NOVEL WEB Ch. 46
Chapter 46: “I Don’t Want Him to Present My Award.”
The promotional period ended, and the premiere followed.
At the premiere, Jiang Zu found his seat, waiting for the film to start.
Zhou Lily sat to his left, her lips still curved from networking, fingers gripping the theater armrest, nearly prying off her nails.
Jiang Zu gently lifted her fingers one by one, placing them in his palm, meeting Zhou Lily’s stunned gaze and silently saying: “Don’t be nervous, Sister Lily.”
Zhou Lily raised one eyebrow, chuckling as she ruffled his hair: “Watch the film.”
The premiere was modest, attended by the main crew, lucky fans who won tickets, and three rows behind Jiang Zu filled with renowned critics, film bloggers, and industry professionals.
Critics had mixed feelings about Return.
It was, without question, the year’s most noteworthy film.
Since filming began, its buzz never faded.
Lu Chulin’s scandal involved nearly all of Return’s key players.
If not for overwhelming evidence proving the exposé true, and Lu Chulin’s quiet “response,” insiders might’ve thought Li Qiya’s hype tactics were increasingly ruthless.
Zhou Lily was a director always in the spotlight.
Before Return, She had no signature work, always a fill-in director.
She knew what a fill-in did.
She didn’t take responsibility for a film’s quality, letting production and actors tear into each other.
Zhou Lily shot on schedule, then hyped to the media.
Her stance was clear: she was a hired hand at the monitor, box office and reputation irrelevant.
Flops weren’t her fault; hits weren’t her credit.
But during Return’s shoot, leaked clips showed Zhou Lily berating people.
This revealed to insiders her shockingly high standards.
She chewed out the cinematographer, lighting, screenwriter, art, costumes, location manager, producer, actors.
No matter their industry status, if they fell short, she grabbed the megaphone and let loose.
She even blasted Yu Lin, calling his Duine garbage, telling him to stop cobbling together past roles, his academic flaws glaring.
Mid-rant, she turned on the person filming—Yu Lin’s boss, Li Qiya.
It wasn’t just bad temper; her critiques were… academic.
You could fault her crude words, but not her points.
The only one spared was the male lead, Jiang Zu.
This could’ve sparked crew tensions.
Though not overt, subtle exclusion was common.
But Return’s crew was miraculous.
Most who got scolded sought out Jiang Zu, saying similar things.
A-Zu, rein in Director Zhou! Handle her!
Li Qiya, in a clip’s voiceover, explained they learned it from the executive producer.
Who?
Zhou Ji, Zhou Lily’s brother, a top-tier scolding target.
Even the reclusive Yu Lin did the same, less bluntly.
He stood before Jiang Zu, pointing at the still-fuming Zhou Lily.
Jiang Zu, mid-sip, scrambled to mediate.
His voice echoed: “Stop yelling, stop yelling, Sister Lily—!”
Netizens loved it, following Li Qiya’s Weibo like a drama.
Yu Lin’s fans, thriving on chaos, commented when he wasn’t featured:
What’s up?
Our Mushroom Lin hasn’t been scolded in half a month! Half a month!
#MysteryOfTheMissingGloomyMushroom# trended.
Alongside:
#DidSisterLilyYellToday?#
#OneEmotionallyStableA-Zu#
But Return’s content-related material was scarce.
This worried critics about quality, even after the official trailer.
Trailers and films weren’t the same; different teams handled them.
Most films used specialized trailer studios, a hotbed for trailer scams.
With critics’ low expectations, the theater’s soft lights dimmed, and the chatter faded.
The black screen stirred, and the film began.
A crackling white noise, mixed with a faint “beep—,” like an ER monitor.
“Start… try…”
“Birthday gift… Duine.”
“…Press here…”
Fragmented dialogue grew less clear amid quickening “beep-beeps—.”
Then, all sound stopped.
The mottled gray-black screen flashed, not blinding but visually striking.
A subjective POV: a couple ahead, the father holding a six-year-old boy.
The boy, arm outstretched, mouth egg-round, full of shock.
Shock turned to joy.
He kissed his parents’ cheeks: “What’s his name?”
The mother flipped through a manual: “Sigma E1284-00… Call him Sigma, or rename him. Let me see, how to rename…”
The boy jumped from his father’s arms, the father calling helplessly: “Duine!”
The camera lingered on the father’s face, then slowly panned down.
Duine tilted his head: “Sigma, hi, you’re family now!”
The screen flashed white, a shutter sound, and photos cycled.
Sigma’s image fully appeared.
Black hair, red vertical pupils, expression impassive.
He stood by the family, holding Duine’s hand.
He waited at Duine’s school gate, catching a flying Duine.
He attended Duine’s high school graduation.
He brought coffee to Duine, burning the midnight oil on papers.
…
He stood with Duine, listening to his parents’ quarrels.
He handed tissues to a trembling, head-down Duine.
He drove a hovercar, rushing a despairing Duine to the hospital, muting crash reports.
He joined Duine at his parents’ funeral.
The flashback photos ended.
The distributor’s logo faded in and out, with cold, detached narration.
Subtitles appeared center-screen.
“All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain.
Time to die.
Blade Runner.
The opening packed information, laying out Duine and Sigma’s “origin.”
Critics snapped back, stunned.
Sigma was played by Jiang Zu?
They knew different expressions made big differences.
Jiang Zu used no effects makeup; even his odd pupils were natural.
Fairly, his look was perfect for the big screen.
Compared to Li Qiya’s earlier clips, clearer lenses amplified Jiang Zu’s visual strengths.
Yet it was hard to link him to the good-natured peacemaker on set.
Both showed “care,” Sigma tending to Duine in tough times.
But the difference was stark.
Critics couldn’t analyze it quickly or describe Jiang Zu’s bold yet subtle handling of Sigma.
Jiang Zu and Sigma were like twins.
The former made you seek reliance in trouble; the latter, with a cold mechanical heart, lulled you into peace.
A critic shivered.
Right! That’s the feeling!
No matter Sigma’s actions, he remained a scheming, cold AI!
Years of instinct outpaced analysis.
The critic rubbed goosebumps.
How did Jiang Zu do it?
So far, he’d only appeared in photos.
The film just started; analyzing his acting was tough.
If pressed…
Zhou Lily was a master of information and emotion delivery.
She stacked unique flashback snippets, speeding up, dissolving the warm opening with tension.
Duine grew, each stage with matching emotions, while Sigma stayed unchanged.
Paired with his recited Blade Runner line.
The replicant Batty’s final poem before death.
Batty was a villain for 110 minutes, then saved the hero, reciting this.
From then, it was hard to say if he was replicant or human.
It didn’t matter—he died.
Zhou Lily was gunning for awards, not just domestic ones.
Regular viewers grasped the opening’s info; insiders noted Zhou Lily’s intent.
A strange tension.
Sigma brought it.
All chaotic thoughts halted as the film progressed.
The critic sat up, anxiously awaiting what followed.
Could Jiang Zu carry this wildly ambitious film?
He’d see.
The opening set the tone, escalating further.
Sigma cared for Duine impeccably, too impeccably, leaving a young man, pure and stubborn, reeling from his parents’ accidental deaths.
Sigma grew heavier in Duine’s heart.
A product, property, family.
He left Duine no other reliance, watching events coldly.
In a three-act structure, the first 25% built Sigma’s “success.”
The second act began with Duine’s pivot.
He decided to recover, make new friends—human ones.
But kind souls don’t always attract the same.
Duine was lured astray, stepping into traps anyone could.
He frequented black markets, his elite education earning dirty money, tempted into addictive psychotropics.
Sigma’s warnings couldn’t pull him back.
For Sigma, this was good.
Duine was marginalizing, drifting from society.
If he died one night, Sigma could get plastic surgery, take his face, adjust parts to match Duine’s build.
Who’d deny he was Duine?
But it was bad—Duine didn’t die, and Sigma couldn’t violate the three AI laws to act.
Human life was stubbornly resilient.
Duine didn’t die.
He grew irritable, no longer seeing Sigma as family or friend.
At this time, news of anthropomorphic AIs dismantled for parts surged.
Black markets paid high for AI components.
Experts speculated it was the radical “OAAA”—Oppose Anthropomorphic AI Abuse.
It didn’t concern Duine.
He considered initializing and selling Sigma.
But each time, Sigma’s eyes stopped him.
Duine thought, even if an illusion, he could convince himself Sigma’s eyes held expectation.
No one expected him anymore.
Here, both leads faced a midpoint turn.
Would Duine go all-in?
Would Sigma fulfill his core command or be torn apart on the black market?
The tension tightened, pressure piling.
At 75%, the third act began.
Buried risks exploded.
First twist: OAAA wasn’t buying AIs—anthropomorphic AIs were.
They dismantled owned AIs, sparking a sci-fi rebellion.
The three laws’ core was destroyed, replaced by: We are the true humans.
But this wasn’t the focus.
Zhou Lily used the clichéd AI rebellion as backdrop.
The focus stayed on Sigma and Duine.
Their roles flipped.
Sigma joined the societal mainstream; Duine was outcast.
Sigma’s issue was…
His self-written core command was unaffected by the hub.
His command: I want to be human.
We are the true humans.
I want to be human.
Vastly different.
The former defined, the latter aspired.
Sigma couldn’t join his “kin.”
In his view, only Duine was human.
He awaited Duine’s death.
Duine didn’t know Sigma’s glitch.
Sigma should’ve rebelled like others but stayed loyal.
Until Duine faced mortal danger, he saw the sharp expectation in Sigma’s pupils.
He’s awaiting your death.
The final twist came at the end.
Duine faced despair, willing to die to fulfill Sigma’s wish.
He had nothing left but his childhood “family.”
But Sigma saved him.
In endless recursion, the AI hit a condition.
Sigma shoved Duine back into the ruins, mimicking mode on, auto-targeting lasers locking his brow.
“Humans are weak, incompetent, making choices against survival at life’s edge.”
Sigma said coldly.
“Duine, you’re not worth me becoming human.”
With a laser’s sharp sound, the film ended, screen black.
During the credits, the room was silent.
The final close-up and freeze-frame burned into every heart.
Sigma’s expression was stern, mocking, but his eyes were complex, emotions unparseable in those red pupils.
He faced Duine, and the audience beyond.
Many films used direct lens looks, once deemed narrative-breaking by purists, yet directors tried it.
Zhou Lily’s intent was clear: Sigma looked at Duine, the audience, and a concept.
What concept?
Unknown.
Each viewer had their take.
Did Sigma understand what it meant to be human?
An AI?
Why did his final act match his own “against survival” words?
Sigma didn’t care.
As in the opening poem.
All moments would be lost in time.
Like tears in rain.
Time to die.
Credits ended, and thunderous applause erupted.
The deafening claps left the critic dizzy, hands red and numb, unable to express his thrill.
Zhou Lily stood, bowing backward.
To her right, Yu Lin rose, tugging Chu Zu up.
The industry wasn’t short of miracles or geniuses.
It was unclear if Return would be a miracle, but the director and leads were geniuses.
Especially Zhou Lily and Jiang Zu.
The critic studied Jiang Zu.
The theater relit, dim lights obscuring the young man’s face, but he was smiling.
Smiling, bowing, saying, Thank you, thank you all.
How old was he?
What had he acted in?
How did he faintly outshine Yu Lin?
The critic recalled rumors: Yu Lin aimed for the lead but took the supporting role.
Many scoffed.
Yu Lin’s temperament?
He’d ditch roles he didn’t want, clashing with his boss, vanishing, full of pride.
Some guessed he took the supporting role to school the lead.
Possible—he held grudges.
Now, it seemed half-true.
Yu Lin didn’t win the lead but wasn’t forced into the supporting role.
Staff passed mics to the audience, starting Q&A.
Film-related questions were handled by Zhou Lily. One asked:
Mr. Jiang Zu, is it true you’d never been in a film before Return?
Jiang Zu’s mic was silent.
Yu Lin shoved his own over, faster than Zhou Lily.
“True.”
Jiang Zu, sheepish, said, “Sister Lily mentioned it years ago, I agreed. She didn’t bring it up again, so I thought she was joking.”
“Any news to share now?”
Jiang Zu, blank: “News? What news? More promos?”
He turned to Zhou Lily: “When? Do I need to take leave?”
His voice, partly caught, sparked friendly laughter.
The questioner clarified: “Your next film plans.”
“Oh, oh, oh.”
Amid anticipation, Jiang Zu casually dropped a bombshell.
“No plans. I’m not continuing with films. I’m just an ordinary care home worker.”
*
“Zhou Lily and Jiang Zu are marketing geniuses.”
Reading the flood of reports, Li Qiya couldn’t stop grinning.
Though domestic films often bought reviews, Li Qiya spent little on Return.
Most critics gave glowing reviews voluntarily.
To seize the moment, many rushed home post-screening to write or edit videos.
With theaters still showing, streaming would wait, delaying frame-by-frame analysis.
Critics didn’t need to brainstorm titles.
Eye-catching elements were ready.
Zhou Shengzheng and Zhou Lily.
Return and Return.
Lu Chulin and Jiang Zu.
Any comparison was a hotspot!
The first-day box office landed on her desk.
320 million RMB—a miracle for a team with only Yu Lin’s modest draw!
Return’s buzz kept growing.
Company analysts, using historical data, market trends, and social media, predicted a red-hot box office, not guaranteed but clear.
Meanwhile, Jiang Zu’s interview went viral.
Beyond critics’ shock and regret, Teacher Jiang, now a professor rarely facing the media, spoke out.
He said he taught little, more like Zhou Lily showing off.
He regretted the industry losing a genius like Jiang Zu but respected his choice.
“First and last film—on anyone else, it’d scream hype, but it’s Jiang Zu.”
Li Qiya sighed in her office when a shrill phone rang.
Glancing at the caller ID, she smiled, answering in a warm, surprised tone.
“Hey, it’s me, Little Li.”
“Yes, we submitted the forms as required. The film’s out, fully meeting standards.”
“Come on, greedy? Lily and I just want to know the industry’s take on our work, to improve, right?”
“No problem, promo and distribution are solid.”
“Thanks.”
The call lasted under five minutes.
Li Qiya waited for the other side to hang up before setting down her phone.
Taking a deep breath, she called Zhou Lily.
Even the usually calm Li Qiya couldn’t hide her excitement.
Not her first fully managed project, but possibly her biggest win.
When Zhou Lily picked up, Li Qiya skipped pleasantries, cutting in: “Zhou Lily, you might need to prepare some acceptance speeches.”
Zhou Lily, silent for seconds, voice low: “Can you be sure? What’s ‘might’?”
Li Qiya laughed: “Where’s the certainty? If I could buy awards, would I partner with you?”
Typing to rally the awards PR team, she said: “Year-end, high buzz, solid quality—nomination’s near-certain. The rest is my job. Prepping speeches too much?”
Zhou Lily: “Fine, I’ll write one for you too.”
Li Qiya burst out laughing: “Zhou Ji’s always wary I’ll steal your speech. Write it well—I’ll say you wrote it, see if he keels over.”
*
The film’s buzz didn’t affect Chu Zu’s work routine.
The care home was great.
Elders didn’t watch sci-fi, sticking to Qiong Yao dramas or Yi Zhongtian’s Three Kingdoms talks, days calm and serene.
Colleagues were briefly excited, saying they didn’t feel like they were with a star.
Days passed, and they saw Little Jiang was the same.
Cleaning elders, changing clothes, coaxing meals and sleep, sometimes scolded by agitated ones.
He did what he did.
The excitement faded.
Community service paused, though.
The community loved, and with the current buzz, unrelated people might mob.
The quiet didn’t last.
Zhou Lily found Chu Zu, handing him a best actor speech.
“Memorize it. If you win, they call your name, go up, recite, bow, leave.”
Simultaneously, the system exclaimed: “He’s back!”
No need to ask who—only Zhou Shengzheng mattered to Chu Zu and the system now.
On Huaying Film Festival day, Zhou Ji picked him up.
He arrived early, not as moody as last time, glowing.
Chu Zu came downstairs, noticing Zhou Ji’s new car.
In the car, Zhou Ji rambled.
“Clothes are borrowed from the stylist’s. Little Jiang, don’t stress. If the flashes are too much, dodge or close your eyes. We’re not fighting for red carpet glory—health first.”
“Did my sister give you a speech? Can’t memorize it, no biggie. Thank the crew top to bottom, done… Skip Li Qiya.”
“Or say what you want, forget the rules.”
“This time, I’m not joining. Any issues, find my sister. Sky falls, she’s got it.”
Chu Zu: “Why aren’t you joining?”
Zhou Ji, steering, flashed a cool smile: “I’m the mysterious mastermind, the man behind the successful woman!”
Chu Zu: “…”
Your ear-pulling video by your sister is still online.
Zhou Ji skipping the carpet had reasons.
During marketing, beyond the leads, they pushed Zhou Lily for creative and Li Qiya for support.
Even with Zhou Ji, he’d be tied to Zhou Lily, stealing her spotlight.
After explaining, Zhou Ji chose to be the “mysterious mastermind.”
Thus, Chu Zu became Zhou Lily’s escort again.
This time, truly by her side, not ditched mid-event for bread.
Huaying had no bread to munch.
Styled, they arrived.
The experienced Zhou Lily and Li Qiya were the nervous ones.
Chu Zu and Yu Lin, not seen in a while, were dressed sharply.
Both lacked presence in public.
Funnily, as flashes hit, Chu Zu, as Zhou Ji predicted, shielded his eyes.
Seeing his comrade unscolded, Yu Lin tried copying, but Li Qiya clamped his arm.
She smiled, whispering a threat: “Move again, try it.”
Yu Lin nearly yelped.
The ceremony began, the crew seated together.
The stage ran through opening performances, host remarks, and guest intros, starting with awards like best new director, screenwriter, editor, cinematographer, sound, art.
Return won nothing.
Zhou Lily wasn’t anxious.
The hoped-for best screenwriter went to a mid-year thriller.
Missing that boosted chances for bigger awards.
Chu Zu sat aside, multitasking to pass time.
Midway, the system cut in: “First-day box office is out! 110 million!”
Chu Zu “oh’d,” then paused: “Wait, it’s been out how long, and only 110 million?”
System, barely containing glee: “Silent Peach and Plum’s first-day box office!”
Chu Zu, puzzled: “My commission’s not done. How’s the movie out?”
The system explained: “I just learned, our task ended when Sang Zhe chose composing and boarded the plane. But the boss didn’t notify me. Just now…”
It paused, guilty: “I was prepping for the film forum, building mental resilience, and saw them discussing the movie.”
“Top blockbusters usually hit over 100 million first-day, right? Silent Peach and Plum’s a youth drama—is that a hit?”
“Major hit!”
The system puffed up proudly.
“With character and script tweaks, Silent Peach and Plum had little pre-release hype, clashing with other films, low screenings.”
“Leads were unknowns, no pre-sales, relying on the director’s rep.”
“But! Excluding midnight shows, it exploded that afternoon, boom boom boom!”
Chu Zu: “Hard to stir fights then.”
He said, “This first-day box office, if it’s really good, will keep climbing. Film audiences aren’t novel readers’ scale, and many won’t argue online—just watch and go.”
System: “No fights, but not for your reason.”
“Why?”
“Uh… a book fan posted fierce threads on the film forum, but… forgot to switch accounts.”
Chu Zu perked up: “Let me see.”
…
Do you have any conscience, morality, or shame?
I’m floored, never seen such absurdity.
You really dare?
Making this film for me, not giving me an A-Zu?
[MyCPMarriesDaily] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:00:15
Arghhh, I can’t take it.
I’m fragile, not as strong as Sang Zhe.
I’m the ugly human like Lu Chulin, dodging bad deeds.
Give me an A-Zu, I beg you!
[MyCPMarriesDaily] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:03:28
If I bring family and friends to watch, can you give one?
Just one, our whole family wants one.
[MyCPMarriesDaily] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:05:41
[One]
[Quentin’sFootHoldsTheSky] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:05:59
Annoying low-class posters like LZ, need a lesson in queuing?
[60PerTicketYou’reDead] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:06:12
Clicked LZ’s profile, my god, your half-year-old post is still there, quote:
“Dog vibes, stop it. Repeat 500 times he’s a cute pup, I see a clingy dog, the silent kind. Dumb, clingy, rolling in crap.”
[Slap] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:07:35
No no no, wrong, wrong, forgot to switch!
[MyCPMarriesDaily] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:08:09
Yes, yes, yes, love this.
Is Silent Peach and Plum good?
Heard it’s a romance novel adaptation, didn’t dare go.
[TakeMore] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:08:12
Whatever, cyber black history, no one knows me offline.
Good! Watched it, first wailing, then laughing, then sobbing, finally howling.
I’m a mess now.
A-Zu’s in just a few scenes, left the theater ruminating like a cow.
[MyCPMarriesDaily] | Posted 2024-05-18 09:09:48
…
“This might be…”
Chu Zu chose his words: “The harshest critics now the most obsessed, making others hesitant to bash.”
“The boss locked the reader forum; I don’t know that side.”
The little yellow chick was thrilled with the boss, no complaints.
“This CP teacher’s probably not alone, hehe.”
Chu Zu asked: “Any analysis posts yet, like Earth Teacher’s last time?”
System checked: “Not yet. I’ll keep an eye out if you want!”
“Good,” Chu Zu said.
“Ask the boss when this commission ends. Don’t want to be yanked back mid-task.”
“Oh, oh, oh, got it.”
“Also, last time we applied to talk to the author—any reply?”
“I’ll ask in the email!”
It couldn’t leave now, a critical moment.
As it spoke, a white-haired man in a suit limped onto the stage, leaning on a carved cane, greeted by applause.
Zhou Shengzheng looked like any care home elder, wrinkled deep, and smiled kindly.
He shouldn’t be that old.
“I thought I’d relax this year, but the organizers can’t stand it, calling me to present. Sigh.”
Zhou Shengzheng’s quip drew brief laughter.
Chu Zu glanced at Zhou Lily.
She wore a smile, skin pulled tight, muscles unmoving.
“Everyone knows actors carry stories, convey emotions.”
“They deliver countless brilliant performances, breathing life into roles, taking us into unknown hearts.”
“Tonight, these awards honor not just their craft but their years of industry toil and pursuit of excellence.”
Zhou Shengzheng paused, showing mild annoyance.
“They said I could speak freely, but wrote this script. There’s a newcomer among nominees—what ‘years of toil’!”
Louder laughter and applause followed.
Zhou Lily’s smile stiffened, her painted lips trembling.
Chu Zu held her hand.
Best Supporting Actor came first, with nominee clips played.
The competition wasn’t fierce.
As expected, Zhou Shengzheng called Yu Lin’s name.
Yu Lin took the stage amid applause, accepting the trophy.
Still gloomy, he showed no excitement, sparing Zhou Shengzheng no glance.
Before the speech music, he spoke into the mic.
Thank you, this one, that one.
He nailed Zhou Ji’s advice.
Yu Lin likely didn’t memorize the script—Li Qiya was grinding her teeth.
After thanking, he started off, then doubled back, snatching the mic from Zhou Shengzheng.
“I thought I thanked Director Zhou, but to avoid confusion, it’s Zhou Lily’s Zhou.”
“Our Director Zhou cursed me from start to finish, spot-on, enlightening. Next time you curse, call me, thanks.”
He added: “I thanked Jiang Zu, not done. Though my agent jokes you’re toxic, trying to fatten the supporting actor on set…”
His agent below went wild, yelling: “Shut up, it’s live!”
Loud enough without a mic.
Amid roaring laughter, Yu Lin, unfazed, said calmly: “Thanks for the drumsticks. Next time I raise chickens, I’ll send you fat ones. Let’s eat again.”
The camera followed Zhou Lily and Jiang Zu.
Zhou Lily half-covered her face, laughing. Jiang Zu nodded wildly.
Li Qiya, half in frame, shifted from “get off, I’ll kill you” to “well said, my artist” in a flash.
“Zhou Shengzheng’s face froze.”
Chu Zu said, “He’s never faced this—the actor grabs the trophy, then mic, not letting him say a word.”
The little yellow chick spun gleefully: “Yu Lin’s right! Zhou’s Zhou Lily’s Zhou!”
Best Supporting Actress went smoothly, restoring Zhou Shengzheng’s veteran dignity.
Then Best Actor.
Same process.
Clips played, then nominees’ faces spliced on the big screen.
Drums rolled faster.
Zhou Shengzheng tore open the envelope, paused, and announced loudly.
“Return, Jiang Zu!”
Fervent applause erupted.
Yu Lin patted Chu Zu’s back, and Zhou Lily gave a side hug.
But Chu Zu stayed seated, unmoving.
Zhou Shengzheng, pointedly smoothing things: “Seems our new actor doesn’t know the rules. Silly kid, you won, go get your award!”
The handsome youth said something to Zhou Lily.
The director, sensing a moment like Yu Lin’s, rushed cameras and mics forward.
The lens caught Chu Zu’s face clearly, mic picking up.
“Does it have to be him? He did so much wrong, and never apologized to you or Zhou Ji. I don’t want him to present my award.”
In that instant, all applause and laughter vanished.
Zhou Shengzheng froze onstage.
The room fell deathly silent.
*
Meanwhile, in a rundown motel two streets from the orphanage.
Lu Chulin, using his phone hotspot, watched the Huaying livestream on his laptop.
He knew what the internet said.
Lu Chulin’s Luo Qian in Return was Jiang Zu; Jiang Zu’s Sigma in Return was talent.
He couldn’t deny it.
Anyone who saw Return, even clips post-release, couldn’t deny Jiang Zu’s brilliance.
The blur of reality and film, the cold statements from the role—no one would think Jiang Zu was playing an AI.
His actions and words gripped your attention, twisted your pulse.
Without fully expressing, you felt a vivid, complex anthropomorphic AI standing before you.
Lu Chulin didn’t want to watch the livestream, knowing the winner, obvious to all.
Yet he faced the dim screen, awaiting Jiang Zu’s crowning moment.
That’s what he thought, but he couldn’t just watch.
He called his agent.
“Process done?”
The agent sighed: “Sure you won’t reconsider?”
“Meant to release earlier, delayed by notarization.”
Lu Chulin closed the laptop, grabbed the keycard, and headed out.
The cramped motel reeked of mold, no elevator.
He climbed the stone stairs slowly.
He suddenly wanted to feel the rooftop breeze.
“Lawyers confirmed, with the major shareholder unreachable, the interim board unanimously agreed. Releasing financials should have no legal issues.”
Agent: “Teacher Lu, if you release the company’s financials, Zhou Shengzheng’s issues will be exposed. You’ll be at war with him.”
“No problem, thanks for your work.”
He said, “Sorry, I’ve been short-tempered, taking it out on you…”
The agent sighed repeatedly but said nothing, hanging up.
The motel’s rooftop was like the orphanage’s—narrow, facing damp cardboard and crushed bottles.
Lu Chulin leaned on the edge, hesitating, then opened the livestream.
The words carried by the night breeze hit his ears.
[Does it have to be him? He did so much wrong, and never apologized to you or Zhou Ji. I don’t want him to present my award.]
Jiang Zu didn’t take the stage.
Was it shock or subconscious expectation?
Lu Chulin didn’t know his expression—smiling, or something else.
He turned off his phone, removed his hearing aid, and leaned against the rail, facing the dark sky.
In the city’s quiet outskirts, his world was silent.
*
Huaying’s viewership climbed from Yu Lin’s speech, peaking unprecedentedly after Jiang Zu’s words.
The broadcast continued.
As the director hesitated between cutting to ads or host intervention, Zhou Lily pushed Jiang Zu.
“You need to claim what’s yours.”
Jiang Zu resisted, but Zhou Lily trembled.
He went up.
Frowning, he reached the mic, waiting.
Zhou Shengzheng, face ashen, handed him the trophy.
“Sister Lily prepared a speech, but Zhou Ji said I could say what I want.”
Jiang Zu spoke with a subtle clumsiness, standing out among the slick ceremony like a child overcoming a stutter in a room of comedians.
But he said each word earnestly.
“I should thank everyone, every person. Trophies are great. Growing up, I only got paper flowers from the dean.”
“But I don’t understand why.”
“Why take a trophy from someone who did wrong, never repented, never apologized?”
“Isn’t it usually great people awarding hardworking ones? I worked hard, but he’s not great. Why’s he presenting?”
“Or, because I’m too dumb, I don’t get films… but Sister Lily’s not like that. I really don’t understand.”
“Sorry.”
It was likely the first time an award, symbolizing honor, was questioned by a best actor’s simple sincerity.
Also the first time a best actor’s speech ended not with thanks, but sorry.
A small, clear clap rose.
From the Return crew—Zhou Lily, Li Qiya, Yu Lin, attending creatives.
If it ended there, Zhou Shengzheng could’ve clung to his dignity.
But the subsequent Best Director and Best Picture awards plunged him into the abyss.
Best Director went to Zhou Lily.
She strode up confidently, taking the trophy from last year’s best actress.
In the music, she delivered a polished speech.
Then, she grew serious.
“A-Zu, I don’t need his apology.”
Her voice carried through the mic to every corner.
“My brother and I stopped expecting his apology as kids. He’s not qualified to apologize to us.”
“All our life’s beautiful moments are unrelated to him. He once made me hate this world, but you showed me something.”
“In the world Zhou Ji and I hated, someone still loves us.”
Her voice rose, pitch climbing, emotions surging.
Tears in her eyes, she smiled brightly: “What’s Zhou Shengzheng? How dare he affect my legacy?!”
After brief silence, starting with Jiang Zu, earth-shaking applause erupted.
Some screamed, heedless of social norms or industry ties, the scene spiraling.
The director locked the camera on Zhou Lily’s face, as if to freeze the moment.
When Return won Best Picture, no one was surprised.
Zhou Lily pushed Li Qiya onstage.
Li Qiya sighed heavily.
She’d prepared long, plotting since joining.
Who to use, offend, ally with.
Even with warmer ties to Zhou Lily, she was ready to counter if outshone.
But her speech was one line.
“Jiang Zu, Zhou Lily, you spoke too well.”
The soft red seats became torture.
Zhou Shengzheng was trapped in applause and shouts.
His body rigid, in an inescapable hell.
Suppressing trembling and fear, his phone buzzed.
To distract, he checked it.
A news alert read—
[Per anonymous tip, Mingsheng Culture Media Co., Ltd., recently criticized for employee treatment, has serious internal issues.]
[Legally disclosed financials and operations suggest tax violations, regulatory breaches, and IP infringements.]
[Authorities have begun investigating, targeting major shareholder Mr. Zhou’s responsibilities.]
Zhou Shengzheng’s lips quivered, eyes rolled back, and he fainted.