The crew members who had gone on holiday trickled back one by one.
Song Yu had been pushing her team to work overtime, racing against the clock to make progress. At this rate, they could wrap up the film just a few days behind schedule.
But man proposes and God disposes. The rainy season, which usually didn’t hit until November, arrived a full month early.
During the rainy season, it poured almost nonstop. Even when the downpours finally let up, the crew couldn’t resume shooting—the original filming locations had been submerged, turned into vast swamps.
The producer back in China grew anxious and started calling every day, hounding them about the weather and demanding updates on progress.
With the crew burning through cash while sitting idle, the investors couldn’t stomach it any longer. They simply halted production, deciding to wait until the rains ended before picking back up.
Deep down, though, everyone knew this film was probably doomed to be scrapped midway.
The actors’ and crew’s contracts ran through the end of November, and most had other projects lined up right after. No one could afford to wait around for this one to restart.
In the final days, a heavy atmosphere hung over the set. Two months of grueling work down the drain—it weighed on everyone’s heart.
Song Yu dipped into her own pocket to hand out generous bonuses to the team. Beyond that, there wasn’t much else she could do. After all, she was just a hired gun for the producer and investors.
Finally, a rare clear day dawned, and everyone hustled to pack up the equipment for departure.
Song Yu slumped in her camp chair, sinking deep into the damp fabric that hadn’t been dry in weeks.
The air hung thick with cloying humidity, stifling and oppressive.
She cradled her camera, her fingertips tapping idly on its body—a restless rhythm betraying her frustration.
A production assistant stood by the walkie-talkie station and called out from afar, “Director Song—phone for you!”
“Don’t take it,” Song Yu snapped, her tone sharp with irritation. It had to be the producer.
She figured she was already being polite by not telling him to get lost.
The assistant shrank back, hesitating. “I-it’s not the producer.”
“…”
Song Yu frowned, lowered her crossed legs, and walked over.
She had just picked up the receiver when a pretentious male voice drawled from the other end, “Hey, Director Song-er.” He dragged out the diminutive “er” playfully, the mockery plain as day.
Song Yu’s head throbbed at the sound. This was worse than the producer.
“Nothing to say? Hanging up.” Her voice was flat, in no mood for chitchat with Xu Zhouxu.
He cut in quickly. “Whoa, whoa, hold on! I heard your film’s tanking?”
Song Yu gave a indifferent hum, barely reacting.
These past few years, the industry had been brutal. Half-finished projects that got canned were a dime a dozen. One more wouldn’t make a difference.
Xu Zhouxu let out a fake sigh, clucking his tongue. “If you hadn’t burned bridges with your family like that, you wouldn’t be stuck directing these iffy indie flicks.”
Song Yu’s face remained impassive, silent.
“So, what do you say? Need a hand?”
“Forget it.” She shot him down without a second thought. “What could you even do? Did your dad finally unfreeze your credit card?”
Xu Zhouxu was one of Song Yu’s oldest cronies from her wild younger days—a true spendthrift playboy. If he claimed to be second at blowing money, no one would dare call themselves first.
He chuckled. “Hey, we could always crowdfund it. Everyone chips in some pocket change, and boom—your film’s saved.”
“Spare me the humiliation,” Song Yu replied. She might hang with that rowdy crew, but she wasn’t desperate enough to beg for scraps over a single movie.
She’d always taken whatever gigs came her way—even schlocky B-movies—without the lofty ideals that burdened some directors, who chased artistic greatness to fulfill their dreams.
Just then, the production assistant approached. “Director Song, what do we do with this gun?”
He held up a prop gun, looking puzzled. They obviously couldn’t take firearms back home.
Song Yu’s gaze settled on the gun.
She took it from him, her thumb caressing the rough, cool grip.
From the phone, Xu Zhouxu’s voice grew distant. “Anyway, hurry back. Without you around, I can’t win a single hand against Zhou Yan.”
Song Yu was only half-listening. “We’ll see. Hanging up now.”
Xu Zhouxu started to protest, but she cut the line without waiting.
She looked up at the opposite riverbank.
Fluffy white clouds drifted by, shaped like a towering cornstalk, with the village nestled below.
Slinging the gun over her shoulder, Song Yu walked upstream along the bank toward the village.
The women sat on blankets in the clearing, but gone was their usual laid-back ease. Everyone fidgeted restlessly, chattering in low voices.
Meyer clutched a naked toddler, who wailed as she wept along with him.
Havana’s face was taut; the crying grated on her. She snatched the child and rocked him, barking at Meyer—clearly ordering her to stop.
“…”
Song Yu had no idea what was going on in the village. Feeling awkward and out of place, she sensed her timing couldn’t be worse.
Havana glanced her way while soothing the child and asked—Song Yu assumed—what she wanted.
Song Yu tried communicating in English. “We’re leaving soon. We have some leftover food. Do you want it?”
Havana launched into a rapid string of words, her tone urgent. Song Yu couldn’t tell if she understood or not.
She scanned the village. Not a single man in sight—no one to translate.
Normally, by this late afternoon hour, it was cooking time, and the hunters should’ve been back.
Song Yu pressed her lips together, wondering if she should just go.
A hoarse female voice came from behind her. “Bam… gone. All… looking.”
The broken English pieced together a barely comprehensible sentence.
Song Yu turned to see the speaker.
The woman looked young—younger than Meyer, maybe eighteen or nineteen—with slightly lighter skin. Song Yu recognized her at once as Kasi, Takwar’s sister.
She’d only met Kasi once, but the girl had left a strong impression.
Her features hit Song Yu’s aesthetic sweet spot: thin eyelids that somehow brimmed with spirit, full lips pressed into a stubborn line.
Yet the villagers seemed to go out of their way to keep Song Yu and Kasi apart—whether during photoshoots or when Takwar had invited her for dinner, Kasi had stayed inside.
Havana spotted Kasi talking to Song Yu and immediately pointed at her, as if shooing her back indoors.
But for some reason, Song Yu sensed Havana feared Kasi a bit. Her scolding lacked the authority she used on Meyer.
Kasi didn’t bicker back like Meyer either. She responded curtly, irritably, and shut Havana down in a few words.
Finally, both turned to Song Yu.
Havana waved her off, explaining—Song Yu gathered—that they couldn’t host her because they were worried about the tribesmen.
Kasi unhooked a quiver from the eaves, slung it on, and said in halting English, “I go… east. You go back. Banana tree… wait.”
Her tone was flat, as if the words carried no emotion or import—just relaying Havana’s message. Her face stayed impassive.
Song Yu blinked in surprise as Kasi headed into the forest on the far side of camp. Havana yelled after her.
Song Yu waited under the banana tree for a bit.
Rustling sounds emerged from the jungle.
“I didn’t think you’d wait,” Kasi said, her voice much lighter than back at camp—like a bird escaping its cage.
Song Yu had her hands in her pockets, leaning lazily against the trunk.
“Were you the one,” she asked bluntly, pausing a beat, “playing love games with Burigude?”
In civilized society, polite terms for their sort of relationship were hard to come by.
And Song Yu hadn’t expected Burigude to seduce someone quite so young, so she improvised with words Kasi might grasp.
Kasi blinked her clear eyes and nodded without hesitation.
It wasn’t hard to guess. The tribe was small; Song Yu had met most of them. And everyone shared a tacit understanding to keep her away from Kasi—clearly wary of something involving Burigude.
“Will he come back?” Kasi asked.
Song Yu fell silent for a moment before answering honestly. “No.”
Kasi’s face fell visibly.
Song Yu silently cursed Burigude in her heart—the bastard, deceiving even a young girl. No wonder he’d taken those arrows.
“Don’t be sad. He’s not a good guy,” she consoled.
Kasi pouted, unhappy. She yanked off a banana leaf and muttered, “He really isn’t. He said he’d take me to São Paulo.” Then he got shot twice by the tribe and bolted.
“I’ve heard of you,” she said, methodically shredding and weaving the leaf. She peeked up at Song Yu. “Burigude talked about you.”
Song Yu arched a brow, her tone casual. “What’d he say?”
“He said you’re lucky. Born into a rich family, bossing him around like a slave. But without your family, you’d be nothing.” Kasi repeated Burigude’s words verbatim.
Song Yu barely reacted, just smiled. “A lot of people think that.”
A distant rumble echoed from the sky as a small airplane, painted red and blue, flew overhead. It stirred up a gust of wind and headed toward the farm.
Kasi’s gaze followed the plane intently until it disappeared into the forest.
“So you’re all leaving?” she asked.
Song Yu offered no reply.
Kasi tilted her head back and gazed up at the woman before her. She wiped her hands on her faded, yellowed cotton skirt. “Can you take me with you?”
Song Yu lowered her eyes, peering into Kasi’s bright, clear pupils. “I’m not like Burigude.”
Her tone was lazy, the words drawling out slowly. “There’s nothing about you that I want.”
She did quite like Kasi’s looks and personality—in her, Song Yu saw a deep-seated rebellion that was utterly fascinating.
But she didn’t possess an overabundance of kindness, nor did she feel any need to invite trouble upon herself.
Kasi was sharp. Both Burigude and Song Yu were merely stepping stones in her bid to enter a different world.
Takwar’s approach was far too slow. And besides, he was only pretending to desire change—what he truly did was preserve the status quo, just to keep the tribe content.
Rejected by Song Yu, Kasi immediately bristled with anger, even though she knew she had no right to demand obedience from a stranger.
And clearly, Song Yu was much harder to fool than that lovesick fool Burigude.
She flung the rope—woven from banana leaves—onto the ground like a child discarding a toy she’d grown bored with. Then she stomped it into the mud twice.
Song Yu glanced at the ruined rope and found the display rather amusing.
Kasi straightened her slightly crooked quiver. “I’m off to find Bam. Goodbye.”
“What’s wrong with Bam?” Song Yu fell into step behind Kasi, heading toward the farm camp.
Bam was Havana’s younger brother, a sturdy young man in his early twenties. The arrow that had struck Burigude had come from his bow.
Kasi’s arms and legs were evenly muscled, her skin a healthy wheat-brown. She leaned slightly forward, her steps quick and urgent, betraying her sulky mood.
Though still fuming, she couldn’t quite explain why she bothered responding to Song Yu at all.
“He went out hunting yesterday and hasn’t come back.”
Kasi halted abruptly and tilted her head to look at her. “You really can’t take me? I can do anything.”
“Don’t you like taking photos of Native Americans? You can photograph whatever you want—even if we’re naked.”
“…” Song Yu was caught off guard for a moment, convinced she’d misheard. “Wh-what?”
“Some tribes are like that. They don’t even wear clothes. Haven’t you seen?” As she spoke, Kasi began hiking up her skirt from the hem upward, heedless of anyone around her.
Song Yu jumped in alarm. “Kasi, stop!”
But the girl, sensing Song Yu’s fear that she might actually strip, rebelled all the more and yanked harder.
In a panic, Song Yu reached out and pressed down on the skirt at Kasi’s waist.
This was maddening.
As the two tugged back and forth, a cold male voice suddenly rang out from behind them.
“What are you doing?”
Song Yu’s back went rigid in an instant. She recognized the voice.
The air around them seemed to freeze for a moment.
Kasi spotted the newcomer and pouted, tugging her skirt back down.
“She wants to take photos. Told me to strip for her,” she said breezily, twisting the facts to paint Song Yu as the scheming seducer of an innocent girl.
Pei Zhi frowned and turned his gaze to Song Yu.
The corner of Song Yu’s mouth twitched uncontrollably. She itched to give the girl a good thrashing.
Slowly, she twisted her head around and met the man’s pitch-black eyes.
It had been nearly a month since the rainy season began. They hadn’t seen each other.
Song Yu noticed that his hair had grown out considerably, with fine black strands scattered across his forehead. Faint stubble shadowed his chin, and his leather boots were caked in mud—as if he’d been trekking through the jungle for hours.
He looked disheveled and unkempt, yet with his eyes narrowed slightly and his thin lips pressed together, there was no trace of weariness. His posture remained perfectly straight.
He carried an elegance that clashed utterly with the rainforest—like a melancholic poet strolling along the Thames in a crisp shirt and gray vest.
Song Yu had never cared for those pretentious intellectuals, the sort who pontificated endlessly with their noses in the air, spectacles perched arrogantly.
The six-pointed star earring dangling from his ear swayed gently, catching the sunlight and flashing a cruciform gleam. His primitive wildness reasserted itself.
Song Yu stared at that cruciform light, and her own agitation inexplicably ebbed away, replaced by calm.
She took a step forward.
Farther from Kasi, closer to the man.
She pouted and murmured, “I didn’t do anything.”
A hint of petulance colored her tone, as if she were washing her hands of it all—believe her or not, she didn’t care.
The man already harbored reservations about her, and after all, he and Kasi were on the same side.
“…” Pei Zhi’s gaze swept over both of them appraisingly.
Kasi kept her head bowed, dodging his eyes. Her hands clutched the hem of her skirt, crumpling it into wrinkles.
In the entire tribe, she was like a pampered child—fearless, acting on every whim.
Yet for some reason, Kasi was especially wary of Pei Zhi. She couldn’t stand those calm, unrippled eyes of his, which seemed to pierce straight through to the truth.
Song Yu wasn’t faring much better. Her young face radiated stubborn defiance; she refused to offer a single word of explanation.
She resembled nothing so much as an immature older sister, wrongly accused by her little sibling and standing mute before the adult. One shoulder rode higher than the other from the weight of her gun, her shirt slipping down to bare half her delicate collarbone, teasingly half-hidden.
After a long silence, Pei Zhi finally spoke.
“Give it to me.”
He held out his hand toward Song Yu. His trek through the rainforest had lodged yellow mud even beneath his nicely rounded nails.
Song Yu thought it absurd. Yet even caked in grime, she found the man’s hand strikingly handsome—long fingers, prominent knuckles.
Reluctantly, she pouted and reached for the camera hanging around her neck, preparing to hand it over for his inspection.
With a casual flick, Pei Zhi’s index finger nudged forward. “The gun. Not the camera.”
“It’s heavy, you know.”
Song Yu looked up, straight into his eyes—clear and fathomless as the sea.
The favored sister beamed with delight.