50: Chapter 50: Crashing into Chicken Mahjong! (It should be the Golden Horse Awards!)

The countdown to the music streaming war began on April 10th. That day, SM and JYP simultaneously released their promotional posters. One was dark and gorgeous, a blend of red and black, with half of Irene's face hidden in shadow, her eyes like a blade. The other was pink and white, with the nine members of TWICE forming a circle, fingers making heart shapes, their smiles sweet enough to make one's throat cloy. The two posters were hung side-by-side online, and the comment section erupted into chaos. Some said, "Red Velvet's concept is unrivaled," others said, "TWICE's sweetness is the true path," and some said, "Stop arguing, both were written by Z," but no one listened to him.

On April 20th, the official promotional period began.

Jiang Zhiyu did not participate in the Iracebeth promotion. It wasn't that he didn't want to; it was that the PR department didn't want him to. Before the meeting, they specially treated him to a meal. Korean beef, unlimited, and Jiang Zhiyu ate a lot, eating very satisfactorily. After finishing, the head of the PR department rubbed his hands, the sweat on his forehead reflecting the light, and spoke up. "Producer Jiang, we know you are very capable, one person worth our entire department. But for this promotion, could you... just leave it to us? Let us be responsible for it?" Jiang Zhiyu looked at him without speaking. The PR department head hurriedly added another sentence. Truth be told, what they feared wasn't Jiang Zhiyu stealing credit; they feared Kim Young-min discovering that Jiang Zhiyu was more useful than all of them in the department combined. Being useful meant that the PR department was dispensable, and being dispensable meant layoffs. After layoffs, their jobs would be gone, their social status would be gone, their family status would be gone, and even their mistresses—ahem—would all disappear.

Jiang Zhiyu listened in silence for a moment, then nodded. "I understand." He truly understood. If the PR department didn't achieve some results, Kim Young-min would definitely consider them good-for-nothings. Not just "consider," but "conclude." Kim Young-min had already hinted on multiple occasions, "Some departments have many people but very little work." The people in the PR department weren't stupid; they understood, and so they panicked. They panicked enough to treat Jiang Zhiyu to Korean beef, and panicked enough to blurt out a word like "mistress," which shouldn't appear in a formal setting. Jiang Zhiyu didn't ask who that mistress was because he didn't want to know. If he knew, he would have to pick a side, and picking a side meant offending people, and offending people meant gaining another enemy. He didn't want another enemy, so he pretended not to hear it.

During the meeting, the PR department argued their case, swearing they would ensure the promotion was thorough. They made dozens of pages of PPTs, from online to offline, from domestic to overseas, from fans to the general public; every channel was arranged clearly. The budget was also beautifully prepared, with every penny spent where it should be. Kim Young-min listened and nodded, then looked at Jiang Zhiyu. The meaning in his gaze was clear, translating to: "Say a few words." Jiang Zhiyu spoke. "I believe the colleagues in the PR department will definitely be able to do a good job this time." The people in the PR department breathed a sigh of relief, but Kim Young-min frowned slightly. Because what Jiang Zhiyu said wasn't "I'll take charge," but "I believe in them." This sentence had two interpretations—first, I believe in them, so I don't need to intervene. Second, I believe in them, and if they can't do it well, I will intervene. Kim Young-min heard the second one, but he didn't say it.

Ever since Lee Soo-man and Kim Young-min dubbed Jiang Zhiyu "the most useful tool in history," they had decided to hand the Red Velvet promotion over to him. Not "hand," but "push." Push the blame onto him, push the responsibility onto him, push the pressure onto him. If it went well, it was the company's credit; if it went poorly, it was his responsibility. To prevent any pangs of conscience, Kim Young-min even found himself a high-sounding excuse. When Lee Soo-man asked him why he pushed the promotion to Jiang Zhiyu, his lips curled up, his tone flat, as if he were saying "The weather is nice today." "To exercise the junior's ability to handle pressure." Lee Soo-man glanced at him and walked away, saying neither "good" nor "not good." Not speaking was tacit approval, tacit approval was agreement, and agreement meant—Kim Young-min had won. He thought he had won.

After thinking it over, Jiang Zhiyu realized that apart from receiving praise, completing the task wouldn't bring him any benefits. Kim Young-min wouldn't give him a raise, wouldn't promote him, wouldn't give him time off, wouldn't give him any tangible rewards. He would only say, "You've worked hard," "Well done," "Keep working hard next time." He was tired of these three phrases and didn't want to hear them anymore. So when Kim Young-min again used his eyes to signal him to ask for the position of promotion lead, he chose to pretend he didn't see. He moved his gaze away from Kim Young-min's face, landing on the notebook in front of him, on the line he had written "Red Velvet Promotion Plan," and on the parentheses after that line—inside the parentheses was written "TBD." His hand held the pen and drew a circle around those two words.

Kim Young-min's gaze lingered on Jiang Zhiyu's face for a long time; Jiang Zhiyu didn't look up. He kept his head down, looking at the notebook, at the line "TBD," at that circle. He was waiting—waiting for Kim Young-min to move his gaze away. Kim Young-min moved it away and spoke. "Then let the PR department do it first. Producer Jiang, be on standby at all times." Jiang Zhiyu nodded. He had won; Kim Young-min had conceded. It wasn't "conceding," it was "waiting." Waiting for him to volunteer, waiting for him to be eager to prove himself, waiting for him to shoulder all the work alone as he had before. He didn't want to shoulder it anymore.

Lee Tima's promotional methods were completely different from SM's. She sat cross-legged in the corner of the TWICE practice room, a tablet spread out in front of her, the screen showing the video she had edited overnight. Classic scenes from romantic K-dramas—the male lead walking toward the female lead with an umbrella in the rain, the female lead turning back under a cherry blossom tree, the male and female leads holding hands on the day of the first snow. She cut in the chorus of "love declaration," trimming the beginning and the end, leaving only the sweetest few seconds. Paired with the finger-heart dance move, the footage was sweet enough to make one's throat cloy. The video was only 15 seconds long; 15 seconds was enough. Douyin. No, in South Korea, it's called a short-video platform. She registered a new account with a cloud as the profile picture, and in the bio, she wrote "Just posting whatever." Then she posted the video. She didn't add any tags, didn't @ anyone, didn't say "This is TWICE's new song." She did nothing; she just posted it. After posting, she put down the tablet, rested her hands behind her head, and looked at the ceiling. That fluorescent light was still the same, the tungsten filament inside the tube glowing.

She was waiting. Waiting for the video to ferment, waiting for the audience to take the bait, waiting for that "little turn" to take effect. That turn was very short, so short that instruments couldn't measure it, so short that music critics couldn't hear it, so short that even she herself sometimes forgot where she put it. But it was there, in there, in that 15-second video, between the third and fourth notes of the chorus. Listen once, and the switch is pressed. The switch is pressed, the brain region is activated, and the entire melody, lyrics, and rhythm of the song are pulled from the depths of memory, replaying in the mind. Once replayed, the switch turns off, and the next time you hear that turn, the switch is pressed again. Cycle after cycle, you will never forget this song.

The promotional methods of JYP and SM were much the same. Appear on variety shows, release press releases, let idols say on SNS, "So looking forward to the comeback." Release a few concept photos, cut a few MV teasers, each one trimmed at the beginning and end, wishing they could hide the song tightly, squeezing it out bit by bit like constipation. Fans in the comment section shouted, "Can you release a bit more?" The company pretended not to hear, continuing to squeeze it out bit by bit according to their own rhythm. By the time the music source was finally released, it stunned everyone, fans went wild, passersby followed the trend, and haters shut up. The process was mature, the results stable; no company would go wrong doing it. But Lee Tima didn't want to follow the process; she felt the process was too slow. She didn't like waiting; she preferred making others wait.

Lee Tima sat cross-legged again in the corner of the TWICE practice room, reviewing her plan. She went through all the steps in her mind, from the video release to the turn taking effect, from the fermentation to topping the charts, from topping the charts to Jiang Zhiyu seeing it, from seeing it to—she imagined Jiang Zhiyu kneeling in front of her, repenting for his slander against her younger sister. Eyes moist, voice trembling, hands pressed together. "Tima, I was wrong. I shouldn't have said you had no talent, I shouldn't have said you were just a foil to a genius, I shouldn't have said you weren't a genius. You are. You are a genius, you are a genius even greater than me. I admit it. I lost." She imagined him saying these words and couldn't help but let out a cackling laugh. The sound squeezed out from her throat, carrying a sense of "I won" triumph. Not "I won," but "I am going to win." She hadn't won yet, but she felt it was soon.

Im Nayeon was drinking water; hearing the laughter, her hand shook, and the water spilled out. She looked at Lee Tima's small face, slightly flushed from fantasy, looked at those eyes narrowed into slits from excitement, looked at that corner of the mouth slightly raised from triumph. She exchanged a glance with Yoo Jeongyeon, their eyes meeting in the air for a brief moment.

Im Nayeon spoke, her tone very casual, so casual it was as if she were saying, "The weather is nice today." "Ah, Tima, are you writing such a sweet song because you want to date? Is there someone you like?" The practice room went quiet for a moment. Momo's mouth stopped, Sana's chopsticks stopped, Jihyo's brows furrowed. Mina's face flushed slightly, Dahyun blinked, Chaeyoung put down her phone, and Tzuyu looked up.

"Nayeon Unnie—! What are you saying—! Tima is still a child—!" Jihyo's voice was the loudest, loud enough to echo in the practice room. She was the leader, and the leader had to protect the members, and the members included Lee Tima. Not "included," but "especially." Especially Lee Tima; she was too young, she couldn't date, absolutely not. Her tone was firm, firm enough to be like saying "The sun rises from the east." Im Nayeon blinked innocently; her eyes were large and bright, her eyelashes fluttering like butterfly wings when she blinked. "What's wrong? Love doesn't distinguish age, okay?" Momo whispered from the side, "What kind of twisted logic is that?" Im Nayeon ignored her, looking at Lee Tima, her eyes sparkling.

"Tima! Who do you like?"

Lee Tima could be considered to have seen countless men on the Tianxuan Continent.

She was beautiful, a generational songstress, the only female solo artist at TG Entertainment, and a registered disciple of Jiang Zhiyu.

The men who wanted to pursue her could line up from Baiyujing, circle the five continents, and hold number plates.

She hadn't taken a fancy to a single one; it wasn't that she hadn't taken a fancy to "any," it was that there was "none."

There wasn't one who made her feel, "This person will do."

Her standards were too high, so high that even she felt it was a bit excessive.

But she didn't want to lower her standards, because she deserved better.

Where was better? She didn't know.

She only knew that person wasn't among those holding number plates.

They weren't good enough; it wasn't that they weren't "good enough," it was that they weren't excellent enough.

She had only ever met one person excellent enough to make her feel, "I am not good enough for him."

That person was named Jiang Zhiyu, and his excellence made her feel that her own excellence was not worth mentioning.

It wasn't "not worth mentioning," it was that it didn't even measure up.

Her awards, her sales figures, her tour records—in front of Jiang Zhiyu, they were like children playing house.

He could write seventy-eight chart-topping songs in one breath; she couldn't.

He could turn an entertainment company on the verge of bankruptcy into an industry benchmark; she couldn't.

He could save a woman abandoned by the whole world; she couldn't.

He could do anything.

It wasn't that she liked him; it was that she felt he was too much of a beast.

So much of a beast that it raised her standards for men.

Lee Tima clicked her tongue, picked up a lollipop from the table, peeled off the wrapper, and popped it into her mouth.

It was strawberry flavored, sweet enough to make her throat feel cloying.

She spoke indistinctly with the candy in her mouth.

"If you spend enough time with Oppa, you won't be able to fancy any other men."

Im Nayeon raised an eyebrow.

"Oppa? Jiang Zhiyu?"

Lee Tima nodded.

The candy rolled around in her mouth, from her left cheek to her right, and from her right cheek back to her left.

"Let me tell you a secret: Oppa likes older women."

Sana's eyes lit up.

"Older women? He likes Unnies?"

Lee Tima nodded.

"Yeah, he likes those who are quirky, full of vitality, and, well, very responsible and confident."

Im Nayeon covered her face, shy, her voice squeezing out from between her fingers, loud enough to echo in the practice room.

"Yah! Isn't that me?"

Momo's mouth fell open, Sana's chopsticks dropped, Jihyo slapped her forehead, Mina's face turned even redder, Dahyun covered her mouth, and Chaeyoung's phone dropped again.

Tzuyu finally had an expression on her face; she said her expression meant, "So this is what Nayeon Unnie's personality is like."

Yoo Jeongyeon looked at Im Nayeon, who was covering her face and whose voice was so loud it was like she was holding a concert.

"Tima isn't complimenting you."

Im Nayeon lowered her hand and looked at Yoo Jeongyeon.

Her face was still red, the corners of her mouth still upturned, but the light in her eyes dimmed slightly.

"Then who is she complimenting?"

"Herself."

"Herself?"

"Tima said that she herself is quirky, full of vitality, very responsible, and confident."

Im Nayeon looked at Lee Tima, who was eating candy, her cheeks puffed out.

She looked at Im Nayeon, her gaze asking, "What's wrong?"

Im Nayeon took a deep breath.

"If you want to compliment yourself, just do it; why do you have to use Jiang Zhiyu's mouth?"

"I didn't use his mouth; I was stating facts."

"The fact is that Jiang Zhiyu likes older women?"

"The fact is that I am quirky, full of vitality, responsible, and confident."

Im Nayeon fell silent; she couldn't refute it because Lee Tima was indeed quirky, full of vitality, responsible, and confident.

She was just unconvinced; it wasn't because "I am not as good as her," but because "she is younger than me."

Someone younger than her was more confident than her, and she didn't know if she should be happy about that.

Sana raised her hand, her voice coming from the other end of the practice room like she was answering a teacher's question in class.

Her arm was stretched out straight, five fingers spread wide like a flag.

"By that standard, I am too!"

Kim Da-hyun, not wanting to be outdone, also raised her hand, "We are all people like that! Responsible, confident, beautiful, and generous women!"

Her voice was loud, loud enough to echo in the practice room.

Momo raised her hand, Jihyo raised her hand, Mina also raised her hand, Chaeyoung raised her hand, Tzuyu raised her hand; Jeongyeon didn't raise her hand, she was leaning against the wall reading a book.

Im Nayeon looked at those high-raised arms and fell silent for a moment.

"What are you all doing?"

"Proving that we fit Jiang Zhiyu's ideal type."

"You don't even know him."

"We know his songs."

"Knowing his songs means knowing the person?"

"The song is like the person."

Im Nayeon didn't want to speak anymore.

Jiang Zhiyu stood on the balcony, in front of him a row of newly planted flower pots.

The soil was freshly turned, deep brown, shimmering with moist light in the sun.

His fingers dipped in water, dripping it one by one onto the spots where the seeds were buried.

The water drops seeped into the soil, leaving shallow round marks on the surface.

He watched those round marks disappear one by one, absorbed by the soil, evaporated by the sun.

He was wondering—when would these seeds sprout?

The package sent by the SM China branch arrived yesterday; the cardboard box wasn't big, and inside, several small bags were wrapped in bubble wrap.

Labels were stuck on the bags, written with the names of medicinal herbs; some he recognized, some he didn't.

The ones he recognized he had planted on the Tianxuan Continent, and the ones he didn't, he planned to try planting and see.

He soaked the seeds overnight, planted them in the pots this morning, watered them, and placed them in the sunniest spot.

The balcony faced south and had sunlight from morning to night; it was warm in winter and not too hot in summer, making it very suitable for planting things.

He squatted down and looked at the row of flower pots.

The soil was still flat, without any movement.

He knew the seeds were in the soil, in a place he couldn't see, slowly absorbing water, swelling, cracking, and sprouting.

This process took time; there was no rushing it.

He stood up and walked back into the house.

The war between Red Velvet and TWICE was like a storm about to break.

The internet had already turned into a pot of porridge, with fans rubbing their hands and preparing to rush digital charts, sales, and first place.

Prediction posts were updated daily on forums, passersby watched the spectacle, and the media fanned the flames.

Jiang Zhiyu did not participate in the promotional project; this was his own choice.

The publicity department treated him to Korean beef, and at the meeting, he pretended not to see Kim Young-min's suggestive looks.

Kim Young-min finally said, "The publicity department will do it first; Producer Jiang, be on standby," and he nodded.

Standby meant waiting.

Waiting meant having free time.

With more free time, he began organizing his medicinal herb seeds, began cultivating his internal energy, and began doing some things he hadn't done in a long time but had always wanted to do.

He practiced the Green Origin Returning Technique every day; starting from the age of seven, he had practiced it for twenty-three years.

In twenty-three years, he had never encountered a bottleneck, because the old physician from Medicine King Valley had said, "The Origin Returning Technique is not for breaking through; it is for nurturing."

Nurturing meant taking it slow, not rushing; if you didn't rush, there wouldn't be a bottleneck.

But now he had encountered one; it wasn't a "bottleneck," it was a "wall."

A transparent wall, invisible but touchable.

His hand pressed against the wall, unable to push it; it wasn't because the wall was too hard, but because his strength wasn't enough.

If strength wasn't enough, it needed time.

When the time came and the strength was enough, the wall would be pushed open.

He didn't know how long it would take; he only knew that rushing was useless.

When his internal energy cultivation ended, he found that he had broken into a sweat.

It wasn't "sweat," it was a "light perspiration."

A thin layer covered the surface of his skin, evaporating in the cold air of the air conditioner, taking away heat and bringing coolness.

He didn't like the sticky feeling, so he went to take a shower.

Kim Minjeong came over at noon.

The sun climbed to its highest point, the sunlight falling vertically, casting a very small shadow on the floor.

She stood at Jiang Zhiyu's door and rang the doorbell; no one answered.

She rang it again; still no one answered.

She took out her phone and opened the chat interface with Jiang Zhiyu; the last message was the one she had sent—"Oppa, I'm coming over at noon."

He hadn't read it.

She looked at the words "unread" for a moment, then pressed her finger against the fingerprint lock.

The door opened with a faint "click."

She pushed the door open and went in; the lights in the entryway were off, and the lights in the living room were off too.

Only sunlight shone in through the window, painting a bright square on the floor.

Kim Minjeong's fingerprint had been registered by Jiang Zhiyu; not just Kim Minjeong's, but Karina and Ningning's were registered too.

When he registered them, he said, "Come whenever you want; you don't need to tell me in advance."

They had never "wanted" to come over, because they felt that would be too impolite.

But today she needed to come, because she was on a mission.

She stood in the entryway, took off her shoes, placed them neatly, and took a deep breath first.

The scent exclusive to Jiang Zhiyu rushed towards her; plump peaches and bitter-sweet medicinal herbs intertwined, sweet and bitter, fresh and heavy, fusing in her nasal cavity into a scent that made one calm.

Usually when she smelled this scent, she felt like she was soaking in warm water, very comfortable.

But today was different; today the scent of peaches was too intense, so intense that her tongue began to secrete saliva, as if that plump peach, ready to drip juice, was truly appearing before her eyes.

She gulped; it wasn't a "swallow," it was a "gulp," impatient.

Her throat moved, and she stood in the entryway for a long time.

The living room was very quiet.

The air conditioning vent overhead made a faint humming sound, and the refrigerator compressor started up occasionally.

Sunlight shone in from the window, falling on the light-colored wooden floor, illuminating the dust in the air like floating stars.

The cushions were crooked; one was on the sofa, one was on the carpet.

An open book was spread on the coffee table, face down, probably put there casually after being interrupted halfway through.

The phone was also lying on the coffee table, screen facing up, showing the chat interface with Kim Minjeong, the last message still the one she sent—"Oppa, I'm coming over at noon," still unread.

His cup was also on the coffee table, a transparent glass, a little water left at the bottom, tiny beads of water condensing on the sides of the cup.

Kim Minjeong sat down on the sofa to wait.

His body temperature still lingered on the sofa, probably where he had sat in the morning.

She pulled her legs up and held them to her chest, resting her chin on her knees, her gaze falling on the face-down book.

She couldn't see the title because the pages were facing down.

She didn't want to flip it over, because flipping it would be an intrusion, so she just stared at the back cover, staring blankly as she looked at the publisher's logo printed on it.

Jiang Zhiyu walked out of the master bedroom, his pace neither fast nor slow. He had just showered; his slightly long hair still held a hint of moisture, the ends curling slightly and hanging over his forehead.

He was wearing a white short-sleeved shirt and dark gray lounge shorts that ended above his knees, revealing a portion of his calves. He wasn't wearing socks, and his feet made no sound against the floor. His skin looked very fair in the sunlight.

The loungewear made him look somewhat languid, a stark contrast to his usual elite, ascetic persona. At the company, he was always in a dress shirt, the top button always fastened, the cuffs always neatly buttoned, and his hair always meticulous. Today, he felt like a different person—just woken up, just showered, and not yet having armed himself.

Kim Minjeong watched him walk over from the end of the hallway, stepping into the sunlight one step at a time. The sunlight fell on his shoulders, making his white short-sleeved shirt appear slightly translucent. She opened her mouth to say something, but her mind went blank; the words she wanted to say were blocked somewhere.

Her eyes were watching him, her ears were listening to his footsteps, and her nose was smelling the scent of peaches on him, which was stronger than usual. Her mouth had forgotten how to speak.

Jiang Zhiyu saw Kim Minjeong sitting on the sofa with wide eyes and a slightly open mouth, and he couldn't help but chuckle. "Why did you come here by yourself?" His voice wasn't loud, but it was clear. It carried that languidness from just having showered, the end of his tone dipping slightly.

Kim Minjeong's mouth finally moved. "Oppa, I—" Then she forgot what she wanted to say. Her mouth opened, and a sound squeezed out of her throat, but it was meaningless. Because her brain had already packed up the content regarding "the meeting to discuss ways to improve the relationship between the pre-debut trio and the new trainee Uchinaga Eri, whether to bring Uchinaga Eri to Oppa's house for a dinner discussion, and the limited meeting members of the strongest quartet in SM history" and thrown it all into the trash, leaving only an empty folder. She looked at that empty folder, saw that there was nothing inside, and her brain searched, searched for a long time, but found no results.

Jiang Zhiyu walked up to her and reached out to ruffle her hair. His fingers slid from the top of her head to the back of her neck, his fingertips gently massaging her scalp. The movements were very light and slow, as if soothing a nervous kitten.

Kim Minjeong's eyes narrowed. Every time he rubbed her head, she would narrow her eyes—not because it was comfortable, but because she felt at ease. At ease enough to let down all her defenses, at ease enough to forget that she had just been nervous. At ease enough to want to sleep.

Jiang Zhiyu's hand slid from the top of her head to her wrist, his fingers resting on her pulse and gently holding it. Kim Minjeong looked down at his hand; his hand was much larger than hers, with distinct knuckles and thin calluses on his fingertips. His thumb pressed against her radial artery with a very light pressure, so light it felt like a caress. She didn't know what he was doing. Her pulse was beating, thump, thump, thump. His fingers were sensing her pulse, she was watching his fingers, and her heartbeat accelerated a little. Not "a little," but "a lot." Fast enough that her face began to heat up, fast enough that her ears began to turn red.

Kim Minjeong was just about to ask him, "Oppa, what are you doing?" but just as the words reached her lips, she realized he had already closed his eyes. His eyelashes were long, casting a small, fan-shaped shadow under his eyes. His breathing was steady, his chest rising and falling evenly. His expression was calm, so calm that no emotion could be detected. She swallowed her question back. Because she didn't want to disturb him; besides, he wouldn't hurt her, and whatever he did was for her own good. She didn't know what he was doing, but she knew that this much was enough.

Jiang Zhiyu's hand moved away from Kim Minjeong's wrist. His thumb lifted from her radial artery, his fingertip tracing an almost imperceptible path across the surface of her skin, and then he withdrew his hand entirely and placed it on his knee. He opened his eyes, and his calm, unfathomable pupils reflected Kim Minjeong's face. Her face was very close, close enough that she could see her own reflection in his pupils. She thought she must look quite foolish in his pupils, with her eyes wide open and her mouth slightly agape, like a fish pulled onto the shore.

"Minjeong-ah, you've gained weight."

Jiang Zhiyu's words just drilled their way into her ears. The tone was very flat, as flat as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today." He finished speaking, his expression unchanged, no curve to his lips, his eyes not blinking. Kim Minjeong tilted her head, as if she hadn't heard clearly. Her brain was processing these syllables, processing for a long time.

"Ne?" She emitted a muffled, questioning syllable from her throat. Then she heard it clearly. Gained weight, gained weight, weight. Kim Minjeong's face turned red. Not "red" but "exploded"; it was as if a small bomb had detonated under her skin, the shockwave spreading from her neck, rushing all the way up to the top of her head, blowing her hair until it was almost standing on end.

Her lips began to tremble, not because of the cold, but because the four words "imminent debut" were flashing crazily in her mind. An imminent debut meant over a dozen hours of training every day, meant the number on the scale couldn't exceed a certain threshold, meant chicken breast salad was the main meal, lettuce was a snack, water was the beverage, and it meant she hadn't had a full meal in a long time. She didn't know how many chicken breast salads she had eaten, to the point where she wanted to throw up just seeing the word "salad," but she couldn't throw up because she still had to eat. She had to weigh herself next week, and she had already stepped on the scale three times in advance; every time, the number hovered near the standard line. She didn't dare drink much water, didn't dare eat salty food, didn't dare eat at night. She was hungry, but she couldn't eat. She endured it. Endured until her stomach growled, endured until her eyes turned green, endured until she saw everything as food.

She had endured so hard, and Jiang Zhiyu said she had gained weight. Kim Minjeong's heart was roaring, but she didn't erupt immediately. Because she was thinking about something—the Harbin red sausage that Ningning brought from home, they would secretly slice a piece every night and share it between the two of them. One piece of sausage shared between two people; the thickness of that sausage wasn't even as thick as a pinky finger, thin enough to see the moon through it. They would cut the sausage in half, one half each, put it in their mouths and chew slowly, chewing for a long time, until the sausage melted in their mouths, until the flavor disappeared from the tip of their tongues. They didn't tell Karina; it wasn't that they didn't want to tell her, it was that they didn't dare. Because Karina would get angry—not "angry," but "worried." Worried that they would be discovered by the company, worried they would be disqualified, worried they wouldn't be able to debut. They knew Karina was doing it for their own good, so they didn't say anything.

Every day when they met, looking at Karina's earnest, serious face, which seemed to say, "Did you sneak food today?", a sense of guilt would well up in Kim Minjeong's heart. The guilt crawled in her heart like ants, crawling until she felt uncomfortable all over, crawling until she didn't dare look into Karina's eyes.

But after the ants finished crawling, another feeling would creep up. It was secret joy—the secret joy of "you don't know," the triumph of having done something bad and not being caught, the superiority of that adult-like "I know that you don't know." She knew she shouldn't be like this, but she couldn't control it. She was a trainee, and the trainee life was too dull; every day was practice, eating, sleeping, practicing. There weren't many things that could make her happy, and sneaking the sausage was one of them, keeping it from Karina was another. She knew this was childish, but she needed this childishness, otherwise, she would really go crazy.

Kim Minjeong took a deep breath, clenched her fists, leaned forward, and aimed her forehead at Jiang Zhiyu's chest. She unleashed the Rocket Headbutt, a unique skill she had been practicing since her trainee days, requiring no wind-up, no power-up, and could be launched at any time, with eighty percent of her strength and a one hundred percent success rate. Jiang Zhiyu reached out to block it. His palm pressed against her forehead, fingers spread out like an opened umbrella. Her forehead crashed into his palm, the impact absorbed by his arm; he didn't budge, and she stopped in her tracks.

"Mianhae." His tone remained unchanged, as flat as if he were saying, "The weather is nice today." He was holding back a laugh, the corners of his mouth already curling up, but he pressed them down. Kim Minjeong saw that suppressed curve and became even angrier.

"Oppa, you have zero sincerity!" Her voice was loud, loud enough that the voice-activated lights in the hallway turned on, loud enough that the neighbor downstairs knocked on the ceiling. Jiang Zhiyu didn't let go; his palm was still pressed against her forehead, the temperature of his palm coming through like a thin membrane. He laughed, not "holding back a laugh" but "laughing." The curve of his lips couldn't be suppressed, and his eyes curved as well.

"How about I cook later to apologize?" Kim Minjeong's movements paused; she had come over to mooch a meal in the first place, and she had chosen this time on purpose. She hadn't expected him to proactively offer to cook as an apology. In her heart, she said, "This isn't an apology, this is clearly something you should be doing," but she didn't say it out loud because she was afraid he would go back on his word. She pushed forward hard again, rubbing her forehead against his palm like a spoiled kitten, though her expression remained angry. This was her last bit of stubbornness, her final struggle.

Jiang Zhiyu smiled helplessly. "Alright, alright, I'll give you a different apology gift."

Kim Minjeong's head stopped. She lifted her head from his palm and looked into his eyes, her face reflected in his pupils. He was smiling, not that polite, social smile, but the kind of smile that said, "I know you'll like this gift."

"What is it?" Kim Minjeong's tone was suspicious; Jiang Zhiyu's gifts were often a "surprise," either a "shock" or a "delight." Last time he said he had a gift for her, it turned out to be her helping him move files. The time before that he said he had a gift for her, it turned out to be her helping him deliver takeout to Lee Tima. The time before that, he said he had a gift for her, it turned out to be— "Eat first. We'll talk after eating."

Kim Minjeong moved her head away, and Jiang Zhiyu's hand slid down from her forehead, landing on her shoulder to pat it gently. She looked at him, and he looked at her; his expression was very sincere. In Kim Minjeong's impression, whenever he said this, he would follow through; when he said "I'm not lying to you," he really wasn't lying to her. So she believed him.

"Oppa, don't lie to me." Jiang Zhiyu nodded. "I'm not lying to you." Kim Minjeong pouted and returned to the previous topic. "Then you just said I was fat."

Jiang Zhiyu's expression changed from "sincere" to "calm," and from "calm" to "Oh, that was a lie." He feigned calmness, his lips not curving, his eyebrows not twitching, but his eyes blinked—not a "blink" but a "flicker." Kim Minjeong saw that flicker, and she understood its meaning— "What I said about you gaining weight just now was false, but what I'm saying now about not lying to you is true." Her blood pressure spiked again.

"Yah!" She sprang up from the sofa and lunged at Jiang Zhiyu. Jiang Zhiyu leaned back against the sofa, pinned down by her, his hands raised in surrender.

Kim Minjeong braced her hands on either side of his shoulders, looking down at him, her hair hanging down and brushing against his cheeks, her lips pressed into a line. She glared at him, and he looked back at her.

"Oppa, you are really annoying." Jiang Zhiyu laughed. "I know."