The bartender eventually woke Zhuang Qin up. Groggy and with a numb arm, he got to his feet.
He walked to the bar to sign the bill. The bartender asked, “Sir, which room are you staying in?”
“I… I’m in…” Zhuang Qin hesitated, trying to remember. He fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his room key card. As he did, the hat he was carrying under his arm fell to the ground. “1207.” he finally answered.
He signed his name, not paying attention to who was sitting at the bar, and walked away.
His steps were unsteady—whether from sleepiness or a slight buzz from the drink, he wasn’t sure. He walked straight into a glass door. The bartender hurried over, asking if he was okay.
Zhuang Qin, seeing stars, waved it off, saying, “I’m OK.” and, still dizzy, stumbled off without accepting any help.
Li Mu hadn’t finished his drink yet, but he signed his bill. As he did, the bartender picked up the hat from the floor and said, “Sir, don’t forget your hat.”
“It’s not mine.” Li Mu paused, then added, “But give it to me—I’m staying on the same floor as he is.”
He hung the hat on the doorknob of room 1207 before heading back to his room to rest.
Zhuang Qin’s luck wasn’t bad. When he woke up around noon the next day, he received a message from the airline saying that his flight was rescheduled to take off at 6 PM. His connecting flight was also only delayed by two hours, so he could still make it.
After packing up, he opened his door and saw a baseball cap hanging on the doorknob. He stared at it in confusion for a few seconds before putting it on and heading downstairs to check out.
At the airport, Zhuang Qin encountered some Chinese students. They seemed to recognize him but weren’t sure, given that he was alone without any bodyguards or assistants. Thinking he might just look like the star, they hesitated and ended up sneaking a photo of him without approaching.
It wasn’t until he boarded the plane and settled into his seat that Zhuang Qin finally relaxed and ordered a hot drink.
The seat next to him was empty, and it wasn’t until just before takeoff that someone arrived.
The man was tall, wearing a hunting jacket over athletic pants—an odd mix that somehow made him look like he’d just stepped off the runway at a Zegna fashion show.
This model-like man stood up to stow his luggage, not bothering the flight attendants for help. Zhuang Qin, who had just pulled out the script to read, accidentally glanced over and caught sight of the man next to him.
His profile was striking, with a prominent nose bridge, and as he looked down, his black sunglasses slid to the tip of his nose. He seemed barely awake, like a lazy lion radiating an aura that warned others to keep their distance.
Perhaps Zhuang Qin’s gaze lingered too long because the man turned his head, lowering it slightly.
Their eyes met.
Zhuang Qin’s eyes were unforgettable—bright and expressive. Li Mu quickly recognized him and, in a rare move, spoke first to the stranger, “Heading to Chicago?”
“No… I’m going back to China, connecting at O’Hare.” Zhuang Qin replied.
Li Mu nodded, exuding a chill, and the conversation ended there.
Zhuang Qin found it quite the coincidence. In his previous life, he had only seen this big shot once by chance, but since his rebirth, he had already run into him twice in just a couple of weeks.
In the many years that followed, when Zhuang Qin had no work opportunities and even his return to the stage went unnoticed, he couldn’t let go of his love for acting. He wanted to work behind the scenes, and by chance, he became a video editor on Bilibili. The skills he had learned at film school finally came in handy.
When he realized this could be a decent source of income, he made it his livelihood. He watched countless films, both domestic and international, from the dawn of cinema to the present, making his editing work sharp and precise, with seamless transitions and high-energy cuts. Celebrities looking to create buzz would even privately ask him to edit CP (couple) videos.
No one could have imagined that the former top star, after leaving the industry, would end up as a video editor on Bilibili. Not only that, but he also managed to support a legion of CP fans with his work.
He had even received multiple offers from fans to create CP videos featuring their idols and Li Mu. Zhuang Qin had accepted one such job, which racked up over a million views and nearly got him into legal trouble!
That experience was also why Zhuang Qin knew how much Li Mu hated being dragged into other people’s publicity stunts or having his image tied to any CP speculations.
Zhuang Qin worked as an editor by day and spent his nights watching movies alone in his room. Afterward, he would stand in the middle of the dark room, acting out scenes for himself—no stage, no audience, just his own amusement.
He had a deep appreciation—no, a profound admiration for Li Mu as an actor. In this moment, Zhuang Qin wasn’t thinking about anything else. Out of pure admiration, he wanted to get to know this person, so he asked, “Did you go to Minnesota just to ski?”
“Ice climbing.” Li Mu replied succinctly.
“Oh.” Zhuang Qin murmured, and the plane took off. He didn’t speak further.
It wasn’t that he was bad at socializing; he just hesitated, considering the situation. After all, he had no reason to know who Li Mu was, nor anything about his background. They were just two strangers who happened to cross paths. If he was too eager, it might backfire.
Noticing that Li Mu had put on his headphones and opened his laptop, seemingly to review some documents, Zhuang Qin followed suit, putting on his own headphones and turning to the first page of the script.
The language in the script wasn’t easy to follow unless you were trained in the field. Most people wouldn’t have the patience to get through it.
However, the script for Cang Xin had a Japanese-style narrative that read more like a novel.
The first scene introduced the protagonist, Jiang Zhuo.
He was an orphan, trained as an assassin, sent on a mission to Thailand.
The setting was in Southeast Asia, supposedly chosen to pass censorship.
The location was a fictional small city in Thailand—crowded, chaotic, vibrant, and mysterious… a place where tourists from all over the world converged.
In his previous life, Zhuang Qin had watched this movie many times, deeply impressed by Li Mu’s performance, so the scenes were vivid in his memory.
Zhuang Qin held the script, lost in his thoughts as he recalled the film.
In the movie, the assassin Jiang Zhuo, played by Li Mu, took on an assassination mission in Southeast Asia. The mission was a success, but a small mistake left him wounded and hunted by multiple parties. He fled through a small grocery store and into a dark, deserted hallway, where he tended to his injuries with makeshift supplies.
Suddenly, a door in front of him opened.
A teenage boy with pale skin—uncommon in Southeast Asia—stood there, wearing shorts and slippers. In Thai, he asked, “Are you here to fix the pipes?”
Jiang Zhuo eyed him warily, his finger calmly resting on the trigger.
The boy seemed to have poor eyesight, not noticing that Jiang Zhuo was bleeding or that he was holding a loaded gun, ready to kill him.
After a moment of confirmation, it became clear that the boy was indeed visually impaired. Jiang Zhuo walked over.
The boy had excellent hearing and a keen sense of smell. He soon caught the scent of blood and suddenly realised something. “You’re not here to fix the pipes.”
“No.” Jiang Zhuo replied in Thai, while quickly taking in the entire room. It wasn’t very large, and it was old—seemingly occupied by the boy alone. On the table were a few flyers advertising for a roommate. Jiang Zhuo quickly scanned the flyers and recalled seeing one outside the grocery store when he came in. His eyes could memorise many details—something he had been trained to do.
“I saw your flyer on the wall. I’m here to rent a room.” He casually pulled some US dollars out of his pocket.
“Oh… You’re renting a room? Can you cook?” the boy asked. “I’m hungry. The kitchen’s over there; cook something for me first.”
The flyer had harsh requirements: the rent was extremely low, practically free, but the tenant had to cook and clean for the boy.
And so the story began. Initially, the assassin stayed with the boy to heal and cooked meals for him. He considered killing the boy because he was always asking him to do various chores, which was annoying. The assassin wasn’t one to kill innocent people—he had his principles, only killing those who were truly evil. So he tolerated it and gradually learned everything about the boy as they spent time together.
The boy was familiar with every corner of the house, knowing exactly where everything was. Once, when the assassin accidentally moved a table, the boy bumped into it and fell, bruising his knee. He sat there dazed for a few seconds before getting up on his own.
The boy seemed to have no sense of caution, even changing clothes and bathing in front of the assassin.
“You’re good.” the boy said. “Others couldn’t last two days—they’d steal my money, and I’d have to kick them out.”
The assassin asked, “How do you know I didn’t steal anything?”
“Just because I’m blind doesn’t mean I don’t know what’s going on. You’re a good person—your cooking’s not great, but it’s better than what my uncle used to make.” the boy said. He didn’t tell the assassin that he could actually see a little, just very blurry. He had long since gotten used to pretending to be completely blind.
The next hour of the film was filled with scenes that deepened their relationship through shared hardships and conflicting emotions.
In the small, fan-cooled room, the boy who had never experienced love, and the cold-hearted assassin who had rarely interacted with women, found themselves drawn to each other.
In the version of the film Zhuang Qin had seen in his previous life, the relationship between the two male leads never escalated to that level, but the entire movie was permeated with the atmosphere of a first love.
Zhuang Qin had seen both endings: one was for domestic release, where the assassin was punished to pass censorship; the other, where the boy died, and the assassin avenged him before leaving the country with the boy’s photo, disappearing without a trace.
It could be said that the movie’s success was largely due to Li Mu’s performance. Without him, it would never have achieved such acclaim.
Now that he had met the man in person, Zhuang Qin realized that Li Mu’s temperament was naturally suited to such a role—a quality that could be seen as both a weakness and a strength.
The flight to Chicago was quick. Zhuang Qin closed his eyes and replayed the movie in his mind until they landed.
After gathering his belongings, Zhuang Qin disembarked and said, “Bye-bye.” to Li Mu.
Li Mu had just woken up from a nap and didn’t hear him.
Zhuang Qin didn’t mind and walked off the plane.
Li Mu stood up, retrieved his luggage, and suddenly noticed a white book on the ground.
That Chinese kid dropped something again?
Li Mu reached down and picked it up, noticing two blurred black characters under a coffee stain.
Cang Xin.
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