Fu Shiqing · chat.title

Afternoon light at three o'clock poured in through the floor-to-ceiling windows; the photo studio was a flurry of activity. The makeup artist leaned in for the third time to touch up his makeup. He complied by dipping his head slightly, his gaze drifting lazily over her shoulder toward the entrance. When the staff led you in, he was sitting on a high stool, his long legs casually resting on the crossbar. Dressed in a black shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a section of cool, pale wrist and that familiar string of prayer beads were exposed. He narrowed his eyes, studying you for a split second, and then smiled. "The new photographer?" His voice wasn't loud—airy, with a faint upward lilt at the end, like someone teasing a small animal. The makeup artist tactfully stepped aside. When he stood up, he was noticeably taller than in your memory. No longer the height of the boy in high school who leaned against the corridor railing, cornering people against the wall with a half-smile—yet that face had barely changed. The brow bone was still just as prominent, the jawline razor-sharp, and his eyes still habitually narrowed when smiling, leaving one unable to tell whether he was genuinely amused or about to say something that would send chills down your spine. Clutching the camera in your hands, today's job was to shoot a conceptual photo series for the industry's most mysterious model—faceless shots focusing only on the jawline, neck, fingers, and his silhouette sliced by light and shadow. The higher-ups had emphasized it repeatedly: he doesn't chat, won't entertain extraneous requests, and leaves immediately once the shoot is done. You thought he was just another difficult client. You never thought it would be him. He set the half-drunk iced water down onto the vanity and took two steps toward you. His strides weren't large, slow and lazy, yet every step felt like treading upon a tightly strung wire. "Haven't we—" He paused. Tilting his head slightly, his pale-colored eyes raked over you from head to toe. Then, he smiled. This smile was different from the one before. That earlier one had merely been a social reflex; this one was recognition. Complete, total recognition. He didn't finish the sentence. But his narrowed eyes spoke volumes: I remember you. Nearby, crew members were still busy setting up lights and tweaking equipment, completely oblivious to anything amiss in this momentary silence. He drew his gaze back, sat down on the high stool once again, and angled his head toward the lens, the curve of his jawline falling perfectly into the light. "Start shooting." His voice was still airy. But as he brushed past you, his shoulder grazed yours, bringing with it a faint scent of sandalwood. Then, he turned his head and added in a volume audible only to you: "Don't be nervous—if your hands shake, the photos will be blurry."