MACRM Chapter 61

When Zhong Yao heard that, his heart lurched. He nearly sat up before forcing himself to stay still. His voice dropped low. “When?”

Lin Zhu still had his eyes closed. His lips were slightly pale. Then, he gave a faint smile. “More than ten years ago… during filming. The pay was low. Back then things weren’t regulated, especially for stunt crews. People came from all sorts of places.”

“Stunt crews were cheap, low-threshold. Unknown teams survived by hopping from set to set. There was nothing to squeeze money out of, so plenty of people started scheming with the wire rigs. There were actually quite a few accidents those years. A lot of them were just… covered up.”

This was the first time he’d ever told Zhong Yao any of this. His seasoned, matter-of-fact tone made it hard for Zhong Yao to breathe.

Zhong Yao didn’t speak. He held Lin Zhu’s hand and wrapped it gently in his own.

Lin Zhu paused for a moment, then continued, “I reacted fast at the time. Grabbed the wire… But it was too thin. I slid down… around seven meters before crashing into a tree that stuck out horizontally. Luckily, it stopped me.”

“We were shooting a night scene on the mountain, and it was raining. So rescue was difficult. No one dared come down…”

“Later they lowered another safety rope. I tied myself to it, let them pull me back up.”

Curled in Zhong Yao’s arms, Lin Zhu tucked his forehead against his chest. “Back then I was only thinking about holding onto the wire. I didn’t even feel anything. It wasn’t until I got back up that I realized my wrist was fractured… It wasn’t severe, didn’t need surgery. I was tougher then. The crew put a cast on me and I was fine in a month.”

He spoke quickly, softly, as if struggling to complete some task. Only after the final word left his lips did his body slowly relax.

The room was quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioner.

Lin Zhu held his breath for a moment, then exhaled lightly. He tilted his face up against Zhong Yao’s chest. “I’m done talking…”

Zhong Yao held him silently. His arms were tensed like steel, locking the man against his chest.

Lin Zhu couldn’t see his expression. Feeling uneasy, he wiggled lightly. “I—I told you everything, Ge.”

His heart was beating a bit fast. He tugged gently at Zhong Yao’s shirt hem, cautious. “Can… can you praise me now?”

A tremor passed through Zhong Yao’s chest. His eyes burned hot.

He took a slow breath, rubbed Lin Zhu’s head, steadied his emotions, and did his best to keep his tone even. “You did really well…”

Lin Zhu pressed his lips together, satisfied, and burrowed back into his arms.

The body in his arms was slightly cool. Zhong Yao held him, patting him with soft, slow strokes. His chest felt as if someone had gouged a hole straight through it. It was raw, aching, letting in cold wind.

Only now did he begin to understand why Lin Zhu couldn’t speak of these past events.

A young child, clutching a wire thin enough to slice open his palms, clinging to it for dear life. The night was dark. Rain fell around him. No one dared go down to rescue him.

This kind of guilt… could slowly flay alive the adult who should have protected him but didn’t.

Zhong Yao couldn’t help asking softly, “Were you… scared? Did it hurt?”

Lin Zhu stiffened slightly. He rubbed against Zhong Yao’s neck and mumbled, “Scared for a little while. But then… then I wasn’t. I was just thinking I had to live. I didn’t even remember whether it hurt anymore…”

Zhong Yao let out a quiet breath. “Good…”

It was the first time his voice carried real fear for what could have happened. Lin Zhu knew what he was thinking. His own heart tightened, and he hurried to say, “Ge, don’t worry. Back then I already—”

His voice suddenly caught. After a moment, he whispered, “Back then… I’d already decided I really wanted to live.”

It was a sentence half-finished, dangling with unsaid meaning. Zhong Yao frowned slightly, lowering his head to ask, but Lin Zhu had already raised his eyes, curving them into a smile again. “It’s all long over, Ge. I’m completely fine now.”

He kept talking, breathless, as if afraid Zhong Yao might dwell too long on anything. “My mom and dad treat me really well. My big brother too. He just nags… Everyone at home took great care of me. Everything they used was the best. I didn’t recover well because right after the injury I didn’t take it seriously. It was my own fault…”

Zhong Yao couldn’t listen anymore. He lowered his head and kissed him.

Lin Zhu jolted, heat rising instantly to his cheeks. He let himself be kissed obediently, saying no more.

Only when his cool lips had warmed again did Zhong Yao pull back. He rubbed Lin Zhu’s hair and spoke with earnest gentleness. “Really good. You’ve made so much progress.”

Lin Zhu blinked, startled, brows tightening. “Ge, you already said that once…”

“Just now I wasn’t sincere. I only said it to make you happy.”

Zhong Yao’s gaze softened. He met Lin Zhu’s dazed eyes. “Now… I’m praising you for real.”

Lin Zhu didn’t dodge in time. He stared at Zhong Yao, stunned.

His nose suddenly prickled, embarrassingly sore.

How could he… be this lucky?

He took a deep breath, blinked away the moisture gathering in his eyes, and completely let down his guard. Zhong Yao’s gentle heartbeat filled his mind.

Ever since he returned home, he’d never read his parents’ or brother’s thoughts again. With anyone he felt he could trust, he avoided eye contact, not wanting to know what the truth beneath their warmth might be.

He didn’t want to know. Didn’t dare know.

If they treated him well, then they treated him well. If they cared, then they cared. He never wanted to dig deeper… But every time he thought he could live like that, every time he thought that was enough, Zhong Yao would appear and tell him there was something even better.

How much better…? Was there still more?

Would there be a day when, even if he told Zhong Yao everything—

A sharp pain stabbed through his mind. Lin Zhu crushed the thought instantly and looked away.

He closed his eyes, refusing to touch those forbidden places in his memory. Then he burrowed into Zhong Yao’s arms again, raising his head with a soft little demand. “Compliments only? No reward…”

Zhong Yao flicked his forehead with a knuckle, coaxing him gently. “Sleep first. When you wake up, I’ll take you out for something delicious.”

Lin Zhu froze, then couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from lifting as he leaned obediently into his chest. “Okay.”

A different reward would’ve been nice too…

[No Bridge] had already aired up to the young master’s first appearance. More and more big creators were flooding the forums, and the fan content was getting richer. Be it comics, fanart, animatics, everything. At night, when he had nothing to do, Lin Zhu couldn’t help scrolling through it, learning all sorts of things he had no idea when he’d ever actually use.

He’d always been easy to satisfy. Just being with Zhong Yao was more than enough. But today he’d been spoiled too much, and a strange little pang rose out of nowhere.

…Well, the food was good too.

Eating together was better than anything else. 

After thinking for a bit, he felt content again. Resting his head on Zhong Yao’s arm, he closed his eyes. Then, still not satisfied, he squirmed around inside the blanket, using both hands and feet to latch onto Zhong Yao tightly.

Zhong Yao, startled by how practiced the motion was, let him cling as he pleased and wrapped an arm around his back. He asked cautiously, “Do you hug a bolster at home?”

Lin Zhu: “!!”

He absolutely could not let Zhong Yao learn about his life-size body pillow at home. His heart started pounding. While mentally planning to tell his brother to destroy the evidence immediately, he shut his eyes and pretended to sleep with all his might.

Warmth filled Zhong Yao’s arms. Lin Zhu waited to be exposed, but when Zhong Yao said nothing, his real drowsiness crept in. He yawned twice, then drifted off without a care in the world.

Zhong Yao couldn’t lie still. He shifted upright, letting Lin Zhu’s head rest on his lap. He turned on the bedside lamp and carefully examined the scar on Lin Zhu’s hand.

A scar from more than ten years ago, cutting across the center of his palm. Still noticeable, though no longer as gruesome as it once had been.

Why had someone that young been running around film sets? What had his parents and family been doing then? Why had they let him face life-or-death dangers on his own? What was the name of the production crew? Which stunt team handled the rigs? How was the incident dealt with afterwards? What about the compensation or the responsibility? Lin Zhu had told him nothing.

Zhong Yao looked down at the peacefully sleeping Lin Zhu and gently brushed aside the strands of hair on his forehead.

When he’d been pretending to sleep he’d been bold enough to cling to him like that, but now, the sleeping Lin Zhu curled up small again on instinct, his brows soft and relaxed, sleeping soundly.

Aside from that single scar, it seemed nothing much was left of the past.

Lin Zhu was doing well now. He able to speak his mind normally, able to trust him without reservation. Sometimes, if coaxed into relaxing enough, he could even tease a little, even take the initiative to ask for things.

Maybe those things that had already passed really shouldn’t be dragged back out and chased endlessly.

Zhong Yao exhaled softly and pulled him a bit closer. He was about to adjust the pillow under him when his hand suddenly paused.

Under the pillow, a strip of painkillers peeked out.

They’d only arrived yesterday, and already four tablets were gone.

Zhong Yao didn’t move at all. His eyes fixed on the painkillers, a cold glint slowly rising, then gradually dimming into a deep, dark expression.

He shifted Lin Zhu’s right hand protectively, moving him a little closer, tucked the painkillers back under the pillow, then picked up his phone and sent Director Jin a text.

After setting the phone aside, he lay down gently again, pulling Lin Zhu back into his arms.

For the next week, the shaken Li Yijie never showed his face on set again.

The script reading sessions continued as usual. Lin Zhu was pulled in as the official stunt double, and whenever he wasn’t reading lines, he stuck to Zhong Yao like a little shadow. Within a few days, he’d already gotten familiar with most of the crew.

Zhong Yao took him out to walk around a few times, but every place had been renovated beyond recognition. Lin Zhu’s childhood memories weren’t clear to begin with, and in the end he couldn’t tell if it really was a place he’d been to long ago.

Whether it was a return to an old place or not… didn’t really matter anymore.

His heart knot was loosening bit by bit without him even noticing. And as the crew approached their start date, things grew increasingly busy. On top of that, Clozeya had officially announced their partnership, [No Bridge]’s plot was hitting its high points, and viewership was skyrocketing to first place in its timeslot. Lin Zhu had no room left in his mind to dwell on his past. He was fully immersed in his rapidly growing workload.

Amid the chaos of his agent spinning like a top, juggling work arrangements, the [Serving the Sovereign] crew also entered the final stage before filming officially began.

“So young and already full of health problems. What’s he going to do when he’s old?”

In the meeting room, Director Jin Zhenbo pulled out a cloth pouch filled with coarse salt and handed it to Zhong Yao. “This one’s new, never used. Microwave it for two minutes, then apply it wherever it hurts. If it’s too hot, use a layer of clothing. It’ll get rid of the dampness. You will feel better.”

Zhong Yao didn’t say much. He thanked him and put the salt bag away.

Director Jin waved his hand, then after a moment added, “…That thing you asked me to check? I checked. Found nothing.”

Zhong Yao blinked. “Nothing?”

“Nothing means nothing. What’s that tone supposed to mean?”

Director Jin grew annoyed. “Are you sure your agent acted in a movie and not a TV series back then? There are thousands of TV shows, both approved and unapproved! He was barely ten, how could he remember clearly?”

Zhong Yao paused. “I’ll look again… Thank you, Director Jin.”

What he’d asked Jin Zhenbo to investigate was which movie Lin Zhu had acted in back then.

Director Jin’s team specialized in movie archiving and claimed to have the most complete collection of domestic films from the last thirty years. He had taken the request lightly, agreeing without hesitation. He hadn’t expected to find absolutely nothing.

Director Jin frowned as he lit a cigarette. Seeing Zhong Yao stand up to leave, he called out reluctantly, “There are a few films we just can’t track. If it was one of those… there’s nothing anyone can do.”

Surprised that even Jin’s team had films they couldn’t locate, Zhong Yao turned back with a frown. “How can they be untraceable?”

“Who knows. The master tape was supposedly lost. The movie wasn’t famous. It had a short theatrical release and then vanished. No copies on the market.”

Director Jin’s tastes were refined; he’d never paid attention to these obscure productions. He’d only learned this from his team that morning, and even he found it strange. “Losing the master tape is one thing, but every theater tossed its copy too? How hated was the director…”

Zhong Yao thought for a moment and nodded. “Can we at least find the titles?”

“It’ll take some time. They said there are several lost movies and TV dramas.” 

Director Jin tapped off his ash. “You really want this? All this fuss just to get clarity? If you’re worried he’ll struggle with the dangerous scenes, we can swap in a pro stunt double. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you…”

“That’s not it.” Zhong Yao laughed softly. “I’d rather he not do those scenes. Honestly, I’d feel better letting Li Yijie do them.”

Now Jin Zhenbo was completely baffled.

Zhong Yao rubbed his temples, pressing his sore eyes.

Lin Zhu had been sleeping peacefully these past few days after opening up his heart, but Zhong Yao hadn’t been able to sleep well at all. He couldn’t stop thinking about a young Lin Zhu clinging to life on a collapsing wire in the dark.

Even knowing that to truly help Lin Zhu move on he had to let him do what he wanted, Zhong Yao still couldn’t shake the lingering fear.

He’d reviewed those two scenes several times over the past few days, wandered over to check the explosives and wire rig himself, and had even planned to go bond with the horses raised specifically for filming, until he was violently scolded by Director Jin, who was dragged over in a panic by the assistant director.

Director Jin made sprawling political epics. He judged others by himself and eyed Zhong Yao suspiciously. “You’re not thinking Li Yijie clashed with you, so you want to sabotage the props or drug the horse to kick him, right?”

The crew’s professional dignity was at stake. He frowned and reassured him, “We have people assigned to guard the props, and dedicated horse handlers. You don’t need to be this nervous. You were never like this before…”

Zhong Yao smiled and didn’t argue. “Better to be careful.”

Director Jin gave him a skeptical look and waved him away. “Go, go. Stop getting on my nerves… And stop bothering the horses! If the media spreads a story about a big-name actor getting kicked by a horse before filming even starts, I’ll replace you on the spot!”

Zhong Yao raised both hands in surrender and agreed earnestly, then turned to leave.

The planner who had been waiting at the door heard the yelling and was trying not to laugh as he walked up. “Zhong-laoshi…”

Things were too hectic lately. Lin Zhu was juggling the crew, the endorsements, the currently airing [No Bridge], and a flood of incoming offers. He was busy to the point he barely slept. On top of that, the weather was bad. So Zhong Yao simply left him in the hotel, coming to set each day with only the planning manager and assistant.

Lin Zhu had been so overwhelmed he’d been skipping meals and losing sleep. The moment Zhong Yao finished work each day, he ran back to the hotel to make sure the agent ate and rested properly, determined not to let Lin Zhu work himself sick again.

Zhong Yao looked calm as always. “Did Lin-laoshi send any messages?”

The planning manager nodded quickly. “Yes. He said the food supply is insufficient and he needs reinforcement, so we should bring some back. He also said your phone is probably dead and asked us to buy you a power bank…”

Zhong Yao took out his phone and saw it had indeed been dead for quite a while.

No wonder he hadn’t received any messages from Lin Zhu all evening.

He fiddled with the phone twice, pocketed it, and took the planning manager’s phone to reply to Lin Zhu.

There wasn’t an immediate reply. It’s likely he was still buried in work. Zhong Yao exited the messages and was about to return the phone when he froze, eyes falling on the last opened app.

The planning manager: “!!!”

His soul nearly left his body.

He stared in horror at the screen in Zhong Yao’s hand. It was the members-only section of a CP forum. He immediately scrambled to snatch the phone back. “Z-Zhong-laoshi! Shall we go? Lin-laoshi must be hungry—”

Zhong Yao tilted his wrist lightly, avoiding him, scanning the page at a glance. His brows furrowed.

The planning manager felt his life flashing before his eyes. “—It was the PR team! They recommended it! I won’t look again, I swear! Please don’t be angry…”

Zhong Yao didn’t speak. He searched the page calmly, then turned the phone slightly. “How do I turn the page?”