Chapter 19

As soon as the secretary finished speaking, Lin Yuewei’s name appeared on the screen, every character matching the one Gu Yanqiu knew.

“Yes, Lin Yuewei,” the secretary said. “I’m not even into variety shows, and I know her, Young Miss Gu—you…”

Gu Yanqiu was a workaholic and rarely had any free time. Even when she did, she wasn’t interested in entertainment news; she’d rather go horseback riding at a suburban equestrian center or play airsoft at a private club, alone and without companions. Otherwise, she would copy Buddhist scriptures. She lived as sparsely as she looked.

“Variety shows are just for fun,” the secretary said. “You’re busy every day, Young Miss Gu. You probably haven’t been paying attention.”

“What variety show?”

“Huh?”

“I asked what the show is called.” Gu Yanqiu turned and looked at him.

“The Actor Trainees.”

Seeing her raise a brow, as if she were interested, the secretary, though puzzled by why she would suddenly ask about an entertainment topic completely unlike her, still described the show in the briefest terms possible. Gu Yanqiu disliked talkative people.

“This is the first season, produced by the country’s largest video platform right now. There are a hundred ordinary contestants, half men and half women. They go through competition and selection, and in the end ten people are chosen—five men and five women—to sign with an agency and debut as entertainers. If someone performs especially well, the judges during the competition might sign them directly and bring them into their own studio. It’s basically a shortcut to the top. The show is already at episode four, and Lin Yuewei is among the top three most popular female contestants.”

“How do you get to the route you looked up?”

Gu Yanqiu changed the subject too quickly. The secretary took a moment to react, then lit up his phone and led the way according to the map.

Gu Yanqiu walked beside him and said flatly, “Keep going.”

“Keep going with what?”

“The show.”

In the public mind, acting had always been a mysterious profession, one that was “too elegant for the masses” and never put itself on display. Even though countless people still rushed into that fame-and-profit pit, those who truly made it were usually only a small minority, always seeming distant from the audience. At the same time, the industry offered salaries so high they were hard to compete with; how actors worked, and why they could interpret characters so different from themselves, or even the complete opposite of themselves, held a natural appeal for ordinary people who wanted to understand.

Add to that the way the fan economy had taken over the market, the endless flood of terrible films, and people’s growing demand for good actors and real acting rather than popularity; a show like this came into being naturally. The hook was there, and so was the production. The program group was flush with cash; the judges they invited were either top directors in the industry or first-tier actors with Best Actress and Best Actor trophies in hand. One of them even had all three major domestic awards, plus an international prize; with looks and acting both far ahead of the rest, she anchored the panel. Just the popularity of these judges alone was enough to draw everyone’s attention to the show.

The very first episode sparked heated discussion online, and by the next day it had taken the top spots on the trending charts of multiple platforms. That was when Lin Yuewei’s name began appearing in people’s field of vision.

……

The story had to start two months earlier.

After Lin Yuewei deleted the call log from that call with Gu Yanqiu, she cut off all the messy thoughts running through her head. At most, she had a little good impression of Gu Yanqiu; it wasn’t enough to keep her worrying day and night. Once she stopped dwelling on it, she actually felt freer. She had only been holed up at Jiang Congbi’s place for a day before her parents called her back home.

Lin Yuewei’s father and mother had discussed it. Since Lin Yuewei was dead set on forcing her way into the entertainment industry and couldn’t be stopped, even that night when Lin’s father threatened to cut ties with her, she hadn’t changed expression. They only had one daughter. If they cut ties, where were they supposed to find a second one? Lin Yuewei was relying on that, completely fearless.

And so, after only two days outside, the parents gave in.

“You can go be a celebrity if you want,” Lin’s father said, “but from now on, you’ll be completely on your own. The family won’t provide you with any financial support, and once you’re outside, you’re not allowed to say you’re a daughter of the Lin family.”

He still held on to a sliver of hope. Lin Yuewei had been spoiled since childhood, never lifted a finger, and didn’t know the first thing about how hard life could be. If they cut off her money and let her see what it was like to scrape by outside, maybe she’d understand. There were plenty of pretty people in the world; was becoming a star really that easy?

Lin Yuewei really didn’t care how little she knew about the world. She agreed immediately, took out all the bank cards her family had been transferring money into, and placed them on the coffee table, not even leaving herself a bit of cash.

“Fine. I won’t take a single cent from the family.”

If she had no money, she could borrow from her girlfriends first and pay them back later. What was the big deal?

Lin’s parents still underestimated her resolve. Lin’s mother added another condition: “If you still can’t prove yourself within three years, you leave the industry and come home to inherit the company properly.”

“Three years?” Lin Yuewei bargained with her mother. “That’s too short. At least five.”

“What’s the difference between three and five years? If you’re going to get famous, you’ll be famous already. It doesn’t matter whether it’s two years earlier or later.”

“My engagement to Gu Yanqiu is exactly five years.”

Lin’s mother and father exchanged a look and said, “…Then five years it is. If you can’t hold out, you can quit anytime.”

Lin Yuewei put her empty wallet back into her bag and smiled at her parents. “I know you’re both waiting to see me make a fool of myself. Don’t worry; I’m definitely going to get famous. Big famous.”

She slung her bag over her shoulder and tossed her hair. “I’m heading out. I made plans with Jiang Congbi to have afternoon tea.”

Lin’s mother called after her from behind, “Where are you getting money for afternoon tea?”

Lin Yuewei laughed. “Jiang Congbi has money. I’m just going to let her keep me.”

At the door, she seemed to remember something and turned back to warn her mother, “Don’t tell Gu Yanqiu anything about where I’m going anymore. Not a single word. Otherwise, I’ll cut off mother-daughter relations with you for a year; I won’t answer a single call you make. I mean it.”

Lin’s mother: “……”

***

“So from now on, you’re just a lone commander with nothing?” Jiang Congbi stirred sugar into her coffee, one spoonful after another, and another.

Lin Yuewei looked at her and felt secondhand toothache. “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get cavities eating that much sugar? What lone commander? I still have you, don’t I? I’ve already thought it through; at the start of my entrepreneurial journey, I’m going to rely on you to pull me up. One good turn deserves another.” She clasped her hands toward Jiang Congbi.

“Easy. My parents may not be home, but my living allowance is plenty. I’ll give you half every month.”

“No need for half. Just give me a little. A few tens of thousands will do.”

“A few tens of thousands? That wouldn’t even cover a bag,” Jiang Congbi said, glancing at her with a smile. “Why so polite? What’s mine is yours; if I have meat, you definitely get meat too. Half it is.”

She took out her phone and was about to transfer the money. Lin Yuewei grabbed her hand. “I’ve already handed over all my cards; I haven’t even gotten a new one yet.”

“Then I’ll transfer it to your Alipay. What’s the maximum again?”

“Really, you don’t need to. A few tens of thousands is enough. More than that I can’t pay back.”

“What’s mine is yours; talking about paying back sounds so distant.”

Lin Yuewei stared at her. “Hiss. Why aren’t you listening to me? I’m not going to live the life of a spoiled heiress anymore. I’m starting from zero for real.”

“What does starting from zero mean?” Jiang Congbi asked blankly.

That was too abstract for Jiang Congbi. She might even follow it up with a pile of questions, so Lin Yuewei put it in the most concrete terms possible. “It means living a poor person’s life. No bags costing one or two hundred thousand, no sports cars, no clothes that cost thousands or tens of thousands.”

“Then how are you supposed to live?”

“Lots of people live like that. Once I make it in the future, I’ll go back to that life. Give myself some motivation.”

Jiang Congbi pouted and took a sip of her sugar-heavy coffee, squinting in enjoyment. “Suit yourself. It’s easy to go from thrift to extravagance, hard to go from extravagance to thrift. It’s not me suffering anyway. When I’m the one living well later, don’t get jealous.”

Lin Yuewei could tell at a glance that she didn’t believe her either. Aside from herself, probably no one could understand the determination she was willing to put into this, or what she was prepared to sacrifice for it. It didn’t matter if they didn’t believe her; as long as they didn’t drag her down, that was enough.

Lin Yuewei gulped down a big mouthful of espresso, no milk, no sugar. That, she thought, was real coffee. Adding so much sugar might as well be drinking syrup.

“Come shopping with me later,” Lin Yuewei said.

“What, planning to let loose before entering the industry?” Jiang Congbi raised a brow.

Lin Yuewei smiled without answering.

Lin Yuewei and Jiang Congbi spent the whole afternoon shopping. They bought more than ten sets of casual summer clothes, each piece averaging no more than two hundred yuan. Altogether they didn’t even cost as much as the T-shirt she had bought before. Under Jiang Congbi’s dumbstruck stare, Lin Yuewei handed over several shopping bags and said, “This is what my daily life will be like from now on. A few tens of thousands is enough. I’ll send you my new card number later; transfer thirty thousand to me.”

Jiang Congbi nodded vaguely.

Lin Yuewei reached out and closed her jaw, which had almost dropped to the floor.

She stayed at home for another day, said goodbye to her parents, and dragged her packed suitcase out the door. Inside were the cheap clothes she had bought. She headed to the production team to report in and began her four months of closed-door training and filming.

Most of the people taking part in this show were ordinary contestants with no agency, selected through multiple rounds of open auditions. Lin Yuewei was one of them. But there were exceptions: a few had already debuted, and a few were actors with prior work who had never really made it. There were very few of those. Nearly everyone who came to compete was attractive beyond doubt. Although Lin Yuewei was beautiful too, she was still an ordinary contestant and had never been packaged or polished; for a while, she actually didn’t stand out all that much in the crowd.

The land of China was full of hidden talent; no matter how confident Lin Yuewei was, she didn’t dare be arrogant. On the day they filmed the first episode, she recognized roughly seventy to eighty percent of the people and mentally memorized many of their names.

Besides those heavyweight judges, the production team also hired many specialist teachers to train the contestants in lines, movement, and all other aspects. The training life was dull and uninteresting, and they still had to be mindful of the ever-present cameras.

Some people were very uncomfortable around the camera. One of Lin Yuewei’s roommates was like that; she always unconsciously avoided it, including the camera in the dorm room. She had a delicate, modest beauty, a gentle personality, and came from the waterside towns of Jiangnan. Her speech carried a soft southern lilt.

Whenever the roommate saw Lin Yuewei talking to the camera, or making goofy faces in front of it, or sometimes even dancing, she would quietly ask her in private, “Yuewei, how do you have so much to say?”

Lin Yuewei smiled slightly. “I’m pretty outgoing. I like talking.”

The roommate believed her and was quite envious. “I wish I were like you. I get nervous the moment I see a camera.”

“Then work hard to get over it,” Lin Yuewei said.

The roommate frowned in distress. “But what if I can’t get over it? What do I do then?”

As if sharing her pain, Lin Yuewei frowned too. “Just do your best. Keep it up.” She clenched a fist to cheer her on. “Go, go.”

She was beautiful and sincere, so the roommate really liked spending time with her. Once they were back in the dorm, the girl dug a bag of snacks out of her suitcase and gave them to Lin Yuewei. Lin Yuewei accepted them and, after opening the bag, fed her roommate and herself one bite at a time.

Then Lin Yuewei turned toward the windowsill. In the place where the camera could not capture her, the warmth in her eyes vanished instantly, replaced by cold calculation.

There were a hundred people in this program. How could she make sure she stood out from the hundred? To get people to know you, you needed the camera. Without the camera, no matter how well you performed, what use was it? This was not a show decided purely by the judges’ comments; it was a popularity competition that required the audience to make choices.

Onstage and off, building a fanbase was mysterious. A person with a lot of camera time might not necessarily blow up, but someone with too little camera time definitely would not. Unless you were already a famous actor or star standing there, only then could your completely different aura instantly draw people’s eyes. But they were all ordinary contestants; who could reach that level?

How could she guarantee camera time? She couldn’t, because the decision was in the hands of the production team’s editors. But what an individual could do was keep themselves exposed to the cameras at all times, give the program as much footage as possible, and increase their chances of appearing on screen.

That was why Lin Yuewei, despite not liking to deal with people, despite not being an outgoing person, insisted on presenting herself that way. Her ease in front of the camera came from months of practice at home. From the moment she signed up for auditions, she had been preparing. Her room, the second-floor hallway—every inch of the place was under twenty-four-hour, three-hundred-sixty-degree filming of her own behavior. She would watch the recordings and slowly correct herself, slowly adapt to how to present herself naturally.

Among the hundred people, she wasn’t the only one with ulterior motives, but Lin Yuewei believed she would be seen.

Under her deliberate performance, the postproduction edit did not disappoint her. It gave her one of the highest amounts of screen time. In the first episode alone, she became one of the contestants who gained the most fans, ranking near the top of the female voting chart. Because the show had to account for the objective difference in combat power between male and female contestants, it divided the rankings into the boys’ chart, the girls’ chart, and the overall chart. On the overall chart, the boys were far ahead.

The boys and girls first trained separately; only in the second episode, when they had to choose a scene to perform, did they form free-assembly pairings. One way to raise popularity was to ship CPs, so some clever contestants intentionally chose male-female lover roles when selecting scene partners.

Same-sex marriage had only been legalized in recent years, but society was still dominated by heterosexual norms, and most people—especially older people—simply would not accept such a trend.

Lin Yuewei, however, went the other way. She had no chance of creating an opportunity unless she made one herself, so she privately discussed with the directors that she wanted to perform something different. The director and planners took her suggestion and replaced one of the scenes with another featuring a same-sex couple. By drawing lots and through “a coincidence of fate,” it was assigned to Lin Yuewei. As the team leader, she chose the roommate she got along with best as her partner, and then, with the show’s push, the same-sex CP was hyped with great fanfare.

Backstage, in the conference room.

A senior executive from the group and the chief director of The Actor Trainees took a drag from the cigar in his hand and looked at the full third episode, already edited and scheduled to air the next day. He asked the assistant director beside him, “What’s this person’s name?”

The assistant director replied, “Lin Yuewei.”

The chief director laughed. “Pretty ambitious. You can tell she wants to get famous.”

The assistant director said, “Good hardware, audience-friendly, and aside from being a little too eager to show off, she doesn’t have any major black marks. I think highly of her. Who comes to a show like this without wanting to become famous?”

The people making the show were all old hands. Of course Lin Yuewei’s little tricks couldn’t hide from them, and Lin Yuewei herself knew that. She never imagined she could conceal everything flawlessly. If she could really fool everyone’s eyes, what was there left to practice? She would already have won Best Actress by now. She only needed to fool the audience sitting in front of their computers.

The chief director gave a quiet hum; the cigar in his mouth burned softly, flickering with a dim red glow.

“How’s the program’s view count? And the ad revenue?”

“Average. A little below expectations.”

Someone had already handed over the ad coordination files for that period. While the man reviewed them, the whole room fell silent.

“Too far off. If this keeps up, there’s not much point,” the chief director said, setting down the cigar and crushing it out in the ashtray. “Let’s use this Lin Yuewei. After this episode, create some buzz.”

The methods the industry used were always the same; none of them were clean or fit to see the light of day. The planner beside him hesitated. “Such a good seedling. If we handle it badly and ruin her…”

Netizens were one of the most easily swept-along groups there were, and also one of the easiest to stir into collective outrage. With malicious editing, paid trolls, and hired black PR accounts leading the charge, the production team could point wherever they wanted and strike wherever they wanted.

The chief director simply looked up at him and smiled. “What are you afraid of? So what if she’s ruined? Does this circle lack good seedlings? The important thing is getting the show off the ground and preparing for everything that comes after.”

The people present exchanged glances; a certain decision was made.

Lin Yuewei still didn’t know her plans had been completely thrown into disarray, and that waiting for her was a wave of baseless internet hatred. As a chess piece of the production team, she had long since lost the right to express herself truthfully.

***

After hearing about the nature of the show from the secretary, the calm waters in Gu Yanqiu’s heart, quiet for so long, stirred once more. Especially after hearing that Lin Yuewei was being attacked online so viciously, the waves turned into a storm.

Why was she being criticized? Wasn’t she just taking part in a show? Lin Yuewei had a bad temper sometimes, yes, but she wasn’t the kind of person who lacked restraint. She definitely wouldn’t lash out publicly on the program. So what was it because of?

Her fingers rubbed against the back of her phone; she barely managed to restrain the urge to go online and search for Lin Yuewei’s news.

The business meeting at noon had gone very smoothly. Gu Yanqiu drank a little alcohol, and the driver who had been stuck in traffic all the way hurried through a quick meal before coming to take her back to the company. The secretary had prepared a steam eye mask for her; Gu Yanqiu usually took a short nap after drinking, a habit of hers.

Gu Yanqiu’s face was as still as water. “No need.”

Then the secretary saw her open her phone and tap something on the touchscreen keyboard. He only glanced once and didn’t dare look more closely; he only knew it wasn’t the email interface or WeChat. It looked like… Weibo?

Impossible, the secretary thought. Wasn’t Young Miss Gu’s Weibo just there for show? He had never once seen her open it.

Gu Yanqiu didn’t use Weibo, but she knew that a lot of entertainment news was posted there, and it was also the biggest social media platform these days. She tapped the icon she had downloaded but never touched, slowly skipping through the step-by-step prompts and choosing guest login, then searched for “Lin Yuewei.”

A mess of search results popped up, ugly and vulgar. Gu Yanqiu didn’t open any of them. She went straight to the search key. The first comprehensive result that came up was a Weibo post with over ten thousand reposts and hundreds of thousands of comments.

“Malicious CP hype,” “no manners,” “terrible acting,” “relying on looks and not working hard,” “white lotus,” “green tea bitch”—just looking at the distilled labels in the post made Gu Yanqiu’s brow lock tightly. No matter what, she could never have imagined that one day Lin Yuewei would be linked to words like these.

Gu Yanqiu opened one of the videos. It showed Lin Yuewei performing onstage, while the judge below wore an expression of obvious disgust; the program’s subtitles also added lines like “I can’t even look” and “What is this” to make the emotional bias unmistakable. That was the source of the “terrible acting.”

Almost every insult could be matched to corresponding video footage, making it look as if the evidence was solid, not fabricated out of thin air. The general public was already deeply dissatisfied with the state of the entertainment industry. A show that claimed it was selecting the actor the people wanted most, yet still debuted people by popularity ranking. Just the accusation of “atrocious acting” was enough for netizens to rip into it by the thousands. Added to all the other accusations, within a single night Lin Yuewei, who had actually had a fairly good reputation among the show’s fandom and a few casual viewers, was cursed at by countless people, and her passerby appeal plummeted to rock bottom.

Gu Yanqiu scrolled down one comment after another. When she finally saw the personal attacks that twisted the facts and the malicious abuse, the fingers handling her prayer beads clenched at once.

How could human hearts be so vicious?

Gu Yanqiu moved her prayer beads rapidly, closed her eyes, tilted her head back, and exhaled heavily.

“Young Miss Gu?”

“I’m fine. Just a little dizzy.”

The secretary was about to hand her the eye mask again when he saw that the Gu Yanqiu who had just said she was dizzy had opened her eyes again. This time he could clearly see that she really was on the Weibo page. Gu Yanqiu clicked on one of the black comments; the system displayed that she was not registered and could not reply.

So Gu Yanqiu found the registration option. When she entered the ID, she thought for a moment and chose the name: Lin Yuewei’s Fan.

The system said the username was already taken, so Gu Yanqiu added a period to the end and registered successfully.

She randomly opened one of the black posts about Lin Yuewei. Her brows drew together slightly; her long, well-defined fingers curled a little as she typed a line on the screen and sent it.

[Lin Yuewei’s Fan.: It’s not what you’re seeing; don’t misunderstand her.]

Although Gu Yanqiu didn’t know Lin Yuewei very well, she was certain this was not what Lin Yuewei was like on the show.

Gu Yanqiu pressed her lips together and replied one by one. The second attempt failed to send. After pondering for quite a while, she realized she couldn’t keep saying the same thing, so she altered the wording slightly and clarified things on Lin Yuewei’s behalf.

[Lin Yuewei’s Fan.: It’s not what you think; please don’t misunderstand her. She’s a very good person.]

[Lin Yuewei’s Fan.: It’s not what you’re seeing. Please understand the situation before coming to a conclusion; don’t insult her at random.]

……

The driver was focused on driving. Up ahead was a densely packed area; the car moved slowly in the traffic flow.

They were blocked. Looking at it, they weren’t going to move for the moment. The driver shifted into neutral, pulled up the handbrake, and glanced at the rearview mirror, only to find Gu Yanqiu’s face looking somewhat unpleasant. After drinking, she should have been flushed; instead she was dark-faced, her brows tightly locked.

The secretary answered a call and then turned back to say, “Young Miss Gu, Manager Lou from Dongsheng would like to meet with you tomorrow to discuss the contract.”

Gu Yanqiu didn’t answer. Her eyes seemed fixed on the phone screen; people kept replying to her, and none of them were kind.

[one diss Lin Yuewei: Here comes the brain-dead fan, OP hang in there!]

[Qingshan Outside the Wall: Brain-dead fan, get lost!!! Lin Yuewei is garbage; take your trash master and get out too.]

[Chocolate Milkshake: It’s fans like you idiots who prop up people like this. Next time you watch some traffic idol’s drama, don’t say anything about it either; you brought it on yourselves. :)]

Where there were people cursing, there were naturally people defending her. Some accounts with Lin Yuewei’s avatar were explaining that she was not low-class at all; the show’s behind-the-scenes clips and extra footage all showed she was a very polite person. Others explained that her acting wasn’t bad, just average; many other people’s acting was also very mediocre, and the rehearsal-room videos clearly showed that. Others explained that she was diligent and hardworking, and that the teachers and fellow contestants said so too. Others explained that she got along well with the boys because of her own charm, not because of the media’s nonsense about her being a “white lotus” or “green tea bitch.” You’re so pretty; of course people like you too…

But how could fans stand up to that vast, righteous army?

By then it had escalated into fans, black accounts, and “high-and-mighty” passersby hurling abuse at one another. Gu Yanqiu looked on, not knowing where to begin. She had been strictly raised since childhood, and her mother was a person who preferred peace and asked little of the world. She rarely argued with others, let alone traded filthy insults. In school, she had participated in debate competitions, but debate required the other side to be someone who could speak like a human being.

As for the group of internet trolls, there was no need to mention them.

Seeing her distracted, the secretary repeated, “Young Miss Gu, Manager Lou from Dongsheng…”

“I know.” Gu Yanqiu interrupted him lightly, backing out of the Weibo page and uninstalling the app in one motion. “He wants to meet tomorrow to discuss the contract, right? Set it for the evening. I have something to do at noon.”

“Alright.”

Gu Yanqiu was silent for a moment, then asked, “Do you also watch that variety show?”

“Which one? Oh, The Actor Trainees? I watched the first two episodes; I haven’t had time for the rest. We’ve been busy these past two weeks.”

“What do you think…” Gu Yanqiu weighed her words. “Never mind.”

“???”

Gu Yanqiu glanced at the road ahead and held out her hand. “Give me the eye mask. I’ll rest for a bit.”

“Okay.”

Gu Yanqiu slept until her head hurt. When she woke, the car had barely moved two hundred meters. Rubbing her temples, she asked, “How long was I asleep?”

The secretary said, “Seven minutes just passed.”

Gu Yanqiu shifted her posture, took a cushion and held it up beside her face, then leaned her head against the car window and half-drowsed with her eyes closed.

The secretary was secretly chatting with his girlfriend when a chill ran down the back of his neck. He turned and unexpectedly met Gu Yanqiu’s eyes. Reacting quickly, he sat up straight and said seriously, “Young Miss Gu.”

Gu Yanqiu chose her words carefully. “Generally, when a celebrity is being blacklisted online, how is it handled?”

The secretary was a completely straightforward man and looked troubled. “I don’t know.”

Gu Yanqiu felt that she must have drunk too much; otherwise her brain would not be this abnormal. What did Lin Yuewei’s affairs have to do with her? Even if someone had to take care of it, the Lin family was so powerful. When would it ever be her turn?

Gu Yanqiu was just about to say forget it when inspiration struck the secretary. “My girlfriend has been a fan of celebrities for years. Should I ask her for you?”

Reason told Gu Yanqiu to drop it, but the words that came out of her mouth changed as if possessed. “Fine. Ask her for me.”

The secretary pointed to his phone. “Would you mind if I call? It’s not convenient to explain over WeChat.”

“Call.”

The secretary spoke with his girlfriend for a while. Gu Yanqiu couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but after hanging up, he recited it back to her in the same way: “My girlfriend said that this kind of large-scale black campaign is usually being operated by a company behind the scenes. They buy water armies and hire black PR accounts as a full package; at a time like this, fans can’t really do much.”

“Then what should be done?”

“Let the company behind the celebrity step in. No one can fight this solo.”

“What if she doesn’t have a company?” Gu Yanqiu said, then paused. “I… don’t know whether she has a company.”

Her hand holding the prayer beads tightened slightly. Gu Yanqiu thought: So I know so little about Lin Yuewei. The more I see of her, the more there is I know nothing about.

“Huh?” The secretary was also stumped. “Then should I ask again for you?”

“No need.” Gu Yanqiu’s voice turned deep.

The secretary nodded and put away his phone.

He was only Gu Yanqiu’s secretary; he did whatever she said, and had no right to ask why.

***

Jiang Congbi had already blown up three or four times at home. During the one hour of phone time Lin Yuewei had fought hard to get, she had heard Jiang Congbi cursing nonstop for forty minutes without repeating herself once.

Lin Yuewei lazily picked at her ear. “Take it easy, girl. Aren’t you tired?”

“I’ve been yelling for this long; do you think I’m tired?” Jiang Congbi downed a whole glass of water, the sound of her swallowing crystal clear, and roared, “I’m doing this for who!”

“For me, for me. I know I was wrong.”

“What the hell are you wrong about? Your show’s production team is really something. Have you seen how they’re cursing you online? Someone who didn’t know better would think you dug up their ancestors’ graves. And every one of them is acting like some righteous messenger. A bunch of losers, all they know how to do is bang on keyboards. The keyboard is his dad, the keyboard is his mom, the keyboard is his eighteenth-generation ancestor.”

“Mm, I know.” Lin Yuewei sighed. She wasn’t indifferent to the abuse; she just seemed so calm because Jiang Congbi had already vented all her anger for her. As for what people said online, as long as she didn’t look at it, it didn’t exist. That bit of self-control was nothing to her.

Jiang Congbi said, “I joined your fan support group. There’ll probably be ways to spend money later. Starting now, I’m your loyal fan; even if it bankrupts me, Mommy will get you into debut.”

Lin Yuewei quickly stopped her. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t need to. Just stay put and save yourself a little money to buy clothes. Wait—what do you mean mommy? Can’t you stop copying how those fans talk? Daddy doesn’t want another mom like that.”

Jiang Congbi laughed. “Nope, I’m saying it. Mommy loves you.”

This show had an extremely high level of fan participation, and fans treated the contestants like their sons and daughters, calling themselves “mommy.” Their catchphrase was “Mommy loves you.” Once, when Lin Yuewei was out on an external appearance, she had been startled half to death by the flood of “Mommy loves you.” Now she had gradually accepted the title, but only from fans. If people around her said it, her skin would crawl.

Lin Yuewei threatened her, “Say that again and I won’t be polite.”

Jiang Congbi said, “Oh, come on. You’re locked up in an iron cage right now; what can you do to me? Watch yourself. Don’t let the show use up your heat and then kick you aside as a sacrificial lamb.”

“Do I look that stupid? If they want to use me as cannon fodder, it won’t be that easy.” Lin Yuewei narrowed her eyes. “I’ve got something for you to do.”

After Jiang Congbi heard her out, she hesitated. “Will that work?”

“Whether it works or not, just do it first.”

“And the online fight?”

Lin Yuewei snorted. “Let them. Haven’t you heard that the dirtier they make you, the more famous you get?”

“Fine.”

When they hung up, Jiang Congbi cursed one last time out of habit: “Mommy loves you, oh.”

“Get lost!”

After handing in her phone, Lin Yuewei lay back with both hands under her head, considering her next move. Since the show wanted to use her for hype, why shouldn’t she turn the tables and use their move against them?

Her sweet, naive roommate poked her face out from the top bunk, worry written all over it. Her face was completely covered—was she secretly crying? The roommate had also seen the things online and, after spending day and night with Lin Yuewei, had cried out of genuine anger. Thinking of Lin Yuewei crying alone, her own eyes burned, and she tucked herself back into the blanket and silently shed tears.

If she knew Lin Yuewei was actually afraid of the cameras catching the gleam in her eyes, who knew what she would think…

Lin Yuewei deliberately stayed up all night, not going to sleep until close to dawn. She also built up her emotions and cried for the entire night. The next morning, she put on a mask, looked up with both eyes swollen red, and went with her roommate to “work” — meaning they went to the rehearsal room for training and classes.

On the way to work, there were often many fans taking photos. Lin Yuewei succeeded in putting her haggard face and bloodshot eyes on camera. She was usually very talkative, but today she simply clung tightly to her roommate’s arm; only occasionally did she pretend nothing was wrong and answer a fan’s question in a hoarse voice.

Several fans started wiping away tears on the spot.

Lin Yuewei let out a soft breath. The first step was complete. This was a show that relied on fans, and what she needed most at a time like this was fan support. The more miserable she looked, the more steadfast the fans would become, believing that their idol had only them and could absolutely not leave.

If you asked Lin Yuewei whether she felt guilty using the fans, she would say yes. But apart from that guilt, she had no other choice; she could only repay them after she debuted in the future.

“Mommy loves you, Yuewei, keep going—” The place they were going to had arrived. Lin Yuewei’s fans, their eyes red, said goodbye to her.

In this scene, Lin Yuewei was not made of wood; she could not help feeling moved. As she walked backward, she loudly called back to them, “I love you too.”

Then she saw a familiar figure in the crowd.

The person was wearing a white tracksuit, looking long and clear and neat, her brows and eyes calm as still water.

Gu Yanqiu held a string of Buddhist prayer beads in her hand, slowly moving them one bead at a time, hidden within the crowd. The light in her eyes as she looked at Lin Yuewei was warm.

Lin Yuewei froze.