The next day at noon, everyone was woken by Koty’s shouting. His voice sounded anxious, and at first, the others assumed he’d been scared by some kind of insect again.
“Our pot is gone! The shovel too! Paranormal activity!” Koty waved the camera around and roused everyone.
When they came out of the tent, it was just as Koty had said. All the tools that had been left outside on the ground had vanished. Zhu Lianzhen, still groggy with sleep, stared blankly at the dirt. Suddenly, something caught his eye, and he called them over. “Come look at this!”
Behind the tent was a messy trail of large footprints. Not shoe prints, but actual bare feet, far too big to belong to any normal person.
Around the edges of the prints, they could even spot a few tufts of brownish fur.
“…So Friday really exists.” Ji Yunting glanced at Koty.
As expected, the production team wasn’t going to let them finish the recording easily. Even on the last day, they had to throw in some absurd plot twist.
Everyone had slept soundly the night before and hadn’t noticed any disturbances. The staff had really gone through the trouble of coming out to the island in the middle of the night.
The group washed up, got dressed, picked up their respective cameras, and set off toward the deeper part of the island forest.
Following the trail of footprints, they noticed a few leaves along the way stained with what looked like “blood.” The color was a dark red, clearly congealed some time ago.
“Think the wild man’s injured?” Koty filmed a close-up of the ground.
“Maybe he eats people,” Fu Rong said.
Ji Yunting looked at him. “You have such a dark mind.”
Zhu Lianzhen let out a soft “Ah” and suddenly stopped, as if he had something important to say.
The others turned toward him.
“Do you think there’s a chance,” Zhu Lianzhen said seriously, “that the Koty we know was already eaten by Friday, and this Koty is an imposter?”
After hearing him spout such nonsense with such conviction, Koty stepped forward and locked an arm tightly around his neck. “Are you crazy!”
Zhu Lianzhen laughed and quickly ran off.
In the midst of their joking and teasing, a rustling sound came from the nearby underbrush. They all fell silent at once, listening closely.
There was no wind, so the rustling had to be caused by something alive. Once they pinpointed the direction, they immediately headed that way.
The figure near the bushes had already vanished, leaving behind only a fresh trail of footprints leading deeper into the forest. They followed the clue, but it wasn’t long before the trail abruptly ended.
They looked around and found nothing, until they instinctively looked up, and immediately cried out in shock.
Perched on a thick tree trunk was a “wild man” completely covered in brownish fur, squatting and staring down at them.
Although they had mentally prepared to encounter “Friday,” the sudden appearance of an actual wild man was still visually jarring. The production team’s makeup and costume work was impressively realistic, especially the ape-like face, which looked wild and intimidating, as if he might pounce on them and start tearing them apart at any moment.
As Zhu Lianzhen stared at the wild man, he couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of pride: It really wasn’t easy for humans to evolve to the point of producing a face as handsome as mine.
“Friday?” Ji Yunting called out tentatively, but the wild man bared his teeth at him menacingly.
Koty suggested, “How about we call him Monkey-ge?”
Surprisingly, the wild man seemed to accept the name. He stood up, holding onto the tree trunk, and let out a primal howl while gazing straight ahead. “Woo-oh! Woo-oh!”
Everyone assumed he was expressing happiness.
For some reason, Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but join in with a “Woo!”
Ji Yunting looked at him in disbelief. “Why are you howling too? Reverting to your primitive roots?”
“Huh? I was just trying to be friendly…” Zhu Lianzhen only remembered the cameras recording them after he’d already made the sound.
Koty laughed. “Don’t mind him—he barks back at dogs on the street too.”
While they were talking, Monkey-ge suddenly leapt down from the tree and landed steadily in front of them. Everyone instinctively took half a step back, eyeing him warily.
Monkey-ge let out two more howls, though this time they weren’t as loud, sounding more like a greeting. Then he turned around, hunched over, and ran off with long, swaying strides.
They immediately followed. After several minutes of running, they arrived at the deepest part of the forest. The clearing ahead was likely Monkey-ge’s base. When the group had searched for supplies earlier, they’d never ventured this far.
Scattered on the ground were the entrenching shovel and other tools. Nearby were some branches and sharp-edged stones. Monkey-ge walked over to a tree, muttering “woo woo uh uh,” retrieved a pot from behind it, and waved at them enthusiastically.
Zhu Lianzhen: “Looks like Monkey-ge wants to cook us a meal.”
They walked over and saw that inside the pot was a whole, fresh… plucked white chicken.
Not only was there still some unthawed ice on it, but right in front of them, Monkey-ge discreetly stashed away a plastic package behind a tree. It clearly read: “Direct Supply from Breeding Farm.”
“…” They all pretended not to see anything.
Monkey-ge began tearing at the chicken, seemingly trying to share it with them. Ji Yunting quickly stopped him. “No, no, no—this is still raw.”
It looked like they were going to have to teach the wild man how to use fire.
Every time they made a fire, it was Tan Qing who handled it. He picked up the entrenching tool, unscrewed it to take out the magnesium rod, and skillfully got the fire going.
When the flames rose, Monkey-ge got so excited he howled nonstop and waved at Tan Qing, clearly eager to try it himself.
Zhu Lianzhen noticed that although Tan Qing kept a smile on his face, when handing over the tool, he held it by the very end and let go immediately.
Zhu Lianzhen couldn’t help but want to laugh. So even Tan Qing shows a look of disdain when faced with something ugly.
While the wild man clumsily tried to follow Tan Qing’s lead in making fire, the others discovered a stash of seasonings nearby, likely supplies fans had voted to send earlier, which Monkey-ge had hidden all here.
Koty grabbed a bottle of cooking wine and started marinating the chicken in the pot. “Look how refined Monkey-ge is. He doesn’t even know how to start a fire yet, and he’s already invented chili powder.”
After working all morning, the chicken was finally roasted—crispy on the outside, tender on the inside, cooked just right. Monkey-ge was surprisingly generous. He kept one leg for himself and let them have the rest.
Once full, Monkey-ge climbed up a tree, his agility stunning them into silence.
They didn’t know the name of the tree, only that its leaves were wide and lush. Monkey-ge picked quite a few branches. Everyone tried to guess what he was doing, until a sudden realization hit them: he was trying to make clothes for himself.
Ji Yunting: “So you care about your looks, huh? But maybe start by shaving off all that fur first.”
They collected a fair number of leaves, and since many were picked with the branches still attached, they could be twisted tightly and held together even without needle and thread. Monkey-ge snatched them up excitedly and wrapped them around himself. “Wooo—!”
Zhu Lianzhen looked bitter. Weren’t idol groups supposed to go surfing, have picnics, or play games together, even in survival scenarios? Why was their version all about running tasks with a wild man!
And that wasn’t even the end of it.
Not long after, Monkey-ge started acting up again. This time, his cry sounded sharper and more urgent than before. He knelt down in a corner, making strange noises. It was a bit unsettling.
“What’s wrong? Is it a stomachache?” Zhu Lianzhen asked with concern.
“Oh crap,” Ji Yunting said. “Is he getting horny now that he’s had a full meal… and going into heat?”
Koty: “What, are you gonna go mate with him? Good luck with that.”
Zhu Lianzhen: “Huh? That can’t be broadcast.”
“Get lost.” Ji Yunting raised a leg and gave them both a flying kick.
Monkey-ge’s cries gradually weakened and eventually faded. He remained kneeling, upper body curled forward and pressed to the ground. The others fell silent, waiting to see what he would do.
Monkey-ge arched his back slightly, and then something seemed to drop from his stomach area.
Everyone leaned in for a closer look. Right where he had been kneeling was a smooth, white… egg.
It was roughly the size of an ostrich egg, but that wasn’t the point. The point was—why the hell did he have an egg-laying setting?!
After laying the egg, Monkey-ge looked like he had completed some mission. He let out a few satisfied howls and then ran off into the distance.
Ji Yunting walked over and picked up the egg. Something inside bumped lightly against the shell.
It was just a container. Ji Yunting was about to open it when Fu Rong spoke up beside him. “I remember this.”
“Hm? Isn’t it just an egg?”
Fu Rong tapped the bottom of the eggshell with a finger. “Time capsule.”
With that one sentence, Ji Yunting remembered too.
Qiu Hao had mentioned during his introduction that, back when he was an intern, he had worked on the first season of Acemon’s variety show.
In one episode, the director had asked them to write letters to their future selves, which they then buried somewhere, intending to dig them up ten years later. Though time capsules had long fallen out of fashion, sentimental gestures like that were still popular back then.
At the time, everyone had even joked with apparent seriousness, “We’ll probably have disbanded by then. Our contract’s only for seven years anyway.”
Time flew by, but the ten-year mark was still a long way off, and no one had expected they’d end up renewing their contract.
“So Director Qiu actually dug this thing up? I’m impressed he even found it,” Zhu Lianzhen said with a sigh. He couldn’t remember a single thing about it.
“Let’s open it,” Ji Yunting said, already starting to do so.
Inside were five scrolls, each labeled with a member’s name. It looked like the crew had already taken out Fan Gerong’s in advance.
They each found their own scroll and weighed it in their hands, exchanging glances. No one wanted to be the first to open and read theirs.
“Rock-paper-scissors?” Ji Yunting suggested.
“No way!” Zhu Lianzhen refused firmly. “You always team up just to set me up!”
“Set you up how? Did you write something you can’t let people see?”
“It’s embarrassing, okay? I was a teenager back then! Just think of what your old Qzone looked like!”
“Fair.” The memory of past public humiliation came rushing back to Ji Yunting, and he decisively sided with Zhu Lianzhen this time.
“Director Qiu’s not even here, so what does it matter if we don’t read them?” Koty said.
Tan Qing glanced at him. “They might make us come back and re-record this part.”
Unexpectedly, Fu Rong spoke up. “I’ll read mine.”
Everyone stared at him in shock. Fu Rong acting reasonable was scarier than when he was being sarcastic. Zhu Lianzhen quickly grabbed Ji Yunting’s arm. “When something seems too good to be true, there’s usually a catch. His letter’s probably cursed—full of stuff like, ‘If you don’t send this to ten people, you’ll have terrible luck.’”
Fu Rong rolled his eyes coolly and no longer gave them a chance to peek at his letter.
“How about this, we pass them clockwise and let the next person read,” Tan Qing suggested. “If there’s anything interesting, we can read it out loud.”
From a variety show perspective, it was a solid idea. But Zhu Lianzhen glanced at their seating arrangement—absolutely not. His letter would end up in Tan Qing’s hands!
“I want counterclockwise!” he said quickly. “I want to read yours.”
Tan Qing smiled faintly. “Mine’s not worth reading.”
The others didn’t care about the order, so they went along with Zhu Lianzhen’s request.
Zhu Lianzhen slowly unfolded Tan Qing’s letter, and the moment the contents came into view, he froze, then turned to look at Tan Qing.
But Tan Qing didn’t notice his gaze. He was reading Fu Rong’s letter. After just a few seconds, he folded it back up again.
Koty was holding the letter with an expression that looked almost moved to tears. “Zhu Lianzhen’s letter really touched me. He said that by the time we read this, we’d already be the number one idol group in the world.”
Zhu Lianzhen’s face flushed. “Stop reading!”
Sure enough, as a teenager, he’d loved making bold declarations without a shred of humility.
Compared to that, Koty and Ji Yunting’s letters were much more typical—mostly talking about their lives at the time, followed by a few hopeful words for the future.
After a long day of goofing around, everyone was feeling a bit tired. Monkey-ge was nowhere to be found, probably because his part in the show had ended. They returned to their tent, set down the camera equipment, and paused filming to rest.
Before it got dark, Tan Qing showered and headed to the beach to sunbathe. The breeze was warm, unlike the shaded areas around the tent, which made it easy to catch a cold.
Zhu Lianzhen looked around for a bit but didn’t see him. Then he remembered Tan Qing might be at the beach.
Tan Qing was sitting on the sand. When he heard footsteps behind him, he turned to glance back. Zhu Lianzhen walked up slowly and sat down beside him. He noticed Tan Qing holding a seashell. “What are you picking that up for?”
“It’s a conch.” Tan Qing gently blew the sand off its surface and lifted it to his ear to listen.
The action surprised Zhu Lianzhen quite a bit. He didn’t know anything about shells, but Tan Qing clearly did. Did this kind make some kind of special sound?
His curiosity was written all over his face, so Tan Qing handed the conch to him.
Zhu Lianzhen immediately pressed it to his ear. “There’s no sound.”
“There’s not supposed to be.” Tan Qing suddenly laughed.
“?” Zhu Lianzhen realized he’d been tricked and immediately tossed the shell back into the sea.
“What did Fu Rong’s letter say?” he asked. “You only glanced at it.”
“Mm. Just one sentence. The gist was: no matter what happens, don’t take anything to heart, and never be sincere with anyone,” Tan Qing told him truthfully. “Maybe it’s something he’s always reminded himself of.”
Zhu Lianzhen absentmindedly ran his fingers through the sand, replying with a distracted “Oh.” After a pause, he asked, “What about yours?” He glanced at the side of Tan Qing’s face. “Why was yours blank?”
“Told you already—mine wasn’t worth looking at,” Tan Qing replied.
Zhu Lianzhen was used to this kind of evasiveness. He’d often been strung along like this in the past, so now, without a clear answer, he pressed again. “Why didn’t you write anything?”
Tan Qing shook his head and replied casually, “So many years have passed. How would I remember what I was thinking at the time?”
“Were you unhappy with life after debut?” Zhu Lianzhen recalled that, in an earlier interview, Tan Qing had said he missed the trainee days the most.
“No.” Tan Qing stared at him for a few seconds.
Then, with a soft sigh, he said slowly, “It’s just that I didn’t have anything to look forward to in the future.”
Zhu Lianzhen was about to speak, but Tan Qing beat him to it. “Do you care more about who I used to be?”
His gaze was direct and gentle, yet tinged with sadness, making it impossible for Zhu Lianzhen to look away.
Tan Qing continued, “Stop paying so much attention to who I used to be. Start caring about who I am now, Xiao Zhu.”
Zhu Lianzhen scoffed inwardly and couldn’t help thinking: You’re always the one acting weak around me. Isn’t that I wouldn’t have the ability to care about you on my own?
But that was exactly the contradiction. Even though Zhu Lianzhen knew Tan Qing was putting on an act to win his sympathy, and that much of what he said wasn’t genuine… he still couldn’t bring himself to treat him coldly.
“So do you have something to look forward to now?” Zhu Lianzhen asked.
Tan Qing looked at him and said, “Let’s just say I do.”
As dusk settled in, a dim bluish-gray hue filled their view, and they could barely see each other’s faces. Zhu Lianzhen relaxed because of it, looked directly into Tan Qing’s eyes, and said, “Oh right, the thing I talked to you about last night…”
“Mm.”
“Have you made up your mind?”
“Mm,” Tan Qing replied softly. “Since you don’t want me to take the job, then I won’t.”
Hearing him say it so strangely, Zhu Lianzhen felt helpless. “Can you not play dumb? I’m not your manager giving you orders. I-I was giving you reasonable advice as a teammate.”
But as soon as he finished, he thought maybe it was better to just let it go. Tan Qing was clearly saying that with ulterior motives, so why should he take the bait?
At the same time, Zhu Lianzhen felt a quiet sense of relief. If neither of them went on that show, then things between them could stay just as they were.
“Head back once your hair’s dry,” Zhu Lianzhen muttered.
He pressed one hand against the sand to push himself up, but Tan Qing’s palm came down over the back of his hand.
“But didn’t you say the fans wanted to see me on that kind of show?” Tan Qing said. “Isn’t it my duty to fulfill the fans’ wishes? As a teammate, you shouldn’t have a reason to oppose that, right?”
Zhu Lianzhen reluctantly played along. “Then… as a friend.”
Tan Qing kept holding his hand in silence.
Their fingers were nearly buried in the white sand, making Zhu Lianzhen a little uncomfortable. He changed his answer again, “Me. Personally.”
“And your reason?”
“I don’t wanna say.” Zhu Lianzhen frowned, very resistant to having his thoughts picked apart by him.
Tan Qing laughed and asked, “So who’s really playing dumb here?”
Zhu Lianzhen: “…”
“Who’s playing dumb?”
“…”
“Who—”
“Me! Okay!” Zhu Lianzhen’s tone carried a trace of impatience.
Tan Qing finally stopped teasing and let go of his hand with a laugh.
Zhu Lianzhen didn’t get up. He turned his face away and saw that the sky in the distance had gone dark. The wind carried the sound of waves toward them, churning up foam along the shore.
Beyond the sea breeze and crashing waves, what Zhu Lianzhen felt most was the warmth of the person beside him. For a fleeting moment, he had the illusion that the whole world held only the two of them.
Tan Qing looked ahead and murmured, “It feels like the two of us are stranded on a deserted island.”
Zhu Lianzhen really wanted to reply, “Because we are on a deserted island,” but he held back, not wanting to ruin the mood.
He turned his head and looked at Tan Qing’s indistinct profile in the dim light, then asked softly, “If that were true, what would you want to do?”
It seemed as if Tan Qing had already thought about the question. He didn’t hesitate long and said calmly, “I’d want to sink into the sea with you.”
That answer didn’t sound so bad.
Zhu Lianzhen’s mouth twitched slightly. “If we sank into the sea, we’d just end up as shark food.”
Tan Qing: “Then we’ll go down together.”
He said it so straightforwardly, completely ignoring the sharks. Zhu Lianzhen didn’t bother clarifying the ambiguity. Some vague memories flashed through his mind, and before he realized it, he gave a quiet response, “Mm.”
He remembered they had once gone to Hawaii together, setting off from Oahu toward a region known for sandbar sharks. The local shark cage diving tours were famous.
The gaps in the cage had been much wider than expected. The guide told them that even if sharks swam past, they wouldn’t be interested in the people inside. So when a shark approached, Zhu Lianzhen had boldly reached out and touched its skin.
He no longer remembered how the shark had felt. The only thing he recalled was the muffled, rhythmic breathing through the oxygen tank and being with Tan Qing, like drifting through another world.
The sea breeze was unusually gentle. If he could stay immersed in the illusion that the world held only the two of them, Zhu Lianzhen felt he might be able to recall even more.
“What about you?” Tan Qing asked.
“I think…” Zhu Lianzhen tilted his head to look at him. “I think the way things are now is already pretty good.”
Night had fully fallen, hiding their eyes in the dark and briefly softening the boundary between them.
To feel his heart race like this was already good enough.
Tan Qing gave a soft laugh, reached out to pinch Zhu Lianzhen’s ear, and asked, “Want to do something a little extra?”
“What do you mean?”
“You owe me a kiss,” Tan Qing said slowly but clearly. “Aren’t you going to give it back?”
Zhu Lianzhen froze, his ears suddenly burning.
In the darkness, he looked at him without a word. His whole body felt heavy, and all he could hear was the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Of course, they weren’t the only two people in the world, but in that moment, they could only see each other.
After a long silence, Tan Qing moved his fingers away from Zhu Lianzhen’s flushed ear and gave a helpless laugh. “Forget it. I was just joking.”
Zhu Lianzhen felt a slight dizziness and a ringing in his ears. Something long suppressed inside him began to stir. Then, he argued slowly, “No.”
He spoke without thinking. “You did it on purpose.”
He knew that Tan Qing was always like this.
Deliberately skirting the edge of crossing a line, stirring his thoughts; then being direct when he was completely unguarded, leaving him defenseless.
He knew full well that he was someone more emotional than logical, knew he would soften. And still, Tan Qing had seized on that weakness, luring him into letting go of the polished image he was supposed to maintain as an idol, patiently waiting for him to give in.
“Mm, you saw through me again,” Tan Qing admitted calmly. “Then reject me.”
Zhu Lianzhen looked at the hazy figure in front of him. For a moment, it felt as if the night had helped him trace back through time. Tan Qing’s face from different moments flashed through his mind, all overlapping and coming to a standstill in this very instant.
Among them were countless expressions he’d never been able to resist, gradually aligning with the Tan Qing now sitting before him.
Suddenly, he felt an impulse.
Zhu Lianzhen spread his fingers into the sand, most of his strength sinking into its fine grains, the rest just enough to support his upper body as he leaned forward.
Seriously… wouldn’t it be better if we just kept pretending to be friends?
It was as if some voice whispered the thought to him. Don’t ruin the balance you worked so hard to keep. You could endure it a little longer. So wouldn’t it be better just to keep pretending?
But in the next second, he pushed all those thoughts aside. He followed his heart, closed his eyes, and leaned in. What met him was an incredibly soft sensation.
Tan Qing’s warm breath brushed across his cheek, instantly setting it aflame.
Let this be a single transgression. Forget the cameras, the flashing lights, the self-deceiving rules…
Here, there was only the quiet night and the way they fit together.
The tide surged toward the shore once more.
The kiss was fleeting. Zhu Lianzhen turned away quickly, saying nothing.
After the seawater receded, he finally heard Tan Qing’s voice. “That’s it?”
There wasn’t a trace of teasing in his tone. Just a casual, offhanded question.
Zhu Lianzhen’s Adam’s apple bobbed. He was just about to snap back with “What more do you want?” when Tan Qing gently pushed him down by the shoulders and leaned in.
He toppled onto the sand, and just as he opened his mouth to speak, Tan Qing’s kiss took the words away.
Zhu Lianzhen closed his eyes. In the darkness, it was as if he could see a web of threads woven between them, like the rhythm of their heartbeats intertwining in tangible form, uneven and messy. They stretched endlessly forward, carrying with them thousands upon thousands of moments marked by quickened pulses.
Gentle, forceful, familiar…
Zhu Lianzhen lightly bit the tip of Tan Qing’s tongue. In response, Tan Qing laced their fingers together. Fine grains of sand clung to their palms, and as they rubbed together, there was a faint sting.
Suddenly, a sharp ringing broke the heat building between them. Zhu Lianzhen snapped back to reality, biting down a little too hard by accident.
The phone buzzed in the side pocket of his pants, but with Tan Qing pressed against him, he couldn’t move.
Tan Qing calmly reached in, took the phone out, and answered it for him.
It was the team leader, asking where they were and why they hadn’t come back yet. Tan Qing replied smoothly, saying a few words. And as he spoke, his lips brushed lightly against Zhu Lianzhen’s once more.
Zhu Lianzhen unconsciously stuck out his tongue and caught a faint taste of blood on Tan Qing’s lips.
The moon was bright, its light reflecting off the waves.
Tan Qing pulled back slightly and lowered his head to look at him. Zhu Lianzhen’s mind went blank; he struggled to steady his breathing, his hand still unconsciously clutching at the sand.
Only after their breathing returned to normal did Tan Qing gently ask, “Shall we go back?”
Zhu Lianzhen gave a muffled “Mm” and hooked his arms around Tan Qing’s neck, pulling himself up with his help.
