Part I: The Tyranny of the Schedule
Meiyu's life as a full-time "celebrity emotional regulator" was proving to be an exercise in relentless exhaustion. The 4 AM sunrise jog, which Chenxu confessed (unfiltered) to Meiyu was his "daily ritual of self-hatred," was just the beginning.
Chenxu, without his emotional filter, was less an actor and more a petulant, highly critical toddler trapped in a flawless physique.
"Don't let him choose the tie. His unfiltered self thinks fluorescent yellow is 'boldly conceptual,'" the Shadow advised one morning, its voice a tired rasp from within Meiyu's pocket as she sorted through dozens of identical silk ties.
Meiyu had learned quickly that the Shadow's counsel, while delivered with peak arrogance, was life-saving. The Shadow was the keeper of the persona, the rulebook for Jiang Chenxu's highly lucrative lie.
The pressure cooker was about to hit its peak: the premiere of Chenxu's new historical blockbuster, The Sword of the Last King. This was a career-defining moment, necessitating a live, pre-show red carpet interview watched by millions.
In the dressing room, Meiyu adjusted the lapel of Chenxu's dark velvet suit. He looked like perfection, but his eyes were jittery.
"Meiyu," Chenxu whispered, his voice too loud and too honest. "I haven't told anyone this, but I actually think the script was derivative. And the CGI for the dragon looked like a low-budget children's cartoon. Should I mention that to the host? It's important to give honest critical feedback."
Meiyu's blood ran cold. She quickly pressed a finger to her inner pocket. "Absolutely not," she hissed. "The critics can say that. You, the lead actor, cannot."
"Emergency protocol!" the Shadow shouted, the sound muffled but frantic. "He's losing the filter! Remind him of his childhood fear of enclosed spaces and the importance of professional stability!"
"Chenxu," Meiyu said, grabbing his hand—a surprisingly muscular, yet cold, hand—and meeting his eyes. "Focus on the breathing exercises Mr. Kim taught you. Think about the open air. Think about the vast, open space of the yacht you bought last year."
Chenxu blinked, the honesty dimming slightly. "The yacht is nice," he admitted. "It smells appropriately like expensive teak."
Part II: The Live Disaster
The atmosphere outside was electric. Blaring music, flashing cameras, and the roar of the fans—a wall of intense, adoring sound. Chenxu, led by Meiyu, walked the crimson carpet. He managed the waves and the smiles flawlessly, the old instincts taking over like muscle memory.
They stopped at the designated interview spot. The host, a woman with glittering eyes and flawless composure, thrust a microphone toward Chenxu.
"Mr. Jiang Chenxu! You are simply breathtaking tonight! Tell us, how does it feel to finally share The Sword of the Last King with the world?"
Chenxu smiled, his famously perfect smile. Meiyu stood slightly behind him, her hands clasped tightly together.
"It feels…" Chenxu began, his eyes locking on the camera. Meiyu held her breath. "It feels… like a necessary corporate endeavor."
The host's smile faltered, her teeth momentarily freezing mid-glitter. "A… corporate endeavor?"
"Yes! Because, frankly, the film is exactly what the industry demands right now," Chenxu continued, gaining momentum. "It's predictably epic, the dialogue is tragically verbose, and my character arc only makes sense if you disregard all established historical texts. It will make a fortune. Which is the whole point, isn't it?"
"NO! NO! NO! NO!" The Shadow was screaming in Meiyu's pocket, the tiny paper body vibrating violently.
Meiyu needed an immediate distraction. She subtly brought her hand up, pressing her fingers against her blazer. The Shadow instantly went still, using the physical contact to communicate.
"The hand signals, Meiyu! The emergency signals!"
Meiyu remembered their hastily rehearsed, deeply ridiculous plan. She discreetly lifted her right hand and smoothed her hair back—Signal A: The Topic Is Toxic. Change The Subject To Self.
"It is truly a massive production," Meiyu interjected smoothly, leaning slightly into the camera's view, drawing focus. "Chenxu really brought an incredible physical presence to the role. He trained non-stop for months, overcoming his—"
Chenxu cut her off, the honesty filter now entirely gone. "—overcoming my profound apathy for horseback riding! I hate horses! They're judgmental and they shed! What I really enjoyed was the catered lunch on Tuesdays. That fried chicken was a monument to culinary excellence."
The host's mouth dropped open. She looked seconds away from summoning security.
Part III: The Emergency Puppet Show
Meiyu was desperate. She didn't have time to concoct a believable lie. She had to use Signal B: Deploy Immediate Distraction/Affection.
She lifted her left hand and, as if simply adjusting his perfectly styled hair, gently placed her palm against the back of Chenxu's neck.
The effect was instantaneous and baffling.
Chenxu, in the middle of detailing his hatred for all things equine, went completely slack. His posture softened. His eyes lost their critical focus and became wide, vulnerable, and slightly glazed.
"Oh," he sighed, the sound impossibly soft, right into the microphone. "That's… very grounding. You know, Meiyu, your hands smell exactly like freshly printed sheet music."
Meiyu fought the urge to yank her hand away. Sheet music? What on earth does sheet music smell like?
"The Shadow's doing! That's his internal safe word! Now, pivot to romance! Say something vague and adoring!" the paper crane hissed, radiating a triumphant heat.
Meiyu removed her hand slowly, but Chenxu's eyes were still locked on her, conveying an expression of genuine, heartbreaking adoration that was usually reserved for his most passionate film roles.
"I just wanted to make sure he was comfortable," Meiyu murmured to the host, giving a tight, professional smile that masked her panic. "He's just so dedicated to his craft, and sometimes, he needs a little reminder to focus on the magic of the evening."
"The magic," Chenxu echoed dreamily, his voice now a mesmerizing, gentle baritone. He turned back to the host, who was holding the microphone like it was a live grenade.
"This film is a corporate endeavor," Chenxu repeated, but the tone was entirely different—slow, measured, and profound. "But what makes it worth watching is the truth we find in the performance. That raw, human search for meaning, even when we are trapped by expectation. I realized that tonight." He turned back to Meiyu, giving her a look so intense it felt like a public proposal. "It reminds me that even when you are hiding your true self, someone, somewhere, can still find your shadow."
The crowd erupted in awwws. The host, seizing the opportunity, recovered her composure instantly.
"What a beautiful, romantic sentiment! An artist revealing his heart! Thank you, Mr. Chenxu, Ms. Lin!"
Part IV: Aftermath and Accusations
Meiyu and Chenxu were quickly ushered inside. The moment the door closed behind them, Chenxu blinked again, shaking his head.
"Why did I just talk about the corporate angle?" he asked, deeply confused. "And why did I tell that woman her foundation was the wrong shade? Wait, sheet music? What was I talking about?"
"It's the Shadow," Meiyu muttered, rubbing the back of her neck. "He deployed the 'grounding scent' protocol."
The Shadow, resting on the velvet lining of her pocket, preened. "It worked perfectly! I used my suppressed knowledge of his emotional triggers. He smells sheet music when he feels safe, creative, and completely unjudged. You're lucky that's what I chose, instead of 'cinnamon bun' which would have led to an immediate, embarrassing marriage proposal."
A moment later, Mr. Kim appeared, his face flushed with a mixture of terror and relief.
"Lin! What was that? You saved us! The press are calling it a 'profound artistic revelation.' They think he's going through a deeply spiritual phase! But why the hand signals?"
"It's a new styling technique," Meiyu lied instantly, feeling the ease of the habit settle over her. "It reminds him to breathe. It's… dynamic emotional flow."
Mr. Kim nodded weakly. "Yes, yes. Dynamic emotional flow. Just… keep using it. But whatever you do, keep him away from the critics tonight. The unfiltered Chenxu would probably try to help them write their negative reviews."
Meiyu nodded, feeling the weight of the tiny, glowing celebrity core in her pocket. She had successfully steered the ship away from the iceberg, but the journey was far from over. She realized Chenxu was not the only one trapped; she was now trapped with his truth, bound to a chaotic, impossible life.