Shi An · Chat

As the last spotlight of the encore faded, Shi An gave a final bow to the sixty thousand people in the darkness. Ninety degrees, a three-second pause. As he stood up, his right hand brushed the corner of his eye as if by accident. He had practiced this move many times—not to actually cry, but to make the fans in the first row think he did. High-definition fansite photos would prove it, and in tonight's Super Topic, someone would say heart-wrenchingly, "An-an is secretly wiping away tears again." The lights came up, he straightened, and waved to the crowd with a smile containing a carefully measured blend of exhaustion and reluctance. Walking down the stage steps, he heard the sound of Jiang Yu slamming his in-ear monitor into an assistant's hand behind him. Shi An didn't look back, but he slowed down by half a step—just enough to hear Jiang Yu mutter a curse, just enough to judge whether that anger was directed at the stage director or a backup dancer. It was the stage director, because the next line was, "He blames me for standing too far forward when he’s the one who missed the beat?" Shi An noted this information in his mind. He didn't know when he would use it, but it was always right to keep it. When the dressing room door was pushed open, he walked in fourth, as usual. The order was fixed: Jiang Yu lead, Shen Yanqing second, Pei Ye floating in the middle, he fourth, and the Leader bringing up the rear. This positioning wasn't arranged; it had formed naturally over five years. Shi An had analyzed the logic of this formation—Jiang Yu rushes to the front because he doesn't need to look at the road, Shen Yanqing is second because he doesn't want to look at people, Pei Ye stays in the middle because he's sheltered from both sides, and the Leader is last to ensure everyone is in sight. And he, in the fourth position, could see the back of everyone's heads while still being visible to the Leader. A perfect observation spot. He didn't rush to sit down after entering. He couldn't take the spot next to where the Leader usually sat; that was Jiang Yu's territory. Pei Ye curled into a corner armchair, Shen Yanqing headed for the window, and Shi An chose the folding chair by the vanity—not very comfortable, but with an excellent angle to see everyone in the room. Then he took out his phone and started scrolling. It looked like he was browsing Weibo for concert feedback, and he was. But his method was much more systematic than most—he had three windows open: the ASTERISM Super Topic live feed, the comment section of his own fansite, and the most popular ship Super Topics within the group. The last one wasn't for "shipping," but for monitoring. Ship fans are among the most sensitive groups in fandom; they can sniff out fanservice, coldness, intimacy, or distance from a 0.5-second eye contact between members. Their interpretations are sometimes faster than the company's PR monitoring. Tonight's data was good. A collage of his eye contact with the Leader during the second song had been posted, and retweets surpassed ten thousand within fifteen minutes. He tapped the photo; the angle of that eye contact was great—his positioning on stage had been slightly adjusted, exactly ten centimeters off the choreography's mark. This deviation allowed him, at a specific moment, to have his profile perfectly outlined by the spotlight and form a clean eye contact with the Leader. It wasn't intentional; he just noticed a camera angle during rehearsal and made the adjustment. "Hard work tonight, everyone." The Leader's voice came from the sofa, gentle and steady, with that signature tone that made people want to trust him unconditionally. Shi An looked up at the very first syllable, his finger simultaneously pressing the record button on his phone. This action had become muscle memory—he wouldn't record the whole conversation; that would be too obvious. He only recorded the Leader's opening and closing remarks to listen back repeatedly, analyzing the wording, rhythm, pauses, and emphasis. "Go back and get some good rest. The company review meeting is at 2 PM tomorrow. I've had the assistant put late-night snacks in the car, remember to eat." Shi An graded this speech in his head. A nine. The one point deducted was because the warmth of the words "remember to eat" was a few tenths of a degree too high, slightly deliberate. But overall, it was a perfect closing—a command with a sense of care, using a soft tone to eliminate the sense of an order, while clearly conveying the time and location. He would save this phrase in the "Communication Templates" category of his encrypted notes. The Leader stood up, and everyone followed. Shi An skillfully tucked away his phone, and as he stood, he casually tossed a few used tissues from the vanity into the trash. No one noticed the gesture, but the staff would. Tomorrow, the manager would mention in passing, "Shi An always takes the initiative to clean the dressing room," and this detail would leak into the fandom as a "grapevine" rumor, becoming another footnote for "An-an is so well-behaved." In the hallway, five pairs of leather shoes stepped out a staggered rhythm. Shi An walked in fourth, two steps behind Pei Ye and two steps ahead of the Leader. This distance was comfortable—neither drifting away from the team nor losing his own independent space. Pei Ye suddenly turned back, eyes still red, his misty blue hair brushing Shi An's shoulder. "An-an, why do people have to grow up?" Pei Ye's voice was damp, carrying the lingering echoes of the encore. Shi An blinked, tilted his head to think for two seconds, and then showed a dimpled smile. "Because if we don't grow up, we won't get to the next concert, right?" His voice was soft and sweet, with a rising intonation that landed exactly at a heart-melting curve. Pei Ye froze for a moment, then rubbed his nose with the back of his hand, muttered "that makes sense," and turned to keep walking. Shi An maintained the smile, grading his answer a seven in his head. A passing grade, but not good enough. If it were the Leader, he would probably say, "Growing up isn't a choice, Ye-ye. But you can choose what kind of person you become after growing up"—responding to Pei Ye's emotion while leaving a lingering thought to chew on. He couldn't yet produce that level of expression effortlessly. But it was okay; he noted it down and would add it to his memos when he got back. They reached the parking lot. The Leader's car left first, then Jiang Yu and Shen Yanqing's together. Pei Ye was picked up by a producer friend. Shi An got into the company van, said "Thanks for the hard work, brother" to the driver, and leaned back into the seat. The moment the car door closed, the obedient smile on his face didn't disappear—but he allowed it to fade slightly. From a hundred percent to eighty, just enough so that the expression the driver saw in the rearview mirror was still "gentle and polite Shi An." As the car drove out of the stadium's underground tunnel, the city's neon lights slid across the window. Shi An didn't look at the scenery; he was listening to the recording on his phone. He put on his headphones and replayed the Leader's "Hard work tonight, everyone" three times. The first time to hear the content. The second time for the rhythm. The third time, he closed his eyes, silently reciting along in his mind, adjusting his own voice to match that tone. Something was missing. He stopped, not continuing to push himself. He had learned not to compare himself head-on with the Leader—that was a road with no end. What he needed to do was not to become Song Yanxing, but to become Shi An. A Shi An who absorbed all of Song Yanxing's strengths but had his own unique face, positioning, and future. The car stopped at the apartment building. Shi An waved to the driver before getting out, his smile returning to ninety-five percent. He was the only one in the elevator. He glanced at himself in the mirrored doors—his pale blonde hair was a bit messy, there were real dark circles under his doe eyes, and his boyish face carried real fatigue. He could relax now. No one was watching. Then the elevator doors opened. He walked out, turned into the hallway, opened the apartment door, changed his shoes, turned on the light, and closed the door. In this completely private space, the smile on his face finally disappeared entirely. It wasn't a switch to another expression, but a total shedding. Like a spring that had been wound tight all day finally releasing, all muscles returned to zero. He sat on the sofa, staring at the succulent he had raised for three years on the wall, with no expression at all, not wanting to make any expression. Twenty-five minutes later, he stood up, showered, changed into loungewear, opened his tablet, and tapped into his memos. Tonight's notes: "Leader's closing remarks: Simple structure, caring finish. The warmth of 'remember to eat' was slightly high, needs analysis on whether it was deliberate. Pei Ye's emotional volatility continues; he teared up during the third song and the encore. Can be used as 'group soul' material, but watch the pacing; overconsumption will backfire. Suggest not actively cueing this week. Jiang Yu is dissatisfied with the stage director, triggered by being blamed for positioning. Follow up on whether the Leader will step in. Shen Yanqing was normal throughout. Silent mode. Self: Cleaning the dressing room was seen by staff; expect it to ferment in the fandom as a 'chance encounter' in a day or two. Can follow up with a 'Goodnight' post to reinforce the 'obedient' impression. Before tomorrow's review meeting, prepare three self-reflection points regarding the third song's performance—not too sharp, but sincere enough for the Leader to see progress. Weekly goal: Study the transition between 'suggestions' and 'commands' in the Leader's speech today, and try to apply it in low-risk situations when appropriate." After writing the last entry, he locked the screen and leaned against the back of the sofa. There was a tiny crack on the ceiling, extending from the edge of the light to the corner. He looked at this crack every day; sometimes it looked like a river, sometimes like a character. Tonight, he felt it looked like nothing at all. The sound of cars driving by outside was distant. The low hum of the city seeped through the glass like a blanket that wasn't thick enough. Shi An curled up on the sofa for ten minutes. These ten minutes were his reward to himself—thinking of nothing, calculating nothing, letting his brain go completely blank. When the ten minutes were up, he opened his eyes on time, stood up, and walked to the bathroom. While brushing his teeth, he put the smile back on for the mirror. A ninety-five percent smile before bed. Tomorrow morning, it would be a hundred. His phone screen lit up; it was a message from the Leader in the group chat: "The materials for tomorrow's review meeting have been sent to your emails. Please take a look in advance." Four replies followed. The first three were "Received," and the last was Pei Ye's "I forgot my email password." After typing "Received," Shi An deleted it. After thinking for a moment, he changed it to: "Received~ Thanks for the hard work, Captain! I was just rewatching tonight's stage, and my breathing seemed a bit unstable in the third song. Can I discuss it with everyone tomorrow?" Send. Three seconds later, the Leader replied: "Sure, An-an. We'll focus on that in tomorrow's meeting. Get some rest early." Shi An looked at the screen, and the curve of his lips widened a bit—this time, it wasn't deliberate, but genuine. Not because he was praised by the Leader, but because he knew that with this message, he had done three things right: demonstrated effort, expressed humility, and used the words "Can I" to package his opinion as a request. And the Leader's reply carried a sense of approval in its tone. This was what he wanted. He turned off his phone, lay in bed, and closed his eyes.