The auditions moved quickly after that. The panel worked through the candidates with efficient, polite disinterest — the kind that came from having seen too many auditions to be genuinely moved by most of them. Moying watched and waited and kept his hands still.

When his name was called he walked to the front of the room and faced the panel. 𝑓𝑟ℯ𝘦𝓌𝘦𝘣𝑛𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝑐ℴ𝓂

The three regular judges had made their decision before he’d opened his mouth. He could see it on their faces: another pretty face, nothing more. He’d seen that look enough times to recognize it without thinking.

He shifted his gaze to the new Chairman. He was still watching, attention unhurried and genuinely present in a way the others weren’t.

Moying nodded to the pianist and turned to face forward.

He took a breath and let his voice fill the room.

He didn’t think about the panel or the weight of the moment or the months of preparation behind this audition. He just sang, the way he always did when he stopped overthinking it — from somewhere deep and certain that had always been there waiting for him to get out of his own way.

The room shifted while he was still singing. He felt it without looking. The pianist’s hands stumbled for half a beat. One judge sat forward. Another set her pen down quietly.

Moying kept singing.

When he finished and raised his eyes, the new Chairman was looking at him with an expression that hadn’t been there before — open, genuinely caught, not yet arranged back into something composed.

Their eyes met and held a moment longer than necessary.

Then Moying gave the panel a brief nod and walked back to his seat.

He didn’t look back.

He didn’t need to.

"I got it," Moying said over the phone. His voice was trying very hard to be casual about it and failing completely.

"I know," Liuxian said.

"You know?"

"Zhang Wei told me." A pause. "You should have called."

"You were in New York!"

"Phones work in New York," Liuxian said.

Moying was quiet for a moment. Then, quietly, the casualness dropping away: "I was good, big bro. I was actually good."

Liuxian looked at the wall of his bedroom, the city quiet outside, the house settled into its middle-of-the-night stillness.

"I know," he said again. This time he meant something different.

Moying didn’t say anything else for a moment.

"Go back to sleep," Liuxian said. "We’ll talk properly when I’ve rested."

"Okay." A pause. "Big bro."

"Mm."

"Thanks for calling."

Liuxian hung up, set his phone on the nightstand, and lay back.

Guiying woke earlier than planned. His body had decided Beijing time was back in effect whether he was ready or not.

He lay there for a moment, taking stock. Surprisingly he felt fine — better than expected after the past week. The jet lag was there but manageable, and the mark on his cheek had faded to almost nothing.

He showered and went downstairs.

Old Li had breakfast ready, the kitchen warm with congee and something fried. Wang Chengli moved through the ground floor with his usual efficiency.

"Good morning," Guiying said.

"Good morning." Wang Chengli glanced at him. "You look well."

Guiying sat down and ate.

He was on his second bowl when Liuxian came downstairs, already dressed, moving with the unhurried focus of someone who’d dealt with the jet lag and filed it somewhere irrelevant. He sat across from Guiying and Wang Chengli set the congee in front of him without being asked.

They ate in the easy quiet that had followed them through the whole trip. Guiying checked his phone.

Eight fifteen.

He needed to leave by nine. He pulled up the address TongShu had sent, checked the route, calculated the traffic. Nine was still fine.

"Nervous?" Liuxian said, without looking up.

"No," Guiying said.

Liuxian said nothing.

"Maybe a little," Guiying said. "It’s a new environment, new people. I’m allowed a little."

"You are," Liuxian agreed.

Guiying looked at him. "You’re not going to say anything reassuring?"

"You already said you’re fine," Liuxian said. "What would I be reassuring you about?"

Guiying opened his mouth. Closed it. Technically that was reasonable, and he wasn’t going to argue at eight fifteen with a shoot to get to.

He finished eating and went upstairs.

Today he was Tang XiaoYu again, which meant the full construction went back on — blonde wig, hazel contacts, light makeup. After days as himself in New York, picking it up felt odd, like remembering a language he hadn’t spoken in a while.

He sat at the mirror and started with the contacts. Left eye first, then the right. He blinked and watched his reflection change, warm brown shifting to something cooler and lighter. Then the wig, adjusted until the fit was right. Then the makeup, light and precise.

He looked at himself when he was done.

Tang XiaoYu. Twenty-eight. Art collector from Chengdu. French-Chinese orphan with a Weibo following and a modelling contract he’d walked into sideways and now had to deliver on.

He’d delivered on harder things.

He got dressed and headed for the door.

Liuxian was in the entrance hall when he came downstairs.

He looked at Guiying for a moment, that brief adjustment that happened every time the disguise went on, then settled back into his usual expression.

"The car is ready," he said.

"You arranged it?"

"Wang Chengli arranged it." Liuxian glanced over. "I told Wang Chengli."

Guiying looked at Wang Chengli, who stood nearby with the composed expression of someone who’d arranged the car before either of them thought to ask.

"Thank you Uncle Wang," Guiying said.

"Of course," Wang Chengli said.

Guiying picked up his bag. He was almost at the door when Liuxian spoke.

"Guiying."

He turned.

Liuxian looked at him from across the entrance hall. "You’ll be fine," he said. Just that, delivered with the particular weight of someone who meant it completely.

Guiying held his gaze for a moment.

"I know.." he said, and walked out.