When Liang Xiao opened the door to his home, he sneezed for the seventh time that night.
“The schedule is attached to the contract. You’ll join the crew in three days.”
Following him inside, Brother Duan retrieved the remote and turned on the air conditioner. “For the next two days, Xiao Gong and I will handle things outside. You stay home, rest, and get yourself into good shape.”
Liang Xiao nodded but sneezed again. “What’s that old saying?”
“About sneezing?” The assistant thought for a moment. “One sneeze means someone’s thinking about you, two means someone’s cursing you, and three means someone’s missing you.”
Liang Xiao pulled his blanket tighter. “What about eight sneezes?”
Brother Duan chimed in, “Someone cursed you four times.”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Seeing him finally settle down, Brother Duan relaxed a little. He instructed the assistant to mix a packet of cold medicine with honey and stirred it vigorously before placing it in front of Liang Xiao.
Liang Xiao sighed. “It hasn’t dissolved…”
The beta manager’s frustration was practically radiating like pheromones.
Liang Xiao picked up the cup, downed it in three gulps, and then unscrewed a bottle of mineral water to rinse his mouth.
“Tomorrow, go to the hospital and get your pheromone levels checked. Xiao Gong will pick you up.”
Taking care of this particular “ancestor” was driving Brother Duan to premature aging. He tirelessly reiterated his warnings: “You’re about to join the crew. You can’t catch a cold. Your energy, appearance, and skin condition need to be on point to leave a good impression.”
The film crew was bound to be full of high-quality alphas and omegas. With the addition of potential action scenes, stable pheromone levels were essential. Any non-beta actors joining the production needed to provide recent test results. If there were signs of fluctuation, suppressants would be required to prevent any incidents on set.
Having spent years accompanying Liang Xiao to hospitals, Brother Duan already had all the necessary contacts in his phone. As he nagged, he booked an appointment for the next morning’s check-up.
Liang Xiao was used to his rambling. He nodded along while huddling with the assistant to compare different brands of self-heating hotpot in their shopping cart.
Brother Duan had long since risen above getting angry about such things. He continued, “This time, it’s a modern drama, New Year’s Eve, with a spy thriller plotline.”
Xingguan was always efficient. They had already sent over the script and relevant materials during the ride back.
The story was set against a wartime backdrop, but Liang Xiao’s scenes didn’t involve combat. His role was set during a tense period of opposing forces gathering and impending storms.
He was playing the role of a smooth-talking conman, driven by greed, who wandered among the elite military factions, scamming money. He had interactions with everyone but wasn’t particularly tied to anyone, serving more as a plot device to push the story forward.
“Your scenes are only in the first ten episodes,” Duan Ming said as he flipped through the script. “It’s all dialogue-driven, and the production team will handle costumes, makeup, and props. The filming period won’t exceed a month.”
Liang Xiao pondered, “Didn’t the contract mention 30 episodes and three million?”
Duan Ming replied, “For the last 20 episodes, you primarily appear in black-and-white photographs.”
Liang Xiao: “…”
Not only would he need to provide the crew with a photo album for selection, but Duan Ming also added it to the assistant’s to-do list before shoving the script at him. “Remember, this is a favor from President Huo. Don’t forget to return it.”
Still reeling from the realization that earning the remaining two million would be so effortless, Liang Xiao reflexively looked up, “Huh?”
“Go.” Duan Ming, expressionless, threw a box of face masks at his forehead. “Apply one to your neck for fifteen minutes every night before bed.”
The next morning, Liang Xiao was dragged to the hospital as scheduled.
Having spent the entire night gaming with a mask on his neck, he had only gone to bed at dawn. Before heading out, he took a quick shower but was still groggy, struggling to shake off the sleepy haze.
Duan Ming, utterly exasperated, looked like he’d aged prematurely. “Do you even have any ambition?”
Liang Xiao tried to defend himself. “I do.”
At least he had opened the face masks to study them.
After all, his manager had placed high hopes on his neck. He had planned to apply two masks at once while relaxing with a few rounds of games. Then, he’d take a shower and go to bed.
Instead, he’d accidentally fell alseep the mid-game.
When he woke up, still wearing a dried-out mask, his gaming platform inbox was full of angry messages from players calling him a “useless AFK.”
Knowing better than to bother his busy manager with such trivialities, Liang Xiao gave him a shoulder massage and spoke gently. “I’ve read the script.”
Duan Ming was momentarily surprised to see some semblance of dedication. “What do you think?”
Liang Xiao thought for a moment and summed it up simply: “Not too hard.”
His character didn’t have much screen time or deep development. All he had to do was use his looks to make others fall for the “I’m good-looking, so I must be right” buff and take the opportunity to scam and swindle.
He was adaptable, flexible, and without principles or loyalties—willing to do anything for money.
Duan Ming found the summary strangely familiar, his expression complicated. “It really is…”
“What?” Liang Xiao asked curiously.
His features were delicate and refined, with eyes darker and brighter than most. When he was half-asleep, this didn’t stand out as much, but now, with sudden interest lighting up his gaze, it was hard for anyone to look away.
Even after working together for so many years, Duan Ming was caught off guard and briefly dazzled by his face. “…Not too difficult.”
After all, the role was too realistic.
Duan Ming massaged his forehead, preemptively shoved Liang Xiao back into his seat, and thrust a pair of sunglasses onto his face.
By the time the car stopped in front of the hospital, Liang Xiao had already finished two rounds of games behind the sunglasses, proving with skill that he didn’t need to AFK to lose.
“Be careful,” Duan Ming said as he confiscated Liang Xiao’s phone, glancing outside. “Your popularity right now is explosive.”
Liang Xiao nodded and cooperatively layered up: mask, jacket, and a baseball cap.
Although Xingguan had handled the trending topics cleanly, drawing attention away with new gossip and even public accounts debunking the old photos as fabricated, no matter how capable Huo Lan was, he couldn’t silence every paparazzo.
At times like this, it was better to avoid being photographed altogether.
The parking lot was still quiet. The hospital had been informed in advance, and as long as Liang Xiao made it to the elevator and up to the private medical center on the top floor, everything would be fine.
“You go first.” Duan Ming’s sharp eyes caught sight of a car suspiciously tailing them. Grabbing the assistant, he decided to act as a decoy to distract the pursuers. “We’ll deal with the tail and join you later.”
Liang Xiao, suddenly feeling the thrill of being part of a covert resistance from a Republican-era drama, nodded, adjusted his cap, and briskly headed for the elevator.
When he stepped into the elevator, he froze for a moment.
The basement level was exclusively for hospital executives, and the first-floor elevator was usually empty. Yet today, there was someone inside.
The person clearly hadn’t expected anyone else to arrive this early and looked up at him.
…
It was someone he knew.
Huo Lan stood there, dressed impeccably in a suit, his dark eyes meeting Liang Xiao’s unexpectedly.
Liang Xiao, fully geared up in sunglasses, a mask, a heavy jacket, and a cap pulled low, looked like he was preparing for a zombie apocalypse.
Every time he saw Huo Lan, it was either right after being bitten or on his way to be bitten. This was the first time they’d run into each other purely by chance.
Liang Xiao felt confident he wouldn’t be recognized. Peering cautiously at Huo Lan through his sunglasses, he watched as Huo Lan’s gaze lingered for less than a second on his heavily covered face before falling directly to his neck.
Liang Xiao: “…”
Alright then.
Huo Lan’s familiar places are rather…. special.
Liang Xiao shifted slightly, watching as Huo Lan’s gaze lingered for a moment on a certain spot he was particularly acquainted with before returning to meet his eyes.
After three seconds of careful consideration, Liang Xiao calmly sidestepped, gliding to a new position. He stationed himself obediently in the corner diagonal to Huo Lan’s.
After all, he hadn’t used masking agents today, hadn’t disinfected himself, nor had he taken three showers.
It was bound to trigger Huo Lan’s overwhelming sense of cleanliness.
The two of them stood at opposite ends of the elevator, the atmosphere heavy and stagnant. For a few silent moments, they exchanged wordless glances in the suffocating stillness. Realizing he couldn’t avoid it any longer, Liang Xiao took off his sunglasses and smiled politely. “President Huo, you’re here at the hospital too?”
His public persona was still that of someone warm and easygoing, so running into Huo Lan naturally called for a friendly exchange.
Based on past experience, Huo Lan would most likely nod—or not even that—acknowledge it tacitly, and dutifully fulfil his role as the domineering president and take on the important task of ending the conversation.
But today, it felt like this Huo Lan had been swapped out for someone else. His cool gaze lingered meaningfully on Liang Xiao’s face for a second before he replied, “For a check-up.”
Liang Xiao didn’t think much of it and nodded. “I see.”
Feeling that the conversation had concluded, he relaxed, lowered his head, and rested his eyes for a few seconds—only to notice that Huo Lan’s gaze remained fixed on him.
…
Liang Xiao carefully replayed their brief exchange and realized it was hard to categorize it as a completed conversation. So, with a gentle, concerned tone, he asked, “What kind of check-up?”
Huo Lan’s expression remained indifferent as he finally looked away. “A concussion.”
Liang Xiao: “…”
