To allow Li Baixi to focus on painting Hong, the director specially adjusted the filming schedule, postponing most of Cheng Ping’s scenes. This arrangement gave the two of them ample time to secretly connect.

When they weren’t connecting secretly, Cheng Ping watched Li Baixi paint.

Previously, he had only seen Li Baixi’s commercial design drafts. Although he found them impressive, as an outsider, he couldn’t articulate why. This was the first time he witnessed Li Baixi’s true painting skills.

The director wanted to simulate post-impressionist artwork, so Li Baixi didn’t rely much on photos. Instead, he used a palette knife to layer large areas of color, with rich gold and red clashing, dyeing the pale human body with vibrant hues.

Even so, the abstract figure bore an astonishing resemblance to Cheng Ping.

It seemed Li Baixi had thoroughly familiarized himself with every inch of Cheng Ping’s skin and every bone. Even with his eyes closed, he could recreate them all.

Cheng Ping couldn’t articulate why, but he could see a pair of defiant eyes from the smudged features, making the tragic character burn with a phoenix-like fire.

Li Baixi switched to a finer brush to outline the flowing black hair.

Cheng Ping, sharing the same chair, leaned on his shoulder and watched: “I don’t understand much about art, but I think it’s better than those million-dollar pieces at auctions.”

Li Baixi laughed: “Auctions are mostly for mutual hype and money laundering. But there are real masters too.”

Cheng Ping: “So why don’t you become a master and instead work hard for this money?”

Li Baixi’s hand paused. Cheng Ping had asked this before, and he had dodged the question.

This time, Li Baixi answered slowly: “I don’t want to add more trash to the art world.”

Cheng Ping: “Are you serious? This kind of painting? Trash?”

Li Baixi: “If there’s no light in your heart when you start—”

Cheng Ping: “Then it has ‘no soul’? I thought you scoffed at that.”

Li Baixi laughed: “On the contrary, I’m a loyal believer in the soul theory, more than my hypocritical junior brother.”

That’s why he changed careers.

“When I do makeup, I don’t need to have a soul; you just need to have one. But recently, I’ve found that this idea can be advanced a bit.” Li Baixi pointed to the drying paint. “If you’re the model, I might be able to create a portfolio.”

He regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth. It sounded too utilitarian. He watched Cheng Ping’s expression, seeking to make amends.

Unexpectedly, Cheng Ping responded matter-of-factly: “It’s a pity I can’t be your model during the competition. Otherwise, I could give you a buff.”

Li Baixi: “Well, I proposed the competition, so we have to accommodate him in the rules.”

The sponsor had already set the competition time and place, and Li Baixi would fly back to China for a live broadcast in a few days.

When the junior brother heard he had chosen a sponsor, he demanded to choose the model. The model he brought was a familiar face—the new lover of Actor Zhang.

The junior brother was blatant: “He’s also the star of Actor Zhang’s new film, so he can show his face and advertise our movie.”

Li Baixi: “?”

Junior Brother: “?”

Li Baixi: “If that’s the case, I’ll bring Cheng Ping.”

Junior Brother: “That won’t work. Once a fan enters, it becomes a popularity contest between two celebrities. We’ll share one model to ensure fairness.”

Li Baixi: “…”

And so it was decided. Li Baixi booked his flight for a few days later.

Cheng Ping: “Your junior brother is something else. He’s openly being a villain now. Won’t he cheat?”

Li Baixi: “He won’t. From what I know of him, he’s been waiting for this battle for a long time and will take it seriously.”

Cheng Ping: “That’s hard to say. Why don’t you practice some creative makeup looks on my face in the next few days? If you get stuck during the competition, just recall my face… At least let me be of some use.”

Li Baixi suddenly turned to look at him.

It seemed Cheng Ping had fully accepted this utilitarian relationship and even started enjoying it.

Cheng Ping: “Why are you looking at me?”

Li Baixi lowered his head to paint, not responding.

There was a click, and Cheng Ping took a photo of the half-finished painting, asking: “Can I post this?”

Li Baixi: “Sure.”

Cheng Ping informed his agent and posted it on Weibo.

Fans cheered, speculating that it might be related to the movie. Although Crane Parasol wouldn’t be released domestically, Cheng Ping’s team had done gradual PR, and the results were surprisingly good. The subject and cast had been so widely discussed that it was already considered an award season contender before filming was complete.

Cheng Ping watched the comments flood in, feeling a thrill of sneaking around under the public’s gaze, his lips curling up.

Li Baixi glanced at him from the corner of his eye, unable to resist asking: “Is it good enough for me to paint you like this?”

He was used to being smooth, but this question seemed to ask about art and something else. If Cheng Ping didn’t want to talk, there was a way out.

His veiled question was shattered by Cheng Ping in a second: “Good enough. I don’t have the artistic sensitivity you guys do. Liking is liking, no difference. If you like it, it’s good.”

Li Baixi: “…”

Cheng Ping shrugged: “I’ve never really experienced it anyway.”

This time, Li Baixi felt a pang in his heart.

He remembered Cheng Ping’s peculiar parents and his ironic unrequited love. He seemed to forget how barren Cheng Ping’s experiences of being loved were.

And he had brazenly taken advantage of that.

He didn’t want to think further, silencing his thoughts with a kiss.

And so they connected again.

At 4:30 a.m., the alarm vibrated, and the two, tangled in sleep, groggily dressed and pushed open the door.

Cheng Ping, unsteady on his feet, mumbled “see you” and floated back to his room along the hotel corridor. To avoid detection, he had been sneaking back at dawn every day.

Li Baixi, half-asleep, muttered “hmm,” intending to give him a hug when another door in the corridor creaked open.

They both froze, holding their breath.

The next second, two more figures floated out.

Leading was Ma Koukou in an unbuttoned nightgown.

Behind him was Albert, the crew’s male god, with tousled hair.

Li Baixi: “…”

Cheng Ping: “…”

They silently stared at each other, unsure if they were still dreaming.

Li Baixi’s brain struggled to process, killing the speculation that those two were involved.

He was searching for another explanation when Ma Koukou, eyes half-closed, turned back and kissed Albert.

Albert accepted it calmly, finally opening his eyes and glancing at the corridor.

Albert: “…”

Li Baixi: “…”

Cheng Ping: “…”

Ma Koukou, still sleepwalking, continued forward until Albert pulled him back.

Ma Koukou jolted awake: “…”

Four petrified figures stood in the current of time.