Soccer: If they're using these kinds of cheats, what's the point of training?

"I'm not entirely sure."

"The most talked-about player in Ligue 1 in the last decade, without a doubt," Jason said. "A Chinese man, eighteen years old, who scored twelve goals in four games, averaging three goals per game."

He was being targeted by Real Madrid, Barcelona, ​​AC Milan, and Manchester United at the same time. And—" he paused, "he managed to sleep with four women in one night, and the next day he was still able to score four goals on the field."

Mark whistled.

"This story is exciting enough on its own." Jason closed his notebook. "But what I want to dig into isn't 'how good he is,' but rather—what exactly makes him so good."

"What do you mean?"

"Why would four highly educated women in the arts willingly go home with him? Just because of his face? Just because of his body?" Jason shook his head. "There must be something else involved. I'm going to find those four women and dig everything out of them."

The plane took off.

The lights of London outside the porthole gradually shrank and eventually disappeared beneath the clouds.

Jason leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

He had already obtained basic information about the four women through his informant—a photographer, a dancer, a painter, and an art history student, each more cultured and from more prestigious families than the last.

These four women are not nightclub girls or party girls. They are the cream of the crop in Paris's arts and culture scene.

And they were all taken away by the same Chinese player on the same night.

Jason had been a paparazzi for twenty years and had never encountered such an unbelievable topic.

He was determined to uncover the story behind this.

Jason Wilson and his partner Mark Thompson arrived in Paris at 11 p.m.

The two dragged their suitcases out of Charles de Gaulle Airport and took a taxi straight to a hotel in the sixth arrondissement.

Outside the car window, the Parisian nightscape became blurred in the rain, and the halos of streetlights spread out in circles, like some kind of hypnotic signal.

Jason was not sleepy.

He opened his laptop in his hotel room and carefully reviewed the information sent by his informant.

Camille Dupont, 24, is a freelance photographer.

Her father is Philippe Dupont, a presenter on France 2 television. Her most recent exhibition was last autumn, featuring a series of photographs titled "Paris at Night."

Information provided by the informant shows that the day after the party, she posted a status on social media: "Last night was the happiest night I've had in a while." The accompanying picture was of a glass of red wine and a blurry night view.

Eloise Martin, 23, is a modern dancer.

She danced at the Paris Opera for two years and now runs her own dance studio.

Her social media is full of dance videos from the studio, showcasing her incredible flexibility. The day after the party, she posted a status update: "No class today, I need to rest." The accompanying picture was a completely black image.

Clara Lefebvre, 22 years old, painter.

Born into a wealthy winemaking family in southern France, she is very low-key. She rarely updates her social media, and it took considerable effort for informants to find her contact information.

Manon Romain, 21 years old, is an art history student at the École Normale Supérieure in Paris.

Her father was a professor at the Sorbonne University, and her mother was a lawyer. She was the youngest and most educated of the four women.

Jason stared at the information on these four people, finding it increasingly unbelievable.

A photographer, a dancer, a painter, and an art history student.

These weren't just randomly picked up on the street; they were carefully selected.

He didn't rush to contact them.

After so many years in this industry, he has learned one thing—the best interviews are not about you going to people, but about people coming to you.

The next morning, he contacted Camille's father, Philippe Dupont, through an informant.

After the call was connected, Jason introduced himself and got straight to the point: "Mr. DuPont, I am Jason Wilson, a reporter from The Sun."

I would like to interview your daughter about her relationship with that arrogant... person. We can pay a generous interview fee.

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

"The Sun?" Philippe Dupont's voice held a hint of doubt. "From England?"

"Yes."

"Who is my daughter with? What's Zhang's name? What happened? How do you know about this?"

“We have our sources of information.” Jason’s tone was polite. “Mr. DuPont, I won’t beat around the bush. Your daughter’s relationship with Zhang Kuang is now an open secret.”

Instead of letting gossip websites and social media spread misinformation, let's conduct a formal, full interview. We will respect your daughter and the facts.

Another silence followed.

"How much?" Philip DuPont asked.

"Fifty thousand euros."

silence.

"Seventy thousand," Philip DuPont said.

"make a deal."

-

The interview took place in a suite at a hotel in the 16th arrondissement of Paris.

Jason arrived an hour early and checked the lighting, recording equipment, and camera angles. Mark set up the tripod, took a few test shots, and adjusted the aperture and shutter speed.

Camille arrived ten minutes late.

She wore a black turtleneck sweater and leather pants, her long brown hair cascading over her shoulders, her features exquisitely beautiful with a touch of aloofness. She held an unlit cigarette between her fingers, her gaze sweeping indifferently across the room before finally settling on Jason.

"Are you a reporter from The Sun?"

"Jason Wilson. This is my partner, Mark Thompson." Jason extended his hand.

Camille didn't shake hands; instead, he sat down on the sofa and crossed his legs.

"What do you want to know?" Her French had a languid tone, and her pronunciation was as clear as reciting a poem.

Jason turned on the recorder and sat down opposite her.

"Tell me as much as you can about what happened that night," he said.

Camille placed the cigarette on the ashtray and tilted her head slightly to recall something.

"The party was at a private art gallery in the sixth arrondissement," she said. "I went because a friend invited me, saying that a few gallery owners would be there and might be able to help me get an exhibition. I was planning to stay for half an hour and then leave."

"and then?"

"Then the Chinese Zhang you wanted to know about appeared."

Camille's lips curled up slightly.

"When he walked in, the whole room fell silent for a moment. Not because anyone recognized him—not many people present recognized him—but because his appearance and demeanor were so striking."

Do you know that feeling? It's like everyone's watching him, but he seems completely oblivious.

Jason quickly took notes, while Mark adjusted the camera angle to capture Camille's every expression.

"He came over and started talking to me." Camille slowed her pace, as if savoring the moment. "What was his first sentence again? I think it was—"

"I've seen your work. That series 'Paris at Night' reminded me of Wong Kar-wai's films." I was stunned. A Chinese person, in Paris, telling me my work reminded him of Wong Kar-wai's films?

"and then?"

"Then we started talking. We talked about photography, movies, Wong Kar-wai, and Christopher Doyle's cinematic language. He really knew a lot; he wasn't the kind of person who would just search for something online to strike up a conversation and pretend to know everything."

He has his own understanding and his own perspective, and what he says always gives me a fresh perspective.

"How long did you talk?"

"About an hour," Camille thought for a moment. "Elois and Clara joined in halfway through, and Manon, who had been listening to us from the corner, also came over later."

The four of us girls talked to him a lot—about art, philosophy, literature, and music. That night, I felt like I was attending a very interesting seminar, not just picking up girls at a party.

"A seminar?" Jason was somewhat surprised by the word.

"Yes. It's that kind of feeling—you meet someone who's on the same wavelength as you, and your conversations constantly spark new ideas. That feeling is wonderful, more exciting than any physical contact."

"So you went to see him later?"

Camille glanced at Jason and smiled.

"What you're trying to ask is—why did we go with him?"

Jason did not deny it.

"Because it was our suggestion, we found a place to continue talking," Camille said. "It's that simple. We've talked for so long, and nobody wanted to end things like that."

He said he had to leave, and I suggested we find a place to have some more drinks and chat. The decision was made naturally, without anyone hesitating.

"And then?"

"And then? He said his cat could do backflips, and asked if we wanted to go see it. So, we went to his house, didn't see the cat, but drank a lot of alcohol," Camille smiled, tilting her head. "And then it was just like you'd imagine. Everyone had been drinking, and there were so many people of the opposite sex we got along with, so naturally we started kissing. Then three other girls joined in, and that's how it happened."

"Huh? He said his cat can do backflips? You actually believe that?"

Don't you believe me?

"Is he really that good? He fought all four of you by himself, and you all surrendered?"

"Yes, it has never been so wonderful, it will never be the same again." Camille's eyes were filled with reminiscence, and she was quite infatuated.

"Hiss, what is it about her that you're so infatuated with? Can you tell me the details...?"