CHAPTER 40: CHAPTER FORTY: OPERATION: CHICKENS(3)

If the first two pairs had delivered chaos and comedy, the third promised something else entirely—it almost had what the director wanted.

The fluttering moments, the stolen glances, and—was that, perhaps, a faint blush?

From behind the monitor, the director leaned in, eyes gleaming.

"Finally," he whispered, "romance!"

If An Ning had been standing beside the director, she would have scoffed outright.

Romance? Between Sun Qiaolian and Zhou Zhenyu? That’s practically impossible.

An Ning almost laughed. The only thing romantic about them was how efficiently Sun Qiaolian managed to direct the camera’s attention.

In the original timeline, she remembered the second week of the dating show vividly—when the lineup expanded to five men and five women.

To solidify her image as the nice woman—all caring tones and sweet smiles—Sun Qiaolian had made use of Zhou Zhenyu.

She had cast admiring glances at him, listened attentively, and laughed at all the right moments.

Every move was precise, perfectly measured—never too forward, never too cold. Even her laughter had timing—half a second after his joke, just long enough to sound genuine.

To the audience, she was the picture of warmth: the kind of woman who made you believe she’d bake cookies for the entire crew after filming.

And Zhou Zhenyu, polite and straightforward as he was, had played right into it.

An Ning could still recall the bewildered look on his face later—when Sun Qiaolian, all soft smiles and gentle apologies, announced her sudden "realisation" that her heart actually belonged to Shen Xiyu.

She’d called Zhou Zhenyu dependable.

A good man.

The kind you could always rely on—like an older brother.

Just not romance material.

And that, An Ning remembered, had been the polite version.

Because what the cameras didn’t show—what the audience never saw—was how thoroughly Zhou Zhenyu had been played.

Back then, he had genuinely liked her.

Not the kind of grand, sweeping affection that made headlines—but a quiet admiration. Sun Qiaolian had praised him often, listened when he spoke, and smiled at him like he was someone worth hearing.

For a man like Zhou Zhenyu—straightforward, grounded, and unused to that kind of attention—it was disarming. He’d thought she saw him.

But it turned out, she only needed him.

Every smile had been a setup; every soft word, a step toward crafting her image as the kind, gentle "good woman."

By the time the truth became clear, it was too late. The audience adored her, and Zhou Zhenyu—poor Zhou Zhenyu—was left standing in the edit as the loyal, slightly foolish man who "misunderstood her kindness."

And so when the same pairing reappeared now, framed under golden sunlight instead of studio lights, it felt almost like déjà vu—only crueler.

The kind who loved too seriously.

The kind who never quite got the girl.

After that, he’d never been quite the same.

And now, seeing him beside Sun Qiaolian again, facing the same smiles, the same soft tone. An Ning almost felt bad for him.

Almost. After all, he didn’t deserve to be played like a fool.

Behind the monitor, the director sat forward, practically vibrating with excitement.

"Now this," he whispered, clutching his headset like it was sacred scripture, "this is what I’ve been waiting for."

His assistant glanced at the screen, unimpressed. "They’re just talking."

"Exactly!" the director said, grinning. "Quiet tension. Subtle chemistry. Mutual understanding born from hardship."

The assistant squinted. "You mean... trauma bonding?"

"Semantics," the director said breezily, jotting something down in his notebook.

He muttered as he wrote:

Pair Three – Reserved, emotionally layered, slow-burn potential. Possible sparks pending eye contact.

The assistant peered at the monitor again. Zhou Zhenyu was standing beside Sun Qiaolian, sleeves rolled up neatly, posture impeccable, calm as ever—until the chicken darted past his legs.

With practiced precision, he caught it one-handed—steady, clean, efficient.

Sun Qiaolian clapped softly, eyes bright with admiration. "You’re really good at this, Zhou Zhenyu. I didn’t expect it."

He froze just a fraction—barely perceptible—but the camera caught it.

A slight tilt of his head. A faint tightening of his jaw.

And, if one looked close enough—

The faintest flush, rising just behind his ears—a tiny betrayal the camera would never miss.

"See that?" the director said, stabbing a finger toward the monitor. "That’s it! The shyness! The restraint! The slow burn has begun!

The assistant stared flatly. "Or it’s just the sun."

"Optimism, my friend," the director said, scribbling furiously again. "Possible emotional breakthrough in progress."

Across the field, An Ning folded her arms, expression unreadable as she watched the two of them.

For a brief moment, she wondered if Zhou Zhenyu would repeat the same mistake—or if this time, the script would change.

To the cameras, it looked like a tender moment.

But to her—it looked like history quietly trying to repeat itself.

Sun Qiaolian stood there, sunlight painting her profile in soft gold, her voice lilting and sweet. "I really admire that about you, Zhenyu. You’re calm no matter what happens."

The words were simple—ordinary, even—but they were exactly the kind of line that had once made headlines. She could almost hear the digital applause again, that chorus of approval flooding the screen.

Back then, the comments had been full of praise for her:

[She’s so genuine 🥺]

[Their chemistry feels real!]

[You can tell she truly respects him 😍]

But An Ning had seen enough to know that every carefully chosen phrase was a performance.

And right now, she could almost see the mental script scrolling behind Sun Qiaolian’s smile.

Zhou Zhenyu didn’t reply immediately. He adjusted his grip on the chicken, his tone even. "It’s just basic reflexes."

The camera zoomed in, searching for a flicker of emotion—and found one. Just a trace, small but undeniable: that same faint redness at the edge of his ears.

Sun Qiaolian’s gaze softened, her expression pure enough to melt glaciers. "Still," she said gently, "I’m glad you’re here. I’d probably still be chasing feathers otherwise."

"Of course," he said politely, voice steady. "Happy to help."

But this time, his eyes didn’t linger. He turned away first.

Behind the monitor, the director let out a quiet gasp. "Did you see that? The tension! The restraint! The unsaid feelings!"

His assistant, without looking up, said, "He’s just trying not to get pecked."

The director ignored him completely, already scribbling:

Pair Three – Strong potential. Mutual awareness. Emotional depth pending confession scene.

Across the field, An Ning smiled faintly.

If the director wanted romance, he’d get it. But whether it was real—or just another performance under perfect lighting—remained to be seen.