After Amnesia, I Learn I'm a Scumbag Top?! - Chapter 19
Chapter 19
“Fake can never become real…”
Over the phone, Chu Tinghan heard a sigh and a muttered remark from the other end. He frowned. “What did you say?”
Zhou Yingjie clicked his tongue, paused, and casually replied, “Nothing, just thinking about the script I was reading today.”
He had just returned from walking his dogs. As the weather grew warmer, the two fluffy Samoyeds lay sprawled on either side of him like canine guardians, tongues lolling to cool off.
The neighbors seemed to be renovating; the clanging and hammering had been going on for days. With so much background noise, Zhou Yingjie couldn’t hear the other person clearly, so he put the call on speaker and cranked the volume all the way up, setting the phone on the table.
“I met with the three child actors again. Considering everything, I think Xu Zicheng—that little boy—is pretty good. He’s not as quick-witted as the other two, but he’s obedient, sensible, and has a great temperament. He’s remarkably calm under pressure—perfect for playing your son.”
The other end responded with a flat “Mm,” devoid of emotion.
Neither of them showed much emotional reaction. But the Samoyed lying nearby, enjoying the cool floor, suddenly pricked up its ears. The moment the “Mm” faded, it sprang to its feet, darted to the table, and propped its front paws on the edge, its round eyes fixed intently on the phone, so excited it nearly jumped onto the table.
Immediately, Chu Tinghan heard the puppy’s plaintive whimpering over the phone, and her heart softened, a pang of sorrow rising within her.
The Samoyed pawed forward with its front legs, its hind legs straining to jump, its fluffy head rubbing frantically against the table, shedding clumps of fur.
Zhou Yingjie froze for a moment, his first instinct to push the dog away. But when he realized what the Samoyed was trying to do, he suddenly couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead of pushing away the shedding head, he magnanimously nudged the phone closer.
The instant the puppy’s nose touched the phone’s case, it seemed to trigger a switch. Chu Tinghan’s voice, tinged with sadness, drifted from the speaker again.
“Lucky, do you miss me?”
Lucky redoubled its efforts to jump, its whimpers growing even more pathetic.
Zhou Yingjie couldn’t resist stroking the dog’s head soothingly. Isn’t that obvious? he thought. He’s so frantic he’s practically trying to jump into the phone! Feeling indignant on Lucky’s behalf, he said, “You’re being cruel, you know. Lucky was raised by Pei Ji too. You should at least let them see each other.”
He was met with a long, heavy silence.
“…Hello?” Zhou Yingjie, thinking the mountain’s signal might be poor, asked again. “Can you hear me?”
The puppy, equally anxious, bounced up and down and circled restlessly, occasionally barking into the phone.
“…I’m afraid he’ll remember,” Chu Tinghan’s voice was soft and low, tinged with an indescribable helplessness.
Zhou Yingjie was speechless. Even though he knew Chu Tinghan’s approach was flawed, there was no way to salvage the situation now.
“Then remember to come visit Lucky, okay? I can tell he misses both of you.” With that, he held the phone next to the dog’s head. Through the screen, Chu Tinghan could almost hear the soft rustling of the dog’s fur against the microphone.
A faint smile curved Chu Tinghan’s lips, forced but genuine. “Mm, I know. It’s getting warmer, so he’ll be shedding soon. I bought a vacuum cleaner—I’ll bring it over another day.”
“Come on, I don’t need your vacuum cleaner. What I need is a cute little dog.” Zhou Yingjie suddenly pulled the phone away from Lucky and, covering the mouthpiece, whispered conspiratorially, “Seriously, ‘afraid he’ll remember’—that’s just an excuse, isn’t it? I know you’re a neat freak and can’t stand dog hair flying everywhere. If you don’t want him anymore, just give Lucky to me already…”
Zhou Yingjie was already daydreaming about a life with two dogs and a man when he was abruptly interrupted by a chillingly cold voice on the phone: “Lucky is our fur baby, whom we raised together. He’s not yours to take. I’m busy—hanging up.”
“Wait, hello?” Zhou Yingjie tried to explain it was just a joke, but the line had already gone dead, the dial tone buzzing in his ear. He hadn’t even been given a chance to explain.
Feeling utterly helpless, Zhou Yingjie had only meant to express Lucky’s cuteness with a hyperbolic turn of phrase. He never intended to snatch away their precious child of love.
Lucky nudged closer, wagging his tail. Zhou Yingjie’s heart softened. He began to ponder alternative ways to arrange a meeting between Lucky and Pei Ji.
“Sigh, it’s not like they can meet in person anytime soon,” Zhou Yingjie sighed. He pulled up Pei Ji’s account and clicked on his Moments, squatting next to Lucky to scroll through them slowly. “Let’s look at his Moments. Maybe there’s a picture of him in there.”
The moment Pei Ji’s Moments loaded, a set of sleek, minimalist headshots filled the screen.
Zhou Yingjie’s lips curled into a grin. “Hey, look, Lucky—there is a picture of him!”
His voice abruptly trailed off, his eyes widening in shock as he stared at the newly posted Moment.
These official photos had just been released half an hour ago, meaning they were freshly taken. Official photos are typically used for work promotion, but Pei Ji had long since fallen from grace and retired from the industry. Logic dictated that no new work should be coming his way, rendering the need for such photos entirely unnecessary.
Zhou Yingjie pondered this for a moment, then a thought suddenly struck him. He immediately called Chu Tinghan again.
Chu Tinghan, still assuming Zhou Yingjie wanted to contest custody of Lucky, answered coldly, “The matter of Lucky is non-negotiable.”
“No, no, that’s not it!” Zhou Yingjie’s vision blurred in panic as he scrambled to explain before Chu Tinghan hung up again. “I wanted to ask… is your guy planning a comeback?”
Chu Tinghan didn’t understand.
Your guy… Who did he mean? Pei Ji?
The term sounded surprisingly pleasant to Chu Tinghan. A faint smile tugged at his lips, and his tone softened slightly. “You mean Pei Ji?”
Isn’t that a bit obvious? Zhou Yingjie thought, feeling his vision darken again, suspecting Director Chu’s lovestruck brain was about to go into overdrive.
Though his urge to retort was overwhelming, he suppressed it, even managing a fake smile as he replied, “Yeah, who else could ‘your guy’ be but Pei Ji?” Though his tone sounded far from sincere.
Only then was Chu Tinghan satisfied. He returned to the original topic, asking, “How did you know he’s making a comeback?”
“Did you see his latest WeChat post? New official photos. That means he’ll be working soon. Otherwise, why waste money on a photoshoot? Just to admire his own handsome face?”
Hearing this, Chu Tinghan opened Pei Ji’s WeChat Moments and saw the set of simple yet elegant official photos. He smiled and casually tapped the “like” button.
Little did he know that this casual gesture would throw someone else into utter turmoil.
An Zhu had arranged for Pei Ji to shoot these official photos for upcoming promotional activities. Figuring he was already making a comeback, she decided to post them on WeChat to alert various companies and gauge their interest in collaborating with him.
A “like” would signal approval and support, potentially leading to future partnerships.
She just hadn’t expected Chu Tinghan’s name to appear among the likes.
After rubbing her eyes to make sure she wasn’t seeing things, An Zhu pulled Qiao He close and whispered, “You know my brother…” She quickly swallowed the “brother” she almost said and corrected herself: “You know Chu Tinghan?”
Qiao He, flattered beyond measure, blinked sincerely. “I know of him.”
An Zhu’s face immediately lit up with a “Wow, impressive!” expression. But then Qiao He quickly clarified, “But he doesn’t know me.”
An Zhu let out a delayed “Oh.”
H-he doesn’t know you?!
Then why would the notoriously aloof Big Song God Chu have liked Pei Ji’s post? In her mind, Big Song God Chu was practically a deity, the kind who wouldn’t even like posts from his own family elders’ friends.
Not even his own cousin had ever received a like from him.
So what made Pei Ji so special?
An Zhu glanced at Pei Ji, who was sitting nearby, absorbed in studying the survival show’s format on his phone, and her mind raced with questions.
Could there be some secret relationship between Pei Ji and my brother?
Curious but unable to ask directly, An Zhu forced down the tickling curiosity like a kitten’s scratch.
As she approached, she noticed Pei Ji was actually watching previous episodes of the show. “You don’t have to be that dedicated, do you?” she said in surprise.
Pei Ji paused the video and looked up. “I’m just trying to gauge the trainees’ strengths and familiarize myself with the competition format.”
An Zhu, sensing his distrust in her abilities, reassured him again, “I’ll handle all the work-related coordination. You don’t need to worry about that—just focus on preparing for the competition.”
Pei Ji hummed in acknowledgement, but he didn’t place all his hopes on An Zhu.
An Zhu: “The competition format this season is largely the same as the previous two. Since you’re a guest mentor, the changes won’t affect you much. Your chances of winning hinge on your teammates.”
Her expression turned serious. “To be honest, the information I’ve gathered isn’t encouraging. Unless something unexpected happens, the production team will likely assign you to F Group—the one with the most mediocre talent.”
“Mediocre” was a euphemism for “bottom-tier.” Optimistically, they might be called “promising prospects”; more bluntly, they were “first-round cannon fodder, dead weight dragging down the team.”
Pei Ji hadn’t expected preferential treatment from the show anyway, so this outcome came as no surprise. He remained remarkably calm.
A week later, Pei Ji finally received the final team assignments and the song for the public performance.
As expected, he was assigned to the lowest-ranked F Group. And the performance song… well, that was giving him a real headache.
The performance song was titled “Flutter,” its English explanation describing the trembling of a butterfly’s wings or the rapid beating of a heart—clearly a song about love.
The melody was melodious and captivating, carrying a hint of springtime freshness that evoked the sense of all things awakening and flowers blooming in warm spring.
The song was virtually flawless, with no discernible errors. However, because its central theme was love, it posed a significant challenge for the performer. Love songs test not only vocal technique and tone but, more importantly, the singer’s emotional depth.
Pei Ji had never been in love. His underground relationship with Chu Tinghan had been skipped over by his time travel, leaving him utterly clueless about love.
This flaw had plagued him since his school days. His vocal teacher bluntly told him that his singing possessed only skill, lacking genuine emotion. It was more a display of technique than true performance.
Pei Ji had long struggled with this issue. Though he knew the solution was simple—to experience love firsthand—he had never attempted it. He considered such a method inappropriate. After all, he couldn’t genuinely enter a relationship merely to grasp the song’s emotions; such a romance would be too opportunistic and irresponsible.
This shortcoming had plagued him for years, and he still hadn’t found the key to overcoming it.
Pei Ji locked himself in the practice room and tried repeatedly, but each performance fell short. He couldn’t capture the song’s raw, heart-fluttering emotion.
The one thing a love song couldn’t lack was genuine feeling.
But how could he learn to convey genuine feeling in such a short time? Just as Pei Ji was at his wits’ end, he suddenly remembered that he had a world-renowned “Big Song God,” Chu Tinghan, right beside him.
Why not ask Chu Tinghan for some pointers? Chu Tinghan had been in the industry for over a decade, was immensely experienced, and might offer some enlightening guidance.
However, Pei Ji felt awkward about bringing it up. How could he phrase the question without sounding contrived?
He practiced several approaches in front of the mirror:
Can you teach me how to sing love songs?
No, too direct.
I recently heard a good love song and wanted to ask about your perspective on the genre?
No, too stiff.
How do you usually sing love songs? Could you sing one for me?
Ugh… no. Too deliberate. And it sounds a little… flirtatious.
By the time Pei Ji had finally prepared his words, Chu Tinghan had already left.
Pei Ji had no choice but to go to Chu Tinghan’s company to find him.
When he arrived, Guan Nan told him that Director Chu hadn’t come in today.
Pei Ji paused for a moment, then asked, “Is he attending an event or has he got a shoot?”
Guan Nan rubbed his nose. “Neither. Director Chu has no scheduled work today.”
No scheduled work? Then what was Chu Tinghan doing out so early?
Pei Ji nodded slowly to indicate he understood, but immediately dialed Chu Tinghan’s number, hoping to ask where he was.
Unexpectedly, Chu Tinghan didn’t answer. The only response was the long, drawn-out ringing tone.
Why was he suddenly unreachable? Pei Ji felt a pang of anxiety for no apparent reason. Frowning, he asked Guan Nan, “Do you know where he went?”
Guan Nan also looked a bit flustered. “Director Chu didn’t tell me…”
After a pause, he lowered his voice and asked cautiously, “Um, Brother Pei, have you and Director Chu been fighting lately?”
Pei Ji was utterly baffled. “No, why would you say that?”
Guan Nan scratched his head, drawing out a long “Aah…” “No… no falling out?”
He sounds almost disappointed, Pei Ji thought, shooting him a cold glare.
Guan Nan frantically waved his hands. “No, Brother Pei! That’s not what I meant! I just noticed Director Chu has been distracted lately, like he’s preoccupied with something. His complexion hasn’t been great either. I just assumed you two had argued…”
“We haven’t,” Pei Ji interrupted flatly, cutting him off. “Do you know why he’s been upset?”
Guan Nan shook his head. How could he possibly know such things?
Pei Ji’s anxiety surged. Fearing something had happened to Chu Tinghan, he immediately left to find him.
A moment later, Guan Nan suddenly remembered a place. He chased after Pei Ji, breathless, and shouted, “Brother Pei! I think I know where Director Chu might be!”
“Bihu Jiayuan?” Pei Ji gazed at the slightly run-down residential complex before him, turning to Guan Nan. “Are you sure this is it?”
Bihu Jiayuan was located on the eastern side of the city, right next to Communication University, where Pei Ji had graduated. The complex looked like it had seen better days; it used to be the university’s faculty housing. Pei Ji couldn’t understand why Chu Tinghan would come here.
Guan Nan nodded firmly. “Definitely. Once, Director Chu was in a terrible mood, and no one could find him anywhere. We finally tracked him down here.”
After a moment’s recollection, he added, “Building 7, Unit 1, Room 301. Director Chu should be there.”
Without hesitation, Pei Ji strode forward.
Ten meters later, he noticed Guan Nan hadn’t followed. Turning back, he saw the man still standing in place and called out, “Come on!”
Guan Nan waved frantically. “I… I’ll just stay here and watch the car.”
Even though Pei Ji claimed there was no conflict between them, Director Chu’s demeanor didn’t exactly scream “stable relationship.” Guan Nan couldn’t shake the feeling that the couple was hiding something, something they were too embarrassed to admit.
And if they were indeed fighting, he definitely didn’t want to witness a married couple’s quarrel—it was just too awkward.
Pei Ji saw through the flimsy excuse but didn’t bother calling him out. He simply nodded and followed Guan Nan’s directions to find Chu Tinghan.
The apartment complex had a simple layout, and Pei Ji quickly found the unit Guan Nan had mentioned.
He raised his hand and knocked on the door. The hallway was silent, and there was no response.
He knocked harder, his voice rising: “Hello? Is anyone home?”
Still no reply.
Pei Ji pressed his lips together. Throwing caution to the wind, he shouted Chu Tinghan’s full name down the hallway: “Chu Tinghan, are you in there?”
“Chu—”
The door swung open abruptly, revealing Chu Tinghan, who had been out of contact for nearly a full day.
A faint smell of alcohol hung in the air. Chu Tinghan’s eyes seemed veiled in a thin mist, with a subtle, almost imperceptible glisten that hinted at unspoken emotions.
Seeing him safe, Pei Ji’s anxiety finally subsided, and he smiled wryly. “What are you doing here?”
This unexpected detour nearly made him forget his original purpose: he had come to ask Chu Tinghan how to sing love songs.
Chu Tinghan stared at him without a word, his gaze gradually growing unfocused. He parted his lips slightly and murmured a baffling question:
“Can you call me ‘Senior’?”
Pei Ji froze, utterly perplexed. Chu Tinghan’s behavior was impossible to decipher, and he dared not make any sudden moves. After a long hesitation, he finally relented, awkwardly uttering, “Se—”
Before Pei Ji could finish the word, his eyes widened abruptly as something warm and soft unexpectedly pressed against his lips.
Chu Tinghan had wrapped his arms around Pei Ji’s neck and kissed him without warning.
As dusk approached, the old campus’s voice-activated system had long since fallen into disrepair, and no lights were on in the room. The hallway was abnormally dark, and Pei Ji’s vision was a blurry, hazy gray-black.
Stripped of his sight by the pitch-blackness, his sense of touch became overwhelmingly vivid. He could distinctly feel the softness on his lips, along with a hint of moist warmth.
Though it was only a fleeting, butterfly-light kiss, Pei Ji’s entire body went numb. The lingering warmth on his lips was impossible to ignore, sending sensory jolts through his brain that suddenly stirred a chaotic storm of memories.
On the opposite wall hung a photograph—a joint portrait of him and Chu Tinghan. In the photo, Pei Ji carried a guitar, looking somewhat green and awkward, while Chu Tinghan, clad in an elegant white suit, exuded an air of composed ease.
Pei Ji’s gaze was instantly drawn to the photograph. A sudden sharp pain pierced his mind as something threatened to break through the picture and merge with his fragmented memories.
Images flashed through his mind in rapid succession:
Senior… love song…
He remembered now.
Many years ago, he had asked Chu Tinghan the same question.