46: Chapter 46 Falling in love with a puppy was inevitable!

The end of spring, the beginning of summer—this is an ambiguous season.

It's not quite hot, yet not quite cool; the cherry blossoms have fallen, and the leaves have just sprouted, tender green and translucent under the sunlight.

Jiang Zhiyu stood in the corridor of the SM Building, looking at the sky outside the window; it was grey-blue, with thin clouds that looked like a layer of gauze smeared by someone's fingers.

He held a strawberry milk tea in his hand, full sugar, with boba, coconut jelly, pudding, and red beans; a layer of fine water droplets condensed on the cup wall, trickling down the side.

He didn't drink it because he was thinking about one thing—the release date for Iracebeth had been set for the end of spring, the beginning of summer.

On the same day, TWICE's informal single "love declaration" was also being released.

It wasn't a coincidence; it was intentional.

JYP was intentional, and Lee Tima was intentional.

That little brat intentionally set the comeback date for the same day, intentionally wanting to compete with Red Velvet, intentionally wanting to collide head-on with Jiang Zhiyu.

She wasn't afraid of losing, because losing wouldn't be shameful, and winning would be a gain.

This logic was impeccable, and Jiang Zhiyu couldn't be bothered to dismantle it.

Lee Tima got this news from Kim Minjeong.

Kim Minjeong wasn't snitching; she was showing off.

She sent a message on KakaoTalk: "Tima-ah, the song Oppa wrote is coming out! Iracebeth! Red Queen! Super amazing!"

It was followed by a long string of emojis: kittens throwing flowers, puppies spinning around, rabbits setting off fireworks.

Lee Tima looked at the message, and the corner of her mouth twitched.

She replied: "Oh. TWICE is releasing one too. love declaration."

Kim Minjeong replied instantly: "Huh? Crashing with Red Velvet?"

"It's not a crash; it's a war."

"What war?"

"love declaration VS Iracebeth."

"Who wins?"

"Me."

Kim Minjeong sent a question mark.

Lee Tima didn't reply; she placed her phone face down on the table and continued writing songs.

There was a curve to her mouth—not a smile, but a "just you wait."

The war began in a rush.

It wasn't a "beginning"; it was a "declaration of war."

The media wrote, "Red Velvet VS TWICE, the Spring Music War is on the verge of breaking out," and fans argued in the comment sections, calling each other flops.

Jiang Zhiyu didn't read the comments because he knew they were meaningless.

What mattered was the digital music charts, the sales, and the results.

The charts would speak, the sales would speak, the results would speak.

If it said they won, they won; if it said they lost, they lost; it didn't need fans to speak for them.

He looked at the two news items on his phone, side by side, like two opponents standing in a boxing ring, staring at each other, waiting for the referee to blow the whistle.

He took a sip of his milk tea; it was sweet, very sweet.

He thought that Lee Tima was probably drinking milk tea now, too, looking at the news, and thinking about the same thing—winning.

Would she definitely win? Or would he definitely win?

He didn't know; he only knew he would give it his all.

Not because he wanted to win, but because he couldn't afford to lose.

If he lost, Lee Tima would laugh at him for a lifetime.

He didn't want to be laughed at by her for a lifetime.

The selection for the SM new girl group's pre-debut team came much faster than expected.

Jiang Zhiyu received the news on a Wednesday afternoon; Group Leader Kim from the Artist Management Department sent him an email with a list attached.

There were four names on the list; he knew three, but one he didn't.

Karina, Kim Minjeong, NingNing, and Uchinaga Eri.

He looked at the unfamiliar Romanized name and read it aloud.

"Uchinaga Eri, Japanese?"

Group Leader Kim replied: "Half Japanese, half Korean, transferred from the Japan branch. When are you free to go take a look?"

"Tomorrow."

The next afternoon, Jiang Zhiyu stood at the door of the practice room, looking inside through the glass window on the door.

Karina, Kim Minjeong, and Ningning were sitting on the floor, the three of them in a row, backs straight, hands placed on their knees.

Sitting opposite them was a girl with long black hair, a black practice outfit, white socks, and black shoes.

Her sitting posture was also very straight, but not as deliberate as Karina's.

She wasn't nervous because she didn't know she was being scrutinized; she thought she was just there to meet new teammates.

Uchinaga Eri, born in 2000, a few months younger than Karina, was the second oldest among the four.

Half Japanese, half Korean, a dance lead, her looks weren't exactly top-tier, but one could see a hint of abstract charm.

It wasn't "charm," but a face that "made people feel comfortable."

Not pretty, not cute, but the kind where "you don't feel pressured when you see her."

Jiang Zhiyu looked at her face for a few seconds, then looked away.

He didn't need to look anymore because his standard for judgment was simple—as long as she was a good person, that was fine.

If she were a bad person, he would figure something out.

If she were a good person, then there was no problem.

Karina, Kim Minjeong, and Ningning were clearly a small group.

They sat together, shoulders touching shoulders, knees touching knees, like three trees growing side by side.

Uchinaga Eri sat opposite them, alone, separated by a distance of more than a meter.

It wasn't "separated"; it was "being excluded."

Those three trees hadn't left a spot for her—not intentionally, but out of habit.

They were used to being three, used to each other's breathing, movements, and gazes.

They were used to Ningning continuing when Kim Minjeong spoke, Karina summarizing when Ningning continued, and Kim Minjeong nodding when Karina summarized.

They didn't need to speak to understand each other, didn't need to look to know where the other was, didn't need to ask to know what the other was thinking.

Uchinaga Eri sat opposite them, watching them, quietly, silently.

She didn't know what they were saying because she couldn't understand.

Her Korean wasn't very good.

She could say "Hello," "Thank you," "I'm sorry," and "Please take care of me."

But if you said, "Which song are we practicing today?" she couldn't understand.

If you said, "Your movement is wrong, it should be like this," she couldn't understand that either.

She needed someone to speak to her in English or Japanese.

Karina's English could cover some daily phrases like "Hello," "How are you," and "Nice to meet you."

But asking her to explain dance movements? She couldn't do it.

Kim Minjeong's English was a bit better than Karina's; she could say "Turn left," "Turn right," and "Jump."

But asking her to translate "The arm here needs to be raised a bit higher"? She couldn't do that either.

Ningning's English and Korean were mixed together, often popping out Chinese.

She would say, "For this move, you need to use your core strength," and Uchinaga Eri wouldn't understand.

"Core," the center.

Then Ningning would say, "It means waist and abdomen," and Uchinaga Eri still wouldn't understand.

Finally, Ningning used body language to gesture, and Uchinaga Eri understood.

All four of them breathed a sigh of relief.

Jiang Zhiyu leaned against the wall in the corridor, watching those clumsy interactions in the practice room, a curve to his mouth.

It wasn't a smile; it was observation.

Uchinaga Eri was the fourth piece of this four-person puzzle.

He didn't know if she could fit in, didn't know if she was willing to be fitted in, didn't know if the roots of those three trees could leave room for her to grow.

He was an observer, and observers don't intervene.

Karina, Kim Minjeong, and Ningning had a natural curiosity and distrust toward this "airdropped" fourth person.

Curiosity because they didn't know who she was; distrust because they didn't know if she could become "one of their own."

Kim Minjeong looked at Uchinaga Eri, Uchinaga Eri looked at her, the two looked at each other for a few seconds, then simultaneously looked away.

Ningning wanted to talk to her but didn't know what to say, so she didn't say anything at all.

Karina asked, "Can you sing?" Uchinaga Eri understood and nodded.

Karina asked again, "Can you dance?" and she nodded again.

Karina didn't ask anything else because she didn't know what else to ask.

Jiang Zhiyu had long since received information that Uchinaga Eri was a debut-team trainee airdropped from the Japan branch.

SM putting her in Karina, Kim Minjeong, and Ningning's practice room made the intention self-evident—these four people were the core of the new girl group.

Not "possibly," but "definitely."

Definitely meant there was no room for negotiation.

They needed to gel, needed time, needed patience, needed a bond that could connect everyone.

He didn't know who that bond was; maybe it was Karina, maybe it was Kim Minjeong, maybe it was Ningning, maybe it was none of them.

He only knew it wasn't him.

Because he wouldn't debut, wouldn't stand on stage, wouldn't become their member.

He was just the producer, the one who wrote the songs.

The four of them getting along wasn't as quick to become familiar as imagined.

Karina, Kim Minjeong, and Ningning were already very familiar, familiar to the point where they didn't need to speak to know what the other was thinking.

If Kim Minjeong was thirsty, Ningning would hand her water.

If Ningning was tired, Karina would pat her back.

If Karina danced wrong, Kim Minjeong would pull her to redo it.

The tacit understanding between them was piled up over time.

Uchinaga Eri didn't have that time.

She had just arrived; she didn't know what Kim Minjeong liked to drink, didn't know if Ningning would throw a tantrum when tired, didn't know if Karina needed comfort when she danced wrong.

She didn't know anything, so she didn't do anything.

If you don't do anything, you won't make mistakes.

No mistakes meant safety.

But safety meant distance.

She stood outside the distance, watching them, quietly.

They didn't know her ability, didn't know her personality, didn't know if she was easy to get along with.

They only knew she came from the Japan branch, only knew her Korean wasn't good, only knew she was airdropped.

The word "airdropped" itself carried a flavor of "unfairness."

They had started from trainee selection, competing round after round, being eliminated round after round, walking to this day, every step stepping on others' shoulders.

She hadn't competed; she had just arrived.

Not "arrived," but "airdropped."

Airdropped into their practice room, airdropped into their midst, airdropped into their debut dream.

They didn't want to let her in because they were afraid she would squeeze out their positions.

The company hadn't said how many members the new girl group would have—four, five, six, all were possible.

One more person meant one more layer of competition.

Competition was cruel, cruel to the point where you didn't know who would stay and who would leave.

They didn't want to leave, so they didn't want to let her in.

It wasn't directed at her, but at the identity of being "airdropped."

They didn't know whether they should introduce Eri to Jiang Zhiyu.

Jiang Zhiyu was their producer, their friend, the person they trusted most in this company.

He had seen everyone, heard every song, seen every dance.

They trusted his judgment.

But—they didn't want to.

Not "didn't want to," but "didn't dare to."

Afraid he would see that Uchinaga Eri's ability was very strong, strong enough to threaten their positions.

Afraid he would see that Uchinaga Eri's ability was very weak, weak enough to drag down the whole group.

Afraid he would see something they hadn't.

They were afraid, so they dragged it out.

Dragging it out one day at a time, until they couldn't drag it out anymore.

Jiang Zhiyu's acquaintance with Uchinaga Eri was much earlier than Karina, Kim Minjeong, and Ningning had expected.

The company's Artist Department sent a message requiring him to observe an audition.

At the end of the email, a line was specially marked: "Producer Jiang's opinion is very important."

He looked at that line and remained silent for a moment.

Then he replied with a "Good."

The audition took place in a small practice room.

No audience, no judging panel, only a chair, a table, and a bottle of water.

Jiang Zhiyu sat on the chair, facing a floor-to-ceiling mirror.

His face was reflected in the mirror, calm, showing no emotion.

Uchinaga Eri stood in front of the mirror, back straight, hands hanging at her sides, fingers slightly curled.

She didn't look at him because she was waiting for the music to start.

The music started, and she began to dance.

The movements were very standard, standard to the point of being copy-pasted.

Angles, strength, rhythm—every detail was handled cleanly.

But she had no soul.

Not "didn't have," but "hid it."

She had hidden her soul, hidden behind those standard movements, hidden behind those precise angles, hidden behind that expressionless face.

Jiang Zhiyu watched her, his gaze moving from her hair to her toes, and from her toes back to her hair.

He watched the whole process without blinking.

Then came the singing.

She chose an English song, the melody was simple, the vocal range not wide.

Her pronunciation was very good, her breath support was steady, and her pitch was very accurate.

But she had no emotion.

It was like a well-tuned machine, every note in the correct position, every rhythm on the correct beat.

But she wasn't singing; she was "playing a song."

Releasing the sound, the task was completed.

Once completed, she waited for the next instruction.

Without instructions, she just stood there, waiting quietly.

Jiang Zhiyu wrote a few lines on the evaluation form.

Singing: A.

Dancing: A.

Expression Management: A.

All the evaluations were A, not S.

A meant passing, passing meant normal, normal meant ordinary, ordinary meant no characteristics, an idol with no characteristics was a transparent person, and a transparent person would be scolded, "Why do you deserve to debut?"

He didn't write S because he didn't want to.

She wasn't enough for S; she was far off.

The others around were all nodding.

Someone said "Not bad," someone said "Has potential," someone said "Practice a bit more and it will be fine."

Jiang Zhiyu didn't say anything; he just followed the crowd and nodded.

The movement was small, no curve to his mouth, no light in his eyes.

He nodded, which meant he agreed.

Agreeing meant there was nothing to say.

He had nothing to say because her performance had nothing to say.

But to tell the truth, in Jiang Zhiyu's opinion, her performance wasn't good.

Or rather—she completely lacked the qualifications to debut.

It wasn't "bad," but "not enough."

Not good enough, not bright enough, not memorable enough.

For an idol, the most important thing is not how well you sing, how well you dance, or how good-looking you are.

It's whether you have the ability to make people remember you.

Ability is not "knowing how," but "being able to."

"Knowing how" is what you learn and then know, "being able to" is when you know it and can also let others see it.

She learned, she knew, but she didn't let others see it.

She hid everything, hidden behind that expressionless face, hidden behind those standard movements.

She didn't want to be seen, so she wouldn't be remembered.

Not being remembered meant being a transparent person.

A transparent person debuting was a waste of resources.

SM is trying to create hype with negative press again.

The negative press hype is "Why is she able to debut," which is the cheapest marketing tactic.

First, let netizens scold, scold until there is heat, scold until there is attention, scold until there is discussion.

Then the company issues a press release saying, "She is working hard, she is improving, she is proving herself."

Hard work is positive, improvement is positive, proving oneself is positive.

Use the positive to digest the negative, use improvement to cover up doubts, use hard work to exchange for sympathy.

This routine has been used by SM many times, and it is effective every time.

But effective does not mean correct; correct is—you should not let someone who is not ready debut.

She isn't ready, not because she doesn't want to be, but because she simply doesn't know how to prepare.

She doesn't know that she is "transparent" on stage, doesn't know that her performance is "soulless," doesn't know that her voice is "emotionless."

She doesn't know, so she doesn't change.

If she doesn't change, she won't transform.

If she doesn't transform, she will remain as she is now.

Like this, it won't work.

Uchinaga Eri's eyes have no light, not "dim," but "calm."

Calm to the point of being like stagnant water, without waves, without ripples, without fish.

You throw a stone in, "thud," and it sinks to the bottom.

No splashes, no sound.

Her eyes are like that; you say to her "You need to work hard," "You need to put in effort," "You need to prove yourself," and she nods, she says "Okay."

But she won't do it because she doesn't know how.

She doesn't have that determination of "I must debut."

It's not that she doesn't have it, it's that it's "hidden."

She has hidden her determination, hidden it behind that calm face, hidden it behind those eyes without light.

She doesn't want others to see her determination because she is afraid of not doing well.

Afraid of not doing well, so she doesn't do it.

If she doesn't do it, she won't fail.

This is a vicious cycle.

Jiang Zhiyu felt a bit helpless.

He could see that Uchinaga Eri did not have the determination to debut in her eyes; she was very Buddhist.

Being Buddhist isn't a bad thing; being Buddhist in life, not fighting or grabbing, calm and composed, is very good.

In this industry, being Buddhist is not a good thing; this industry requires you to fight, requires you to grab, requires you to run forward with your life.

If you don't run, others will.

If you run slowly, others will overtake you.

If you stop, others will step on you to pass.

It's not "possible," it's "certain."

He has seen too many such people; when they first joined the company, there was light in their eyes, and slowly, the light went out, the person drifted away, and left.

He didn't want to see her become the next one.

But Jiang Zhiyu didn't care.

His requirements for Uchinaga Eri were very low, low to the point of—as long as she is a good person, it's fine.

Not "kind," but "not bad."

Not harming others, not jealous, not stabbing people in the back.

Not feeling superior because she is a parachute, not looking down on others because of her strong ability, not bullying newcomers because of her seniority.

If she can do that, it's enough.

Anything else, he doesn't care.

He had already planned the future industry development for Karina and the others.

Solo, acting, variety shows, sub-units, overseas development, every direction has a plan, every road has bricks laid down.

They only need to walk, they don't need to think.

He helps them think because he thinks further than they do and calculates more accurately than they do.

He thought for many nights, starting from before they even joined the company.

He thought for a long time, thought very clearly.

He knows what problems they will encounter in the future, knows how to solve them, and knows what to do if they can't be solved.

He thought of everything, except one thing—whether they are willing.

He defaults to them being willing.

Defaulting is gambling, gambling that they trust him.

As for whether Eri will be isolated, Jiang Zhiyu is not worried.

Karina will be a very good leader.

Jiang Zhiyu knows, not "thinks," but "knows."

She has charm, not "stage charm," but "personal charm."

She stands there, not speaking, not smiling, not looking at you, and you will want to look at her.

She speaks, her voice is not loud, but you will listen.

She says it, and you will believe it.

This is a talent, not everyone has it.

She has it, so she will be the leader.

She will lead Kim Minjeong, Ningning, and Uchinaga Eri forward together.

Not "push," but "lead."

Walking in front, looking back at them, waiting for them to catch up.

For those who can't keep up, she reaches out to pull.

If she can't pull them, she stops and waits.

She won't leave anyone behind.

She will drive others to become better together.

Not "drive," but "infect."

Her seriousness will infect others, her hard work will infect others, her smile will infect others.

You see her practicing until midnight, you are embarrassed to leave early.

You see her repeating it over and over, you are embarrassed to say "good enough."

You see her sweating, crying, wiping, and continuing, you are embarrassed to be lazy.

This is Karina, not the strongest, not the prettiest, not the most talented.

But when you don't want to work hard, she makes you feel that you should work harder.

Just a little is enough.

A little, maybe that is the difference between debuting and not debuting.

So Jiang Zhiyu is not worried that Uchinaga Eri will be isolated.

Time will solve everything.

Wait until they endure the bitterness of practice together, shed the same sweat, suffer the same injuries, and get scolded by the same teachers.

Wait until they stand on the stage together, face the same audience, sing the same song, and bow the same bow.

At that time, isolation will not exist.

Because "they" will become "she and she."

Not "the four of them," but "she and she."

Four people, connections between every two.

Connected together, it is a whole.

Jiang Zhiyu believes in her.

Not the belief of "confidence," but the belief of "knowing."

He knows she will do well because she is Karina.

He took a sip of milk tea; it was cold, but the sweetness remained.

He put down the cup, picked up a pen, and added another line on the evaluation sheet.

Not for Uchinaga Eri, but for Karina.

"Recommendation for leader: Karina."

The promotional period started in mid-April.

Not "started," but "exploded."

SM's official account released the first concept photo at midnight.

Bae Joo-hyun was sitting on a dark red velvet chair, the background was a broken castle wall, and a swaying crystal chandelier was overhead.

The light came from the left, half of her face was in the light, and half was in the shadow.

She was wearing a dark red court gown, the neckline was very low, revealing her collarbone and shoulders.

Her hair was coiled up, wearing a golden crown, but the crown was not straight, it was crooked, as if someone had casually put it on.

Her eyes were looking at the lens, and the light of the chandelier was reflected in her pupils.

Her lips were pursed, pursed into a thin line, not smiling, and not not smiling.

Her expression was saying—"I am not a bad person, I just don't know how to be a good person."

Below the photo was a line of text—"Iracebeth. 201 ing Soon."

The popularity on the internet started to skyrocket after the photo was posted, not "rise," but "explode."

Fans screamed in the comment section—"What kind of queen is Bae Joo-hyun!"

"If the face is there, the country is there!"

"'Fourth-generation goddess' is not called in vain!"

"Does this face really exist?"

"I can believe in the Red Queen religion for this face."

Passersby were watching in the comment section—"Did the SM stylist finally wake up?"

"Who did this makeup and styling? Add a chicken leg."

"This concept is interesting, dark fairy tale? Is Red Velvet transforming again?"

Anti-fans were sour in the comment section—"The photo editing is overdone."

"Tell me when you see her in person."

"Isn't she just good-looking? What can she do besides being good-looking?"

Fans retorted—"Being good-looking is enough. You don't even have being good-looking."

Jiang Zhiyu scrolled through those comments, watching the five words "If the face is there, the country is there" appear on the screen again and again.

He didn't feel annoyed because he thought this sentence was right.

Bae Joo-hyun's country was not exchanged by her face; it was voted by fans with their eyes.

If you like to look, you want to look.

If you want to look, you will look.

If you look, you will remember.

If you remember, it is not the country.

The country is her face; if the face is there, the country is there.

This is everyone's consensus, not just him who thinks so.

Jiang Zhiyu only met Red Velvet during meetings.

It's not that he didn't want to see them, but he didn't dare to see them, and he didn't dare not to see them.

The work during the promotional period piled up like a mountain on his desk, and daily meetings were scheduled from morning to night.

He sat in the conference room, files spread out in front of him, a pen in his hand, ears listening to reports, mouth speaking arrangements.

His gaze would move from one person's face to another, from Yeri to Seulgi, from Seulgi to Joy, from Joy to Wendy, and then skip Bae Joo-hyun.

Not skip, but detour.

Detour, don't look at her.

Look at her fingers.

Her fingers were slender and long, nails trimmed neatly, no nail polish, clean.

She sat at the other end of the conference table, hands folded on the table, occasionally flipping through files, occasionally picking up a water cup to take a sip, occasionally tapping her fingers on the table twice, no rhythm, not music, just boredom.

He looked at her fingers, not her face, because he needed to face his frantically beating heart.

Heartbeat 130, 140, 150.

Fast enough that his chest could barely contain that heart, fast enough that his ears could hear the sound of blood flowing in his blood vessels.

He knew this was disrespectful, but he didn't dare look at her face because he was afraid that if he looked, his heartbeat would be even faster.

Fast enough that chanting the "Heart-Cleansing Mantra" would be useless, fast enough that he would die of social embarrassment on the spot, fast enough that his hard-built "professional producer" image would instantly collapse.

Bae Joo-hyun was puzzled by his behavior.

Of course, she was not very satisfied either.

She sat at the other end of the conference table, looking at Jiang Zhiyu.

His gaze landed on her face, then moved away, landing on her fingers.

She looked down at her fingers, nothing good to see, no nail polish, no rings, no scars.

She raised her head, looking at Jiang Zhiyu.

His gaze landed on her face again, moved away again, and landed on her fingers again.

He was looking at her fingers, not "looking," but "staring."

Staring very seriously, seriously as if he was studying something very complicated.

She didn't know what was worth studying about her fingers; she only knew that he was not looking at her.

If he doesn't look, he doesn't look; she doesn't care.

She only hopes that this album comeback will have better results and Red Velvet's development will be better.

As for other things, she doesn't care.

This is the truth, not stubbornness.

There are not many things she cares about, and not many people she cares about.

What she cares about has never been whether Jiang Zhiyu is looking at her or not.

TWICE's new song also entered the promotion period during the same period.

Not "same time," but "earlier."

Lee Tima set the promotion for "love declaration" in mid-April, a few days earlier than Red Velvet.

A few days earlier, means a few more days of heat.

A few more days of heat means a few more days of discussion.

A few more days of discussion means a few more days of dominating the charts.

A few more days of dominating the charts means winning.

Jiang Zhiyu suspected that Lee Tima was doing it on purpose, deliberately taking the first step, deliberately seizing the opportunity, deliberately letting the media write "Red Velvet VS TWICE" as the headline.

Because he knew her too well, knew she was not a person who would do things "by chance."

Everything she did was designed.

From song title to lyrics, from melody to arrangement, from promotion time to MV style, every detail was calculated by her.

She wouldn't say "I calculated it," she would only say "by chance."

He had no evidence, so he didn't expose her.

Regarding the upcoming Red Velvet and TWICE war, Jiang Zhiyu also heard some news.

YG people were watching, seeing which of these two girl groups could pull the other down; Loen people were eating melons, because no matter who won, it had nothing to do with them.

Idols were watching the fun, fans were arguing, media were fanning the flames.

JYP has become the "Love Company."

This nickname came from the internet, originating from a video secretly filmed by a fan.

The scene was the corridor of the JYP building, the time was 2:00 AM, the corridor was empty, only one employee walked out of the office.

He was wearing a shirt, tie loosened, holding coffee in his hand.

He walked very slowly, looking very tired.

Walking and walking, he suddenly stopped, looked up, and shouted at the ceiling—"I really want to fall in love!"

The voice was very loud, loud enough that the corridor was full of echoes.

After he finished shouting, he paused for a moment, then rubbed his face, and continued walking.

This video went viral on the internet.

In the comment section, some said "JYP employees are hallucinating from working overtime," some said "This is a side effect of TWICE's new song," some said "I also really want to fall in love," some said "Are you JYP holding some cult ritual?"

No one knew the correct answer, because no one would believe the correct answer—"This is a side effect of a song, making you want to fall in love after listening to it; it's not that you want to fall in love, it's that your brain wants to fall in love for you."

Jiang Zhiyu watched that video repeatedly.

He looked at that employee who shouted "I really want to fall in love" at the ceiling, looked at his tired, confused face, the face that paused for a moment after shouting, as if he didn't know what he had just done.

He rewound, and watched it again.

Rewound again, and watched again.

Watched it five times, then closed it.

He didn't quite know what method Lee Tima used, but he knew it was absolutely very tricky.

Tricky to the point that he didn't know how to respond, because he didn't know where that little turn was hidden in which bar.

If he didn't know which bar it was hidden in, he didn't know how to defend.

If he didn't know how to defend, he could only take it head-on.

If he caught it, he won.

If he couldn't catch it, he lost.

He didn't want to lose.