Bai Qi pushed the last bite of breakfast aside and stood, tall and unbothered, tossing the napkin without a glance. His movements were deliberate, precise, the sort that spoke of years molded by attention and control. He moved into suite room, leaving the lingering aroma of coffee and butter behind, and began dressing for the shoot.
The jacket shu Yao, chose gleamed faintly under the morning light, creamy, expensive, impeccable—plain, yet commanding in its simplicity. The trousers, the shoes, the subtle metallic accents—all whispered wealth without shouting it. He didn't think about anything. He never did, not about last night, not about the small figure hovering outside the suite, hovering in silence.
Shu Yao's hands trembled as he straightened the small living space. Clothes, tablets, documents—everything aligned with obsessive precision. He glanced at the clock: seven. Two hours until the shoot. He let out a quiet breath. Exhaustion pressed against him, heavy, persistent.
The assistant from Suzhou's branch arrived punctually. "Mr. Bai will be arriving shortly," he announced.
Shu Yao's voice was soft, strained by fatigue. "sir… will be down in a few minutes."
"Everything is ready in the study for winter garments. All that is needed is Mr. Bai," the assistant continued, nodding professionally.
"Yes, sir," Shu Yao whispered. "He just finished breakfast. He's getting ready."
"Very well," the assistant replied, stepping back. Shu Yao hung up, shoulders sinking slightly. He remained near the door, waiting.
When Bai Qi emerged from the suite room, he didn't glance at him. Shu Yao flinched instinctively, lowering his gaze. He could feel the weight of last night, still pressing at his chest. Eye contact now would fracture him completely. He stayed still, rooted by exhaustion and heartbreak.
"Tablet," Bai Qi said, voice flat, measured, not looking at him. The words were not an invitation—they were a command.
Shu Yao's fingers fumbled briefly as he retrieved it, extending it toward Bai Qi with quiet haste. His hands trembled beneath the strain of sleepless hours. Bai Qi took it without a glance. Shu Yao remained suspended, posture taut, gaze glued to the floor.
"It's almost time," Bai Qi added, tone clipped, almost harsh. It wasn't concern—it was function. Only the shoot mattered.
Shu Yao flinched. A nod. No words. His lips remained sealed.
Bai Qi moved toward the door, purposeful, implacable. Shu Yao trailed behind like a shadow, careful to match the rhythm of his steps without overstepping. His exhaustion clung to him, yet he followed.
In the elevator, Shu Yao pressed close to the mirrored wall, the reflection showing Bai Qi's sharp features, indifferent, flawless. Shu Yao's own reflection mirrored the raw exhaustion—the shadowed eyes, the pallor, the hand wrapped in a bandage. A silent record of the night's torment.
Bai Qi barely noticed, staring at the numbers descending. The elevator chimed softly. The lobby opened before them, and the world's attention seemed to pivot automatically toward him.
He was Bai Qi. Known. Desired. Revered. A living image of perfection. And Shu Yao—Shu Yao could only sink lower, unseen, unnoticed, invisible beneath the brilliance of the man he followed.
Outside, the limousine waited, black lacquered and immaculate. Bodyguards flanked the vehicle, assistants in crisp uniforms ready to serve. Bai Qi strode toward it, effortless, commanding. The Suzhou assistant held the door. Bai Qi didn't hesitate, slipping inside like he owned the day.
Another assistant came to open the passenger side for Shu Yao, who insisted he could manage it himself, but it was already done. He slid inside beside Bai Qi, careful not to touch anything unnecessarily.
Bai Qi's attention remained on the assistant, nodding at reports about the location, the garments, the schedule. Shu Yao's bandaged hand rested in his lap, trembling slightly, lips quivering beneath the weight of silence.
"Yes, Mr. Bai. Everything is perfectly set. The winter garments, the lights, the angles—the only thing it needs is your presence," the assistant said, voice eager, careful.
Bai Qi exhaled softly, almost dismissively, closing his eyes briefly. "Whatever," he muttered. A flicker of impatience passed across his features. The assistant, however, smiled faintly, satisfied.
Shu Yao didn't dare move. Didn't dare breathe too loudly. He stayed rigid, a fragile shadow beside a man who radiated both brilliance and cold detachment.
The limousine rolled away, the city rushing past in silver streaks under the morning sun. Bai Qi gave minimal acknowledgment to the world outside. Everything mattered except the boy beside him. The boy whose hands had been raw, whose heart had shattered, whose silence screamed.
Shu Yao's eyes remained cast downward. His thoughts swirled, raw and unformed—last night, the words that could not be spoken. His bandaged hand itched with exhaustion and grief. He didn't speak. He couldn't. The energy required to move.
The drive was quiet, save for the murmured updates from assistants. Bai Qi absorbed them all, nodding occasionally, correcting a detail here, approving a suggestion there. Shu Yao simply followed the cadence, as if the act of breathing itself could break him if done incorrectly.
Every so often, Shu Yao risked a glance at Bai Qi. But each time, the cold precision of Bai Qi's posture, the unyielding gaze fixed ahead, reminded him to look away. He sank deeper into the shadow of the seat, the limousine's dark interior wrapping him in muted safety.
Outside, the city blurred. Morning light painted the glass with fleeting reflections. Shu Yao saw himself in these reflections—eyes heavy, raw, sorrowful, hollow. No one else could see him like this. Not even Bai Qi. And perhaps that was better.
By the time the limousine drew to the studio, Shu Yao's body was tense, coiled, ready to crumble. But he didn't. He would not.
The assistants opened the doors. The crisp winter air entered, carrying with it a faint scent of cedar and chilled concrete. Bai Qi stepped out first, tall, impeccable, every inch the man everyone admired, adored, envied. Shu Yao followed, careful to keep pace, careful not to let the slightest sound betray the trembling that lingered beneath his composure.
The studio buzzed with quiet efficiency. Stylers moved swiftly, preparing the historical season garments—rich fabrics, intricate embroidery, and colors deep and commanding. Bai Qi stepped into the center, shedding his modern attire with precision, movements so smooth they seemed choreographed. Shu Yao remained nearby, working alongside an assistant, whispering details, checking notes, nodding. His mind, however, was split. Half with the task, half with the figure who now occupied the studio like a living vision.
Bai Qi emerged in the first outfit: a hanfu of deep red, like liquid fire. The color was vivid, almost defiant. The embroidery traced dragons and phoenixes, symbols of dominion and elegance. He moved with the quiet assurance of a monarch, tall and commanding, shoulders squared, gaze forward.
Gasps punctuated the air. The crew froze. Some whispered, others could only stare. He was that perfect illusion, the sort of figure that made one forget time itself—as if an emperor from a long-lost dynasty had been summoned from the past.
Shu Yao's chest constricted. His tired autumn eyes widened. Bai Qi looked beautiful—terrifyingly beautiful. Every curve, every line of him exuded power and cruelty in equal measure. Shu Yao's fingers tightened around the bandage on his hand. His cheeks warmed. Last night's memory, jagged and raw, pressed against him. He quickly looked away. I can't look. he told himself, though his heartbeat thundered against his ribs.
The photographers took their positions. Lights, lenses, and the quiet hum of mechanical shutters filled the studio. Bai Qi remained expressionless at first, a living canvas. Occasionally, he allowed the faintest curve of his lips—a smile so minimal it stole the breath from Shu Yao's lungs. Shu Yao turned his head away, forcing himself to focus on the assistant's instructions, pretending not to notice.
The cameras clicked relentlessly, capturing him from every angle. The top floors overlooked the studio, framing Bai Qi against vast windows, winter light spilling in, draping him in gold and silver. Outfit after outfit, pose after pose, movement after movement. Bai Qi's presence was relentless; Shu Yao's shadow followed quietly, silently, almost invisible amid the chaos of lights and fabrics.
And then it happened.
Shu Yao had stepped outside briefly to arrange a few things. His eyes scanned the vast studio grounds. The morning sun glinted on the edge of the luxurious swimming pool. At first, it was just a flash—a small figure wandering too close to the water.
A boy. Barely ten. Unnoticed. Unattended. The child leaned too far, toes slipping over the slick edge. Shu Yao's heart froze. Time fractured.
The boy slipped.
Shu Yao's breath caught. He wanted to scream, to leap, to stop it—but his body hesitated, rooted by fear. The water gaped like a silent predator, cold and indifferent.
Then instinct took over.
He tossed his jacket aside, and without thinking of the icy shock that awaited, he ran and leapt.
The water hit him with a biting chill that stole his breath. Panic surged through him, but he pushed it aside. There was no room for fear—only the child. Only the fight to save him. Shu Yao's hands plunged into the water, searching, feeling, grasping.
The boy thrashed weakly, sputtering, fear etched in his tiny frame. Shu Yao wrapped his arms around him, lifting him just above the surface. "Don't worry," Shu Yao said, voice cracking, teeth clenched against the cold. "I've got you."
The water chilled his bones, stole his senses, yet Shu Yao moved forward, each stroke toward the edge a battle against numbness, against terror, against his own panic. He kept the boy pressed to his chest, his heartbeat pounding through his body, his lungs screaming for air.
Finally, his hands grasped the rim. He hauled both himself and the child onto the deck. Water soaked him, dripping from hair, sleeves, and bandages. The boy coughed violently, gasping, shivering, safe for the moment.
The child's mother appeared, her scream slicing through the studio air. "My son! Oh my God!" She lunged forward, wrapping him in her arms, trembling, tears streaking her face. Shu Yao barely had the strength to nod, drenched, teeth chattering.
A stir rippled through the studio grounds. Stylers, assistants, and photographers froze mid-action, eyes widening. The Suzhou branch assistant spotted him first, rushing forward. "Mr. Shu Yao! Are you—what—how—"
Shu Yao could barely form words. He shook his head slightly, the chill and exertion sapping him. "He's… safe," he managed, voice weak but steady, more for himself than anyone else.
The mother clung to her child, still shaking, still gasping, eyes darting to Shu Yao. "Thank you! Thank you very much!" she cried, voice trembling. "someone Call someone—he's freezing!"
Shu Yao's gaze fell to the deck. Water dripped from his soaked hair, his clothes sticking, clinging like a second skin. His lungs burned, but he didn't move. He couldn't—he had done what mattered. The rest was secondary.
The crowd around them murmured, whispers rising into astonished chatter. Cameras and assistants, previously focused on perfection, paused, capturing an unguarded hero in real time. The glamour of the day momentarily gave way to raw, chaotic humanity.
Bai Qi, upstairs, remained unaware. Lights flashed, cameras clicked—but his attention was elsewhere, on poses, angles, lines. The disruption had not reached him yet. Shu Yao's act, monumental in its silent courage, went unnoticed by the one he had followed like a shadow, whose presence dominated every corner of his world.
Shu Yao finally moved, shaking slightly, dragging himself toward the towel and dry clothes someone hastily handed him. His teeth chattered, lips blue, but there was a quiet triumph in his exhaustion. The child was safe. That was enough.
The mother clung to her son, finally calming him, while assistants helped Shu Yao to his feet. His soaked clothes clung, his bandaged hand stiff, but his spirit—fragile, frayed, broken last night—was tempered, sharpened, alive.
The studio grounds buzzed with a new energy now. The cameras still clicked, stylers whispered, but all eyes lingered on the boy who had risked everything for a child he did not know.