Could it be that the calm and composed demeanor in front of the camera is a carefully crafted persona, a "persona script" that the team has repeatedly taught her, even practicing her tone of voice and the rhythm of her pauses?
The uninhibited and undisguised demeanor before us is her true self after removing her makeup and microphone, returning to her private self.
Before I could even process this sudden contrast, she chuckled softly.
It wasn't the fake smile that you'd practiced a thousand times for the camera; it was a soft sound that emanated from the throat, with a slight breathiness, like the melody of wind blowing through an empty bottle.
A smile spread across her eyes, and shimmering light blended into her eyes, even making the pale blue mole at the corner of her eye appear brighter.
Strangely, for a moment, it overlapped with the image of Qianluo smiling in my memory.
The same slight upturn at the corners of the eyes, even the relaxed curve of the eyebrows, the fleeting brightness in the eyes, and even the small habit of the corner of the mouth turning to the left when smiling, are all very similar.
My heart skipped a beat, and my fingertips instinctively clenched the blades of grass. The astringent taste of the grass roots crept up through my fingers, turning my knuckles white.
In a daze, I could hardly make out the person sitting next to the tombstone, with wine stains still on their fingertips.
Is she Xin Zimo, the unattainable figure on screen, living in the spotlight and trending topics, or Qianluo, whom I dream of seeing again and who would smile and hand me candy?
"Sit down." She withdrew her gaze, tapped the wine pot on her lap lightly with her fingertips, the porcelain surface making a crisp "tap" sound, and then patted the ground beside her.
His palm brushed against the ground, stirring up some fine dust. The playfulness in his voice faded, replaced by a genuine relaxation, as if he had shed a layer of tense pretense.
"I just saw you were so tense, like a fully drawn bow, your shoulders were almost touching your ears, and your hands were clenched into fists with your knuckles white. I was just kidding."
If I really wanted to attack you, with your level of defense, you wouldn't even withstand a single blow from me. You're no match for me.
Her words were so blunt they were almost arrogant, yet I couldn't find a single reason to refute them.
She appeared behind me so silently that I didn't hear a sound, not even the slightest footstep or the rustling of her clothes.
Even from three steps away, I could feel the restrained energy emanating from her—it wasn't the relaxed, carefree attitude of an ordinary person.
It's the sharpness that only seasoned practitioners possess—the ability to tense muscles at any moment, like a cheetah poised to pounce, only temporarily sheathing its claws, and even its breathing rhythm is more steady than that of an ordinary person.
I stared at her outstretched hand. Her fingertips were long and slender, with distinct knuckles. Her nails were neatly trimmed, without any nail polish, and the pads of her fingers still had some thin calluses.
There was even a faint old scar on the tiger's mouth, as if it had been cut by some sharp object, leaving a thin mark after healing.
Those were hands that had been used to wielding weapons and practicing combat for many years; the skin at the knuckles was rougher than the palms, lacking any of the delicate softness of a pampered female celebrity.
Instead, it exudes a quiet strength; the curves on the knuckles seem to hold countless unspoken stories, a side that the camera can't capture, a side of perseverance in the shadows.
After hesitating for a moment, I simply knelt down cross-legged next to her. Grass blades brushed against my trouser legs, bringing a cool, damp feeling. My back finally dared to relax a bit and was no longer sore from the tension.
Indeed, if she really wanted to do something, she could have done it the moment I turned around. There was no need for her to waste her breath, stay with me in front of the tombstone, and even invite me to sit down.
If she wants to do something, my fighting skills, which are only enough to handle basic training, are simply not enough to stop her or dodge her.
When she saw me sit down, her eyes flickered slightly, her eyelashes drooped and then lifted again.
His gaze fell on my clenched hand, paused for two seconds, then quickly shifted to the police badge at the top of the tombstone.
In the dim light, with the last bit of daylight, I seemed to see a tear glisten flash across her eye, so fast it was like a fleeting illusion, as if it had been blown away by the wind.
Even the shadow cast on the beauty mark under her eye hadn't had time to change before it disappeared.
When I looked again, all that remained was a calm expanse, like a bottomless lake, where even the last rays of twilight couldn't penetrate.
All that remained was a desolate darkness, devoid of any emotion, as if the momentary dampness I felt just moments before was merely my illusion.
Silence lingered for a moment in the evening breeze, then the sound of the gravedigger coughing drifted on the wind and slowly dissipated among the pines and cypresses.
All that remained was the rustling of the wind through the leaves and the occasional soft sound of her fingertips caressing the wine pot; the porcelain surface rubbed against her fingertips, the sound so faint it was almost inaudible.
She spoke slowly, her voice deeper than before, the lightness of her joke gone, replaced by a more substantial weight, like a pebble thrown into a lake, capable of creating ripples.
"My name is Xin Zimo."
You know me, don't deny it—the look in your eyes just now, first you stared in shock, your pupils contracted, then you quickly swept your eyes across my forehead and the mole at the corner of my eye.
Even the corners of her mouth were pursed tightly; that look of certainty had already betrayed her.
I ran my fingertips over the grass growing in the cracks between the bricks beneath me. The astringent taste of the grass juice clung to my fingertips, making them sticky. I even held my breath, afraid of disturbing something.
I didn't say anything, but I shifted my gaze to the tombstone. Indeed, I recognized her face the moment she turned around.
She has a face that is rare in the entertainment industry, without the sharp edges smoothed out by filters. In particular, the mole at the corner of her eye, shaped like a small leaf, is her most distinctive feature, making it hard to mistake her for someone else.
On screen, Xin Zimo always appears aloof and composed. On the red carpet, she wears haute couture gowns with impeccable makeup, and her necklaces and earrings are perfectly matched.
He was impeccable during the interview, and even when asked pointed questions, he could dodge them with a smile. Even his smile carried a sense of distance, and there was always a hint of coldness in his eyes that kept people at a distance.
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