The next car that pulled up was a black Bugatti Chiron.
It glided through, smooth. Controlled. Expensive enough to make several bank accounts lower their eyes in shame.
The noise around the red carpet seemed to dip by instinct.
Reporters stopped mid-question. Fans lowered their light boards halfway. Even the livestream comments slowed, as if the internet itself had leaned closer to the screen.
Then someone whispered, loud enough for the nearest microphone to catch it.
"Is that…"
Another voice followed.
"Finally—"
The venue held its breath as the door opened. A polished black shoe touched the carpet.
Zhang Yichen stepped out.
The sound that followed was not a scream.
It was a rupture. The barricades nearly shook.
"ZHANG YICHEN!"
"YICHEN-GEGE!"
"HOLY FUCK, HE'S HERE!"
"GEGE, THIS WAY!"
"ZHANG YICHEN, WHO ARE YOU WEARING TONIGHT?"
Cameras exploded in flashes. Yichen stood beside the car, tall and impossibly composed beneath the lights.
He wore black.
Tonight, the colour looked carved from midnight and restraint. A long coat fell from his shoulders, sharp at the collar and lined faintly with dark silver thread that only caught the light when he moved.
Beneath it was a fitted charcoal shirt, buttoned high, with a narrow black waist piece cinching his frame like armour. His trousers were clean-cut, his boots polished, and his white hair had been swept away from his face, the dark roots giving him a dangerous softness. Cold. Elegant. Untouchable.
The icy prince had arrived.
Online, the livestream went feral.
"HE'S HERE. I'M NOT BREATHING."
"This has to be illegal somehow. This level of handsomeness is illegal."
"MY HUSBAND IS HEREEEEEEE"
Yichen adjusted one cuff calmly and looked towards the red carpet. For a moment, everyone thought he was about to walk forward. Reporters lifted their microphones. Fans screamed louder.
The host at the entrance straightened, ready to welcome him.
Zhang Yichen turned. He reached for the passenger door.
The world stopped.
His hand rested against the handle.
The cameras followed.
Every lens. Every eye. Every gossip account waiting to be the first to destroy someone's peace.
Yichen opened the door. A second passed.
Then a hand appeared.
Slim fingers.
Silver rings.
A glimpse of a violet cuff.
Yichen lowered his gaze and offered his hand. The person inside took it and Mo Fei stepped out.
Nobody spoke.
The silence was so sudden it felt violent.
Then the red carpet broke.
"MO FEI?"
"WAIT, IS THAT MO FEI?"
"NO WAY!"
"ZHANG YICHEN CAME WITH MO FEI?"
"MO FEI? SINCE WHEN WERE THEY CLOSE?!"
"YICHEN, ARE YOU TWO ARRIVING TOGETHER?"
The screams crashed over them from every side.
Mo Fei stood beside the car, one hand still resting lightly in Yichen's.
He looked unreal.
His midnight-purple silk shirt, softened the look just enough, open at the throat, careless in the way only expensive styling could pretend to be. The silver chain at his waist caught the flashes like a blade.
His violet hair fell in controlled waves around his face. His eyes, bright and unreadable, swept over the crowd. Mo Fei's fingers tightened around Yichen's hand.
Yichen felt it. He did not look at him.
He simply adjusted his grip. As if the entire industry was not screaming at them like a building on fire.
Mo Fei smiled.
A slow, polished smile, sharp enough to cut through every rumour waiting to be born.
The cameras went mad.
Inside the livestream, the comments became unreadable.
Yichen finally turned to him. His voice was low, meant only for Mo Fei.
"Don't freeze."
Mo Fei's smile did not move. "I wasn't going to."
"You were squeezing my hand."
"I was testing your circulation."
Yichen's mouth almost curved. Mo Fei released his hand first, smoothly, before the cameras could feast too long, he stepped forward.
The reporters attacked.
"Mo Fei! You attended with Zhang Yichen tonight?"
"Is this appearance connected to your recent comeback?"
"Yichen! Did you invite Mo Fei personally?"
"Mo Fei, what do you say to people questioning your invitation?"
Mo Fei stopped near the centre mark. He turned slightly, giving the cameras his best angle.
If wolves were going to eat, they should at least choke on beauty.
Yichen stopped beside him.
Exactly close enough to make the internet lose sleep.
Mo Fei looked towards the reporters and smiled. "I was invited," he said lightly. "So I came."
The reporters shouted again. "And Zhang Yichen?"
Mo Fei tilted his head, as if the answer should be obvious.
Somewhere behind the barricade, someone screamed.
Yichen looked at him. Mo Fei looked back, innocent.
Yichen's expression remained cold, but his eyes betrayed the smallest flicker of amusement.
Mo Fei turned back to the cameras. "Please take good pictures," he said. "I suffered too much today for bad angles."
The crowd laughed and the tension cracked.
Just enough.
Yichen stepped beside him, facing the cameras fully now. For the first time that night, they stood together beneath the HET lights.
Black and violet. Ice and theatre. A scandal waiting to happen. A strategy pretending not to be one.
The red carpet flashed white around them.
And somewhere in the crowd, every person who had wondered whether Mo Fei belonged there received their answer.
He did.
Unfortunately for them, he looked like he knew it too.
Yichen stood beside Mo Fei, expression controlled, posture flawless. From time to time, his gaze drifted.
The way he faced the cameras as if the same mouths screaming his name now had not tried to swallow him whole a few months ago.
Yichen forced his eyes back to the lenses.
His face remained calm. His mind was anything but.
When Nil had proposed the idea of attending the gala with Mo Fei, Yichen could have refused. Normally, he would have dismissed such an absurd plan and allowed the fans to exhaust themselves however they pleased.
But he had not refused.
For some reason, he had agreed. Then earlier that evening, when Mo Fei's car had met his halfway to the venue, Yichen had seen him properly.
And for one brief, irritating second, he had been stunned.
Mo Fei looked nothing like the person Yichen remembered.
Not the timid, ruined figure the industry whispered about.
Not the reckless scandal everyone had chewed up for entertainment.
Not even the shameless disaster who had dragged him to that ridiculous Café Café and made him jump a fence.
Tonight, Mo Fei looked sharp enough to start a war and pretty enough to win it.
Yichen bit the inside of his lower lip and forced out a faint smile for the cameras. His hands stayed steady at his sides.
Whatever this was, whatever it was about Mo Fei that kept catching his attention, it was nothing but trouble.
He glanced at him again.
Mo Fei was still smiling.
Bright. Polished. Alive. As if the world had not once gathered around his name with knives.
How could he still be like that? Cheerful. Strong.
Yichen froze internally.
Strong?
Had he just called Mo Fei strong? This walking disaster?
No way.
Yichen snapped his gaze back towards the cameras and tried to steady his breath.
Fuck this. Fuck him.
Get through this stupid gala and move on.
Yes.
That was all he needed to do.
"Yichen."
The voice came from beside him.
"Yichen."
He jolted slightly. "Huh?"
Mo Fei looked at him. "Let's go."
Yichen glanced around, suddenly aware of the noise again.
The lights, cameras, crowd. Mo Fei waiting beside him.
He nodded.
Then they walked off together.