Amateur talent show? Top mentors are my students.

Han Yu stood in front of He Xu, holding a plastic bag containing a box of medicine.

His gaze fell on He Xu, scanning him from head to toe, finally settling on the back of his left hand with the IV drip attached.

"...You've lost weight," Han Yu said. His voice was soft, his tone flat, and his emotions were unreadable.

He Xu leaned back in his chair and looked up at him.

"What are you doing here?" He Xu asked again, his voice still hoarse.

Han Yu held up the plastic bag and shook it; the medicine box inside rattled. "Allergic reaction, here for an IV drip. What about you?"

"fever."

"I can tell." Han Yu's gaze lingered on his face for a moment before shifting away, scanning the infusion room. "You came alone?"

He Xu did not answer.

Han Yu didn't ask any further questions. He walked to the empty seat next to He Xu, put the plastic bag at his feet, and leaned back in his chair.

The two people were separated by a chair.

The only sounds in the infusion room were the intermittent coughing of the elderly man next door and the hum of the air conditioner.

"I heard you were on Shen Yiheng's talent show." Han Yu spoke first, as if he were talking about something very ordinary.

How did you know?

"I lent them the copyright."

Now that you mention it, He Xu remembered that there was a song by him called "Wildfire" on the show "One Kilometer".

He noticed it at the time, but for some reason for forgetting about it.

"Why?" Han Yu asked.

"boring."

Han Yu paused for a second, then slightly curved the corners of his mouth.

"You're still the same," Han Yu said, lowering his voice. "No matter what you ask, it's always 'boring.'"

He Xu did not respond.

He wanted to say "Otherwise what?" and "What else could it be?" but he swallowed the words back down his throat.

"Have you been divided into groups for the first round?" Han Yu asked, his tone returning to its usual nonchalant and casual manner.

"Um."

Which song?

"I signed a confidentiality agreement." After saying that, He Xu glanced at him, hesitated for a moment, and then said, "Blade."

Han Yu tapped his fingers lightly on his knee.

"His songs," he said. He didn't name names, but both of them knew who he was referring to.

He Xu did not deny it.

Han Yu turned his head and glanced at him, his eyes beneath the brim of his hat holding something.

Complex emotions that have been suppressed for a long time.

The two remained silent.

A series of hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.

Shen Yiheng jogged to the entrance of the infusion room, carrying a bag in his hand, with a thin layer of sweat on his forehead.

His gaze first fell on He Xu—he was still there, not lost, thank goodness—before turning to the person next to him.

He paused for a moment.

Han Yu leaned back in his chair, his hat brim pulled low, his jacket collar turned up, and he was completely covered up.

But he recognized him.

You don't need to look at his face; just look at his posture and the habitual gesture of putting his right hand on his knee.

"Han Yu?" Shen Yiheng's voice rose a little.

Han Yu looked up and glanced at him.

The face under the hat brim was finally revealed—it was thinner than it had been five years ago, the contours of its cheekbones were more defined, and there were faint dark circles under its eyes, like the marks left by long-term sleep deprivation.

"Producer Shen." Han Yu's lips curved slightly, a hint of nonchalant teasing in his smile. "Long time no see."

Shen Yiheng stood two steps away, still holding the bag in his hand, his expression changing from surprise to something complex and hard to describe.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Allergic reaction." Han Yu raised his right hand and shook it, the back of his hand still covered with the bandage from the IV drip. "Just finished the IV, getting ready to leave."

Shen Yiheng's gaze lingered on the back of his hand for a moment before returning to He Xu.

He Xu was leaning back in his chair with his eyes closed, giving off an expression that said, "You guys talk your thing, it's none of my business."

"What did you buy?" He Xu asked in a hoarse voice without opening his eyes.

Shen Yiheng came to his senses, put the bag on the chair next to He Xu, and took out a bowl of porridge, a box of warm soy milk, and two steamed buns.

"The congee is made with preserved egg and lean pork, the soy milk is unsweetened, and the steamed buns are made with fresh pork." He said as he took them out, speaking faster than usual, as if trying to hide something. "Drink some soy milk first to warm your stomach, then take your medicine—"

He Xu didn't listen and reached out to take the soy milk.

Han Yu sat next to them, his gaze shifting back and forth between the two of them.

"You two still have such a good relationship," he said, his tone as calm as if stating a fact.

Shen Yiheng's movements froze for a moment.

He Xu scooped the soy milk out of the bag, inserted a straw, took a sip, and then slowly asked, "What are you allergic to?"

Han Yu was taken aback by this sudden question.

"...pollen," he said.

"Aren't you supposed to be immune to pollen?" Shen Yiheng frowned. "Back when we were at Banxing, there were so many flowers in spring, but I never saw you there—"

"People change." Han Yu interrupted him, his voice not loud, but carrying a coldness that brooked no further questioning.

Shen Yiheng swallowed back what he was about to say.

The infusion room fell silent again.

He Xu took a few sips of soy milk, put the cup back on the chair, picked up the bowl of porridge, and lifted the lid.

The steam from the congee with preserved egg and lean pork rose up, blurring his features.

"Have you eaten?" he asked Han Yu.

Han Yu was stunned for a moment.

"No," he said.

He Xu pushed the bowl of porridge towards Han Yu.

Han Yu looked down at the bowl of porridge, remained silent for two seconds, and then smiled again, this time with a more sincere smile.

"You're still the same," he said, his voice very soft. "The same to everyone."

He Xu didn't reply, but instead took a bite of his steamed bun.

Han Yu did not take the bowl of porridge.

He stood up from his chair, picked up the plastic bag, and pulled his hat brim down.

"I'm leaving now," he said. "I still haven't written a song."

Shen Yiheng stood up, opened his mouth as if to say something, but didn't know what to say.

Han Yu paused for a moment when he reached the door of the infusion room.

He didn't turn around, but just turned his head slightly to the side, his profile under the brim of his hat illuminated by the corridor lights.

"Teacher He," he said.

He Xu raised his head.

"Good luck in the game." Han Yu's voice wasn't loud, but it came from the doorway and could be heard clearly in the quiet infusion room. "Don't lose too badly."

After saying that, he left.

The footsteps faded away slowly at the end of the corridor.

Shen Yiheng stood there, staring at the closed door, his lips pressed into a thin line.

He Xu leaned back in his chair, holding half a steamed bun in his hand, his expression unchanged.

"...What does he mean?" Shen Yiheng's voice was very low.

He Xu took a bite of the steamed bun, chewed it twice, swallowed it, and then slowly said, "The literal meaning."

"You know that's not what he meant."

He Xu did not respond.

Shen Yiheng turned to look at him, her brows furrowed: "Is he still—"

"Yiheng," He Xu interrupted him, his voice not loud, but carrying a weight of "this is the end."

Shen Yiheng shut his mouth.

-

It was two days later when He Xu finally returned to the practice room.

The fever has subsided, but my throat hasn't fully recovered.

He still has a hoarse voice, but at least he doesn't have to rely on breathy sounds anymore and can produce complete syllables.

He did not notify anyone in advance.

When I pushed open the practice room door, the accompaniment to "Blade" was playing inside. The five of them were practicing their own parts, and no one noticed that the door was open.

Lu Yiming sat on the floor in the corner, wearing headphones, repeatedly practicing the high notes of the chorus while looking at the lyrics book.

Lin Siyuan and Zhao Tianyu practiced their moves in front of the mirror.

The two are at roughly the same level, hovering between Class B and Class C. They have the basic movements, but the details are all problematic.

Yan Chen stood at the very back, scrutinizing the floor movements of the chorus in front of the mirror over and over again.

The bandage on the back of his head had been removed, and his hair covered the scar that hadn't fully healed.

Wang Yijun wasn't practicing dance.

He sat cross-legged in the center of the floor, his phone spread out in front of him, the dance demo of "Blade" paused on the screen, his brows slightly furrowed.

Lu Yiming was the first to raise his head.

The moment he saw He Xu, the lyric book slipped from his hand, his mouth opened and closed, and his eyes instantly reddened.

"Brother He Xu!" He sprang to his feet, his voice trembling with tears, "You're finally back!"

He Xu glanced at him, his eyes filled with a look of disdain that seemed to say, "Are you sure you don't care?"

"Why are you crying?" he said, his voice still hoarse, but better than a couple of days ago. "I'm not dead."

Lu Yiming sniffed and forced back his tears.

Lin Siyuan and Zhao Tianyu also stopped, exchanged a glance, and saw relief in each other's eyes. They then spoke with concern.

"Has the fever subsided?"

"Refund."

"What about your throat?"

"Still the same." He Xu tossed his backpack into the corner, stretched his neck, "but I can still talk."

They nodded and didn't ask any more questions.

Yan Chen stood at the very back, holding a lyric book in his hand. He looked at He Xu, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something but didn't.

He Xu's gaze swept across his face, lingering for a moment on the back of his head.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked.

Yan Chen paused for a moment, then shook his head: "It doesn't hurt anymore."

He Xu hummed in agreement and didn't ask any more questions.

Finally, his gaze fell on Wang Yijun.

Wang Yijun remained seated on the floor, not standing up.

He simply raised his head and looked He Xu up and down, as if to confirm that he had indeed returned alive.

Then he nodded.

"I'm back," he said calmly.

He Xu looked at him, and the corners of his mouth curved slightly.

"Yes," he said, "I'm back."

Wang Yijun stood up from the ground, dusted off his pants, and picked up his phone from the floor.

The dance demo was still paused on the screen, the image frozen at the beginning of the chorus.

"Did you see it?" Wang Yijun turned her phone screen towards He Xu. "It's the choreography demo that the production team sent out."

He Xu glanced at the screen.

In the picture, six people wearing hats and masks stand in a row, dressed in black, so their faces cannot be seen.

The movements were clean and crisp, the timing precise, and the positioning smooth.

Of course he saw it.

Because he himself is the one standing in the center position there.

"I've seen it," He Xu said.

"Have you practiced?" Wang Yijun asked again.

He Xu remained silent for a second.

"I'm done practicing," he said.