“Now you all understand why I do stand-up comedy, right? Mainly because I possess the humor of men,” she said with a smile. “Of course, there’s another reason—the huge gender disparity in this industry. You might have noticed today that there are very few female performers…”
Someone in the audience nodded in agreement.
“There are just way too many male comedians, and that’s partly why I got into stand-up. Men are smart; they never let themselves lose out. Even on the subway, they spread their legs to take up more space.”
Chu Duxiu said earnestly, “So, I trust their judgment. The more skewed the gender ratio is in an industry, the more I want to dive in—it’s definitely profitable. Take stand-up comedy, for example!”
The audience burst into laughter, some even slapping their thighs.
“Another example is the jobs I dream of the most—the ones marked ‘men only’ or ‘male preferred’ in job postings.” Chu Duxiu lowered her head and sighed. “I really want to apply, but they won’t take me. When I ask why I can’t do it, they say it’s because I’m a woman, and it’d be harder for me in this field.”
She looked up in surprise and retorted, “What kind of logic is that? Has anyone ever said, ‘Because you’re a man, this job would be too female for you’? Is that how it works?”
“Even my Chinese teacher would cry hearing that. With such bizarre reasoning, all I can say is…”
“Men truly live up to their reputation—creating unnecessary problems for us everywhere!”
“Preach—”
Someone in the audience burst out laughing, nearly jumping to their feet in excitement.
“And it’s not just their twisted logic when they speak—sometimes, even the way they listen makes no sense, and they don’t get humor at all. True story: I once wrote a joke mocking my boss, and guess what? The man himself was sitting in the audience during the show.”
Chu Duxiu hugged herself dramatically. “Terrifying, right? So awkward! I was half-expecting him to storm the stage and punch me!”
The crowd listened with rapt attention, eyes glued to her every move, their lips curled in amusement the whole time.
“But here’s the shocking part—he wasn’t angry at all. In fact, he invited me to join his company. Hearing this, you’d probably think, How touching! A magnanimous boss, breaking conventions to recruit talent!” Chu Duxiu noticed some nodding in the crowd and sighed. “That’s what I thought too—until I realized I was mistaken.”
“The truth is, he didn’t get it. He thought I was praising him onstage and had no clue there’s an artistic technique called sarcasm. At that moment, as a performer, I truly felt defeated!”
She exclaimed indignantly, “This man, utterly devoid of humor, effortlessly exudes absurdity and ridiculousness in his daily life—so much so that even my most contrived comedic skills can’t replicate it!”
“The ancients spoke of ‘the unity of man and heaven’—I thought I was the unrivaled master of comedy, only to discover the boss had achieved the divine union of himself and sheer absurdity!”
Her impassioned performance was like a boulder crashing into the sea, sending waves of laughter rippling through the enclosed theater.
Chu Duxiu waited for the audience to settle before calmly continuing, “But because of this, I dared to write today’s bit. For that, I should thank him.”
“When I first finished writing it, I told my roommate, and she said she was really worried—afraid male audience members would lash out at me.” She shrugged, feigning confusion. “I was baffled. Have I offended anyone? I’ve been praising men as smart, capable, and exceptionally good at making choices!”
“But I couldn’t bear to dismiss her concern, so I reassured her, ‘Oh come on, don’t say that—men aren’t that petty-minded.’”
Chu Duxiu waved her hand nonchalantly. “Besides, they won’t even understand. It’s coded language—just like that boss I roasted.”
“After this bit, all they’ll hear is ‘men are smart and amazing.’ They’ll just nod along agreeing with me—not a single insult thrown my way!”
The razor-sharp yet subtle punchline detonated across the room, leaving even fellow comedians stunned.
While open mics often broach sensitive topics, rarely do they ignite such an explosive reaction. The laughter roared uninterrupted, far exceeding other performers’ expectations.
Scallion trembled with excitement, clutching his head: “Holy shit—this bit’s murdering out there!”
Lu Fan applauded admiringly. “This feels like a full international comedy special—not some throwaway five-minute set.”
“Don’t laugh! What’s so funny? I swear to heaven I don’t support gender antagonism,” Chu Duxiu pointed skyward with faux sincerity. “I think sometimes it’s just mutual misunderstanding. Actually, it’s easy to communicate with certain men—just reframe things and suddenly everyone’s super friendly.”
“For example, if you’re committed to staying childfree and unmarried, don’t state it bluntly online. Because inevitably some dude will comment: ‘Leftover woman—miserable life—no one will bury your corpse when you’re old.’”
She calmly suggested, “You need to reframe it—approach your life philosophy from a different angle. Just say outright that you ‘don’t want dowry.'”
“Suddenly, they’ll praise you. ‘You’re such a good girl who deserves happiness.'”
“See? Nothing’s actually changed—just the wording. Now everyone’s friendly. You’re happily childfree and unmarried, they’re showering you with compliments, and society suddenly radiates positivity! The world overflows with love!”
Laughter roared and applause surged like waves.
Chu Duxiu stepped down amid a standing ovation. Even long after she’d left the stage, the theater remained electric with cheers.
Some audience members, slumped in their seats from laughter, kept clapping tirelessly, their admiration utterly genuine.
Amid the boiling energy, someone shouted “Encore!”—only when the host finally appeared to restore order did the uproarious crowd settle slightly. This was undoubtedly the most euphoric moment at Hongyan Theater that day. No votes had been cast, yet the uncrowned queen of the night was already decided.
Shang Xiaomei gasped, “This year’s training camp rookies are next-level!”
Backstage, staff members stared at the screen in awe. “A dark horse—this is definitely this season’s dark horse,” one exclaimed.
In the audience, fellow trainees were equally captivated, buzzing with excitement as they dissected Chu Duxiu’s performance.
“Where’s String Bean?” Scallion asked, stirring the pot with gleeful mischief. “How come he’s nowhere to be seen?”
Someone nearby scoffed. “He bolted halfway through—couldn’t bear to stick around!”
“Too much for his fragile ego. Their styles were similar in the first half, but he got completely outshined by a rookie. And didn’t he say the other day that the girl wouldn’t dare push boundaries?”
String Bean’s hasty retreat had made him the butt of the joke.
Chu Duxiu’s first-half delivery shared similarities with String Bean’s style—yet her material landed ten times harder. Even the audience’s reactions were on another level, let alone the second half, where she ascended to new heights.
Too ashamed to face his peers, String Bean had fled Hongyan Theater before the voting results, sparing himself their mockery.
Meanwhile, in the dressing room, performers huddled around screens watching the set. Some adjusted their outfits, others chatted idly—the scene lively and abuzz.
“Duxiu?” Wang Nali pushed the door open and scanned the room, but her friend was nowhere in sight. Scratching her head, she muttered, “That’s weird. Where’d she go?”
The dressing room buzzed with activity as trainees hurried to prepare for their own sets.
Wang Nali decided to head backstage for now, figuring she’d circle back later to find her.
Up on the second floor of the backstage area, near a locked emergency exit, a small staircase formed a hidden nook against the wall—just secluded enough to still hear the distant sounds of the ongoing show. The space was dim, almost eerily so, making it easy to go unnoticed.
“Are you hiding here to grow mushrooms?”
Chu Duxiu, who had been curled up in the corner with her knees to her chest, startled at the deep male voice. She glanced up to see Xie Shenci in his signature white shirt and black pants. He’d come up from the first floor—somehow spotting her like a stealthy feline.
She shrank further into the shadows, as if willing herself to disappear. “I’m… recovering,” she mumbled.
Xie Shenci raised an eyebrow. “?”
“You’re nervous?” he asked, baffled. “But your set’s already over.”
Her performance had been a resounding success—the audience’s reaction couldn’t have been better.
“No, it’s different.” Chu Duxiu clutched her head in self-defeat. “Delayed gratification is for other people—I get delayed anxiety. How am I supposed to face anyone later…”
She had to admit—there’d been a spiteful edge to writing this set. After hearing String Bean’s material before, she’d deliberately crafted her jokes as payback, flaunting her own sharpness. But now that the high of performance had worn off, rationality was creeping back in, and her boldness was rapidly fading. How was she supposed to deal with everyone now?
She’d actually used some outright provocative language—would Wang Nali and the others be uncomfortable? Would they think she was as crass as String Bean?!
And there were other male trainees in the program—she’d inevitably run into them soon. Who knew how that would go?!
The tremble in her trailing “ah” made it sound like some uniquely dramatic aria—absurdly comical.
Xie Shenci nearly laughed but held back, not wanting her to take it as mockery. He pressed his lips together, feigning calm. “So… how long do you plan to marinate in this anxiety before going back?”
Chu Duxiu remained curled up, her face still buried in her hands. “I’ll wait until the male audience clears out… I’m scared of getting punched right now.”
Onstage, she was bold and unflinching—but offstage, she knew when to lay low. After all, she hadn’t taken any self-defense classes yet. Better safe than sorry.
“This is a society governed by law—no one’s going to hit you,” Xie Shenci said dryly. “But if we’re really going there, I helped edit your script. That makes me a ‘gender traitor’ by your logic—if anyone’s getting punched, it’s me first.”
Admittedly, that was weirdly comforting. Her restless anxiety settled slightly.
Chu Duxiu didn’t even understand why stand-up comedy sent her ricocheting between crippling self-doubt and unshakable arrogance. One minute, she’d cringe at her own audacity; the next, she’d convince herself she was a born genius, absolutely killing it onstage.
Still, Xie Shenci’s words redirected her focus. If someone as polished and composed as him had helped tweak her material… surely it couldn’t be that outrageous, right?
And if it was over the line—well, he was complicit too.
Slowly, she lowered her hands and peeked at him, hesitant, like a little mushroom cautiously emerging from the shadows. She wobbled slightly before murmuring, “Hmm…”
Xie Shenci arched an eyebrow. “What’s that look for?”
Her eyes darted away, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “I want to make a joke… but I’m scared of offending you.”
“Go ahead. Pretend you’re still onstage,” he said, amused and magnanimous. “Consider it an encore.”
Chu Duxiu hesitated.
He insisted, “Go ahead.”
Only after confirming he could take it did she drawl, “Well, you helping edit my script might make you a ‘traitor’ in men’s eyes—but it’s won you women’s approval. In fact, you might even earn a special honorific. One reserved only for truly exceptional men who deserve it from women.”
Xie Shenci frowned. “What honorific?”
“Sis.”
“？？？”
That one word carried the weight of the heavens—what an exalted title!
Xie Shenci couldn’t help but laugh, baffled by where she dredged up these absurd ideas. It was like her creativity had no limits. Seeing her still crouched on the steps, he reached out a hand to pull her up and said drily, “Come on, sis. I’ll escort you.”
He actually acknowledged it just like that.
Chu Duxiu was genuinely impressed by Xie Shenci. Compared to most bosses, he really didn’t put on airs—his patience was almost unnerving.
Wait… did he come looking for her on purpose?
She stared at his outstretched, slender fingers, then at the faint curl of his lips, and suddenly felt inexplicably flustered. Instead of taking his hand to pull herself up, she pushed off the ground with her palms and stood on her own.
Xie Shenci had no choice but to lower his hand.
Chu Duxiu kept her head down, eyes fixed on her shoes, not quite daring to look at him directly. She deliberately brushed off her pants, shaking away imaginary dust to mask her racing heartbeat, and chimed in, “Let’s go, sis!”
Inside the theater, the audience seats were now empty, leaving only clusters of trainees chatting and laughing in groups. When Chu Duxiu and Xie Shenci entered, they split up—she headed for the other performers, while he went to find the staff.
Spotting Wang Nali and Scallion in the distance, Chu Duxiu hurried over in quick, small steps to reunite with her friends.
Wang Nali waved her over. “We were looking for you—where’d you run off to?”
“Just cooling down after the set.”
“You absolutely murdered out there, Honey Crispy Chicken Rice!” Scallion finally spotted Chu Duxiu and couldn’t wait to gush. “That material was custom-made to roast String Bean! You should’ve seen his face—started out green, then turned beet red halfway through!”
Wang Nali facepalmed. “I think you’re more hyped than she is.”
“It’s a vegetable actor’s duty and sacred mission. If string beans aren’t cooked thoroughly, they’re literally poisonous,” Scallion declared. “As a pear, you should share this pride.”
String beans are toxic when raw—Scallion, ever the wordsmith, was riffing on food safety.
Chu Duxiu’s lips quirked. “So while other industries build libraries, stand-up comics write cookbooks?”
“Exactly. The Stand-Up King could’ve been titled Cooking Master Boy—it’s basically a culinary show anyway.”
The lively banter between the trio finally eased the tension in Chu Xiuxiu’s shoulders. She had always been cautious about crossing lines, worried her material might draw criticism from fellow comedians. Yet here they were, not just accepting her set—but celebrating it.
Even Lu Fan made his way over, nodding in approval. “That was sharp tonight. Not just a string of punchlines—you had a real point of view, something with teeth.”
Though the first half of her set, crafted purely as payback against String Bean, would never make it to broadcast, the latter half had transcended mere retaliation. With some polishing, it could become something extraordinary.
“Thanks, Ms. Lu,” Chu Duxiu replied, rubbing her neck sheepishly.
Before long, Xie Shenci, Shang Xiaomei, and the rest of the production team gathered with the trainees. The voting box was upended, its contents—neatly folded slips of paper—spilling across the table. A staff member began tallying the votes, preparing to announce the top three performers of the night.
“Alright, folks,” Shang Xiaomei called as the trainees circled closer. She offered the results slip to Xie Shenci. “Mr. Xie?”
“You do it,” he said, hands in pockets.
“Sure thing!” Clearing her throat, Shang Xiaomei projected her voice. “Tonight’s total votes: eighty ballots, three votes each. Seventy-eight valid entries. And now—the third-place winner is…!”
Wang Nali hugged Chu Duxiu tightly and whispered, “I’m a little nervous.”
Chu Duxiu didn’t respond, holding her breath just the same. String Bean had gotten plenty of applause too—who knew how high he’d rank?
Fortunately, as Shang Xiaomei announced the first two placements, his name wasn’t called. Instead, another familiar face made the list.
“In second place, with a total of sixty-seven votes—Scallion! Congratulations!”
Scallion beamed, immediately bending into a sharp 90-degree bow. “Thank you, thank you! I didn’t prepare a speech—what a miscalculation…”
The crowd burst into laughter at his antics.
Chu Duxiu and Wang Nali cheered wildly for him, clapping like excited little seals.
“And now—the moment you’ve all been waiting for,” Shang Xiaomei said, her gaze landing on Chu Duxiu with a knowing smile. “I think most of you can already guess.”
When Chu Duxiu met Shang Xiaomei’s eyes, she froze, swallowing hard.
The people around her couldn’t wait any longer and shouted in unison:
“Chu Duxiu!”
“Duxiu—”
“Director Shang, save the reality show antics for the actual filming!”
Laughter rippled through the crowd as the trainees began chanting Chu Duxiu’s name, the waves of sound growing louder with each repetition—until she felt her heart might leap right out of her throat.
“Seems the people have spoken,” Shang Xiaomei finally announced, grinning. “Congratulations to Chu Duxiu, first place with seventy-three votes—our Shanle Comedy Rising Star Champion!”
Her eyes sparkled. “We’ll be expecting great things from you on the show.”
Before Chu Duxiu could respond, the room erupted. Wang Nali and Lu Fan nearly squished her in their excitement, while the rest of the trainees swarmed around them, the theater now buzzing with post-show euphoria.
Even the crew joined in, taking turns hoisting the top three winners—one moment lifting Chu Duxiu onto their shoulders amidst cheers of her name, the next tossing Scallion into the air like a victory parade. The energy was electric, unstoppable—pure, unfiltered joy.
The training camp was drawing to a close. Their next meeting would be at Haicheng’s program auditions. Seizing the celebratory mood, everyone bid their farewells with uninhibited revelry—because perhaps this was the essence of stand-up comedy: laughter tinged with tears, tears dissolved in laughter.
Shang Xiaomei rubbed her eyes, moved. “This is why these moments always get to me.”
Even if the future of stand-up comedy remained uncertain, seeing these vibrant young comedians made everything seem possible.
Xie Shenci watched the boisterous crowd, his usual stern expression softening imperceptibly.
After the farewell dinner, the entire training camp gathered for a group photo—instructors and directors included. Only String Bean was conspicuously absent. Someone even asked Nie Feng if they should call him back.
“Leave him be. He just called me saying he’s dropping out of the show,” Nie Feng scoffed. “Who cares? Today’s too good to waste on him.”
Nie Feng had no intention of fetching String Bean anyway. The camp was ending; no need to sour the mood. Besides, Chu Duxiu’s votes were undisputed—in this industry, the audience decided the winners. String Bean had lost fair and square, and his tantrum only proved he couldn’t take defeat.
“Everyone, gather for the photo!” a staff member called out.
The flash went off, freezing the training camp’s final moment in time—a bittersweet snapshot before they all went their separate ways.
Chu Duxiu knew Wang Nali had booked her train ticket for the next day. She’d only come to Yancheng for the camp, and now it was time to say goodbye.
Wang Nali pulled out a notebook, flipping through the pages with exaggerated flair. “Look what I’ve got.”
“You kept it?” Chu Duxiu leaned in and recognized her own signature—exchanged during their very first class.
Wang Nali tilted her chin up, grinning. “Of course. This is a family heirloom now. I’m holding onto it until it appreciates in value.”
Chu Duxiu laughed.
“I’m not joking—after hearing your bits on the first day of class, I went back to my hotel room and wallowed in self-doubt for hours,” Wang Nali admitted, her voice softening. “I’d never seen a performer that good, and you were even younger than me. I started questioning whether coming all the way to Yancheng was just a waste of time and train fare…”
This was Wang Nali’s truth. She’d mustered the courage to leave her hometown and chase this dream, only to find a rookie at her desk who outshone her from day one. It had shaken her—made her wonder if she even had what it took to do stand-up at all.
Chu Duxiu blinked, stunned. She’d had no idea.
“But I’ve got my head on straight now. You’re the best damn comedian I’ve seen—homegrown or international!” Wang Nali rubbed her nose, then suddenly threw her arms open, pulling Chu Duxiu into a tight hug. “We’ll meet again at the Haicheng auditions. And next time? I’ll show you what I’ve got. No more coasting!”
Chu Duxiu hugged her back, her throat inexplicably tight. “Deal. I’ll be waiting for that autograph’s market value to skyrocket.”
“Oh, and next time,” Wang Nali added with a grin, “I’ll bring you some homemade sausages from my hometown.”
The two of them fell back into their playful banter—close in age, kindred in spirit, and among the few women in the program. In just a short training period, they’d forged a deep bond. Maybe it was their shared sense of humor, maybe it was their mutual sincerity, but even when they exposed their flaws and vulnerabilities to each other, they could always dissolve the tension with laughter.
Chu Duxiu struggled to put this feeling into words. It wasn’t just that she loved stand-up comedy—it was that she loved the people she’d met through it.
If she had to describe it, she’d say most people in the world were “normal,” while she was the odd one out, perpetually a little unhinged. But now, she’d somehow stumbled into her own madhouse—a place where she could trade absurdities and embarrassing stories with like-minded lunatics. Here, no one mocked each other for being weak or useless. Instead, they’d grin and say, “You’re hilarious.”
Just like her set today. Out in the real world, it might’ve drawn backlash, but here, most of her fellow comedians could laugh it off.
She didn’t know what other comedy clubs were like, but her time at the Shanle training camp had been, above all else, fun.
All good things must come to an end, though. After saying goodbye to Wang Nali, Chu Duxiu finally made up her mind about a risky idea she’d been mulling over for a long time—a decision crystallized in the quiet after the night’s chaos.
As night fell, the streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, and the nearby subway station buzzed with activity.
At the entrance of Hongyan Theater, the trainees had all dispersed, leaving only the staff behind.
Xie Shenci watched as the last of them departed, then raised an eyebrow in surprise when he noticed Chu Duxiu doubling back. One hand in his pocket, he assumed she’d returned to say goodbye and teased dryly, “Still worried about getting punched?”
Chu Duxiu kept her eyes down, fidgeting slightly. “Mr. Xie… I want to join the show. How do I sign up?”
Autumn in Yancheng was always fleeting—no sooner had the sweltering summer faded than the temperatures plummeted. The crisp, golden days of red leaves barely lasted a week before the biting chill of winter came rushing in, leaving even the hardiest cyclists shivering at dawn.
After the training camp ended, Chu Duxiu settled into a brief period of quiet, mostly occupied with her university thesis. She’d finally locked in the final draft with her advisor, and now she was waiting for civil service exam registrations to open across the country, periodically updating her family on her plans.
Chu Duxiu slung her backpack over her shoulder as she stepped out of campus, phone pressed to her ear. “I’m not strapped for cash—why the sudden transfer?”
That morning, she’d woken up in her dorm to a shockingly large sum deposited at exactly midnight. Chu Shuangyou had timed it perfectly—too bad she’d already been asleep and missed it entirely.
A warm voice filtered through her headphones. “Isn’t it your birthday? ‘Sweet nothings’ can’t compete with cold hard cash.”
“Which is also your birthday!” Chu Duxiu retorted shamelessly. “Don’t expect me to pay you back double—I’m going back to sleep.”
Being twins, they shared the same birthday. Chu Duxiu had already picked out a gift, but it wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow, leaving her no time to send it yet.
Chu Shuangyou offered casually, “No worries. I’ll be in Yancheng soon—just show me around.”
Chu Duxiu froze mid-step. “You’re coming for work?”
“Yes, I had quite a few meetings the past couple of days, but I’ll be free over the weekend.”
“Great, perfect timing—my thesis is finalized too.”
Chu Duxiu began making mental calculations. This meant she could deliver the gift in person. When Chu Shuangyou came to Yancheng that weekend, she could simply skip one open mic session, and everything would work out just fine.
“See you then,” Chu Shuangyou said softly. “Happy birthday.”
“Happy birthday to you too, sis.”
Cheerfully hanging up the phone, Chu Duxiu turned the street corner and spotted the sign. Without even realizing it, she had arrived right in front of the neon-lit “Typoon Transit” billboard. Unlit during the day, it appeared plain and unassuming in the quiet alley.
The door swung open with a jingling chime.
Chu Duxiu stepped inside and glanced around, surprised to find Xie Shenci already there—a rare early arrival. He was sprawled lazily on the plush sofa by the floor-to-ceiling window, basking in the sunlight, and raised a hand in greeting. The warm glow made his white shirt almost luminous, forcing her to squint slightly, as if staring directly into the sun.
This had become a common sight lately. Instead of returning to Haicheng, he had been dropping by the bar more often.
Ever since Chu Duxiu decided to join the show, she had asked Xie Shenci for advice on how to sign up. However, filming wouldn’t start until winter break in Haicheng, which was still a while away. The date for the civil service exam hadn’t been announced yet, but based on previous years, it would likely be before winter break. That meant she could take the exam, film the show afterward, and then return to college for her thesis defense and graduation.
Time was tight, and the workload heavy—graduation, exam prep, and the show all demanded attention.
Occasionally, Chu Duxiu still chatted with Wang Nali, who was back in their hometown, about their daily lives. They had promised to reunite in Haicheng and had recently been testing new material. The difference was, Chu Duxiu performed at Typoon Transit, while Wang Nali stuck to local venues back home.
Inside the bar, Chu Duxiu exchanged greetings with Chen Jing and Nie Feng before making her way to Xie Shenci, her bag slung over her shoulder. The space was cramped, and after a brief hesitation, she chose not to sit across from him. Instead, she set her bag down on the neighboring table.
Noticing her pulling out the chair beside him, Xie Shenci shifted his laptop to make room, then gestured to the sofa opposite. “How’s the new material coming along?”
The moment Chu Duxiu heard this, she let out an almost imperceptible sigh, realizing there was no escape. She lowered her head, picked up her bag, and moved to sit at his table, murmuring, “Not bad, I’ve got a few, but haven’t tried them yet.”
Sure enough, he blinked and said bluntly, “Let me take a look.”
Suppressing the urge to roll her eyes, Chu Duxiu mustered the courage to snipe back, “Seems like you haven’t written any new jokes lately.”
“Doesn’t matter. I just read yours instead.”
Damn capitalist.
With no choice, Chu Duxiu pulled out her laptop and shoved the draft in front of him.
Xie Shenci took it with keen interest, then suddenly lifted his gaze to study her face. “You were cursing me in your head just now, weren’t you?” he remarked out of the blue.
Caught off guard, Chu Duxiu quickly replied, “…I wouldn’t dare.”
“Don’t curse me in secret,” he said flatly. “Write it into your material and curse me there.”
“???”
What kind of absurd, masochistic demand was that?! Why did he always say the weirdest things?!
Over this period, Chu Duxiu had gained a new understanding of Xie Shenci—the two of them had barely gone a day without contact. Even if they didn’t meet at open mics, they’d still exchange messages every couple of days. At first, the conversations were strictly professional, usually Xie Shenci abruptly texting: How’s the new material coming along?
The first time she received a WeChat from him, she’d been downright terrified—it felt like being asked by a professor about her thesis, to the point where she nearly leaped out of her dorm bed to send him the drafts she’d been working on. After all, she’d already committed to joining the show. Before, she’d been fearless because she had nothing to lose, daring enough to joke around with the boss. But now, she figured she ought to be more sensible and keep their interactions polite.
Her first reply had been painstakingly formal: Hello, Mr. Xie. I’ve been busy with other work lately, so the new jokes aren’t polished yet, but I do have a rough draft. Please take a look when you have time. The deference practically dripped from the screen.
Xie Shenci’s response, at least, had been normal:
[Received.]
A short while later, he sent back the annotated draft, and the two exchanged a few perfunctory pleasantries—polite “thank you for your hard work”s back and forth in the most insincere corporate manner.
However, after this happened a few times, Chu Duxiu started feeling overwhelmed. His check-ins were just too frequent.
Shanle Culture was based in Haicheng, and Xie Shenci often traveled between cities. His schedule was packed, yet the moment he had downtime, he’d message her for updates.
Logically, this should’ve been a sign of the boss taking her work seriously—except Chu Duxiu had been swamped with thesis revisions for two days straight, too frazzled to come up with any new jokes. So, in a moment of defiance, she simply admitted she had nothing to submit. Her wording remained diplomatic, but the underlying message was clear: No material this time—take it or leave it.
This was her first attempt at pushing back. She refused to enable her boss’s overbearing demands.
But Xie Shenci’s response left her utterly stunned.
He replied:
[Got it.]
Then followed up with an image:
[[Sad black kitten crying.jpg]]
Chu Duxiu stared blankly at the teary-eyed black cat meme—not a high-definition photo of a real cat, but a low-resolution cartoon kitten, its little black face scrunched up in sorrow, eyes glistening with what looked like actual tears.
This was sent by Mr. Xie!?
Mr. Xie could send something like this!?
The moment she saw it, her brain short-circuited, utterly at a loss for how to respond.
If Wang Nali or Lu Fan had sent this on WeChat, Chu Duxiu would’ve naturally fired back with her own meme stash—hearts, hugs, head pats, the works. Between girlfriends, there were no boundaries. But Xie Shenci was a man, and worse, upper management—not just some casual friend.
Sure, Xie Shenci had helped her revise that takedown material against String Bean, and that battle had indeed deepened their camaraderie. In her eyes, he was a decent male friend and a competent boss—dryly humorous in his own way, and undeniably sharp at his job.
But exchanging adorable, uwu-tier stickers? That was a bridge too far.
Chu Duxiu opted to ignore the meme, replying with polite professionalism before finally sending him a draft two days later—her first voluntary submission.
Xie Shenci’s swift reply carried the same… flair:
[[Black kitten sending hearts.jpg]]
The black cat’s pointed ears perked up, with a plump heart emoji popping right above its head—as if cradled by two tiny paws.
Chu Duxiu nearly lost it when she saw his reply.
Dear god, was he not just checking in on her work… but genuinely wanted to read her drafts?
It hit her like a lightning bolt—all her earlier politeness had been utterly pointless. Rumor had it Xie Shenci spent his entire year relentlessly scouring the country for comedy shows, even jetting off abroad for English-language specials. The man was genuinely obsessed with stand-up. He might’ve been low-key camping for her latest material this whole time.
No wonder he kept pestering her for new jokes every other day, while other performers recycled their sets for ages!
So he’d been treating her like some serialized web novelist on JJWXC?!
From then on, Chu Duxiu’s online chats with Xie Shenci grew increasingly casual. It became impossible to maintain the “respectful subordinate” act—though face-to-face, his icy CEO aura still briefly intimidated her into forgetting the black cat memes.
Inside the bar, Chu Duxiu skimmed his annotated edits while sneaking glances at him past the edge of her screen. There he was, typing intently with both hands, his crisp sleeves revealing sharp wrist bones—every inch the aloof elite.
And yet, the dissonance only made her mental whiplash worse.
It was impossible to imagine this ice sculpture of a man had the heart of a true comedy nerd.
Before long, Scallion arrived right on time at Typoon Transit and started helping Nie Feng adjust the equipment.
Today was another open mic night, where comedians would test their new material. After Sting Bean’s fallout with Nie Feng during the training camp, he had never returned to perform at Typoon Transit. Though Chu Duxiu wasn’t entirely familiar with the comedy club scene in Yancheng, her frequent visits to the bar had made her much closer to Chen Jing and the others.
A white projector screen was unfurled inside the venue as Nie Feng and Scallion tinkered with the setup.
“What charging ports do your phones have?” Nie Feng asked, fiddling with a cable. “Can someone help me test the screen mirroring?”
Xie Shenci asked, “Do you need an adapter?”
“Probably, but I’m not sure if the cable’s broken. Let’s just connect a device first and see.”
Chu Duxiu handed over her phone. “Will mine work?”
Nie Feng glanced at it. “Yeah, this one should do.”
Since Chu Duxiu was busy on her laptop, she simply handed her phone over to Nie Feng to connect the cable.
The white projection screen flickered to life, displaying her phone’s lock screen—a calligraphy wallpaper with the words “Peace and Serenity” written in bold, old-fashioned brushstrokes.
Nie Feng blinked in surprise. “Damn, you’re not even graduated yet, and your wallpaper’s already giving off ‘enlightened elder’ vibes.”
Hearing this, Xie Shenci also glanced over, taking in the distinctly retired-person aesthetic on full display.
Chu Duxiu sighed. “Too much going on. Needed a reminder to stay calm.”
Nie Feng asked, “Everything working okay?”
She obediently unlocked her phone, and sure enough, the screen changed—revealing her WeChat interface. At the very top was a chat pinned with a heart emoji, followed by the most recent message:
[Received: ¥5200]
Xie Shenci froze, then shot her a look.
“Perfect. Then I’ll go grab the adapter—this cable’s fine.” Nie Feng clapped his hands. “Thanks, you can unplug now.”
Chu Duxiu reached to unplug the cable.
“Tsk tsk, I told you—if you don’t close WeChat while testing the screen, your privacy’s gonna get exposed,” Scallion mused from beside the projector, shaking his head. “Rich boyfriend, huh? Good thing my girlfriend isn’t here, or I’d be screwed by the competition!”
Chu Duxiu stared blankly. “What boyfriend?”
“Uh, that.” Scallion suddenly jumped up, tapping the projected screen right on the glaring heart-pinned chat.
Xie Shenci, now that Scallion had called it out, observed her with an unreadable glint in his dark eyes. He looked like he was half-listening to gossip, half-zoned out—impossible to guess what he was thinking.
Under their collective gaze, Chu Duxiu blurted, “That’s from my sister for birthday!”
This was absolutely a misunderstanding—that chat was with Chu Shuangyou.
“She sent you that much for your birthday!?” Scallion gasped. “Hey, uh… your sister looking to adopt any more siblings?”
Chu Duxiu opened her mouth to explain, then abruptly hesitated. “…Actually, never mind. Saying it out loud just makes it sound like a punchline…”
The moment Xie Shenci heard the word “punchline,” his interest visibly perked up. “Go on.”
Seeing his insistence, Chu Duxiu let out a long sigh and confessed, “My sister said that once I got to college, I needed to receive expensive gifts—so I wouldn’t be swayed by some guy’s cheap tricks. Though, honestly, her imagination’s a bit… extra. No idea how her brain works.”
Don’t be fooled by Chu Shuangyou’s refined manners and impeccable poise—deep down, she’s been absolutely corrupted by CEO romance novels. She’s convinced her little sister will inevitably face some break-in-and-kidnap style love affair, so she must be preemptively trained in handling scenarios where blank checks are thrown at her. Only then, in this materialistic, money-obsessed society, could she possibly keep her sense of self.
Thus, ever since she started earning big, Chu Shuangyou has made it her mission to rain cash on Chu Duxiu—single-handedly embodying the domineering CEO trope!
To which Chu Duxiu can only say: Sis, you’re overthinking this. She’s underestimating how stingy male college students are—and wildly overestimating their financial resources.
