Volume One, Chapter Eight: The Death of the Dancer (Part 1)

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Being belittled by him every day, my heart was filled with endless bitterness. Later, the only way I could think to cope was to shamelessly flatter and appease him. Thus, the phrase “Master, yes, yes…” became a frequent refrain on my lips.

Why call him “Master”? Because one day, when Old Cui lashed out at me again with harsh words, I inadvertently called him “Master” several times. The tough Northeasterner immediately flushed, then patiently guided me on how I should behave.

Whenever this happened, I seemed to catch a glimpse of the little dark-circle-dwelling demon inside me sneering disdainfully. Occasionally, she would even come out and spar verbally with Old Cui, igniting a fiery clash between us.

At those moments, I believed Old Cui could truly empathize with my world—a scorching sensation of ice and fire, a body inhabited simultaneously by an angel and a demon.

However, this tense, high-strung relationship did not last long before being eclipsed by the stirrings of “romantic fate.”

My best friend Xiao Liao messaged me on WeChat, saying she wanted to set me up with a boyfriend to help this thirty-year-old singleton find love.

Regarding dating, my mood was one of intermittent anxiety.

As a person who identifies as bisexual, finding a partner in everyday life was undeniably difficult. When anxious, I’d scroll through dating websites—actions that helped soothe my nerves, regardless of the outcome.

When the anxiety subsided, the quest for a relationship would fall by the wayside.

The thought of entering a relationship stirred both hope and a measure of panic. Xiao Liao had introduced me to others before, but I’d always declined, citing work busyness. This time, after her repeated urging, I obediently went to meet the match at the Starbucks in Guangfu Shopping Mall.

Standing at the Starbucks entrance, I compared the man in the photo my friend sent with the chairs outside. Seeing no one, I pushed the door open and scanned inside—still no sign of Lin Chi, my blind date.

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Trusting my instincts as a criminal investigator, I fixed my gaze on a young man sitting at the third table outside. Matching him again with the photo, the facial features aligned.

He appeared more plain and rough than in the picture, wearing a worn baseball cap, a dull black sports jacket, casual home-style athletic shorts, and slippers. His height looked about 1.68 to 1.7 meters.

In short, a very ordinary guy, whose indifferent attire only lowered his score in my mind.

Still, I took a seat, because my friend had emphasized on WeChat, “He plays the violin,” which piqued my curiosity.

It turned out my detective instincts were sharp.

I approached and greeted him. He remained motionless in his chair, his eyes showing little emotion, only a slight awkward downward glance.

After an hour or two of conversation, my impression of him improved significantly.

He offered insightful views on many topics and exuded a rebellious charm. His passion and skill in music were genuine, compensating greatly for his unremarkable appearance.

I learned more: he was 34, worked in IT at a large company, owned a home, and earned a decent income. Deep down, he dreamed of a career in music but, constrained by reality, treated it as a hobby.

We didn’t decide anything that day. Our interactions continued mostly online, with occasional meals together.

He was, in many ways, my ideal type, and lately, I found myself paying extra attention to my looks—trying light makeup and sometimes wearing skirts after work. Gazing at my reflection, I saw a delicate, rosy, and clear face that stirred gentle ripples in my heart.

Colleagues had remarked on my severe dark circles before and worried about my health. Now that they had completely disappeared, my confidence in my appearance grew, making conversations with him much more relaxed.

We maintained moderate contact but never defined our relationship. The reason was simple: I hoped he would take the initiative to push things forward; from his side, there was a response but also a detached restraint, a strange blend of compliance and inhibition.

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My best friend, however, was impatient—always eager to know the progress between us. Dissatisfied with the pace, she often shared dating tips, hoping I would win him over quickly.

After more than three months, suddenly our relationship cooled; he stopped replying, and any messages I sent vanished into silence.

Confused and unsettled, my heart churned with anxiety, frustration, doubt, and shame.

Just as I was thinking about asking my friend to reach out to him, a message popped up on my phone:

The principal dancer of the city’s theater troupe, Ke Beibei, had committed suicide by jumping off a building.

This news jolted my inexperienced, love-stricken mind awake. I hurried online to read the detailed reports.

Whenever a celebrity’s major news breaks, all manner of sensationalists emerge. Some social media accounts and short videos dug up scandalous rumors, confidently guessing she was “entangled in a love affair, leading to her suicide,” or “had a fallout with her manager, causing career setbacks.” Various psychologists, both prominent and obscure, weighed in on her family background and its possible influence on her death.

In short, the death of a renowned dancer became a media frenzy.

I read an official report: at 6 a.m., several early risers noticed a woman sitting on the edge of a rooftop in an unfinished building. Alarmed, they called the police. Before officers arrived, she jumped. When police reached the scene, all was over. The deceased was confirmed as dancer Ke Beibei.

Ke Beibei, once glamorous in life, looked tragic in death. Photos of her final appearance were banned online. Her body was claimed by her boyfriend and placed in a hospital morgue, awaiting her family’s arrival to make arrangements.

Flipping through the news, I held onto hope and opened Lin Chi’s WeChat. After nearly two or three weeks of silence, he finally posted a new update—a pitch-black photo with the caption: “Life really has no meaning anymore.”