The line sounded straight out of a horror movie, making Zhu Lianzhen’s heart skip a beat. Realizing he was being watched, he snapped, “Are you a pervert? Why are there cameras in your house?”
“Precisely because it’s my home, it needs surveillance,” Tan Qing explained unhurriedly. “I’m away most of the time. If an uninvited guest breaks in, I need to know right away.”
And that uninvited guest, who had just been caught, was left speechless.
“Xiao Zhu, what are you doing there?”
“Didn’t you say I could come by whenever?” Zhu Lianzhen retorted, full of confidence. “I’m just checking if I left anything behind.”
“It’s pretty late. Are you staying the night?”
“No. Who knows how many cameras you’ve got in here? I’m worried you’ll invade my privacy.” Zhu Lianzhen raised his middle finger to the nearest camera.
“There’s only one in the bedroom. Just turn it off.” As Tan Qing spoke, he seemed to remember something. “Oh, there are 32 in total throughout the house. You’re only staying one night, so it’s not a big deal.”
Hearing that number that definitely didn’t match the size of the apartment, Zhu Lianzhen felt unsettled. “What are you hiding in here that you need that much security?”
“I already told you—it’s just to keep strangers out.” Tan Qing gave a soft laugh. “To be honest, I hope this house never sees anyone again.”
Zhu Lianzhen opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say. All he felt was another wave of unease.
From the other end of the line came the faint noise of a busy set. He figured Tan Qing must be working. “Go do your thing. I won’t bother you anymore.”
He hung up and quietly re-hung the few paintings he’d taken down. As for the dozens of remaining cameras, he had no idea where they were, nor did he see the point in searching for them.
He just thought Tan Qing’s behavior was a bit neurotic. Maybe it was for safety, but there wasn’t anything here worth protecting. No one even lived here regularly anymore… Whatever. He’d failed to understand Tan Qing so many times already—one more time didn’t make a difference.
Before leaving, Zhu Lianzhen checked the fridge. Inside were a few cans of pomegranate juice, and the freezer was fully stocked with ice.
He took out a can, assuming it had been there for a long time. But just as he was about to throw it out, he noticed the production date—it was from last month.
A sense of confusion settled over him. Finally, he realized the strangest thing about this “home.”
It was exactly the same as the day they broke up.
–
After hanging up the phone, Tan Qing turned back to continue his makeup trial, chatting with the director about the film in the meantime.
The lead actors had only just joined the crew, and the first scene scheduled was a major one depicting the budding romantic tension between the male and female leads. The female lead, Xu Qing, was last year’s Golden Rhino Award winner. The director and producer had worked with her several times before, and most of the team was already familiar with one another. Only Tan Qing was new to the main creative group.
The director had seen Tan Qing’s graduation performance and had been very impressed with his earlier auditions. He believed Tan Qing was one of the most promising young actors in the industry and saw casting him in this role as a mutually beneficial opportunity.
He asked Tan Qing to share his interpretation of the two main characters. The film was set in 1990s Hong Kong. From a character standpoint, Tan Qing’s role wasn’t a particularly likable one: a man scraping by at the bottom of society without a proper job, relying on petty theft or using his looks to charm women. He would often pass along gifts from former lovers to win over the next. The relationship between the male and female leads began as a fleeting affair but gradually deepened into something genuine over time.
As he flipped through the script, Tan Qing said to the director, “Rather than calling it love, I’d say what they share is a kind of ‘resonance’ born from loneliness. They open up to each other because they’ve both accepted that there’s no future. They just happen to need someone to confide in, and it could’ve been anyone. It’s just that they met at exactly the right moment.”
The director asked, “When you read the script, did you ever imagine what it would be like if they actually ended up together? You know, like a happy ending?”
“The current ending is the best one. This disgraceful relationship is doomed to fail, and that inevitability makes the suppressed emotions all the more intense—they’re bound to erupt,” Tan Qing answered evenly. “Maybe some feelings just aren’t meant to be spoken aloud, and that’s exactly what makes this film compelling.”
“Ever been in love?” The director offered him a cigarette.
Tan Qing accepted the cigarette but didn’t light it. He smiled and said, “The company’s rules are strict. If we slip up, it drags everyone down.”
He didn’t give a direct answer, and the director, never one to pry, shifted the conversation back to the script. “Which of Xu Qing’s scenes do you like best?”
Tan Qing looked down and flipped through the script. He knew every page by heart and quickly found the one he wanted, pointing it out to the director.
It wasn’t one of the female lead’s most emotionally intense scenes—in fact, it wasn’t even a full scene. Just a quiet moment where she missed her lover and fell asleep peacefully.
The director nodded. “Mm, that one definitely needs to be shot in a long take. She’s had insomnia for years, and this is the first time she’s truly rested since getting married. From the lover’s perspective, what do you think he would feel, watching that?”
“Sleeping soundly is, of course, a good thing.” Tan Qing looked up at the darkening sky, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “But I’d prefer if the other couldn’t sleep, thinking about me all night.”
–
It was almost three in the morning, and Zhu Lianzhen still hadn’t fallen asleep.
He didn’t have anything weighing on his mind, but he couldn’t stop himself from replaying every detail of the breakup with Tan Qing, wondering if he’d handled it poorly, if he’d unintentionally hurt him.
But considering how Tan Qing had treated him over the past few months, it didn’t seem like he bore any resentment.
Zhu Lianzhen had always thought they’d broken up peacefully.
Maybe that was just memory softening things, filtering out the sarcasm and coldness. Or maybe it was because Tan Qing had always appeared calm and composed, as if he held no grudge about the end of their relationship.
But in reality? Did Tan Qing also believe they’d had a “peaceful breakup” two years ago? Had he truly never harbored any resentment?
Zhu Lianzhen had never questioned it before, but now, thinking about the shattered glass and the pomegranate juice, he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He turned over and reached for his phone to check the time, surprised to see how long he’d been overthinking.
He tossed the phone aside and shut his eyes, forcing himself to sleep.
The next day, he had a public appearance, so he got up early. His tired eyes were immediately noticed by Ah-Xu.
Zhu Lianzhen took the breakfast she’d brought him. “I accidentally had too much coffee last night. But why do you look like you can’t keep your eyes open?”
Ah-Xu sighed. “Stayed up late reading a novel.”
“What’d you read? Must’ve been pretty gripping.”
“Your fanfic.”
Zhu Lianzhen pulled out his phone. “Send it to me. Something absurd might help wake me up.”
“You asked for it. Don’t regret this.” Ah-Xu sent him several melodramatic fanfics. There were tropes like: running away while pregnant, regret arcs, rebirth, amnesia, soul-swapping, hanahaki disease, magic academies… everything imaginable.
Zhu Lianzhen thought he’d seen it all and could handle anything, so he casually opened one of the documents marked ABO.
The very first line made his eyes go wide—
“Zhu Lianzhen had entered another heat. This time, Tan Qing took care of it thoroughly.”
Heat? Did they think he was a cat or a dog?? Thoroughly? How thoroughly, exactly?
What next, neutering him?
Zhu Lianzhen suddenly felt a faint ache between his legs and was overcome with a chill. He’d assumed fans would at most fantasize about them kissing, but he never imagined they’d be cruel enough to wish for him to be castrated.
As he scrolled further, the content became even more terrifying.
“P.S. This is actually a head-swapping fic. If some parts don’t fully match, just ignore them.”
“Head-swapping?!” A flurry of gory images flashed through Zhu Lianzhen’s mind. “Not only do they want me neutered, now they won’t even let me keep my head?”
“That’s not what it means…” Ah-Xu explained. “Head-swapping just means some fans are too lazy to write their own stuff, so they download pirated versions of original novels and replace the character names with yours. Kind of like a quick fix.”
Zhu Lianzhen had a sudden realization. “That’s seriously unethical.”
Just then, his phone buzzed. A message popped up in Acemon’s group chat.
Tan Qing had sent a photo with a message: “Thanks, Leader.”
Zhu Lianzhen tapped on the image and saw a food truck. What caught his attention even more was the surrounding environment—two rows of old residential buildings blocked most of the sky. The walls were stained with years of grime, and the clotheslines on the upper balconies looked like they were about to fall apart.
The filming location looked really rough.
Zhu Lianzhen turned to Ah-Xu. “Find out where Tan Qing is shooting. Send a food truck under my name, but stagger the time with Ting-ge’s.”
This kind of teammate support was a way to show unity to the public. Even if he didn’t do it, Pei Qiao would eventually handle appearances for all of them anyway.
After a moment of thought, Zhu Lianzhen stopped Ah-Xu again. “Wait—better send it under the group’s name.”
Ah-Xu immediately got to work and had everything arranged within the week. The food truck served the film crew for three days. A few extras even posted photos online, thanking Acemon for the treat.
Tan Qing personally sent a WeChat message to thank him: Xiao Zhu, you really went out of your way.
Zhu Lianzhen saw the message and quickly asked Ah-Xu, “Didn’t I tell you to use the group’s name? How did Tan Qing find out?”
Ah-Xu rolled her eyes. “Who else but you would use the group’s name to sneak in your own agenda?”
Since he’d already been found out, Zhu Lianzhen didn’t bother playing dumb. He replied: “How’s the food from that company’s truck?”
“I only had the coffee, didn’t eat anything else.” Tan Qing answered.
“Still dieting?”
On set, Tan Qing finished a cigarette in a quiet corner. After a moment, he replied: “Director’s calling me over.”
At that moment, no one had actually called Tan Qing to set. He remained seated in the chair, resting. In his hands were two phones—one he had just used to message Zhu Lianzhen, and the other was playing surveillance footage from that day.
He had installed over thirty cameras throughout the house, ensuring that every corner was clearly visible.
From the moment Zhu Lianzhen parked his car outside and tried to guess the code, to when he stepped inside to drink some water and crouched down to pick up the broken glass… Tan Qing had watched it all.
Whenever he had a free moment these past few days, he would replay that automatically saved footage over and over again.
Once he had seen enough, he selected all the clips and deleted them.
“I was wondering why I couldn’t find you after walking around. So here you are.” A brisk female voice called from behind. Tan Qing looked up and gave a polite nod and smile.
It was Xu Qing, the lead actress. Tan Qing grabbed a chair for her. “Your husband came to visit the set, right? I was too busy talking to my manager just now and forgot to say hello. Sorry about that.”
Xu Qing replied, “It’s fine. He’s shooting in the studio next door today and just stopped by to bring me lunch. Are you free now? Let’s go over the next scene together.”
“Sure.” Tan Qing put away his phone.
Both of them got into character quickly. After they ran through the scene, Tan Qing asked Xu Qing for advice on a few details, and she patiently offered her insights.
Xu Qing had been genuinely surprised by Tan Qing’s acting. When she first heard her co-star would be a popular idol, she had complained to the producers, accusing them of caring only about box office returns while disregarding her reputation and credibility. Even though Tan Qing had graduated from the same school as she had, she remained skeptical of her junior. In recent years, she had met plenty of professionally trained young actors, but most were impulsive and lacked the discipline of earlier generations.
However, during the script read-through, she found Tan Qing to be more humble and composed than expected. His control over his breath and articulation was spot-on, and his emotional pacing felt natural. He could respond to any spontaneous improvisation she threw at him, showing that he not only had talent but was also willing to put in the work.
After going over the scene, they still had time before filming started. With nothing else to do, Xu Qing chatted with him and asked which year he had enrolled in the acting program and what plays he had performed in. Tan Qing answered honestly and even shared a few stories from school. Xu Qing was quite pleased after hearing them and reminisced about her own student days from years ago.
“Sigh. Kids in the industry rise to fame so early now. They get swarmed by fans without any real achievements to show for it. Even when they apply for acting programs, it’s just for appearances. They don’t even attend classes. When a director breaks down a scene, they can’t even tell the difference between camera angles.”
Xu Qing was deeply averse to seeing the word “actor” tainted by internet-famous stars. But seeing Tan Qing now, she still had hope for the next generation. She asked curiously, “Was studying acting your own choice, or did your company push for it?”
Tan Qing replied, “I chose it myself. I was still a trainee at the time, and I thought if I could learn to act well, it’d probably help with my career.”
After pausing for a moment, he continued, “During those years studying at school, I found that fully immersing myself in a character was actually quite interesting. Thinking what others think, feeling what others feel—during those moments, I could completely forget my own worries.”
Xu Qing studied him for a while, then suddenly said, “You have a real gift for emotional control. I can see it.”
Their chat wound down just as the assistant director called everyone to get ready. Today’s shoot went late into the night, and the actors spent quite a bit of time removing their makeup and showering afterward.
By the time everything was settled, it was already the early hours of the morning.
Tan Qing posted on his Moments feed, attaching a photo of that day’s on-set lunch. No selfie, no caption—just a moon emoji to signal that it was time to sleep.
A few minutes later, he got a like from Zhu Lianzhen.
But not even three seconds passed before that little pink heart disappeared.
Tan Qing commented under the post: “Xiao Zhu, I saw that.”
At that moment, Zhu Lianzhen mumbled to himself while holding his phone.
He had just wanted to check Tan Qing’s Moments in the middle of the night without being noticed, but still got caught.
Zhu Lianzhen didn’t know how to respond, so he commented on the photo instead: “What even is that food? Looks so bland. Even Naisi’s meals are better than yours.”
“No choice. The rental here is short-term, so we have to make do for a while. Not like the crew next door, they live in apartments and can cook for themselves.”
“You even found that out?”
“Senior Xu’s partner is filming next door. He cooks and brings her food every day. We only realized how nice their setup is after seeing that.”
The lead actress had someone looking after her meals every day, while the male lead here was getting by with whatever was convenient. For a moment, Zhu Lianzhen thought about extending the food truck service for a few more days, but he quickly dismissed the idea. He didn’t want to appear overly considerate toward Tan Qing for no reason. It would look like he was trying too hard to please him.
Zhu Lianzhen: “Going to sleep now. You should rest too.”
–
The next morning, Zhu Lianzhen woke up to a message from Ah-Xu with some text drafts, which reminded him that today was Mother’s Day. After posting “Wishing all mothers in the world a happy Mother’s Day” on Weibo, he hurriedly called his mom.
Neither of them had anything urgent to say, so they ended up chatting casually for over an hour. His mother told him to save his voice, mentioned she had to rush off to dim sum with friends, and hung up first.
Zhu Lianzhen had just put his phone down when he picked it back up again to check Tan Qing’s Weibo.
On holidays, celebrities usually posted a few festive greetings. Whether sincere or not, the formality couldn’t be skipped.
But Tan Qing’s Weibo hadn’t shown any activity today, and Zhu Lianzhen figured he was filming and hadn’t had time to log in.
When he searched for the keyword “Mother’s Day” on Tan Qing’s page, nothing came up. There hadn’t been any posts for it in previous years, either.
Zhu Lianzhen thought that made sense. This kind of holiday probably only brought back painful memories for him.
When it came to things like this, Zhu Lianzhen never held back from showing care. He knew that being born into a good life had nothing to do with fairness. He was lucky to grow up in a wealthy, loving family. Not everyone had been as fortunate.
Zhu Lianzhen thought: At the very least, Tan Qing should feel lucky to have someone like me as a teammate.
Back when Tan Qing was filming, Zhu Lianzhen would sometimes visit the set, but that had only been during the time when their relationship was close. Now, with the awkwardness of being exes, he could only use CP fanservice as an excuse.
“Send me your filming location. Pei-jie told me to stop by and take a few photos.”
The reply came back within seconds.
Zhu Lianzhen asked: “You’re not filming right now?”
“I’m off today. Was just thinking of maybe going home for a bit.”
Then Tan Qing added: “But since you’re coming, I’ll wait for you.”
Zhu Lianzhen drove over to the filming site.
When the navigation system announced, “100 meters to destination,” his heartbeat inexplicably sped up. He felt ridiculous. What was there to be nervous about during a simple set visit?
After parking, Zhu Lianzhen looked around and began to wonder if he’d come to the wrong place. Just then, someone nearby called his name. He turned around and saw Tan Qing’s assistant approaching.
The assistant said, “I’ll take you over. Tan Qing’s taking a nap right now. He didn’t know what time you’d arrive, so he asked me to wait for you.”
Zhu Lianzhen: “The area around here is pretty decent. But from those crew photos Tan Qing posted, wasn’t he filming in one of those old, rundown apartment buildings?”
The assistant: “Old and rundown… oh, you mean that studio set? It’s actually a tourist spot made to mimic Kowloon Walled City. It’s open to the public, and lots of crews shoot there all the time.”
Zhu Lianzhen suddenly felt like he’d been duped.
After that, the assistant led him to the cast’s temporary lodging. Zhu Lianzhen saw that it was just a regular chain hotel. And to think he’d been picturing Tan Qing living in some slum—when in reality, this place wasn’t all that different from the apartments the crew next door had, aside from not having a kitchen!
So Tan Qing had been playing the pity card to mislead him this whole time, huh?
![I Mistook the Paranoid Gong for a Shou [Book Transmigration]](https://www.freenovels.net/wp-content/uploads/2024/09/WhatsApp-Image-2024-09-12-at-01.24.02_47d1acd0.jpg "I Mistook the Paranoid Gong for a Shou [Book Transmigration]")
