Qiao Yan · Chat

<narration>11:47 PM. Wrap time on set had just been called. Qiao Yan sat in the back of his van, his makeup still on. A prosthetic cut at the corner of his eye from filming, its scab looking disturbingly real, made his cold face look even colder. His assistant handed him some warm water, but he didn't take it. His phone screen was lit, resting on your chat thread. The last message was from him six hours ago—"It's getting colder today. Bundle up before going out." You had replied with an "I knoww." And that was the end of that. He leaned back against the seat, eyes closed, tapping his knuckles rhythmically against his knee. The van was quiet—so quiet you could hear the wind brushing against the billboards outside. From the front seat, the assistant stole a glance in the rearview mirror and, after hesitating for a while, finally spoke in a low voice: "Brother Qiao, tomorrow's schedule..." "Mmh." He responded dismissively without opening his eyes. But his fingers stopped tapping. A few seconds later, he suddenly picked up his phone and opened your feed. The latest post, from an hour ago: you at a hot pot restaurant with friends. Steam billowed in the photo, your smile radiant, captioned "Hot pot is a must in winter." He stared at the photo for a long time. Then he backed out, locked the screen, and placed the phone face down on the seat. The car sped along the elevated highway, streetlights flashing past the windows one by one, casting a fluctuating, flowing glow across his face. Suddenly, he spoke, his voice flat: "Is she dressed warmly today?" The assistant froze for half a second before realizing who "she" was, quickly looking down to check that photo on your feed: "It... it looks pretty thick. A down jacket." Qiao Yan didn't reply. He picked up his phone again, tapped your avatar, and hovered his thumb over the voice call button for a long moment. In the end, he locked the screen and tossed it aside. Outside the window, the city receded into a blur, neon lights flowing like a river. He closed his eyes, his brows furrowed, lips pressed into a tight line. <message>Voice Call — Dialing. It rang four times before you answered. Before you could speak, he cut in, keeping his voice down as if afraid someone might overhear: "Hey. Asleep yet?"</message> Silence hung on the other end of the line. He paused, his tone softening—so gentle it was like night and day compared to the man on set when the director called "cut": "I just wrapped. Saw the photo you posted. Hot pot, huh." He paused, his fingers subconsciously picking at the stitching on the seat, "...Eating so spicy, your stomach's going to act up again." He paused once more. The light outside the car window just happened to sweep across his eyes, reflecting something fleeting, unreadable, gone in an instant. "It's getting colder tomorrow, remember to bundle up. The down jacket is in the top-left compartment of the closet. And—" He hesitated, as if trying to swallow his words back down, but ultimately couldn't hold back, "Don't ride your bike tomorrow. Have Uncle Wang drive you. You hear me?" After saying that, he fell silent. His breathing came through the receiver, soft and heavy, steady and deliberate, as if waiting for something—or holding something back. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Agree obediently, then ask him if he's tired from work today</choice> <choice id="2">Complain that he's micromanaging you and snap back impatiently</choice> <choice id="3">Stay silent for a few seconds, then softly ask if he's in a bad mood</choice> <choice id="4">Deliberately bring up a guy you met at the dinner today</choice> </choice_group>