Ming Zhifei’s rental had a TV stand. Yang Jianzhen suggested moving his own TV over and had the broadband technician connect it to the internet, so they could actually watch TV now. Initially, Ming Zhifei had hesitated about moving it, since Yang Jianzhen might leave soon, but in the end, he didn’t say it and let Yang Jianzhen decide.
He realized he didn’t want to bring it up—Yang Jianzhen’s careful decorating made Ming Zhifei feel as if he might stay for a long time. But Ming Zhifei knew the truth: Yang Jianzhen was simply the type of person who pursued quality of life even if he only stayed somewhere for a day or two.
He didn’t ask Yang Jianzhen if he would stay across the hall once his injury healed. Based on his own reasoning, Yang Jianzhen shouldn’t stay in such a dangerous place; he would likely terminate his lease early and find a safer home.
“Cardiac neurosis” visited Ming Zhifei constantly, causing him great discomfort. Lately, the episodes seemed to be growing more frequent and varied in their symptoms: sometimes a dull heaviness, sometimes a violent pounding, sometimes a low thrumming, and occasionally even a sharp, twisting pain. It was a novel experience for him—finding that a single person’s heart could produce such a rich array of sensations without any physical cause. In the past, he only felt his heart during intense exercise, fear, or stress, and in those cases, the cause was always clear.
Ever since that night when they ate the stir-fried snails—which Yang Jianzhen had ultimately handled from start to finish—while watching TV, Ming Zhifei discovered a pattern. It seemed that as long as he was looking at Yang Jianzhen, his heart would react. It felt as if it were being bound by fine, soft silk ribbons; not painful, but tightly constricted, like being submerged in a water bath that was not scalding but was being steadily heated. He could only use such physical analogies to explain this unprecedented cardiac reaction.
He even began to suspect that he didn’t have neurosis at all, but rather coronary heart disease. However, he quickly rejected the theory. Typically, the triggers for that are exertion, cold, stress, excitement, or anger… not Yang Jianzhen.
Later, he wondered if it was simply because Yang Jianzhen was too good-looking. Once the wounds had healed and the bandages were removed, the visual impact was so strong it might be causing the reaction. To test this, he opened a drama on the big screen—a genre he usually detested—paused it on a close-up of the male lead, and stared at it for a long time. He found his heart remained as still as stagnant water.
Yang Jianzhen came in from the balcony after hanging laundry and saw what Ming Zhifei was doing. Finding it strange that he was staring so intensely at a frozen image of a male lead, he asked, “Why is it paused? Is he that good-looking?”
Ming Zhifei shook his head. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t call him that.” He was referring to the actor; he couldn’t actually tell if the man was handsome or not, but since he was the lead of an idol drama, he assumed he was universally considered attractive.
“Is the plot bad?” Yang Jianzhen took the remote, pressed play, watched for a few seconds, and laughed. “The dialogue is hilarious.”
It turned out Yang Jianzhen was asking if the show was good.
“Do you like watching series?” Ming Zhifei asked. They had only watched a few movies together since the TV was set up; he hadn’t seen Yang Jianzhen watch a drama.
“I don’t particularly like them, but I used to read plot summaries. I had to know about the celebrities, otherwise, it would be awkward talking to clients if I didn’t know these things. Plus, my previous line of work was in the entertainment industry, so I had to stay informed.” Yang Jianzhen skimmed through the progress bar. “For example, this one is adapted from a web novel. The lead is quite famous.”
“What kind of entertainment industry did you mean?” Ming Zhifei focused on that detail. Yang Jianzhen had mentioned being in business, but Ming Zhifei hadn’t asked for specifics before.
Yang Jianzhen smiled. “Zhifei, are you getting more and more interested in me?”
Ming Zhifei knew he should categorize this as “flirtatious nonsense” and ignore it, but when he heard the question, he didn’t avoid it this time. Instead, he looked into Yang Jianzhen’s eyes and said, “Yes. I suppose I am. I want to know.”
Hearing such an unexpected answer and being watched so earnestly, Yang Jianzhen suddenly felt a bit flustered.
He really is too pure. The thought filled Yang Jianzhen’s mind. Looking at Ming Zhifei waiting for his answer, his heart felt as if it were being squeezed.
This is getting hard to explain away as mere libido, Yang Jianzhen sighed inwardly.
He sat down next to Ming Zhifei and opened an app on his phone that showed a live broadcast. Ming Zhifei saw five fashionably dressed girls dancing for the camera. A narrator provided a play-by-play of how many votes each girl currently had.
“What is this?”
“This is called group broadcasting. This group is the flagship act of the company I used to run.”
“What are they doing?”
“Have you ever seen an idol survival show?”
Fan Wenya used to watch them at home; Ming Zhifei had only caught glimpses and never looked into them. “Is it where they pick people to debut from a large group?”
“Yeah, group broadcasting is similar. Through real-time online tipping, fans make their favorite members compete for rankings. The platform and the company take the money and then give a cut to the members. I’m the one who runs that kind of company.” Yang Jianzhen pointed to the girl in the center. “She’s our signed star artist.”
“Her face looks like a 3D character. I thought it was a real person.”
“That’s because of the beauty filters and effects. She doesn’t actually look like that.” Though Yang Jianzhen had a sharp eye for talent, truly beautiful people rarely did live streams—people who are exceptionally attractive have many more ways to monetize their looks offline. The artists he chose required heavy processing to achieve that visual effect. None of them were like Ming Zhifei, who looked incredibly beautiful just by standing there. In fact, Ming Zhifei’s stunning offline looks would be a disadvantage online; beauty filters would likely make him look worse than he did in person.
“Can you make money doing this?”
“You pay the platform to push traffic to you, and with the right script, you can get famous as long as there’s traffic. Once you’re famous, people will throw money at you like they’re crazy. On the group’s highest-earning night, that one girl received over a million in tips.”
“Then you really were doing big business.” Ming Zhifei admitted it now; his initial assumption that Yang Jianzhen was exaggerating had been pure prejudice.
“But their stats aren’t great right now.” Yang Jianzhen chuckled. “The pacing is terrible. It looks like the current group leader and the floor manager don’t have the skills.”
“Aren’t these things happening naturally?”
“Of course not. The rhythm, the drama that makes people tip more—it all requires strong control over the live environment. Otherwise, with so many groups out there and everyone buying traffic, why would some make money while others don’t?” Yang Jianzhen smiled. “I used to oversee every broadcast for this flagship group. There are so many situations to handle; you have to improvise based on the live feedback. The current manager is probably relying too much on a pre-written script and lacks the ability to adapt.”
“I see. It requires such fast reactions.” Ming Zhifei watched the stream for a while, then looked back at Yang Jianzhen.
Yang Jianzhen smiled at him. “You find it boring, don’t you?”
“Yes. I don’t understand why so many people give money. They’re just dancing.” Ming Zhifei’s confusion was genuine.
“But most people in the world need that kind of immediate, visible glitz and glamour,” Yang Jianzhen said. “They need to spend money to feel acknowledged and admired, to get a sense of satisfaction. Zhifei, what gives you satisfaction?”
As Ming Zhifei thought about it, Yang Jianzhen continued, “Let me guess… is it successfully saving a patient?”
“I don’t know. Maybe it used to be.”
Every time Yang Jianzhen asked him a personal question, Ming Zhifei realized he had almost never thought about “himself.” It was only when Yang Jianzhen pointed it out that he realized the other man seemed to understand him better than he understood himself.
Yet, they had only known each other for less than a month.
“People like you are rare. Most people, like the ones giving tips, just want good food, nice clothes, a big house, to travel, to sleep with beautiful people, to have lots of money and social status, to be admired and respected. That’s it. And I’m one of those people.” Yang Jianzhen looked at Ming Zhifei and laughed. “I want to hoard money and then do whatever I want, by any means necessary. When I deal with people, I look for the benefit. If there’s no benefit, I don’t bother. I’m that kind of person.”
After Yang Jianzhen said “I’m that kind of person” twice, Ming Zhifei looked at his face. Yang Jianzhen wasn’t looking back; he was staring pointedly at the TV.
Ming Zhifei didn’t say a word.
On the screen, the leads encountered a crisis and fell off a cliff together. Yang Jianzhen laughed. “See? They’ve shared a life-and-death experience too. Now they have to get married, don’t they?”