CHAPTER 41: CHAPTER FORTY-ONE: OPERATION: CHICKENS(4)

Beautiful ladies. Handsome men. The perfect recipe for romance—or so the director believed.

The last and final pair: An Ning and Chen Yiming.

From appearance alone, they looked like the kind of couple the production team dreamed of.

Elegant. Calm. Visually compatible in a way that made the camera sigh in relief.

Unlike the rest, both of them carried a quiet self-possession—neither flustered nor faking ease for the lens.

Where Wu Shiyun screamed, Jiang Shuyue posed, and Sun Qiaolian performed her gentleness, An Ning simply existed. And somehow, that alone shifted the atmosphere.

Chen Yiming, for his part, didn’t seem bothered by the camera or the chaos. His expression remained the same as always—steady, mildly unimpressed, as though nothing in the world could surprise him.

The result was... disconcerting. For everyone else.

Too calm. Too controlled. Almost eerie in contrast to the chaos around them.

Why do they look like they’re negotiating a peace treaty instead of catching chickens?’ one crew member whispered.

"Because they could probably win one," another replied.

An Ning dusted her hands, her tone light but deliberate. "So, Doctor Chen. What’s your professional take on this situation?"

He regarded the coop, then her, then the camera, before answering dryly, "Flight risk."

Her lips curved faintly. "So—containment?"

"Preferably without casualties," he said.

The corners of her mouth lifted a little higher. "You make it sound like a medical emergency."

"It’s not?"

A single chicken clucked indignantly at that, and An Ning exhaled—half amusement, half resignation. "Let’s just get this over with."

[The way they’re bantering like it’s foreplay 😭]

[No chaos, no panic—just dangerous calm. I’m scared and invested.]

[They sound like two professionals who accidentally wandered into a dating show 💀]

Chen Yiming moved first, quiet and efficient. No theatrics, no hesitation. He simply waited for the right moment, then reached forward in one smooth motion.

The chicken barely had time to react before it was secured under his arm.

The camera zoomed in on the shot: his gloved hand steady, his posture composed, An Ning beside him—unruffled, faintly smiling.

It was, objectively speaking, a perfect frame.

Behind the monitor, the director’s eyes lit up. "Now that," he said, nearly breathless, "is what I call chemistry with control."

His assistant side-eyed him. "Or just competence."

"Competence is sexy!" the director hissed. "This is premium romance!"

However, An Ning wasn’t the kind to let a man lead. It wasn’t about pride—just principle.

She had played too many roles before: the elegant actress waiting for rescue, the poised woman letting the man take the spotlight. She’d done it all—and she’d done it well.

But this time, she wasn’t here to perform.

So while Chen Yiming straightened, tucking the chicken neatly into the basket, she stepped forward without missing a beat and reached for the next one.

Chen Yiming simply stood behind her, letting her work instead of stepping in to stop her. It was in his upbringing to respect boundaries—to never interfere unless asked. He’d been taught that real consideration lay not in taking over, but in knowing when to stand aside.

It was a small thing—barely worth noting—but the camera caught it anyway: the quiet, unspoken balance between them.

No interruptions. No guiding hands.

Just space.

An Ning crouched low, eyes following the movement of the next chicken. Her hand shot out—clean, decisive—and within seconds, she had it.

She straightened, brushing off her palms as if it were nothing. "Two for two," she said.

Chen Yiming’s mouth curved slightly. "Impressive."

"Of course."

An Ning smiled then—bright, unhurried, and utterly self-assured.

It wasn’t the practiced smile of an actress courting the camera, but something warmer—alive. Confidence gleamed through her like sunlight through glass, effortless and steady. For a moment, she didn’t just catch the light—she became it.

It wasn’t showmanship; it was presence.

The camera lingered, catching that precise instant: the easy tilt of her head, the faint glimmer in her eyes, the curve of her lips that seemed to say I know exactly what I’m doing.

[The way she just glowed?? 🔥]

[Confidence. Charisma. Command. The holy trinity 😭]

[She’s not smiling for the camera—the camera’s smiling for her 😭💅]

The audience could already sense it—the unshakable calm, the balance.

If anything, An Ning and Chen Yiming would’ve made the perfect couple—on paper.

Poised. Intelligent. Beautiful. Balanced.

But that was precisely the problem.

They were too similar. Too steady. Too self-contained to spark.

The air between them shimmered with composure, not heat. The kind of chemistry that made viewers sigh in admiration, not anticipation.

Because in truth, they understood each other too well.

Both measured. Both observant. Both the kind who would rather watch than chase.

And when two people mirrored each other that perfectly—

they didn’t fall in love. They simply recognised themselves.

If anything, they were too alike to ever be each other’s top choice.

*****

Behind the monitor, the director let out a long, reverent sigh. "Now that’s refinement. Subtlety. Emotional restraint!"

His assistant gave him a side-eye. "That’s not restraint, sir. That’s mutual disinterest."

The director blinked, momentarily offended. "What? No, no, this is the kind of mature chemistry that modern audiences crave."

"Mature chemistry?" the assistant repeated. "They look like they’re about to co-author a thesis, not fall in love."

The director ignored him, scribbling furiously in his notebook:

Pair Four – Perfect synergy. Zero chaos. Negative tension. Possibly too stable. Manufacture spark next episode.

He capped his pen with a satisfied click. "See? Every show needs contrast. We’ve had comedy, drama, and now—emotional serenity."

"Or," the assistant muttered, "we’ve just filmed two people being politely competent."

The director grinned, unbothered. "Exactly! Polite competence—very on-trend."

He turned back to the monitor, sighing contentedly. "Operation: Chickens—complete success."

"Success?" the assistant asked dryly. "Half the cast screamed, one used her partner as a shield, and two bonded over trauma."

"Ratings gold," the director said without missing a beat.

Feathers drifted lazily through the air as the director leaned back, satisfied.

The day’s chaos might have ended—but the real drama, An Ning suspected, was only beginning.