Chapter 1: Cheng Jia’s Journey Through Desire and Doubt
When the grandfather clock in the living room chimed, Cheng Jia was in the darkroom, carefully moving photo paper back and forth in a tray of developing water with tweezers.
Under the red rippling water, a beggar eating biscuits by the roadside gradually emerged on the white paper, the Huangpu River and the Oriental Pearl Tower forming the backdrop.
The bell reminded her she had been locked in the darkroom for three hours. Yet satisfaction eluded her.
Dropping the tweezers, she looked at the dozen or so photos drying on the wall. Under the reddish glow, the images showed countless worlds—people, still lifes, landscapes, cities.
She pursed her lips and exhaled deeply.
It’s all garbage.
Frustrated, Cheng Jia tore the photos from the wall, shredded them, and stuffed them into the trash can.
She stormed out, slammed the door, grabbed a cigarette and Zippo lighter from the coffee table, lit it, and inhaled deeply.
Through the smoke, her eyes fell on the hollow glass cabinet in the living room, filled with trophies—gold-plated and glass, including the Dubai Hamdan International Photography Gold Award, Sony World Photography Award, Global Chinese Photography Award, and Hasselblad International… too many to list.
301 days. 301 days without producing a work that satisfied her.
Bottleneck? Talent exhaustion?
She squinted, realizing she had subconsciously bitten the cigarette butt into pieces.
Dr. Fang had once said women who chew thin tubular objects have exceptionally strong sexual desire.
Cheng Jia sneered and checked her phone. A message from an hour ago from “Gao Eight Pack Abs” read: Are you coming today?
Gao—her acquaintance, a men’s underwear model with broad shoulders, narrow waist, bulging abs, smooth legs, and a noticeable bulge in his white briefs.
Cheng Jia half-closed her eyes, exhaled a long puff of smoke, and typed: Why not?
After her shower, wrapped in a bath towel, her phone rang. It was Dr. Fang, and she put it on hands-free.
“Cheng Jia?”
“Um?”
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a shower, getting ready for bed.” She pulled out a piece of black lace underwear from the closet.
“…I thought I heard the closet door open. Are you going out?”
“No, looking for something to wear tomorrow.”
Her body was porcelain-white, slender, with full breasts and a narrow waist. Below, a small, neat triangle of shaved black hair. The transparent lace barely covered her, smooth and taut over her curves.
On the other end, Dr. Fang sounded skeptical: “Cheng Jia, you haven’t been to me for a week.”
“I’ve been in great shape lately.”
She lifted her ankle, showing the black snake tattoo, then revealed a black backless long dress.
“Did you take any satisfactory photos this week?”
“No.” (Truth.)
“Ever feel frustrated and want to tear something?”
“No.” (Lie.)
“Had sex this week?”
“No.” (Truth.)
“Without yourself…?”
“No.” (Lie.)
“Made plans to hang out with friends?”
“No.” (Truth.)
“Still seek excitement?”
“…What kind of excitement?”
“Mental and physical.”
“No.” (Lie.)
Her long skirt hugged her figure, revealing a smooth, elegant back. She tied her hair into a bun with an ox-hair hairpin. Black is cool, dark, and she owned it.
“That’s good,” Dr. Fang said. “Seems your symptoms have improved.”
Cheng Jia drew her eyebrows in front of the mirror, barely listening to him. Cold and distant by nature, she wasn’t used to his intrusive concern. Her mother had married her fourth husband—Fang Yan’s father—two years ago, making Fang Yan her stepsister. They were not close.
Later, chatting with her sisters:
“Hey, I met a friend. She has no stable relationship but luck with men. Others think she’s being played, but she thinks she’s playing.”
Cheng Jia applied lip gloss and responded slowly, a faint, cold smile on her lips: “Really?”
“Yeah. I’m curious how she handles the strange looks from others.”
Cheng Jia finished her makeup. “Fang Yan, I’m going to sleep.”
“Rest early. Come to my place tomorrow. I need to confirm your condition; I can’t explain to Mom otherwise.”
“I understand.”
She hung up impatiently, packed her camera and lenses, grabbed a box of condoms, slipped into high heels, and left.
The city lights shimmered as the early summer breeze burned against her skin. She rang the doorbell. Ten seconds later, it opened.
The man, towel around his waist, chest damp, hair dripping, smiled at her. He pulled her inside.
“Exercising again?” She ran her fingers along his abs.
He tensed proudly. “This will be the best you’ve ever seen.”
Cheng Jia glanced at him, smiling faintly. “I’ll see better ones in the future.”
“You won’t.” He hugged her, kissed her neck.
They had met half a year ago in a photo studio—her, the photographer; him, a model in tight white briefs, strong and lithe. She observed him like a sculpture. He noticed her cold, sharp, unforgettable gaze.
They had no other topics than cameras and poses. Yet they understood each other perfectly.
An hour later, in high heels, she lay on the bed smoking, scrolling through black-and-white photos—intimate, entangled, distant, strange—capturing forbidden beauty.
Gao Jiayuan, who didn’t smoke, watched her hazy profile.
“You’re always like this.”
“What?”
“After smoking, you…”
“Opens up the Ren and Du meridians,” she said faintly.
About to leave, he called, “Don’t leave. Stay with me tonight.”
“Come on,” she replied.
He offered midnight snacks. The rice wine dumplings were delicious.
“You can do this?” she asked.
“Do you think I’m lazy?”
“With your figure, no need,” she teased.
He smiled, “I filmed a role that required it.”
She raised her eyebrows, hooked her chin, inspected him. “Good face. Popular actors envy this.”
“Maybe I’ll be a star,” he said.
“Congratulations,” she replied.
Gao Jiayuan hesitated, about to speak of their future. Cheng Jia froze, then the phone rang—it was Fang Yan’s message.
She saw the text: Are you asleep? Do you have time to meet tomorrow?
“Female?”
“Yeah. Not jealous, are you?”
“Spare tire?”
“No, I don’t like her.”
“Does she like you?”
“Yes.”
“Pursuing you?”
“Um.”
“When did it start?”
“High school classmates…”
“Ever slept with her?”
“Of course not!”
“She’s looking for marriage; I won’t take advantage.”
Cheng Jia stayed silent, then said, “I’m leaving.”
She drove aimlessly through the city, cold wind rushing in. Gao Jiayuan’s unfinished words, Fang Yan’s texts, the year’s events, and the lifeless photos crowded her mind.
She realized she had lost every joy she could chase—spiritual, sexual, worldly, vain. Her brilliant life was empty.
Suddenly, she spotted a faint golden light in the darkness—a billboard divided into three vertical strips, depicting blue skies, the golden Gobi, poplar forests, green grasslands, snow-capped mountains, blue lakes, and running animals.
A powerful brushstroke ran across the panels: Qiangtang – Hoh Xil – Altun.
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