The airport terminal hummed with the constant murmur of announcements and the shuffle of countless footsteps. Lin Qingyan sat in the backseat of the taxi, his gaze fixed on the smartphone screen in his hand, where a storm of vitriolic comments scrolled endlessly:
"Lin Qingyan condones his fans' chaotic crowding at the airport, not only disrupting public order but also knocking down a pregnant woman who had to be rushed to the hospital."
"Ugh, I feel sick every time his name trends. I hope the mother and baby are okay—otherwise, this is no different from manslaughter!"
"Like idol, like fans—they're all trash. Lin Gou should get out of the entertainment industry!"
"Last month, he used a scene as an excuse to slap An Nanyi hard across the face. Our Nannan's cheek was swollen, yet she still smiled and said it was fine. How shameless can he be for not even apologizing!"
"The entertainment industry's is too low—just any nobody can get in? Someone like this uneducated dropout should go back to school!"
"Heard his father served time in prison. What a terrifying family—they shouldn't be allowed to pollute the public eye!"
"Please, just get out of showbiz!"
"If I were Lin Qingyan, I'd be too ashamed to show my face. What a thick skin!"
"Ugh, just get lost already!"
"Sir, we've arrived at the airport." The driver's rough voice cut through Lin Qingyan's daze. He murmured a word of thanks, pulling the brim of his cap lower to shield half his face before stepping out into the blinding afternoon sun, his lean figure hunched over his suitcase.
His long strides were hurried, the grip on his luggage handle so tight that the veins on his pale hands stood out in sharp relief, his free hand clenched into a trembling fist. Despite the baseball cap and face mask, he feared recognition at every step, plagued by the phantom of scornful stares and echoing jeers: "Lin Qingyan, get out of the entertainment industry!" "How do you still have the nerve to live?"
A self-deprecating smile curled the corners of his lips beneath the mask. He quickened his pace, only to collide sharply with a figure in his path. The impact sent him sprawling to the ground, his suitcase toppling beside him.
He didn't flinch, even as the fall jarred his bones—he dared not invite more attention. As he pushed himself up, a broad, elegant hand extended before him, its long, well-defined fingers curving in a silent offer of help.
"Pardon me for knocking you down. Allow me to help you up." The voice was low, magnetic, its calm tone laced with subtle gentleness.
Lin Qingyan glanced up, momentarily stunned by the man's striking appearance—even in an industry saturated with beauty, this man's features stood out with arresting clarity. There was a faint familiarity, though he couldn't place it amid his frayed nerves.
He muttered a quiet "It's fine," pushing himself to his feet without assistance, then hurried away with his suitcase, head bowed. The man stood motionless, watching the retreating figure, a flicker of unusual emotion in his deep, tranquil eyes, as if lost in thought.