The studio was colder than Zhiyan remembered.
Three years since he'd last stood under these lights, and nothing had changed. The smell of metal scaffolding and hot stage bulbs, the echo of footsteps on polished floors, the way everyone smiled without ever looking you in the eye.
And now—he was back. Not as a lead, not even as a hero. He'd returned to work only four months after his leave, slowly rebuilding his career, taking on roles that honed his craft. His fame had risen again, and so had Siyuan's, but they just hadn't worked on the same project until now. Zhiyan was cast as a strategist. A quiet manipulator. A man whose lines were filled with veiled insults and measured tones.
He could do that. He'd lived it.
Zhiyan adjusted his robe as a makeup artist fluttered away. The director barked orders from behind the monitor, extras shuffled into place, and the voice he hadn't heard in three years finally sounded behind him.
"You still walk like you don't belong here," Siyuan murmured.
Zhiyan didn't turn. "And you still talk like you own the place."
A pause. A breath too long.
"No. Not anymore."
Zhiyan finally looked at him. Wang Siyuan hadn't changed much. Taller maybe. Leaner. But the same unreadable eyes, the same stillness that felt like a held breath.
Except this wasn't their scene. Not on camera. Not in the script. They weren't meant to speak yet. But somehow, their gravity was undeniable—an orbit they had fought against and failed to escape.
The crew called positions. Zhiyan took his mark across from Siyuan, robes brushing the ground. Their scene was sharp. A power play between the loyal general and the cunning strategist. Two men standing on opposite sides of a kingdom—and once, a bed.
Zhiyan spoke his first line. Smooth. Precise. "It's not loyalty if it comes at the cost of truth."
Siyuan's reply came slower. "And it's not truth if it tears apart a nation."
The tension between them felt too real. Even the crew fell quiet. Not a single person blinked as the camera rolled.
Then the prince entered.
Zhiyan tensed the moment he felt the actor's hand near his waist again—too close. Again. It wasn't a grab, but it was wrong. Familiar. Unwanted. His body went still.
Siyuan saw it. His jaw locked. A low growl rumbled in his chest, almost imperceptible.
"Cut!" the director shouted—but Siyuan was already moving.
He didn't strike the co-star. Not yet. But he crossed the space between them, stood between Zhiyan and the man like a drawn sword. "Watch your hands," he said coldly, his voice vibrating with suppressed anger. "Next time, I won't warn you."
No one breathed.
Zhiyan left the set. He didn't look back.
It was hours before Siyuan found him.
Behind the prop warehouse, where the lights couldn't reach, Zhiyan sat alone on a concrete block, arms wrapped around his knees.
"You didn't have to do that," he said when he heard the footsteps.
Siyuan didn't answer. He sat beside him.
Zhiyan's voice was softer now. "Why are you here?"
"Because you're here."
They sat in silence. Siyuan's gaze drifted over Zhiyan, taking in the familiar, plain cut of his robes. It wasn't the luxurious costume from the scene, but his personal wear. Something flickered in Siyuan's eyes.
"You still wear the same things," Siyuan murmured, not accusing, but a raw observation. "That… that style of jacket you used to favor, three years ago. I recognize it." He paused, his voice dropping, edged with confusion. "Why, Zhiyan? You're a lead now. Your name is on billboards. If I counted the dramas you've done in the past year alone, you should have bought properties across the country. But you're still... here. And you're still wearing that. Don't you have money?"
Zhiyan flinched, a sharp, involuntary tremor passing through him. His eyes, usually so guarded, flickered with a sudden, profound weariness. Money. He had earned it, yes. Worked relentlessly, taking every role, every opportunity, pushing himself to the brink for three years straight. He had poured every last cent into something anonymous, something desperate, something he couldn't afford to fail. It was never enough. Two weeks after the worst moment of his life, he was back on set, pushing past the pain of his still-recovering body, driven by a fierce, secret urgency.
He closed his eyes, a silent battle raging within him. He couldn't tell Siyuan. Not about the true cost of those three years. Not about the relentless fight for a life that hung by a thread.
Siyuan saw the flicker of pain, the sudden clenching of Zhiyan's hands. His own jaw tightened. He didn't understand, but the depth of Zhiyan's hidden suffering was undeniable, radiating off him like a silent scream.
"I don't know what you're hiding, Zhiyan," Siyuan said, his voice now a low, strained whisper, "but I know pain when I see it. And I know desperation."
Zhiyan whispered, his voice barely audible, "Don't dig, Siyuan. Please. Not yet." The plea was laced with an urgency that Siyuan couldn't quite decipher, but it hit him hard.
And Siyuan—for once—didn't push. He just nodded, stood, and walked away.
But his heart had already broken open again.
And this time, he wasn't letting go without answers. The intuition that something far more devastating lay beneath Zhiyan's composure clawed at him, refusing to be silenced. He had to know.