NOVEL WEB Ch. 42
Chapter 42: “Just to Let Him Learn to Pretend to Be Selfish?”
The story of Return was set in the future.
The film narrated the tale of an anthropomorphic AI that suddenly gained self-awareness.
Bound by the three laws of AI, it concealed its inner thoughts during work, solely to obtain a human identity.
Yet, after truly understanding humans, it believed humans were not worthy of being the object of its evolutionary imitation and only acknowledged its own unique identity.
Looking solely at the title, “Return” was actually a method in programming and mathematics.
It referred to a function or process calling itself during its definition or execution until it encountered a stopping condition, ceasing further calls.
In a more general description, one might imagine recursion as looking into a mirror.
Suppose someone stood between two mirrors, with reflections bouncing off each other; one would see countless “selves” extending downward.
This was the concept of recursion: something repeating itself endlessly until a condition made it stop.
When the title and script were combined, Zhou Lily’s intended core gradually became clear.
The AI’s thoughts kept falling into a cycle of contemplating its own identity.
Each of its actions was driven by its own restrictions and pursuits, forming an endless internal recursion.
On one hand, the AI adhered to programmatic limits; on the other, it constantly sought ways to break through and gain a human identity, only to give up in the end.
This process itself was a recursion of constant self-examination and improvement.
“Even though the themes and stories are different, how can the character’s core just circle back like that?”
Chu Zu said, “Unbelievable, simply unbelievable.”
The system, however, was delighted: “At least you don’t have to worry about the audition, and we saved the credit points for buying Catch Me If You Can!”
Chu Zu: “The teacher taught me to act as an anthropomorphic AI, but who’s going to make up for the acting lessons I’m missing?”
System: “…”
System: “Sorry, it’s my fault. I shouldn’t have given you the wrong expectation that you could work and learn at the same time. Let’s just wait for the break, okay?”
Chu Zu let out a “tch,” and the little yellow chick cried, apologized, coaxed, and flattered, practically ready to put on a talent show in the host’s consciousness.
The next day, with no work, Chu Zu set an alarm for eleven in the morning and slept soundly.
The system, having no concept of sleep, mimicked its host, creating an electronic chicken coop, tucking its wings over its head, curling up, and entering standby mode.
When Chu Zu woke, his phone, set to silent, was already bombarded with countless app notifications.
If he hadn’t plugged in the charger before bed, it might have died last night.
The system rebooted, refreshed, and checked the phone with Chu Zu.
That comment had indeed become a new trending topic.
Combining the heat and timeline, the initial discussions after the comment’s spread were all cursing him.
Marketing accounts fired shots even before Lu Chulin’s fans did.
[Let’s not talk about what’s going on with Little Boss Zhou and Actor Lu. You, the alleged involved party, can’t you speak properly? Who’s drinking your tea-scented nonsense? Eight hundred years ago, no one played the innocent fool for sympathy anymore. If you can’t act, go watch Return and learn how Lu Chulin handles the innocent fool.]
This post gained widespread agreement.
[Really overdoing it, bro.]
[How is it that Lu Chulin faded from the spotlight, and there are still so many people hating on him?]
[Posted the comment and then went silent. Come on, don’t do that.]
[“Used to be good to me,” “haven’t paid it back yet,” “one improper thing,” “just do better next time.”]
[So who is this guy? I saw he follows Little Boss Zhou and Zhou Lily too.]
[Following someone means nothing. I follow Obama; does that mean we’re sworn brothers?]
[Not another nobody jumping out for clout, right?]
…
Chu Zu: “Lu Chulin’s studio’s doing, huh.”
Chu Zu also saw Sang Zhe angrily fighting back: [You guys know nothing!] [I’m so pissed!] [I won’t let you talk about him like that!]
Sang Zhe was in a different time zone, clearly not enjoying her travels, just sprinting online.
She was usually quiet and didn’t argue with others.
Without revealing Jiang Zu’s identity, her every post was adorably naive.
Sang Zhe’s Weibo was verified as an international pianist, and many of her mutual followers were from Curtis Institute of Music.
Curtis had so few students that you could scan a list of graduates in seconds, all heavyweights.
These alumni didn’t interact much with Sang Zhe, but their prestige was undeniable.
Even fans wanting to attack her had to weigh if they could afford to offend her.
Lu Chulin’s studio likely warned against dragging Sang Zhe into it.
Chu Zu said, “All of Zhou Ji’s accusations against Lu Chulin were brushed over. My comment wasn’t the focus; they maximized my wording and style to shift attention. Their move was quick.”
The system urged: “Scroll past, quick. I just rebooted; I can’t stand dirty stuff!”
After marketing accounts, sharp or slick, jointly attacked the comment, trending alongside it were positive topics about Lu Chulin’s charity work and new gossip about some celebrity.
Whitewashing and using others as shields, all in one go.
It was only after Lu Chulin’s studio manipulated public opinion that Zhou Lily took action.
Zhou Lily, Zhou Ji, and Sang Zhe all followed Jiang Zu’s alt account.
Zhou Lily posted a Weibo—unrelated to Jiang Zu.
[Can’t you stop causing trouble even on vacation? Want to sleep under a bridge again? Who’s going to save you from hobos this time? I’m not going. Try Cussing Me again]
[TryCussingMeAgain] was Zhou Ji’s account ID.
Zhou Ji reposted with a caption: [Blame me for sleeping on the streets? Old Zhou only cares about his precious Little Chulin. You and I are nothing. Got the house keys? I don’t. Only a certain someone does.]
Zhou Lily commented on Zhou Ji’s repost: [What a pot, what a lid. They’re perfect for their father-son bonding.]
Sleeping on the streets was from when the siblings were kids, running away from home.
Not having keys was true—they threw them in Zhou Shengzheng’s face.
Lu Chulin casually entering Zhou Shengzheng’s house was true too.
Zhou Shengzheng was getting old, and Lu Chulin checked on him often, eventually getting a key.
But strung together, it was suggestive.
Thus, a new topic emerged.
#ActorSneaksIntoHouse, FamousDirector’sKidsForcedOut?#
Even if you weren’t into entertainment, family drama plus celebrity gossip was hard to resist.
Click in.
Zhou Ji?
Don’t know him.
Zhou Lily?
Don’t know her.
Lu Chulin?
Kinda familiar.
Zhou Shengzheng?
I know him!
A famous director planned tons of galas!
If Jiang Zu’s comment only drew fans and some onlookers, this expanded battlefield attracted a massively larger audience.
No need for paid trolls.
“It’s gotta be our Sister Lily!”
The system wasn’t as furious but still held a grudge.
“They’re just watching gossip. Passersby stay neutral, at most posting ‘entertainment’s a mess’…”
Chu Zu thought for a moment.
“Zhou Lily made it hard for the studio to explain.”
“No need to explain this, right?”
“I mean Zhou Ji’s earlier accusations.”
Chu Zu said, “Originally, the studio just needed a timely statement.
Standard stuff—‘situation untrue,’ ‘reserve legal rights,’ that sort.”
“But Zhou Lily stirred up a new drama. If they explain one thing, they have to explain the other. The two are linked—think about it.”
“The studio clarifies no university quota was stolen, no orphanage abandoned. Zhou Ji says, ‘Then what about stealing my dad?’”
“It’s a dumb question, and responding makes the studio look dumb. Zhou Shengzheng definitely doesn’t want family matters exposed. If they don’t respond, Zhou Ji will drag the topic back.”
Mimicking Zhou Ji’s tone, he said: “[My sister and I get ignored, fine, but letting a jerk like Lu Chulin near my dad? Who knows if he’ll stab him in the back?]”
“That pulls the topic back. So what if there’s a statement? Statements don’t define right or wrong; they’re for calming public opinion, aiming to fade it from view.”
The system was stunned: “It won’t fade, not at all…”
“Zhou Lily tied a serious matter to family drama without locking them together. They can be discussed separately but are strongly linked!”
Chu Zu scrolled through the comments, smiling: “Exactly.”
What truly ignited everything was a staff member’s exposé.
[Lu Boss, got time to buy marketing while traveling? How about settling wages first? @LuChulinStudio]
Attached was a narrow payslip.
Companies usually forbade employees from disclosing wages.
Each month, they’d confirm income with employees, signing off on payslips.
The creased paper looked recent, dated lately.
Basic salary: 3300.
Attendance: 30 days.
Late days: 4.
Late deductions: -300.
Overtime days: 9.
Overtime pay: 0.
Bonus column: blank.
Total provident fund: blank.
Pension insurance: blank.
Medical insurance: blank.
Unemployment insurance: blank.
Work injury insurance: blank.
Maternity insurance: blank.
Net pay: 3000.
The post tagged every relevant term.
The blogger’s page showed complaints about the company from a year ago, even earlier, without naming it then.
To summarize, the blogger graduated university two years ago, joined a cultural media company for artist promotion.
Internship pay was 3000, promised benefits after regularization.
Endless tasks, constant check-ins, near-monthly overtime.
No overtime pay during internship, only swapped for time off—when he had no weekends, where was the time?
After three months, the promised internship was extended to six.
Fed up, he planned to quit, but HR hinted that, though a small company, its parent company’s market share was clear.
HR added that their talent pool is connected to all related companies, and leaving might mean no better job.
Fresh out of college, naive, he stayed.
After regularization, his pay rose by 300, with only social security paid the first month, then nothing.
The blogger named the company in comments.
[Mingsheng Culture Media Co., Ltd.]
The comment section was packed.
Tagging Lu Chulin’s studio and naming the company, the blogger likely wasn’t scared of legal letters.
The timeline was solid.
Either he held back a year to lie today, or it was all true.
Hardly anyone believed the former.
[The first month’s social security was to strip your fresh grad status, forcing you to stay!]
[This is soul-crushing, like looking in a mirror.]
[So many blank columns on the payslip—some get it, some don’t. What a trash company, execs feast while the bottom gets squeezed?]
[Entertainment’s got its own slave plantation.]
[Spent big on Tianyancha membership, checked this company. Eye-opening. @LuChulinStudio, reimburse my fee, it’s hundreds!]
[I checked too. Isn’t this Zhou Shengzheng’s company? Confused.]
[No wonder Zhou Ji’s so mad. My god, were they switched at birth?]
[Seems Zhou Ji really hates Lu Chulin and his dad. Little Boss Zhou cursed him out before but never spread rumors… so the quota and orphanage stuff…?]
Compared to those who’ve worked and despised corporate tricks, Lu Chulin’s fans were no match.
“Employment” was a core societal issue, with recent economic woes amplifying attention.
Lu Chulin’s studio stayed silent, and even the marketing accounts bashing Jiang Zu stopped talking.
By dawn, as traffic surged, the payslip post hit the top trend.
Related topics, once cooling, boiled over again.
It wasn’t just “unverified serious issues” tied to “family drama” anymore—a real heavyweight bomb had dropped!
The three could be discussed separately but linked, mentioning one pulled in the rest!!!
The system was dumbfounded, unable to believe they’d stumbled into such timing.
Last time, the host checked and knew this company was half-owned by Lu Chulin and Zhou Shengzheng, possibly mismanaged.
But the exposé’s timing was perfect—any earlier or later wouldn’t have hit like this.
Chu Zu finished reading and said, “Check it.”
The system checked and returned, dazed: “It’s… Li Qiya…”
Chu Zu laughed: “Told you. Here comes the combo punch.”
Li Qiya, pampered growing up, had smooth sailing.
After clashing with Lu Chulin, she was determined to strike back.
Tianyancha’s public info was easy for her to dig into, even deeper.
Contacting the unlucky blogger was no trouble.
Li Qiya prepared thoroughly.
She promised a job at her company with full benefits and planned a graduate employment rights project, with legal staff giving university talks.
Before she offered payment, the blogger, seething, agreed to everything.
He didn’t just want to vent his exploitation; he wanted to expose it, warning fresh graduates.
University and society were worlds apart, the latter harboring unimaginable malice.
Li Qiya could’ve acted anytime but held back because of Zhou Shengzheng.
Though falling out with him wouldn’t upset her father, she was in her career’s rise.
Offending Zhou Shengzheng’s circle for Lu Chulin wasn’t worth it.
Zhou Lily’s post made Li Qiya realize the time was right.
Zhou Shengzheng wouldn’t publicly feud with his kids.
He called them disappointing, but without them, he had nothing.
Li Qiya’s dad valued her for this—her brothers were money-grubbing opportunists, not even bothering with appearances.
As people age, they chase what they once scorned.
As for the “half-son” Lu Chulin?
He was done for.
So, Zhou Lily not using Zhou Shengzheng’s resources was one thing; whether she could was another.
Li Qiya was now on the same boat as Zhou Lily.
They shared a project and an enemy.
She couldn’t think of a better time.
While Chu Zu and the system marveled at the women’s high-level moves, his phone rang.
The acting teacher arranged a meeting.
*
Lu Chulin’s studio was in chaos.
Initially, only a few in PR stayed late, chugging coffee, contacting marketing accounts.
The issue was tricky but manageable.
Even if Zhou Ji’s video claims were true, they were explainable.
An orphan with no support had to fight for a future.
Society was competitive; worse things happened.
Without sponsorship, student loans were an option.
Failing to study meant failing the exam.
Zhou Ji made two accusations.
Counter one, and the other would be doubted.
Lu Chulin’s charity image was deep-rooted; PR could handle it.
That was the fallback.
For now, it wasn’t needed—the alleged party’s account jumped out with a bizarre comment.
That made it easier.
A professional PR team, paid top dollar, delivered top results.
When the agent asked for progress, they said it was under control.
PR planned to disband, leaving a few to monitor, others to sleep.
Zhou Lily joined the fray.
They stared at screens, drafting plans, and writing scripts.
With Zhou Lily involved, the agent couldn’t stay out, rushing to the studio, stressing not to drag Miss Zhou too deep.
She wasn’t like her brother.
Even if Zhou Ji badmouthed Lu Chulin to Zhou Shengzheng, he wouldn’t believe it, knowing his son exaggerated everything.
But Zhou Lily didn’t play games.
She thrived without her father’s resources.
And Zhou Shengzheng’s attitude toward her… was ambiguous.
Lu Chulin, transitioning, couldn’t afford to offend her.
“It’s not about not offending her—Zhou Lily’s clearly targeting Lu Boss!”
The PR guy laid out scenarios and impacts to the agent.
His mouth was dry, but the agent, less savvy, couldn’t grasp the point.
Finally catching on, the agent hesitated, mumbling about needing to call someone.
Call who? Didn’t he know this was a PR war where every second counted?
If the situation wasn’t stabilized, by morning, the difficulty would double!
The agent contacted Lu Chulin.
Lu Chulin’s ear condition flared up; he couldn’t hear.
The agent sent text-to-speech messages, riddled with errors.
Lu Chulin called back quickly.
“Use the spare phone to text me, I’ll talk. Hurry.”
The agent heard his off tone, unusually dark.
Lu Chulin was easygoing, kind to the team, one of the best-tempered bosses the agent had.
But his tone now was low, edged with subtle sharpness.
The agent assumed it was his hearing loss affecting his control, paused, then texted the situation.
“I have no beef with Zhou Lily.”
Lu Chulin said, “She’s probably backing Zhou Ji. Zhou Ji knows Sang Zhe, so he probably knows—”
He stopped abruptly.
The agent waited, then asked, “Knows who?”
Realizing Lu Chulin couldn’t hear, the agent waited.
After a pause, Lu Chulin spoke hoarsely: “What’s the PR team’s plan?”
Agent: [Avoid Zhou Lily, dig up the commenter to shift focus.]
Lu Chulin: “What if he’s the one Zhou Ji mentioned?”
Agent hesitated: [Should be manageable. His statement’s flaws make it easy to spin.]
Lu Chulin’s cold laugh was clear, dripping with mockery: “What if he’s a pathological idiot with a bad brain?”
The agent froze, fingers on the spare phone, unable to type in the long silence.
“He was scared of debt, told me he wouldn’t study, didn’t take the exam. Years later, Zhou Ji uses him as a weapon?”
Lu Chulin’s mood was awful.
He’d booked a flight back, but at the airport, heavy rain grounded all planes.
The rain stopped, but flight resumption was TBD.
Lu Chulin had long forgotten the past, not recognizing Sang Zhe at first.
Seeing a pitiful girl at the bus stop in the rain, he instinctively told the driver to stop, grabbed an umbrella, and walked over.
She didn’t notice him, lost in thought.
When she saw him, she only bowed nervously, thanking him, saying nothing else.
That’s when Lu Chulin felt the relaxation of travel.
No one knew him, no one knew he was deaf.
A shy, pretty girl shared his umbrella, like old friends.
Then he saw Zhou Ji.
Lu Chulin’s impression of Zhou Ji was Zhou Shengzheng’s rants.
A useless rich kid, always trailing Zhou Lily or stirring trouble.
He had the best resources, endless choices, yet wasted them on nonsense, enjoying it.
Not hated, not liked—Lu Chulin just advised Zhou Shengzheng when brought up.
Oh, the girl came with Zhou Ji.
That was his only thought.
Stargazing on rooftops was a long habit.
Lu Chulin didn’t recall why he loved it, just that he looked up on clear nights.
Sometimes he saw faint stars, sometimes nothing.
He’d gaze at the city’s flowing lights, high-rises binding it like ropes.
Standing high, he felt unbound, free to go anywhere.
Stars relaxed him, even when recognized fans chattered inaudibly, his mood stayed intact.
Until that girl rushed over, holding a name he’d forgotten.
Lu Lin, and Sang Zhe.
Undeniably, Lu Chulin felt wild joy then.
Past memories were like sand paintings, vivid when drawn, blurring with wind and rain into shapeless grains.
But Lu Chulin recalled a corner of that painting—a quiet girl trailing him.
She’d grown prettier, more outgoing.
The old Sang Zhe never looked up, only showing her delicate face when gazing at stars.
More memories surfaced, and Lu Chulin remembered why he stared at the sky.
He wanted to hug an old friend, but Sang Zhe dodged.
Not only dodged but asked… questions.
That part, Lu Chulin couldn’t and wouldn’t recall.
All memories tied to Jiang Zu, he refused to remember.
His impressions then were vague, a foggy mind, only recalling nausea from practice tests, dread from mock exam scores, and the dean’s scolding gaze.
Lu Chulin suffered then, remembering only sticky sweat, crumpled papers, and the slow ceiling fan.
The class grew quieter, only the teacher’s desk-slapping encouragement for numbing students.
Yet Sang Zhe kept reshaping his memories with accusations.
Lu Chulin didn’t get it.
He knew Sang Zhe before Jiang Zu, always stepping in to solve problems, while Jiang Zu lagged behind.
Why did Sang Zhe blindly side with Jiang Zu?
Was college just about money?
It wasn’t much.
Did effort count for nothing?
Two sponsorships were promised, then one was cut three months before the exam, and the dean didn’t even fight.
Was that his fault?
Even if it was, only Jiang Zu could be blamed.
What was Zhou Ji up to now?
“I’ll explain to Director Zhou. Anyone can see Zhou Ji picking a fight. Zhou Lily’s project is starting; is she using this for hype?”
Lu Chulin took a deep breath, forcing calm.
“Let him chase clout. Director Zhou will clean up his son’s mess later and compensate me. Don’t worry about it.”
The agent didn’t record, fearing the PR team would hear, typing: [What about the comment?]
Lu Chulin stayed silent, as if he hadn’t seen it.
After a while, he said hoarsely: “Hold off. Zhou Ji clearly doesn’t want to drag him in, won’t say more. When I’m back, I’ll… talk to him.”
After hanging up, the agent relayed Lu Chulin’s words to PR.
They looked troubled, stressing this wasn’t a solution—too many risks.
Letting it fester would be more than patching.
The agent’s heart raced, thinking, I haven’t even told the whole story.
If you knew it was true, and the orphanage kid was disabled, wouldn’t you quit on the spot?
This was one of Lu Chulin’s worst decisions.
Hours later, as the trend seemed to fade, the payslip wrecked their night’s work.
Real-time traffic curves hit a peak, glaringly red.
Phones rang endlessly, mixed ringtones blending with PR’s screams and wails.
The agent slumped into an empty chair, vacated by the PR guy staring hopelessly at the traffic curve.
“You and Mr. Zhou Shengzheng are sure there’s no issue. Where’s the problem?”
The PR guy was frantic, half his face lit by screen glow, the red arc cutting through his anxious eyes.
This wasn’t about doing the job well anymore.
Even if he quit now, this would be a PR industry classic.
And he’d be the textbook failure, every step falling into the opponent’s trap.
How could he survive in this field?
Agent: “Zhou Shengzheng… hung up and turned off his phone…”
Pale, sweating, he called Lu Chulin, ignoring if he could hear.
A calm robotic voice said the phone was off.
Chinese prompt, then English.
In the PR golden hour, the clouds parted, skies cleared.
Lu Chulin boarded the plane.
*
Zhou Lily wasn’t at her studio.
Early in the morning, she met Li Qiya.
Li Qiya was her usual self, full makeup at dawn, eyeliner sharp, red lips curved.
Seeing Zhou Lily, she set down her phone.
“Didn’t ask what you drink, got an iced Americano. Don’t like it, order again.”
Zhou Lily wore no makeup, not even sunscreen, in a white shirt and jeans, hair loosely tied, a few strands tucked behind her ear as she sat.
“You say that like I had a beef with Lu Chulin from the start. We could’ve been friends sooner,” Li Qiya said with a smile.
Zhou Lily: “Look at you talking. Weren’t we friends when you joined the project?”
Li Qiya nodded: “Now we’re even closer friends.”
Zhou Lily didn’t deny it.
The coffee shop was quiet, with only occasional white-collar workers grabbing to-go orders.
The two contrasting women saw something familiar in each other.
Their first honest talk.
No need for small talk.
Li Qiya got straight to her moves.
Zhou Lily was direct too, saying Zhou Shengzheng wouldn’t interfere, and might even backstab Lu Chulin.
He liked the actor, but he loved himself more.
Li Qiya was satisfied: “Director Zhou taught him acting, now teaching him capital. Nice, a mentor’s grace.”
Zhou Lily didn’t comment.
Lu Chulin took up a small part of their purpose; most was about Return.
Li Qiya: “Don’t say I’m targeting you. I checked Jiang Zu. Even as director, you can’t put someone inexperienced, with a mismatched personality, as the lead.”
“I know you checked, or you wouldn’t have caused a scene at the charity gala,” Zhou Lily said lightly.
Before, Zhou Lily was diplomatic, like she’d let it go.
Her sudden bluntness caught Li Qiya off guard.
Li Qiya said: “I’ll be straight. I’m not moral, no regrets. But if you make a fuss about it…”
She smiled, “I’ll own it, but I’ll clarify—I didn’t target him. That night, whoever you brought would’ve gotten the same.”
“Pretty fair,” Zhou Lily said with slight sarcasm.
“You said fair audition, now you’re nitpicking?”
“I’m just curious. You said this script was tailored for Jiang Zu, but I don’t see it. Gross to say, but this selfish lead fits Lu Chulin better.”
“Pretty gross,” Zhou Lily nodded. “My answer’s gross too. Wanna hear it?”
“Not some dodge?”
“No dodge.”
“Then say it.”
Zhou Lily said: “You can see through Jiang Zu at a glance. You know his patience and tolerance have no limit.”
“Even if you hurt him, yell at him, he’d just dumbly tell you not to be mad.”
“Believe it or not, if you told him you used him to mess with Zhou Ji, landing me in the hospital, he wouldn’t curse you.”
“He’d agonize, then say he’s not qualified to blame you, that apologies go to me and Zhou Ji. He’d say it’s bad, don’t do it again.”
Li Qiya got goosebumps, feeling déjà vu.
“Jiang Zu’s the one who commented last night… the orphan Lu Chulin stole the university slot from?”
Zhou Lily nodded: “It’s him.”
Li Qiya let out a “ha”: “Lu Chulin’s really…”
Zhou Lily continued: “Jiang Zu might never learn to be self-centered, but I hope he understands it.”
Li Qiya gave her a look like she was crazy.
Zhou Lily was calm: “No one’s perfect in this world. Even directors and writers avoid perfect characters. They don’t hold up—either a mirage like Lu Chulin or a pure fool.”
“Jiang Zu needs to understand selfishness. Only by knowing what’s bad can he know who he is, standing opposite.”
She paused, then said, “Even if he can’t understand, it’s fine. If he wants to be smarter, he needs flaws. If he doesn’t have them, fake them, let others know he’s not to be messed with.”
“You… pulled years of investment, fought tooth and nail, clashed with me, just to let him learn to pretend to be selfish?”
Li Qiya was incredulous.
“I’ve seen your grad school work, thought you were a maniac director. They say only lunatics get art. How are you… so gross?”
Zhou Lily laughed: “I said the answer’s gross. You wanted to hear it.”
Li Qiya shook her head repeatedly.
She sighed, “Then he can’t act on it. Are you trying to guilt me?”
Zhou Lily: “Didn’t you say you’re amoral?”
Li Qiya: “I can have morals. I’m loyal to friends and friends’ friends.”
She thought, then warned: “If that commenter’s Jiang Zu and he’s auditioning, you know Lu Chulin’s side might say he’s hyping himself.”
“Depends if your pressure’s enough.”
“You’re making it sound like my job to handle?”
“Then your grudge with Lu Chulin isn’t deep enough,” Zhou Lily teased.
“Pretty generous. Wasn’t that your first fully handled project after going independent?”
Li Qiya laughed: “It was. But it’s just an audition. He won’t get the lead. The heat will still fall on my guy, since it’s our film.”
They discussed the film’s details, sometimes in sync, sometimes with jabs, until noon.
Li Qiya had a meeting and didn’t invite Zhou Lily for lunch.
After Zhou Lily grabbed a quick bite and returned to the studio, she saw Jiang Zu trailing the acting teacher.
Her studio had an audition room, perfect for acting training.
Jiang Zu kept his old habit, head half-lowered, eyes on his toes, the model student.
After her candid talk with Li Qiya, Zhou Lily felt heavier.
Not wanting to pressure Jiang Zu before class, she nodded to the teacher and went to her office.
Half an hour into the lesson, the acting teacher stormed into Zhou Lily’s office.
His expression was ferocious, pointing at a stunned Zhou Lily, stammering “you, you, you.”
Zhou Lily’s heart sank.
How bad was it to enrage a Media University acting professor?
Before she could find words to calm him, the teacher finally spoke fully.
“Where’d you dig up this gem? Why’ve I never heard of him? Which school? Who trained him? What kind of idiots haven’t cast him yet?”
“Be honest, are you trying to get me to push resources? Just say it, why play games!”
Zhou Lily was floored.
She finally got it—the teacher’s ferocity wasn’t anger; it was ecstasy.
Because he added, exasperated.
“Does he need me to teach him? He could teach me!”