Chapter 3

Chapter 3: Tell Me Your Name

He really heard everything.

Being overheard by a stranger while being scolded harshly by one’s boss should be an embarrassing thing for most people.

But Song Yu only slightly frowned: "Had enough listening? If so, then leave."

Her voice was cold, with a hint of impatience.

Usually, she wouldn’t speak so harshly, even to a stranger. But at this moment, she was so rough it didn’t seem like her at all.

The stranger was not angry.

He only chuckled lightly: "Am I wrong?"

Oh, Song Yu thought, listen to the tone of this superior.

Contemptuous, indifferent, arrogant.

She couldn’t help but sneer: "Do men always like to preach to women like this?"

His smile deepened.

A low laugh, ambiguous and hoarse.

"Don’t compare me to your boss."

"You really can’t be compared," she curled her lips, "at least he pays the salary."

"Paying salary gives him the right to judge you?"

"I treat him like air," she said indifferently, "he pays, I shoot films, we’re just using each other as tools."

"You’re surprisingly open-minded," he teased.

The billboard outside the street window lit up without anyone noticing. In the darkness, half of Song Yu’s profile was dyed a faint golden-red. Her expression was so calm, only a small undying spark in her eyes shone brightly, stirring the heart.

She suddenly asked him, "Got any cigarettes left?"

He laughed shortly.

Snap.

A flattened cigarette box and a black lighter fell at her feet.

Song Yu: "Thanks."

In the darkness, she leaned against the wall, curled one leg up, spread the cigarette box on her thigh, and skillfully pulled out a cigarette.

An orange flower bloomed at her lips.

She actually rarely smoked. But being a director made it hard not to have a smoking habit, because once on set, the pressure was too great—staying up late, smoking, even drinking heavily—bad habits all came together. Perhaps everyone has some self-destructive tendency; only by tormenting the body can one strengthen the will.But when not filming, Song Yu lived a very healthy life—regular schedule, light diet, working out at least four times a week.

She hadn’t joined a crew for over two years.

She held the slender cigarette between her lips, while her other hand casually toyed with the small lighter. Black enamel material, smooth lines, understated yet luxurious. Her slender fingers expertly traced the line of letters at the bottom.

Cartier.

This stranger really was wealthy.

Nowadays, most people didn’t smoke real cigarettes. Modified e-cigarettes or nicotine patches were much cheaper. Cigarettes—the dry tobacco wrapped in paper—had become a genuine luxury.

Not to mention this was a limited edition lighter. Yet he casually tossed it at her feet like a discarded cigarette butt.

She couldn’t help but tease, “Cartier, and you just throw it away?”

“You like it?”

“Not exactly like. Used one back when I was filming,” Song Yu’s voice faintly carried nostalgia. Her face, illuminated by the firelight, finally showed a hint of warmth.

After a brief silence,

He asked her, “What’s your name?”

The question came abruptly.

Song Yu didn’t answer. Her heart suddenly skipped a beat.

Then she heard another lighter click upstairs.

A sharp tobacco smell drifted down the steps, curling softly toward her.

She couldn’t help but think, this really is a chain smoker. Wonder how many lighters he carries out every day.

“I can help you,” he continued.

His voice grew a little muffled, probably with a cigarette in his mouth.

“Help me?” Song Yu was taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“What do you lack? Money? Resources? A new movie?”

She didn’t answer but asked back, “Why?”

“Because I’m in a good mood today, want to do some good deeds,” he said casually. “And… I told you, your voice sounds nice, Miss Chen.”

Song Yu: “You know my surname is Chen.”

Of course, Li Cong had called her Xiao Chen earlier.

He smiled carelessly, “It’s simple. Twenty-six, female director, surname Chen. One phone call, I’d know who you are.”

Song Yu also smiled, “If you’re so all-knowing, why not just call me instead of asking?”

“Because I want to hear it from you. Using your own voice.”

In that low voice, there seemed to be a faint, subtle coaxing. Mixed with the tobacco scent, like a soul-consuming hook, trying to pull a person’s very spirit out.

He slowly repeated, “Tell me your name.”Song Yu’s mind fluttered. She felt her heartbeat accelerate, her brain burning, that strange flutter returning.

But the next second, her fingertip felt a sharp sting.

It turned out she had been burned by the cigarette ash.

The pain snapped Song Yu back to clarity.

Her brain started flashing red lights, like a maritime distress signal, warning her—because this stranger had suddenly crossed a boundary.

But she never acted passively.

So she threw the cigarette butt on the ground, crushed the embers, then flipped forward suddenly, sitting on the edge of the stair railing.

Although Song Yu’s movement was light, the old, shaky railing couldn’t bear the weight and shook violently.

She wasn’t afraid; instead, she leaned her elbow on the railing and slowly leaned her body backward.

From this angle, she could see that there was indeed someone standing upstairs.

The chaotic light was split apart; a huge shadow appeared on the wall.

His figure was tall and upright, his legs long and straight wrapped in suit pants, muscles firm, casually crossed, leaning slightly against the wall.

His expensive, shiny pointed leather shoes carelessly crushed the scattered cigarette butts on the floor.

From a director’s professional perspective, this scene was perfectly composed, with perfect lighting and shadows, a top-level cinematic feel. It had the dirtiness of the street but was filled with sharp power because of the man’s long legs.

Unfortunately, she didn’t have a camera at the moment.

“What are you doing?” he asked her.

The shadow on the wall tilted slightly toward her, a sculptural curve.

“I’m watching you,” Song Yu smiled faintly. “You’re very photogenic. Ever considered acting? How about I support you instead?”

He seemed momentarily stunned.

“You’ve always been upstairs, I downstairs. You heard my secrets and guessed my identity, yet I know nothing about you—such a difference in status, what help could there be?”

Actually, from this angle, Song Yu still couldn’t see his face.

She was just gambling. Gambling that he didn’t want his identity revealed. Gambling how much patience this lofty stranger would have for a chance late-night encounter.

She guessed right.

“I rarely do good deeds,” he said after a pause, lightly. “Think it over.”

Song Yu: “A stranger’s kindness—a cigarette is enough.”

He snorted.

Uncannily, she added, “I bet you’re rarely refused.”

He laughed loudly.

His chest shook with laughter, like playing a wildly uninhibited cello piece.

Somber, wild, yet extremely charming.“You’re the first,” he said. “Goodbye, Miss Chen.”

After a while, she heard faint footsteps. The door gently closed, and the smell of tobacco gradually faded.

He left.

The air still lingered with the sweet scent of datura.

Song Yu sat in place, fingers stroking the smooth surface of the lighter. Suddenly, she smiled slightly and threw it down too.

Goodbye? No need to say goodbye.

She would never come to S Star again.

Silence. After a long while, there was a “pop” sound of something hitting the floor.

The vortex in the stairwell, like an endless abyss, completely swallowed this expensive lighter—along with this trivial episode between strangers—smashing it to pieces.

Song Yu, fingering the burn mark on her finger, suddenly remembered she still had an unfinished call.

She took out her phone and called Li Cong back.

The call connected immediately. He sounded like he had been waiting for it and started with a sarcastic tone: “Director Chen, what a big memory lapse you have. Still remember to call me back?”

Song Yu looked at him calmly.

She suddenly realized they hadn’t had a peaceful conversation in a long time.

She said, “Li Cong, how long have we known each other? Six years? Seven?”

Li Cong snorted, about to say something.

But Song Yu interrupted him directly.

“I’ve always remembered—it was you who invested in my first film. You showed me recognition.”

“So even though these past two years, you deliberately suppressed my acting opportunities to support newcomers, I never got angry; you assigned me these insignificant jobs, cleaning up after others, I didn’t care.”

Although Song Yu’s tone remained calm, Li Cong’s expression grew increasingly ugly.

He wanted to interrupt but never found the chance. Gradually, he felt as if he was standing naked under a blinding incandescent lamp—ashamed and fearful.

Because he finally understood—the only fool was himself. She had seen through all his little tricks long ago.

Song Yu continued: “But tonight, I almost died in that theater. They say people see a flashback before death, so I realized that many so-called persistences… don’t matter. People change—I will change, and so will you.”

“Let’s terminate our contract.”

When he heard the words “terminate contract,” Li Cong’s expression completely changed.

“What did you say?” He trembled with anger.

Unexpectedly, his teacup tipped, spilling scalding water on the back of his hand. He jumped up in shock, flustered like a clumsy clown.

Still shouting at her: “Chen Song Yu, don’t be so ungrateful! Do you really think you’re an artist? How many people can put up with your bad temper? Do you know how much money I lost on that film two years ago? Who do you think you are to talk about termination…”

Song Yu said calmly: “I made you quite a bit of money too.”

She smiled without emotion: “If it weren’t for me back then, would this film company even have gotten off the ground?”Li Cong was absolutely furious, ignoring his reddened, burnt hand, his lips trembling: “You, you…”

Song Yu: “I’ve said everything I needed to say. That’s it.”

But Li Cong shouted loudly: “You ungrateful wretch! Without me, you’re nothing! Look how many female directors are in this industry? No matter how capable you are, in a few years, you’ll just obediently go back to get married and have kids, won’t you?”

Song Yu’s face darkened.

Li Cong knew she hated people bringing up gender, so he deliberately provoked her this way.

She sneered coldly: “My lifelong matters aren’t your concern, but since we were colleagues, here’s a parting piece of advice.”

She glanced at the baseball cap on Li Cong’s head.

Everyone who knew Li Cong knew he never took off his hat in public. Colleagues once thought it was some fashion statement, but only Song Yu knew why.

“Buy a wig,” she mocked.

Chi Yan leaned against the wall, exhaling smoke.

The light cast shadows on his face, cutting across his half-lit, handsome profile.

He coughed while letting out a low chuckle.

He never expected that just stepping out for a smoke would turn into watching a good show.

Of course, he hadn’t really left earlier.

She wanted to chase him away, so he played along, letting her have her scene.

Luckily, now she had left. He could cough without restraint.

“Cough cough... cough cough.”

Recently, Chi Yan’s craving for cigarettes had been intense, almost pathological, chain-smoking one after another.

Maybe because of smoking so much, when talking to that woman earlier, he felt his heart race and a restless agitation firing up in his brain like electricity.

But the feeling quickly faded. Amid the swirling smoke, he saw her figure again.

She leaned her hands on the railing, her upper body arching back freely.

The posture outlined her waist like a secretive swallowtail butterfly, slowly unfolding itself in the night.

The stairwell door opened again. Chi Yan raised his eyes, looking down with a nervousness even he hadn’t noticed.

Of course, it wasn’t her who came in.

It was his trusted aide, Xu Yang.

“Brother Chi, everything went smoothly,” Xu Yang said respectfully.

“Oh,” Chi Yan said, holding his cigarette, lazily leaning back.

Xu Yang continued reporting: “The scene has been cleaned up. The interstellar police just arrived two minutes ago. These public servants’ efficiency is really pathetic.”

“A bunch of useless people.”

“The police captain asked if you have time to make a... self-defense statement.”“Let him go talk to the lawyer himself.”

“...Alright.”

“What about Yang Yichuan?” Chi Yan asked again.

“He’s fine, also went to the hospital. On the way, I heard him talking to the Duke on the phone, thanking you repeatedly. Looks like our little play was very successful; he didn’t suspect a thing.”

Chi Yan smiled.

Coldly, lazily.

He had known all along that everything tonight was under his control.

Conspiracy, deception, killing. Everything was unfolding according to the script he wrote, with no difficulty and no surprises.

Yet success came too easily.

He actually found it somewhat dull, even less interesting than smoking in the stairwell.

Until Xu Yang hesitated and said, “There’s one more small thing. During the clearing just now, a brother said they found a camera on the scene, pointing directly at the stage, and the device was still hot.”

Chi Yan slowly straightened up, as if finally somewhat interested.

He repeated with a faint smile, “Hot?”

Xu Yang: “Yes, an old machine, slow to cool down. It should belong to Young Master Yang’s filming crew. Just to be safe, the brothers took it away. Should we just smash it right away?”

Chi Yan smiled: “No need, take out the chip first.”

Still the same temperatureless smile.

But those narrow black eyes gradually revealed a dangerous aggressiveness.

It was obvious who the device belonged to.

Miss Chen, he silently repeated her name in his mind.

Looks like she caused him a bit of trouble.

Deep down, Chi Yan liked to play with fire—he was a madman who chased danger. Otherwise, tonight’s events would never have happened.

He even hoped that Miss Chen really had filmed something she shouldn’t have.

That way, he could justifiably catch her.

The first time, she was just a stranger—he allowed her to refuse.

But from now on, between him and her, it would no longer be just an inconsequential episode.

At Chi Yan’s feet were already piles of scattered cigarette butts; now there was one more.

With one step, he crushed the butt hard, sparks flying.

At that moment, it seemed he heard a faint “zzzt”—

Fire. Electric current. A flutter of orange blossoms at the corner of red lips.

Exploding simultaneously in his mind.

This night had only just begun.