Due to a flood of show invitations, Fang Li ended up staying in Hong Kong longer than expected.
While waiting for an award ceremony, Han Jin squeezed in a cameo role for him in a commercial film.
It’s a well-trodden path: actors turn to singing, singers turn to acting—it’s the entertainment industry cycle no matter where you are.
Especially in Hong Kong, where most big-name artists are triple threats in music, television, and film. Plus, the filming schedule in Hong Kong is famously fast—from scriptwriting to casting to post-production and release, a movie might not even take two full months to complete.
Ever since Fang Li’s album exploded in popularity, several Hong Kong directors had sent him scripts—some for leading roles, others for supporting parts. But unlike his natural singing talent, his acting was still rough around the edges. Even in the simple narratives of music videos, his performance was a bit green. Han Jin worried he wouldn’t be able to carry a lead role just yet.
In the end, it was Han Jin who made the call to accept a small supporting role as a trial run.
The movie was called Counterstrike, a cop-and-criminal franchise now filming its third installment. With two films already under its belt, the third was expected to hit both mainland and Hong Kong screens. That was exactly what convinced Han Jin it was worth doing.
The story centered on a powerful criminal syndicate and its deep ties with corrupt police officers—how they built an elaborate system of protection. The first two movies had focused on the internal moles within the police force. The third installment would expose the kingpin behind it all, and how justice fights back from the brink.
The first film had been a box office hit, but the second received a lukewarm response. Now that it was time for the third, the investors were putting on the pressure. The producers and director were both anxious, and when Han Jin—who had a connection with the financiers—pitched Fang Li, the offer was accepted.
That was Fang Li’s first taste of what people meant by “Hong Kong speed.” When Yang Yuecheng told him he’d be doing a quick cameo in a crime film, Fang Li thought he’d just be some rookie cop in the background, holding a gun and striking a few poses—just like he’d seen a hundred times in other Hong Kong flicks. But when he showed up, they told him he’d be playing the big boss behind the crime syndicate.
Fang Li was stunned. “Me? I’m playing that?”
Sure, he had a head and a face, but how did any part of him look like a criminal mastermind?
Seeing his expression, the assistant director clarified, “You’re playing the boss’s son.”
Still, the assistant director couldn’t help but look Fang Li up and down—he looked more like a baby rabbit than the heir to a crime empire. Even if it was just a cameo, how had the director picked him for that?
Fang Li obediently took the script. The boss’s son was named Songpa—that was his role. He flipped through it and finally understood why Han Jin had no problem letting him do it.
The role really wasn’t big. Just a few lines—five or six at most—and his screen time probably didn’t even hit five minutes. Back at the hotel, Fang Li called Qin Weidong.
“Guess what? I’m going to be in a movie…”
“A movie? Since when did you start acting?” Qin Weidong waved his hand, signaling his secretary to leave the room.
“It was my agent’s idea. A lot of singers here don’t just sing… You know that guy, Zhang Hanchen, the big-time star? He does it too. Anyway, it was Brother Jin who arranged it. While we’re waiting for the awards ceremony, he said I should do a quick cameo, get my face out there. The movie will be released in the mainland too.”
Fang Li wasn’t the type to plan things out. Most of the time, he just followed whatever Han Jin, Yang Yuecheng, or his Hong Kong agent arranged for him.
“Guess what kind of role I’m playing?” He dangled his feet off the bed, phone in hand.
Qin Weidong said, “A waiter.”
He only knew Fang Li had once played a waiter in an MV. On the other end of the line, Fang Li shook his head. “Nope. Do I really look like a waiter to you?”
“You don’t,” Qin Weidong replied. “Besides, you’ve never served me.”
At home, Fang Li was like a spoiled young master, still stuck in his old habits—pushing everything onto Qin Weidong, the loyal “long-term servant.” He’d never once made Qin Weidong a cup of coffee, let alone arranged a flower. But in that MV, he’d done it for someone else.
“Why are you so petty?” Fang Li flopped back onto the bed, laughing.
Qin Weidong let out a cold snort.
Fang Li realized he might’ve been in the wrong. Fine, he thought, when I get back, I’ll make him a cup of coffee to make it up to him. “Come on, just guess. What am I playing?”
Qin Weidong said, “A student.”
He honestly couldn’t imagine Fang Li playing anything else.
Fang Li said, “Can’t you be a little more daring?”
Qin Weidong paused for a moment. Even through the phone, his voice dropped a few octaves. “Daring? Like… risqué daring?”
“Absolutely not!”
Fang Li was exasperated. “I promised you, and I meant it! I’m not like you, saying things just to break them later. Can’t you at least think more boldly when it comes to my career? Am I only fit to play waiters and students? I’ll have you know, I’m doing a cop movie—one of those Hong Kong action thrillers we used to watch at home!”
Qin Weidong thought for a second. “You’re playing a cop?”
Fang Li gave a satisfied hum. “Close… but not quite. Keep guessing. I’m almost giving it away.”
Qin Weidong considered it. “A hostage?”
He frowned and added, “Do they have proper safety protocols?”
Fang Li: “…”
He was completely speechless. Then again, if he couldn’t have guessed it, how could he expect Qin Weidong to?
Speaking into the phone, he said, “I play a gangster… No—technically not a gangster. The director cast me as the son of the crime boss pulling the strings behind the scenes. Pretty cool, right?”
Even if the role lasted just five minutes.
Qin Weidong couldn’t quite believe it at first. But once he heard that Fang Li’s scenes were all shot indoors, with only five or six lines of dialogue, he relaxed. In the end, Fang Li even heard him let out a sigh over the phone.
Sometimes, Qin Weidong did regret it—if only, back at the start, he hadn’t supported Fang Li’s passion for music, how different things might be. Then Fang Li would’ve been his alone. But the thought only flashed by. Deep down, he knew that no matter what he had said back then, he would’ve ended up agreeing anyway. He couldn’t bear to see Fang Li unhappy.
After the awards show, Fang Li won the Newcomer Award, and Counterstrike premiered in Hong Kong. The plot was tighter and more cohesive than the second installment, and Fang Li’s performance as the crime boss’s son genuinely stunned moviegoers.
He didn’t have much screen time. His first appearance was a close-up of his hand—long, slender fingers holding a cigarette. Then the camera tilted up, revealing the young master Songpa seated at a gambling table.
A youth with a face like sculpted jade—slender and delicate, yet flanked by four or five towering bodyguards. He tapped the betting chips while listening to a conversation playing from a tape recorder.
In the next scene, he flicked six chips across the floor. The doors burst open, and six traitors, covered in blood, were dragged inside. At his quiet command, they were all shot dead on the spot.
Blood, symbolizing justice, splattered across his perfectly tailored suit. In his final scene, after delivering his lines, Fang Li bowed slightly and stubbed out his cigarette on a pair of bloody hands kneeling before him—portraying the cold cruelty of the criminal underworld in chilling detail.
Despite his limited screen time and few lines, Fang Li left a strong impression thanks to his strikingly refined features and the stark contrast of his role. His cameo was mentioned in numerous viewer letters and film reviews published in magazines.
In April, Qin Weidong had to return to the U.S. for work and went back to New York.
The next time they saw each other was when Qin Weidong returned—not to Jinyang, but directly to Hong Kong. Naturally, Fang Li went to the airport to meet him. They hadn’t seen each other in over two months. What they didn’t expect was to get caught by paparazzi on the ride home.
The next day, a photo of Fang Li kissing a man in a private room at a café near the airport ended up in the hands of his record label’s agent.
At the moment, Fang Li had two agents. One was Yang Yuecheng from Waves, who handled his affairs in mainland China. The other was Huang Yao, assigned to him jointly by PolyGram and Baoyi Records, managing his promotional activities in Hong Kong.
Holding the photo, Huang Yao demanded an explanation. “What the hell is this? Who is that man? What’s your orientation? Do you know what happens if this goes public? Everything you’ve worked so hard for—gone. And that’s not all—you’ll be hit with a massive penalty for breach of contract!”
There’s no such thing as coincidence. Fang Li had been extremely low-key when picking up Qin Weidong that day—covered from head to toe, and the two of them met in a private room at a café just outside the airport. Only the staff went in and out. How could it be such a coincidence that someone had hidden a camera there in advance? If someone hadn’t known Fang Li’s itinerary and deliberately set a trap, it really would’ve been like seeing a ghost.
Sure enough, Huang Yao’s next move was to shove a pile of documents at Fang Li to sign—terms meant to “compensate” the company for its public relations crisis. Among them were absurd clauses stipulating that even Fang Li’s private time had to follow the company’s arrangements.
This kind of thing was common in the entertainment industry at the time. Many up-and-coming young stars, just as they started gaining traction, were “forced” into signing all kinds of dubious contracts for various reasons—many of them ended up being toyed with until they finally took their own lives.
Fang Li had his phone on speaker, and Qin Weidong, listening nearby, frowned and made a call to Han Jin.
Han Jin, who hadn’t even woken up yet, had his heart leap into his throat when the phone rang. Qin Weidong had already warned him long ago, and Han Jin knew exactly who Qin Weidong was. He immediately scrambled to call someone he knew in charge at Baoyi Records. When that person heard what was happening, he was stunned—and more than that, terrified. He’d thought Fang Li was just a docile little newcomer from the mainland. Who would’ve guessed that someone so unassuming had such a powerful backer behind him?
And so, the staged paparazzi ambush vanished without a trace. Fang Li never heard Huang Yao mention it again and even asked Qin Weidong what had happened.
Qin Weidong didn’t say much. Over the past year, he had slowly come to understand something: having a passion in life was rare and precious. He himself didn’t have one. His life—more than twenty years—had been filled with schemes and bloodshed. His mind was always calculating—how to maximize gain.
So, he began to understand, and gradually accept, Fang Li’s love for music and singing. What he could do was keep Fang Li’s world clean—so that he could love what he loved, purely.
Qin Weidong stayed with Fang Li in Hong Kong for half a month.
While Fang Li ran from interview to interview during the day, Qin Weidong stayed at the hotel handling business, working through days and nights. Fang Li knew he was busy, and also knew that Qin Weidong had carved out this time just to be with him. So when the work in Hong Kong wrapped up, Fang Li decided to return to Jinyang.
Baoyi Records tried hard to make him stay. They even offered him a generous contract and reached out to Han Jin to negotiate, promising Fang Li again and again that—If he stayed in Hong Kong for three more years and let the more experienced Baoyi team manage his career, he’d have access to better platforms, resources, and fame than he ever would in Jinyang. But Fang Li politely declined, choosing instead to go home.
He and Qin Weidong had always been the same in this way—their first priority had always been each other. Back then, Qin Weidong had given up the brilliant political future Qin Zhengrong arranged for him without hesitation, to move to the U.S. and start over for their relationship. And Fang Li would do the same. Love—real love—requires mutual understanding. Just because Qin Weidong didn’t say much didn’t mean Fang Li ever forgot.
Whether it was the past, the present, or the future, even if they were to switch places, the choices they made would still be the same.
That was their tacit understanding, their trust, their unshakable belief in each other. They were each other’s most important person. No one else even came close.
Axolotl Translations 
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