The backstage passage was narrow and quiet, separated from the noisy venue in front by only a fire door.
The pale light of the emergency lamps illuminated the gray-painted walls, and the air was filled with dust and the chemical smell left from renovation.
At the end of the corridor was a tightly shut iron door marked "Equipment Room / Emergency Exit."
Assistant Xiao Yang, who had just helped Yan Hanxie away, was anxiously standing outside the iron door, unconsciously twisting the corner of her clothes with her fingers. When she saw Zong Yi striding over, it was like seeing a savior.
"Director Zong!" she whispered, her voice trembling, "President Yan, she…"
"Inside?" Zong Yi didn't stop walking, her tone calmer than she herself had expected.
Xiao Yang nodded vigorously, her eyes slightly red. "President Yan said she wanted to be alone for a while and wouldn't let me follow… but, but the way she looked just now…"
"I understand. Go back to the front and stabilize things. Say President Yan suddenly has an important call and the interview is postponed." Zong Yi interrupted her. Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried unquestionable firmness. "Don't let anyone come over."
Xiao Yang seemed to find a backbone. She nodded forcefully and hurried back.
Zong Yi stopped in front of the iron door.
The door wasn't locked, only slightly ajar.
Inside it was very dark, with only the dim green glow of equipment indicator lights and fragments of daylight from a high window cut apart by pipes.
She raised her hand, her fingertips touching the cold iron surface. She paused for a moment, then gently pushed it open.
The hinge gave a stiff creaking sound.
Inside was a small equipment room, stacked with cleaning tools and replacement lighting parts, the air carrying a faint smell of machine oil.
Yan Hanxie stood with her back to the door beneath the only high window thick with dust.
Outside the window was the gray concrete wall of another building in the park. The sky was cut into a small patch, low lead-colored clouds pressing down.
She was still wearing that dark ink-blue suit, her back straight, yet carrying a precarious stiffness as if she might collapse at any moment.
Her left hand hung at her side, the string of sandalwood prayer beads dangling weakly, while her right hand braced against a nearby metal pipe, her knuckles white with effort, as if she relied on that support just to remain standing.
Hearing the door open, her shoulders trembled almost imperceptibly, but she did not turn around.
Zong Yi walked in and closed the door behind her, completely shutting out the last bit of noise from the outside world.
Inside the sealed space, only the uneven sound of their breathing remained, along with the faint, distant hum of equipment.
She walked to a spot a few steps behind Yan Hanxie and stopped.
She could clearly see the fine beads of sweat on the back of her neck, sticking several strands of loose hair to her skin.
She could also see that the hand braced against the pipe was trembling slightly.
"President Yan," Zong Yi spoke, her voice especially clear in the silence.
Yan Hanxie's body tensed.
She didn't respond or move, only stared at that narrow, gloomy patch of sky outside the window.
Silence spread through the cramped space, carrying the smell of dust and rust, pressing heavily against the chest.
Zong Yi's gaze fell on Yan Hanxie's hanging left hand. The prayer beads were loosely looped; because her wrist hung weakly, the lowest beads were almost slipping off.
She remembered how tightly they had been clenched on stage just now, digging into flesh.
"You need to go to the hospital." She stated the fact, her tone flat.
Yan Hanxie finally reacted.
She slowly shook her head, the movement pulling at her body and drawing a faint gasp.
"…No need." Her voice was extremely hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against her throat. "An old problem. It'll be fine in a while."
"What old problem?" Zong Yi pressed, stepping forward slightly.
As the distance closed, she could smell from Yan Hanxie not only a cool fragrance and sweat, but also an extremely faint medicinal scent, almost impossible to detect.
Yan Hanxie didn't answer.
She tried to straighten up and leave the support of the pipe, but the moment she moved, her body suddenly swayed, her left hand instinctively supporting her forehead.
Zong Yi could no longer remain where she was.
She stepped forward and reached out to hold Yan Hanxie's arm.
Her touch met icy coldness. Even through the silk shirt she could feel the unnatural chill beneath the skin and the subtle trembling.
Yan Hanxie reacted as if burned, violently shaking off her hand. The force was so great that Zong Yi staggered.
"Don't touch me!" she shouted in a low voice, the sound carrying an almost panicked resistance as she suddenly turned around.
Their eyes met.
Zong Yi's heart felt as if a cold hand had seized it tightly.
The face before her was pale without the slightest trace of blood, her lips a dehydrated gray-white.
The carefully applied makeup had been smudged by sweat and the brief loss of control earlier, the dark circles beneath her eyes no longer concealable.
Most striking were those eyes—bloodshot, the pupils slightly dilated from discomfort, all their usual calmness, sharpness, and control gone, leaving only exhaustion so thick it seemed impossible to dissolve, pain, and a trace of disheveled vulnerability.
Sweat slid down from her temple, passing over trembling eyelashes.
She looked at Zong Yi, her gaze too complicated to read—anger, embarrassment, resistance, and perhaps a hint of… pleading?
"Get out." Yan Hanxie forced out the two words through clenched teeth, her voice shaking badly.
Zong Yi did not move.
She looked at the cold sweat constantly seeping from Yan Hanxie's temples, at her lower lip bitten tight from suppressing discomfort, at the hand gripping the pipe so hard the knuckles were white yet still trembling uncontrollably.
And that string of sandalwood prayer beads that, after her violent movement, finally slipped completely off her wrist and fell onto the dust-covered concrete floor.
Several beads scattered and rolled among the clutter, the rest barely remaining connected, lying on the gray ground, all their warm luster gone.
Yan Hanxie's gaze followed the falling beads, her pupils suddenly shrinking as if she had lost her final support.
Her body went limp, collapsing forward.
This time, Zong Yi did not hesitate.
She rushed forward and caught Yan Hanxie's falling body with all her strength.
The weight pressed over her without reservation, carrying cold sweat and undisguised weakness.
Yan Hanxie's forehead pressed into the hollow of Zong Yi's shoulder, hot breath spilling against the side of her neck, her breathing short and chaotic.
"Medicine…" Yan Hanxie's voice was so weak it was almost inaudible, her fingers feebly clutching the fabric on the back of Zong Yi's clothes. "In the bag… the white one…"
Zong Yi wrapped one arm tightly around her, supporting the weight of her nearly completely limp body, while her other hand quickly grabbed the handbag tossed onto a nearby chair.
Opening it, there were not many things inside—documents, lipstick, keys… a small white pill bottle with no label.
She twisted the cap open and poured two white tablets into her palm. There was no water.
"Water…" She looked around. This damn equipment room didn't even have a faucet.
Yan Hanxie shook her head with difficulty in her arms, signaling that it wasn't necessary.
Zong Yi could only bring the tablets to her lips.
Yan Hanxie closed her eyes and, relying on feeling, took the tablets into her mouth and swallowed them dry.
The swallowing made a painful gurgling sound in her throat, and her body trembled violently again.
Zong Yi supported her and slowly helped her sit down on a nearby unused old wooden crate covered with dust.
Yan Hanxie almost completely leaned against her, her head buried at the side of her neck. Her heavy breathing carried a scorching warmth, burning Zong Yi's skin.
Cold sweat kept seeping out, quickly soaking the clothes where the two of them pressed together.
Time passed slowly in the silence and the suppressed breathing.
The distant hum of equipment became the only background sound.
Zong Yi sat motionless, her arms maintaining the embracing posture, supporting the cold, trembling, unbearably fragile body in her arms.
She could clearly feel every painful shiver of Yan Hanxie, every difficult breath, every unconscious tightening and loosening of the fingers clutching her clothes.
At the tip of her nose lingered the smell of sweat, dust, medicine, and the cold fragrance on Yan Hanxie's body that had not completely dissipated even at this moment.
Her gaze fell on the scattered, dust-covered prayer beads on the ground not far away.
The smooth wooden color was covered by dust, lying there quietly like an abandoned, ineffective talisman.
No one knew how long had passed, maybe only a few minutes, maybe as long as a century.
The trembling in her arms gradually calmed. Although her breathing was still shallow and rapid, it was no longer so chaotic.
The forehead resting on her shoulder seemed to cool slightly as well.
Yan Hanxie moved, trying to lift her head.
Zong Yi subconsciously tightened her arms, then immediately loosened them again.
Yan Hanxie slowly sat up straight and left Zong Yi's embrace. She did not look at Zong Yi, only lowered her head and looked at her hands resting on her knees, which were still trembling slightly.
The makeup on her face was already ruined, leaving her in a sorry state, but the fragile feeling of being on the verge of collapse gradually faded with the effect of the medicine and the brief rest, replaced by a deeper, deathly exhaustion.
She raised her hand and used her fingers, little by little, extremely slowly, to brush the sweat-damp strands of hair from her forehead behind her ear.
The movement was stiff, like a rusted machine.
Then she raised her eyes and looked at the prayer beads on the ground.
Her gaze was empty.
Zong Yi followed her line of sight, then stood up, walked over, bent down, and picked up the scattered beads one by one from the dust.
Some had rolled beneath the clutter, so she crouched down and reached out to retrieve them.
Her fingertips became covered with dust, the beads cold.
She gathered them all back into her palm, wiped them with her sleeve, walked back to Yan Hanxie, and held them out.
Yan Hanxie did not take them immediately.
She looked at the prayer beads gathered again in Zong Yi's palm, now covered in dust, for a long time.
Then she extended her hand, not to take the beads, but to gently hold Zong Yi's wrist.
The strength was very light, almost weightless. Her fingertips were cold.
Zong Yi's whole body stiffened.
Yan Hanxie's fingertips pressed against the skin on the inner side of her wrist, the place where the sandalwood beads had once been wrapped around, leaving behind that illusory sensation.
At this moment, the real, cold touch of her fingertips carried the sticky dampness of sweat and an almost despairing tremor.
"Zong Yi…" Yan Hanxie's voice was still hoarse, so low it was almost inaudible. "You saw it."
It was not a question, but a statement.
Zong Yi's throat tightened and she could not speak.
"Very ridiculous, isn't it?" Yan Hanxie tugged at the corner of her mouth. The smile looked worse than crying. "A person who burns incense and worships Buddha every day, wearing consecrated beads… actually can't even pray this broken body of hers into being well."
Her fingertips unconsciously and lightly traced once across the skin on the inside of Zong Yi's wrist.
"This is the 'old problem.' It occasionally flares up. It won't kill me, it's just…" She paused and took a breath, as if gathering strength. "It's just very ugly."
Zong Yi lowered her eyes and looked at the pale, cold hand holding her wrist, still trembling slightly.
On the wrist, because of the earlier effort and the medicine not yet completely wearing off, the pale blue veins were clearly visible.
She suddenly remembered a long time ago, a few scattered rumors she had once heard about Yan Hanxie's family background.
Her parents had died early. She had been raised by a strict grandfather, trained as an heir since childhood, with no childhood, no retreat, only goals that had to be achieved and endless pressure.
There were also more obscure rumors that her health had never been particularly good, but the details were unknown, and she had never shown weakness.
Those rumors now became extremely clear, overlapping with the weak, disheveled woman before her who had taken off all her armor.
"Why is it like this?" Zong Yi heard her own dry voice.
Yan Hanxie remained silent for a long time. So long that Zong Yi thought she would not answer.
"Pressure. Fatigue. Or… I don't know."
She finally said softly, releasing Zong Yi's wrist. Her fingertips lingered on the skin for one last moment before withdrawing, and she wrapped her arms around herself as if feeling cold.
"The doctor said it's neurological. Emotions, pressure, overwork… all can trigger it. Take medicine, rest quietly, and it will be fine." She paused, her voice even lower. "But I can't calm down."
She raised her eyes and looked at Zong Yi. The sharpness, aggression, and control that had always been in her gaze had disappeared completely, leaving only bottomless exhaustion and a trace of almost blank confusion.
"Just like those beads," she looked at the prayer beads in Zong Yi's palm. "Wearing them, chanting scriptures, it feels like I can grasp something, prove something… but actually, I can't grasp anything."
She reached out and took back the dust-covered prayer beads from Zong Yi's palm.
She did not immediately put them back on her wrist, only held them in her hand, rubbing the cold wooden beads with her fingertips, wiping away the dust.
"About what happened today…" she said. Her voice had regained a little strength, but was still hoarse. "Don't tell anyone. Don't tell anyone at all."
Zong Yi looked at her. "You need to rest."
"I know." Yan Hanxie clenched the beads tightly in her palm, her knuckles turning white again. "When 'Spark' is on track, I'll rest."
The words sounded like a pale and powerless self-comfort.
Yan Hanxie braced herself against the wooden crate, trying to stand.
Her body swayed slightly and Zong Yi immediately reached out to support her.
This time, Yan Hanxie did not shake her off.
She steadied herself with Zong Yi's support, closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, that familiar cold and rigid mask of calm began to piece itself back together bit by bit.
Even though the cracks were still obvious, even though her complexion was still pale.
"Call Xiao Yang in for me," she said. There was an unquestionable commanding tone in her voice, though lacking strength. "And have someone send a clean set of clothes and a makeup bag to the lounge next door."
Zong Yi watched her quickly switch back into "President Yan" mode, and the inappropriate ripple that had just risen in her heart was replaced by a deeper, colder sense of helplessness.
"Okay." She released her hand, stepped back, and pulled open the distance between them that had just been forcibly shortened.
Yan Hanxie did not look at her. She only lowered her head and carefully put the cleaned prayer beads back onto her left wrist, one loop at a time.
The clasp fastened, the dark beads resting against her still pale wrist, heavy.
Then she straightened her back and adjusted her messy clothes and hair, though the effect was limited.
"You can go out now," she said, looking toward the door. "And thank you."
The last two words were spoken very softly and vaguely, as if they were merely an unconscious murmur between her lips and teeth.
Zong Yi looked at her one last time, turned around, opened the iron door, and walked out.
Outside the door was still that narrow, quiet corridor with its pale light.
She leaned against the cold door panel and listened to the suppressed, dull coughing sounds coming from inside, once, and then again.
Then she raised her hand and looked at the inner side of her wrist where Yan Hanxie's cold fingertips had touched just now.
There seemed to still remain a trace of that damp, cold, trembling sensation.
After a long time, she lowered her hand and walked toward the bright and noisy venue at the other end of the corridor.
—
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