It sneered, as if mocking the gossip.

Eight o’clock in the evening.

A girl sat in front of the screen, fidgeting, clutching the remote as she repeatedly exited and re-entered the channel, still not seeing the video she’d been waiting for.

Frustrated, she grumbled, “What’s wrong with this stupid show!”

Her mother, fed up, scolded, “What are you doing? Have you finished your homework? All you do is fiddle with that remote, pressing for ages without a sound.”

The girl pouted, annoyed. “I finished, I finished! Done ages ago. All you talk about is homework.”

She huffed, “I’m waiting for Burning Meteor’s variety show.”

At the mention of Burning Meteor, her mother’s brows furrowed. “I’ve told you to stop watching those shady people. Why don’t you listen?”

The girl opened her mouth to argue, but her habitual button-mashing paid off. Music blared, and the long-awaited final episode began.

She nearly jumped with joy, grabbing her mother’s arm. “Mom, look, look! Your favorite Liu Tingsong is this episode’s special guest!”

Her mother, who’d been resistant moments ago, perked up, dropping her phone. “Where? Where’s Liu Tingsong?!”

—

Elsewhere, Liu Tingsong’s assistant, Pear, also tuned into the show.

That day, she’d been too busy explaining things to Liu Tingsong to watch the livestream properly, so she was catching up now.

Despite the recent chaos and learning about Liu Tingsong’s possible entanglement with Xu Fengluan, Pear kept things separate—work was work, fandom was fandom. The screen and reality were two worlds, part of why she’d stayed with Liu Tingsong so long.

Watching Burning Meteor’s members bicker playfully yet affectionately, she laughed, munching on chips.

“Okay, okay, next question!”

In the video, Director Zhang held up a card, interrupting the band’s antics. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Who’s the biggest romantic in Burning Meteor?”

It seemed an obvious question. Even casual viewers knew the answer: Ji Lunan, who’d famously married during the band’s rise, causing a stir.

But in the video, only Xu Fengluan pointed firmly at Ji Lunan.

Kuang Ye and Chu Cheng hesitated, their hands wavering between Xu Fengluan and Ji Lunan, unable to decide.

Ji Lunan, however, made her choice, blinking slowly and pointing at Xu Fengluan.

The comments exploded with question marks.

At this critical moment, Xu Fengluan gritted her teeth. “Who’s the real whipped one here?!”

She added quickly, “Who goes out with just ten bucks, buys a cola, pours half into an ice cup, and saves the rest for their kid?”

With this ironclad evidence, Chu Cheng and Kuang Ye finally pointed at Ji Lunan.

Ji Lunan’s lips twitched, wanting to argue but unable to, her expression a mix of grievance and defiance.

Even Pear, who’d seen it live, burst out laughing. But then her gaze lingered on Xu Fengluan.

Romantic, huh…

Why did she feel Liu Tingsong was the bigger romantic?

Her mind flashed to moments, her expression turning complicated.

She recalled after the shoot, a drunk Liu Tingsong refusing to go home, stubbornly insisting on finding Xu Fengluan.

Pear had thought it odd—Liu Tingsong’s liquor tolerance was solid, so why the fuss this time?

Unable to dissuade her, Pear drove her over, nervous, fearing Xu Fengluan would kick them out. She’d noticed Xu Fengluan’s coldness toward Liu Tingsong during the livestream, a subtle hostility.

Thankfully, Liu Tingsong made her stay downstairs.

Pear waited anxiously until Liu Tingsong reappeared—in a shocking way.

Xu Fengluan carried her horizontally, like a princess, down the stairs.

Pear’s jaw dropped.

Xu Fengluan, unfazed, gently placed the sleeping Liu Tingsong in the backseat, closed the door, and turned to Pear.

Under a dim streetlamp, Xu Fengluan’s pale face softened in the half-light, her sharp features gentled, messy hair and oversized sleeves lending a melancholic air.

Even Pear, used to entertainment’s beauties, was struck, thinking fan photos didn’t capture half her allure.

Xu Fengluan ignored her stare, accustomed to it. Leaning against the car, she looked down, her emerald eyes more captivating than gems.

Far from the rumored arrogance, she spoke softly: “She doesn’t like hangover soup but loves strawberry yogurt. Get her some. She twisted her ankle, so be careful helping her upstairs. If it’s bad, take her to the hospital for a scan. Keep an eye on her—she’ll resist going. If there’s no ice pack at home, use a cold cup; bring it with the yogurt. She’s fussy—high heels always rub her heels raw, so keep anti-blister patches ready.”

She instructed patiently, then showed her QR code. “My contact. Reach out if anything’s up.”

She emphasized, “If she refuses the hospital, tell me. I’ll handle it.”

Adding an artist’s contact privately broke protocol, but Xu Fengluan’s presence was overwhelming. Pear’s refusal faltered, and she scanned the code.

Once connected, Xu Fengluan sent 1,000 yuan.

The money snapped Pear awake. She waved it off, flustered. “No, no, it’s my job!”

But Xu Fengluan, using her height, tapped Pear’s screen, accepting it.

“Tell her I made you take it. She won’t mind,” Xu Fengluan paused, rephrasing, “She won’t make it hard for you.”

Their earlier intimacy was proof enough. Pear, conflicted, saw a message from Liu Tingsong: *Accept.*

She yanked her phone back, stammering, “O-okay, I’ll take her home now.”

“I’ve got it all,” she added, glancing at Liu Tingsong, who seemed convincingly asleep.

Guilt-ridden, Pear sweated. Thankfully, Xu Fengluan just said a gentle “thanks.”

Pear barely recalled driving off. In the rearview mirror, Xu Fengluan stood, watching quietly.

In the backseat, Liu Tingsong “woke,” grabbed Pear’s phone, and stared at their chat. With an unreadable emotion, she said, “I didn’t add her…”

Pear froze, speechless.

Liu Tingsong sent herself the 1,000 yuan, then gave Pear another 1,000.

Pear, clutching her phone, stared at the inexplicable 2,000 yuan, torn between tears and laughter.

Back to the present, the screen’s noise pulled her focus.

The once-sweet WildWind CP now felt like pure friendship, unshippable.

She’d sworn to keep fandom and reality separate, but now her world dimmed. Seeing fans spam the CP name, she smirked coldly.

*You delusional shippers will cry one day, regretting what you’ve been stanning.*

—

Jian Zhu, a longtime Liu Tingsong fan and minor admin in her super topic, had missed the livestream due to work, regretting it deeply. Today, she gripped her glow stick, glued to the screen.

Despite Liu Tingsong’s recent Weibo post praising Xu Fengluan, some fans grumbled that Xu Fengluan wasn’t shy—she’d been giving Liu Tingsong attitude, and only Liu’s kindness gave her an out.

Jian Zhu, hearing both sides, didn’t know who to believe.

Fans saw idols as fragile, kind, always taken advantage of, needing protection like delicate porcelain. What if Liu Tingsong had been fooled?

Her face stern, Jian Zhu dragged the progress bar to Liu Tingsong’s appearance, slowing it to 0.5x speed. She’d scrutinize every detail like a magnifying glass.

*No one bullies our Tingsong!*

But minutes in, her expression grew complex, filled with confusion.

She was 100%, no, 1,000% sure Xu Fengluan was giving her idol attitude!

When Liu Tingsong arrived, Xu Fengluan avoided her. Offering her seat to the senior was fine, but why the panicked dodge, like fleeing a predator?

Her greeting was distracted, calling Liu “senior” with a hint of gritted teeth.

During questions, she either looked away or closed her eyes, even escaping to the bathroom.

What baffled Jian Zhu was that while Xu Fengluan avoided her, Liu Tingsong kept leaning closer, her gaze glued to Xu Fengluan. When Xu left, Liu Tingsong seemed lost, half-heartedly saying, “Sorry, I can’t answer right now.”

As a veteran fan, Jian Zhu knew Liu Tingsong’s initial response wasn’t that—it changed because Xu Fengluan left.

It drove her nuts, like a cat clawing her heart.
@Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

*Why did you retire, sister?!*

She was going mad, spotting so many issues, yet the comments were all calm praise.

Leaning back, Jian Zhu felt like the only sober one in a drunken world. @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

—

Regardless of others’ thoughts, for casual viewers, the highlight was the creation segment cut from the livestream.

Once aired, many dragged the progress bar to the two-thirds mark, brimming with anticipation.

Due to editing, tedious parts were trimmed. Viewers expected the show to amplify conflicts, as it had before—one episode had a band’s drummer storm out over creative differences, with guests searching for her. They ended up sitting in a forest, the guest sharing music struggles, the drummer her dreams, reconciling, and co-writing a song.

Clichéd but popular, that episode’s ratings soared, prompting the show to repeat the formula.

Viewers expected the same but saw pure harmony.

Liu Tingsong meshed with Burning Meteor like they’d collaborated for years. Beyond an initial quiet, there were no clashes. Sometimes, Xu Fengluan barely spoke before Liu Tingsong understood, even explaining to the others.

Comments flooded with question marks.

Was Liu Tingsong Xu Fengluan’s bandmate, or were Chu Cheng’s trio Liu’s? How were they so in sync?

The show seemed to anticipate this, panning to Director Zhang, who stood dazed, his confusion mirroring the audience’s. A cheeky subtitle read: *Done. No drama to edit this episode.*

Laughter erupted.

The camera shifted. Burning Meteor was in full formation.

Kuang Ye, at the back, twirled her drumsticks, her cool face showing rare excitement.

Before any cue, Ji Lunan, beside her, played a chaotic keyboard riff.

Chu Cheng, no longer laid-back, gripped her electric guitar, eyes burning toward Xu Fengluan.

Xu Fengluan, with a gradient blue bass, tied her shoulder-length white hair into a small braid, standing to the right.

Liu Tingsong stood in the center, unprompted, as if it was her natural place as their lead singer.

The scene spiked viewers’ expectations. What style would they choose?

Would Liu Tingsong adapt to Burning Meteor, or would the band shift for her?

Could they really blend?

Burning Meteor’s post-punk style was like a despondent youth in a suit, pale and lean, humming cold, lonely tunes, eyes craving freedom while pulling the pin on a world-destroying grenade.

Liu Tingsong’s voice, warm like jade in a mountain stream, clashed with that.

How could such opposites merge?

Kuang Ye’s drums kicked in, electric guitar joining, the rhythm slightly upbeat yet familiar, sparking mild disappointment.

*That’s it?*

*Just this?*

Good, but no surprise.

Xu Fengluan’s voice cut through, as always—clear and youthful in its mid-low register, rationality shouting for freedom, but its tailing notes drowned like a fish in the sea.

Her bass amplified this, pulling listeners into a bottomless ocean, eyes awash in blue.

Low rhythms, muffled drums, repetitive bass strings.

Ji Lunan’s fingers danced, weaving icy, oppressive melodies.

Falling.

Sinking.

Limbs bound, dragged down.

Until Liu Tingsong’s voice rose.

Despair, morbidity, confusion, melancholy—rippled by gentle waves.

Fingers leaped on strings, drums softened.

No loud cries of hope or bravery.

Just an awakening in a 1980s tenement, staring at dust-covered windows, sunset pooling at your feet.

All sound vanished, dead silent.

*Boom!*

Drums erupted in a near-maniacal rhythm, bass and guitar racing, music wild and obsessive.

Yet Liu Tingsong’s voice cut through, like white waves around a thrashing fish.

Break free!

Break free!

A desperate leap!

*Boom!*

The final drumbeat fell. Viewers gasped, panting.

No explanation was needed. The barrage of comments covering the screen silenced all doubts.

That night, the wordless song topped music app charts. Weibo and video apps overflowed with praise, some exaggeratedly hyping it.

A famous critic V: *I admit, I had no expectations. A song made in an hour, even with Liu Tingsong and Burning Meteor, I listened just for clout. But now! I’m begging for a studio version. I need to loop it a thousand times!*

A million-follower fan: *Who said Liu Tingsong and Burning Meteor don’t mesh? It’s perfect! I cried instantly.*

A national-level musician: *A collision of geniuses.* @Infinite Good Stories, Exclusively at Jinjiang Literature City

The frenzy consumed all. Dissenting voices were quickly drowned out.

But as the hype cooled, people noticed Liu Tingsong and Burning Meteor stayed eerily silent. It dawned on them: Xu Fengluan hadn’t appeared in ages.

After the accusation video, its reversal, and the show’s airing, she’d vanished without a sound.

Confused, fans flocked to her Weibo, eager to vent their excitement.

But her page was stuck in the past.

A post reading “None of your damn business” sat pinned at the top.

It sneered, mocking the recent rumors.