Zhuang Qin couldn’t quite place where he had heard that voice before. Just then, he heard Xiao Lian calling out to him, so he turned to the man he had collided with and asked, “Sir, are you okay? Are you hurt?”
The man shook his head. Zhuang Qin clasped his hands together in a gesture of apology, “I’m really sorry! If you feel any discomfort, please let me know.”
“It’s fine.” The man responded with just two words, his tone curt. He then removed the snowboard from his feet and stood up.
Zhuang Qin noticed how tall he was and, holding his snowboard, quickly ran over to Xiao Lian.
Xiao Lian, worried, asked if he was hurt from the fall. Zhuang Qin brushed the snow off himself and said, “Don’t even mention it. I crashed into someone and ended up rolling twice.”
“What?! Are you hurt? Does anything feel off?”
“No, I’m fine. You’ve fallen so many times without getting hurt—why would I be any different?” Zhuang Qin waved it off, taking the coffee Xiao Lian handed him and taking a sip.
He skied until it was nearly dark, then headed back with Xiao Lian to return the rental equipment. It was only then that he realized his ski pass, passport, and phone were all missing.
They searched through all his pockets but found nothing. Losing the phone and ski pass was one thing, but losing the passport was a big deal!
“Xiao Lian, can you call my phone? I might have dropped it somewhere on the slope.”
Xiao Lian immediately dialed his number. A few seconds later, someone answered.
“Zhuang Ge, someone picked up!”
Zhuang Qin quickly removed his helmet and took the phone from Xiao Lian, listening closely, “Hello?”
There was a brief pause on the other end before the person said, “I found your phone, passport, and ski pass. Meet me by the snowman outside the ski shop.”
Zhuang Qin was stunned for a moment, “Oh… Thank you.”
He quickly realized that the fluent Chinese and the concise speech belonged to the very man he had accidentally crashed into earlier. What a coincidence.
But then again, the ski resort wasn’t very crowded, so it was lucky he encountered someone kind enough to help. Losing a passport would have been a huge hassle.
After the call ended, Zhuang Qin, wearing his bulky ski boots, went outside to wait for him. After a moment’s thought, he stopped by the nearby café and bought a takeout latte.
His hat and sunglasses were in a locker, and his ski goggles, helmet, and snowboard were being looked after by Xiao Lian. Without his ski pass, he couldn’t return the rental equipment. This wasn’t like back home; there was no facial recognition or other conveniences here.
With his scarf covering half his face, Zhuang Qin sat on a bench next to the snowman. The sky had darkened, and the streetlights and shop lights cast a bluish glow on the snow, while snowflakes danced down from the sky.
He reached out to catch a snowflake, its hexagonal shape and delicate patterns visible before it melted in his hand. The cold made him pull his hand back, wrapping it around the warm latte cup.
The warmth seeped through the paper cup into his hands.
After a few minutes, he saw a tall man emerge from another door. The man was dressed in a white windbreaker, with long pants and Martin boots accentuating his long legs. He was likely a guest at the luxury resort—guests had access to a different ski lodge than those just visiting the resort.
Zhuang Qin looked up at him and caught a glimpse of the man’s face as he removed his helmet, ski goggles, and mask. For a moment, Zhuang Qin was stunned.
Li… Li Mu???
Zhuang Qin was shocked and thought he might be mistaken. His eyesight wasn’t the best, so he wasn’t sure. But as the tall man walked closer, Zhuang Qin confirmed his suspicion.
The man had slightly mixed-race features, with eyes that were narrow and deep-set, tinted with a hint of blue inherited from his mother’s side. His face had sharp contours, and there was a tiny mole on the tip of his nose. His entire demeanor was cold, like someone who had absorbed the icy chill of the snow, making him seem intimidating.
It was indeed Li Mu.
Zhuang Qin recognized him immediately!
He had watched every film Li Mu had ever made, each one multiple times. He often couldn’t help but wonder how he would have played the same roles.
He knew he wouldn’t have done as well.
Zhuang Qin had always been a bit envious of Li Mu’s talent and admired his smooth acting career.
No wonder the voice had sounded familiar.
Li Mu approached him and looked down to confirm.
The clothes matched, and so did the eyes. Zhuang Qin’s expressive eyes were filled with shock, staring blankly at him, not even blinking, like a startled deer.
Zhuang Qin’s short, messy black hair framed a face with a slightly red nose from the cold, his eyelashes dusted with snowflakes. He snapped back to reality as Li Mu handed him the lost items, quickly reaching out to take them. “Thank you, thank you so much.”
Li Mu nodded expressionlessly and turned to leave.
“Wait…” Zhuang Qin hesitated, almost calling out his name, “This is…”
“Coffee?” Li Mu glanced at the cup in Zhuang Qin’s hands, noticing how his fingers were reddened from the cold.
“It’s a thank you gift. It’s a latte, not too bitter. Do you want a sugar packet?” Zhuang Qin looked up at him.
In the industry, Li Mu had a good reputation. He was known for being very low-key, only filming one movie every one or two years, or even three years, but everyone knew he had a bad temper. He was extremely cold, didn’t engage with others easily, and wasn’t afraid to offend anyone. He particularly hated people using him for publicity.
Despite not engaging in any promotional activities, buying media coverage, or even having a social media account, Li Mu had a surprisingly large fanbase.
“No need.” Li Mu didn’t drink lattes, but he still accepted the cup, nodding his thanks before turning to leave.
Zhuang Qin sat there, still in disbelief, watching as Li Mu’s figure disappeared into the ski lodge.
How incredible. Just yesterday, he had called Director Guo to accept his role, and today, he ran into Li Mu in Minnesota…
What was Li Mu doing here?
At this point, he hadn’t even filmed “Cang Xin” yet, and wasn’t an actor… Was he just here for a vacation?
With his mind buzzing with thoughts of how coincidental this all was, Zhuang Qin returned the rental equipment. Meanwhile, Li Mu returned to his room in the ski lodge, backpack in hand. He took a small sip of the latte, not particularly liking the taste, and was about to throw it away when he noticed a small line of writing on the cup in pen.
“Thank you, you’re a good person! Happy Spring Festival~”
The handwriting was neat.
Li Mu stared at the writing for a few seconds, finding it oddly amusing. For a moment, his mood lifted slightly.
Thud!
The coffee cup met its fate in the trash bin.
When Zhuang Qin got back, Shiniang mentioned, “Someone answered your phone earlier. A stranger said they found it. I spoke to him in English, but he replied in Chinese. There aren’t many Chinese tourists around here.”
It was rare for Shiniang to encounter Chinese students—most Chinese people went skiing in Denver. Why would they come to Minnesota? Even if they did, they’d go to the Twin Cities. This area was rural, and few people from China knew about it.
Zhuang Qin zoned out a bit, hearing Xiao Lian say they were lucky a kind person found it. Otherwise, losing the passport would have been a huge hassle, especially since Zhuang Qin was a public figure.
“Zhuang Ge, why do you seem so out of it?” Xiao Lian waved a hand in front of his eyes.
“Huh? Oh… I’m fine, just a bit tired from skiing.” After meeting Li Mu, his mind was swirling with thoughts.
Xiao Lian opened the thermos and handed him some hot water, “Your shidi seems to have arrived at the airport, but because of the heavy snow, he can’t get back today. He’ll arrive tomorrow.”
“Really?”
“I overheard Shiniang mentioning it on the phone.” He spoke in a low voice.
It started getting dark at four, and by five, it was almost completely black outside. Later that night, Xiao Lian knocked on Zhuang Qin’s door. Zhuang Qin opened it and let him in, “What’s up?”
Xiao Lian stood with his hands behind his back, looking hesitant, “Just now… Wen Jie called me.”
“Oh?” Wen Jie had also contacted him earlier, mostly about his refusal to take the role in “Ding Dongfeng.” Zhuang Qin had only sent a brief reply and then ignored the rest.
“Wen Jie said she spoke to Director Qu, and they might still be able to work things out. As long as you change your mind…” Xiao Lian pulled out the “Ding Dongfeng” script from behind his back, his voice almost pleading, “Zhuang Ge, this drama is such a rare opportunity. It’s bound to be a hit, and we already signed the contract. You worked so hard to get this role—are you really going to give it up?”
“I’m really not doing it,” Zhuang Qin responded casually, trying to reassure him, “I’ve got a better script.”
“Huh? Better than ‘Ding Dongfeng’?” Xiao Lian’s eyes widened.
“Of course,” Zhuang Qin understood what Xiao Lian was worried about and reassured him, “Xiao Lian, don’t worry about the company. You work for me; they won’t dare touch you. If things really get out of hand, I’ll make sure you’re protected.”
Hearing the words “you work for me,” Xiao Lian’s face immediately turned red, making him forget what he was about to say.
Zhuang Qin patted his head, “Alright, don’t worry about Wen Jie. I’ll send her a message later. It’s getting late, so go back to your room and rest.”
Xiao Lian, completely flustered by Zhuang Qin, nodded absentmindedly and left, forgetting all about the stern orders Wen Jie had given him.
With the lights off, Zhuang Qin put on his eye mask and lay down, but sleep wouldn’t come.
As time passed, though seven or eight years had gone by, the impact of that incident hadn’t faded. Every time he searched his name online, that old news story was always the first thing to come up.
A flood of complicated emotions washed over him as he lay in the darkness.
“Ding Dongfeng” was a large-scale historical drama, a top-tier production from the producers, director, writers, and cast.
In his previous life, Zhuang Qin had worked extremely hard to secure the role he wanted, getting the script two months early and spending his time at home studying it, writing character backstories, immersing himself in the role, and even dreaming about the audition.
His efforts paid off. After the audition, he beat out many more experienced actors to land the role.
A month into filming, he suddenly received news that Shiniang had fallen seriously ill. He rushed to the crew to ask for leave to go to the U.S. to see her.
The crew had scheduled scenes for him that day, but seeing how anxious he was, the director, feeling sorry for him, let him go. They had a stunt double film a particularly dangerous action scene.
For some reason, the wirework went wrong. The stunt double suddenly plummeted from mid-air, and before anyone could react, his body was already hurtling downward, impaled on an upright bamboo stake. The scene was so gruesome that everyone was stunned, and a few of the more timid actresses screamed in horror.
One of the actresses, who was splattered with blood, was so traumatized that she left the industry entirely, never acting again.
At the time, Zhuang Qin was on a plane, completely unaware of what had happened.
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