“How did you and Shi Yi get acquainted? He doesn’t seem like your usual crowd!”

In the hotel room, Wang Yiqi was still relentlessly pestering Ying Ming about how he’d met Shi Yi. Ying Ming lit a cigarette, glanced at him lazily, and replied, “I wouldn’t have connected with him if it weren’t for you.”

If Shi Yi hadn’t approached him because of Wang Yiqi, it was unlikely they’d have ever crossed paths.

Having his past brought up, Wang Yiqi looked a bit uncomfortable. He gave a half-hearted cough to cover his awkwardness, but soon steered the conversation back to its original course. “Okay, forget how you met him for a second. But if Shi Yi came to visit the set, does that mean you guys are on good terms?”

“He didn’t come to visit me.”

Ying Ming chuckled faintly. “You can let your gossip radar take a break.”

“Huh? But the crew said Shi Yi’s your friend.”

“Even if he’s my friend, it doesn’t mean he came just to see me. They misunderstood because they don’t know the full story.”

With that, the conversation reached its natural end. Ying Ming clearly didn’t intend to elaborate. He casually poured himself a glass of wine and took a small sip. “By the way, you’re back in town for a new project?”

Most of the time, Wang Yiqi was a restless wanderer, constantly flying to different places. Whenever he had even a sliver of free time, he’d run off somewhere, as though staying put for a few days was impossible for him.

Wang Yiqi grabbed Ying Ming’s glass and took a long swig, then leaned back in satisfaction. “Yeah, I signed on for a new movie. Looks promising. I’m scheduled for a costume fitting in a couple of days.”

“Good. It’ll keep you busy and out of trouble.”

“Wow, Ying Ming, what’s gotten into you lately? You’re starting to sound like an old man lecturing his kid. Have you been domesticated or something?”

‘Out of trouble,’ ‘be good’, weren’t words Ying Ming would normally use.

Even during their last meeting, Wang Yiqi had felt something was off. He couldn’t pinpoint the exact change, but Ying Ming didn’t quite feel like the same person he used to be.

Wang Yiqi’s offhanded remark made Ying Ming pause.

The phrasing was all too familiar. He had said something eerily similar to someone else not long ago.

His brows furrowed unconsciously as he took another sip of wine.

Seeing Ying Ming’s sudden, short-circuit-like reaction, Wang Yiqi leaned in abruptly. “Ying Ming, did something really happen to you recently?”

Pushing away the face that had suddenly appeared in front of him, Ying Ming didn’t even lift his eyelids. “Lately, my period’s been irregular. It’s making me anxious, short of breath, cramping, and sleep-deprived at night.”

“Damn it!”

Wang Yiqi shoved him. “Can’t you just give a serious answer for once?”

Ying Ming glanced at him. “My seriousness depends on the person. Wasting it on you feels like a bit much.”

The next second, Wang Yiqi tried to kick him, only to be kicked back just as swiftly by Ying Ming.

“If you can’t sit still, get out. I’m going to sleep.”

He’d been hanging around since the afternoon, and their conversation had grown increasingly dull. He didn’t even know why he’d come in the first place.

Wang Yiqi snorted in response. “Who are you trying to fool? You, sleep at this hour? With your insomnia? You’d have better luck dreaming in the daytime.”

Ever since Wang Yiqi had met Ying Ming, the guy had lived like a nocturnal creature.

No matter what time of night you called, you could always reach him. Yet somehow, he barely seemed to sleep during the day either. It was like he was a human generator or perpetual motion machine that didn’t need rest.

Wang Yiqi had once advised Ying Ming to see a doctor, but the man was stubborn and absolutely refused to go.

“Seriously, has your insomnia gotten any better?”

“It improves when I’m on set.”

Ying Ming stood up and pulled some ice from the mini fridge, dropping it into his glass. “Anyway, even if I don’t sleep, I don’t feel tired, so it doesn’t affect me.”

“Stop bullshitting.” Wang Yiqi frowned. “You’re basically wasting your life. Normal people can’t handle this kind of wear and tear. Ying Ming, I’m telling you, if you keep this up, you’re going to crash sooner or later.”

No one can go without sleep forever.

Especially not someone like Ying Ming, who smoked and drank heavily. To be blunt, he was slowly committing suicide.

Holding his glass, Ying Ming frowned. “Did you come here just to curse me? Can’t you say something nice for once?”

“I save the nice words for people who deserve them. Saying them to you would be a waste.”

The moment Wang Yiqi finished speaking, the remote control in Ying Ming’s hand flew toward him. He dodged awkwardly, barely avoiding it, and glared at him in disbelief. “Damn, is your period really here? Your temper’s off the charts!”

“Just leave already. I need to read my script.”

Ying Ming drained his glass in one go and leaned against the cabinet, staring at Wang Yiqi.

“Fine, fine, I’ll stop bothering you and let you enjoy your PMS in peace. Call me sometime and bring Kouzi and Haozi along.”

Since Ying Ming had kicked him out twice, Wang Yiqi didn’t stay any longer. He casually grabbed his coat, snatched two cookies from the coffee table, and waved before slipping out the door.

Finally, the room quieted down. Alone at last, Ying Ming slowly wandered over to the sofa and sat down, his gaze drifting to the city skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling window. He seemed lost in thought.

When Ying Ming had first started acting, he hadn’t really understood what acting meant.

All he knew was that someone would hand him a script and tell him how to deliver his lines and what kind of expressions to make. At first, it felt strange. Performing like a trained monkey for others’ entertainment wasn’t exactly pleasant. But once he got used to it and fully immersed himself, he started to find it exhilarating.

Because acting meant total freedom. It wasn’t his life. It belonged to someone else.

After so many years as an actor, Ying Ming had played more roles than he could remember. If asked exactly how he fell in love with acting, even he wasn’t entirely sure.

The simplest answer, perhaps, was that only after he lost the freedom to act as he pleased did he realize that the way things had been before was what he truly loved.

The things you lose always seem better in hindsight. Ying Ming couldn’t tell if his restraint came from nostalgia for the past or if he had genuinely fallen too deep into the craft.

He had come of age as a teenager, fortunate beyond belief, skyrocketing to fame overnight.

Back then, all the accolades had been heaped upon him. The media’s praise was exaggerated and nauseating, but after hearing it enough, even he began to develop a quiet confidence.

He had always thought acting was easy.

After all, awards that took others years to earn had come to him effortlessly. He hadn’t even fully understood what those awards meant at the time.

But, as with every story that has ups and downs, every film that has its twists, his journey had its own inevitable turn.

Starting at the top meant that, over time, the only direction left was down, slowly, but surely pulling him off his pedestal.

That was a painful feeling.

You had to face the fact that you were stuck in a limbo, unable to climb higher, but not quite falling, either.

Many actors said that their greatest fear was being typecast.

Once the audience embraced you in a particular role, if you played it too well, they might reject any attempt to see you as anything else.

Ying Ming believed his situation was even more tragic. His typecasting wasn’t just about being irreplaceable in a single role; it felt like a curse destined for a bad ending.

The image he had left in the public’s mind was that of a reckless teenager with a defiant personality, living impulsively, laughing and cursing his way through life without a care, utterly free.

In the film, that rebellious young man would forever remain in that moment in time.

In reality, Ying Ming couldn’t stop himself from growing up.

His features had lost their youthful softness, and his personality had matured, yet in the eyes of others, he remained unchanged.

At times, even Ying Ming himself would get trapped in memories of the past, unable to pull himself out.

Too many people said that Rogue was a movie tailor-made for him.

But the harsh reality was that, for over a decade after that, he never encountered another film created with him in mind.

No one knew how much Ying Ming had dwelled on those years.

He had vented, felt dissatisfied, even sunk into despair.

But life had to move forward.

When he finally pinpointed the problem, he seriously considered whether he should abandon everything and start over or bear the pressure and continue his shaky path forward.

In the end, he chose the latter.

He had been walking that path ever since, for years on end, with no clear destination in sight.

But Ying Ming had always been someone who, once he made a decision, wouldn’t regret it.

Perhaps there was a stubborn streak deep inside him.

He wasn’t ready to give up yet.

He needed to see how far he could go and give himself an answer.

That night, Ying Ming barely slept. He spent the entire night drinking.

He held the script and read it over and over, though there weren’t many lines.

By the time he got to the end, he wasn’t really absorbing it anymore. He sat on the sofa, drinking and smoking, and since he felt no drowsiness at all, he turned on the TV and aimlessly flipped through late-night programs.

It was the same rerun of a drama that had aired countless times before.

Nothing new.

It wasn’t until after six in the morning that he finally took a shower, strolled a couple of laps around the garden behind the hotel, and then headed to the restaurant for breakfast.

Among actors, he was one of the early risers. He ran into a few crew members he knew and exchanged a few words.

By then, news had already broken about Wang Yiqi’s visit to the set yesterday.

Someone from the crew had probably taken photos and sent them to the media. The article only had a few pictures, showing Wang Yiqi and Ying Ming eating together.

The accompanying text was amusing, spinning it into a tabloid-style narrative. “Wang Yiqi ditches his girlfriend for a bro — Supermodel XX left in the cold.”

In these kinds of trivial tabloid stories, Ying Ming always seemed to play the role of a convenient prop. Never the focus, yet somehow never absent either.

That included the buzz around Shi Yi and Liu Li’s relationship.

If Young Master Shi dropped by the set again, it wouldn’t be surprising if the rumors somehow looped back to involve Ying Ming.

Same-sex friends came in handy for that sort of narrative.

As he ate breakfast, listening to people gossip about various celebrity scandals, Ying Ming smiled faintly, for those tangled up in the drama, and for himself, standing outside it all.

Just as he was lost in thought, the lighting technician sitting across from him suddenly asked, “Hey, Ying Ming, why don’t we ever hear about you being involved in any scandals?”

He paused, caught off guard. “Huh?”

“I mean, you’ve got the looks and fame. Why don’t we ever see you linked with any models or actresses or anything like that?”

The question was a bit too blunt. Ying Ming chuckled, not quite sure how to respond.

It wasn’t that he’d never had rumors, but maybe because he kept such a low profile, they never gained much traction.

He shook his head lightly. “Maybe the paparazzi just aren’t interested in my love life.”

The moment he said it, the technician frowned, clearly unconvinced. “That’s impossible. I’ve even heard people asking about you before. Your lack of gossip has got some folks thinking you might be gay.”

That comment set off a wave of murmured discussions all around the table.

And as if that wasn’t enough, the technician added, “But you’re not, right?”

For a brief moment, Ying Ming felt an inexplicable urge to play a prank.

Maybe the next time Shi Yi visited, he thought with a smirk, the tabloids would get a new target for their speculation… and it wouldn’t be Liu Li.