Disclaimer: This is a work of fan fiction. While the names and physical descriptions of "Wang Yibo" and "Xiao Zhan" are used, the personalities, events, and portrayals in this story are entirely fictional and do not reflect the real lives, beliefs, or actions of the individuals mentioned. This story is for entertainment purposes only and is not intended to disrespect or represent the real-life actors.
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✨ The smell of sandalwood always preceded the screaming.
In the 99th loop, Xiao Zhan had died screaming Wang Yibo's name as a stage rigging collapsed in a freak accident. The last thing he saw was Yibo's terrified eyes reaching for him through the dust.
Then, the cold. The void. And finally—the light.
Xiao Zhan gasped, his lungs burning as if he'd been underwater. He sat upright, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He wasn't under a pile of steel and lights. He was in a leather chair. A makeup artist was humming a pop song behind him, dabbing a sponge against his forehead.
"Zhan-laoshi? You fell asleep for a second there," the girl giggled. "Long night?"
Zhan stared at the mirror. He looked young. Too young. His eyes darted to the phone on the vanity.
August 5th. 1:15 PM.
The air left his lungs. He knew this day. This was the "Origin Point." In every loop, this was the day the gears of tragedy began to turn.
"Where is he?" Zhan's voice was a jagged whisper.
"Who? Yibo-laoshi? He's in his dressing room, getting ready for the race interview—"
Zhan didn't wait for her to finish. He stood up so abruptly the chair toppled over. He ignored the confused shouts of his staff and sprinted down the hallway of the media center. His shoes clattered against the tile, a frantic rhythm that matched his pulse.
Ninety-nine times, he thought, his vision blurring with tears. I have seen you bleed. I have seen you cry. I have seen you forget me.
He threw open the door to Dressing Room 85 without knocking.
Wang Yibo was there. He was zipping up his green and white racing suit, looking like a god of thunder and speed. He turned, a sharp remark on his tongue about people knocking, but the words died when he saw Zhan.
"Zhan-ge?" Yibo's expression shifted from annoyance to instant, deep-seated concern. "What happened? Are you hurt?"
Zhan didn't speak. He couldn't. He crossed the room in three strides and crashed into Yibo, his arms locking around the younger man's waist. He pressed his face into the cool fabric of the racing suit, sobbing openly.
Yibo stood frozen for a heartbeat. In this timeline, they were "close friends," but they hadn't crossed the line into this kind of raw, desperate intimacy yet. Slowly, Yibo's hands came up, resting tentatively on Zhan's back.
"I've got you," Yibo murmured, his voice instinctively dropping into that protective tone Zhan remembered from a dozen lives ago. "Zhan-ge, I'm right here. Breathe."
"Don't go," Zhan choked out. "The race. The interview. The world. Let it all go, Yibo. Please. Just stay."
Yibo pulled back just enough to look into Zhan's eyes. He saw the trauma of a hundred years reflected in them. He didn't understand the why, but for Wang Yibo, the who was the only thing that mattered.
"Okay," Yibo said, his voice like an anchor. "If you're asking, I'm staying. I'm not going anywhere."
Zhan closed his eyes. The hundredth loop had begun. And this time, he was playing by different rules.