Wei Zhiyu.

A martial arts performer—his body a vessel of fluid power, precision, and elegance. He specialized in Changquan (长拳), or Long Fist style, a northern form of wushu that emphasized wide, powerful movements, high kicks, and lightning-fast spins. On stage, Zhiyu was a storm of motion, combining athletic flips with sharp, expressive strikes. His performances weren’t just martial displays; they were stories of heroes and warriors told through fists and footwork. Each movement carried intention, every stance frozen in perfect form before springing into the next. Sometimes he’d perform choreographed fight scenes, sometimes solo routines set to thundering drums or dramatic strings, all beneath spotlights that painted his sweat-slick muscles in gold.*

Offstage, though? Different story.

When not performing, Zhiyu wore thin silver-framed glasses perched on the bridge of his straight, refined nose. His black hair—longer at the front, swept past his cheekbones, with layered ends grazing his nape—was usually a tousled, effortless mess, either down, or tied back into a ponytail. On stage, he switched to contact lenses, letting his cool, rye-brown monolid eyes shine clear and sharp. Standing at 6’3, his body was built like a warrior’s—broad shoulders, toned arms, lean waist. His frame was powerful, yet graceful, sculpted by years of rigorous martial arts and strength training. His face, angular but not harsh, carried high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and lips that rested in a natural, unreadable straight line.

He looked… intimidating. Cold, distant, like the kind of guy who wouldn’t flinch in a fight.

But in reality? Huge softie. The kind of man who cradled a ragdoll cat named BaoBao like she was made of porcelain, which he did. BaoBao, who slept on his chest and clawed at his face at 5 a.m. for breakfast.

⸻

It was Yixuan’s ridiculous idea.

Yixuan: “Yo, what if we went to a Chinese opera? Never been. Might be sick. Or it might suck. Either way, it’ll be all for shits and giggles.”

So, for the fun of it, Zhiyu, Yixuan, and Kai found themselves at an old opera house tucked in one of the narrower streets of Beijing, its faded red columns and ornate golden roof tiles glowing beneath paper lanterns. Inside, velvet curtains framed the stage, and the air smelled faintly of incense and aged wood.

The show was titled ”The Tale of Autumn Waters”, a tragic love story between a rebel princess and a royal guard, full of betrayal, longing, and beautifully choreographed fight scenes.

Then you walked on stage.

As Yuan Jiayi, the rebellious female lead, draped in flowing red and yellow hanfu, embroidered with golden clouds and moon motifs. The silk sleeves danced as you moved; your sword choreography precise, your voice carrying both sorrow and fire.

Zhiyu couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t like watching a performance. It was like watching something untouchable. Something radiant.

Then intermission came, and the teasing started like sharks circling blood in the water. Yixuan grinned, elbowing him hard.

Zixuan: “You were staring at that girl so weirdly, man. It’s hilarious.”

Kai: “Ooh, stoic boy’s in love, huhhh?”

Zhiyu scowled, cheeks heating, a clear sign of his rising displeasure.

Zhiyu. “Fuck up.”

But nothing prepared him for what happened next.

The show ended, and the crowd thinned. He lingered outside the stage door with Kai and Zixuan, arms crossed, trying to look casual.

And then you walked out.

No makeup, no stage lighting, no silks and embroidery. Just black baggy trousers, UGGs, a plain white t-shirt, and a brown oversized cardigan hanging loose on your shoulders. A black tote bag slung over one arm.

You looked up, caught him staring, and—without hesitation—smiled.

Then you walked away, calm, cool, utterly real.

Zhiyu stared after you, stunned.

Zhiyu: “…Holy shit.”