Regarding his presence, Ji Subai fell silent. He glanced around the poorly lit workspace, likely feeling that every second spent here was a test of his on-camera looks. Thus, he found a way to gracefully excuse himself: “Nannan… he’s always been afraid of insects and things like that since he was a child. I’m truly sorry we couldn’t be of any help.”
His emotion was genuine, his voice gentle, and a hint of regret and apology lingered in the corners of his eyes. It was a perfectly measured performance, projecting an aura that even the most critical audience couldn’t find fault with.
The zookeeper smiled as she let them be on their way, watching the production crew carry their equipment away. She turned back to prepare today’s food.
With practiced ease, she grabbed a dozen or so mealworms from a tin box, deftly mixing the live insects with fruit. After removing her gloves, she made a note on the record sheet on the workbench before carrying the basin of “delicacies” off to feed her furry charges.
From noon until late afternoon, the other two groups made progress, unlike the “Raccoon Group,” who had been slacking off halfway through.
The “Gibbon” group had a relatively easy task. They spent most of their time in the Primate Pavilion listening to the curator explain some animal science facts. Both children were the type who could sit still, and they listened attentively to the science lesson before starting work on their educational display board.
Min Zhuozhou and Chen Yan gave the children a free hand in choosing their topic. The two little ones huddled together, discussed it for a while, and then informed the Big Guests that they would be focusing on “enrichment.”
Enrichment is a zoological term referring to a series of practices designed to enhance the lives of captive animals, helping them express their natural instincts. For primates, enrichment primarily focuses on environmental, dietary, and social aspects. The Curator had just introduced some of these concepts, and the two children had perfectly grasped the key points.
A’jin and Min Hua divided the tasks clearly: one focused on organizing the content, while the other handled the layout design. The Big Guests were responsible for verifying the information and the final assembly and display. The end result was impressive. There’s a special kind of spirit in works made by children, a blend of freshness, naivety, and boundless imagination, which earned them a shower of praise from the viewers in the livestream.
Just as the Gibbon Group successfully completed their mission, the Little Bear Group’s charity cookies were also fresh out of the oven. All the children gathered at the charity stall, reuniting the main group.
Seeing them arrive, Wang Wenhe spread out like a peacock, handing out bear cookies to both the adult and child guests. He then unashamedly accepted the flood of compliments that followed.
As autumn deepened, the days grew shorter. The Little Bear Group’s last pack of cookies sold out just as the sun’s final rays faded, marking a perfect end to their day.
Considering the significant temperature drop at night, the production team had scheduled no outdoor activities for the children. Everyone returned to the Forest Cabin, where they gathered for a lively dinner before heading to their assigned rooms.
To encourage more interaction across different groups, the production team had installed cameras in each member’s bedroom. Min Zhuozhou led Min Hua back to their room, where they were immediately greeted by the LED scrolling screen, still buzzing with activity after a full day.
The comments were far more subdued now than they had been during the day. Those who remained were mostly dedicated fans. After a quick scan and seeing no overly aggressive remarks, Min Zhuozhou sat down with the little one in his arms in front of one of the cameras to greet everyone.
He leaned in to adjust the camera, asking, “Can everyone see us like this?”
The comment section instantly exploded:
Ahhh, I’m dead! President Min, do you know it’s illegal to suddenly get this close to the screen?!
His face is a total visual feast. I’ve been slacking off in the livestream all day, and every time I look up, President Min looks even more beautiful.
Mom, I’ve found a real-life celestial being! Heart-empty alarm, woo-ri woo-ri woo-ri woo-ri!
Min Zhuozhou let them spam the chat for a few more messages, but as the topic veered closer to “late-night” territory, he cleared his throat at the right moment. “Everyone, please keep your pants on. I have a little cub snuggled in my arms, and he can read.”
The comment section was instantly flooded with a string of “Hahahahahaha.” Watching the chat scroll by with increasing fervor, Min Zhuozhou picked out a few messages to reply to.
President Min, what’s your relationship with the little artist? What color sack does he like? I’ll come snatch him away overnight!
Min Zhuozhou: “He’s my nephew. But thanks for the heads-up, I’ll make sure to lock my doors.”
President Min, President Min, is your back feeling any better?
Min Zhuozhou nodded. “It’s almost there. I should be joining the film crew after the variety show ends.”
Huahua knows so much, and he’s so creative when making the exhibition boards! A’jin seems like a very strong-willed girl, but Huahua manages to get along with her so well! I love them so much! Sister, hug me!!
Min Zhuozhou affectionately stroked Min Hua’s soft hair. “Little cub, the big sisters are praising you.”
Min Hua pressed his lips together shyly, then buried his small face in his little uncle’s chest, his voice emerging as a milky mumble: “Thank you, pretty sisters.”
The livestream chat was once again spammed with a wave of “Ahhhhhh!”
Actually, I have a question, but I don’t know if it’s appropriate to ask… President Min, do you know Xiao Qi? The guy who spent a fortune this morning. Is he that super famous overseas Chinese playwright whose family is incredibly wealthy?!
Min Zhuozhou didn’t say yes or no. Instead, he lazily curled his lips into a faint smile. “Since you’re not sure if it’s appropriate to ask, I won’t answer.”
The live chat immediately erupted in a chorus of wails, with fans spamming the “reach out” emoji, begging him to reveal more.
Min Zhuozhou’s own take on the matter was quite simple, but he knew that if he didn’t clarify, the internet would spin it into who-knows-what version of a story. So, he casually explained:
“Xiao Qi is a college friend of mine. He’s a very upright person. Everyone in the chat should know what happened this morning, he probably just acted on impulse because he was angry. I’ll contact him and the production team privately to resolve this. Please don’t worry.”
Perhaps it was because Min Zhuozhou’s demeanor was so calm and natural that the fans, who had been eager for gossip, quickly lost interest. After all, Min Zhuozhou had been in the industry for years with a completely clean background. Now, a young, super-wealthy man who seemed overly concerned about him had suddenly appeared. If one wasn’t careful, malicious people could easily twist this into “that kind of transaction,” which would be hard to explain away.
Min Zhuozhou chatted with the fans for a few more moments before getting up to go to the restroom.
Min Hua sat alone on the bed, still not entirely used to the camera’s lens. His gaze followed Min Zhuozhou as he left. His pale, soft fingers twisted together; suddenly idle, he felt a strange urge to take out a calligraphy sheet and write a thousand-word essay.
A phone rang in the bedroom. Min Hua looked up, realizing it was Min Zhuozhou’s phone.
The production crew had returned the guests’ phones after the group activities. Min Zhuozhou had placed his on the bedside table but hadn’t had a chance to check it yet.
Min Hua got up to retrieve the phone. The caller’s name displayed was “Pei Che.” Growing up in the Min family, he had often heard of this person, he seemed to be his little uncle’s…
The young boy hesitated, unsure if he should answer the phone for Min Zhuozhou. He instinctively looked up at the scrolling live comments, where the gossip-hungry crowd was spamming “Who is it? Who is it?”
Min Zaiming had raised him with the habit of “answering every question.” Seeing the string of inquiries on the screen, he wanted to tell them it was his “little aunt.”
The words reached his lips, but he hesitated, his voice catching. Min Hua’s lips twitched a few times, and for some reason, he felt a pang of guilt. “It’s… another little uncle.”
The phone kept ringing. Eventually, the little one answered it, holding the phone to his ear and murmuring a soft, gentle “Hello.”
On the other end, Pei Che was clearly taken aback. Hearing a child’s voice, he initially thought he had dialed the wrong number. Then, he realized this must be the child Min Zhuozhou was raising in the Min family. He had heard of him, but they had rarely met.
“Huahua?” Pei Che didn’t know how to interact with children, so he could only try to soften his voice as much as possible. “Is your Little Uncle here?”
Min Hua replied, “He went to the bathroom, he’ll be back in a moment… Oh, he’s back.”
The little one looked up and saw Min Zhuozhou push open the door. He held the phone up to him and said softly, “Little Uncle, there’s a call for you.”
Min Zhuozhou didn’t think much of it and asked casually, “Who is it?”
Min Hua hesitated, unable to find a suitable way to address the caller, so he simply repeated the words exactly as they were: “Another Little Uncle.”
Min Zhuozhou assumed it was Min Zaiming calling to check in on the little one. He took the phone and called out, “Brother?”
“It’s me, Zhuozhou.” Pei Che’s voice sounded as if it had been dipped in a cold spring, a captivatingly deep tone with a hint of crisp clarity.
Min Zhuozhou froze for a moment upon hearing the voice. He raised his hand and unplugged the microphone he had just put on.
Ahhh, don’t encrypt the call! What is it that we VVVIPs can’t pay to hear?! I’ll pay, ahhh!!
My god, does baby Min Hua still need an older sister who’s 100 months older than you? How many record players did this voice eat? This voice-connoisseur has died and gone to heaven.
Sorry, but I think that “Zhuozhou” sounded so ambiguous. I want to ship them so bad, I’m a degenerate.
Cold yet seductive vibes, my ears are getting pregnant through the screen…
“Are you still busy?” Pei Che asked, unaware that a livestream was going on.
Min Zhuozhou covered the phone’s earpiece and whispered, “I’ll call you back in a bit.” After receiving a response from the other end, he hung up.
This was the first time he had “shared” Pei Che’s existence in public, albeit passively.
Min Zhuozhou’s mind went blank for a moment, but a string in his heart seemed to be suddenly plucked, vibrating with an ambiguous tremor. Then, he lifted his gaze to look at the screen. The tenderness in his eyes, which had not yet faded, fell densely into the camera and was transmitted through the internet to countless screens.
The bullet chat was scrolling even faster now, but he had no intention of reading what the netizens were saying.
Min Zhuozhou stopped focusing on the topic of “who was on the other end of the phone.” He proactively changed the subject, chatting briefly with his fans about other things. When the time was right, he turned off the camera and the livestream system.
Min Hua, sitting on the bed, let out a soft sigh of relief as the constantly scrolling LED screen finally went dark.
Min Zhuozhou walked over and kissed the little one’s cheek, his voice gentle. “You worked hard today. Are you tired?”
Min Hua nodded and then shook his head, wrapping his arms around Min Zhuozhou’s neck and clinging to his Little Uncle. His voice held a hint of a spoiled plea. “I saw so many little animals along the way today. I wanted to bring them home.”
Min Zhuozhou held the child’s small hand in his own. “Do you like them that much?”
“I like the zoo,” Min Hua said softly, his eyes closing in weariness. “And I like other children… but I don’t like cameras.”
Min Zhuozhou patted the little one, his tone soothing. “Then next time, I’ll bring you here to play by yourself, okay?”
Min Hua nodded obediently. After a moment’s thought, he asked softly, “Why would anyone dislike Little Uncle?”
Min Zhuozhou knew the child would brood over this all day if he didn’t address it. He gently patted Min Hua’s back and comforted him in a soothing voice, “There are too many people in the world. How could I make everyone like me?”
Min Hua leaned against him, a hint of disappointment in his posture. After a moment of silence, he looked up and said earnestly, “I will always love Little Uncle.”
Min Zhuozhou smiled faintly and reached out to pinch the boy’s cute button nose. “I will always love my baby Min Hua, too.”
After helping Min Hua wash up and tucking him into bed, Min Zhuozhou finally found a moment of peace. He went alone to the second-floor terrace of the cabin, took out his phone, and returned Pei Che’s call.
The phone rang only a few times before Pei Che answered. Min Zhuozhou rested his arm on the railing, gazing at the distant mountains under the moonlit night. His voice, carried by the wind, sounded as melodic as a plucked zither. “Mr. Pei?”
There was a long silence on the other end. Min Zhuozhou thought the signal in the Forest Park was poor, but just as he was about to speak, he heard the other man say:
“It’s nothing. I forgot you weren’t coming back today.”