Lin Lu unlocked his phone, the chat window open to the message he sent Jiang Ruotang: [Such a pity you’re at class and can’t see in person.] Jiang Ruotang’s reply was: [Did you get Bai Yingchuan’s permission to send these photos?]

As Lin Lu closed the message, another hand reached over and took his phone.

Startled, he turned to see Bai Yingchuan casually scrolling through their chat, filled with photos and Lin Lu’s repeated invitations to Jiang Ruotang.

“Yingchuan… Ruotang didn’t come to the party, so I sent him some photos.”

But Jiang Ruotang hadn’t asked for them and even reminded Lin Lu it wasn’t right.

Lin Lu felt unprecedented unease. His actions were like dancing in Bai Yingchuan’s minefield. Normally, he’d delete the messages first, but he’d been too busy socializing to do so, and now Bai Yingchuan had seen them.

He braced for a cold reaction, but Bai Yingchuan just handed the phone back, smiling. “Next time, if you want to send my photos to someone, let me know first. I know how to pose—these are all blurry.”

“Oh… okay, I’ll be careful,” Lin Lu said, exhaling in relief.

Seeing Bai Yingchuan’s smile, he felt a smug satisfaction. See? I’m different from others.

What Jiang Ruotang couldn’t do, Lin Lu could.

---

By 5 p.m., the art studio session ended.

Jiang Ruotang checked his phone and sighed.

Lin Lu had sent more photos, but unlike before, these were clearly posed by Bai Yingchuan.

In one, Bai Yingchuan sat on a sofa, arms on the armrests, head tilted with a playful smirk, as if seeing through Jiang Ruotang’s thoughts.

Others who saw Jiang Ruotang’s message would realize he wasn’t mistaken—he was warning that someone was sneaking photos.

But Bai Yingchuan knew Jiang Ruotang didn’t want Lin Lu’s blurry shots, finding them a waste of time.

So, Bai Yingchuan flipped the script, teaching Lin Lu how to take photos to send to Jiang Ruotang.

“Born rebellious, huh? People might think you’re using Lin Lu to flirt with me,” Jiang Ruotang muttered, eyeing the photos.

If he didn’t respond, these two wouldn’t stop.

On the ride home, Jiang Ruotang set up his sketchboard in the backseat, his brush darting across the paper. By the time Xiao Gao parked at home, the painting was done.

He rolled it up, tucked it into a tube, and handed it to Xiao Gao.

“Brother Gao, can you deliver this to Lin Lu’s house? Tell him it’s my welcome gift for Bai Yingchuan.”

“I can drive you to the party. Don’t you love Bai Yingchuan?” Xiao Gao asked, puzzled.

“Nah, I got chewed out by Teacher Liang all afternoon. I feel like a loser—no mood for fun.”

Xiao Gao took the tube, reassuring him, “Don’t take your teacher’s criticism to heart. He’s pushing you because he sees potential.”

---

The painting arrived at Lin Lu’s house as the sun set, and the backyard lights glowed. For the guests, the night was just starting—they could party till dawn.

Mu Xianqing was ready to leave. He’d only come to give Lin Chengdong face, bored by these rich kids wasting their lives.

Face given, it was time for something meaningful.

As he prepared to say goodbye to Lin Lu, someone arrived with the painting tube, saying it was from Jiang Ruotang.

The bored crowd swarmed like they’d been injected with adrenaline.

“I knew Jiang Ruotang wouldn’t do nothing! His beloved Bai Yingchuan—how could he not confess, haha!”

“This painting’s gotta be overflowing with love. Bai Yingchuan, ready for it?”

“Maybe he painted you as David!”

“Which David?”

“The naked one, duh!”

The crowd’s snarky hype pleased Lin Lu.

If Jiang Ruotang were here, they’d just praise his art.

Good thing he wasn’t, yet still wanted to show off to Bai Yingchuan. Their sarcasm would surely annoy him.

Mu Xianqing, about to leave, saw the painting tube and the mocking crowd, his interest piqued.

Since he’d wasted time here, why not see if this painting really turned Bai Yingchuan into David?

Lin Lu muttered to himself, Why not the sketchbook? That had all sorts of Bai Yingchuan poses, his obsession clear.

Oh well, the tube’s contents might be even bolder.

“Yingchuan, they’re just hyping it up. It’s from Ruotang—want to take a look?” Lin Lu handed over the tube.

Bai Yingchuan smiled faintly, the orange sunset gilding his features with a melancholic, apocalyptic beauty.

Even without seeing the painting, he disliked their attitude toward Jiang Ruotang. At least Jiang lived earnestly, unlike their aimlessness.

He opened the tube, unrolling the painting as others crowded around.

When a pair of eyes appeared, Bai Yingchuan’s fingers froze. He felt watched.

A deep, inorganic gaze, cold and unyielding, stared out, framed by twisting vines and wilted roses. A sharp sword angled upward, poised to pierce the throat of the striking man in the painting.

It was him, stripped of his gentle facade.

The artist saw through his inner coldness and defiance against the world.

This was another language from Jiang Ruotang: Don’t play pretend with me—I see your icy heart.

The jeering crowd fell silent.

The painting’s visual impact was intense. Though much of it was chaotic shadows, the sword’s gleam seemed to stab not just Bai Yingchuan’s throat but everyone’s eyes.

Lin Lu swallowed hard. This was a stark departure from Jiang Ruotang’s old style.

“Yingchuan… the sword probably references your role as a young general in Director Jiang’s film. Just composition…”

Lin Lu knew “kind” explanations often led to darker interpretations.

“I don’t think Ruotang meant any harm. It’s probably ad-style—I’ve seen similar in perfume commercials,” Bai Yingchuan said with a casual smile, rolling the painting back into the tube.

Lin Lu was disappointed. All that effort to get Jiang Ruotang to send it, and it didn’t have the effect he’d hoped.

“Well, art’s like that—swords, flowers, just elements. Come on, let’s barbecue!”

Bai Yingchuan nodded, smiling, but his grip tightened on the tube.

Mu Xianqing strolled over, hands in pockets, and extended one to Bai Yingchuan. “Mind if I take a look?”

“Of course.” Bai Yingchuan handed it over. Mu Xianqing was the only one not mocking Jiang Ruotang, his refinement clearly a cut above the rich kids.

Mu Xianqing unrolled the painting slowly. Seeing it fully, his pupils flickered.

Ten seconds passed without him rolling it back or commenting.

A jeering guest laughed. “This painting can’t possibly impress Brother Mu.”

“Yeah, Brother Mu owns galleries—he’s seen real art!”

Lin Lu joined, standing behind Mu Xianqing, hoping he’d trash Jiang Ruotang’s work, making Bai Yingchuan reluctant to even glance at it again.

But Mu Xianqing’s first question was, “This is Director Jiang’s son’s work? How old is he?”

Lin Lu froze, momentarily forgetting to answer.

Bai Yingchuan replied, “Same age as us, probably eighteen.”

“What’s his name?” Mu Xianqing asked.

The question startled Lin Lu. Someone like Mu Xianqing asking an artist’s name wasn’t casual.

Before Lin Lu could speak, Bai Yingchuan said, “Jiang Ruotang. ‘Ruò’ as in ‘if,’ ‘Táng’ as in ‘crabapple.’”

Mu Xianqing smiled—his most genuine smile of the day. He rolled the painting back, returning it to Bai Yingchuan.

“Crisp, decisive lines, seemingly rushed but every element brims with emotion. Keep it safe—it might be worth something someday.”

The mocking guests fell silent, exchanging awkward glances.

Mu Xianqing formally bid Lin Lu farewell, citing family matters.

Lin Lu couldn’t insist he stay and escorted him to the door.

In his car, Mu Xianqing propped his chin, gazing out. Closing his eyes, he saw the painting.

Light and shadow expressed emotion, bold lines in a seemingly ad-like composition. The figure was striking yet not vulgar.

It was a silent rejection from the artist.

Mu Xianqing murmured, “When’s the deadline for Fu Chunshi’s Raw Stone Exhibition submissions in this city?”

“The Calligraphy and Painting Association announced it closed two days ago.”

Mu Xianqing sighed. “What a pity. But gold will always shine…”

He laughed at himself—gold buried deep might go unnoticed.

The driver quipped, “If it’s a clown, it’ll get exposed,” making Mu Xianqing chuckle.

---

At Lin’s house until 9 p.m., Bai Yingchuan got a call from his mother. Her calm tone—“It’s late, come home”—was just her need to control him.

He told Lin Lu he had family matters and left early.

At home, shedding his party composure, he changed shoes, went to his room, turned on the light, and spread the painting on his desk.

The figure looked older than him now.

Having shot countless ads and promos, photographers always sought flattering angles, coaxing him to charm audiences. It was all to please the world.

But Jiang Ruotang’s painting was different. The lines were rough, shadows wild, and the Bai Yingchuan in it shed all pretense, coldly facing the world’s flowers and blades. When applause and roses faded, only wounds remained.

Bai Yingchuan saw another layer—a warning from Jiang Ruotang, though he wasn’t sure about what.

Perhaps when the world stabbed him, he’d understand.

He wanted to frame the painting, but the house was filled with photos of him and his mother, few modern artworks.

After searching, he found a frame from his eight-year-old recitation contest award photo, swapping it for the painting—a perfect fit.

His fingers were smudged with charcoal.

“Ha…” Bai Yingchuan laughed self-deprecatingly, texting Jiang Ruotang: [How long did it take you to paint this?]

Half an hour passed with no reply.

Jiang Ruotang was busy setting up his new studio, arranging for lighting installation.

When he finally saw the message, he smirked.

Sunbathing at night? Bai Yingchuan texting him was unexpected.

Jiang Ruotang: [Fifteen minutes. Why?]

Blending a vegetable juice, Bai Yingchuan felt his phone vibrate, checked it, and saw “Fifteen minutes,” feeling a bit helpless.

[Too half-hearted.]