An hour later.

The Chevrolet slowly stopped in front of a dark residential area.

Looking out the window at the crowded, dilapidated tube-shaped buildings, Douzi almost thought he'd traveled back to the 1980s. Then, looking at the word "demolition" painted in a large red circle on the messy wall, he couldn't help but turn his head and ask doubtfully, "Brother Cheng, are you sure this is the place?"

Song Yecheng didn't expect that the address given by the other party would be such a demolition area, but after taking out his mobile phone to confirm the location was correct, he didn't think about it anymore and just opened the door and got out of the car.

Douzi hurriedly opened the door on his side, but just as he leaned out, he heard Song Yecheng say, "Don't go, wait for me here."

Douzi was a little worried, but then he thought that this was just a residential area after all, not some remote abandoned factory, so he obediently responded with an "Oh" and leaned on the car door to watch his brother Cheng walk towards the distant alley.

It's no wonder that Douzi thought they had traveled through time. These old buildings left over from the last century are indeed rare in today's metropolises where every inch of land is valuable. But rare doesn't mean they don't exist. They are like patches left on the road of urban development in the past years, representing the remaining traces of an era that once existed.

Song Yecheng walked into the narrow alley that was barely wide enough for a tricycle to pass through. In the dim moonlight, he could clearly see the countless broken items piled up inside and the various flyers and advertisements that had accumulated over the years on the mottled walls.

Long lines of rust hung under the old iron railings and security windows. Simple clothes drying racks made of countless bamboo poles acted like a sieve, splitting the moonlight overhead into pieces. Only the occasional drops of water falling from the sheets and clothes hanging upstairs proved that there were indeed people living here.

Song Yecheng checked the building number on his phone and quickly found the corresponding gatehouse. However, there was not even a light in the dark old corridor. He had no choice but to turn on the flashlight on his phone and hurriedly walked up the stairs.

After turning a few corners, the long and narrow corridor on the third floor finally appeared in front of us.

On the left are dozens of doors connected by a corridor, and on the right are the long iron railings unique to tube-shaped buildings. The moonlight shines in obliquely from outside the building, dividing the left wall into two symmetrical halves of light and dark.

Song Yecheng glanced out into the distance and found that from here he could actually see the car parked at the entrance of the alley and Douzi who was still leaning on the car door looking eagerly. So he casually waved the flashlight on his mobile phone in that direction to indicate that he had arrived, then turned off the flashlight and turned to look at the door on his left.

These doors are no different in any way. They are all old-fashioned wooden doors painted dark green. A small metal plate extends horizontally on the wall next to the door, engraved with the house number.

301, 302, 303...

Song Yecheng walked forward along the corridor step by step, and finally, he stopped in front of the door of 309.

Without much hesitation, he raised his hand and knocked on the door a few times, neither too hard nor too soft.

The knocking sounds were particularly clear in the quiet midnight, but after waiting for a long time, there was no response at all.

The sound insulation effect of this old-fashioned wooden door is obviously not very good, but there is not even a faint sound of footsteps in the room. Song Yecheng looked down and found that there was no light coming through the crack of the door below.

Fell asleep?

Or... no one at all?

It was not until this moment that Song Yecheng belatedly realized that he might have been tricked.

However, this thought only lasted for a brief moment, because in the next second, the door panel was pulled inward with a slight "click".

There was no light on in the house, and moonlight poured in through the gradually opening door. Song Yecheng looked up, and when he saw the face of the person in the door clearly, his heart couldn't help but tremble slightly.

He had not imagined what the other person looked like on the way here. Even if he had, he would never have thought that the other person's appearance would be so outstanding.

——This is a face that would definitely stand out even in the entertainment industry. From the outline to the facial features, it exudes a natural exquisiteness that does not require any embellishment. It is amazing at first sight and may even make people feel a little heartbeating.

But perhaps because the moonlight was too white, the reflected eyebrows and eyes were also tinged with a layer of coldness and alienation, which made people feel moved but also a little unapproachable.

However, what was even more contradictory was that Song Yecheng felt that this person was difficult to approach, but at the same time he caught a glimpse of an inexplicable sense of familiarity from the other person's gaze. However, the feeling was fleeting and disappeared before he could grasp it.

After staring at each other for a moment, Song Yecheng suddenly remembered the purpose of his visit. He hastily cleared his throat and said, "810?"

Jiang Que inside the door nodded, then moved aside to make way.

When Song Yecheng stepped into the room, the first thing he noticed was the only light source in the room - the computer on the wall facing the door. The faint fluorescence on the screen illuminated the small space in front of the desk.

Jiang Que closed the door behind him, raised his hand and pressed the switch on the wall. The chandelier with a long cord hanging from the ceiling of the living room lit up, and the dim light instantly enveloped most of the room.

This room has one bedroom and one living room. The furnishings in the living room are very simple - old desk, old sofa, old coffee table, and even the only computer that represents modernity is an old model from who knows how many years ago.

The only window in the living room faces the door, and as if to prevent people from peeping, it is covered with densely packed newspapers and various old magazine pages, making it completely lightless.

The desk is located under the window, with the right side of the desk against the wall. In addition to the computer, there are some scattered items on the desk. Two boxes of opened mineral water are piled under the left foot of the desk.

"Sit down," Jiang Que called out from behind him, then walked towards the table. "Would you like some water?"

Drinking a stranger's water in a strange place was obviously not a wise choice, but visiting this stranger alone in the middle of the night was already unwise. Song Yecheng simply said stupidly: "Thank you."

As he spoke, he walked to the side, bent over and sat on the creaking sofa, even crossing his legs leisurely: "What's your name?"

"Jiangque, the Que of Chengque."

There was nothing wrong with this answer originally, but maybe it was because Song Yecheng's own name contained the word "cheng", but when he suddenly heard the combination of "chengque", he felt it was a bit subtle.

Could it be that because they've been paired up so many times by fans, it's become a conditioned reflex? Song Yecheng wondered.

Jiang Que bent down and took a bottle of water from the cardboard box beside the table and handed it to him. Then he looked at the empty spaces on the left and right of the sofa, seemed to hesitate for a moment, and finally turned and walked towards the armchair beside the table.

The hesitation was actually very brief, but Song Yecheng still couldn't help but glance to the side, thinking, there is obviously a lot of empty seat, what if the person sitting next to me is poisonous?

At this time, Jiang Que had walked back to the window. Song Yecheng's gaze fell on him again. Seeing him sit down on the chair in front of the table, he suddenly felt an indescribable sense of disharmony - as if the person in front of him should not belong here, and his temperament was incompatible with the environment here.

But this might just be an illusion. Song Yecheng didn't think much about it. He unscrewed the bottle cap and drank a sip of water. He used these few seconds to clear his messy thoughts, sorted out his thoughts, and then got to the point: "Did you write that book?"

This opening statement was actually nonsense, but Jiang Que didn't seem to mind: "Yes."

Song Yecheng then asked: "How did you do that?"

There have been many versions of speculation about this issue on the Internet. Of course, he himself has thought of several possibilities, but none of them can stand up to scrutiny.

Jiang Que habitually crossed his fingers and asked instead of answering, "Do you usually read novels?"

This topic change was completely inexplicable, but Song Yecheng quickly realized that he seemed to be laying the groundwork for something, so he answered: "I see, but not much, what's the matter?"

Jiang Que nodded, his gaze lingering briefly on the three small moles on his earlobes. Then, meeting his gaze again, he asked a question that seemed to have been rehearsed a thousand times: "Then, do you know that there's a type of novel called 'traveling through a book'?"

Song Yecheng was slightly stunned. After a moment, he quickly came up with some speculation in his mind. He sneered in disbelief, "Are you trying to tell me that the reason you knew those things in advance is because I am now living in a book, and you happened to have read this book?"

"No." Jiang Que denied.

Song Yecheng was about to breathe a sigh of relief when Jiang Que added, "Not only have you read it, but I wrote this book."

His tone was calm and serious, without any hint of joking, and his eyes were determined as he stared directly at Song Yecheng without flinching or avoiding.

Song Yecheng was stared at by him for a long time without being able to utter a word. He blinked and opened his mouth, but in the end only two snorting sounds came out of his nose.

I laughed out of anger.

It really made me laugh.

Song Yecheng even wanted to applaud him - he was truly a genius to be able to tell such a shocking lie so calmly.

Jiang Que quietly observed his reaction, watching his expression change from surprise to disdain, and then from disdain to ridicule.

Suddenly, Song Yecheng curled up the corners of his mouth, smiled at him meaningfully, and stood up lazily.

Jiang Que was slightly startled. He saw Song Yecheng, hands in his pockets, sauntering towards him with the unhurried demeanor of a wild animal approaching its prey. He placed one hand on the table, leaned forward slightly, and jokingly said, "Then, may I ask, Mr. Author, have you arranged a love story for me in this book?"

Jiang Que was a little uncomfortable with the sudden shortening of the distance. He leaned back calmly and managed to maintain composure, "Of course, Tang Yao has already appeared."

Hearing this answer, the strange smile on Song Yecheng's face suddenly became more intriguing. He moved closer again, raised an eyebrow, and lowered his voice, "Really? So, as the author, you don't even know the protagonist's sexual orientation?"

Jiang Que's eyelashes trembled, and his pupils shrank involuntarily. The expression that had been maintained for a long time finally relaxed a little.

He really didn't know.

Although Song Yecheng has been the subject of constant gossip over the years, and has been hyped up by countless people, both openly and covertly, and even paired up with a few same-sex couples, no one has ever doubted his straight male nature, and there has been no rumor proving that he likes men.

Of course there will be no rumors.

Because Song Yecheng has never really been in a relationship, the number of people who know his sexual orientation can be counted on one hand, including his parents, assistant and agent - this is why Liang Heming did not doubt that he and Tang Yao were really having an affair when he saw the candid photos.

Jiang Que lowered his eyes and did not refute, allowing Song Yecheng's breath, which was so close to him, to pass over his nose, as if he was a fox that had just stuck its head out and was held down by the hunter's claws.

Song Yecheng was quite satisfied with his reaction, and even felt a bit of pleasure in his heart. He slowly stood up, put his hands back into his pockets, and said condescendingly like a victorious general: "Tell me, what do you want?"

Everything has a purpose. He didn't believe that this person was stirring up trouble and making such a big fuss just to be mysterious. There must be a more substantial plot behind this.

Of course, there are many answers to this question.

In today's era where traffic is equivalent to value, it is not surprising to use anything to attract public attention. It can be for popularity, to attract fans or even simply for money. This is not difficult to understand.

But Song Yecheng felt that it was not that simple.

When he sent the private message on Weibo, the "810" account had already been pushed to the forefront. The other party's mailbox must have been bombarded with countless messages at that time, but the other party accurately captured his message in such a short time and replied to the address without hesitation, as if he had been waiting in front of the computer for him to come to him.

This at least proves one thing - the other party also has a need to meet with you, and this need may be quite urgent.

Why?

What exactly does he want from me?

However, Jiang Que had already recovered from his earlier surprise. His expression regained its composure, and he lowered his eyes slightly to look at the ground. "I don't want anything. Or rather, you can't give me what I want."

"How do you know I can't give it to you if you don't tell me?" Song Yecheng asked back.

Jiang Que was silent for a moment, then suddenly looked up at him: "I want you to believe what I just said, can you give it to me?"

His deep, lively eyes were filled with seriousness, but his mouth was full of fairy tales. This strange sense of disconnection made Song Yecheng feel both amused and confused: "What do you believe? Do you believe that I live in a book? Do you believe that this whole world was written by you? Do I look like an idiot?"

Jiang Que was still looking at him, but his eyes had changed, as if saying, "See, I told you you can't do it."

Song Yecheng sneered again. He suddenly felt that it was a joke for him to run so far in the middle of the night to have a "face-to-face interview" with this person. The other person had no intention of having a good talk at all, and not a single word of truth came out of his mouth from beginning to end.

Thinking of this, his patience quickly ran out. Too lazy to ask any more questions, he simply turned around and strode towards the door.

However, just as his hand was about to touch the door handle, Jiang Que behind him suddenly said, "Wait."

Song Yecheng paused, but just stood there without looking back.

Jiang Que's tone remained calm and composed: "Don't you want to know what happens next?"

Although he firmly believed that this was nonsense, Song Yecheng didn't slam the door and leave immediately. He only heard Jiang Que continue behind him: "Next, you will make a movie called "Searching for the Light."

Song Yecheng was silent for a moment, but did not give any response. He simply opened the door and walked out.

He walked through the corridor, went downstairs and turned into the alley. He took out his cell phone from his pocket and finally used the "private channel" that he had not used before.

The call was quickly connected, and he said in a deep voice, "Help me check someone."

Five minutes later, inside the house.

Jiang Que was still sitting quietly in the armchair, and he could vaguely hear the sound of doors closing and cars starting coming from the alley through the old door panels.

Not until that sound completely faded away and the whole world returned to its vacuum-like silence did he sigh softly, slightly tiredly, in the dim light.

The expedition started off badly.

Although I knew that the first meeting would not go smoothly, I did not expect it to end in such an unpleasant way.

Song Yecheng was not wrong, he did lie.

The so-called "traveling through a book" was indeed an answer he made up. It was indeed incredible and indeed sounded bizarre, but -

It was indeed the answer closest to the truth that he could think of.

If Song Yecheng couldn't believe even a little bit of this answer, then the truth would surely make it even more difficult for him to accept.

Jiang Que blinked slowly, sighed again, raised his hand to turn off the computer on the table, stood up, walked to the door to turn off the lights in the living room, and walked into the bedroom in the dark.

He seemed to be accustomed to walking in the dark. He walked to the bed without any hindrance, bent down and turned on the broken lamp on the bedside, squatted down in the dim light, and dragged out a huge wooden box from under the bed.

The wooden box looked quite old, with a lot of cartoon stickers that only children would like cluttered on it. All of them were yellowed and old, and some of them even had curled edges.

Jiang Que wiped the disobedient corners, and when he found that pressing it was futile, he stopped forcing it. He unfastened the copper buckle and slowly opened the wooden box.

If Song Yecheng hadn't left yet, the scene in the wooden box would have horrified him—

There were countless CDs, posters, photo albums, magazines and various peripherals, all of which were related to Song Yecheng without exception. From his first movie at the age of twelve to his entire acting career over the past ten years, almost all of them were stuffed into the box.

But this is not a creepy reason. Song Yecheng has countless fans, many of whom are fanatical and die-hard fans. If they are simply collecting historical peripherals, they are no different from his die-hard fans.

What was truly horrifying was that everything in the box was in a dismembered state.

The CD was broken and smashed, the photo album was torn up in a mess, the poster was covered with knife cuts and burns, and there were even traces that could not be told whether they were blood or red ink that appeared repeatedly on all the wreckage, smearing shocking insults and curses.

Jiang Que stared at them quietly for a moment, then reached out his hand and gently stroked the debris inch by inch.

His gentle movements formed a sharp contrast with the horrifying scene in the box, making it difficult to tell whether this distorted image was born out of extreme love or deep hatred.

After a long time, as if he had finally completed some kind of ritual, he closed the box and stuffed it back under the bed.

Get up and turn off the lights.

He lay on the bed, opened his eyes, and looked up into the endless void in the thick darkness.