The production team asked, “How did you feel about today’s date?”
Tong Sui replied, “……”
How could they even ask such a thing?
“I feel like I need the next anti-fraud app,” Tong Sui said. “Or some legal assistance.”
Everyone in the interview room laughed.
Tong Sui’s serious tone paired with his innocent face was just too cute.
The production team didn’t mean to crowd so many people in; who knew they would all come up with their own ways to create a full table for mahjong?
The production team then asked, “So, what are your thoughts on the room swap?”
Tong Sui didn’t answer directly. Instead, he countered, “This room distribution isn’t the final result, right? You should still be looking for opportunities to do it a few more times.”
The production team went silent.
They felt guilty.
Indeed, this time the room allocations were not fixed, and even the number of beds was uncertain; their plans were much broader than Tong Sui had imagined.
The production team wasn’t going to disclose this to Tong Sui and instead moved to the next question, pulling out his mailbox.
Inside were still four pieces of letter paper.
The production team asked, “Many guests like you, do you worry that the letters might decrease in the future?”
After all, not getting a response for a long time could be quite hurtful; ordinary people wouldn’t choose to hang themselves on the same tree, let alone guests who didn’t lack admirers in everyday life.
Most people would respond to this question modestly, saying things like “The number of letters doesn’t matter, as long as everyone can find someone they like.”
But the well-behaved Tong Sui on camera shook his head.
“I don’t think it will decrease.”
He looked too innocent; even if he gave a response like a playboy, it wouldn’t seem strange. Instead, it would evoke a peculiar psychology that a beautiful treasure should be favored by everyone.
The comments flooded in with agreement:
— After all, who can escape the charm of Sui Bao?
— He’s so confident, I really love it.
— If someone else said it, I’d think it was generic, but this is Tong Sui!
— There’s no way the letters will decrease; I can tell that Zhong Yi has long been unable to resist, just pretending to be tough.
After Tong Sui’s interview, Zhong Yi entered the interview room.
Having gone a few days without receiving letter paper, he had become accustomed to it, lazily sitting on a high stool while yawning.
“Let’s hurry up.”
Although he wasn’t eager to see Chi Xingyu, it was better than being questioned here like a criminal.
When the staff brought out the mailbox, Zhong Yi opened it impatiently.
Inside lay a single piece of neatly folded letter paper.
Zhong Yi’s eyes widened; he didn’t even dare to touch the sacred note. “Are you sure it’s for me? You must have grabbed it wrong.”
The production team responded, “No, it’s yours.”
This was impossible.
Zhong Yi took out the perfectly folded letter paper, and even someone who normally wouldn’t blink while spending several million felt his hands tremble slightly when unfolding it.
He didn’t even understand why he was so excited, quietly praying for a certain name, like a gambler eagerly anticipating the results.
The paper simply read:
— Thank you for being my co-pilot.
The handwriting was neat, and a slightly crooked smiley face accompanied the end of the sentence.
Zhong Yi immediately imagined Tong Sui’s smiling face, with his eyes bending into arcs and a hint of a dimple at the corner of his mouth when he smiled.
Tong Sui wrote him a letter.
Zhong Yi felt a rush of excitement at the sudden good news: why didn’t he write to anyone else, only to him?
Wasn’t this a love letter?
Did this mean Tong Sui had feelings for him too?
Zhong Yi’s heart raced faster; he shifted from his previous lazy demeanor, repeatedly looking at the letter, feeling more excited than winning the jackpot.
The production team was speechless.
What if this letter was just chosen randomly by Tong Sui? Would he go crazy?
Zhong Yi asked, “Can I write a letter now?”
His letters had all been blank for the past few days, and today was no different because he consistently adhered to the principle of “only writing to his partner.”
His way of doing things was rather inflexible.
No one expected that it would take just one letter to bring him down.
The production team said, “Sorry, the deadline for letter submission has already passed. You can only wait until tomorrow to submit.”
Zhong Yi suddenly felt regret.
The Zhong family principle was that their loved ones shouldn’t suffer even a bit of grievance; even in a relationship, one must take the initiative.
Zhong Yi said, “Can I take this piece of letter paper with me?”
The production team replied, “Take it with you?”
That was indeed a novel request.
Zhong Yi confirmed, “Yes, I want to bring it back and keep it.”
They hadn’t heard wrong; Zhong Yi had used the term “keep,” but it was just an ordinary piece of letter paper.
Zhong Yi had seen his fair share of artwork.
But for him, that paper was more precious than any collection at that moment.
This request was reasonable, so the production team agreed.
Zhong Yi then returned to his room with the letter paper.
In the room, Chi Xingyu was too bored, propped up on his arms watching a drama.
The show was currently the hottest romantic comedy, with the leads deeply entwined, while Chi Xingyu yawned in boredom.
This couldn’t be blamed on him; he had never experienced the sensation of kissing.
At that moment, the door opened.
Chi Xingyu glanced over disinterestedly, probably as empty-handed as himself, but then he suddenly froze.
Zhong Yi was holding letter paper?
Chi Xingyu frowned, his mind racing through countless possibilities, all of which he dismissed one by one.
Who would write a letter to Zhong Yi for no reason at all?
Their relationship wasn’t great; Zhong Yi entered without greeting him, pretending not to see Chi Xingyu as he started looking for things.