“Everyone, being able to come to this stage and meet you is truly, truly wonderful for me. Your voices and your support are the most precious gifts to me.”

Then he put down the microphone, cupped his hands around his mouth, tilted his head back, and shouted with all his might, relying solely on his own voice.

“Thank you all—”

Screams erupted, and many girls excitedly held up light boards engraved with Chris Bolton's name, crying and shouting back at him.

“Thank you too, Chris.”

“Chris is the best!”

“Chris, I’ll love you forever!”

Chris Bolton took a deep breath and bowed deeply to the audience.

Perhaps after today, the darkness would separate them, but at this very moment, he was endlessly grateful to have met these lovely people.

Backstage, a staff member’s expression changed as he looked at the ticket data.

He turned and shouted anxiously, “Boss, Chris Bolton’s numbers can’t be suppressed anymore!”

The producer hurried over, squinting at the screen, and finally let out a heavy sigh.

Originally, Chris Bolton’s real vote count was already in the top three, higher than many who were secretly buying votes. Now he was shooting straight to first place. He had top-notch talent and looks, enormous potential, and if they really promoted him, reaching the very top wouldn’t just be a dream.

The interests represented by a truly talented top star are astonishing—who would willingly turn down money?

“If we can’t suppress it, then don’t.”

On stage, just as he was getting up, Chris Bolton suddenly blacked out, his body slowly falling forward. Before losing consciousness, he heard his teammates’ worried cries.

“Chris Bolton!”

In 2022, 24-year-old Chris Bolton died suddenly on the stage he loved most, like a shooting star falling before dawn.

……

“When you take Little Grace to class tomorrow, take him to that new steamed rice roll place. He likes it.”

“Okay.”

“Remember to add an extra egg. Dancing practice is tiring—he needs the nutrition.”

The soft conversation made Chris Bolton groggily open his eyes. He was lying on a warm, soft bed, and a man and a woman were sitting at the bedside, quietly talking about things related to him.

They were both very good-looking—the man tall and handsome, the woman gentle and graceful.

At that moment, memories flooded back, and Chris Bolton’s mind cleared. He recognized his family: his stepfather Ian Foster and his biological mother Grace Bolton.

With his parents’ gentle murmurs in the background, Chris Bolton drifted back to sleep, feeling at peace.

He thought he was having a wonderful dream.

Until the next day, when the covers were pulled off, Chris Bolton was yanked up by his ear by his own mother and, still bewildered, was dragged into the bathroom. Looking in the mirror at the child who was at most twelve years old, he finally showed a look of terror.

A height of less than 1.6 meters, a soft, childish voice that hadn’t changed, and black hair that had never been dyed or permed—all of it pointed to one fact.

Outside the door, his mother was packing a schoolbag for Deborah Foster—right, Deborah Foster was Chris Bolton’s younger brother.

Grace Bolton and Ian Foster were a remarried couple. After divorcing her abusive ex-husband while Chris Bolton was still a baby, Grace Bolton met Ian Foster. Ian Foster came from a good family, but in order to marry Grace Bolton, a divorced woman with a child, he broke with his own family and eloped with her back to his hometown in Northeast China.

In Chris Bolton’s memory, they first worked odd jobs, then borrowed money to open a small restaurant. When life was finally getting better, they had a younger brother, three years younger than him, whom their mother—fond of Greek mythology—named Deborah Foster.

His stepfather was a good man. Even after having a son with his mother, he still doted on Chris Bolton, doing everything he could to send him to the best elementary school in the city. When he discovered Chris Bolton’s artistic talent, he sent him to study vocal music and ballet.

One weekend, the couple picked up Deborah Foster from violin class and were about to pick up Chris Bolton from ballet. That day, they had planned to go ice skating at the mall, but a sudden car accident took their lives, leaving Chris Bolton all alone from then on.

Chris Bolton walked out of his room and saw his parents busy in the kitchen, and Deborah Foster sitting at the table eating buns. He finally snapped back to reality.

Nine-year-old Deborah Foster saw Chris Bolton, his similarly slender phoenix eyes lighting up. He waved at Chris Bolton.

“Chris, come eat shumai. The shumai from this place is really good.”

Chris Bolton slowly sat down next to him and took a sip of soy milk. Deborah Foster started nagging him again: “Bro, my back is itchy, can you scratch it for me?”

Chris Bolton: “It’s been itchy for so long, why didn’t you ask Mom to scratch it?”

Deborah Foster looked aggrieved: “She and Dad are kissing, I don’t dare bother them.”

Chris Bolton silently scratched his back a few times. Deborah Foster finally felt comfortable and immediately peeled a boiled egg for his brother.

In the warm, heated room, with his little brother’s silly grin… all of it made Chris Bolton feel dazed.

He looked at the calendar.

It was January 2, 2010, 7:25 a.m.—there were 3 hours and 20 minutes left until he would lose this warm family.

Chris Bolton made a decision: no matter if this was a dream or not, when he went downstairs today, he couldn’t just walk—he had to tumble down.

Not only did he have to tumble, he had to do it with style and force—at the very least, he needed to sprain his ankle. That way, he wouldn’t have to go to ballet class, and his family wouldn’t be on the road to pick him up, only to be sent to the afterlife by a drunk truck driver.