Chapter 44 – Missing Crybaby Notice

When an emergency strikes, talking to Qian Tianyi feels like being devoured by ten thousand ants. Wei Lai felt that if he exchanged a few more words with Qian Tianyi, he’d go prematurely bald from stress. So he stopped asking further and rushed to the city center with Long Dongqiang at top speed.

Qian Tianyi sat on the ground, listlessly waving his hand. “Hi—”

The entire way there, Wei Lai’s mind was plagued by worst-case scenarios—Chu Yin getting hit by a car, Chu Yin getting kidnapped. Seeing the production team’s collective look of shame and defeat, he internally lashed out with the venomous fury of a Madam Wei: Where’s my crybaby?! Where’s that huge crybaby I left in your care this morning?! Instead of searching for him, why are you all just waiting here for me?! Waiting for a slap in the face?!

Wei Lai rolled his eyes and reluctantly asked, “Where exactly did you lose him?!”

Fortunately, Yao Chaowu—who was articulate and spoke at a normal pace—stood beside Qian Tianyi, allowing Wei Lai to clearly understand the sequence of events.

In truth, there wasn’t much to tell. Chu Yin, infuriated by Wei Lai, had mistaken some man for stealing his phone and chased after him like a wild boar, even scaling a wall in the process. With no phone and no ability to ask for directions, he had vanished into the bustling foreign streets like a drop of water disappearing into the ocean.

Qian Tianyi mused, “Y-o-u-r—b-a-b-y—d-o-e-s-n’t—s-e-e-m—t-o-o—b-r-i-g-h-t.”

Wei Lai staunchly defended him, “He’s plenty smart!”

Qian Tianyi responded with a mysterious smile at 0.5x speed.

Wei Lai: “…”

Long Dongqiang, fearing Wei Lai might lose his temper and punch Qian Tianyi, quickly changed the subject. “Should we check with the Chinese consulate?”

One of the directors suggested, “What about the police station? If there’s trouble, go to the police!”

Wei Lai knew Chu Yin wouldn’t actively seek out either of those places—he was more likely to be wandering the streets. After a moment’s thought, he took out his phone and logged into Chu Yin’s Weibo account, which boasted 80 million followers.

—[Missing Person Notice] Guess which little corner of Sydney I’m in right now? Come find me!

—Attached image: Refer to the comments for photos.

After posting, Wei Lai fell silent, staring at the map on his phone as he tried to deduce Chu Yin’s possible whereabouts based on his route.

Chu Yin was afraid of crowds, so he’d definitely be somewhere less populated.

After running for so long, he’d probably be hungry—somewhere with food and drinks.

“Let’s search for him first. If we don’t find him within an hour, we’ll report it to the consulate and the police, alright?”

Despite his inner turmoil, Wei Lai—unlike Chu Yin—could maintain his composure. He divided the group according to the map, assigning each team a search route and creating a WeChat group to share updates in real time.

Wei Lai paired up with Yao Chaowu. After delegating tasks, he put on sunglasses and set off at a brisk pace.

It was already afternoon. A fine rain clung to everything, streaking silver threads across Wei Lai’s sunglasses. The bustling commercial street remained crowded, umbrellas popping open like colorful little mushrooms or the swirling skirts of girls at a ball, dancing down the avenue.

This picturesque rainy scene held no romance for Wei Lai—he only saw the umbrellas obstructing his view.

As he walked, Wei Lai pulled a rolled-up poster from his bag and shook it open with a flourish. It was from a photoshoot he’d accompanied Chu Yin to in Beijing while recovering from a severe cold.

In the poster, Chu Yin wore a loose black sweater. A snow-white ragdoll cat tilted its head, playfully tugging at his sleeve, pulling it down to reveal a glimpse of his shoulder and sharp collarbone. Both the man and the cat were breathtakingly beautiful.

Like an obsessive fanboy, Wei Lai held the poster high, shouting in English, “Have you seen this man?!”

His outburst drew curious glances and murmurs from passersby.

Yao Chaowu: “…”

Yao Chaowu felt a pang in his chest. In the past, Wei Lai always carried a bag stuffed with items related to him—makeup for touch-ups, disguises, snacks, his posters, or autograph books—just in case fans demanded signatures in awkward places.

Now, Wei Lai still carried a bag, but everything inside belonged to someone else.

Holding an umbrella over Wei Lai, Yao Chaowu said gloomily, “Wei, I thought when you terminated our contract, you were truly tired and wanted a break. But instead, you became Chu Yin’s manager.”

Wei Lai: “…”

Yao Chaowu continued, “…Did I do something wrong?”

After a pause, Wei Lai replied, “No. Don’t overthink it.” You just happened to not like me and happened to be getting married.

Yao Chaowu took a deep breath, his voice strained. “I’m in pain. I feel… betrayed by someone very important.”

Wei Lai: “…Changing managers is normal.”

Yao Chaowu: “But you’re different. You once promised to be my manager until I retired. You said you were tired, and I know how hard you’ve worked all these years. Wanting a career change is understandable. But I don’t get why you’d become Chu Yin’s manager. Is managing him easier than managing me? I thought I could accept your departure gracefully, but I can’t. Why him? How long is your contract with him?”

Wei Lai didn’t think now was the time for this conversation. Yao Chaowu’s barrage of questions unsettled him, so he soothed, “I really did want a break. Chu Yin and I don’t have a contract.”

Yao Chaowu: “…Really?”

Wei Lai: “Really. Finding Chu Yin is urgent. We’ll talk another time.”

After a pause, Yao Chaowu ventured, “Then… can you come back to me?”

Wei Lai: “…”

Wei Lai hesitated, unsure how to respond. He feigned distraction by checking his buzzing phone. Opening Weibo, the top comment read: “AHHHHHHHH I’M AT ‘NICE TO MEET YOU’ DRINKING COFFEE AHHHHHH AWSL¹An acronym meaning “I’m dead.”!!!!”

Below was a photo of Chu Yin holding a guitar and singing.

He wore a simple, loose white chiffon shirt—the only distinctive feature being a small pocket near his heart, with an orange cat peeking out that Chu Yin had insisted Wei Lai draw on with markers that very morning.

This shirt was one-of-a-kind and being worn for the first time—proof that this was indeed today’s missing Chu Yin.

Wei Lai zoomed in. Behind Chu Yin was a café that looked quite old. He searched the name on the map—Chu Yin was just over 500 meters away.

Wei Lai’s spirits lifted. Chest out, head high, he practically broke into a run. If he’d had wings, he’d have flown. “Let’s go! He’s up ahead! The power of fans is truly limitless!”

Yao Chaowu: “…”

The closer they got, the clearer the music became.

People clustered around the café, umbrellas raised.

Chu Yin stood on a flower bed outside the café, guitar in hand, like a living clothes hanger. The rain misted around him, and behind him bloomed a massive jacaranda tree, its intertwined branches forming a blue cloud. A light breeze sent petals fluttering down—onto the ground, onto his slightly damp hair, onto his pristine white shirt.

At his feet lay a sign: “I’m lost. Singing for money.” Scattered around it were shiny Australian coins, mingling with the petals.

Chu Yin seemed totally at ease busking. Light on his feet, stepping on blue petals, his fingers strummed the guitar as he sang a song Wei Lai had never heard before.

The melody was soothing, rising and falling across a wide vocal range—like listening to rain on a window while sipping warm coffee, stretching lazily in bed, patting a little belly.

Ah, patting a little belly.

Wei Lai suddenly realized—the rhythm of Chu Yin’s playing matched the way he’d patted his own belly in bed yesterday, legs kicked up, content and happy.

This was an impromptu composition. No wonder Wei Lai hadn’t heard it before.

Separated by the gentle rain and a sea of umbrellas, Wei Lai tried pushing forward, only to be shoved back. “He is mine, he is mine, please let me in!”

But he couldn’t break through. Partly because the crowd was dense, but also because the front rows were occupied by Chu Yin’s fans who’d flocked after Wei Lai’s Weibo post. Though few in number, their energy was electric—shrieks of “He is mine” were tame compared to the torrent of pet names: “Pouty baby, mommy loves you!” “Hubby, hubby, look at me!”

Regardless, Wei Lai exhaled in relief, his irritation fading. “We found him. Sorry for the trouble—I’ll treat everyone to dinner after filming wraps.”

Rising on tiptoe, Wei Lai filmed Chu Yin.

Stage Chu Yin was nothing like real-life Chu Yin—the socially inept agoraphobe. Onstage, he was a radiant star, effortlessly commanding any musical style with cult-leader charisma. Though he never interacted with the audience, his concerts were electric.

Wei Lai had always wondered how this superhuman-hating, noise-averse recluse could perform so naturally without stage fright—assuming he’d undergone some movie-worthy struggle to overcome it. Upon closer study, he realized Chu Yin was simply born for the spotlight. When singing, his world held only the song; when acting, only the character. Stage fright? The concept didn’t even exist in his mind.

In the video, Chu Yin sang the final verse, drawing out the notes. Strumming his guitar, he suddenly hopped off the flower bed. Wei Lai frowned—Chu Yin never engaged with audiences. Before he could take more than a few steps forward, Wei Lai’s heartbeat quickened.

That day, as rain whispered and fingers danced over strings, Chu Yin sailed through the crowd like a boat parting lotus-leaf umbrellas. Strangely, no one blocked him—instead, they made way as if for Moses crossing the Red Sea. Treading a blue floral carpet, his steps unhurried yet runway-sure despite the street setting, he drew nearer.

His cat’s-eye-gemstone gaze locked onto Wei Lai through the camera lens.

The final note faded. Wei Lai’s screen went dark as Chu Yin crashed into him.

“Hmn!” Chu Yin nuzzled his face against Wei Lai’s shoulder. “I made so much money.”

Years later, Wei Lai would still recall Australia’s pale cyan sky, the crystal-dripping umbrellas, the café’s retro “Nice to meet you” sign—and the scent of jacaranda clinging to Chu Yin.

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  An acronym meaning “I’m dead.”