The chaos in the division of artist professions has caused too many vibrant lives to passively become the residue crushed beneath the ever-operating gears of the entertainment industry’s massive machine. Day after day, there are always new, beautiful sacrifices swept in.

“Henry Foster’s dance practice is way too intense today.” Caleb Grant leaned against the wall, panting, unscrewing his thermos filled with fat sea for a drink. “No way, I didn’t warm up my voice properly today, cough cough.” He started goofing around, stretching out his hand with a hoarse voice, “Blake, my voice, what’s wrong with my voice? I’ll never be favored again…”

Helping the captain Samuel Reed with sit-ups, Brian Harris freed one hand to cover his mouth. “Off to the cold palace with you, Grace Grant. Your stamina is too poor to be favored.”

“No way, even Mr. Owen can’t keep up! The two of them are the main dancers, so there’s got to be some comparison, right?” Caleb Grant nudged Logan Brooks with his elbow. “Right, Little Logan?”

“Mm.” With both hands in his hoodie pockets, Logan Brooks responded perfunctorily, gazing from afar at Henry Foster in front of the mirror.

He felt like this person was holding back a force inside.

It was hard to describe. By conventional standards, this person’s appearance could almost be summed up as fragile and soft. Yet he felt that Henry Foster was like a thorn.

A stubborn thorn that would never soften.

This was already the second time—the person before him had sunk deep into the mire of unspoken rules. If the first time could barely be considered a rumor, this time was an aborted transaction that Logan Brooks had witnessed with his own eyes.

What were these people after? Beauty? Youth?

Honestly, he didn’t understand.

Logan Brooks had never been in love—not because he was too young and clueless about feelings, but because he simply wasn’t interested in dating. Just the thought of his heart being entangled by sticky, trivial thoughts made him feel it was a waste. Love, when good, could send someone to heaven; when bad, it was worse than hell.

But they probably didn’t want to fall in love with Henry Foster. These middle-aged men all had families—they just wanted something new.

Physical desire was even more absurd. He could hardly imagine what it felt like to be attracted to a man’s body. Even though he’d grown up abroad, had all kinds of friends, and was quite supportive of minorities, he wasn’t gay and couldn’t understand that kind of craving.

He’d stumbled into two blind spots at once. And yet, Logan Brooks’s way of thinking was different from others—he couldn’t stand vague appearances; he had to think things through.

He tried to find answers in Henry Foster.

“Damn, Henry Foster is crazy. How long has he been practicing non-stop? I’m exhausted—never dancing with a practice maniac again.” Owen Clark came back, hands on his hips, panting. Samuel Reed finished his last sit-up with a smile. “Ah, my stomach is so sore…”

“Let’s go eat, I’m starving~” Caleb Grant tugged at Samuel Reed. “Captain, I want food!”

“It’s about time.” Samuel Reed glanced at his watch and called out to Henry Foster from afar. Only then did Henry Foster stop, gasping, “I’ll go in a bit.”

“Alright.” Everyone knew his personality—he was the one with the most intense practice routine in the whole company, and no one could stop him. Caleb Grant pulled at Logan Brooks, “Come on, Little Logan, today I’ll take you to the company cafeteria for a country-style meal—on my card!”

Who would’ve thought Logan Brooks would go against his usual self and say, “Mr. Caleb, you guys go ahead, I’ll practice a bit more.”

Everyone froze.

Wait, did this guy, who always treated the idol business like a game, just have a change of heart?

Samuel Reed could read the room and smiled, “We’ll go first then, don’t practice so long you miss dinner.”

Even as they reached the cafeteria, Caleb Grant was still worried. “They’re not going to fight, are they?”

“This fight has been a long time coming.” Brian Harris put on a Buddha-like expression, totally at odds with his broken eyebrow. Owen Clark took the chance to snatch the beef brisket from his plate and stuffed it in his mouth. “You know, I think I’ve been brainwashed by those girls online. Now when I look at those two, they just seem like such a pair.”

Caleb Grant picked up an extra-thick potato strip with his chopsticks, looking like a boss smoking a cigar. “Little Henry, and this Little Logan, every day it’s like they’re about to fight any second. Do you think those girls will still ship them after seeing the truth?”

“They will.” Brian Harris calmly used his chopsticks to bat away Owen Clark’s hand as he reached for more.

“Why?” Caleb Grant blinked.

“Just eat.” Samuel Reed wore a knowing smile. “They won’t fight.”

Only two people were left in the practice room. Henry Foster had stopped dancing. After two years, he’d naturally developed the habit of avoiding Logan Brooks to prevent trouble. He pushed his sweaty hair back, revealing a smooth forehead, and got ready to leave.

Seeing the natural hint of red at the corner of his eye, Logan Brooks suddenly remembered the first time he met him.

As a newly-arrived trainee, he’d been brought by Ethan Carter to meet his future teammates—also in this practice room, also in winter. When the door opened, a few boys were practicing the debut song’s choreography. Hearing the noise, everyone turned their heads, except for one guy in a black baseball cap who kept practicing in front of the mirror until Ethan Carter spoke.