Chapter 22

The recording studio had no windows and no air conditioning. The moment the singing stopped, the already thick air suddenly stopped flowing, making the room feel extremely cramped.

"Great, let's call it a day!"

The sound engineer gave her an OK sign, and even through the glass, you could see the excitement in his eyes about finishing early.

Song Yihuan took off her headphones and muttered softly, "Who told you my eyes are pretty? My eyes are smaller than a Tibetan fox's."

Chi Ran took off her orange wired headphones, tidied the unruly headphone cord, and slowly and methodically sorted it out.

"I've noticed you're very negative."

Song Yihuan stared at him for a while, then turned off the microphone and turned to talk to him.

His fingers suddenly became unsteady, and the orange wire of his earphones dangled down, swinging back and forth, drawing a narrow orange fan shape.

He paused for a long time before saying, "Does it count?"

“You are.” Song Yihuan turned on the air conditioner and casually brushed her sweaty bangs aside. “You’re always fixated on the ending. For example, this song today, with such a beautiful image of spring water, the first thing you thought of was depletion. And embers! You even chose the ashes of a burnt-out stage name for yourself.”

Chi Ran twirled the orange headphone cord around her fingertip.

"What's wrong with caring about the ending? People, time, and events all develop in the direction of the ending; everything has an ending."

Song Yihuan grabbed the other end of the orange headphone cord and pulled his finger: "Then all springs in the world will eventually dry up, and all fires will eventually turn to ashes. But springs are not all the same, and fires are not all the same. You can't generalize with the same ending."

Chi Ran let her lead his finger, lowering his eyes in silence.

"If you're focused on the end of your life, you'll be preparing for a funeral every day."

She swung her legs, her fingers pinching the thin orange string, tugging at his fingers.

Chi Ran didn't continue the conversation with her, but instead changed the subject: "How could your father have been born in 1981? He was less than twenty-one when he had you?"

Song Yihuan said, "No."

Chi Ran: "How could Zhou Ting be older than your father? You're lying to him."

“I’m not lying.” Song Yihuan calmly stated her hellish statement, “My dad was forty-one when he passed away.”

The air remained silent for a long time.

“How can we not be the same age?” Song Yihuan said.

"...You were just standing up for me."

Chiran moved his index finger, and the taut orange thread at his fingertip suddenly scattered and sprang apart, like tiny fireworks at his fingertips.

“Yes, that’s right.” She admitted frankly, “That old man is too much of a bully, and he has no shame at all. He’s almost two rounds older than his wife. He’s a pervert.”

“Song Yihuan,” Chi Ran said softly, “I’m also about half a cycle older than you.”

She didn't like hearing that, and she quickly retorted: "The term 'half a wheel' sounds scary, but in reality, it's only six years old."

Chi Ran: "Six years old is half a cycle."

Song Yihuan didn't want to admit her double standards.

"So why are you so familiar with the recording studio? More so than your own home?" she asked.

“I lived here for six months, and slept in this recording studio… during the six months I was blind.”

Chi Ran tugged at the thin orange rope again and again, trying to snatch it back, but she just wouldn't let go.

"Such a narrow place?" Song Yihuan looked around and exclaimed in surprise.

The recording studio was so small that the two of them were practically knee-to-leg, and even turning their heads to say something would be a traffic jam. Even if the whole place were emptied, Chi Ran, being so small, would still have to curl up to sleep.

Chi Ran said, "Mm."

Song Yihuan tentatively asked, "You must have been in a lot of pain during that time, with such skilled music composition and arrangement skills gone overnight."

“Back then… I did relearn how to write songs,” he said. “My biggest fear was forgetting what the instruments looked like, forgetting what the recording studio looked like, forgetting what the notes looked like. As soon as I closed my eyes, it was like a slideshow, reviewing the appearance and usage of those things. Even after taking medication, I couldn’t sleep, so I just slept here.”

"Can I sleep here?" she asked.

“Yes.” He smiled. “I don’t know if it was because the oxygen content was low in the enclosed environment that I fainted due to lack of oxygen. During that time, Qian Yu was afraid that I would suffocate, so he slept at the company and quietly opened the door after I fell asleep.”

“…He deserves the 20,000,” Song Yihuan said, pinching the soft earpiece of her earphone.

Just as they were talking about Qian Yu, he jumped around outside the glass door, waving and gesturing, seemingly wanting to speak to them.

Song Yihuan said, "Put on your headphones, Qian Yu is looking for you."

That's what she said, but she didn't let go of the other earphone, holding it tightly as if in a contest.

The headphone cord was short, so Chi Ran had no choice but to move closer to her and put on the headphones, their shoulders almost touching.

"Aren't you leaving? It's time to get off work!" Qian Yu said, jumping around in the control room.

Song Yihuan turned on the microphone: "Then let's go..."

Before he could finish speaking, Chi Ran interrupted him: "I left a pair of blue-gray non-slip drumsticks in the second-floor lounge. Bring them to me, and then go to the third-floor office to find me a record called Julie."

Qian Yu sighed: "Brother, it's like finding a needle in a haystack... Do we have to find two kinds of needles, brother?"

Chi Ran raised his hand and precisely touched the switch, then muted his microphone and refused to communicate.

Even though Song Yihuan was slow to react, she realized that Chi Ran had deliberately sent her away.

Want a one-on-one fight?

She turned around abruptly, facing Chi Ran, and her knees inevitably collided with his.

This recording studio is really small. Double soundproof doors block out most of the sound, and the enclosed and silent space deprives the senses of being there, creating an undeniable sense of oppression.

Each person still held one end of the headphone cord, no one letting go, the thin orange cord taut and trembling slightly.

Chi Ran leaned his shoulder against the wall behind him, trying to keep his distance from her as much as possible.

In the oppressive silence and cramped space, Song Yihuan couldn't help but speak: "You were looking for me..."

“Thank you for standing by my side,” he said.

"Huh? Oh, that's understandable." Song Yihuan said a beat late, "You and that greasy old man, it's hard not to side with you."

“Not just today.” Chi Ran shook his head. “Two years ago, when I clashed with Zhou Ting, you were on my side too.”

Song Yihuan's eyes widened.

“This isn’t the first time I’ve heard you sing,” he said. “I heard you sing about two years ago, around this time.”

…two years ago?

At this time of year, her hometown welcomed a warm spring that was rare in decades. By early April, the sun was shining brightly, the land was lush and green, and the warm rain and gentle breezes seemed to be pushing people into early summer.

With just over two months left until the college entrance exam, her classmates were practically craving coffee and strong tea, while she was as leisurely as a cicada that had popped up early and was making a racket.

Extremely boring.

Unlike children her age, as a consistently underachieving student, she didn't hate attending classes, doing practice questions, or taking the joint exams between three schools. She also didn't hate being caught out, having extra classes, or being punished by standing outside the door. On the contrary, she even somewhat enjoyed it.

It wasn't because she was exceptionally precocious, but because she never felt any pressure in her studies.

Forgetting to fill in the answer sheet, falling asleep in class, or not doing homework—these are major events in student life that seem like the end of the world, but Song Yihuan never panics.

Even if the teacher finds Ms. Wang, Ms. Wang will only politely tell the teacher that she has worked hard and that health is more important than studying, and ask her not to scold her child for this.

After a while, no teacher bothered with her studies anymore.

For Ms. Wang, the only test Song Yihuan needed to seriously answer in her life was health.

Sitting for long periods, staying up late, irregular eating habits, and other bad habits were all disguised as a veneer of hard work for the college entrance examination. Just hearing about it made Ms. Wang feel distressed. In the second semester of senior year, she finally couldn't bear it anymore and insisted that Song Yihuan study at home.

During her home-based exam preparation, Song Yihuan strictly followed Ms. Wang's plan. The plan was extremely precise, with time measured to the minute, weight recorded to two decimal places, and even food and water intake accurate to the gram.

She has nutritious meals every day, with precise start times for each meal, and even clear rules about the order in which each dish is eaten and the number of times it is chewed.

Unlike at school, at home, under Ms. Wang's watchful eye, she can only strictly follow the instructions, playing the role of a little robot that performs tasks according to the program at fixed times and locations.

Robots don't go crazy, but humans do, and they'll soon.

Song Yihuan travels the world looking for things to do that are easy, healthy, and involve exercise, and most importantly, that allow him to get away from Ms. Wang's affairs.

It was at this time that she found a recruitment post for an underground idol group, and with her naturally good voice, she easily became a member of this somewhat unofficial group.

During rehearsals, she felt a long-lost sense of freedom. A precious, fleeting moment of freedom.

"Why is this little stage so dirty?"

On the day of the performance, Ms. Wang brought her lunch, her two thin eyebrows furrowed together.

Song Yihuan quickly said, "I'm not going to lie down and roll around on it, it's okay, Mom."

Ms. Wang took out an alcohol wipe and carefully wiped each of her fingers. "When you move around a lot on stage, the air is full of dust and powder. What if you inhale it into your lungs?"

The air is full of dust, powder, and dirt; you inhale it into your lungs and then exhale it.

Song Yihuan dared not speak like that, fearing that Ms. Wang would continue to ponder it. "Oh, Mom, good Mom, we'll spray water mist later, so the dust won't float up."

"Is that water mist clean?" Ms. Wang still frowned. "I have to go check... Ugh, you're everywhere. What are you doing following me? Sit down and eat! You're already ten minutes late."

Just as Song Yihuan finished enjoying half a portion of boiled shiitake mushrooms that didn't require much chewing, Ms. Wang walked over from a distance, seemingly carrying a stack of white paper.

She quickly made a gesture of chewing slowly and carefully.

"How many times have I told you, eat the mushrooms first, then the chicken breast?" Ms. Wang put a piece of white paper on the table. "How many times do I have to say it for you to remember?"

Song Yihuan obediently put down the chicken breast, picked up the small, gray-brown, umbrella-shaped shiitake mushroom, and was about to put it in her mouth when she caught a glimpse of the large black characters on the white paper.

Contract termination agreement.

The small, gray-brown umbrella landed with a thud on the edge of the lunchbox and rolled onto the ground.

“This child, of all things to drop, it has to be a mushroom. Mushroom polysaccharide is the best for preventing…preventing bad things. Let’s have another one tonight…” Ms. Wang followed her gaze and softened her tone, “Listen to your mother, we won’t act anymore.”

Song Yihuan didn't speak. The edges of the large black characters slowly blurred, like a row of gray mushroom caps.

“If I had known their stage wasn’t outdoors, but in a dilapidated semi-underground space, I would never have let you come here… It smells musty, and there might be excessive formaldehyde, mold, mites, or something. Don’t stay here,” Ms. Wang continued. “Mom signed the papers for you. After you finish eating, Mom will take you home.”

Song Yihuan blinked, desperately trying to suppress the layer of moisture.

Ms. Wang's experience was like consulting a doctor online; she didn't observe, listen, ask, or feel the pulse, and the entire result was simply the word "cancer."

The only difference is that Ms. Wang can't bring herself to say the word "cancer," avoiding it like the plague.

The Song family's unique hereditary misfortune is not from a cult, but from cancer.

"What are you staring at? Eat!"

Ms. Wang roughly folded the stack of contract termination agreements three times, the staple ends sticking out. She haphazardly stuffed them into her purse, and when she took her right hand out of the purse, her index finger scraped through a thin layer of oily skin, revealing a pinkish tinge.

Ms. Wang was completely unaware.

Eighteen-year-old Song Yihuan was like a thornless rose pampered in a greenhouse, not yet eloquent and quick-witted, but with a heart so soft it was almost timid.

She was rounded and blunt like a protractor in a ruler, and the markings on her body were all drawn by Ms. Wang herself, so that she could proactively calibrate every slight deviation from a healthy and long-lived lifestyle at any time.

She said gently, "Alright then."

"Sweetie," Ms. Wang pinched her cheek, "Let's go home."

"No. I want to finish singing today's show," Song Yihuan said softly, her head bowed.

This was the first time Ms. Wang had heard such clear defiance from her obedient daughter. She frowned and asked, "What?"

Song Yihuan kept her head down, but still said loudly again, "I want to finish singing this show!"

"You've really grown up." Ms. Wang's beautiful eyes flashed, and she slammed her hand on the table. "Can't you see how filthy this place is? I feel uneasy even letting you eat here..."

"It breaks my heart, you always break my heart!" Song Yihuan couldn't hold back her sobs. "I just want to find an iron to smooth things out for you!! I've rehearsed for so long, my makeup is all done, I want to go on stage! I want to go on stage!!"

Ms. Wang was stunned by her outburst.

After a long pause, Ms. Wang reached into her bag and rummaged around. Not finding any tissues, she pulled out a pack of alcohol wipes, tossed it aside, and continued rummaging.

I took out a tissue, and there were several more scratches on my hand, slowly bleeding.

"Look at you, child." Ignoring the blood on her hands, Ms. Wang hurriedly wiped away her tears. "Why are you so agitated? Can't you just talk to your mother properly?"

Emotional distress is another major contributing factor to cancer.

In the end, Song Yihuan used her trump card, gaining a brief twenty minutes of freedom.

Despite winning a resounding victory, why does he seem like a murderer and a sinner?