The cruise ship docked into the night, its shadow melting into the water.

The last missing person lay quietly in a deck chair, covered with a thin blanket, his hair gently touched by the sea breeze.

He slept deeply. Though his breathing remained weak, it was much steadier than before.

His right hand was held in a warmer one, and that hand was still writing characters on his palm, stroke by stroke, very slowly.

This time, in addition to the usual payment acknowledgment, there were two more characters.

“Wei, Ting.” The owner of the hand introduced himself. “My name is Ming Weiting. I’m your friend.”

The owner of the hand paused at this relationship descriptor.

Though he was only practicing and deliberating, he still wasn’t sure if he could call himself that, so he changed his words: “My name is Ming Weiting. I’m your fan. I’m chasing your star.”

The missing person’s hand was gently held, thick lashes casting shadows downward. His soft short hair was nudged by the wind, almost creating the illusion that he had been attracted by this somewhat strange self-introduction and had tilted his head slightly.

But he had never actually woken up—perhaps because he was too exhausted, or perhaps because he really couldn’t find any necessary reason to wake up.

From the day he was rescued, he had remained in this quiet slumber, never even moving once.

Ming Weiting raised his hand and gently touched his hair, placing that pale hand back under the blanket and tucking all the edges of the thin blanket in securely.

He gestured to someone nearby, stood up, and walked to a more distant spot on the other end of the deck.

The person approached and consciously lowered their voice: “Sir…”

“I already know.” Ming Weiting recalled the name and slowly pronounced it: “Ren Chenbai.”

Ming Weiting asked: “Uncle Lu, what else did he do?”

Ming Lu was the Ming family’s steward, nearly seventy years old, having served three generations of the Ming family.

He approached and respectfully handed over the compiled documents: “Still looking for someone.”

Ren Chenbai refused to accept that Luo Zhi had gone missing in the maritime disaster.

Ren Chenbai called Luo Jun, but Luo Jun was kneeling in the confinement room being punished. Luo Cheng didn’t know where to hide and simply couldn’t be found at all. Jian Huaiyi bluntly told him Luo Zhi was dead, and Ren Chenbai lost control and beat him nearly to death, almost causing a fatality…

A chaotic, messy, clumsy farce.

In the end, all Ren Chenbai managed was to receive the missing person’s belongings sent by the cruise line.

Even less than he had imagined.

Just a windbreaker that had been soaked through in the sea and then left to dry haphazardly, wrinkled and crusted with salt.

Half the windbreaker had been torn by rocks, the fabric fragments stained with ominous dark red.

Because Luo Zhi’s ID card was in the inner pocket of the windbreaker, and that pocket happened to be well-sealed, it was easy to confirm the owner of the items.

As for what specifically happened after that, outsiders found it difficult to learn the complete story.

All they knew was that Ren Chenbai insisted on taking the windbreaker, and the Luo family naturally disagreed. The two sides quarreled, alarming Luo Chengxiu who had been behind closed doors in his study these past days, and the entire Luo household erupted in chaos, forcing an ambulance to come in the middle of the night…

Ming Lu briefly recounted a few sentences before stopping: “Just a play they’re performing for themselves, sir. Nothing worth watching.”

Would people perform for themselves?

Of course they would, especially when they wanted to deceive even themselves into believing something.

The Luo family was accustomed to being callous, most skilled at pushing responsibility onto others. The most suitable “other” had been Luo Zhi, but now that Luo Zhi was out of the picture, it switched to Luo Jun.

Only when pushed into a situation similar to Luo Zhi’s did Luo Jun finally begin to understand Luo Zhi’s pain. As for the others, perhaps they felt some belated regret, perhaps in some midnight awakening they would experience a moment of guilt and remorse… but if there were no special changes, that was probably their limit.

Those people would even be comforted by their own regret and sadness, truly believing they had grieved and shed tears for Luo Zhi, then tacitly agreeing to let these matters pass quickly.

No one would actively touch any truth, no one would ask for trouble or seek suffering.

No one would think to peel away the layers upon layers of disguise beneath their selfishness, to stand before a truth that could burn a person to ash and be scorched, waiting for that bit of shame and guilt in their humanity to revive, then be dragged into an endless hell.

…

Ming Weiting walked to the edge of the deck.

The distant beach was shrouded in night fog. The night was deep, that place pitch black, icy cold, and blurred.

It was in such a place that they had found Luo Zhi.

Luo Zhi had his ticket but never boarded the ship.

Ming Weiting led people off the ship to search for him, finally finding him along the beach.

By that time, Luo Zhi had completely become like a block of ice. The rising tide was about to cover his mouth and nose, yet he seemed unaware, still lying motionless in the wet sand.

Ming Weiting picked him up and discovered Luo Zhi was still awake.

Luo Zhi was awake, but could barely recognize him anymore, only staring at the cruise ship’s silhouette in the fog.

When Ming Weiting lifted him, Luo Zhi’s limbs went limp and hung down.

Ming Weiting knew he couldn’t hear, so he pulled his hand and wrote “mm-hmm” over and over in his palm, but Luo Zhi seemed to no longer remember what it meant.

Just one day’s time.

Just the day before, Luo Zhi had been overjoyed about selling a painting, constantly praising his taste in artistic aesthetics, generously giving him a script as a bonus.

Luo Zhi couldn’t hear, so he didn’t know his words made no sound. He just happily kept talking to himself. He wasn’t good at reading lips, so he had to trouble the other person to repeat many times.

Then he understood—Luo Zhi was saying he was very grateful, that today had been wonderful.

He too was happy, so he gave Luo Zhi a ticket, writing his invitation to Luo Zhi on hotel notepaper.

“The first mistake.” Ming Weiting watched the ripples on the water for a while. “I thought he just needed rest from being drunk, so I temporarily left him alone in the hotel.”

The cruise ship was about to dock, and Ming Weiting had to finalize a business deal before departure, so he left the hotel before nightfall.

He had actually planned to return, so he didn’t take anything else. Even that script had been unconsciously stuffed into his briefcase under Luo Zhi’s enthusiastic recommendation.

But when he returned to the hotel, Luo Zhi was already gone.

“I saw the sketch he left behind and thought he remembered what happened.” Ming Weiting left the railing and slowly walked back to the lounge chair. “I thought he had just left first because of an urgent matter. The second mistake.”

As night deepened, the sea breeze grew cold, no longer suitable for staying on deck.

Ming Weiting wrapped the sleeping person in the thin blanket, carefully lifted him, and returned to the cabin.

His movements were very gentle. The person he placed back on the bed wasn’t disturbed at all, not even a furrowed brow.

“The third mistake—I brought him back to the cruise ship from the beach, thinking I could take care of him, but didn’t review the passenger list.”

Ming Weiting removed the thin blanket and re-tucked the covers properly: “The fourth mistake—I actually couldn’t prevent the cruise ship from capsizing.”

Ming Lu followed in. Hearing this, he was finally at a loss: “Sir, that was the captain’s fault. He’s been severely dealt with, and evidence has been compiled for prosecution.”

This accident stemmed from the captain’s serious misjudgment, illegally navigating the ship into shallow coastal waters. Ming Weiting rushed to the bridge the moment he noticed something wrong, which was how the Luo family members found their opportunity.

If not handled promptly, the cruise ship wouldn’t have merely run aground—if an explosion or capsize had occurred, the consequences would have been truly irreversible.

“The aftermath handling of this accident was nearly perfect, missing only the final step.”

Ming Lu hesitated slightly before asking again: “Sir, are you really not announcing the zero-fatality conclusion?”

“No need.” Ming Weiting shook his head. “Strengthen internal supervision, re-evaluate qualifications, and strictly prohibit such low-level accidents in the future.”

These were all necessary measures. Ming Lu acknowledged with a “yes” and noted each item, then glanced at the person sleeping on the bed.

“Sir.” Ming Lu asked, “Is not announcing zero fatalities because of this… Mr. Luo Zhi?”

Ming Weiting frowned.

The Ming family had no tradition of gentle temperament. He seemed amiable because he was near that sleeping guest. Now that his aura had cooled, a dark, heavy shadow showed in his eyes.

Ming Lu knew he’d asked the wrong question and lowered his head to apologize, but Ming Weiting spoke again.

“Luo Zhi sank into the sea and couldn’t be saved.”

Ming Weiting said: “He’s already been sent back to the Luo family.”

Ming Lu was momentarily stunned, instinctively glancing at the person sleeping peacefully, then immediately understanding Ming Weiting’s meaning: “Yes.”

Ming Lu looked more carefully at the guest, seeming to want to ask something else but hesitating.

“I’m his fan. I’m chasing his star.” Ming Weiting said, “I consider myself his friend.”

He had practiced these sentences many times in his mind, so now he said them fluently. Ming Lu, however, was somewhat surprised by this explanation: “Sir, do you know what chasing stars means?”

Ming Weiting lowered his gaze, looking at the guitar leaning against the bed.

He sat motionless until Ming Lu thought he wouldn’t receive an answer to this question and prepared to exit. Only then did he hear his voice again.

“The fifth mistake.” Ming Weiting said.

Ming Lu was startled.

Ming Weiting reached out to adjust the edge of the covers before standing and leaving. He walked all the way outside the cabin, following the gangway back to the deck.

Ming Weiting lit a cigarette.

He had no smoking habit—he just watched the cigarette, watched that little flame flicker bright and dim in his hand.

He didn’t understand what a fan was, what chasing stars meant, so he had missed one most important thing.

That beach shouldn’t have been so dark and cold. There should have been the brightest, warmest bonfire there, the most beautiful guitar solo in the world. He had never heard anyone play guitar like that, sitting on the beach by the sea. He had followed that guitar to open a route, and since then cruise ships had always docked here.

But the bonfire had disappeared.

“I jumped into the water to hold him.”

Ming Weiting said: “He wasn’t far from me.”

Not far away was the lifeboat where Luo Jun was. Luo Jun urgently reached out toward Jian Huaiyi—that person didn’t even see Luo Zhi at all.

Ming Weiting pushed through the water and swam over. The seawater was bone-chillingly cold, his arms too frozen to exert much strength, failing to catch Luo Zhi successfully on the first try.

Luo Zhi was awake. Those surging, cold, briny liquids submerged his body, swallowing him down.

Ming Weiting dove underwater to hold him, holding him as he swam toward the surface.

They were very close. His arm was around Luo Zhi’s back, Luo Zhi’s face pressed against his neck, scalding liquid seeping out in large drops, then quickly assimilated by the seawater to near-freezing temperature.

After some unknown time, that liquid gradually stopped.

He lowered his head and saw that flame lying coldly against his chest, pale head and neck bent back powerlessly, already without breath.

Luo Zhi was left forever in that sea, along with everything this name contained.

When the person who had cared for him passed away, in all the years of living as Luo Zhi, no one had ever told him they liked him again.

How could there be a chasing-star fan who, after meeting the real person, didn’t even know to say they liked him.

“So it won’t do.”

Ming Weiting’s voice was very soft: “Just acting won’t do.”

He flicked ash from his cigarette. The sea breeze immediately swept those gray-white fragments into the water below, the cruise ship’s lights reflecting in fragmented, glittering points on the ripples.

Luo Zhi had handed him the painting, with crooked, shaky writing on it: I haven’t done anything bad.

Luo Zhi lay on the icy, pitch-black beach before dawn, opening his eyes in confusion, unable to understand his response.

Luo Zhi sank into icy water before his eyes, never calling for help from anyone.

“They must regret it.”

Ming Weiting looked at the sea surface: “They must regret it forever.”

He would never let those people disturb that flame again—no one deserved to disturb that flame anymore. But those people must regret it forever.

Those people could no longer be connected with that flame, but they must be peeled open and roasted on the truth, must remain conscious and torment themselves forever.

Ming Lu answered behind him: “Understood.”

“The Luo family’s girl has hidden away at school.” Ming Lu said, “That Mr. Ren Chenbai happens to be helping her negotiate a liability waiver contract for a documentary. The director has some evidence in hand that can already prosecute the Luo family head for years of intentional harm…”

Ming Weiting nodded slightly. He extinguished the cigarette and let the smoke scent on him dissipate completely before returning to the cabin.

From his personal wishes, he didn’t want that flame to have any connection with the past whatsoever. But he ultimately didn’t have much standing, so there was no way to ask right now whether the other person would be willing to take the Ming surname.

…

Or perhaps choose another better-sounding surname, or simply have no surname at all.

These matters would have to wait until the other person woke up and had complete, clear capacity for action, before deciding themselves.

So Ming Weiting could only temporarily choose the name Luo Chi.

After being rescued, Luo Chi underwent a comprehensive physical examination. The cardiac and respiratory arrest caused by drowning, thanks to timely rescue, hadn’t left more serious consequences. However, the doctor suspected there was a mass in his brain causing compression, which led to problems with his hearing and other bodily functions.

The medical capabilities on the cruise ship were naturally inferior to those on land. Ming Weiting planned to take Luo Chi to the hospital for examination tomorrow, so tonight he needed good rest.

Ming Weiting sat by the bed. He reached out to touch Luo Chi’s hair, those soft strands brushing against his palm.

“Good night.” Ming Weiting said softly, “My name is Ming Weiting. I’m your fan, chasing your star. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this before. I like you very much.”

These past two days, whenever he had a moment, he would practice saying this to Luo Chi many times. That way, when Luo Chi woke up, he could say it fluently like every person who chases stars.

He withdrew his hand and was about to stand when he suddenly stopped moving.

Luo Chi’s fingers curled slightly, his lashes fluttering laboriously several times before finally opening little by little.

Ming Weiting stood in place.

Luo Chi seemed not to recognize him. This wasn’t surprising.

According to the doctor’s speculation, during their few encounters, Luo Chi’s mental state had already been extremely poor, and the suspected mass compression in his brain had likely also affected him.

They weren’t very familiar to begin with, so it didn’t matter. He could introduce himself again. He had practiced many times.

“Good night.” Ming Weiting sat back down. “My name is Ming Weiting.”

He stopped at this sentence, suddenly caught in Luo Chi’s eyes.

Luo Chi’s gaze was very dazed, the depths of his eyes seemingly covered with a thin layer of mist—a kind of emptiness without clear focus, making his irises appear cleaner and more pitch-black.

Ming Weiting lowered his gaze.

He spent more time suppressing the almost sinister, icy hostility born from that family and the person surnamed Ren. This seriously disrupted his star-chasing train of thought, and the words he had finally practiced got stuck halfway again.

He had actually considered using less legal means for revenge, but no—he was learning to be Luo Chi’s fan, and he’d heard that fans shouldn’t casually tarnish their idol’s reputation.

So he entrusted this matter to Uncle Lu. He wouldn’t tie all those people up and throw them on an uninhabited deserted island.

“My name is Ming Weiting.”

He gripped Luo Chi’s cold, temperature-less fingers and recited again: “…I like you very much.”