Chu Zhi's study looked exactly like one should. It was small—just fifty square meters—but every wall except the one with the door was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves. The room held at least two thousand books.
"Where should we start exploring first?" Pang Pu asked.
The camera swept the space. Jelly, ever attentive to the livestream chat, zoomed in on the books stacked near the desk. Following viewer requests, the two hosts picked up titles one by one: The Round Hole, Flickering in Black and White, Selected Poems of Li Si IV, Selected Poems of Poundrus...
All famous collections in this world—but none of them existed on Earth. Chu Zhi had planted them deliberately, as breadcrumbs.
Still, he gave nothing away. His secret identity as an online poet would stay hidden for now. It wasn't time yet.
"Teacher Chu, you really love poetry, huh? You've even made notes in them," Pang Pu said, flipping through a few.
"Just some random thoughts after reading. Nothing worth keeping," Chu Zhi replied casually.
As Pang Pu continued the tour, he came across more objects—each carefully placed, each chosen with purpose. Chu Zhi had been meticulous. There were no family photos, no old heirlooms, nothing that screamed "tragic backstory." Just enough to keep things intimate, never exploitative.
Among the findings were newspaper clippings. All of them were negative reviews. The original Chu Zhi had cut out criticisms of himself and pasted them into his diary. He had wanted to improve—though he rarely did. Chu Zhi admired that part of the past self he had inherited. If it had been him from the beginning, he might never have read those reviews at all.
He offered answers calmly, while secretly commending himself for choosing restraint. If he had really wanted sympathy, it would have been easy to leave out something heartbreaking. But he didn't. Not this time.
"Why isn't there the usual fan-service moment?" Pang Pu thought for a second, then nodded inwardly. The music room earlier had already delivered plenty of emotion. There was no need to push further.
Comments flowed through the livestream like a river:
"Ninth Brother loves studying, poetry, and life!"
"Check the cabinet under the desk!"
"Where's the fan letter segment? We want to see it!"
"Ah-Jiu is the best!"
No one noticed Wei Tongzi's serious expression.
She wasn't here for a light-hearted tour. She was searching.
She had thought hard that morning and come to a conclusion. Chu Zhi likely didn't want anyone to know he was struggling. But she believed fans had a right to see the truth. They deserved to know. Their Ninth Brother shouldn't have to carry everything alone.
"The best Ninth Brother deserves to be protected by us, his Little Fruits," she told herself.
Then her eyes landed on something odd.
"Hmm? What's that up there?" she murmured.
On the top shelf, half-hidden behind books, was a cardboard box—about the size of a basketball, maybe a little larger. Just enough space to hide a few tennis balls. It didn't match the rest of the decor.
She didn't hesitate.
Grabbing a stool, she climbed up, reached out, and carefully pulled the box down. Two books tumbled to the floor with a loud thud.
The noise snapped Pang Pu and Chu Zhi out of their conversation.
Though this show encouraged free-form exploration, climbing furniture was still pushing it.
"Tongtong, at least try to be a little more graceful," Pang Pu muttered. "And in front of your idol, no less. What did you find? Childhood toys?"
He glanced sideways at Chu Zhi. If there was any sign of discomfort, he would immediately steer the topic away.
But Chu Zhi's face remained calm. Neutral. So Pang Pu gave Jelly the signal to keep filming.
"Probably just some old songs that didn't make it into the album," Chu Zhi said lightly.
Wei Tongzi opened the box.
Two sheets of music sat neatly inside. She pulled out the first. The title read Light Falling Into My Life. Warm, hopeful lyrics:
[You are a beam of light falling into my world,
Rushing toward me, making all things grow…]
She smiled. It was beautiful.
Then she saw the second sheet.
Her eyes stopped.
The title: You Are Not Truly Happy
She couldn't read sheet music. Couldn't hear the melody in her mind. But the lyrics were clear—and heavy.
She read them aloud, her voice low.
"Crying in the crowd, You just want to fade into transparency.
You'll never dream again,Or feel pain,Or heartbeat.
You've already decided,
You endure in silence, Gripping yesterday tightly in your fist…"
Her voice wavered. Then, softer:
"You are not truly happy, Your smile is just a disguise you wear.
You've decided not to hate ,And not to love anymore,
Locking your soul away In an eternal shell…"
A cold silence fell over the room.
Was that gentle smile he wore every day just a mask?
Pang Pu thought differently. As a host—and a man—his first instinct was, "Why didn't this make it onto the album? The lyrics are great." But he didn't speak.
Then Wei Tongzi noticed it.
Beneath the sheet music was a folded document.
Her stomach dropped as she unfolded it.
A medical report. Shanghai Mental Health Center.
Jelly zoomed in automatically.
Name: Chu Zhi
Date: August 15, 2019
Department: Psychological Consultation & Outpatient Clinic
Chief Complaints: Headaches, auditory/visual hallucinations, insomnia with persistent nightmares, severe depressive symptoms with strong suicidal ideation.
Diagnosis: Severe depressive disorder, moderate anxiety disorder.
Treatment Plan: Weekly therapy, antidepressants, sedatives. Monitor liver function and heart activity. Emergency return if symptoms worsen.
There was no mistaking what this meant.
And under that—one last item.
A note.
Two short lines, scrawled by hand:
[I'm sorry. I don't think I can hold on anymore. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.
I was never kept by anyone. I never had a secret marriage. Please believe me. Please.]
The diagnosis, the medication still left in the box—there was no need to guess what this letter was.
A suicide note.
Those two crushing words slammed into everyone's minds. Wei Tongzi and Jelly temporarily lost the ability to think, while even the usually unflappable Pang Pu was struck speechless.
The once-bustling livestream chat fell eerily quiet. The medical report and suicide note had been clearly displayed through the camera, leaving not just fans but even casual viewers suffocated under the weight of the revelation.