WAM CH38

Early spring, early April, 1998.

The final interview Ye Qing gave before his death took place in a cramped and narrow recording studio.

Vintage gray cotton sofas were placed facing each other. Above, a spotlight resembling a large wok cast its beam downwards, rapidly raising the temperature within the studio by several degrees, making it appear incredibly sweltering.

The floor was also a dull gray; its material was indistinguishable, but it was so smooth it was reflective. One could vaguely see the busy, moving reflections of the directing team filming nearby.

Watching this video now, the image quality was unbearably rough, and the color tone skewed dark. But Ye Qing, sitting opposite the host wearing a soft sweater, was so quiet he seemed to glow.

His features were like a landscape painting—just a few light strokes, yet outlining an almost piercingly sorrowful tone.

The host was a face Shao Si had never seen before. She had finely permed hair, and her legs, clad in black bell-bottoms, were crossed. In her twenties, with a standard smile plastered on her face, she looked straight ahead and asked softly, “I’d like to ask, what do you feel is the most important thing to you?”

Ye Qing’s eyes first stared at a certain corner. After a long while, he shifted his gaze to the host’s face. His voice was very distinctive; once heard, it could not be forgotten.

“…Love, freedom.”

“The air and space to openly express my identity.”

…

After watching the entire interview, Shao Si dragged the progress bar back to that spot and listened to his answer once more.

He couldn’t quite understand.

Love? Freedom? Those two were easy to grasp, but what did that last sentence mean?

This interview video was unreleased content from the television station, originally scheduled to broadcast at 8:00 PM on April 13th on Channel 12. However, the night before, nearing midnight, Ye Qing fell from a tall building and died on the spot.

The police ruled it a suicide.

Shao Si was sitting on the carpet by his bedroom door, his back against the door panel, having stared at the other files in his email for a long time. His phone suddenly vibrated twice; the sound was significantly muffled by the plush carpet. A text message lay quietly in his inbox.

—This is all I could find; I can’t dig up any more. Consider this video a freebie from me. If you insist on continuing the investigation, I can give you my senior brother’s number. He’s much better than I am, though his price is also higher.

At first glance, this message seemed perfectly fine, but upon closer inspection, it wasn’t hard to spot something fishy.

If there was nothing left to find, why recommend this so-called senior brother?

Too lazy to type a reply, Shao Si called him directly. The other end rang twice before connecting. As usual, a voice changer was used, making the voice sound bizarre, like an old monster with a youthful face: “Hello, good day.”

“…” Shao Si bent his leg and shifted his posture. “Do you have another voice? This one sounds too awful.”

“I do, please wait a moment.”

After a pause, Shao Si listened to the increasingly bizarre sound checks on the other end and decided to just give up on this guy. Cutting straight to the chase, he asked, “You say there’s nothing left to find, but then you offer me your senior brother’s number. So, what exactly is the problem with this matter?”

The other end fell silent for two seconds.

“Actually, there’s no problem at all. However, I found a small forum from back then. Of course, it was shut down ages ago, but I found its backup records. After restoring them, I discovered some rather strange things.”

This small forum was somewhat similar to the current Tianya forum, gathering a group of anonymous netizens who shot the breeze every day, the information within a mix of truth and lies.

“It’s hard to explain. I’ll organize the specifics tomorrow and send them to you.”

After saying this, the other party hung up the phone.

Shao Si was already having trouble sleeping, and emotions fermented easily on nights like this.

Countless speculations flashed through his mind at once, but in the end, he couldn’t grasp a single one.

For things he couldn’t figure out for the time being, Shao Si didn’t continue to force himself. He braced his arm and stood up, planning to go downstairs for a drink to kill time.

The hotel Director Ou selected had excellent security measures and a very complete set of facilities.

When Shao Si went downstairs, it was already past 2:00 AM. Most people were already asleep, and there were barely even a few waiters in the downstairs restaurant.

He originally intended to go straight to the bar to get a drink, but on his way back with the drink, he stopped halfway in front of a black piano in the center of the restaurant.

Actually, when Shao Si first debuted, the company had put them into an idol group as a trial run. They made the trainees mimic Korean top-tier groups, singing, dancing, and appearing on variety shows to gain fans.

Though later on, no one ever mentioned this “B17” group that had zero presence and felt incredibly stupid to look back on now.

Their group of seventeen only released one album, held a few fan meetings, and appeared on two variety shows. Before the audience even recognized all their faces, the company forcibly disbanded them.

…

Shao Si’s singing wasn’t considered too good, but fortunately, he could carry a tune and his timbre was decent. He just lacked emotional expression.

He couldn’t sing bitter love songs or rap. Making him bark passionately on stage… he’d rather die.

In B17, Shao Si had been rather maverick. While everyone else mostly closed their eyes, clutched their clothes over their chests, and sang with expressions of deep, painful affection—occasionally opening their eyes to shoot a cold, handsome look at the camera—Shao Si just stood there alone, without even lifting the corner of his mouth.

Although he sang without emotion, he had practiced the piano since he was young.

Recalling the past, Shao Si casually set his drink aside, stood by the piano, and tapped a few keys to warm up. Then he sat down and played their incredibly stupid title track from back then, A Sky Full of Stars.

The brisk yet sorrowful melody slowly drifted through the empty restaurant.

“Want to give you a bouquet of baby’s breath, snuggle by your ear and tell you I love you, but why did you choose to go far away, leaving me here all alone…”

…

Gu Yanzhou walking into the restaurant was purely accidental. He originally just went to the gym to get something. Having stayed in the gym for a while in the evening, he only now realized he had accidentally left a copy of the script in the locker room.

However, passing by the restaurant, he heard sounds coming from inside.

Shao Si’s long, slender fingers danced unhurriedly across the piano keys. His eyes were closed. Perhaps because he had already showered and was ready for bed, his front bangs were tied up with a small rubber band, sticking high up and exposing his entire forehead. He wore a loose-fitting black sweater that made his skin look exceptionally pale. The chandelier above cast a light downward, gently lining him with a halo.

Gu Yanzhou had always known that Shao Si’s good looks were practically illegal, and his entire body emanated a cold aura that kept strangers at bay. Usually, when he didn’t speak, his presence was powerful—nearly 1.8 meters tall with a slender build.

Perhaps the most attractive thing about Shao Si was this unapproachable sense of distance.

Yet, after interacting with him longer, he discovered the man was just lazy to his very bones.

Shao Si played very smoothly at the beginning. But as he neared the end, he couldn’t quite remember a few notes. He tried all the similar notes, but the more he tried, the messier it got, until he finally just threw his hands up and quit. He opened his eyes and found Gu Yanzhou leaning against the doorway, having watched him for who knew how long: “…Why are you here?”

Gu Yanzhou shook the stack of papers in his hand: “Grabbing something. You?”

Shao Si bent one leg, tilted his head, and rested it on his knee, saying, “Can’t sleep, a bit of insomnia.”

After speaking, he reached out for the wine glass he had set aside earlier.

The ice cubes had already half-melted, diluting the drink and making it taste rather bland.

However, Gu Yanzhou walked over, fixed three fingers against the glass, and pulled the drink from Shao Si’s hand: “Listened to you play for so long just now. In return, I’ll mix a drink for you. What do you want?”

Shao Si maintained his lazy demeanor, slumping on the stool refusing to budge. So Gu Yanzhou grabbed his wrist, finally pulling him up.

Shao Si followed behind him and watched Gu Yanzhou enter through the side door. While Gu Yanzhou was getting the glasses, Shao Si leaned over the bar counter, dragged his finger across the menu, and finally pointed to the large words ‘Orange Juice’, saying: “This one. Do you know how to squeeze oranges?”

Holding two glasses and preparing to mix a martini for him, Gu Yanzhou couldn’t help but set the glasses down when he heard this. He looked at him and asked, “Are you serious?”

“Serious, extremely serious,” Shao Si stood on tiptoe to peer behind the bar and asked worriedly, “…Is there a juicer?”

In the end, Gu Yanzhou really did squeeze a glass of orange juice for him.

Shao Si watched as he rolled up his sleeves, washed the oranges in the sink, then picked up a knife, skillfully cutting them open and peeling them.

The two engaged in a rather harmonious casual chat. As Gu Yanzhou peeled the oranges, he asked without looking up, “What was that song you were playing just now called?”

“It’s better you don’t know, it’s an incredibly melodramatic song.” Shao Si was currently sitting on a high round stool, his legs bent, the tips of his toes touching the ground, swaying left and right—the complete image of an idler. “…Have you ever heard of a group called B17?”

Gu Yanzhou finished peeling the last piece, put down the knife, wiped his hands with a tissue, and looked up to ask, “No. Are they Korean?”

“No, domestic.” Shao Si thought about it and added, “I was even the captain back then.”

Gu Yanzhou gave him a deeply meaningful look and said, “No wonder they disbanded.”

“…” Shao Si knocked on the table in dissatisfaction, “What are you trying to imply?”

Gu Yanzhou poured the freshly squeezed juice into a glass, pushed it toward him, and added casually: “Nothing really. Your orange juice, take your time.”

Shao Si took it, holding the straw with one hand and the glass with the other: “Thanks.”

The situation eventually evolved into Shao Si drinking his orange juice while chatting with Gu Yanzhou about the trivial matters from when he first debuted.

Back then, seventeen people squeezed into one makeup room, and they had less than ten minutes to change their performance outfits.

Everything was small—the happiness as well as the troubles.

They were like freshly sown seeds; a few drops of rain and a few wisps of wind were their everything.

One day, when Chi Zijun’s Weibo gained a few dozen followers, he was thrilled to death, happy for an entire day, and even foolishly posted a celebratory message for breaking a thousand followers.

“…But someone like you probably hasn’t experienced these things,” Shao Si said, resting his head on his hand as he watched Gu Yanzhou pour himself a glass of vodka, add three ice cubes, and continued, “You won awards until your hands went soft the moment you debuted. Do you know what everyone outside says about you? They say you’re the ‘cheat-code Best Actor’.”

How could it not look like using a cheat code? Achieving godhood with a single work.

“Read less of those messy reports,” Gu Yanzhou said with a twitch of his mouth. “When I was playing bit parts as an extra, you guys were still playing in the mud.”