`Chapter 13

Chapter 13

Saint in the Fog, as a “suspense+” web drama, exploded from the very opening scene.

Detective Zhao Ke (played by Duan Wenting), approaching forty, suffers the dual blows of his master’s death and a marriage breakup. At the lowest point in his life, he encounters a career turning point—he is transferred to Mist City, a quiet and prosperous small city in the south.

However, this peace is soon shattered by an extremely gruesome dismemberment case. A cleaner discovers multiple carefully cut, fragile bone fragments, thin as porcelain, in the trash bins of Xingfu Garden residential area.

“Crush bones and scatter ashes”—this phrase, carrying the ultimate curse, spreads like a plague among the residents via social media videos from the scene, breeding panic. Police face enormous pressure, but the investigation stalls: overburned bone fragments yield no DNA; the victim’s identity remains unconfirmed; the discarded remains seem like a “ghost” skeleton. Some even speculate the bones aren’t human, but from cats or dogs—a deliberate hype…

Zhao Ke is urgently assigned to lead a full-area search and eventually locks onto the row houses near the residential area, confirmed as the first discovery scene. Yet the scene is handled almost “perfectly”: the body is neatly dismembered, body parts bagged and stacked in the refrigerator, the victim’s head on top, lips curled, skin bluish-gray, rigid like a display specimen, not even a noticeable smell of blood.

In cruel contrast, the backyard of the villa has two barbecue grills still running. When the oven door opens, a thick, greasy, charred smell hits the witnesses’ noses. Hanging inside is half a human leg, blackened by smoking! This hellish scene shatters the psychological defense of onlookers; even experienced senior detectives cannot help but retch against the wall, a chill running down their spine.

At the same time, across the street at the police forensic center, intern Lin Yutong quietly watches the police cars rushing below, silently removing her lab coat.

“Xiao Lin, heading out?” a colleague asks from the equipment room.

“Mm,” Lin Yutong calmly replies while carefully washing her hands with the standard seven-step method, “going to report a case.”

Shiyin, reading the script, rubbed her eyes in disbelief: Excuse me (are you kidding me)? A forensic pathologist committing murder? Can this even be filmed? Will this character setup pass review??

“Nervous?”

Wen Jinhé parked the car and turned to the passenger seat. They were now on the outskirts of Yunxi. Wen Jinhé had specially come to pick up Shiyin and bring her to the set. Saint in the Fog has a large proportion of dialogue-heavy scenes, so interior shoots are numerous. Luckily, the sets hadn’t been dismantled yet, saving significant costs for reshoots.

“A little,” Shiyin admitted honestly. “But moderate nerves help me stay in character, so it’s fine.”

A faint blue shadow hung under her eyes; her fingers lightly pressed her swollen temples. She had been studying the script intensely these past two days, sleeping less than five hours in total. Though young and resilient, Shiyin felt her eyes already looked weary—a reflection of exhaustion more than age.

This state ironically brought her closer to Lin Yutong’s detached, world-weary fatigue.

Shiyin carefully folded the heavily annotated, worn character bio and put it in her bag. As a substitute actress, she had no right to attend early script readings, no director or screenwriter guiding her through the character arc, no lively opening ceremony. Even before her role was finalized, she would receive zero publicity.

Unknown to anyone, the night before, Shiyin had used Explosion Drama Prophet to analyze the series. Although her script copy was incomplete, Saint in the Fog had an overall rating of four and a half stars!

This number was a shot of adrenaline, instantly dispelling all fatigue. Shiyin knew clearly that if such an opportunity slipped through her fingers, she would regret it for life.

“Sister Wen, I’m ready,” Shiyin clenched her fists, raising them in determination toward the air. “GOGOGO, let’s go in.”

As soon as she spoke, a semi-transparent system screen slowly unfolded before her:

【Main Mission: Debut】

【Mission Objective: Complete filming the role of “Lin Yutong” in Saint in the Fog, achieve audience satisfaction of 85%】

The set of Saint in the Fog was already quiet after principal photography, with only a few crew members remaining. As soon as the two entered, several eyes instinctively glanced over, briefly observing before returning to hushed whispers.

“I bet Zheng Ruwei has caught wind of this; maybe your file is already on her desk,” Wen Jinhé said with a playful smirk.

Zheng Ruwei was the actress removed for tax evasion.

“She’s going to be disappointed,” Shiyin shrugged casually, tone light. “I’m just an 18th-tier, rookie with nothing but bald determination. She studying me is a waste of her time.”

Her only completed film, Song of Chaos, hadn’t been released. Shiyin’s resume was spotless, empty-handed.

“You probably haven’t experienced Zheng Ruwei’s temper,” Wen Jinhé said sympathetically, smiling. “She’s petty. After working hard on her projects, only to make a dress for a ‘newcomer,’ it’ll take her a whole year to sulk about it.”

Shiyin gave an attentive nod: “Exactly, that’s why taxes must be paid properly.”

The studio atmosphere was subdued. Qu Ping was addressing several crew members with a serious expression.

“Director Qu, if you furrow your brows any further, you could trap a fly. Has the fire subsided?” Wen Jinhé stepped forward decisively. Shiyin, like a little tail, followed closely, quietly asserting her presence.

Qu Ping looked up: “Oh, Chief Manager Wen, what brings you here? Any guidance?”

“Guidance? Hardly,” Wen Jinhé replied calmly. “I’m here with a helping hand—look, bringing a firefighter.”

Shiyin immediately stepped forward, introducing herself: “Hello, Director Qu. I’m Shiyin; you can just call me Xiao Shi.”

Qu Ping sized her up: “Here for Lin Yutong? Have you read the script?”

“Yes, finished it.” Shiyin nodded briefly, concisely.

“Fine,” Qu Ping said flatly, waving her hand. “Then just shoot a scene directly.”

Wen Jinhé’s smile faltered; she raised an eyebrow in mild displeasure: “Hey, we said it would be an internal audition, how did it become a direct shoot?”

Qu Ping’s expression remained calm, but carried an unarguable tone: “If there are conditions, then just film it. Besides, there’s a recording; it’s easier for the production team to evaluate, and in the end, don’t they still have to give their approval?”

“Teacher Wang, He Mei, please come help with the scene,” Qu Ping gestured to the side. “Teacher Wang, you’ll play Lao Zhang; He Mei, you’ll cameo as Xiao Huang. We’re shooting Lin Yutong’s first interrogation after turning herself in.”

The two responded cheerfully, chatting as they walked into the interrogation room set. Gradually, the casual ease faded from them: “Lao Zhang” sat steadily with a thermos cup, “Xiao Huang” lowered his head, flipping through a nonexistent case file. Just through these changes in posture, an invisible pressure condensed within the scene.

~

“Interrogation Room”

Harsh white light poured down. Lin Yutong’s pupils contracted slightly, then adjusted. Her amber eyes, polished like specimens, clearly reflected the outlines of the two people across from her.

Lao Zhang opened his notebook, tone steady as usual: “Name.”

“Lin Yutong.”

“Age.”

“25 years old.”

“Occupation.”

“…Forensic Center, intern forensic pathologist.” When asked about her occupation, Lin Yutong paused ever so slightly.

Lao Zhang looked her over: “Do you know why we called you here?”

“Yes,” Lin Yutong nodded calmly, as if reporting an autopsy result. “I’m turning myself in. I killed someone and dismembered the body.”

Her wrists were shackled in cold handcuffs, yet she seemed unfeeling. She sat upright, hands flat on the table, fingertips touching, as if attending a formal academic discussion.

Lao Zhang laid out photos from the scene one by one, the topmost a close-up of bones in the trash.

“Do these places look familiar?”

Lin Yutong scanned the photos, showing no reaction, and precisely reported the location: “Under Building 3, Xingfu Garden Community, the sorted trash bins.”

Lao Zhang: “When did you throw the bone fragments?”

Lin Yutong remained silent.

Lao Zhang’s voice suddenly rose: “Answer me! When?!”

“Early Wednesday morning last week, around 4:30,” Lin Yutong’s expression stayed calm. “It was foggy, and pedestrian traffic was minimal.”

Lao Zhang frowned: “Why there?”

Lin Yutong lowered her eyelids, quietly pressing her lips together, as if savoring the memory of moving through the fog.

“Bang!” Lao Zhang slammed the table. “Answer!”

Lin Yutong said: “Close to the university town, familiar environment, high trash collection frequency, not easily noticed.”

Lao Zhang leaned forward, the oppressive pressure falling like a mountain:

“Who, is, the, victim?”

Lin Yutong’s loosely clasped fingertips lightly touched, a trace of faint surprise in her eyes: “You… don’t know?”

This rhetorical question was like a cold surgical knife, accurately piercing the police’s predicament of the unidentified remains.

Lin Yutong suddenly looked at Lao Zhang, throwing out an irrelevant question: “Officer, judging by your accent, are you from Hui County?”

“Answer my question!” Lao Zhang’s knuckles drummed the table, veins bulging on his forehead. “Who is the deceased? The process of the crime!”

“Oh,” Lin Yutong said slowly, as if only just receiving the core command, “…I don’t know them.”

Lao Zhang forced himself to ask despite the absurdity: “So you killed randomly?”

Lin Yutong leaned back, giving a probabilistic answer: “Perhaps.”

This ambiguous indifference completely ignited Lao Zhang’s nerves: “Yes means yes, no means no! What’s ‘perhaps’? You don’t know them, so why kill them? And how did you dismember the body?!”

Lin Yutong’s gaze swept over his furious face, calmly recalling: “Soft tissue can be handled with a scalpel, cutting along the joint cartilage connections. For hard parts like the skull or tibia, use an orthopedic saw; the cross-sections remain neat and easy to package. Muscle tissue can be boiled or roasted for decomposition. As for bones… I used a slow-roasting oven at low temperature. Though it didn’t reach the ideal temperature, it carbonized enough to be unrecognizable.”

Her tone was flat and cold, intertwining professional forensic terminology with the casual manner of discussing kitchen ingredients, creating a chillingly dissonant effect.

Lin Yutong paused briefly, then continued: “Bones require 800 degrees to carbonize, 1000 degrees to vitrify. Ideally, they should be burned longer, then crushed and ground, for more thorough processing… but under the circumstances, this is as far as I could go.”

“Ugh—”

Xiao Huang, who was taking notes, finally couldn’t hold it in and rushed out, covering his mouth.

Lao Zhang’s face turned ashen, a chill climbing up his spine. Furious, he shouted: “You study forensics! You know better than anyone: ‘Speak for the dead, protect the rights of the living!’ You should be speaking for the dead, seeking justice for wronged souls! But you used what you learned to kill a living person, dismember them, and burn the body! How can you justify wearing that white coat?!”

The extremity of his anger twisted his face: “You’ve defiled this white coat, and desecrated your profession!!”

Lin Yutong listened quietly until all the echoes dissipated in the interrogation room. She adjusted her sleeves and spoke slowly: “Officer, have you finished? If so, we can continue. I admit I killed and dismembered someone, and the law will give me the punishment I deserve.”

Her absolute, inhuman calm struck Lao Zhang like a silent hammer, shattering the last remnants of his rationality.

“You—!”

“Cut!”

Qu Ping’s voice pierced the tense atmosphere on set: “Teacher Wang, your emotions are off. You’re too impatient.”

“Lao Zhang” Wang Haiping froze in place, his chest still rising and falling uncontrollably.

It was as if he had been forcibly pulled back from a nightmare, and the source of that nightmare—Shi Yin—was now sitting upright.

Just seconds ago, her eyes had been like frozen amber, showing no warmth of humanity. Now, they carried the unique gentleness and curiosity of a junior, obediently looking at director Qu Ping.

The speed of this transformation startled Wang Haiping.

“Cough cough…” Wang Haiping’s hand hesitated in the air before he blindly reached for his thermos.

He was no longer in the scene, yet his soul seemed stuck in that interrogation chair.

Wang Haiping was belatedly shocked by how the boundary between on-screen and off-screen blurred over those few minutes. He had completely forgotten about “acting,” and the anger and disgust he felt toward “Lin Yutong” utterly consumed him.

In that moment, he faced not a young actor, but a real, calm demon.

“Damn it, this is killing me,” Wang Haiping patted his chest, slowly exhaling the tension he’d been holding.

Having spent years on set, he prided himself on being a “veteran,” yet this young girl had drawn out his most intense genuine emotions with the calmest manner.

Shi Yin’s performance was like a bottomless sponge, absorbing his emotional outburst entirely. She showed no exaggerated expressions, no heightened tone; all tension was contained in her overly calm eyes and indifferent voice. Lao Zhang’s thunderous questioning collided with this silent wall and was instantly swallowed, leaving no echo.

This was completely different from Zheng Ruwei’s previous superficial, expressionless acting. Shi Yin’s Lin Yutong had constructed an absolute psychological domain, where she controlled the pace. Lao Zhang’s impatience fell perfectly into her trap.

Thinking this, Wang Haiping’s emotions were complicated, spreading a mix of indescribable feelings: a tinge of being crushed by a junior, some embarrassment at being outmatched, but more than anything, uncontrollable admiration and envy.

In the scene, he was toyed with by Lin Yutong.

Off-camera, he was unknowingly dragged into the emotional abyss by Shi Yin.

This “firefighter” was extraordinary!

Behind the monitor, Qu Ping watched the playback intently, fingers tapping on the script. She felt elated inside, but her face feigned worry: “Manager Wen, you didn’t bring reinforcements, you brought me trouble.”

Wen Jinhe looped her arm around Qu Ping, dragging her to a corner to whisper: “Stop pretending! Who’s always whining ‘my hard work is ruined’? I brought you the solution, and you complain it’s bitter?”

Qu Ping glanced around and silently mouthed a name: “…Zheng Ruwei’s side, someone wants to protect her.”

Wen Jinhe rolled her eyes so far it almost reached the ceiling: “Tax evasion confirmed leaves only one path: a ban. You want to protect her? Go ahead.”

Qu Ping muttered: “I heard Zheng Ruwei is willing to pay in full.”

Wen Jinhe scoffed: “Even if she pays, capital isn’t stupid. At this critical point, would she dare show up? She’d have to wait two or three years. Your drama gets indefinitely shelved until her comeback? Can you wait that long?!”

Qu Ping: “….” That remark pierced her straight through.

Bottom line = high probability of disaster, she understood.

“Broke,” Qu Ping spread her hands, starting to whine, “Sister, I really have no money left.”

“Don’t lie!” Wen Jinhe said angrily. “Someone as stingy as you would leave no emergency fund? Fine, I’ll compromise. The precious gem I brought, zero pay. You tell me if you want it!”

“No pay?!”

Qu Ping’s eyes lit up, and she tightly grabbed Wen Jinhe’s hand, shaking it up and down: “It’s a deal! No backing out!”

Free is the best—this opportunity had to be seized immediately. No second thoughts, reshoot now!

“Wait!” Wen Jinhe grabbed her as she tried to run, “You don’t take the money, fine, but I have to fight for the credit! I saved you this huge sum; giving you a ‘special appearance’ isn’t too much, right?”

Shi Yin stood quietly to the side, watching the two seniors in the corner enact a full-blown tug-of-war, chasing and dodging, punching and dodging. Finally, Wen Jinhe executed a perfect “bear hug,” wrapping Qu Ping’s neck. Both of them returned with expressions of “mission accomplished.”

Shi Yin smiled, eyes showing appreciation, secretly thinking: Wen Jinhe is truly professional—can put on a show, gives face when needed, skilled in maneuvering. No wonder she is the gold-standard agent Shi Yin carefully selected and actively pursued.

—At this moment, she didn’t know she was about to be “purchased for zero dollars.”

“Xiao Shi,” Qu Ping and Wen Jinhe returned, arms around each other’s shoulders, smiling, “Your agent will handle the contract. I’ll give you a ‘special appearance.’ Let’s hurry; filming starts tomorrow. How about it?”

Before Shi Yin could respond, Qu Ping turned decisively to the executive director, speaking with the speed of issuing a military order:

“Notify everyone—start with Lin Yutong’s solo shots! Have Duan Wenting coordinate his schedule; we’ll film the scenes with the other actors when he’s on leave. As for the schedule… one week on set, one week on location, total of half a month—I want it ready for the summer release!”

After arranging everything, she looked at Shi Yin again, her gaze burning, carrying unshakable authority:

“Time is tight, task heavy. Any questions?”

Shi Yin suppressed her excitement, replying decisively: “No questions! Thank you, Director Qu. I’ll give my all!”

~

In the first week of July, Shi Yin began filming Saints in the Mist.

Her first formal scene was a “heavy” anatomy class. This segment aimed to fill in Lin Yutong’s student years, showing the perspective through police visits and classmates’ descriptions in flashbacks.

During the first makeup test, when Shi Yin emerged in a white coat, Qu Ping frowned and shook her head. The look was too pristine, like a doctor saving lives on an operating table—entirely unlike Lin Yutong’s isolated and cold personality.

“Doesn’t feel right,” Qu Ping told the makeup artist. “You can’t copy Zheng Ruwei’s makeup. I want a Lin Yutong that’s more realistic, more full of story. Don’t make her look artificially polished, don’t cover her dark circles. Her face must not have powder. I want the kind of pale, exhausted look someone gets from long hours in a lab, never seeing daylight.”

The makeup artist, a tall, slender young man, wore a black mask, with a small earring in his left ear glinting in the sunlight. He gestured for Shi Yin to sit again, gently lifting her chin, brushing across her face. Gradually, his movements slowed.

“Your face… is really easy to work with,” he murmured in admiration.

Shi Yin: “?”

She had been resting her eyes, her long lashes trembling as she opened them, looking at him through the mirror.

His fingertips traced the contours of her face through the air: “Small face, very structured bones, clear layers. High points, like brow bones and nose bridge, are sharp and defined. Low points are restrained and subtle. And have you noticed? Your face has almost no dead angles.”

He paused, gathered courage, lightly met Shi Yin’s gaze, then quickly looked away as if burned, speaking seriously as though analyzing a work of art: “I’ve done makeup for many stars; some only have one side of the face good, so I have to find camera angles. But not you. Every angle… looks good. On camera, it’ll only be more striking.”

As he spoke, his ears turned faintly red, hurriedly picking up a brush to cover his embarrassment.

“And you wear makeup very well,” he added, trying to sound professional while hiding his fascination.

Shi Yin’s bare face was clean and soft, like a blank canvas. Any color applied to it would be perfectly carried and radiate its own unique brilliance.

“Light makeup like this looks transparent and high-end, but if you try heavier makeup…” he imagined it, his voice carrying a hint of anticipation, “you might look stunning, breathtakingly beautiful.”

“Tried it once,” Shi Yin answered.

In Song of Turmoil, her character Yu Ying had a night banquet scene, with elaborate, heavy makeup that looked very good on camera. Qiu He even praised her.

The young makeup artist finally put down his brush but couldn’t take his eyes off Shi Yin’s face, sighing softly: “Many beauties are made by makeup, but you… it’s like you’re giving us makeup artists a masterclass. You’re definitely going to be famous,” he said confidently, “just this face alone can make you famous.”

After saying this, he realized his lapse, the skin visible outside his mask flushing red, creating a striking contrast with his fashionable, casual appearance.

Shi Yin slightly tilted her head, studying in the mirror the familiar yet slightly unfamiliar face of “Lin Yutong.”

It was the first time a professional had evaluated her appearance so carefully. She knew she was attractive, but had only thought of it as “normally pretty.” She hadn’t expected that, in a professional makeup artist’s eyes, she was considered a “naturally gifted” actor’s face.

This was actually good—a face “with a story” was more valuable than mere beauty, meaning her future adaptability would be stronger.

“Um…” the young man seemed to have made up his mind, speaking cautiously, “Can I… add you on WeChat?”

Shi Yin’s gaze met his in the mirror, her lips curling in a perfectly measured smile: “Sorry, my company is strict. My phone is usually with my agent, so whoever chats with you… may not be me.”

She immediately offered an impeccable alternative: “You can follow my Weibo. I’ll post photos and updates there.”

Weibo was newly registered by Shi Yin and was still barren, completely blank.

Wen Jinhe, who had been sitting on the sofa flipping through a magazine, glanced at Shi Yin meaningfully, a knowing smile curving her lips, but she didn’t say a word to reveal the truth.

“Oh, oh… okay.” The young man (makeup artist) was stunned for a moment, the brightness in his eyes dimming. He lowered his head, subtly tidying up his makeup brushes, a faint sense of disappointment spreading through the air.

Makeup finished, Shi Yin quickly changed into her white coat and put on a pair of rimless glasses.

The thin lenses cleverly concealed her overly long eyelashes, refining her eyes into a calm, icy gaze, like a scalpel immersed in formalin, exuding the detachment and danger unique to “Lin Yutong.”

Shi Yin took a few selfies, preparing to get back to work.

Once the makeup artist left, Wen Jinhe crossed her arms, leisurely standing up, a cold smile playing on her lips: “Not bad, huh? Being flirted with by a handsome guy in person—how does it feel?”

Shi Yin—or rather, the still-in-character “Lin Yutong”—pushed her glasses up her nose with one finger, her tone icy and flat: “Does it? I think all his evaluations are based on professional bone structure and camera presence analysis.”

“Stop, stop, strong sis, there’s no camera here.” Wen Jinhe flicked her head lightly.

Shi Yin: “!!”

A slight pain registered on her forehead, but “Lin Yutong” cannot show pain, so she maintained her cold expression, using her eyes to silently protest.

Wen Jinhe spoke seriously: “Reminder: at this stage, I don’t allow you to date. Don’t be fooled by a few sweet words from those boys. Men will only hold you back; they offer no real help to your career.”

“Don’t worry, Wen Jie.”

Shi Yin slowly removed her glasses, and the detachment of “Lin Yutong” ebbed away like a tide. She rubbed her forehead, her eyes flashing a nearly sharp ambition and clarity: “Dating? What’s better than focusing on my career?”

“I’m going to become a best actress!”

Shi Yin struck a classic One Piece pose, full of confidence, absurdly dramatic, hands on her hips.

~

It was the height of summer; the studio was unbearably hot, the air filled with a strange mixture of rancid and sour stench.

For the anatomy class, the “corpse teacher” in the wide shots was played by extras, but for close-ups, the props team prepared real animal organs. They had slightly discolored under high heat, edges oozing unknown mucus, giving off an intensely offensive odor.

“Help, the pig liver is green!”

“I’ve lost my appetite for dinner… ugh!”

“Yue!! I can’t handle this, the smell is overwhelming.”

The extras clustered around the dissection table, assaulted by the biochemical stench, covering their noses or frowning, their faces full of unhidden resistance and disgust.

“Cut!” Qu Ping’s roar pierced the tense air, filled with obvious displeasure, “You’re playing medical students! Future scalpel handlers! Why are you dodging? Again!”

“Cut! Back row, manage your expressions! You’re observing a dissection, not an alien!”

“Cut! How many times do I have to say, focus, be professional. You’re here to learn, not to be tortured! Again!”

Repeated NGs made the atmosphere even more tense. The thick, sticky air carried Qu Ping’s anger, and the stench of decay seemed even stronger.

Amid this chaos, the camera naturally captured Shi Yin.

Before filming, she secretly placed a piece of raw ginger under her tongue.

Now, “Lin Yutong,” as portrayed by Shi Yin, stood quietly at the edge of the crowd, seemingly creating her own space. She showed no discomfort like the others, calmly putting on gloves, picking up the cold instruments, moving with fluid precision.

The blade descended accurately, steadily cutting through.

Before her, it seemed less like decaying tissue and more like an exam that demanded serious attention.

“Lin Yutong”’s gaze, through the glasses, was fully focused, entirely immersed in her own domain.

Only the actors closest to her saw her throat move very slightly, but it was so brief it seemed like an illusion of light and shadow.

“Perfect! That shot works!”

Qu Ping stared at the monitor, exhaling deeply. Excited, she bumped Wen Jinhe’s shoulder and lowered her voice: “Tsk tsk, what a treasure… where did you dig her up from?”

Wen Jinhe elegantly twirled her phone with one hand, a small smile on her lips: “Didn’t dig, the treasure walked up to my door herself.”

Qu Ping looked at her pride and couldn’t help but poke fun, pointing her chin toward Shi Yin, feigning admiration: “This young girl is really something, stable and hardworking. The key is her mindset—she can stay steady. This is a great chance for your comeback, a hundred times better than some ‘Chen Shimei’ types who never learn, get famous, and run.”

Wen Jinhe’s smile instantly faded. She pressed her lips together, said nothing, and directed her gaze toward the center of the set.

Shi Yin was hugging a container, vomiting loudly, while the props assistant beside her panicked and jumped around, showing not a hint of future best actress glamour.

~

Time flowed like water, and in the blink of an eye, a week had passed.

Shi Yin was exhausted to the point of near delirium, seeing everyone as if they were dissectible skeletal specimens.

Her life had become overwhelmingly full: every day she went to Minghu Villa in the early morning to accompany Prince the dog for morning exercise, then transformed into a subway commuting warrior, sneaking in naps among the crowded rush hour, and arrived at Yunxi by ten o’clock to become “Lin Yutong,” only being “released” late at night. Director Qu was rushing the schedule until his eyes were red; the whole crew was like whipped spinning tops, and Shi Yin was undoubtedly spinning the fastest.

She was too busy for socializing and had no energy to maintain relationships, though most of the crew were friendly—despite their heavy complaints from overtime.

Except for the actor playing the “victim,” said to be a male junior of Zheng Ruwei in Shanghai theater circles. He always glanced at Shi Yin from the corner of his eyes and added a melodious, derisive snort each time they met.

Shi Yin was not angry at all.

"First act obediently, crush those beans.jpg"

This meme repeated in her mind, and she seriously considered: maybe next time during a dismemberment scene, she could cut even finer?

Very good, her mental state was becoming increasingly like “Lin Yutong.”

Filming could not be careless, and walking the dog—or rather, Prince walking her—could not be neglected either. Because Shi Yin was severely sleep-deprived, Kevin forbade her from riding her fast skateboard and suggested using a bicycle instead. But Prince the dog was unwilling to cooperate.

Kevin tried coaxing, almost begging on his knees, but Prince lazily lay on the ground, bored, wagging his tail.

Finally, Shi Yin had an idea and ordered a balance scooter online. She sat cross-legged on it, and Prince was overjoyed, running with her at full speed.

One morning, after finishing exercise, Shi Yin stopped at the pedestrian street by Minghu. Her recent life had been chaotic; she often forgot breakfast. As the aroma of street food wafted through the air, her empty stomach protested loudly.

Drawn by the strongest scent, Shi Yin stopped at a stall: “Boss, I want a scallion bun with sausage, brush on sweet sauce, no spice.”

She reached into her pocket to pay, then froze for a second—her phone seemed to be left in the villa living room.

“Boss, sorry, never mind! I didn’t bring money.”

“Ah? I already made it.” The boss looked troubled.

The customers in line immediately chimed in: “I’ll take it, give it to me!”

Shi Yin watched the food she was about to eat fly away, quietly sucking in a breath, her stomach protesting again.

Prince tilted his head curiously, using his big black grape-like eyes to study the customers ahead without blinking. He realized that two-legged beasts could use a small glowing brick on the square machine, “tap” it, and receive delicious food.

“Beep—”

A schoolboy shook his “Little Genius” wrist device and happily took his breakfast.

Prince lowered his head thoughtfully and looked at his furry front paws.

“Didn’t have breakfast? I’ll treat you.” Kevin, who had parked the bike, smiled as he approached.

Shi Yin was almost in tears: “Thank you, Kevin! You’re a good person!”

She immediately turned, voice full and clear: “Boss, two scallion buns! With sausage, brush on sweet sauce, no spice!”

If someone was treating her, she could eat double!

The boss glanced at her skeptically: “Really? Not changing your order?”

Shi Yin nodded vigorously: “Yes, yes!”

The hot scallion buns were ready; the boss packed them, entered the amount: “Scan here to pay.”

Kevin just took out his phone, but saw Prince stroll gracefully over, lift his front paw, and place the Apple Watch on his leg over the scan area.

“Prince!” Shi Yin exclaimed in alarm, reaching to stop him but too late.

“Zhi Pay received—16 yuan.” A crisp electronic female voice announced.

Kevin held his phone, frozen in place: “…”

Shi Yin stared blankly at Prince, who had quietly shown his skills, eyes wide in disbelief: “!!”

“Whoa!” the boss was so shocked he forgot to flip the spatula. “The little dogs nowadays are getting smart? They can buy things themselves now!”

Shi Yin grabbed the furry paw, looking at it again and again, mentally shouting: No, what kind-hearted person would set up Cloud QuickPay for their dog?!

Prince stuck out his pink tongue, showing his signature smiling lips.

~

Far across the ocean, in the VIP ward of Mayo Clinic, twilight draped slowly like a thin amber veil.

Li Xuan sat by the floor-to-ceiling window, the outline of his wheelchair carved sharply by the last light. He resembled a forgotten island, waiting in boundless silence for night to swallow him completely.

For a fleeting moment, his knuckles whitened, his arm muscles tensed, as he tried with his remaining instinct to support himself to stand.

But the struggle lasted only an instant; he almost immediately relaxed, letting himself sink back into shadow. A faint trace of self-mockery flickered in his eyes—disappointment had long since become habitual.

Twilight deepened, and in the ward, even the fall of a needle could be heard.

Suddenly, his phone screen lit up with an automatic bank notification, quietly resting in the notification bar:

"Your bank card ending 8888 was charged 16.00 RMB on July 10 at 6:23. Merchant: Lao Tan City Scallion Bun with Sauce. Current balance: 6,999,984.00 RMB."

Two minutes later, the screen lit up again:

"Your bank card ending 8888 was charged 2.50 RMB on July 10 at 6:25. Merchant: Mo Ji Soy Milk. Current balance: 6,999,981.50 RMB."

Finally, a trace of relief appeared on Li Xuan’s face.

He stared at the two insignificant transaction notifications in silence for a long time.

After a moment, Li Xuan touched the screen, bringing up the surveillance footage at the entrance of Minghu Villa, going back an hour.

In the footage, a black-and-white border collie sprinted with all its might, completely abandoning the intelligence and elegance typical of its breed, its goofy smile resembling a famously silly husky. On the balance scooter behind it, a girl sat cross-legged, her long hair flying, letting out a long yawn, eyes half-open, not watching the road at all.

One person, one dog, playing without a care in the world.

Li Xuan: “……”

He felt an emotional stir that he hadn’t experienced in a long time.