Mad Dog

Lin Lan entered July, and the heat became increasingly oppressive.
The milk tea in Jiang Qi’s hand warmed from icy to lukewarm as it accompanied the prolonged, tender kiss between the two. When the kiss ended, Zhi Qi, still dazed, bit the straw and found the strawberry milk tea had turned tepid.
Even the fingers intertwined between them were slick with a thin layer of sweat.
Zhi Qi lowered her head, a bit shy, and smiled as she bit her lip: “Let’s go home.”
Jiang Qi chuckled lightly, the jealousy that had flared from the deep kiss dissipating completely. His long hand grasped the girl’s thin shoulder, leading her home.
The slanting rays of the setting sun cast long shadows of the two figures—like a couple blessed by the gods.
*In the secluded corners, there were too many romantic secrets.
In their early twenties, the young couple, in the hottest of weathers, expressed their love fervently and without reservation.
Yet beneath the surface of their tender feelings, a tide of anxiety stirred.
But the job search felt like a bottomless pit, with a thick vine entangling his feet, dragging him into the abyss of despair.
Inside that darkness were bitterness, hopelessness, emptiness, and numbness. If he were pulled down, it would truly be over for him.
Anxious, Jiang Qi went to the Fifth Hospital, seeking his former attending physician, Liu Yong, to ask him to increase his medication dosage.
He feared losing control over his emotions; he could clearly feel that he had not been well recently and could only rely on medication to suppress it.
Even if the medication was becoming too much for his nearly depleted funds, Jiang Qi had to do this—he couldn’t disappoint Zhi Qi again.
For a moment, he even questioned whether rejecting Shen Lei’s proposal had been right or wrong. He feared that returning to the entertainment industry would cause him to lose himself again, but now, with nothing to do, cooped up at home, wasn’t he already lost?
As he left the hospital under the scorching sun, his mind was consumed by this question.
As if resonating with his thoughts, his phone, resting in his pocket, rang incessantly on the way back. Distracted, he didn’t notice it was an unknown number and answered it absentmindedly.
The voice on the other end surprised him: “Is this Jiang Qi? I’m Qu Heng.”
Jiang Qi halted, his body stiffening at the subway station entrance. It seemed the cool air from the underground alleviated his previously boiling emotions, a trace of chill rising behind him.
“I got your number from Lao Shen,” Qu Heng continued, his voice as refined and calm as ever, laced with an unnoticeable grievance from their past tensions. “Do you have a moment to talk?”
Jiang Qi tightened his grip on the phone, and after a pause, he responded quietly, “Go ahead.”
However, Qu Heng’s first question was rather blunt: “I’d like to know, how much does a mechanic earn in a month?”
“…” Qu Heng, a well-known director, wouldn’t deliberately call to mock him, would he? Jiang Qi furrowed his brow slightly and, after considering, answered honestly: “The base salary is four thousand.”
“Four thousand?” The man on the other end laughed, his intent straightforward as he continued, “How many years do you think it would take to earn enough for a movie’s salary at that pay?”
Jiang Qi fell silent, his hand at his side clenching unconsciously.
“Come back.”
Qu Heng’s invitation was firm: “Finish filming ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ and I’ll pay you the original fee.”
At the time they signed the contract for “Pride and Prejudice,” Jiang Qi’s salary was in the seven-figure range.
“Director Qu.” Jiang Qi lowered his gaze, emotions swirling in his eyes. “You could find a better lead actor.”
“No, I can’t,” Qu Heng immediately refuted, asking in return, “Do you remember? We’ve already completed half of the film’s shooting?”
Jiang Qi was taken aback, his thoughts drawn back to the winter over half a year ago—“Pride and Prejudice” had been filmed in Jiangwu for more than half a month, and they had almost completed half of the script content.
“The footage from that half is exceptional, yet I’ve been the only one to appreciate it; it’s such a shame,” Qu Heng sighed. “Jiang Qi, I won’t hide it from you. I’ve polished the script for two years and nearly scoured the entire entertainment industry before choosing you. I plan to submit this film to the three major film festival competitions; I can’t change the cast.”
“Pride and Prejudice” carried his hopes and dreams, and Qu Heng really didn’t want to give up on it, which is why he was making this call today, reaching out to Jiang Qi, whom he had once felt so bitterly toward.
Qu Heng had a premonition that if “Pride and Prejudice” could be successfully completed, it would become the most successful work of his career.
So Jiang Qi stopped talking, unsure of what else to say.
After all, he did feel guilty about this matter—while leaving the entertainment industry didn’t weigh on him, being the reason “Pride and Prejudice” faced abandonment, he truly felt like the main culprit.
Now Qu Heng had come humbly to invite him; if he were to decisively say ‘no,’ Jiang Qi really couldn’t do it.
No matter how indifferent he appeared on the outside, he was, at heart, a grateful person, so he could only say he would think about it.
Qu Heng’s invitation was hard to refuse, and on the other hand, he truly… truly…
Jiang Qi’s mind was a mess as he stood there, dazed for a while. He then turned, not choosing the road home but instead heading in the opposite direction toward the seafood market.
When Zhi Qi opened the door to their home that evening, the aroma of seafood wafted through the air.
Her eyes lit up, and as she took off her shoes, she asked, “Jiang Qi? Did you cook seafood?”
The tall, slender figure of the boy emerged from the kitchen, carrying dishes, replying lightly with a hum.
Zhi Qi rushed to the table, only to find that not only had Jiang Qi made seafood, but he had prepared a ‘seafood feast’—sliced crabs, halved and posed with claws raised on the plate, the crab roe glistening and nearly overflowing. The fresh red shrimp, drizzled with garlic and chili, sat atop a layer of vermicelli, while thick slices of salmon rested on ice in a large glass dish, emitting wisps of cold steam. The steaming sea urchin custard beside it contrasted beautifully with the coldness, with a couple of drops of seafood soy sauce glistening atop the oily egg liquid, an aroma that made one’s fingers itch to dig in…
As a very picky eater, Zhi Qi couldn’t help but cup Jiang Qi’s face in her hands, excitedly giving him a peck.
Just like a little bird pecking at food, so delicate and charming.
With that simple ‘peck,’ Jiang Qi felt that the effort he had put in all afternoon was worth it.
In truth, he didn’t have high standards for food, whatever was available was fine, but he knew everything Zhi Qi liked and disliked. She hated many vegetables—celery, leeks, carrots—except for the flavorful carrot shreds in fish-flavored shredded pork. She liked beef but disliked lamb, only enjoying it when hot pot cooking; otherwise, she found it too gamey. There were many such details.
Moreover, Zhi Qi liked seafood but didn’t like to peel it herself, and he knew that too.
So whenever they had seafood, Jiang Qi would always take the initiative to ‘serve’ her, peeling crabs and shrimp, even getting rid of fish bones to serve her clean pieces… Some might think Zhi Qi was too spoiled, but Jiang Qi was more than happy to do it.
She had been pampered and cared for like this for over twenty years, and now that she was with him, he naturally had to treat her even better.
As a result, Zhi Qi undoubtedly overindulged.
After the meal, she looked down at her once-flat belly, which now seemed slightly swollen, and couldn’t help but pout: “Jiang Qi, you’ve made me fat.”
Since moving in together, it was the first time she had surpassed ninety pounds! When Zhi Qi weighed herself earlier, she nearly doubted her life—after all, there’s no girl who doesn’t care about her weight.
“It’s fine to be a bit heavier,” Jiang Qi replied with a light smile while clearing the table. “You were too thin before.”
Every time he held her, he felt she was so thin she could be easily broken, so fragile.
Now, as Zhi Qi claimed to have ‘gained weight,’ it felt the same when he embraced her.
That night, as they lay in bed, Jiang Qi held the girl close, gently patting her back like a child, yet the words he had tried to voice all night long remained unspoken.
His long hand, as he patted her, couldn’t help but grip her shoulder, playing with the strap of her nightgown.
Zhi Qi’s slender shoulders were soft and full of
tender flesh, and she couldn’t help but laugh, playfully kicking his calf: “What are you doing?”
Jiang Qi fell silent and leaned in to press his lips against her.
But just before he could kiss her, the girl’s soft hand covered his mouth.
Meeting the boy’s puzzled gaze, Zhi Qi lay back on the bed, her chestnut long hair spread across the bed, her pale face illuminated by the moonlight, serene and gentle.
“Jiang Qi,” she asked softly, “is there something on your mind? You seem a bit off tonight.”
Sure enough, the one who understood him best in the world was Zhi Qi.
His every move, his restlessness, couldn’t escape her watchful eyes.
Jiang Qi lowered his gaze, gently kissing the palm of her hand, then lifted her, letting the petite girl sit on him.
“Director Qu called me today.” The boy’s slender chin rested on Zhi Qi’s shoulder, his voice low and whispery, slipping into her ear: “He wants me to come back and finish filming ‘Pride and Prejudice.’”
Zhi Qi paused, turning to look into Jiang Qi’s obscure eyes on his high nose bridge, blinking: “And what about you? What are your plans?”
Jiang Qi shook his head, honestly saying, “I don’t know.”
“You should know this; I can’t make the decision for you, but I will support your choice.” Zhi Qi smiled, her small, soft hand grasping his long fingers: “Actually, I know you’ve always regretted dragging down the film, right? This invitation is giving you a chance to make amends.”
Though she said so… Jiang Qi closed his eyes: “I’m afraid I won’t do well.”
Indeed, as Zhi Qi pointed out, he wanted to rectify his mistake.
But every time he recalled the uncontrollable pathology he had in Chen Kong Hutong, he became timid, fearing he wouldn’t do well.
What if he failed again?
Wouldn’t that hurt the crew and Qu Heng even more? It would only make him seem even more irresponsible.
“Jiang Qi, what are you afraid of? You’re the fearless madman,” Zhi Qi raised an eyebrow, tugging at his face: “As long as you want to do it, there’s nothing you can’t accomplish.”
And this indecision wasn’t suitable for Jiang Qi.
“Actually, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Zhi Qi leaned closer to the boy and whispered in his ear: “You’re naturally suited for the camera; you shine when you’re in front of it.”
Whether it was acting in films or modeling for magazines, Jiang Qi possessed an innate charm that attracted attention.
Occasionally, Zhi Qi wondered if it was too regrettable for him to leave the entertainment industry.
For the audience and for himself, it felt like a ‘loss,’ yet now he had another chance to choose.
Due to his favorable conditions, Jiang Qi had many opportunities to choose from.
But even with numerous chances, he couldn’t shake off repeated rejections. As he lay down to sleep, Zhi Qi noticed his continued silence and, half-asleep, crawled up to his ear to give her final reminder—
“Whatever you decide, I’ll respect your choice.”
She merely felt Jiang Qi was suited for the big screen and didn’t mean to force him back. After saying this, Zhi Qi couldn’t help but turn and fall asleep.
The curtains in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows in their bedroom remained unpulled, and through the moonlight streaming in, Jiang Qi quietly watched the girl’s peaceful, lovely sleeping face for a while, unable to resist leaning down to kiss her gently.
He kissed the corner of her lips along with the moonlight.
Zhi Qi’s words felt like she would always be his strongest support.
The boy’s restless heart suddenly became calm and bright.
Jiang Qi gently got out of bed, took his phone, and walked to the living room balcony.
At half-past eleven, those involved in the entertainment industry probably wouldn’t be sleeping. Jiang Qi looked at Qu Heng’s number, saved in his contacts this afternoon, and dialed it.
As he waited through the ‘beep, beep’ of the ringing tone, Jiang Qi suddenly felt that those people were right; he had always had a lingering thought of wanting to return. He just couldn’t break through that last mental barrier—and now, Zhi Qi had helped him ‘break’ it.
Otherwise, he wouldn’t have saved Qu Heng’s number.
As the waiting tone abruptly stopped, the call connected, and Qu Heng’s voice on the other end carried a hint of restrained excitement: “Jiang Qi?”
“Director Qu, I apologize for my irresponsibility before, and also…” Jiang Qi paused, speaking firmly, “I accept your suggestion and will come back to finish filming ‘Pride and Prejudice.’”
After he finished speaking, Jiang Qi vaguely heard the sound of glass breaking on the other end.
Accompanied by Qu Heng’s exuberant voice: “Are you serious? You better not be fooling me.”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.” Jiang Qi absentmindedly played with an unlit cigarette between his fingers: “But I have one request.”
Qu Heng hurriedly replied: “Go ahead.”
“I will finish filming ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and will cooperate with all promotional activities, but…”
Jiang Qi said softly, “I don’t want a salary.”
His decision to return was to fulfill his obligations and take responsibility for his past mistakes.
As for the salary, he felt he had no face to ask for it again.