After signing autographs and posing for photos, Zhang Chengwan left first. Ying Yin still had to wait by the signature wall for editor-in-chief Feng Xingxue, so the host caught her and kept her chatting politely in front of the cameras.
The host beamed.
“Yinyin, today’s look is really unique. It reminds me of Greece – the Parthenon, and mythological figures like Athena. It’s quite a bold choice.”
Ying Yin nodded and made a point of mentioning Musel and its design director Jeffrey, thanking him for the styling guidance he had provided.
“You’ve always been bold and daring on the red carpet. I still remember that backless suit you wore without anything underneath two years ago – it was one of the breakout red-carpet looks of the year. People still bring it up in roundups even now.”
After the compliment, the host smoothly changed direction.
“But do you ever worry that, if you have a significant other in the future, they might get insanely jealous?”
Ying Yin: “…”
For once, she froze for a second.
The livestream comments exploded:
[I won’t get jealous!]
[Show a little more!]
[She is actually thinking hard about this, I’m dying hahaha]
Shang Shao had originally been about to exit the stream. But seeing Ying Yin hesitate in silence, he remained expressionless, impatiently tapping a finger against the tabletop.
“Um…” Ying Yin lowered the microphone slightly, swallowed nervously, and maintained her smile.
“I don’t think he would, because he would definitely be a very gentlemanly person, someone with strong morals who can distinguish work from private life. He wouldn’t make a fuss for no reason.”
Shang Shao: “…”
The host couldn’t help laughing.
“And if you really were dating someone, and he genuinely happened to be the possessive type, how would you soothe him?”
In front of the media and her fans, Ying Yin maintained her image as an independent, self-possessed woman. Smiling without quite smiling, she answered in a calm, mature voice:
“I wouldn’t soothe him. I’d wait for him to figure it out himself.”
During that glorious second, two people on Earth exited the livestream at exactly the same time.
One was Zhuang Tiwen, wearing an expression of profound grief.
The other was…
Well, never mind.
As soon as Moda editor-in-chief Feng Xingxue stepped onto the red carpet, the host finally shifted the conversation toward her. Ying Yin let out a deep sigh of relief.
After Feng Xingxue finished signing her name, the two women posed for photographs according to the planned schedule, then linked arms and completed the final stretch of the red carpet together.
Zhuang Tiwen and the magazine’s PR representative were already waiting at the entrance to the main venue. Tiwen was holding a cream-colored shawl, ready to take Ying Yin to the lounge to change into her indoor-event look.
Ying Yin draped it over her shoulders and shot her an odd glance.
“Who’s after you? Why do you look like that?”
Tiwen tried her best to hint at the issue.
“Mr. Shang. What if Mr. Shang watches your red-carpet appearance?”
“He won’t.” Ying Yin stopped a passing server and took a glass of iced water from the tray. “He told me himself. He doesn’t have time.”
Zhuang Tiwen fumed in helpless frustration.
“How can you trust a businessman when he says that?!”
He may not have time, but he’ll make time!
Ying Yin lowered her head and glanced at her outfit.
“…It’s not that bad, right?” she said hesitantly.
Sure, the slit in the skirt was indeed very high, but the pearl evening gown she’d worn on Edward’s yacht had featured a completely open back.
“Are you sure…” Zhuang Tiwen asked earnestly. “There were several million people watching at the same time.”
Ying Yin choked on her words.
Feeling guilty for no clear reason, she glanced around before undoing the silver butterfly clasp of her evening bag and taking out her phone.
No new WeChat messages.
She let out a small sigh of relief.
Opening her chat with Shang Shao, she took a very roundabout approach:
Ying Yin: [Mr. Shang, I’ve finished the red carpet. What are you doing?]
A reply came almost instantly.
Shang Shao: [I’m figuring things out for myself.]
A bolt of lightning seemed to strike straight through Ying Yin’s brain.
She grabbed Zhuang Tiwen by the arm and asked blankly,
“What did I just say on the red carpet again? The part about if someone got angry?”
Patiently, word by word, Zhuang Tiwen helped her remember. “I wouldn’t soothe him. I’d wait for him to figure it out himself.”
With a thud, the phone slipped from Ying Yin’s hand and landed directly on the carpet.
Like a wandering soul, she followed the PR representative to her private dressing room. The moment the door closed behind her, she stopped Chu Anni and her assistant from approaching with one hand while hurriedly placing a voice call with the other.
Shang Shao had already finished his lunch break and was on his way to the government office building in a Jeep.
The cold he had caught from someone else had become fairly serious. Slouched lazily in the back seat, looking listless and tired, he rested one arm along the edge of the window. Between the fingers of that hand was a cigarette, which he was restraining himself from lighting.
When he saw the incoming call, he lowered his eyes to the screen for two seconds before swiping to answer.
“Hello.”
With no outsiders around, Ying Yin asked cautiously,
“Mr. Shang… did you watch the red carpet?”
Shang Shao almost laughed.
In a leisurely tone, he replied, “I did.”
“Did you watch the whole thing?”
“Only the part where you came out.”
Ying Yin’s last shred of hope was shattered.
Leaning against the wall, she unconsciously rubbed the tip of her shoe against the carpet. Head lowered, she looked exactly like someone who had done something wrong.
“But you said you weren’t going to watch…” she muttered.
The complaint came out muffled against her lips, lacking any real conviction.
“And didn’t you tell me you were wearing that green dress?” Shang Shao countered calmly.
Ying Yin choked.
“You were the one who said it was only ‘all right.’ I thought that meant it didn’t look good.”
“So when you asked for my opinion,” Shang Shao said lazily, propping his cheek on one hand, “it was so you could wear it more effectively for other people to look at.”
She’d been cornered. Ying Yin couldn’t defend herself and instinctively sensed a hint of danger.
She changed tactics and asked in a coaxing tone,
“Then Mr. Shang, since you watched it, what did you think?”
Shang Shao held a cigarette between his fingers, his tone calm and indifferent.
“As a gentleman, a person with moral standards, and someone who clearly separates work from private life, I think you were dazzling tonight – impossible to look away from.”
He praised her.
Just a few words, yet they outweighed the pens of countless fashion writers.
Ying Yin’s heart slowly settled.
“Then… what if you weren’t such a gentleman, someone with such strong morals and clear boundaries?” she asked, almost possessed by impulse.
Near the equator, it was midday; the sun was abundant, making everything feel bright and burning hot.
Shang Shao pressed the phone to his face, lowered his head slightly, and smiled. “Wait for me.”
Hayworth’s green vine haute couture followed an ethereal, gentle aesthetic – far more conservative than typical red-carpet looks, with every area that needed covering thoroughly concealed.
Chu Anni styled Ying Yin’s hair into a loose low chignon. Strands were deliberately left falling at both temples, while her eye makeup was subtly brightened and her lip color changed.
Because she had dyed her hair blonde, as she stepped into the venue, she looked like a forest princess who had accidentally wandered into a mortal banquet – there to enjoy herself, light and unrestrained.
The banquet was arranged in round tables, and the PR representative led Ying Yin toward the main table.
In the center of the large round table, blue hydrangeas bloomed richly, their soft fragrance spreading through the cold mist produced by a dry ice machine, creating an almost fairy-tale purity.
But this was not a fairyland – because seating was strictly hierarchical. Each seat had a name card, quietly marking out status and closeness.
Ying Yin scanned it once. At the main table were Feng Xingxue, Yu Wang, senior magazine executives, sponsors – each one influential – and, additionally, the film emperor Shen Ji.
Without a doubt, the arrangement had been adjusted. Otherwise, what qualifications would she have to sit here?
“Miss Ying, your seat is over here. Mr. Mai is over there,” the PR said, pointing to a table. “If you need anything, just call me directly. I’ll take Tiwen over to eat first.”
Ying Yin nodded and gently squeezed Tiwen’s hand. “Get some rest.”
After Zhuang Tiwen left, many celebrities came over to chat with Ying Yin and get closer to her. Some she knew, some she didn’t, but all of them acted as if they were very familiar with her.
Ying Yin was composed and generous. Whenever someone complimented her outfit or styling, she accepted it graciously without turning anyone away.
After a lively stretch of socializing, Ruan Ye was the last to arrive. She pulled out the chair next to Ying Yin and sat down.
That seat originally belonged to Feng Xingxue, but the editor-in-chief was currently busy circulating and entertaining guests around the venue, not yet able to sit down.
“Sister Ying,” Ruan Ye greeted obediently.
Ying Yin treated juniors from the same company with a great deal of care. Her smile was noticeably warmer and different from the polite, formulaic one she had just been using.
“I saw your opening walk on my way here,” she said, tilting her chin slightly. “Pretty good. Much more relaxed than the last banquet.”
Ruan Ye’s expression stiffened slightly.
“I still have a long way to go. Mr. Mai said I was too small-minded and told me to learn more from you.”
Ying Yin smiled.
“What’s there to learn? You just do it a few more times and you’ll get it. When I was your age, I couldn’t even talk about opening walks – I’d be shaking just standing in front of the signature wall.”
“You have a lot of good things about you, but you don’t realize it yourself.”
Ruan Ye pressed her lips together. Her smile looked somewhat forced, even a little strained.
She had walked the opening segment in a very good haute couture piece by an independent domestic designer. Mai Anyan had also bought her several trending searches and boosted publicity accounts, but the online comment sections were still full of ridicule about her stiffness – people said her eyes darted around, her shoulders looked tense, and her expressions were too exaggerated.
And after Ying Yin made her final entrance, the entire Weibo platform became her stage.
Ruan Ye stayed in the lounge for a long time.
She didn’t have a private dressing room. After changing her outfit, she just sat on the sofa in silence, scrolling through trending topics. She watched fans praising Ying Yin for her elegance, fashion sense, and daring style choices, along with an overwhelming wave of “only Ying Yin can pull this off.”
Even in her own fan support group, everyone was enthusiastically discussing Ying Yin.
They said: [We’re not asking for much. As long as Ruan Ruan can reach the same level as her senior one day, that’s enough.]
Another young actress came in to do her makeup. Glancing Ruan Ye up and down, she said, “Isn’t that the dress I rejected last month? Good thing I didn’t wear it.” She smiled beautifully, her sharply defined shoulders emphasizing her delicate collarbones. “It suits you better. Petite girls do need a bit of a train.”
In reality, Ruan Ye had asked her studio to borrow that dress several times – but had never succeeded.
But she didn’t know that. Hearing her senior say it like that, she assumed it was true: that she was wearing a design someone else had turned down.
Ying Yin picked up on the change in her tone and asked lightly, “What exactly do I have that you think is good but I don’t cherish? Song Shizhang?”
She actually understood the situation well. In fashion, Chenye had always been weak; Mai Anyan didn’t have the ability to suddenly push a small actress from a hit costume web drama straight into a red-carpet opening slot.
Ruan Ye bit her lip.
“I already told you last time – he’s not a good person. You should stay away from him.”
“Mr. Song said I have traces of what you looked like when you were younger.”
Ying Yin glanced sideways at her, her gaze lingering on her face.
Ruan Ye didn’t look anything like her.
She had a delicate face – pretty and finely sculpted – so she was well-suited for historical idol dramas. Her first drama had become a breakout hit, and although her status hadn’t risen much, she had a large fanbase. The company positioned her as a lively, sweet “little white flower” who was innocent and inexperienced.
Ruan Ye looked back at her and said word by word, “He said I’m just like you back then – young, ambitious, and unwilling to lose.”
Ying Yin paused for a moment, then nodded. “He said that? He’s not wrong.”
“He likes you, but you look down on him, because he can’t take you onto yachts. On those yachts, he can only be the kind of person who polishes shoes for the rich.”
Ying Yin laughed softly. “Ruan Ye… you’ve only just entered this industry. If you already see things this clearly now, how are you going to survive the years ahead?”
“I’ve also danced with Mr. Shang twice,” Ruan Ye suddenly said.
Ying Yin’s expression cooled instantly.
“Mr. Shang was also looking at me without blinking.”
“Shut up.”
But Ruan Ye wasn’t intimidated by her cold tone. She continued calmly, “I just think he’s on too high a level. You have to climb step by step in life. And his ceiling is too high, too far away – it’s not as practical as Mr. Song.”
She toyed with a white napkin, eyes lowered. “You always tell me Mr. Song isn’t a good man. I appreciate it – but so what?”
She lifted her face and smiled faintly. “To me, there are no good men or bad men. Whoever can help me is a good man.”
Feng Xingxue returned after greeting everyone, and Ruan Ye stood up. Before leaving, she leaned down and hugged Ying Yin.
“See you on set.”
A slight crease appeared between Ying Yin’s brows.
See you on set? Ruan Ye was working in web dramas and historical idol productions -where exactly would she run into Ying Yin on set?
But the venue was already buzzing with activity, full of smiling faces hiding ulterior motives, leaving no room for distraction.
Soon after, senior executives, film emperors, and actresses all took their seats, and she had to brace herself for the next round of social maneuvering.
Feng Xingxue was seated next to her and asked, “I remember Miss Ying and Mr. Shen worked together many years ago, right?”
The only film emperor at the table, Shen Ji, was around forty-five. He had eyes full of emotion and a face that was both refined and gentle, yet faintly shadowed with a subtle, brooding darkness. Before Ke Yu’s rise, Shen Ji had been the most critically acclaimed film emperor, with almost no bad films in his record.
A few years ago, Ying Yin had worked with him on a Republican-era drama. She played a dancer, he played a high-ranking Nationalist official. Their relationship slowly developed in secrecy, turning real under darkened circumstances. When war broke out, they parted in haste – he went to Songhu, she to Hong Kong. Years later they reunited: he had fallen from grace, while she had become the prized possession of a powerful figure. Their feelings had never faded, and they ultimately fell into an intense, desperate entanglement in a hotel suite lit by flickering neon lights.
That film had been the second-highest-grossing art film of that year and received very high ratings. Shen Ji won his second Best Actor award. Ying Yin didn’t win anything, but she had multiple nominations and was regarded by fans as an “underrated award contender.”
Across the hydrangeas and the mist of cold air, Ying Yin smiled generously at Shen Ji. “It’s been quite a while since I’ve seen Mr. Shen.”
“I see Miss Ying all the time,” Shen Ji joked. “You’re so popular – I’m practically semi-retired.”
“I remember it was you two on the Golden September cover for Starlight Diamond, right?” Feng Xingxue recalled.
She had once considered that very concept for a shoot, but Starlight Diamond had beaten her to it. Bringing it up now carried a hint of regret and competitive frustration.
“I was just riding on Mr. Shen’s popularity,” Ying Yin said politely.
When conversation becomes too polite, it loses momentum and becomes dull. Yu Wang cut in. “Hey, Shen Ji, isn’t your wife pregnant with the second child?”
Shen Ji nodded. “She’s been dealing with morning sickness. She wasn’t even supposed to come out today.”
Shen Ji’s wife was also an actress, though she had retired early to focus on family life. The two were considered a model couple in the entertainment industry. She rarely appeared on variety shows and never used her husband’s fame for traffic; even in rare interviews, she spoke carefully and appropriately.
The topic naturally shifted toward parenting, and Ying Yin’s attention drifted.
By 9 p.m., the banquet had reached its end – after a series of uninteresting awards, a series of unremarkable songs, and finally a large group photo to close the event.
A dense crowd of over a hundred people filled the space. Ying Yin stood beside Feng Xingxue, firmly holding the central position.
On Weibo, no one questioned her status or ranking. To both casual viewers and fans, it was completely natural for her to stand there.
They had no idea that just a few days earlier, she couldn’t even borrow haute couture -that she had been quietly excluded by fashion industry cliques.
She had walked through a war without smoke, and won a battle no one knew had taken place.
At the after-party, Ying Yin only made a brief appearance before excusing herself on the grounds of feeling unwell and going home.
She slept through the entire night. The following afternoon, she went to Li Shan’s company for an audition.
Li Shan was a leading figure in Chinese-language cinema across both sides of the strait and Hong Kong, a member of the Cannes main competition jury, and widely regarded in the industry as the best director at shaping actors.
Even at over seventy, he continued to work tirelessly – sharp, energetic, and full of conviction. He was not comparable to the earlier director surnamed Fang.
Getting into one of his films was extremely difficult, but to collaborate with him as a lead actor was considered as prestigious as winning an award in the eyes of any performer.
The role of the female revolutionary that Ying Yin had been preparing for all this time came from one of his projects.
In recent years, mainland cinema had seen a surge of “main melody” films, and Lishan was no exception. This ensemble patriotic film had a grand theme and passionate scale, and was already expected to be the year’s box office leader.
For a film like this, many actors would be willing to take it on even for no pay at all.
Cheng Junyi and Mai Anyan accompanied Ying Yin as she arrived.
Ying Yin wore a light gray T-shirt and jeans, her hair tied in a low ponytail. Her bare face was, as usual, covered with a mask.
The audition area was packed with people, filling the entire corridor – some standing, some squatting.
Among them were seasoned veteran actors, freshly graduated students, drama enthusiasts who had spent over a decade in small supporting roles, and theater actors deeply rooted in stage performance.
Everyone started from the same point here, all having passed the preliminary casting selection before being invited to audition.
In today’s entertainment industry, there were not many directors who would make big-name actors and unknown newcomers audition together.
Because the value of actors in terms of traffic and capital had risen so sharply, high-profile actors were usually long past the stage of auditioning in person. Good scripts would be sent directly to them first; if they were interested, both sides would sit down to negotiate details. That alone would settle things – there was no need to lower oneself to come audition in person.
Even when big-name actors came to audition, it usually meant the role was already all but secured – they were just going through the motions.
Only Li Shan had that kind of influence and authority to make it happen.
Ying Yin quietly made her way through the corridor, while whispers broke out behind her.
“Ying Yin is actually here for an audition too?”
“Well, it’s Li Shan after all.”
“She fits the role perfectly. This is basically a done deal.”
“When does she ever fail? That thirty-minute single-take at Shang Lu – she held it flawlessly. Among today’s actresses, who else has that kind of capability?”
Some people even tried to come forward for photos and autographs, but were stopped by Junyi.
After waiting in the private lounge for less than two minutes, someone from the casting company came to notify her, “Miss Ying, it’s your turn.”
Ying Yin went in alone.
Inside the small stepped audition theater sat director Li Shan, casting director Yu Changle, a representative from the production company, the chief producer, and a young man who seemed to be Li Shan’s former assistant director – essentially his half-student.
Ying Yin removed her mask, bowed, and gave a detailed self-introduction before performing the two assigned scenes.
Her performance of the letter-writing scene was exceptionally strong. Her mature, gentle voice unfolded the lines slowly, carrying a steady, restrained tenderness. A tear lingered in her eye, refusing to fall. Only after she finished writing, set down the pen, folded the paper, and sealed the envelope did she finally brace herself against the desk, blink, and let the tear roll down.
When she finished, the large theater fell completely silent – so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
After a long moment, casting director Yu Changle coughed and glanced at Li Shan out of the corner of his eye.
Li Shan stood up slowly and said, “Everyone, please step out. Give me five minutes alone.”
Yu Changle immediately got up, patting himself as he reached for a cigarette. “Oh dear, I’m an old man already – sitting too long has ruined my back!”
The others understood the signal and followed suit. Some lit cigarettes, others picked up teacups, and they gradually left the room.
Ying Yin let out a soft breath, composed herself, and said respectfully, “Mr. Li.”
Li Shan nodded. “You’ve been in the industry for twelve years. It seems we’ve never worked together before?”
Ying Yin smiled slightly. “That’s right.”
“I have a very close working relationship with Chenye,” Li Shan said. “And you are Chenye’s leading actress. Why do you think, after all these years, we’ve never worked together? Have you ever considered that?”
“I…” Ying Yin felt slightly awkward. “It seems like our schedules always conflicted.”
“You have to earn money for your company, support new talents, and take on films that Chenye is investing in and leading, so your schedule is always packed. Your performances are all very good, but if you average your success rate across all your projects, it’s actually not high.”
“Mr. Li…” Ying Yin felt the sharpness of his words pierce through her discomfort. “I hope I’ll have a chance this time.”
Li Shan shook his head. “You don’t have a chance this time either.”
Ying Yin was startled. “Why? Even if my performance isn’t perfect…”
“Your performance is fine. But this role has already been assigned to someone else.”
Ying Yin frowned slightly. “You mean…”
“In fact, I’m only serving as the producer on this film, with a nominal directing credit. The person on set will be my student, Xie Yang.”
Ying Yin didn’t know what expression to make. She let out a short, almost laugh-like sound.
“So I’m just here to ‘lift someone else up’? Ying Yin gets eliminated at auditions, someone else delivers a stunning performance – that kind of narrative?”
Li Shan gave no clear response. “How the publicity writes it is your company’s internal matter. It has nothing to do with me.”
In that instant, Ying Yin understood everything.
She nodded, the corner of her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “I see. Thank you for going out of your way to tell me this alone.”
“I discussed you with Ke Yu a long time ago,” Li Shan said. “He speaks of you with nothing but high praise, so…” He paused. “As the saying goes, misfortune may be a blessing in disguise. What I’m about to say is the real point.”
Ying Yin had not yet fully processed the news of her audition rejection. Hearing this, she looked slightly dazed.
“Personally, I’m currently preparing a project – a literary romance film. The final script is still being revised. This will be my second pure romance film in thirty years. To be honest, I can’t guarantee it will be good, or even that it will be released smoothly. But I want you. Your schedule has already been cleared by your company for me. Auditions will take place before the New Year, and I hope I’ll see you then.”
When she left the audition room, Junyi and Mai Anyan were already waiting outside. Junyi was very eager, anxiously asking how it went, but Mai Anyan looked calm, as if he already knew everything.
Ying Yin met his gaze for a moment without saying a word. Her face under the mask and cap was expressionless.
She walked through the lively, confused crowd – people stealing glances at her – and raised her eyes. At the end of the corridor, she saw Ruan Ye, the young actress from web idol dramas.
Ruan Ye was also dressed very low-key, looking uneasy, walking toward her accompanied by her agent.
They passed each other in an instant. Neither of them said anything.
The elevator lobby was unusually quiet. Sensing the atmosphere, Junyi fell silent.
“Are you not going to help her?” Ying Yin asked calmly, watching the numbers rise floor by floor.
Mai Anyan answered something unrelated yet direct. “You’re not at a loss. The true female lead in Li Shan’s film belongs to you.”
Li Shan wanted her schedule, but the film had no major investors and offered a low salary. Chenye was an agency, not a charity – there was no reason to “sell” its most profitable asset cheaply. Song Shizhang wanted to push Ruan Ye into the film industry; it was a mutually beneficial arrangement on both sides.
He didn’t understand why Ying Yin would be upset.
“Is that so? If it weren’t used as a trade, would Li Shan not have chosen me – or would the company simply not have released my schedule?”
“The pay for Li Shan’s film is the lowest of all your offers,” Mai Anyan said calmly. “I know better than you what your three months are worth.”
Ying Yin smiled faintly and turned to face him. “Then please help her up quickly. I’m begging you.”
Her words were clear and deliberate. “I don’t want to be this so-called top actress anymore, not even for a single day.”
When Shang Shao called her on video, Ying Yin picked up immediately. In front of her was a pile of messy odds and ends.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
Ying Yin lowered her eyes and twisted the plastic shell in her hands.
“Gacha capsules,” she replied.
“Gacha?”
Ying Yin nodded childishly. “Mr. Shang, have you ever played gacha before?”
“No.”
“When I was little, I couldn’t afford them. I thought they were so luxurious. I used to squat in front of convenience stores and watch other kids open them. I’d feel happy for them, and also a little sorry for them. When I was fifteen, I got my first paid performance job, and the first thing I did was buy one – but the dinosaur inside was so ugly.”
She smiled as she spoke, lying on the table and looking at the dinosaur. “Even after all these years, they’re still just as ugly.”
Shang Shao listened quietly.
“What happened?” he asked.
He was always that sharp – never allowing her to hide anything.
Ying Yin tore open the plastic bag containing the toy. “Nothing. Why haven’t you been looking for me these past few days? Are you tired of me?”
The severity of her words made something sink heavily in Shang Shao’s chest.
“I’ve been busy. I wanted to return home as soon as possible, but things have been holding me up instead,” Shang Shao said, lowering his phone slightly.
Ying Yin heard a suppressed coughing fit – dry and uncontrollable.
“Your cold’s gotten worse,” she said, putting down the gacha capsule and studying his expression through the camera.
He looked very tired, his eyes unable to hide their exhaustion, as if he hadn’t had a proper full night’s sleep in a long time.
His white shirt was no longer crisp; the heat and humidity of the equator had softened the fabric, loosely outlining his frame and giving him a relaxed, slightly disheveled look.
It was unreasonable – but seeing him like this only made him even more attractive.
Ying Yin forgot about the gacha toy, her gaze fixed intently on the screen.
She missed him.
December is the rainy season on the Serengeti grasslands. Everything is in growth; the breath of spring begins to stir as animals once again cross the Mara River, making a perilous journey of near-death experiences, traversing the border between Tanzania and Kenya to return to the lush, fertile Serengeti.
At a local government office, a woman wearing a traditional long dress and a brightly colored veil was arguing heatedly with a man behind the counter.
“I got lost, the bus…” Ying Yin quickly ran out of words.
Her fluent spoken English was useless here. It was a classic case of mutual incomprehension – each side convinced the other had the strange accent.
The man replied slowly, drawing out his words. “Relax, relax. Sit down. Don’t worry. I got you.”
He just kept repeating that line.
Got you? Got nothing!
Ying Yin gestured with both hands, forcing out her English word by word. “I was robbed. My wallet, my passport, my phone, and your damn bus! You said there was a bus at two o’clock, and now it’s already 3:20!”
She jabbed hard at her watch.
“Oh…” the man finally understood. He spread his hands and shrugged.
“Miss, in Africa, the only clock is nature – the sunlight. Relax. Don’t let your watch control you.”
“What?!”
Don’t make being “out of time awareness” sound so poetic and enlightened, okay?!
At the narrow, shaded stairwell nearby, a Chinese man was walking down the stairs at an unhurried pace, accompanied by local officials and several other Chinese staff.
“Construction during the rainy season will definitely be affected. Considering the local festivals and customs, as well as the upcoming safari…”
A subordinate stationed in Tanzania reported this, then gave a wry smile.
“Chairman Shao, don’t worry. We’re very familiar with the working style here. Since you’ve been ill for a while, it would be best for you to return to Hong Kong to rest and recover as soon as possible.”
Tanzania was dusty and windblown; wearing a mask all day did little to help. Shang Shao nodded, pressed a hand to his lips and coughed twice, then adjusted his mask and secured it properly.
He responded to his subordinate’s concern, “I still need to make a trip to the Serengeti. I’ll head back in a couple of days.”
“Telephone! I want telephone!” Ying Yin had finally given up on communication entirely. She pressed her palms together, teetering on the edge of collapse. “Please, please, please…”
What was the embassy’s phone number again? How had she saved it on her phone… and now the phone was gone too… shit – it was a vicious cycle.
As he descended the short staircase, Shang Shao paused slightly. Just before crossing the hall, through the staff handling official business, he cast a distant glance at the woman.
She was wrapped from head to toe in traditional clothing, yet her graceful curves were still unmistakable.
Those curves were soft and delicate in a way that differed from the local people -carrying a familiarity that made him pause.
He narrowed his eyes, his heartbeat suddenly quickening.
Then he thought he must be feverish and delirious.
How was that possible?
She should be at a birthday party right now.
“Well, Miss,” the clerk was also getting impatient now, “but this is neither a lost-and-found office, nor a bus company, or a telecom company, Miss.”
He pointed forcefully at a laminated signboard. The letters on it were so dense and confusing they were almost impossible to read. “Look, this is the Urban Planning and Construction…”
Ying Yin let out a frustrated whimper.
She braced her hands on the counter, took a deep breath, and forced herself to calm down.
Her impulsive “just go” plan had failed miserably. Would she be sent straight to him by the embassy? He would definitely laugh at her.
But she really wanted to ask him – when he danced with Ruan Ye, did he also stare at her without blinking?
She wanted to ask it face to face, hear it with her own ears, make him deny it, make him coax her properly and sincerely.
A group of people nearby looked at Shang Shao’s suddenly halted steps in confusion.
“So Chairman Shao…” a subordinate called out.
Shang Shao heard him, but his gaze was still fixed in that direction. He only gave a distracted “mm.”
The next second, the woman at the counter lifted her head, hesitating – and then, in disbelief, looked over.
She had a pair of eyes that shimmered like starlight.
