Smile

As the only one who still had enough voice left for this song, Wei Zhiyu took on the task of teaching the others their vocal parts, earning profuse thanks from the two of them.

More than fifty minutes later, most of the group had already taken their turns, and their familiarity with the song had improved by leaps and bounds.

Listening to everyone else sing and then analyzing the problems in their performances was also a kind of self-improvement.

In the end, only the Class B girls, Yirui An, Yuan Li, and Yu Mao, had yet to sing.

The two Class B girls both had rich, full voices; Yirui An especially had a tone that sounded very foreign. Their voices shared a few similarities, but once they sang, each had her own distinct flavor.

Yuan Li’s style carried the restraint of someone from the mainland, building layer by layer; she was good at pressing a blazing fire down into her chest and singing out tenacity and unyielding strength.

Yirui An was more outward and open. When her emotions peaked, she didn’t restrain them at all, letting them crash against and tear through her vocal cords as she vented a wild, unbridled roar.

Their singing skills were among the best here. There were flaws, but what they needed was more practice. As for professional technical advice, that involved their personal styles; Wei Zhiyu didn’t know enough to say much.

It would be better to ask the professional mentors later.

Yu Mao, seated to Wei Zhiyu’s left, was the last one.

She took the microphone and, without even changing posture, still half-curled over her knees, sang the entire song in a standard, flawless way.

Her voice was pleasant, and she didn’t make a single mistake; but that was all.

Most of the people present frowned and exchanged glances.

After a pause, Wei Zhiyu asked, “Does anyone… have any thoughts?”

They hesitated and stayed silent.

Yuan Li had a little more of a connection to her as a roommate, so she was braver about speaking up. Seeing that no one else said anything, she did.

“This song is pretty inspiring. I think you sang it a little too flat; it lacked some feeling.”

She added, “I’m not saying you sang badly. It’s just that after hearing your first stage performance, I don’t think this is what your vocal level should be.”

She voiced what everyone else was thinking, and her teammates all nodded in agreement.

“I understand.”

Yu Mao gripped the microphone. Her hand was long and slender, with no flesh to be seen on her fingers. Her gaze seemed to drift somewhere unknown as she spoke, her lips barely moving. “But I don’t know how to do that.”

Everyone stared at her intently. This girl was unusual in a way that set her apart from others; every sentence she uttered made their attention shift toward her almost instinctively.

“Just, you know, bring your emotions up. Sing a little more passionately.”

Yirui An grew a little excited. She stretched her neck toward Yu Mao, smiling brightly. “You did great on Dark Tunnel, so you definitely know how to feel the emotions in a song.”

“I can feel it because the creator of Dark Tunnel is Nan Changgeng. This one, I can’t.”

She expressed her helplessness with complete honesty. Then she lifted her eyelids, revealing a pair of black, round cat eyes like gemstones, and kept looking at Yirui An, as if waiting for the other girl’s next lesson.

Yirui An’s heart gave a slight tremor. The corners of her mouth fell, shaping into a stunned O. Meeting Yu Mao’s eyes, she suddenly felt an odd sort of cuteness from them.

Unfortunately, only she herself felt that unique impression.

The others were shocked by what Yu Mao had implied.

Who knew? Up until now, they had all thought Yu Mao was a strange singing genius, usually detached and wandering, only able to burst forth with emotions far more intense than normal when she sang.

It turned out… she was actually just a pure, fanatical stan who could only sing her idol’s songs.

The livestream comment feed hit a small peak.

[If anyone else said this, I’d definitely think they were trying to build a persona and ride on Nan-jie’s popularity, but Yu Mao… I kind of believe it]

[Calling Nan Changgeng! Calling Nan Changgeng! Come over right now and sing this song once, or your fan won’t be able to sing it!]

[This is insane… how can there be a singer like this in the world, someone who can’t walk on her own without someone else? If she keeps this up, she can forget about making it in this business]

Wei Zhiyu pressed her lips together; for a moment, her expression was hard to describe. She turned to look at Yu Mao, a flash of probing curiosity disappearing in the depths of her eyes.

She was very curious what kind of environment could raise someone this strange.

After thinking for a moment, she spoke to her. “How about this? Try making your expression more lively when you sing. Facial expressions can also bring out some of the emotion.”

“Yes, yes, that makes sense.” Yuan Li chimed in, twisting her head to look at Yu Mao’s profile, with the same faint probing interest.

Yu Mao followed the suggestion and lifted the microphone.

“…"

A moment of stillness as she gathered herself. Then she silently lowered it again and looked at Wei Zhiyu. “What counts as lively?”

“…” Wei Zhiyu looked troubled.

Her upbringing wouldn’t allow her to say anything that might offend someone else, or else she had plenty to complain about.

But even if she didn’t say it, someone else couldn’t hold it in.

“Sis, you look like some kind of AI robot who came here to imitate and learn how humans act.” Xu Yang couldn’t keep her mouth shut and blurted out another line. “And your learning ability is ridiculously bad.”

Everyone couldn’t help laughing. They’d originally been a little embarrassed to laugh, but seeing that Yu Mao only slightly widened her eyes and didn’t react much, they ended up laughing openly.

Yirui An cupped her face, smiling sweetly. “That’s actually a pretty cute way to put it.”

It sounded adorably dumb, and also strangely apt. Looking at Yu Mao again, everyone suddenly felt a little less distant from her.

“Really?”

This was cute?

Yu Mao seemed thoughtful and gave Xu Yang a brief glance.

Whether it was an illusion or not, Xu Yang seemed to sense a trace of gratitude in that look, and froze for a moment.

Yirui An was still trying to come up with ideas for her. “Like this— a smile is the most intuitive thing. Try singing while smiling first.”

As she spoke, she looked expectant; it was hard to tell whether there was any private motive mixed in.

“…Smile.” Yu Mao furrowed her brows slowly.

This rare display of emotion looked very troubled.

Yirui An was puzzled. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s hard.” Yu Mao stated the two words stiffly.

As she spoke, she tried to curve the corners of her lips upward, showing a rigid fake smile.

When she lifted her eyes and met the sparkling gazes of everyone else, her hand around the microphone trembled, and the curve of her mouth quickly fell again.

“Ah…” Yirui An sighed regretfully.

Such a lack of a lively smile made her look even more like AI. Aside from Yirui An, everyone else sensed something off.

“This won’t do. Anyone can tell that’s a fake smile.” Yuan Li leaned sideways, staring at her. “Don’t sing yet; learn how to smile naturally first. Or should we drag Lin Baiyu over to teach you? She specifically studied expression management; she’s really good at it.”

They had talked a lot in the dorm before, and she’d discovered that Lin Baiyu seemed quite interested in Yu Mao too, so she would probably be willing to come.

Yu Mao said nothing. She stood up and walked to the giant mirror taking up an entire wall of the practice room, leaned in very close, and once again tugged out a smile at her reflection.

The figure in the mirror made exactly the same expression; those dark eyes, that standard, false smile. The sunlight streaming in from the window behind was blocked by her body, dimming her face and lending it a strange, inexplicable air of eeriness.

Everyone craned their necks to look. Xu Yang suddenly shivered.

“No—can you smile a little happier? That’s kind of creepy.”

Being frightened on camera was pretty embarrassing, and she was a little annoyed. She braced herself and stood up abruptly, walking over to Yu Mao’s side.

“When you smile, don’t just move your mouth. Your eyes have to smile too!”

She reached out and pulled the girl over. Her palm could just fully encircle Yu Mao’s upper arm, and she didn’t use much force at all; it just felt weightless, as if she’d dragged over a cat, easily bringing Yu Mao face-to-face with her.

A flicker of something strange passed through her mind, but it was quickly swept away by emotion. Xu Yang extended two fingers on each hand, using her thumbs to lift the corners of Yu Mao’s mouth and her index fingers to press down the corners of her eyes. “Like this; got it?”

It was both serious and a little mischievous.

The method was blunt and crude, making Yu Mao’s face look even more gloomy and eerie, with a touch of absurdity.

Xiaofeixia, who had been lazily circling around Yu Mao, suddenly made a sharp turn and squeezed between the two of them, pressing right up against Yu Mao’s face to film her.

“Ahhh, what are you doing!”

Yirui An suddenly rushed over in a flurry, like an old hen protecting her chicks. With a sweep of both hands, she knocked Xu Yang and Xiaofeixia away at once, declaring righteously:

“I won’t allow anyone to ruin Yu Mao’s beauty!”

She was very distressed; leaning in so close that their faces were nearly touching, she examined Yu Mao’s face carefully, like checking a BJD doll whose makeup had almost been ruined.

With a thump, half of Xu Yang’s body slammed into the mirror. She winced in pain, then simply leaned against the mirror and didn’t move anymore, folding her arms with an expression full of speechless exasperation.

After a whirlwind spin, Xiaofeixia relied on its excellent performance to steady the camera and continue filming.

Countless people in the livestream began spamming the same comment:

[None of the three of them is normal…] × N

Yu Mao stepped back half a pace, avoiding Yirui An’s close approach. She glanced at Xu Yang, her eyes faint and dim, inexplicably wilted. “I can’t do it.”

“What?”

The one who answered was Wei Zhiyu, who had just stood up and walked over.

The others were still seated and too lazy to get up, but they were close enough to hear everything clearly and watch the excitement.

“Why?” Xu Yang couldn’t understand. “Is there something wrong with your facial nerves?”

She couldn’t imagine a healthy, normal body being unable to show a natural smile.

“Or are you just in a bad mood, and can’t smile?” Yirui An asked with concern.

Yu Mao shook her head. “I’m very happy, but I can’t smile like that.”

Every moment she’d spent here, happiness had filled her heart like a tide. Everything else, from the very beginning, had been rolling or drifting on the water’s surface. Perhaps it was even sitting inside her chest.

But the senses of her internal organs were not enough to break through the restraints and control her limbs and expressions.

She swept her gaze over the three faces nearby, taking in their increasingly confused expressions, then turned to look at the faces of the girls sitting on the floor not far away.

A pair of eyes looked back at her, all watching her.

“Why?” Wei Zhiyu asked again. She was sharp, and there was a trace of concern hidden beneath her gentle, refined features. “If you’re happy, why can’t you smile?”

Yu Mao said, “Something is stopping me.”

Xu Yang curled her lip, finding this person eerie and inexplicable. “What kind of thing is that powerful? It can even control whether someone smiles or not?”

This somewhat rude remark won silent agreement from a few of the more quick-witted people present. They were starting to feel impatient, suspecting that Yu Mao had made all this up as a persona just to attract viewers’ attention.

Although the livestream camera was fair and gave everyone equal time, online attention was limited. Yu Mao’s odd personality and behavior made her stand out too much; she had definitely drawn most of the audience’s eyes.

“Maybe it’s fear. I can’t tell.”

“Fear of what?” Xu Yang frowned.

Yu Mao’s gaze went a little dazed. She softly uttered two words: “…My mother.”

She was very honest, answering whatever she was asked, hiding almost nothing.

But even being this honest, there still seemed to be a layer of fog over her; others couldn’t understand her, couldn’t make sense of what she was saying.

It was as if she herself existed in a patch of chaos.

Everyone grew more and more bewildered.

Xu Yang couldn’t help waving a hand in front of her eyes. “Sis, are you mentally normal?”

Yirui An fired off a string of questions. “Your mother? You mean you’re scared of your mother? What does that have to do with not being able to smile? Can you be more specific?”

Yu Mao thought it over. Her black eyes swayed a little, but they weren’t lively; they looked as if they were filled with heavy lead. She tried hard to recall broken fragments of memory and said, “My mother hated seeing me smile. She lived unhappily; seeing me happy made her even angrier. She would hit me, so later I stopped smiling.”

It was like a thunderclap had exploded in the room. Everyone’s eyes widened in unison, faces full of shock, as they looked at her.

Someone covered her mouth in disbelief.

“You…”

For a long while, no one could say anything. In the end, Wei Zhiyu was the first to recover. Her eyes reddened faintly, and her voice became even lighter and gentler.

“Does your mother still treat you that way now?”

But Yu Mao seemed not to notice their reactions. She shook her head with almost no emotion.

“She’s dead. She and my father fought a lot; one time they fought so badly that my father hacked her to death.”

She said it like she was telling someone else’s story; it was so calm it seemed not numb, but lacking in humanity.

Everyone’s scalp went numb. They sucked in a sharp breath at once, and a cold chill surged up from the soles of their feet to their spines. The hair on their bodies stood on end, and they nearly stopped breathing.

“No… you’re joking, right…"

Xu Yang let go of her folded arms. She shivered faintly, and driven by fear, instinctively tried to avoid it; she edged backward along the mirror, away from Yu Mao by two steps, though her eyes were still fixed blankly on her.

Yirui An’s eyes were red. She crossed her hands and pressed them hard over her mouth, suppressing the scream that was nearly about to burst out of her throat.

The livestream exploded outright, and the production team in the control room was shocked as well.

[I don’t believe it… she must be telling a horror story, right…?]

[That’s so terrifying. I think I understand now why her personality is like this…]

[Growing up in that kind of environment and still being mentally normal would be the real miracle]

[So she can’t smile because of PTSD, right? It’s not that she can’t smile; it’s that she doesn’t dare to]

[Sorry, I’ll never call you a weird kid again. Waaahhh I feel so sorry for you……]

The directing team bared their teeth in a wince and, too shocked to bother carefully reading the comments, wasted no time.

Within moments, they bought the trending topic and sent this bizarre, chilling past to the public eye.

Sympathy was sympathy, but they couldn’t pass up the traffic that had come to them on its own.

This was a bombshell; it had dropped on the very first day the show had even started. It was absolutely a good omen.

The director had previously had some doubts about the conditions Yu Mao had proposed, but now he believed her words completely.

If Yu Mao could casually speak of such a blood-soaked past, was there really any fear of not digging up more later?

The internet topic was fermenting step by step, while the teammates who had heard it with their own ears fell into a long silence.

They didn’t know what else they could say that would be adequate to deal with the current situation. This could be called a tragic past to the extreme; whatever brilliant, comforting words they might offer would be like ink marks on soaked paper, leaving only a washed-out, pale blur.

However shocking and ghastly the stories on the news might be, people usually took them in stride. But if such a story happened to someone right beside them, the tragedy would feel as though it had suddenly drawn hundreds of steps closer; the sensation was completely different.

Yu Mao’s gaze slowly swept around the room, passing over every face. Her expression was so calm, as though she were in another world entirely, utterly unable to understand everyone’s reactions.

Yet Wei Zhiyu saw in her eyes a kind of bewilderment, like someone groping through mist in search of a hidden answer.

It made her want very much to say sorry. She probably didn’t have the ability to help her learn how to smile again.