Chapter 64: Jiang Qi, Something’s Happened To Qiqi

The word “again” in Meng Chunyu’s “trending again” was particularly apt.

Zhi Qi silently facepalmed and quietly opened her phone to see what had happened to Jiang Qi this time.

Honestly, it was strange. According to Meng Chunyu—a dedicated fangirl—most trending topics on Weibo (aside from breaking news) were bought by celebrity teams for marketing purposes.

But why did Jiang Qi keep trending every few days? He didn’t even have a company to buy him a trending spot.

As for buying it himself? Absolutely impossible. Zhi Qi knew exactly how much money Jiang Qi had—certainly not enough to buy himself a trending topic.

Because of this, she had even gone to “consult” the expert fangirl, Meng Chunyu.

After careful consideration, Meng Chunyu gave her analysis: Jiang Qi’s trending spots were either bought by rival teams to smear him (because he was blocking their resources) or by companies trying to court him as a sign of goodwill.

Zhi Qi thought this made sense.

After all, both possibilities were plausible when it came to Jiang Qi. She now had WeChat contacts like Qu Heng, Shen Lei, and Qiu Mi. Recently, Qiu Mi had often mentioned that many companies had reached out, wanting to discuss collaboration with “Brother Qi,” and asked for Jiang Qi’s and her thoughts.

After some consideration, Zhi Qi decided to wait.

She didn’t want to bring up future plans with Jiang Qi yet, nor had she mentioned these offers to him. Right now, she just wanted Jiang Qi to focus entirely on filming Jiao Si safely and smoothly.

As for everything else, they could figure it out after the movie wrapped.

Bringing it up now would only distract him. Besides, even though Zhi Qi didn’t fully understand the entertainment industry’s workings, she knew that signing with a company was essentially signing a “binding contract.”

While having a company’s backing provided security, it also came at a cost. For example, when Jiang Qi left Chen Ding, he had been skinned alive.

And right now, Jiang Qi’s mental state wasn’t completely stable—at least, not as stable as a completely healthy person’s. So was he really in a position to sign with a company? Zhi Qi wasn’t sure, so she couldn’t make that decision for him.

Lost in thought, Zhi Qi opened her phone and clicked on the trending topic: #JiangQiBodyArt#

Before opening it, she genuinely thought the topic was baffling.

After opening it, even a well-mannered girl like her nearly blurted out a “Holy sh*t”—just like Meng Chunyu would have.

Thankfully, she managed to hold it back.

Zhi Qi stared blankly at the two photos of Jiang Qi, even unconsciously reaching out to trace her fingers over that beautiful body on the screen.

Truthfully, she knew exactly how many scars covered Jiang Qi’s body—which was why she also knew just how much effort it must have taken to conceal them.

But the young man before her… was breathtaking.

The intricate tattoos covering his body featured large butterflies, venomous snakes, and even a phoenix-like bird—yet none of these could overshadow the boy’s own striking beauty.

The artist was clearly skilled, masterfully balancing concealment and negative space, allowing Jiang Qi’s naturally pale skin to enhance the vividness of the designs.

At first glance, it was breathtaking. But after a moment of thought, Zhi Qi still believed Jiang Qi himself was far more beautiful.

She couldn’t help but smile, saving both photos to her phone.

“Holy sh*t, holy sh*t, this is so damn gorgeous!” Meng Chunyu gushed beside her, chattering excitedly. “Is this your Jiang Qi’s new look for his drama? What’s the scene about? Can you spoil it for me?”

“…”

Could Zhi Qi admit that she hadn’t even read the script?

Besides, she hadn’t asked Jiang Qi about it—she wasn’t fond of spoilers. She preferred experiencing the film’s surprises firsthand on the big screen.

So she shook her head honestly. “I really don’t know.”

But she could guess: there was probably a scene requiring him to be shirtless, but his scars made it unsuitable, so the director had come up with this solution.

That night, when she called Jiang Qi, her assumption turned out to be mostly correct.

Except the boy’s tone was unusually sulky, almost whining as he told her, “I didn’t want those two women… drawing all over me.”

He recounted what Chu Xun and Yan Sang had said earlier, his grumbling making Zhi Qi laugh all the way from miles away.

“They weren’t wrong, though,” she said reasonably. “Different professions have different expertise. When they were painting you, they probably just saw you as a blank canvas.”

Jiang Qi understood that, of course—but it still felt weird.

Especially because Zhi Qi sounded so indifferent. That made it even weirder.

So he deliberately—and somewhat childishly—added, “They touched me.”

“That’s just part of the process,” Zhi Qi reassured, still thinking his discomfort stemmed from his usual aversion to being touched. “You have to get used to it. When I’m doing experiments, I even have to closely examine animal feces.”

…

Well, great. Now he was being compared to feces.

Jiang Qi fell silent, torn between speechlessness and laughter.

After a long pause, Zhi Qi finally realized her analogy might have been… off.

And maybe Jiang Qi’s point wasn’t what she’d assumed. Maybe he’d just wanted her to react a certain way.

“Hey, Jiang Qi,” she said, suppressing a giggle, her voice softening. “For the record, I hate the thought of anyone else touching you. It kills me.”

She feigned a pitiful tone, and sure enough, Jiang Qi on the other end of the line immediately responded, his voice tinged with a hint of suppressed delight: “Then I won’t let them paint me tomorrow.”

…How could that be allowed?!

Zhi Qi hurriedly backtracked: “You can’t delay work because of this.”

A heavy silence fell on the other end.

“Sigh.” She exhaled dramatically, playing along. “I suppose I’ll just have to endure lending you out to other girls for a few days. But you have to behave—no squirming or paying them any attention, got it?”

She sounded like she was coaxing a child, but there was no helping it—Jiang Qi lived for this kind of treatment.

As expected, the boy obediently murmured an “Mm” in agreement.

They whispered sweet nothings for a while longer, until close to ten o’clock, when Zhi Qi, mindful of her roommate’s sleep, reluctantly said they’d talk again tomorrow.

Just before hanging up, Jiang Qi’s voice—restrained yet aching—cut through: “Qiqi… how much longer until you come back?”

Zhi Qi paused, her hand freezing on the bathroom doorknob before retreating. A soft smile curled her lips. “Miss me?”

“I do.” His reply was solemn. “So much.”

The moment the words left his mouth, he heard a hurried “Wait a sec”—followed by the call abruptly disconnecting.

Jiang Qi blinked, lowering his phone in confusion—only for a WeChat video call from Zhi Qi to flash across the screen. He fumbled to accept it.

The dark screen brightened, revealing Zhi Qi’s delicate, doll-like face bathed in the bathroom’s warm glow. Her ivory skin seemed to radiate under the light, as if dusted with gold, her cheeks flushed a tender pink.

“Hehe.” She propped the phone on the mirror stand, then cupped her face in her hands, grinning at his stunned reflection. “Better now?”

The frame captured her from the waist up. Her long hair was loosely tied into a messy bun, and her black spaghetti-strap nightgown made her skin glow even brighter. The thin straps clung to her slender shoulders, and when she leaned forward slightly, the hollows of her collarbones deepened—so deep they could hold wine.

Fresh from washing her face, droplets of water still glistened on her skin, trailing from her chin down to—

Jiang Qi’s gaze darkened. But through the screen, Zhi Qi couldn’t see the danger flickering in those glass-like eyes—only the way his Adam’s apple bobbed helplessly.

If only she knew—his silent answer: It’s worse now.

Zhi Qi was a tormenting little fairy. A single day apart felt like an eternity.

And he’d have to endure many more eternities.

Because she’d said it: this assignment would take another five days.

Five days. One hundred and twenty hours. Countless minutes.

He missed her so much it ached.

After enduring days of Chu Xun and Yan Sang’s “artistic abuse,” Jiang Qi finally finished filming all the scenes requiring Chen Si’s revealing costumes.

Finally, the dreaded body art segment was over.

Jiang Qi had been indifferent about these scenes, but Qu Heng was utterly enamored, even declaring that he’d use body painting more often in future films.

With this part of filming wrapped up, Jiao Si was nearing its final stages.

As a male-led production, most of the other actors had already finished their parts and left. Apart from Jiang Qi, only Xue Ling and a few key supporting roles remained—and even they had just about ten days of shooting left. Jiang Qi, however, still had roughly half a month to go.

That afternoon, Qu Heng noticed something was off with Jiang Qi.

—Because the usually flawless “One-Take Jiang” actually NG’d in a relatively simple scene.

After calling cut, Qu Heng walked over and asked gently, “What’s wrong? Not in the zone?”

Jiang Qi’s expression was blank, his long fingers unconsciously tracing the watch on his wrist. After a long pause, he shook his head slightly. “It’s nothing.”

Truthfully, there wasn’t any big reason. It was just…

Today was the day Zhi Qi was supposed to return from Yingzhou. She’d texted him that morning saying she’d be on a 2 PM flight and would message him the moment she landed.

But now it was past 5 PM.

The flight from Yingzhou to Lin Lan only took an hour and a half. He’d checked—even with delays or traffic, there was no way she wouldn’t have contacted him by now. Worse, his calls to her went unanswered.

Fear breeds irrationality. The smallest anomaly can spiral into catastrophe in the mind. The longer he thought, the more his eyelid twitched—whether it was an omen of fortune or disaster, he didn’t know. All he felt was unease, gnawing and relentless.

Qu Heng took one look at his dazed, distracted state and frowned. “If you’re not up for it today, just go back and—”

Before he could finish, Jiang Qi’s phone—clutched tightly in his hand—rang sharply in the quiet space.

Qu Heng blinked, then witnessed something downright rare:

The boy, who was usually expressionless off-camera, answered the call with near-panicked urgency. “Hello?”

“Jiang Qi.” The voice on the other end wasn’t Zhi Qi’s—it was Zhi Yu’s, cold and controlled but fraying at the edges. “Qiqi’s hurt. She’s at City Hospital. Get here. Now.”

In that instant, Jiang Qi felt his senses shut down.

The unease, the foreboding he’d felt all afternoon—none of it compared to the shattering inside his chest.

Something had broken.

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