Five meters away in the darkness, Li Baixi bumped his head against the concrete wall, leaving a powder mark.

Li Baixi suddenly recalled an incident from his past.

During the makeup competition for newcomers upon his graduation, both he and his junior aimed to win the gold prize as a ticket into the industry.

If the competition judged solely on individuality, his junior might have stood a chance. But Li Baixi had reviewed the past winning works and knew the competition tested comprehensive skills: film makeup, fashion makeup, and creative makeup. Mastery in each category was required. With his foundational skills and techniques, he was confident of victory.

On the day of the competition, the judges announced the topics on the spot. The film makeup theme was “The Peony Pavilion.” Familiar with Kunqu opera makeup, he created an effortless modified look. The fashion makeup theme was “Stars Shift.” While most contestants piled glitter on their models’ faces, Li Baixi chose a black model, using her dark skin as a canvas, and lightly sketched with gold powder, transforming her into a high priestess who commanded the stars.

Everything went smoothly—he could tell from the judges’ expressions—until the final round.

The creative makeup theme was a single word: “Me.”

Li Baixi froze.

For this round, his model was a man. Facing the untouched face of his model, he felt like he was standing before a vast canvas, unable to make the first stroke.

Perhaps because he had been frozen too long, the model looked at him with a puzzled expression and gently reminded him, “You have forty minutes left.”

Li Baixi replied, “I know.”

The model continued, “Did you not hear the theme? The theme is ‘Me.'”

Li Baixi responded, “I know.”

But what did “Me” look like?

If he could answer that, he wouldn’t have abandoned pure art back then.

His oil painting teacher once lamented, “Li Baixi, art is the blood of the human heart. If you only pile pretty colors on the canvas, you’ve reached the end of this road!”

His father was equally disappointed, “Just speak, will you? You’ve heard me say it all your life, how have you not learned yet? Let’s use this painting to practice: the universe, yin-yang, life waves, memory, soul, darkness, dreams—randomly combine them and say 300 words! Speak, are you mute?”

The model reminded him again, “You have thirty minutes left.”

Li Baixi took a deep breath and started searching for backup plans in his mind.

Of course, he had prepared some universal creative makeup plans. Ocean pollution makeup, a hundred flowers blooming makeup, Picasso-style facial displacement makeup—he could pick any, finish it, and think of something to say during the explanation.

I am an environmental warrior.

I am a marginalized outcast.

I am a lonely seeker.

…

Under the model’s death stare, Li Baixi finally opened his toolbox and started applying the hundred flowers blooming makeup at double speed.

Having practiced it many times, he had almost developed muscle memory. He skillfully used body painting techniques to draw one blooming flower after another on the model’s face.

His brushstrokes and color usage were flawless, but his eyes were completely vacant.

Ironically, while he didn’t know what “Me” was, he clearly knew what “Me” wasn’t.

He wasn’t his teacher, nor was he his father.

He didn’t belong to a marginalized group, had no tragic childhood memories, no misunderstood dreams, never faced group rejection, and couldn’t even pretend to have a brave soul.

Upon closer inspection, he found he didn’t have this “Me” thing at all.

The makeup was completed.

The judges took a look and seemed satisfied, “Tell us what you want to express.”

Li Baixi was silent.

The judges probed further, “Wanting to be an excellent makeup artist requires more than just technical skills. Without ideas, you can’t succeed.”

He received low scores in the final round.

Meanwhile, his junior used his signature high-saturation contrasting colors to create a flood of color on the model’s face. His self-awareness flowed like that flood, unstoppable, delivering a ten-minute speech until the judges had to stop him.

With scores combined from all rounds, his junior won the gold prize as desired.

Leaving the venue, the two met. Li Baixi braced for the expected taunts, but his junior didn’t even bother with a fake smile, looking at him with an odd mix of anger and pity.

The junior said, “I hoped I was wrong, but I wasn’t. You are at best a worker.”

Even if he was a worker, he would be the best. With high scores in the first two rounds, he still won a minor prize and secured his first job offer.

He entered the industry.

He stumbled and learned, quietly adapting and studying. Eventually, he mastered the rules of the game, donned skirts, and made a name for himself.

Criticisms of his lack of personality gradually disappeared. His presence grew stronger, commanding attention wherever he went.

But only he knew his greatest fear was the directive to “freely create.”

If the client insisted on no requirements, he would have his assistants make some. Without a defined canvas, he couldn’t create.

His assistants once privately asked if he had some psychological trauma.

Of course, he knew he had a shadow. He also knew its name: the shame of mediocrity.

Li Baixi stood motionless in the dark until Cheng Ping and the manager walked away. He then slowly emerged.

He drifted back to his room like a walking corpse and began drinking.

Cheng Ping had said those words.

Young people are too foolish, crawling out of one pit only to jump into another.

Just moments ago in that corridor, he even had the impulse to walk out and shake Cheng Ping awake: You’ve been fooled. I am a fraud. You like a mirage.

But he couldn’t say it.

The longer he waited, the more he couldn’t say it. He vaguely sensed he might never be able to tell Cheng Ping the truth.

He feared seeing his own vile reflection in Cheng Ping’s disbelieving eyes.

And besides—he resolved to list more reasons to convince himself—Cheng Ping’s tendency to jump from one pit to another in this devouring industry was terribly precarious. Who knows what monsters awaited in the next pit? Maybe he’d be coerced into a fake relationship, only to be kicked aside, or blackmailed with compromising photos…

Instead of that…instead of that…

Better he stays in my pit.

Li Baixi downed his drink in one gulp.

He might not be a good person, but he wouldn’t harm Cheng Ping. He wouldn’t leak secrets to the media, wouldn’t exploit him for personal gain. In the worst-case scenario, if exposed, he had the connections to protect him—better than any fledgling opportunist.

Yes, if betrayal is inevitable, better he be betrayed by me.

Li Baixi drank until he was nearly unconscious and used his last bit of clarity to drag himself to bed.

Before losing consciousness, his mind finally released the thought that had formed in the chaos: What if I become that mirage, that “me”?

The next morning, he woke up with a splitting hangover, briefly hoping he had blacked out.

But he hadn’t. His thoughts were painfully clear, and he remembered the dangerous decision he had made, quickly forming a plan.

In an inexplicably calm state, he applied light makeup and opened his wardrobe to choose a dress. He wanted the most glamorous, attention-grabbing one, like an ancient spirit donning a disguise to meet a scholar.

His hand reached for the wardrobe but froze mid-air.

His two assistants were waiting in the lobby, bored, assuming Li Baixi had overslept. They were about to call him when he emerged from the elevator.

Ma KouKou: “Your Majesty? Did you take the wrong medicine today?”

Yang, the assistant, checked the schedule again: “Do we have an official event today?”

Li Baixi: “No.”

Ma KouKou: “Then why are you dressed like…this?”

Li Baixi smiled: “I want to change my style. Could you two help me shop for new outfits in the next few days?”

The entire crew was stunned.

Li Baixi appeared in a tailored suit, a slender tie accentuating his tall, upright figure. The black hair remained, but the ambiguous beauty had turned into a slightly wicked handsomeness.

The girls in the crew were starstruck.

The director held back for a while but finally said: “Li Laoshi, if you ever want to act, let me know.”

Li Baixi brushed it off with a smile, casually scanning the crowd.

He found Cheng Ping, who was also sneaking glances at him, looking conflicted.

Li Baixi walked over and naturally draped an arm over Cheng Ping’s shoulder: “Let’s go for makeup.”

Cheng Ping: “…”

Li Baixi walked a few steps, feeling Cheng Ping stiffen, but deliberately kept his arm around him, smiling: “Why are you looking at me?”

Cheng Ping: “Your clothes.”

Li Baixi continued smiling, but his heart sank a bit: “I remember last time I wore men’s clothes in front of you, you were quite uncomfortable? Not good-looking?”

Both had been avoiding each other due to their inner turmoil. Today, Li Baixi’s sudden change and proactive approach caught Cheng Ping off guard.

Feeling something, Cheng Ping instinctively wanted to flee, but running away wasn’t his style.

Struggling in silence for a long time, just as Li Baixi was about to give up and change the subject, Cheng Ping blurted out: “Good-looking.”