18 Integration
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City B possessed no innate advantages; after decades of modernization, its urban planning revealed a fragmented visage. Towering skyscrapers rose in the bustling districts, interspersed with aged buildings imbued with the spirit of a bygone era. It was as if a radiant pearl had been sullied by mud and confined in an ill-fitting box.
The lanes in congested areas were too narrow. Zhou Suirong maneuvered through the long traffic jam for nearly an hour before finally turning into the hotel entrance. The hotel, where Liang Yizheng’s wedding was to be held, informed them that rooms were only available until September 13th; for the following four days, no vacancies remained.
Zhou Suirong booked two suites. After freshening up, he opened his laptop and hurriedly refined the photographer persona fabricated by Fang Qingzhao, preparing for tomorrow’s performance. He sifted through the group members’ information and chat logs, discovering that Fang Qingzhao’s claim of “room for creativity” was grossly inaccurate. Armed with evidence, he confronted her next door.
“Fang Qingzhao, these people in the group are at least five or six years older than me. You expect me to pretend to be their classmate? Are they blind?”
Feigning exhaustion after a long journey, Fang Qingzhao slumped onto the sofa in the study, deliberately misinterpreting, “This trivial matter—you decide how to handle it.”
Zhou Suirong approached her. She made room and emphasized, “You only need to focus on Liang Yizheng.”
He sneered, “Do you think this guy is easy to fool?”
Liang Yizheng, 34 years old, was a prominent internet celebrity. Zhou Suirong traced his two video accounts: one mainly posting daily studio staff life with over a million followers; the other focused on personal life sharing and occasional popular science, boasting over three million fans—just on single platforms.
Additionally, Liang operated two restaurants, a bar, and a venue combining board games and scripted murder mysteries in City B, all thriving businesses. His parents’ professions were confidential, but netizens’ piecing together suggested he was likely a second-generation rich or even the child of a government official.
In his early appearances, he concealed his left eye with special effects, explaining that in middle school, he was beaten by classmates in a bullying incident, resulting in the removal of his eyeball and ugly scars around the eye socket. Later, he leveraged this story to attract a large following, establishing his channel. Afterward, he removed the effects, facing the camera directly, unsurprisingly stirring another wave of attention.
In every aspect, he was adept at reading people’s hearts, naturally suited for the self-media industry.
Zhou Suirong played a few popular livestream clips of Liang Yizheng for Fang Qingzhao to watch together. She found it dull at first but gradually grew distracted, her head slowly tilting.
Zhou Suirong shifted slightly; Fang Qingzhao closed her eyes and leaned against his chest, falling asleep. Warmth passed between their skin through thin fabric.
He paused the video, his chest emitting low rumbles. Lowering his gaze to her delicate, slightly trembling eyelashes, he thought how hard she was pretending—her neck must be stiff by now. He reached up, ruffling her hair gently, whispering by her ear, “Boss Fang, your fake sleeping skills need serious improvement.”
Fang Qingzhao lifted her eyelids, slowly raised her head, and met his eyes, her voice steady: “In fact, if observed carefully, almost no one can fake sleep successfully. The eyeball follows different movement patterns in various sleep stages—whether still, slow, or rapid twitching—which are extremely difficult to replicate. Also, one cannot precisely control muscle tension and breathing rhythm while pretending. But—”
She solemnly admonished, “But, out of courtesy, people generally won’t expose it.”
Zhou Suirong showed no sign of reflection, grinning wickedly: “Oh no, Boss Fang is about to teach me social etiquette.”
Fang Qingzhao immediately covered his mouth.
Grasping her wrist, Zhou Suirong suppressed his smile, swiftly adopting a solemn expression, forcibly shifting the topic: “Let’s get serious. Liang Yizheng shares half his life online—isn’t that enough? You really want to meet him?”
Fang Qingzhao said, “I want to know what kind of person he truly is, why he became that person’s target. Is he still himself?”
Zhou Suirong held her hand, drawing her closer, his tone gentle and coaxing: “And after meeting, then what? We go back to City A? If you have concerns, I can hire a private detective for you. If you don’t trust that, I’ll go myself. Deal?”
He knew his reason often slipped beyond his control. Whenever he spoke with Fang Qingzhao, he involuntarily forgot her troubles, deceptions, and dangers, recklessly staying by her side.
He should have been more cautious, not unable to resist approaching her, smiling and compromising as if the chasm between them was bottomless and the irretrievable consequences of the future nonexistent.
Fang Qingzhao’s experience gave her confidence in the world, but society was never simple. Beyond explicit rules lay countless invisible codes and red lines. He couldn’t act on impulse.
Even if innocence was falsely accused, he had to make Fang Qingzhao return to confess and await a clear investigation.
Lowering his posture in a way she could accept, he said, “Put yourself in my position. I have no time to think about myself—how I got hurt, why I’m amnesiac, why we broke up, why you ignored me in the hospital, whether I became an accomplice because of you... You don’t answer any of these questions, yet I still came with you. My selfishness leans toward you—can you listen to me this once?”
“I can’t put myself in your shoes. My methods might be extreme,” Fang Qingzhao murmured softly, then added seriously, “You have a really good temper.”
Zhou Suirong was speechless.
His Adam’s apple bobbed; his brow hadn’t furrowed yet, but meeting her gaze, the breath he held escaped in a long exhale.
He saw a subtle, profound emotion flicker on Fang Qingzhao’s otherwise composed lips. Unable to maintain her feigned calmness, he felt an indescribable sorrow and knew he shouldn’t ask more—he had promised before.
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He held Fang Qingzhao’s chilled fingertips, about to say to drop it, when she said, “Keep investigating Liang Yizheng. Maybe these questions will find answers. Then you might regret it and blame me for bringing you out.”
Zhou Suirong had always taken her vague words as an excuse. Now, setting aside initial irrational emotions, he sensed the underlying meaning in her fragmented words, understood something, paused slightly, then whispered, “Really?”
“Mm.”
He nodded thoughtfully, released her hand, and picked up his laptop: “I’ll continue watching the livestreams. You get some rest first.”
He stepped out, then turned back, mouth opening as if to say something, but the door shut automatically before he could.
Fang Qingzhao stood to open the door. Her phone lit up on the table, showing a new message.
The screen, unlocked by face recognition, revealed a truncated text:
“I won’t. Don’t slander me.”
After a while, another message came:
“Don’t worry, okay?”
·
The air conditioner’s external unit emitted a blast of hot air.
Thick, dark green leaves blanketed the forest road, long unattended. The path stretched ahead to a European-style villa.
The gathering’s location had been changed at the last minute that morning to this suburban villa.
Fang Qingzhao, having followed Liang Yizheng’s account, received a notification of his livestream before departure.
In the broadcast, he said this was his private vacation home. Today, he had invited several chefs to cook on site, so he could talk freely with friends in peace.
A group sat around the dining table, chatting and laughing about high school memories, mostly centered on Liang Yizheng, with some overtly flattering and obsequious tones.
Zhou Suirong felt this scene might spoil Fang Qingzhao’s appetite. They ate lunch before heading to the venue, arriving over an hour late.
Zhou Suirong pushed open the door first, stepping inside from the harsh noon sunlight. Several people seated on one side glanced up as the livestream’s comment section exploded with rapid scrolling, the words unreadable.
“Who’s that? So handsome!”
“President Liang, did you invite a male model?”
“Damn, this brother is really handsome.”
“Please, let me touch his chest muscles.”
The people inside instinctively looked toward the entrance.
Zhou Suirong wore a white short-sleeve shirt; the clashing currents between cool air conditioning and outdoor heat made the soft fabric cling to his body, outlining his toned muscles and lean waist.
He moved with calm elegance to the dining table, smiled, and asked, “Streaming live? Sorry, could you turn the camera elsewhere?”
Though phrased as a question, before anyone could respond, he turned the phone’s camera toward the opposite wall.
Liang Yizheng’s brow twitched; then, seeing another person enter, the vague familiarity stopped him from voicing his intended question.
Zhou Suirong introduced, “This is my boss, just here to join the fun.”
Fang Qingzhao nodded modestly. Her cool demeanor made the others feel this was already a great kindness.
More than a dozen people exchanged glances, silently confirming none recognized them.
Zhou Suirong pulled out two chairs, sitting with Fang Qingzhao as casually as if at home.
Their imposing presence was such that even a robbery would prompt the owner to patiently ask, “Did you come to the wrong place?” rather than eject them immediately.
The room fell silent for over ten seconds.
Liang Yizheng, the host, remained silent. A lady in a red dress, unable to contain herself, politely asked on behalf of the group, “Who are you?”
Zhou Suirong smiled, “I’m Xiao Zhou from the group, Zhang Hong’s cousin. He can’t make it, so he asked me to come and send his blessings.”
The crowd responded with several “ohs,” expressions reading “how presumptuous.” They were somewhat terrified by his bold social skills, yet could not reconcile his roughness with his gentlemanly appearance.
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Zhou Suirong continued, “Actually, I’m also a student of No. 3 High School. You are all my seniors, but when I was in high school, Senior Liang had already graduated. There were many rumors about him at school, and I always wanted to meet him, but after the college entrance exam, I went to City A. This time, hearing from my cousin that Brother Liang is getting married, I planned to come as family to join the banquet, but he’s not coming back. So I took the chance and came myself. I hope you don’t mind?”
His words flattered the host of the banquet, awakening the group. They laughed, teasing, “Old Liang, look, your fans are chasing you offline now!”
Liang Yizheng gave a faint smile.
The others forced themselves to talk with Zhou Suirong.
“Xiao Zhou, you’re a photographer, right? How long will you stay in City B?”
Zhou Suirong replied, “Until the Mid-Autumn Festival holidays are over.”
“Did you bring your camera? Take some photos for us.”
He smiled, “Sorry, technically I’m still working and exclusively serve one client. If I’m to take pictures for others, I’d need to ask my boss.”
Their gazes shifted to Fang Qingzhao.
Since entering, she had said nothing, staring quietly at the courtyard beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, her presence faint. Upon hearing this, she glanced briefly at the group.
Normally, the subject of a joke would play along, easing the atmosphere.
But Fang Qingzhao disliked photography and anticipated awkwardness if Zhou Suirong took pictures while she lingered apart. She declined at the source, “Maybe later.”
Upon reflection, such refusal was somewhat rude. After all, though they joked about being mere laborers, they weren’t slaves; they should have the freedom to take a photo, but took the boss’s status too seriously.
Several people’s looks turned odd as they glanced back and forth between the two.
Zhou Suirong tapped the empty wine glass before him, feigning helplessness: “Alright then, Her Majesty has spoken—no permission granted. Looks like I won’t have the honor.”
His calm, reassuring demeanor brought a gentle warmth even in refusal.
Laughter broke out, and the topic was quickly dropped.
“Wait a moment,” Liang Yizheng, likely seeing the livestream’s shifting mood, rose and took his phone, “I’ll take the fans on a tour of the villa. You all carry on chatting.”
His greeting was perfunctory, never glancing at anyone, clearly suppressing displeasure.
The host swept away, leaving the atmosphere tense, as if gunpowder lay buried beneath the floor.
Fortunately, everyone was worldly and accustomed to extremes. They sipped wine to steady nerves and gradually resumed conversation, clustering in twos and threes.
Without the livestream camera, the conversation became more uninhibited, drifting into boasting.
Fang Qingzhao heard a man ask, “Do you guys trade stocks?” instantly enlivening the dying scene. Drunk, they began to debate loudly. The loudest shouted:
“Today’s retail investors can’t read charts, can’t develop sensitivity from watching the market, can’t analyze reports, can’t check news or policies to judge industry prospects, don’t even know which companies lead their sectors. Their only trading theory is gut feeling—they rush in recklessly, lose everything, and stubbornly refuse to cut losses. There are so many fools. If conditions allowed, who could resist cheating them?”
The broad critique darkened many faces again. But with so many strange events that day, such petty vanity was negligible.
Fang Qingzhao leaned heavily against Zhou Suirong, pressing her shoulder to his, taking a deep breath. He interrupted her unspoken sigh, “No talking.”
Didn’t he want to blend in quietly?
Fang Qingzhao pulled out her phone, composing messages.
Fang Qingzhao: Why don’t you ask them about Liang Yizheng?
Zhou Suirong: I need a breather, boss. The back of my head’s still tingling.
Fang Qingzhao: [Otter scratching head emoji]
Zhou Suirong: [Otter scratching head emoji]
Just as Zhou Suirong chatted with a man beside him, a series of quick footsteps echoed. Liang Yizheng returned, radiant, descending from upstairs.
He ended the livestream, carrying two bottles of red wine, sat down, and gracefully smiled at Fang Qingzhao: “Boss Fang, what would you like to eat? I’ll ask the chefs to prepare some more dishes for you.”