A Novelist’s Guide for Side Characters to Survive

Chapter 43: “Jiang Zu Is a Genius in This Industry.”

The acting teacher, surnamed Jiang, graduated from the Drama and Film Department of the People’s Liberation Army Academy of Art.

He initially shone on the theater stage before gradually transitioning to the big screen.

After twenty years in the industry, Teacher Jiang reduced his output, “transforming” into an outstanding educator, serving as a guest professor at the Communication University.

His classes were extremely hard to secure.

Who wouldn’t want guidance from a master during college?

Especially a virtuous and accomplished artist.

Zhou Lily became acquainted with Teacher Jiang because he had singled her out for a scolding during her university days.

Back then, Zhou Lily had already been accepted into an overseas graduate program, but she wasn’t satisfied.

She insisted on studying under a renowned director she admired.

The director didn’t care about money, only talent.

Zhou Lily was confident in her gifts, but she lacked a sample reel to submit.

With a famous father and her young age, plus her relentless credit-hoarding, Zhou Lily was already a campus celebrity.

Assembling a crew was easy.

But once she faced the monitor, she transformed.

What was the camera shooting?

Who set up the lighting?

Male lead, do you need a mirror to see what you’re acting?

Zhou Lily was a tyrant on set, compressing shooting schedules and piling pressure on her classmates.

The crew’s behind-the-scenes members coped better; some were used to chaotic sets.

A blunt director was preferable to one who stayed silent, only to drop a bombshell later, settling scores.

Those with hotter tempers would snap back.

Everyone was young and unestablished, full of pride—disagree, and they’d argue.

Is this your expertise or mine?

Want to handle the Steadicam yourself?

The actors were the first to crack.

But they didn’t quit.

A role in Zhou Lily’s film could pad their resumes.

Over time, the actors’ coursework suffered, and Teacher Jiang caught them in class.

After learning the situation, he sought out Zhou Lily and gave her a thorough scolding.

The director-actor relationship is about guidance and collaboration.

If he doesn’t act right, that’s his problem.

If you don’t trust or teach him properly, that’s yours.

Regardless of who’s at fault, you’re students.

If you don’t learn when you should, whose face will you shame after graduation?

Your teachers or the school?

Whether Zhou Lily took it to heart was unclear, but she learned that the virtuous Teacher Jiang… had a fiery temper.

Now, years later, with age and temper only deepening, Teacher Jiang… seemed to have lost it.

Otherwise, Zhou Lily couldn’t explain or comprehend a single word he said.

*

“Isn’t this a bit much? Why did the teacher just storm out…?”

The system, stunned, couldn’t help saying, “Should we tone it down a bit?”

Chu Zu calmly sipped water: “The original setting never said whether my acting was good or bad, just that I slaved away at a shady company.”

“It’s not my core setting, just a bonus.”

That seemed fair.

The host hadn’t written acting talent into the setting, so it didn’t fall under the specialist rule of “adding unnecessary traits.”

If the boss came knocking, the system had a defense.

Speaking of the boss, the system remembered something and hurriedly said: “You asked me to check on evaluation details. The boss replied last night, but you were resting, and I was on standby. I just found it in my inbox.”

Chu Zu: “What’d they say?”

The system cleared its throat.

“Your current task is to refine Jiang Zu’s character, streamline other vague characters based on your own, and push the story to a logical conclusion in reality.”

“Considering the film adaptation process, the director and adaptation screenwriter handle most of the story’s weight…”

“Overall, your workload isn’t heavy. Jiang Zu doesn’t have much screen time, and even in the film, the male supporting role remains secondary. The focus will still be on the female lead first, male lead second.”

“Since the novel’s content hasn’t changed, we haven’t set an evaluation standard for ‘film-specific character adjustments,’ so this won’t count for evaluation.”

Merely relaying the email made the little yellow chick restless.

It quickly added:

“That’s all the boss’s words, not mine!”

After speaking, it blinked its beady eyes, gauging the host’s reaction.

The boss hadn’t summoned it directly, instead using an email system untouched for ages…

Clearly, the boss knew the email was full of flimsy excuses!

How crucial was refining characters?

Without the host, wouldn’t adaptation screenwriters get headaches from the original’s vague characters?

If the adaptation went off track, forget the audience and readers—the author would be the first to riot.

Things wouldn’t be this smooth.

The author even praised the host as a mature, steady big sister!

No doubt, this wasn’t the host’s failure.

The male lead was poorly written by the author.

A side character Correction Specialist, restricted in tweaking their own role, couldn’t possibly fix the male lead.

They couldn’t shamelessly tail the male lead, earnestly urging him to stay on the straight path.

That was the “Male Lead Correction System’s” job!

Before, the host was strict about evaluations, never missing a chance for credit points.

The system expected an immediate appeal.

Surprisingly, Chu Zu showed no discontent about the lack of evaluation or credit points.

He was more focused on something else: “Can I still access the reader forum?”

System: “…Oh, right, the boss said you can’t this time. They’re worried harsh criticism might hurt your fragile heart.”

“My heart’s tough. Still can’t?”

The system checked, stunned: “The boss already locked me out of the reader forum.”

Chu Zu gave a knowing smile.

“What about the film forum?”

He said, “I am not accessing the novel forum since I didn’t touch the content. But since I got a share of the film rights, I should at least see the film forum, right?”

System, baffled: “You… you really want to see people bash you that bad?”

Chu Zu: “Yep.”

System: “…”

Shocked, the system obediently checked the film forum.

Soon, it returned even more stunned.

The little yellow chick plopped into its electronic coop, shaking its head, barely recovering from the data flood.

“They’re fighting so fiercely…”

“The commission’s not done, and the movie’s already finished?”

“No,” the system said.

“The author sold two rights: one for a TV drama, one for a movie. You’re involved in the movie and got a cut. The drama, based on the original, finished shooting and released about ten episodes recently, updating daily.”

Chu Zu, curious: “What’re they fighting about?”

“…Everything.”

The movie rights for Silent Peach and Plum sold high, with big investments, renowned directors, and actors, polished with care.

The drama, with different investment and audience, aimed for redemptive romance, barely adapting the novel, turning it straight into a script.

Almost all novel-to-drama adaptations faced book fans’ scrutiny.

Translating written characters to live-action was tough, with readers having varied visions of roles.

Some satisfied both drama and book fans, but those were rare.

This level of uproar was uncommon.

Book fans were initially content.

The leads’ actors had decent looks and acting.

But as viewers watched, they grew dissatisfied.

They understood the female lead’s struggles, her sensitivity’s roots, and anticipated her growth.

But why was the male lead so blank?

By episode twenty, they still couldn’t figure him out.

The female lead’s breakthrough relied on the male lead’s constant care, yet she stayed indecisive, slow to recover, worrying if her flaws would make him reject her.

The male lead’s breakthrough?

After their trip, his back stopped hurting, legs felt fine, and his hearing aid fixed his ears.

What was this?

Wasn’t the female lead’s later distress from her insecurity about him?

And this was called redemption?

Book fans had something to say.

They argued people’s resilience varied.

The male lead in Silent Peach and Plum was tougher than the female lead, or he wouldn’t have survived the orphanage to succeed.

They added love was hard to define.

Wasn’t the male lead always caring, trying to help?

And what triggered the female lead wasn’t him—it was Jiang Zu!

Drama fans: You can fool others, but don’t fool yourself.

You say the male lead’s resilient?

Then tell me how he survived the orphanage.

I know how Sang Zhe got lost in her passion over the years, but the male lead?

Before he appeared, Sang Zhe only had career stress.

After that, all her issues flared up.

You call this vague love?

Is this love non-negotiable?

Book fans: What’s a romance novel without romance?

Don’t like it, don’t watch.

Got a right to bash what others love?

Drama fans: Stop clinging to your romance novel. I wouldn’t watch if you begged.

But you blast promos in my face, make me pay for a subscription, and I’m supposed to leave?

From there, book fans shifted, targeting the drama’s production team.

Didn’t they understand the difference between novel and film media?

Why not adapt properly?

…

The little yellow chick was floored: “They’re bashing this hard for following the original. If your movie line…”

Worried, it said, “Let’s quit forums altogether. You got your cut; no need for feedback!”

Chu Zu: “Normal. Different audiences, different views. Tone down their heat, and it’s rational discussion. No personal attacks, just debates.”

System: “…Be honest, back when you were creating, did you get bashed a lot? Used to it?”

Chu Zu: “Only unread novels escape criticism. I need to eat. More bashing’s better than no one reading.”

System: “…”

Seeing the system still bothered, and with the audition room door opening—Zhou Lily and Teacher Jiang striding in with heavy thoughts—Chu Zu quickly said:

“Besides, flame wars start from discussion. At first, people just shared opinions. Someone analyzing your work, discussing it—that’s good.”

“The point of discussion is expressing yourself, not forcing agreement. Even in debates, you convince judges, not opponents, right?”

The system had a moment of déjà vu.

It saw a hint of Jiang Zu in the host.

Unfazed by harsh words, he saw them as opinions, reasonable, understandable.

Checking records, all his analyses came from a creator’s perspective.

He’d excuse the author’s weak male character, apologize for offensive terms, analyze Lu Lin neutrally, maybe call him shady for Sang Zhe’s sake.

After hearing both readers and viewers argue, he sighed that discussion was good.

The little yellow chick resolved to create a hundred alt accounts.

If the host insisted on forums post-release, it’d clean the web green, even if disciplined!

*

Per Teacher Jiang’s suggestion, Jiang Zu performed the audition scene again in front of Zhou Lily.

The room stayed silent for a long time.

Teacher Jiang’s wrinkled face beamed with satisfaction.

Zhou Lily was expressionless, her eyes quietly fixed on him—not just scrutiny or observation; no one could read what hid in her gaze.

Jiang Zu grew restless.

After a while, Zhou Lily said: “Did you see Dr. Zhang this week?”

Dr. Zhang was their shared psychologist.

Jiang Zu: “Yes…”

“Really or just saying so?”

“Really.”

“Then what’s with you?”

“…Sorry, was I that bad?”

Jiang Zu tensed, hands still on his thighs, back slouched, chin nearly touching his chest.

Zhou Lily stayed silent, and he didn’t dare speak again.

He knew how much this film meant to her.

If he messed it up.

Then came a huge embrace.

Jiang Zu froze.

Zhou Lily wasn’t like Zhou Ji.

Zhou Ji loved hugging when excited, but his sister was reserved, expressing emotions verbally, maybe patting his head, nothing more.

But this hug was tight, fervent.

Jiang Zu couldn’t see her face but felt a tidal wave of emotion from Zhou Lily.

“You’re a genius.”

Zhou Lily’s voice trembled, suppressed: “Why didn’t anyone see it sooner? Jiang Zu, you’re a bona fide genius…”

“You already understood. You get it. Someone who doesn’t couldn’t act like that… You made your choice long ago… I…”

She was dazed, more so than after seeing his earlier performance.

No director could stay unmoved by natural talent, especially from someone so familiar.

The shock nearly overwhelmed her.

Zhou Lily always thought Jiang Zu understood nothing, that he observed well but filtered out the good parts.

Human self-protection was that miraculous—acknowledging the world’s malice made past misfortunes ugly, sharp, unbearable.

Because the world wasn’t kind.

But Jiang Zu understood.

He observed clearly, his flawed eyes gently watching the storm through glasses.

He didn’t need teaching.

Those with kindness chose kindness.

Simple as that.

“The dean always told us everyone’s a genius.”

Jiang Zu didn’t know why Zhou Lily was so moved, but he patted her back gently.

“Sang Zhe’s a genius, I’m a genius. Some find their talent early, some take time. Do you think I found mine?”

Zhou Lily: “You found it…”

“Does it help you?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

Jiang Zu exhaled.

“Earlier, when Teacher Jiang ran out, I wanted to follow, but I was afraid he was just going to the bathroom…”

Teacher Jiang grinned: “Not bad, kid, not bad. Any plans after this film?”

“I know Little Zhou. When she’s rushed, she churns out films yearly; when not, she might not produce for years. Don’t stick with her output. I can introduce you.”

Zhou Lily let go of Jiang Zu, shielding him like a mother hen: “Don’t poach him in front of me.”

Teacher Jiang: “You beg me to come, then kick me aside when I’m done?”

Zhou Lily laughed helplessly: “Listen to you…”

“I won’t keep acting,” Jiang Zu said suddenly.

“I’m not interested in acting. After Sister Lily’s film, I’ll go back to my current job. I like it.”

Zhou Lily froze, glancing at him.

Teacher Jiang realized why he’d never seen this face before.

Still not giving up: “What’s your job?”

“Caregiver!”

Jiang Zu puffed out his chest proudly.

“I’m great at taking care of people. The old folks at home love me!”

Teacher Jiang couldn’t persuade me further.

He saw the kid genuinely loved his job, proud of it.

Even if Zhou Lily made it clear he had talent, that in their hands, his gifts would shine brightest.

The world was cruel.

Many said success was one percent talent, ninety-nine percent effort, but effort only ensured your work paid off.

Countless explorers fell before that one percent.

Jiang Zu had that one percent.

Worldly success wasn’t far, with Zhou Lily’s help and Teacher Jiang’s support.

But Jiang Zu didn’t need it.

He didn’t need grand prospects, only doing what made him truly happy—helping others.

Teacher Jiang shook his head, telling Zhou Lily: “You can rest easy now. If the Li girl causes trouble post-audition, come to me. I know Old Li a bit.”

Zhou Lily: “She’s not that shortsighted.”

She smiled, “Even if you don’t trust me or her, don’t you trust A-Zu?”

*

After returning, Lu Chulin was stunned speechless by the situation.

He immediately contacted Zhou Shengzheng.

No answer.

He went to his house, but only the cleaning lady was there, saying Mr. Zhou was abroad, return date unknown.

Lu Chulin couldn’t fathom it.

He couldn’t believe a fifty-percent shareholder would abandon the mess and vanish.

The once-mature studio team floundered like headless flies, letting the situation fester.

Three days passed with no progress.

Video platforms flooded with detailed exposés on Mingsheng Culture Media Co., Ltd.

Finance bloggers dissected the shady share structure, cautiously suggesting the payslip wasn’t an anomaly, the share distribution itself revealing issues.

They added that such dirt was an open secret in many companies.

Parent companies spun off subsidiaries without affiliation to offload risk, cutting ties when trouble hit.

Zhou Shengzheng had no need to get dirty for Lu Chulin, especially at his retirement age.

“Where did it go wrong?”

Lu Chulin told the agent to contact finance.

“I never shortchanged my employees. How’s there such an outrageous payslip?”

The agent returned, pale, typing on the computer.

[Finance said… they didn’t set the wages, just executed them.]

Lu Chulin’s vision blurred.

He knew this routine.

Even if he dug deeper, they’d have polished excuses, every word fair, as if they’d done nothing wrong!

Then who was wrong?

Him, who knew nothing?!

“Where’s the PR team?”

[PR team worked overnight, got the image analyzed—pixel details, lighting consistency, metadata, patterns. The image is legit. Records show the payment was… three thousand.]

“I’m asking for PR’s plan!”

The agent flinched, sneaking a glance at Lu Chulin.

The man was livid, furious, sweat soaking his hair, nothing like his usual courteous self.

The agent hesitated to type PR’s plan.

But Lu Chulin’s glare came, and he typed through gritted teeth.

[This is now social news. If true, we can’t overly steer public opinion. They traced the amplifying marketing accounts—mostly tied to Li Qiya’s marketing firm.]

[Li Qiya knows this game. She could’ve hidden better but didn’t, likely with more moves. Not paying social security violates labor and social security laws. If she sues, it’s a sure hit.]

[So PR suggests… we get the legal team to handle it.]

“They’re dodging what? I don’t know the law? Even if reported to labor authorities, it’s just back-paying social security, compensation, and fines. I want this quieted online!”

The entertainment industry often used hush money.

Enough cash settled simple issues.

The agent couldn’t miss that.

But it wasn’t that simple.

Three issues tangled together, hard to unravel.

As the agent prepared to type carefully, Lu Chulin’s phone buzzed with a text.

[Found out: Jiang Zu, backed by Zhou Lily, is auditioning for Return at 3 PM today, competing with Li Qiya’s Yu Lin for the male lead.]

[Semi-open audition, with professionals present.]

Lu Chulin opened his mouth, throat clogged, an indescribable feeling rising from his stomach, blocking his breath.

He understood each word, but together, they baffled him.

Why was Jiang Zu’s name in such a setting?

In a daze, he recalled that mock exam years ago, with only a third-tier scoreline between him and Jiang Zu.

What was he thinking then?

Lu Chulin couldn’t remember.

“I’m stepping out.”

He forced out, “Keep an eye on things. Anything off, contact me immediately.”

*

The audition was set at Li Qiya’s company.

Her company dwarfed Zhou Ji’s, with robust core departments, especially production and artist management.

The production department was on the mid-levels of the company building.

Li Qiya maintained good ties with many directors and producers, providing fully equipped functional offices, so impressive that Zhou Ji, visiting for a meeting, was jealous.

He ranted about upgrading his company once he made it big.

From noon, staff began testing equipment in the borrowed multifunctional office.

The room, about 150 square meters, could be reconfigured for various needs.

The Return directing team set up early.

A large space was left for actors, with pre-installed cameras against the wall and a long table for the director, screenwriter, and producer overseeing the audition.

Before 3 PM, people arrived: project managers, resource coordinators, distribution staff…

Several of Li Qiya’s close executives showed up, sipping coffee, chatting, ready to watch the show.

Those tied to Return or close to Li Qiya knew how much effort she’d poured into this film.

Not even in production, with the male lead undecided, she was already planning market distribution and awards PR.

Yu Lin, Li Qiya’s favored actor, was mild-mannered, skilled, versatile, and a classic academic type, uninterested in commercial gigs.

When not acting, he hid in remote mountains, farming or feeding chickens, despite being in his twenties, with hobbies far from most youths.

Yu Lin just needed a trophy.

On the other side, Zhou Lily’s unwavering Jiang Zu… no one had heard of him.

Around 2:50 PM, Li Qiya and Yu Lin arrived.

Li Qiya greeted Yu Lin briefly, then mingled with the executives, ignoring him.

Yu Lin, in a bucket hat covering most of his face, showed only his chin.

He spoke to no one, immersed in his own world, settling into a corner, motionless.

At 2:55 PM, Zhou Lily and Jiang Zu entered.

Unlike Li Qiya’s “free-range” approach, Zhou Lily kept Jiang Zu close.

Jiang Zu was taller than Yu Lin but less imposing.

Scanning the room, he pursed his lips, smiling at anyone he accidentally met eyes with, for no reason.

It warmed people’s hearts.

Even those stunned by his eyes liked his sunny smile.

But liking aside, some felt pity.

Yu Lin was clearly in character, exuding an inhuman chill just standing near him.

Jiang Zu… his look fit.

His features, neither sharp nor soft, matched the neutral state of an anthropomorphic AI, his eyes conveying intense tension.

But he seemed too gentle.

Either a one-second genius or… Yu Lin would easily take the lead.

Staff timed it perfectly, finishing camera and monitor setup at 3 PM.

The table-bound judges didn’t watch live, only through viewfinders, testing if actors could handle the camera’s slight distortions.

Scripts and auditionee profiles were on the table.

The scene was brief.

[Small room, day, interior]

Cramped space.

Sigma faced an AI anthropomorphism metric test.

The metric couldn’t exceed a value, or he’d be deemed dangerous.

Nor fall below, or he’d be scrapped as defective.

Sigma stole the test question: Desire.

Sigma raised something imaginary in the void.

That’s it.

The requirement was baffling.

“Desire” wasn’t quantifiable, and no specifics were given.

The script didn’t say what he imagined.

Though only two actors, rules were followed: audition order by surname’s first letter.

Jiang Zu went before Yu Lin.

At the appointed time, Zhou Lily and Li Qiya sat, avoiding eye contact, looking at the monitor.

Jiang Zu slowly moved to the frame’s center, sitting on the prepared chair.

Still mild-mannered, head slightly bowed.

But when he removed his glasses, lifted his chin slightly, and raised his eyelids.

Jiang Zu vanished, replaced entirely by the anthropomorphic AI, Sigma.

*

Sigma sat upright.

His eyes locked at an angle, vertical pupils staring into the void—not distracted, not vacant.

The slit in his red pupils was long, like a prop’s scar, irregular, evoking a wound torn repeatedly to observe the world.

Human eyes with cracks couldn’t see clearly; AI eyes with cracks gained functions humans lacked.

Sigma stared briefly, lashes trembling, then lowered his gaze, eyelids dimming the light’s glint.

He repeatedly studied his palm.

Pale, slender, strong-jointed, with simulated human palm lines, nails neatly trimmed.

Then he slowly clenched his fist, arm tensing to the limit.

A bit more, and his nails would pierce the skin, blue energy fluid leaking.

Sigma could control force to the millimeter, all calculated.

Calculations relied on commands, layered endlessly, the core self-written.

He fell into silence.

…

“This actor… kinda scary…”

The cinematographer whispered to the script supervisor:

“He barely moved, but he’s got this black-hole pull, locking your gaze.”

The supervisor, covering her mouth, replied:

“I get it. It feels static but like a slow-motion shot, teetering on the edge. People instinctively focus on something about to break… I can’t describe more. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes or the camera, but I bet no one dares meet his.”

“Is this in the script? I just remember ‘desire.’”

“He’s assessing. AI assessment is recursive—first their own performance, then—”

The supervisor stopped, clamping her mouth.

Because Jiang Zu changed.

…

Sigma unclenched his palm.

But it didn’t fully open, grasping something tennis-ball-sized.

Staring at the empty palm, Sigma’s Adam’s apple bobbed, lips twitching unnaturally, then pursing, as if swallowing.

The youth’s expression subtly shifted—brows slightly furrowed, eyes narrowed imperceptibly, vertical pupils less visible.

The expression lasted a second or two.

When he relaxed his hand, all facial details vanished, reverting to his initial stare.

Sigma repeated this three times.

The first was most expressive, the second least, the third exquisitely subtle.

The object in his palm stayed the same size.

He gazed, half-lidded, eye sockets taut, pupil slits shifting slightly, cheeks tightening.

Finally, his steady fingers trembled once.

…

“Orange!”

The cinematographer couldn’t keep his voice down.

“He’s imagining holding an orange, sourer than most fruit, but not as sour as a lemon…”

“Quiet!”

The supervisor was thrilled but remembered the rules, having been scolded by directors often.

The cinematographer, sheepish, didn’t check if Zhou Lily or Li Qiya heard.

Even whispering, his eyes stayed glued to the camera screen.

Supervisor: “Desire’s abstract, but when someone craves something enough, they build reality, forgetting it’s fiction. Wanting an orange triggers saliva, imagining its taste… He really…”

The cinematographer’s take differed: “No, he’s not imagining an orange.

He’s ignoring that there's no orange!”

The supervisor agreed: “But the balance is perfect. Sigma can’t be too human or too inhuman, so his hand trembled at the end.”

“Right, there was buildup. AI controls bodily functions… unless calculations glitch. A stutter in full human simulation fits the three AI laws.”

The supervisor grew excited.

This unknown actor was deadly skilled, his AI understanding extraordinary, making you care.

Where would this scene land?

Jiang Zu didn’t disappoint.

…

Sigma still gazed at his palm, now fully open, his vision visibly unfocused, drifting between fingers and the narrow light in the gaps.

Everything in his sight became irrelevant, insignificant.

His crimson eyes held only the slit, and all ignored by the soul beneath it.

As time ticked, the initial glint reappeared in Sigma’s eyes, making them reveal more.

A faint tension emerged in the slit, erupting into silent grandeur.

The teetering danger peaked.

Sigma’s test calculations had ended; only now did he reveal himself.

In the empty, cramped room, he showed his unadulterated desire.

No need to confess to anyone, just waiting for the right moment to fall into fate’s gears, igniting everything, derailing his life’s path.

Desire had its own description.

…

“Ambition without desire.”

In the silent room, someone said this.

On its own, it sounded like criticism.

Jiang Zu performed desire, yet it felt like ambition without desire.

But it wasn’t that simple.

AI desire stemmed from its final self-given command, emotionless code, without expectation, urgency, or positivity-negativity.

AI only sought an endpoint in endless recursion.

AI desire was ambition without desire.

What truly silenced everyone was—counting the last, Jiang Zu performed four layers of desire?!

The room stayed quiet for a long time.

Not just the hushed staff or stunned Li Qiya—even Yu Lin, head down in his own world, revealed his full face, staring at Jiang Zu.

Actors had their own styles; you couldn’t deem one wrong or right.

Even with the same setup, different actors showed distinct character traits.

Yu Lin didn’t know Jiang Zu but could tell he was a method actor, “killing” himself in performance to become Sigma.

But that wasn’t enough.

The key was that Jiang Zu’s Sigma was compelling.

You’d want to explore the character, curious about his next move, even mundane acts like eating, drinking, or sleeping.

Since Sigma was fictional, with no real-world reference.

Yet he kept surprising you, convincing you this was how a flawed anthropomorphic AI should be.

Absurd, Yu Lin thought.

If Jiang Zu was a method actor, where did he experience an AI’s life?

Yu Lin couldn’t judge further.

Seeing the young man put on his glasses, flashing a warm smile, he didn’t know how to evaluate.

The only certainty: Jiang Zu was a genius in this industry.

Facing such a genius, he should…

“I’m out.”

Yu Lin, always blunt, said to Zhou Lily and Li Qiya:

“I can’t outdo his fit for Sigma, but I’d love to share a scene with him. Can I try for the supporting role?”

The room buzzed with his words.

“Yu Lin, he…”

“I remember he competed with Lu Chulin for a role once. The investor set the lead but played games. Yu Lin fought to the end, right…”

“Have you seen him give up before?”

“I’ve only seen him ditch bad scripts…”

“He hasn’t played a supporting role in years, always aiming for best actor…”

“But he’s got a point…”

“…”

Zhou Lily and Li Qiya exchanged a glance.

Seeing Zhou Lily’s knowing look, Li Qiya understood everything.

For the film, Yu Lin’s wishes, or Jiang Zu’s professionalism, she had no objections.

“Acting all worried before, just waiting to rub it in my face?”

Li Qiya sighed with a smile:

“Fine, fine, I’ve got nothing to say. The whole crew’s on board, right?”

She asked the assistant director nearby.

The assistant director, jaw steady, grinned ear to ear.

“Yu Lin doesn’t need to audition for the supporting role, no objections?”

Li Qiya added.

Zhou Lily: “Objections? I’ll wake up laughing in my dreams.”

Li Qiya: “Then it’s settled.”

Zhou Lily was about to wave Jiang Zu over to formally introduce the team when she saw him tilt his head, staring at a corner.

A figure in a baseball cap froze, weaving through the noisy crowd toward the door.

Jiang Zu dashed to Zhou Lily, eyes still on the door:

“Sister Lily, sorry, I… I need the bathroom!”

Zhou Lily saw something was up but couldn’t identify the figure.

Seeing Jiang Zu’s urgency, she let him go: “Go, but come back. We’re waiting.”

“Okay!”

With that, Jiang Zu bolted for the door, apologizing to the crowd he pushed through.

The staff cleared the way, shouting: “Come back, we haven’t met you yet, male lead!”

Jiang Zu’s long legs moved fast, catching up just as the figure neared the closing elevator doors, his hand jamming the door open.

Sensing an obstruction, the doors slowly parted.

Jiang Zu’s eyes curved, looking at the frozen face under the cap: “It’s really you, Lu Lin. Long time no see!”