Chapter 35 - 1#
“……”
Jing Shun recalled what had happened earlier, a faint trace of regret and disappointment flickering in his lowered lashes. “No, I haven’t. I actually made an appointment to meet him before, but…”
Ji Tianheng asked, “You didn’t get to see him?”
“Mm.”
Jing Shun nodded, explaining on behalf of the “Mr. Song” he had never met, “Mr. Song had something come up at the last minute and couldn’t make it.”
Before his words faded, Chi Gui walked back over. “Who couldn’t make it?”
Jing Shun turned to meet his eyes, brushing aside the lingering disappointment in his heart. “Are you done with your work call?”
“I was just chatting with Second Young Master Ji. The art film I shot before has some ties with his production company.”
Chi Gui glanced at Ji Tianheng upon hearing this.
Ji Tianheng raised his glass of whiskey, a meaningful look on his face. “Jing Shun, if there’s a chance in the future, I’ll try to contact Song Yu for you and arrange a meeting.”
“……”
Chi Gui didn’t respond.
Jing Shun hesitated. “Really? You can still get in touch with Mr. Song?”
Ji Tianheng nodded. “Mm, but he’s no longer with that production company. He’s pretty busy now, so it might be hard to set up a meeting.”
Jing Shun thought for a moment and didn’t insist. “It’s okay. I’m just really grateful for his investment and trust back then. But for now, I’d rather not bother him.”
As he spoke, fragments of memories from his past life surfaced in his mind, and the smile on his lips widened.
“Mr. Song is truly a good person.”
Hearing the praise, Ji Tianheng looked at Chi Gui and chuckled teasingly. “Jing Shun, be careful praising another man like that. Mr. Chi beside you might get jealous.”
“……”
Chi Gui remained silent, letting out a dry cough.
Jing Shun caught the teasing and was taken aback.
Jealous?
That shouldn’t be the case.
But right now, in the eyes of others, he and Chi Gui were lovers, so it really wasn’t appropriate to openly discuss unrelated people.
Thinking this, Jing Shun turned his gaze to Chi Gui and explained seriously, “There’s nothing between Mr. Song and me. We’ve never even met.”
Chi Gui hummed in response, seemingly unfazed by the matter.
Another gust of sea breeze blew in.
Chi Gui looked at Jing Shun’s clothes, already soaked beneath the bath towel. “Let’s head back? Change into some dry clothes so you don’t catch a cold.”
Jing Shun had no objections. “Okay.”
Jamie pushed Jing Shun’s wheelchair back, and Jing Shun sat down again, moving on his own toward the cabin.
Before leaving, Chi Gui deliberately glanced at Ji Tianheng, who was lounging on the beach chair.
Ji Tianheng was sharp. He gently swirled his glass and said in a voice only the two of them could hear, “Don’t worry. I won’t interfere with you lovebirds’ secret identity games. I won’t breathe a word.”
By then, Jing Shun was already some distance away and noticed Chi Gui hadn’t followed. He turned uncertainly. “Chi Gui, aren’t you coming?”
A simple inquiry.
Chi Gui immediately fell into step behind him. “Coming.”
Ji Tianheng stayed where he was, downing his whiskey in one gulp and sighing inwardly, “Lovebirds and their little games…”
…
The elevator doors slid shut, enclosing them in a private silence.
Jing Shun looked up at Chi Gui beside him and, after a moment’s thought, asked, “Chi Gui, aren’t you curious about the Mr. Song Ji Tianheng and I were talking about?”
Chi Gui paused for two seconds, then shifted his gaze slightly. “Not really.”
“……”
Hearing that response, Jing Shun felt an indescribable emotion. “Oh.”
It seemed the other man had never actively inquired about his past. It was only recently that Jing Shun had started feeling the urge to share things with Chi Gui.
The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
Just as Jing Shun thought the topic would fizzle out, Chi Gui changed his mind. “Jing Shun, if you’re willing to tell me, I’ll listen.”
The two stepped out of the elevator one after the other.
A flicker of hesitation crossed Chi Gui’s brow as he pressed further. “Is that ‘Mr. Song’ very important to you?”
“……”
Important?
Jing Shun didn’t have an immediate answer.
He paused for a few seconds, then spoke according to the timeline of his current memories. “Three years ago, my preparations for For Anhe weren’t going well.”
“At that time, I wasn’t joining any new productions anymore. I didn’t have much money left, and no investor was interested in an art film that prioritized artistry over commercial appeal.”
“Just when I was at my wit’s end, Mr. Song’s assistant suddenly contacted me—”
“He said Mr. Song had learned about my script outline from another investor, really liked the story, and was willing to invest.”
From that day on, a new figure entered Jing Shun’s world: Song Yu.
“At first, Mr. Song and I weren’t close. Most of the project’s financial dealings were handled by his assistant.”
Back then, Jing Shun thought: Maybe Song Yu was too busy, or maybe his film project was too small, or perhaps the man’s identity made it inconvenient to appear in person.
It wasn’t until the film officially started shooting that Song Yu’s assistant created a group chat, and Song Yu, as the investor and producer, formally appeared in that WeChat group.
That group was only used to report the film’s progress.
Once, when Jing Shun was overwhelmed with work, he accidentally sent a batch of footage meant for review into the group. Song Yu, who had never spoken before, suddenly piped up.
“Mr. Song immediately pointed out the compositional flaws in that shot.”
At the time, Jing Shun was still a pure novice in filmmaking and was eager to refine every frame.
After listening to the well-meaning advice, he had an epiphany and reshot the scene.
“That same day, I took the initiative to add Mr. Song on WeChat. I was really afraid of bothering him, so I braced myself for rejection.”
But to his surprise, Song Yu accepted his friend request almost instantly.
Back then, Jing Shun hadn’t yet encountered the on-set accident, hadn’t suffered the hardships and turmoil of his past life. Seeing that Song Yu was willing to chat privately, he eagerly sought his advice on many aspects of filmmaking.
Song Yu answered them all, very professionally.
“Later, I found out that Mr. Song wasn’t much older than me. It’s just that his identity wasn’t suitable for public appearances, so our communication always stayed online.”
It wasn’t until the film was released and won an award at an international film festival that—
“Besides the core team who stayed with me in the production to polish the work, the person I’m most grateful to is Mr. Song,” Jing Shun said honestly. “After winning the award, I impulsively sent Mr. Song an invitation.”
Jing Shun wanted to express his gratitude in person. Beyond that, he harbored a tiny selfish motive—
He really wanted to know what Song Yu looked like.
Seeing that they had returned to the cabin suite, Jing Shun quickly wrapped up. “But unfortunately, Mr. Song had something come up that day and didn’t come.”
Jing Shun had waited full of anticipation from two in the afternoon until ten at night.
After several messages went unanswered, he finally learned from Song Yu’s assistant:
“Sorry, Mr. Jing. I just found out Mr. Song canceled. He had a personal emergency today. I’ll help rearrange a meeting for you in a while, okay?”
Jing Shun suppressed his disappointment and agreed, pretending it didn’t matter.
Chi Gui’s expression shifted slightly. “Do you still really want to see him? Is it a must?”
Jing Shun was silent for a moment, then shook his head.
Chi Gui studied his expression for several seconds before speaking gently, “Go ahead and change clothes in the bathroom first.”
“Okay.”
The topic was briefly set aside.
Jing Shun took his clean clothes and entered the bathroom.
While changing out of his wet clothes, he recalled other memories he couldn’t mention—
After that missed meeting, Jing Shun soon received the script for Counterkill. It was a rare opportunity he couldn’t pass up, so he accepted.
The film was shot across four locations, taking a long time.
Jing Shun and Song Yu’s already sparse contact naturally faded.
Later came the on-set accident.
Jing Shun was confined to a wheelchair and mistakenly clung to the lying Chi Sheng as his lifeline in despair, wasting nearly four years in loneliness and pain.
In his past life, one sleepless night, the idea of “writing a script” suddenly struck Jing Shun.
“Since I can’t make films in this life, I can at least try writing scripts—creating characters in a different way, right?”
With that thought, Jing Shun’s heart, long trapped in darkness, finally found a glimmer of “life.”
So he did it.
On days when he didn’t need to see a doctor, as long as he finished his online work for money, he threw himself into writing a new script.
The process wasn’t smooth. He no longer had friends to discuss creative work with.
But Jing Shun stubbornly held onto that spark of motivation, writing bit by bit, polishing line by line, until a new story took its most basic shape.
That same winter, Jing Shun found the unchanging black profile picture and mustered the courage to send a message:
“Mr. Song, sorry to bother you. I’ve written a framework for a new script. Could you take a look at it for me?”
Just like when he sent the friend request, Jing Shun braced himself for rejection or silence. To his surprise, Song Yu replied a few hours later—
“Sorry, I’ve been in the US these past few years, so there’s a time difference with China. I just woke up and saw this.”
“If Mr. Jing is willing to show it to me, of course I’d be happy to.”
Those two replies reconnected their long-broken bond. And so, Song Yu became the first person Jing Shun shared his new script with.
During that time, their discussions about the story were frequent. Jing Shun felt his withered soul slowly filling up again.
But that was all.
Jing Shun never confided in Song Yu about his life’s hardships, and Song Yu, assuming Jing Shun had a “partner,” tactfully avoided his personal life and relationships.
They were like fellow travelers in creation, polishing the script together in the gaps of their busy lives.
But the script’s ending remained unwritten. Jing Shun wasn’t in a hurry; he felt he would eventually settle on the true ending for this story.
Human calculations, however, could never outpace fate. And fate couldn’t account for human malice.
That late night, Chi Sheng pushed him to the ground.
“……”
Jing Shun recalled the phone call he made as he lay dying, and a pang of regret hit him:
He shouldn’t have done that.
They had no real-life connection anyway. He had no right to bother the other man with personal matters.
Thinking of his abruptly ended past life, Jing Shun felt a wave of emotion:
Had Song Yu received that call?
And was the name he heard just before death real, or just his final hallucination?
If he could choose, Jing Shun hoped it was an illusion, a falsehood—hoped Song Yu hadn’t answered that call that should never have been made to him.
Knock, knock.
A knock sounded at the door.
Chi Gui stood outside the bathroom. “Jing Shun? Are you okay?”
Jing Shun snapped out of his memories and glanced at his watch, realizing he’d been inside for nearly half an hour.