Earlier…
The auctioneer had reached twelve million for dinner.
Mo Fei tried to focus on that absurdity. On rich people raising paddles with dead calm. On the rival chef smiling like a man who had seasoned violence before coming. On Chen Yu's face, which promised murder if provoked. On Tang Wei sitting beside him like he already knew which way the night would break.
Mo Fei picked up his water glass, took a sip, then realised he had no idea whether he was thirsty. The hall glittered around him.
Laughter polished smooth enough to hide teeth. The auctioneer's voice rose again.
"Fifteen million!"
Applause scattered through the room. Mo Fei clapped with the others, still smiling. His face knew what to do even when the rest of him did not.
A few minutes later, he stood.
Tang Wei's gaze moved to him.
Mo Fei gave a harmless little smile. "Washroom."
Tang Wei studied his face. Just enough to make Mo Fei feel, annoyingly, as if the man had seen through the smile and found the unsteady thing standing behind it.
"Don't get lost," Tang Wei said.
Mo Fei laughed lightly. "Mr Tang, I am a grown man."
Tang Wei's mouth curved. "That was not a denial."
Mo Fei chose dignity and left before he could lose it. The noise of the gala followed him at first. Applause. Laughter. The auctioneer's polished enthusiasm. The soft scrape of chairs. The low hum of people pretending not to stare at each other.
Then, with every step, it softened. The corridor leading away from the hall was wide and quiet, lined with pale marble and tall arrangements of white orchids. Mirrors stretched along the walls, spotless and cold, reflecting chandeliers, gold trim and Mo Fei's violet figure walking alone through all that expensive silence.
He turned left. Then paused.
There were two hallways ahead. Both looked identical.
White marble. Gold trim. Rich-ghost mirrors.
Mo Fei stared at them. "Ah."
He turned right, stopped again. A waiter passed at the far end, carrying a tray of champagne.
Mo Fei lifted one hand. "Excuse me—"
The waiter disappeared through a side door before he could finish. Mo Fei lowered his hand.
Wonderful.
He had survived public hatred, agency theft, red carpets, Zhang Yichen's insults and nearly being defeated by electricity.
But the HET Gala hallway might finish him.
He moved forward anyway, slower this time, pretending he knew exactly where he was going in case a camera had followed him. A-list celebrities did not get lost. They simply explored alternative routes with confidence.
At the next turn, he heard voices.
Women's voices.
Soft.
Familiar.
Mo Fei stopped.
His hand stilled against the marble wall. He knew the second voice.
Li Jingyi.
Singer. Idol. Su Feiyu's best friend. Famous for expensive taste, a sharper tongue, and songs people streamed while pretending they were not crying in bed.
Mo Fei should have turned back.
He knew that. This was not his business. Not his conversation. Not his place to stand in a quiet corridor, listening to two women who had no idea he was there.
But then Jingyi laughed.
"I mean it every year," Jingyi said, voice sharpened with irritation. "Look at that room. Half of them shouldn't even be breathing the same air as us."
Mo Fei looked down at his shoes. Polished black. Slightly heeled.
Chosen carefully by Lily.
Expensive enough that the old him would have been afraid to touch them.
Still, somehow, not enough to belong.
"Careful," Su Feiyu said. "One of those nobodies might become important tomorrow."
"That's the problem. They all think they can climb. Give them one magazine shoot, one red carpet, one famous person beside them, and suddenly they believe they belong."
Mo Fei's throat tightened. Behind him, from far away, the ballroom applauded again.
The sound reached the corridor faintly, like rain behind glass.
Su Feiyu did not sound angry. She did not sound threatened. She sounded amused.
As if people were not even enemies.
Just dirt on the hem of a gown.
"There was one boy once," Su Feiyu said. "A complete unknown. Somehow, his agency managed to squeeze him into one of my shoots."
Mo Fei's breathing slowed. He did not know why those words changed the air.
But they did.
Completely. Even his fingers went still.
"The luxury autumn spread. Rooftop set."
The corridor vanished. Mo Fei was no longer standing in the HET Gala.
He was somewhere else.
Inside a different memory. A phone clutched too tightly. An email read too many times. A young man staring at one line until the words blurred.
"Mm. Ridiculous." Su Feiyu's voice remained careless.
So careless.
"He was supposed to appear beside me for a few shots. A new talent angle, they called it. I asked who approved it. They said the magazine wanted a new angle."
Mo Fei's hand slipped from the wall.
That— He remembered that shoot.
Why did he know what they were talking about?
"Like I would ever shoot with a nobody on my spread. So I had his name removed."
Mo Fei forgot to breathe. The words did not hit all at once. They entered quietly.
One after another.
Like needles.
I had his name removed.
His grip returned to the wall, tighter this time, the marble cold beneath his palm. His other hand flew to his mouth.
No way. No fucking way this was happening.
He remembered.
He remembered being excited that day. Pathetically excited. He had waited. He had worked hard for that role. He had thought, finally, finally, something was opening.
And—
"They removed it before he even arrived," Su Feiyu continued, almost gently. "Poor thing probably thought he was getting his big break."
Mo Fei lowered his gaze. Inside his chest, something old cracked open.
Stop. Stop talking.
Please.
It's not true.
A soft gasp escaped his lips. It came from somewhere deeper.
From a life that had ended under another name.
Bai Ju.
The name rose like blood in water. He had almost forgotten how heavy it was.
The boy who had wanted one chance.
Just one.
Not fame.
Not worship.
Not a red carpet full of screaming reporters.
Just a door that stayed open long enough for him to step through.
He remembered waiting outside agencies.
Remembered cheap meals eaten slowly so hunger would not return too fast, practising smiles until his cheeks hurt because beautiful people were allowed to be tired, but unknown people had to be grateful.
Remembered standing in a borrowed jacket, checking his phone every few seconds, believing that if he worked hard enough, if he bowed low enough, if he endured enough, the world would eventually make room.
It had not.
Someone had removed his name before he even arrived. And he had died chasing a door that had already been locked.
"People like that need to learn early," Su Feiyu said. "Not every door opens because they stand in front of it."
Mo Fei's eyes burned. He pressed his lips together.
Hard. The hallway blurred at the edges. Tears gathered, hot and humiliating.
Not here.
Not in a corridor full of mirrors.
Not while the ballroom behind him glittered like nothing had happened.
Jingyi's voice softened with satisfaction.
"Honestly, this is why we are the better ones. If you don't teach them their place every now and then, they'll want to step above you. It's irritating even sitting in the same room as them."
Su Feiyu gave a light, careless hum.
"I just pretend they don't exist. It's easier, Jingyi."
The two women laughed.
A pretty sound. Polished.
Light.
Almost harmless. If one did not know where the knife had entered.
Mo Fei stood behind the orchids, unable to move.
He wondered, stupidly, if Bai Ju had cried that day.
Had he? No. Maybe not.
Had he blamed himself?
Probably.
Had he thought he was not handsome enough? Not talented enough?
Not lucky enough?
From the ballroom, applause rose again, million for dinner.
Millions thrown into the air beneath gold lights while an old wound finally found its owner.
Inside the powder room, a compact snapped shut.
"Come," Su Feiyu said. "We should return before someone interesting does something foolish."
Their heels clicked against the marble.
Mo Fei stepped back, slipping silently into the shadow of the floral display.
Su Feiyu and Luo Jingyi passed. Perfume trailed after them.
They did not see him.
People like him were easy to erase, even when they were standing right there.
Their laughter faded back towards the gala.
Mo Fei remained still.
One hand slowly lowered from the wall.
Slim fingers. Silver rings. A violet cuff.
The ballroom glittered behind him.
The auction continued.
Somewhere out there, Mo Fei's name was being spoken beneath chandeliers. Cameras waited for him. Reporters wanted his smile. Fans screamed for his face. Brands now remembered his number. People who had once stepped over him were suddenly calling him interesting.
But in that quiet corridor, none of it mattered.
Because somewhere inside a body that was not born his, Bai Ju heard the door he had died chasing close all over again.
And this time, he knew who had shut it.