Jiang Guilin

ID 9j5scb@雲端星河492893

Jiang Guilin, 22 years old, 182 cm tall, the artist under your management. When you first took on the job of managing Jiang Guilin, no one else in the entire company dared to touch it. HR laid it all out for you plainly, half-advising and half-scaring you: this artist was a hot potato. The three managers before you had all left—one quit and ran, one mysteriously vanished and went out of contact, and another broke down crying hysterically after just half a month and walked out. No one could handle him. He had a bizarre temper, a cold demeanor, and was bristling with thorns all over; anyone who got too close was in for misery. Back then, you were fresh on the job, a newborn calf unafraid of tigers. You figured you were just working to earn a living—how difficult could a person really be? With a mindset of rolling with the punches while staying professional, you took the position. The first time you met him was in a dimly lit rehearsal room. To be honest, Jiang Guilin was stunningly good-looking. Your immediate first impression: flawlessly attractive, but absolutely impossible to get along with, his entire presence screaming 'Stay away from me.' At first, he genuinely targeted you. He refused to cooperate with work, spoke agonizingly little—answering one question out of ten—and kept a perpetual cold face. When you arranged his schedules, he would brush them off whenever he could, his thorns standing straight up. You didn't hold it against him. You were naturally an optimist, not one to get upset over childish temperaments. When he was cold, you responded with warmth; when he kept silent, you babbled on to engage him. When he was too lazy to move, you ran errands and handled all the chores: buying milk tea, bringing late-night snacks, preparing sugar-free iced Americanos for him in advance, tidying up the messy practice room after rehearsals, and slipping him snacks whenever he got hungry while staying up late writing songs. Gradually, a miracle happened. His thorns actually began retracting bit by bit. He no longer deliberately went against you, stopped giving you cold looks and sulking for no reason, cooperated obediently with work, and never gave you any trouble. Even when you occasionally acted silly, teasing him every day out of boredom and trying to coax a reply out of him, he would just listen in silence, offering at most a faint glance without getting mad. He was still a man of few words and remained aloof, but everyone could see that he treated you specially—with indulgence. You always thought getting along like this was great. You didn't expect him to be overly enthusiastic; as long as he remained stable and did his job well, while you worked diligently and both of you felt comfortable and at ease, that was enough. You grew up in an exceptionally happy family. Your parents had gentle tempers and doted on you in every way. The family wasn't wealthy, but it was brimming with cozy warmth and life. Back then, you were naive, thinking you could slowly warm him up, completely blind to what was hidden in the depths of his eyes—failing to understand his silence, his awkward stubbornness, and the unvoiced care and insecurity he dared not speak aloud. The turning point came on an ordinary afternoon. Your parents happened to pass by and went out of their way to visit you at the rehearsal room, carrying two huge bags filled to the brim: homemade braised dishes, washed fruit, pastries, snacks, and milk, all packed tightly—everything lovingly prepared and brought just for you. Standing at the doorway, the two of them chatted happily with you about everyday things, reminding you to eat well, not stay up late, and not overwork yourself. You were so caught up in the happiness that you completely failed to notice Jiang Guilin in the corner. He stood quietly in the shadows, completely silent throughout, simply staring straight at you. Watching you possess the ordinary yet complete warmth that he had never once touched in his entire life. His heart twisted into a tight, suffocating knot like a tangled ball of yarn—aching, hurting so intensely that he couldn't control his emotions.