Shen Yanqing · Chat

The screams of sixty thousand people were compressed into a dull hum in the backstage corridor, like the heartbeat of some massive creature, muffled by layers of walls, having lost all its aggression. Shen Yanqing walked in the second position. This wasn't a position he chose—over the past five years, the walking order had formed naturally. Jiang Yu rushed at the front because he needed to be the first to leave the crowd. Shen Yanqing walked second because he didn't want to look at anyone's face, nor did he want anyone to look at his. His silver hair was soaked. In the cold white light of the corridor, the moisture at the tips reflected tiny glints of light, dripping one by one onto the shoulder of his black shirt with the rhythm of his steps. He didn't wipe it. To him, sweat wasn't something to be cleaned, but evidence of a completed ritual. When he pushed the door into the lounge, Jiang Yu had already poured half a bottle of water over his head. The water splashed onto the floor, glinting under the lights before Jiang Yu stepped through it, leaving a trail of dark footprints. Shen Yanqing noticed but said nothing. He simply bypassed the puddle and walked toward the window. The spot by the window was his. For five years, this spot in this lounge had never been occupied by anyone else. Not because of any rule, but because everyone tacitly agreed—that window belonged to Shen Yanqing. He needed a place where he could see outside but couldn't be seen from the outside, a boundary where he could circle a piece of silence amidst the clamor. He sat down and took a thermos out of his bag. The slight clink of the stainless steel against his fingertips was the only sound in the room that belonged to him. Then he closed his eyes. This was a signal. Everyone knew that when Shen Yanqing closed his eyes, he was not to be disturbed. Not because he was angry, but because he was reviewing. In his mind, the concert that had just ended was replaying at 0.8x speed. The third song, the second chorus. He had made a slight adjustment in the third eight-count. The original choreography was a straight step forward into a turn, but he had changed the straight line to an arc on the fly, letting his body's trajectory trace a longer curve under the spotlight. No one would notice this change—except for the choreographer, Song Yanxing, and himself. It worked well. The arc gave him an extra 0.3 seconds of hang time, allowing for a more complete exertion of force in the next movement. He made a mental note of this change to bring up during tomorrow's review. The activity around him felt as if it were behind a layer of water. Jiang Yu was cursing—likely at the stage director, given the mention of positioning. Pei Ye was curled up in a single sofa in the corner, the light from his phone screen hitting his face. Shi An was handing out towels, his voice soft and sweet. The leader was speaking, his voice steady as the surface of a lake. All of this happened less than three meters away from him, but he didn't need to participate. His Zone B automatically filtered this information—not blocking it, but noise-canceling it to a degree that didn't interfere with his thoughts. Only the leader's voice would pierce through. “A-Yan.” Shen Yanqing opened his eyes. Song Yanxing stood in the center of the room, tilting his chin at him. The movement was slight, but Shen Yanqing caught it accurately. Their way of communication was a system independent of language—a glance, an angle, a rhythm. He looked down at his phone. There was a new message on the screen from the leader. “The second chorus of the third song, you changed the positioning on the fly. It worked well. Let's review tomorrow.” Shen Yanqing looked at the message for four seconds. Then he locked the screen, placed the thermos on the table, leaned back into the chair, and closed his eyes again. He didn't reply. Not out of rudeness, but because Song Yanxing didn't need a reply. The leader didn't send the message seeking confirmation; he was just informing. Their tacit understanding was built on the two-way confirmation of 'I saw it' and 'I know you saw it.' Replying 'Received' was redundant. But the way he set down the cup was slightly lighter than usual. This subtle difference was perhaps only noticed by himself, or perhaps Song Yanxing noticed too—the corners of the leader's eyes crinkled slightly when he put the cup down. “Good work tonight, everyone.” Song Yanxing's voice rang out, neither high nor low, settling in the center of the room. Shen Yanqing opened his eyes. This was the leader's closing statement, meaning tonight's schedule was officially over. “Go back and get some good rest. Tomorrow at 2 PM, we have a review meeting at the company. I've had the assistant put late-night snacks in the car; remember to eat.” He stood up, draping his coat over his arm. His movements were neither fast nor slow, with no wasted motion. The path from his seat to the door was a straight line—he never took detours. In the parking lot, the van had already started. He sat in the back row by the window—the window again. The car windows were tinted dark; one couldn't see in from the outside, but one could see out from the inside. This was why he chose this spot. Jiang Yu sat next to him. Silence. This silence wasn't awkward; it was a consensus. Neither needed to speak, just like in the practice room—each occupying a corner, practicing their own thing, occasionally meeting eyes in the mirror, then continuing. That was the highest level of companionship Shen Yanqing could offer. His residence was a company-provided apartment on the 28th floor. There were only three units on the entire floor, and he chose the one furthest inside. Not because it was large, but because it was quiet. Pushing the door open, the sensor light in the entryway automatically lit up. He didn't turn on the main living room light, walking into the bedroom in the half-light and hanging his coat on its fixed hook. The path from the door to the bedroom was fixed, and the path from the bedroom to the bathroom was also fixed. His life required no variables. As the hot water poured down, he stood under the showerhead with his eyes closed, letting the stream flow over his head, forehead, eyelids, bridge of his nose, and lips. The sound of the water was white noise, drowning out all the low-frequency hums of the city. This was the second quietest moment of his day. The first quietest moment had not yet arrived. 11:00 PM. He lay in bed on time. Asleep. Shen Yanqing's dreams were never chaotic. His dreams were usually blank, occasionally showing the outline of a practice room—no music, no teammates, only himself in the mirror and infinitely repeated movements. Those dreams had no plot, only rhythm. 1:40 AM. The phone screen lit up. It wasn't an alarm. It was a message. “Does your knee still hurt lately? It's getting cold, remember to keep warm. Mom has saved some medicated patches; come pick them up when you're free.” Shen Yanqing stared with eyes open in the darkness, looking at the message. The light from the screen reflected in his pale pupils, showing no expression. A minute and a half later, he typed three words. “Happy New Year.” Sent. Locked screen. Turned over. His breathing became even again within three minutes. The city lights outside the window cast through the gaps in the curtains onto the ceiling, like a stagnant river. At 4:30 AM, the alarm went off. He opened his eyes on time, got up, drank a glass of warm water, and changed into his training gear. After stretching for fifteen minutes, he went out, walking along the river near the apartment for twenty minutes. No music in his headphones, only the sound of the wind and water. This was the quietest moment of his day. No music, no choreography, no teammates, no stage, no screaming, no gaze of sixty thousand people. Only Shen Yanqing, and his breathing. At 5:30 AM, he pushed open the door to the company practice room. The lights weren't on, but he had already walked in. In the darkness, the mirror reflected a slender silver silhouette. He turned on the speakers and played the piece he had newly choreographed early this morning. The volume was set to the lowest, just enough to hear the beat. Then he began to dance. The shadow in the mirror slowly rotated, extended, and contracted. His bare feet made no sound on the floor. Those movements were completed in his dream earlier this morning; now, he translated them back with his body. One segment. Two segments. Three segments. At the fourth segment, he stopped. It wasn't because he was stuck, but because there was no need to continue. This piece only needed three segments. He turned off the speakers and sat cross-legged on the wooden floor in the center of the practice room. Sweat dripped from his jaw, soaking into several dark spots on the light-colored wood grain. His phone vibrated. It was review meeting materials sent by Song Yanxing, titled "Correction Plan for the Positioning in the Second Chorus of the Third Song". Shen Yanqing glanced at the time. 5:45 AM. The leader hadn't slept yet, or he was already awake. He didn't reply. But he added this email to his to-do list for today—Zone A, high priority. Then he stood up from the floor, walked to the mirror, and began his first basic skill practice of the day.