Chapter 58 – Here He Comes Again

His memories of that day’s “Happy Match-Up” recording aren’t very clear. Chu Yin was good at remembering happy times—those unpleasant memories always faded quickly from his mind.

There was only one thing Chu Yin remembered: he had an allergic reaction.

Although Chu Yin despised Yao Chaowu, as long as Yao Chaowu didn’t talk to Wei Lai, Chu Yin wouldn’t be overwhelmed by jealousy. He could just barely tolerate standing on the same stage as him.

While singing the theme song for Evil Never Prevails with Yao Chaowu, Chu Yin felt an itch creeping across his face. But scratching his face on stage was absolutely out of the question. Clenching his fists, he forced himself to keep singing. Yao Chaowu, mid-performance, suddenly slung an arm over Chu Yin’s shoulder, pouring on the “socialist brotherly affection.” Chu Yin scowled and shook him off, which only sent the live audience into another frenzy of screams.

When the lights dimmed, Chu Yin and Yao Chaowu exited the stage to prepare backstage. At that point, Chu Yin still hadn’t realized he was having an allergic reaction. He absentmindedly rubbed his face, and Yao Chaowu remarked, “Chu Yin, what’s wrong with your face? Why’s it so red? Don’t tell me you’re blushing from singing with me?”

Chu Yin replied coldly, “…It’s probably because your terrible singing dilated my blood vessels. Next time, I suggest you lip-sync.”

Yao Chaowu was so furious he nearly saw stars. “I was just concerned about you! You’re throwing kindness back in my face!”

Chu Yin was stunned by Yao Chaowu’s shamelessness. He gave him a sidelong glance and said flatly, “You know exactly what kind of ‘concern’ that was. I hate hypocrites—don’t stick your face out asking to get slapped.”

“I really was worried about you.” Yao Chaowu stared at Chu Yin’s face, then suddenly smirked with a mocking tone. “Chu Yin, I think you’re having an allergic reaction.”

Chu Yin’s footsteps faltered.

Yao Chaowu continued, “I can’t wait to see your pretty little face slowly puff up into a pig’s head under HD cameras.”

Chu Yin had never had an allergic reaction before and didn’t know what it would look like. For a split second, Yao Chaowu’s words did scare him. But in front of his nemesis, he couldn’t afford to lose face. “So what if it swells up? You’re ugly as hell and still alive, aren’t you?”

Yao Chaowu was momentarily speechless. Silently praying for Chu Yin’s face to rot off, he stormed away in a huff.

Chu Yin checked his phone’s front camera. His face was only slightly red—nowhere near as bad as a pig’s head. But the thought of fleeing still flickered in his mind.

He had countless fans, but just as many antis. The smallest flaw could be magnified; any imperfection might make fans turn on him. Under the spotlight, he shone brilliantly, yet every step was like treading on thin ice—terrified that one day the ice would crack, sending him plunging into disgrace, mocked by thousands while his rival trampled over him.

But Chu Yin couldn’t run.

The show was already halfway recorded. Unless he broke his leg or fainted on the spot, backing out last minute would be incredibly irresponsible. He couldn’t ruin the efforts of thousands of staff members just because of his own issues.

Chu Yin gritted his teeth and returned to the stage. He thought his flushed face wasn’t obvious, but the host noticed immediately, stepping forward with concern. “Chu Yin, are you having an allergic reaction? Are you okay?”

Chu Yin turned his face away, heart racing, though his expression remained calm. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”

This wasn’t Chu Yin’s first time on Happy Match-Up, and the host was somewhat familiar with him. Lowering his voice, the host said, “If you’re not feeling well, just let me know. You can rest backstage for a bit.”

Chu Yin gave a noncommittal hum, thinking, If I go backstage now, I’ll lose it completely and definitely bolt.

The host patted Chu Yin’s shoulder in silent encouragement. Despite the endless rumors of Chu Yin being a diva, most people who worked with him found him professional—never late, never leaving early, never making unreasonable demands. Though his face was cold, he was considerate of others.

But being considerate often meant forcing himself to endure. That was undoubtedly Chu Yin’s most agonizing stage experience—every second like needles at his back, sweat dripping down, as if he stood alone under the spotlight while the entire audience scrutinized him with judgmental eyes, their waves of laughter all mocking him.

Every moment dragged like an eternity. When they finally reached the game segment—a treat for CP fans—Yao Chaowu and Chu Yin knelt facing each other on tall stacks of towels. The rules were simple: they could only push each other’s hands, and whoever fell first would lose, facing punishment.

This game had been scripted in advance. It took Chu Yin a long time to psyche himself up for kneeling opposite Yao Chaowu.

Fuck, this looks like we’re bowing in marriage. Kneeling on the thick towels, Chu Yin stared at Yao Chaowu’s smug face, disgusted beyond words.

The audience naturally picked up on the implications, screaming in excitement.

The hosts laughed along, waving little red flags between them. “Ready… Towel Push-Pull Challenge—begin!”

Yao Chaowu immediately went for Chu Yin’s hands. “Come on, let’s interlock fingers! Give it your all!”

Chu Yin was horrified, as if Yao Chaowu’s hands were toxic. He flailed wildly in the air to avoid contact, fighting the urge to kick Yao Chaowu off the stage.

His exaggerated flailing destabilized the towel tower. Before Yao Chaowu could even touch him, Chu Yin toppled over, sending the audience into fits of laughter.

Later, when Chu Yin mustered the courage to watch the replay, he had to admit the scene was pretty funny. But in that moment, with his face unbearably itchy, it felt like the entire crowd was mocking him—laughing at his pig-like swelling, laughing at his incompetence. Chu Yin lowered his head, nose stinging, barely holding back tears.

Yao Chaowu, of course, was delighted. He fake-sympathetically reached out to help Chu Yin up, but Chu Yin rolled away on the spot, refusing to let the tears fall as he stood up on his own.

Yao Chaowu just wanted to see him humiliated. He absolutely would not give him the satisfaction.

“Chu Yin?” The host grinned as he read out the punishment. “Call the person at the top of your recent contacts list and ask to borrow 80 million yuan.”

Chu Yin: “…”

The only name in Chu Yin’s recent contacts was Wei Lai. The host seemed surprised. “You don’t even have spam calls in here?”

Chu Yin shook his head.

He didn’t want Wei Lai to answer. Just seeing Wei Lai’s name made him want to cry. His face itched, Yao Chaowu was disgusting, and all he wanted was to go home. If he heard Wei Lai’s voice now, he’d completely fall apart.

But Wei Lai always picked up his calls instantly.

“Hello? Pouty baby?” Wei Lai’s voice came through, noisy in the background—probably playing mahjong on the streets again. His tone was unbearably coquettish. “Oh? Calling me before midnight?”

Chu Yin’s lips trembled. His heart ached with grievance. He sniffled, barely suppressing a whimper before speaking slowly. “Wei Lai… Can you… lend me some money?”

The moment Chu Yin spoke, something bizarre happened—his own voice echoed through the speakers, slightly delayed, as if coming from the venue’s sound system.

The host dramatically widened his eyes, scanning the audience before whispering, “Is he… here?”

Wei Lai’s voice crackled through the phone, slightly distorted. “Sure. When are you paying me back?”

Chu Yin: “…Aren’t you going to ask how much I need?”

“80 million, right?” Wei Lai chuckled, his voice lowering flirtatiously. “Would 80 million buy me one Crybaby?”

Realization dawned on Chu Yin. His head snapped up as he scanned the audience. He’d been avoiding the cameras, afraid of people seeing his swollen face. But the thought that Wei Lai might be in the crowd suddenly made him stop caring who saw him.

Stage lights, directors, beautiful front-row fans, ordinary spectators in the back, countless fan signs and glow sticks—but no Wei Lai.

Chu Yin’s heart leaped into his throat. Clutching his phone, sweat beading on his nose, he stammered, “Wei Lai, are you… playing mahjong? Where are you?! Wei Lai—”

Wei Lai paused, sounding faintly exasperated before softening. “Look to the corner. The right side.”

In the corner stood a massive fan sign, covered in flashy patterns. The most eye-catching part was the text: The Best Pouty Baby in the World!

Chu Yin stared unblinkingly—then, from behind the sign, a figure emerged.

Dressed in an outrageously loud floral shirt, buttons undone to reveal half his chest, a pink cat-paw sticker on his cheek. Through rows of noisy spectators, he grinned and waved at Chu Yin on stage.

It was Wei Lai.

The same Wei Lai who’d promised he’d be home playing mahjong.