That night, Shen Qingyu vomited in the bathroom — not because of fear, but because some words were knives that found old wounds with terrifying accuracy. He washed his face with cold water and looked at himself in the mirror, at the pale skin and red lips and eyes too calm to look normal, and for a moment he remembered the fever dream from two years ago: the black waves, the cracked mirror, the phrase hot potato. His fingers tightened around the sink. No. It was not prophecy, not fate, only a dream. This was only public opinion. Public opinion could be handled. Evidence could be found. The truth could be clarified. He told himself that. Then the third day came.

On the third day, brands began hesitating. One endorsement paused negotiations, a magazine delayed the release of his cover, and two scripts that had been verbally offered suddenly needed further internal discussion. Fang Yao fought with the company's PR department until her voice went hoarse, but Xingchen Entertainment was not a charity — they had signed Shen Qingyu because he was valuable, and now that value had become risk. At noon, Shen Qingyu was called to the company. The conference room was bright and cold, and several executives sat across from him while Fang Yao sat beside him with an ugly expression. One executive spoke gently: "Qingyu, the company knows you have been wronged in some aspects." Some aspects. Shen Qingyu looked at him. The executive continued: "But the current public reaction is too intense. Your image has become controversial, and the company has to consider overall losses." Fang Yao said coldly, "He just won Best Actor. You want to abandon him because of baseless rumours?" Another executive frowned. "Fang Yao, this is not about abandonment. It is risk control." "Risk control?" Fang Yao laughed. "Then control the risk — investigate the accounts, sue the rumour spreaders, clarify the timeline." "The issue is that public emotion has already formed."

Shen Qingyu suddenly smiled, and everyone looked at him. "So the truth is slower than emotion?" The room became quiet, and no one answered, because again the answer was obvious. The meeting ended without a conclusion, but everyone knew there was already one. That evening, Xingchen released a statement saying Shen Qingyu's work arrangements would be temporarily suspended pending internal review. Temporarily. Internal review. Clean words, and a clean knife.

On the fourth day, Shen Qingyu's name became a curse. His award speech was mocked, his film scenes were re-edited into sarcastic videos, and people who had cried for his character in The Silent River now said his acting had always looked fake. The same restraint they once praised became arrogance, the same coldness they once called powerful became viciousness, and the same beauty they once admired became evidence of a rotten heart. He looks like he would bully people. Exactly — that face is too aggressive. A proud Omega like him must be unbearable in real life. Shen Jianing has never said a bad word about him — that makes it more believable. People who are truly hurt don't need to shout.

Shen Qingyu read that last comment for a long time and then turned off his phone. People who are truly hurt don't need to shout — how convenient. If he stayed silent, he was guilty. If he defended himself, he was shouting. If Shen Jianing cried quietly, he was truly hurt. If Shen Qingyu bled quietly, he was cold. That night, Fang Yao came to his apartment and brought food. Shen Qingyu had not eaten all day. He opened the door and looked at her, and she stepped inside, placed the food on the table, and said, "Eat first." "I'm not hungry." "I didn't ask." Shen Qingyu looked at her. Fang Yao's eyes were red — not from crying, but from anger. "The company is preparing termination papers." Shen Qingyu was silent. Fang Yao clenched her jaw. "I'm sorry." Shen Qingyu lowered his eyes. "Why are you apologising?" "I brought you in." "You also taught me." "That's not enough."

Shen Qingyu looked at the food on the table, and after a while he said, "Teacher Fang, if you continue standing with me, they will blame you too." Fang Yao's expression changed. "Shen Qingyu." He looked up, and his voice was calm — too calm. "I know how this works." Fang Yao wanted to scold him, wanted to tell him not to act so understanding, wanted to say that eighteen-year-olds should be allowed to panic, to cry, to ask adults for help. But Shen Qingyu sat there with the stillness of someone who had already learned not to expect rescue, and in the end Fang Yao only said hoarsely, "Eat." This time, Shen Qingyu picked up the chopsticks. He ate half the meal, and then he could not swallow anymore.

On the fifth day, Xingchen Entertainment cancelled his contract. The official statement was polite and final: Due to differences in future development plans, Xingchen Entertainment and Mr. Shen Qingyu have ended their contractual relationship peacefully. Peacefully. At the same time, several brands removed his materials, his upcoming interviews were cancelled, and his name was taken off project rumours. An entertainment blogger summarised it neatly: Five days ago, Shen Qingyu was the youngest Omega film emperor. Five days later, he is the industry's hottest potato. Hot potato — the words from the fever dream returned, and this time Shen Qingyu did not tremble. He sat alone in his apartment and watched the rain fall outside, thin cold lines sliding down the glass. His eighteenth birthday would arrive at midnight. There was no cake, no candles, no banquet, no family call, no agency team, and no congratulatory messages that mattered. His trophy stood on the desk reflecting the dim light, and for a moment Shen Qingyu looked at it and thought of the stage, the applause, the bright lights, the weight in his hands. I will continue acting. He had said that, and only five days ago he had believed it. He reached out and touched the trophy. The metal was cold. At eleven forty, he stood, took a coat, and left the apartment.