I change my mind now?”
Qin Wunian didn’t explain. He meant the part about Song Cheng staying at his house. After a pause, he asked, “Where are you going?”
“Bank. There’s a problem with my card.”
Relieved it was something mundane, Qin Wunian relaxed slightly. He took off his sunglasses and cap and handed them to Song Cheng.
“Let Xiao Zhao take you. Which bank branch?”
Twenty minutes later, they stopped outside a mostly empty residential complex. Song Cheng silently got out, staring at the “Agricultural Bank” sign.
It was a weekday, and with few residents around, the bank staff looked bored to the point of growing whiskers. Song Cheng walked in, and everyone immediately perked up.
“Hello, how can I help you today?”
Song Cheng took out his card. “Can you check my balance?”
Qin Wunian didn’t come inside. He sat in the car, silently watching the bank’s entrance. Xiao Zhao glanced at him through the rearview mirror. His still, silent posture felt oddly familiar.
Nearby, another car had a golden retriever sitting upright in the passenger seat, peering toward the adjacent supermarket like a stone sentinel.
People, dog, people, dog.
Xiao Zhao turned his head back, pretending not to notice.
Inside, the staff were astonished. It was their first time dealing with a patient with amnesia—no PIN, no memory of previous phone numbers. Surprised, they quickly updated his phone number and password and checked the balance.
222,080 yuan.
Song Cheng was stunned.
He had always assumed he was extremely poor, but having over two hundred thousand yuan at his age—few must have that.
After a moment of disbelief, he thanked the staff and left the bank.
Once outside, the staff wondered if they had seen him somewhere before or heard his name—but after thinking for a while, they gave up.
Meanwhile, Song Cheng, knowing his balance, felt settled.
With this money plus the variety show’s earnings, he could live independently. The past might have been beautiful, but it was over.
He no longer remembered it. Now, he could only see the present. Based on today’s observations, the chance of anything between him and Qin Wunian was extremely slim—almost nonexistent.
He was independent. Even without love, he could continue living, he told himself. Yet thinking that soon, according to the script, he would be completely separated from Qin Wunian, never to meet again, made his nose sting.
It was as if his heart was being ripped apart, every cell resisting this reality.
Sighing, he stepped outside and noticed Qin Wunian’s figure. Qin Wunian immediately turned his head forward, sitting with a serious expression—but then remembered the tinted car window, realizing Song Cheng couldn’t see what was inside anyway.
Qin Wunian: “……”
He opened the car door, and Song Cheng slid inside. Qin Wunian’s voice was cool as he asked, “Everything taken care of?”
Song Cheng smiled. “Yes, got a new number. Much more convenient now.”
So that’s what it was, Qin Wunian thought. He paused, then asked, “Why didn’t you just report your old SIM as lost and get a new one? All your accounts are tied to it. Now you’ve changed everything—it’s kind of a hassle, isn’t it?”
Song Cheng froze, honestly unaware that SIM cards could even be reported lost.
“Well, probably doesn’t matter. The phone’s in that state; the SIM must be dead too. I’ll just get a replacement after filming the show.”
Qin Wunian thought: good luck even going out by then.
He didn’t say it aloud, because he had his own little plan. Song Cheng’s current number was definitely one he’d registered after leaving him, meaning anyone who could reach that number was someone new from the past four years. Qin Wunian wouldn’t be petty enough to stop him from getting a new SIM, but he would subtly delay Song Cheng’s reconnecting with those people.
Xiao Zhao drove onto the highway, leaving the area quickly.
Coincidentally, on the way back, they passed the spot where Song Cheng had had his accident. He didn’t remember, of course, so it registered as nothing. Just then, three elementary school kids appeared on the sidewalk ahead.
They bounced along, playing, entirely on the pedestrian path, so there was no danger.
One of them suddenly pointed to the grass: “Wow! Whose phone is broken?”
The three immediately swarmed the half-buried phone, unbothered by the dirt. They poked and prodded at it, examining its structure. One even popped out the SIM card.
“Wang Tianyi, your phone watch—try putting it in there!”
Wang Tianyi quickly removed his watch, and they inserted the SIM. Curious, they flipped through the watch, though nothing changed. Once they saw it could send texts and make calls, the three of them laughed, then prepared to remove the SIM.
Suddenly, a call came through.
Wang Tianyi’s hand shook as he answered, and the three kids froze stiffly, like Terracotta Warriors, barely breathing.
A low, deep male voice came from the watch: “Chengcheng?”
They exchanged wide-eyed looks, no one daring to speak.
“I’ve called you so many times, always off. Chengcheng, where are you? You said you’d come see me. Chengtong misses you—when will you pick him up?”
No reply. The man grew suspicious. “Chengcheng—is that you?”
The question terrified the kids. One bold enough reached out and hung up.
The watch went silent, and they finally exhaled. “Quick, put the SIM back!”
Even though they hadn’t really done anything wrong, they felt like trouble had been narrowly averted. Carefully, they returned the SIM to the half-buried phone and tossed it back onto the grass.