Chapter 216: I Performed Well

Yang Yi stared for a long time; the air was terrifyingly silent.

It was dusk; the sunset on the horizon blazed red-orange, casting over the surrounding trees and villas as if draped in blood.

“Prohibit any form of investigative inquiry: never press for details of her past she does not voluntarily mention. Prohibit speed coercion: any attempt to accelerate the relationship’s progression will render all prior efforts void…” Yang Yi read slowly, her tone calm to the point of suppression, “Why don’t you follow these two rules?”

Chris merely gazed at her, murmuring a faint self-derision: “I stopped wanting to.”

Yang Yi continued reading.

[When the target experiences an artistic resonance beyond utilitarianism, their defensive level drops significantly.] Below this line were suggested topics—her own years-old comments on a niche Nordic film, written on a literary discussion board. Chris’s first long conversation with her centered on that very film.

[Core Strategy 4.1: ‘Never directly request. Must make her feel she independently discovered you, and offers care out of a savior’s mindset.’] She recalled how, when they spoke of his failed debut film “Afternoon,” he had shown vulnerability: “...These experiences aren’t worth mentioning, are they?... Do you think I’m putting on a show, whining for attention?”

She had indeed offered care. How had she answered? “...I’ve always believed pain cannot be compared... one can only feel one’s own pain.”

Yang Yi looked at Chris, her gaze carrying an unusual scrutiny and estrangement—no trace left of her former shyness or gentleness.

Chris had never seen her like this; she had never once faced him with this expression.

He remembered the CIA’s analysis of her: “Once she detects manipulation, her reaction will not be anger, but cold, complete self-withdrawal and detachment—irreversible by apology or compensation.”

He had memorized every word of these analyses—initially out of resentful coercion, later out of deliberate study and recitation.

From then on, he could no longer tell which performances were for the mission, and which were genuine.

So she truly had this side—but she had never shown it to him before.

He realized: once, her attitude toward him had been unique—he had been her treasure, her lover, the perfect mirror she projected onto. But from now on, he was an enemy, an insignificant insect, even trash.

“When did the CIA approach you? When did you become their spy?” she asked again, voice steady, tone devoid of mockery, only cold factuality.

Yet this extreme calm made his heart sink deeper and deeper, as if falling to some abyss where he could no longer sense his own body.

Chris met her gaze.

Her eyes did not waver; they were calm, as if stripped of all emotional interference.

Even though Chris was unparalleled at sensing others’ emotions, from her now he felt only an ancient, endless void.

“At that filming location, you saved me—the scene was captured on surveillance. A few days later, they found me and proposed cooperation.”

Chris spoke numbly, his soul seemingly scattered into the air, leaving only a shell seated on the sofa, answering on instinct: “They said if I got close to you and gave them information about you, I could demand anything in return.”

“And then?” Yang Yi pressed, her eyes never leaving his expression.

“I refused,” Chris continued. “A day later, I received an email with surveillance photos of my family—my mother, my sister, my nephew, and my father... My agent suddenly called: the several films I’d just signed on to were suddenly changing leads; projects I’d invested in suddenly collapsed; several companies under my name were suddenly audited for tax violations... No matter where I was—home or out—I was constantly watched...”

“After you dealt with the Fire Demon, the day before the Jinshan banquet, they found me and gave me some documents.” He looked at the CIA intelligence on the screen.

Yang Yi’s gaze fixed on the screen.

The air fell utterly silent; the blood-red sunset slowly dimmed, and the gray-blue night drew its curtain.

Yang Yi stared blankly at the computer screen, thinking coldly: What a flawless performance—he never won Best Actor? The Oscar judges must be blind.

At this moment, all emotion seemed to retreat behind the scenes; only reason guided her feelings and actions.

“Do they direct every word and gesture of yours?” Yang Yi tapped the screen.

“No, they only offer suggestions—I improvise,” Chris said, his face expressionless, then suddenly smiled. He looked at Yang Yi: “I performed well, didn’t I?” He tilted his head up in mockery.

Looking at that impossibly handsome face and those deep, ocean-like eyes, Yang Yi still could not tell whether this was acting or sincerity.

But she would not ask. From now on, she would doubt every action and word of his.