The vinegar jar was poured all over the floor

—Knock, knock.

The door was tapped,
and the person inside, waiting for ages,
twisted the handle,
swinging it open.

The camera outside
immediately zoomed in on the opener.

Burning Meteor’s guitarist—Chu Cheng,
nicknamed Orange.

Her long, Neptune-red curls spilled untamed over her shoulders,
paired with bold, aggressive makeup
and her towering one-meter-eighty frame,
like a shaggy lion radiating an inexplicable pressure.

The cameraman, unprepared,
stumbled back a step.

Meanwhile, the live-stream’s bullet comments
snapped back to the main topic.

[Haha, the cameraman got spooked by Chu Cheng!]

[Orange is just too cool—
her height’s gotta top most guys, right?]

[Did Orange sleep through this?
Why’s her outfit so wrinkled?]

As if hearing the comments,
Chu Cheng yawned,
scratching her head,
grumbling:
“You guys are so slow—
I’ve already napped twice.”

Her already messy hair
got even messier.

The cameraman didn’t know how to respond.
Luckily, the director jumped in,
chuckling:
“Had a bit of trouble on the way.”

She shifted tone,
adding:
“Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

Chu Cheng, still groggy,
wasn’t sure whether to press further,
just nodding heavily
and pulling the door wide open,
stepping to the side.

The cameraman hurried inside,
lens still searching for the next target,
when a drumbeat caught his attention,
swiveling instinctively toward the dark corner drum set.

The drummer was already seated,
head lowered,
tossing a drumstick into the air,
spinning it before catching it firmly.
Her exposed arm,
tattooed with intricate patterns,
flexed slightly with muscle.

The director greeted with a smile:
“Xiao Ye still practicing?”

Kuang Ye looked up,
revealing sharp, rebellious eyes,
waving her drumstick as a response.

Among those present,
she wore the most accessories—
three earrings on each ear,
a bell-adorned leather choker,
a worn Tibetan silver bracelet jangling on her wrist,
and three rings on her fingers.
Even in the corner,
she stood out.

Bullet comments surged,
flooding the screen.

[Ahhh, Xiao Ye’s so cool!]

[Xiao Ye, stop drumming—
hit me instead!]

[Burning Meteor’s got attitude,
and Kuang Ye’s the queen of it—
fight me!]

The director glanced sideways,
noting the viewer count hitting 60,000,
her heart finally easing.

The camera pivoted,
only to find an empty keyboard stand.

Where’d that person go…

Before anyone could wonder,
a sudden yelp came from the side.

The lens whipped around,
sweeping to the living room corner.

Chu Cheng, at some point,
had slipped inside,
ignoring the empty chairs
to squeeze onto the beanbag sofa with Xu Fengluan.

The poor beanbag,
designed for one,
was already a tight fit for Xu Fengluan’s long limbs,
looking pitifully cramped.
How could it handle Chu Cheng,
the one-meter-eighty red-haired lion?

The beanbag groaned,
a final cry from its fragile frame.

“Get off,”
Xu Fengluan struggled,
one hand pushing at Chu Cheng,
the other propping against the carpet to avoid sliding off,
her still-unhealed pallor
making her look even more pitiable.

Chu Cheng had a shred of conscience,
not fully shoving Xu Fengluan off,
but didn’t get up either,
just scooting slightly to the side.

It didn’t help—
both were now miserably squeezed together.

She felt no guilt.
Who could blame her?
The whole house had five chairs—
three high stools in the living room,
one in the kitchen,
and only this beanbag was soft enough to lounge on.
If she didn’t squeeze with Xu Fengluan,
who else would she pick?

Their antics
shifted the bullet comments’ tone.

[ChengFeng is so sweet!]

[Ahhh, my CP’s real!]

[So many stools, yet they’re squished together—
doc, I need an insulin shot, I’m passing out from the sweetness!]

Xu Fengluan had no clue what they were thinking,
struggling futilely,
only to be pressed tighter,
miserably uncomfortable,
sighing deeply.

This cold had drained her,
leaving her listless even now.
If not for today’s event,
she’d still be in bed.
She’d forced herself to throw on a silk shirt,
trying to look formal.

But a misbuttoned shirt
hung crookedly,
exposing a swath of collarbone,
not formal at all,
only accentuating her weary fragility.

Sharp-eyed CP fans noticed,
flooding the chat with speculation.

[Look at that shirt—
what happened to it…
Did something go down just now…?]

[You mean… oh, my screen’s suddenly yellow!]

[No wonder Orange is so clingy—
she got interrupted, hehe!]

[My mind’s dirty, I’ll say it—
hehehe!]

“Hehehe” took over the screen.

The director, seeing this,
didn’t stop it,
instead chiming in with a nostalgic tone:
“You two are still so close.”

The pair, unaware of the subtext,
didn’t deny it.
Beyond friendship,
they were bandmates—
no way they’d admit to bad blood publicly.

Chu Cheng’s eyes curved,
flashing a big grin.

Xu Fengluan pursed her lips,
silently acquiescing.

This sent the bullet comments into a frenzy,
spamming “ChengFeng.”

Meanwhile, the woman in the van
clutched her phone tightly.

Per the show’s schedule,
they’d wait a bit longer,
letting the crew and band chat
and play simple interactive games.

The rush earlier
was over Liu Tingsong’s makeup,
but she was already prepared,
leaving this time unexpectedly free.

The assistant beside her watched the stream,
unconsciously rubbing her arms under her sleeves,
feeling an odd chill,
perhaps from the van’s low AC,
goosebumps rising.

She glanced at her boss,
about to ask if she was cold,
if they should turn up the heat.

But Liu Tingsong spoke first:
“Pear, what’s ChengFeng CP?”

The assistant, surnamed Li,
was nicknamed Pear.

Hearing Liu Tingsong,
she didn’t think much,
assuming her boss was bored,
curious about the “ChengFeng” spam.

She opened her phone,
deftly navigating to the super topic,
handing it to Liu Tingsong.

She explained casually:
“ChengFeng’s one of Burning Meteor’s big CPs.”

“One of?”
Liu Tingsong interjected,
her hand scrolling through photos on the screen.

“Yeah, people love shipping CPs now—
even Lin Daiyu and Voldemort get paired,”
Pear chuckled,
adding:
“Let alone bandmates.”

Liu Tingsong frowned,
her gaze lingering on a photo.

It was likely from a music festival,
fine rain falling like a net,
fans below the stage
holding red glow sticks,
forming a crimson sea reflected onstage.
Xu Fengluan and Chu Cheng stood facing each other,
strumming guitar and bass in sync,
wet hair messy.
One tilted her head up,
the other down,
both laughing freely,
eyes gleaming with the same wild energy.

Pear caught her expression,
thinking Liu Tingsong didn’t get it,
quickly explaining:
“People are like that now,
obsessed with shipping.
Actors, singers, they all play into it for clout,
and the crew’s happy to lean in—
it’s the trend.”

Liu Tingsong hummed,
her tone unreadable,
still staring at the photo.

Perhaps influenced by the super topic,
she almost saw something fitting in it.

Pear, unsure of her mood,
laughed awkwardly:
“But they’re them.
You don’t need to, Sister—
no point in fake stuff.”

Liu Tingsong agreed,
steering the topic back:
“You said there are other CPs?”

Pear’s eyes lit up,
eagerly saying:
“YeFeng—
the lead singer and the drummer.”

She gushed:
“I think they’re way cuter than ChengFeng.”

She tapped the phone,
switching to another super topic.

Liu Tingsong glanced—
Pear had a level-six badge.

Like she’d found a venting buddy,
Pear rambled:
“They’re all about ‘height difference’ nonsense,
saying guitarists belong with bassists.
It’s all random—
can’t they see how much Xu Fengluan dislikes that red-haired lion?”

“She won’t even touch water Chu Cheng’s drunk from.
Not like YeFeng.”

Liu Tingsong paused,
asking instinctively:
“She drinks Kuang Ye’s water?”

“Not really,”
Pear grinned,
continuing:
“But Xiao Ye’s always twisting bottle caps for A-Feng.”

Liu Tingsong: “…”

Liu Tingsong:
“You seem to really like them.”

Pear saw she didn’t seem put off,
even willing to hear more,
her worries easing.
She explained:
“I wasn’t into this before,
but my friend kept bringing it up,
so I checked it out.”

“Got hooked after a while.”

“But liking’s one thing,
work’s another,”
Pear raised her hand,
swearing:
“I’d never give out your number.”

“And, uh, I still think we should’ve gone to the shoot…”
Pear’s eyes darted,
pleading pitifully.

CPs were fun,
but the manager’s wrath was scarier.
She dreaded what was coming…

Pear shivered quietly.

Liu Tingsong lowered her eyes,
scrolling through the super topic,
asking casually:
“What other CPs are there?
Isn’t there a keyboardist?”

“There’s YeCheng,
but barely anyone ships it—
no one feels chemistry between Xiao Ye and Orange.”

“The keyboardist doesn’t work—
she’s been married forever.”

“Married?”
Liu Tingsong started.

Pear said matter-of-factly:
“Yeah, married.
I think she even has a kid…”

A voice came from the live stream,
the person hiding in the room on a call
finally stepping out.

“Sorry, sorry,
my little brat’s super clingy,
just crying for me.”

Following the voice,
the person wore a light denim jacket
over a white tank top,
her highlighted hair tied in a ponytail,
her overly fair face looking youthful,
like a fresh college grad.

The three already seated
waved her over.

Zhang, unfazed,
chuckled:
“Lu Nan’s out?
Your girl’s almost three, right?”

“Kids that age are super clingy.”

Ji Lunan smiled,
not elaborating.

Zhang didn’t mind,
her thoughts on the live stream,
turning to say:
“Everyone’s here—
say hi to the fans!”

Ji Lunan hopped onto a high stool,
the camera zooming in.

She raised a hand,
eyes curving as she smiled:
“Hey, everyone,
I’m Ji Lunan,
Burning Meteor’s keyboardist.”

She emphasized:
“Married with a kid.”

The other three groaned in unison,
teasing:
“Wife s*ave!”

Ji Lunan didn’t mind,
grinning wider.

Kuang Ye, fed up,
cut in bluntly:
“Kuang Ye,
Burning Meteor’s drummer.”

Chu Cheng,
finding her too curt,
grabbed her ring-covered left hand,
waving it stiffly.

“Hey, everyone,
I’m Orange,
Burning Meteor’s guitarist,”
Chu Cheng’s voice rang out.

Xu Fengluan lazily lifted her eyes,
sounding drained:
“I’m Xu Fengluan,
Burning Meteor’s lead singer and bassist.”

The four shouted in sync:
“Hey, everyone,
we’re Burning Meteor!”

Like countless times on stage,
their band name echoed in the cramped space.
At the same moment,
the live-stream interface
was flooded with “Burning Meteor,”
a silent roar.