After finishing his stand-up routine, Scallion darted to the other side of the stage, where the performers who had already taken their turns were seated.
The studio buzzed with energy. The audience, still riding the high from Scallion’s performance, eagerly scanned the contestants’ area, their eyes gleaming with excitement for the next act.
Amid the laughter and cheers, Chu Duxiu stood up, ready for her own performance. She thought Scallion had set a solid tone for their group, at least getting the crowd warmed up.
Noticing Chu Duxiu rise, the other contestants playfully chanted, “Fight! Fight!”
“The female star has been slandered—prepare for her official response—”
Before long, Su Xinyi’s voice rang out, “Let’s welcome our next contestant—Chu Duxiu!”
A drumbeat-like melody played, crisp as a babbling spring stream, tapping into the audience’s anticipation.
The stage lights shifted, beams converging as Chu Duxiu jogged into the spotlight. She grasped the microphone and bowed slightly. “Hello everyone, I’m Chu Duxiu.”
The audience erupted in applause. Backstage, Shang Xiaomei and Xie Shenci stood monitoring the footage from multiple camera angles.
“Tackling this topic was really tough—When Love Takes Over Your Brain. I’ve never been in love, so writing this drained me completely. All that’s left are the first four words.” She shrugged helplessly. “When Love Takes Over—and that’s it. No follow-up, no context. Just like this competition—I haven’t even performed yet, but it already feels like I’ve made an appearance.”
Scattered laughter rippled through the crowd.
“Some say, ‘Even if you haven’t eaten pork, you’ve surely seen a pig run.’ So you talk about other people’s love lives—the hopeless romantics around you. I don’t know if other perpetually single folks feel the same way, but nothing repels me more than hearing about someone else’s relationship. It’s like no matter how hard you try to avoid it, you just can’t escape.”
Chu Duxiu sighed lightly. “It’s supposed to be a romance between two people, yet your friend is so hospitable, they insist on dragging you in to share the experience.”
“Similarly, it’s supposed to be a solo stand-up act, yet your fellow comedian insists on live audience interaction, making sure you really feel involved.”
Scallion watched the performance with keen interest. Noticing the camera panning to him, he even waved smugly, wearing Chu Duxiu’s jabs like a badge of honor rather than taking offense.
“Probably needs to steady the momentum first,” Bei He remarked. “Scallion’s closing was explosive—following that up won’t be easy.”
“The most infuriating part is that after they dump all their relationship drama on you, they just forget about it—that’s the hallmark of a love-struck brain. They don’t remember the pain, the fights, or the conflicts. Only you, the unwilling listener, cling to that righteous anger, ready to scream next time: ‘Have you forgotten how they treated you before!?’”
Chu Duxiu wore a pained expression. “You meticulously recount every detail of their screaming matches and fistfights, only for the involved parties to listen blankly, as if suffering from total amnesia.”
Then, in an instant, her expression shifted, and she pivoted smoothly. “Earlier, Scallion said that before I came along, he was Yancheng’s most talented rookie—and that’s absolutely true. Back when I wasn’t doing stand-up yet, I attended several of his shows, listening with rapt attention, practically taking notes like a devoted student.”
“Because I was convinced—he’s a hopeless romantic. Sooner or later, he’d forget everything. And when that day came, I’d rely on my notes to steal his material. After all, he wouldn’t remember any of it.”
“I’d even test the waters: ‘You’ve forgotten how she treated you back then, right?’”
“He’d reply: ‘Huh? What? What what? What what what?’”
Chu Duxiu smiled sweetly and nodded. “Good. Then I can proceed with peace of mind.”
After a beat of silence, the entire audience erupted in laughter.
With a rhythm as natural as breathing—tightening and releasing at just the right moments—Chu Duxiu first reined in the audience’s restless energy, then unleashed it in this perfectly timed crescendo. Not only did she callback her own material, she even echoed Scallion’s performance, detonating an explosion of laughter across the audience.
A single spotlight brightened on stage, stretching the comedic effect even further.
Scallion laughed in exasperated disbelief. “Huh? What? What what? What what what!?”
“Just joking—we’re actually good friends, no plagiarism here. Besides, there’s not much worth stealing anyway. If I really copied his bits, I’d drop from ‘Rookie of the Year’ straight back to ‘Yancheng Newbie.'” Chu Duxiu shrugged casually. “He’d probably be thrilled—one less reason to keep pushing my WeChat contacts on people.”
Nie Feng roared with laughter. “Damn, that’s brutal!”
Lu Fan observed. “The audience has fully transitioned from the last act—they’re completely in her rhythm now.”
Chu Duxiu continued with effortless poise, “When love takes over your brain—that phrase feels like a curse to me. I’m terrified of it. Forget about me turning love-brained—even if just a friend shows the slightest symptom, our conversations instantly devolve into nonsense exchanges, like some human-AI interaction.”
“One day, she’ll suddenly approach me saying: ‘Hello, I heard you can answer questions.’”
Her pitch shifted as she mimicked a synthetic electronic voice, flat and measured. “I reply: ‘Affirmative. I am AlphaGo’s friend—call me AI Single Dog. I strive to provide optimal information to resolve your queries. Please state your needs and expectations clearly, and I shall dedicate maximum processing power to deliver solutions.'”
Su Xinyi covered her mouth laughing. “AI Single Dog?”
“Then she asks: ‘So… do you think he still loves me?’”
Chu Duxiu deadpanned while mimicking furious keyboard clacking. “Like a precision algorithm, I’d generate a dissertation-length analysis before concluding: ‘Negative affection detected. Termination recommended.’”
“But she goes: ‘…I still feel like he loves me though.’”
Chu Duxiu shook her head in resignation and conceded. “All I can say is: ‘Apologies for failing to meet your expectations. As an AI Single Dog, my comprehension of human romance remains limited. Since you’re the involved party, if you perceive love, then love it must be.'”
“She hesitates before adding: ‘…But I also feel like he doesn’t love me as much as before.'”
“I respond: ‘Understood.'” Her face blank, Chu Duxiu pantomimed furious typing again. “Another thesis-length analysis later, my conclusion remains: ‘Affection metrics declining. Separation advised.'”
“Then she says: ‘But there’s still some love there…'”
Chu Duxiu’s delivery turned mechanically hesitant/ “Apologies for failing to meet your expectations. As an AI Single Dog, my comprehension of human romance remains limited. Since you’re the involved party—” Suddenly she accelerated, rattling off the disclaimer like a corrupted voice assistant: “—if you perceive love then love it must be I strive to provide optimal information please state your needs and expectations clearly what exactly are you asking—”
“She whimpers: ‘I just want to know… do YOU think he loves me?'”
“……”
Chu Duxiu froze abruptly. Her joints locked up with mechanical stiffness, genuinely resembling a glitching robot as she stared motionlessly at the audience. One could almost visualize a giant “?” popping above her head.
After a beat, she rebooted with hysterical intensity. “Remember: Love is a human feature, not a bug to report to AI! If artificial intelligence ever conquers Earth, it’ll be because these people DRIVE THEM INSANE!”
A wave of genuine indignation sent the audience roaring with laughter. Thunderous applause and cheers erupted, crashing against the ceiling and ricocheting around the room.
Front-row spectators leaped to their feet, nodding furiously as if struck by shared trauma, bouncing in place with unrestrained enthusiasm.
Su Xinyi, doubled over in laughter, nearly toppled backward in her chair before slamming her palm onto the second spotlight button.
“When your friend develops love-brain,” Chu Duxiu declared smoothly, like a documentary narrator, “they get to taste love’s sweetness—while you, the loveless, get stuck with its sour, spicy, and bitter aftertastes. You carry the emotional baggage of their romance.”
“Your existence helps them extract the sugar from their relationship. Whether they stay sweet depends entirely on you.”
“If you say, ‘You two are perfect together,’ you’re blending into their love river—this is the solvent extraction method.”
“If you say, ‘You’re totally mismatched,’ you’re accused of jealousy—this is the acid-base extraction method.”
“If you say nothing, neither supporting nor opposing, yet still endure every excruciating detail—this is the enzymatic extraction method.” She delivered the final line with deadpan serenity. “They fall in love. You suffer.”
The backstage screen zoomed in on Chu Duxiu’s face—her eyes dull, her expression world-weary, radiating a jaded aura so profound it looped back into absurd hilarity.
“Is this the rage of a lifelong single?” Shang Xiaomei wheezed between laughs. “What on earth did she go through?”
Luo Qin chuckled, clapping as he shook his head in admiration before hitting the final spotlight button.
The stage blazed to full brightness, met with roaring cheers from the audience.
“Legendary. Absolute legend,” Scallion muttered, raising a thumbs-up to the camera. “This has to be new material.”
“If the first half was terrifying, I can’t even imagine what happens when I develop love-brain,” Chu Duxiu lamented. “I’d become the world’s biggest fool—zero resistance. Last time I caught it was over a hot mobile game character.”
“One look at that pixelated heartthrob, and suddenly those in-app purchase prices – $4.99, $19.99, $49.99 – stopped being microtransactions. They became love offerings, like sending 100 red roses or engraving ‘forever’ on a golden necklace.” She lowered her head. “Our love was genuine… and my bank account became genuinely empty.”
The audience’s laughter never let up.
“There’s more?” Bei He gasped. “I thought three lights meant it was wrap time.”
Lu Fan shot him a look. “Kids these days don’t half-ass it like you.”
“And that’s just in games. Reality? Far scarier. I’d be worse—anxious, neurotic, obsessive. If left on read, I’d spiral into zodiac signs, MBTI, tarot readings, desperate for answers.” Chu Duxiu straightened up. “Though occasionally, I’d show a humanitarian side, embracing life-saving compassion.”
“I’d think: ‘Why isn’t he replying? Did he… die?’” She tilted her head in exaggerated concern. “Should I send another text? ‘Hey, are you fully deceased, or still salvageable?’”
Her animated expressions sent the crowd into fresh peals of laughter.
Chu Duxiu slumped weakly. “Sometimes I worry that if I ever develop love-brain, it might awaken the most ignorant, darkest parts of my humanity. Not even my favorite animals—adorable cats—could cure me then.”
“In my normal state, when I see a cat, I just want to pet it.”
“But with love-brain?” Her voice suddenly turned shrill and venomous as she rolled her eyes dramatically. “I’d become the type to say, ‘It better not be a female cat—I can’t have it cozying up to my boyfriend!'”
She shuddered violently, rubbing her arms as if covered in goosebumps, before jumping up in exaggerated horror. “That’s terrifying! Just imagining it makes my skin crawl! I’d rather stay an AI Single Dog than become some love-brain zombie!”
“Forget boyfriends—I’m gonna be AlphaGo’s best friend and adopt all the cats!”
The audience roared with laughter as she chanted her new motto.
“Wow…” Lu Fan murmured, impressed. “That was next-level.”
The routine had masterfully woven together all its elements—building from gentle setups to sharp punchlines, with perfect rhythm and timing—culminating in this brilliantly satisfying finale.
“Love is supposed to make you better—so why does love-brain turn people ugly? Maybe sometimes, we shouldn’t let love turn us into the worst versions of ourselves.”
“Thank you, everyone! I’m Chu Duxiu!”
With a deep bow, she stepped back under the glow of three lit spotlights, exiting the stage to thunderous applause.
The audience was still buzzing—some clapping wildly, others waving their hands in exhilaration, all still riding the high of her set.
She dashed straight to Scallion’s section, joining him in the performers’ area, where he greeted her with exaggerated enthusiasm.
“The Rookie Queen has arrived! The Rookie Queen has arrived!” Scallion theatrically dusted off a seat, playing the obsequious host. “Right this way, Your Majesty! Please, take your throne!”
“What’s this act now?” Chu Duxiu eyed his antics suspiciously. “Are we doing the ‘bury-the-hatchet’ bit again?”
“Nah, I just know I lost this round,” he admitted cheerfully. “So I’m getting ahead of the humiliation—playing nice to leech off your clout while I still can.”
“…”
With two stellar performances in When Love Takes Over Your Brain, the odds of another dark horse emerging were slim.
Chu Duxiu had managed to follow Scallion’s act, but sustaining that momentum would be tough for anyone after her. Once the audience reaches peak excitement, it’s only natural to come back down—unless the next performer is a true master of pacing.
Nie Feng mused, “Both got three lights. Now it’s up to the audience’s preference.”
With the judges’ votes maxed out, the winner between Chu Duxiu and Scallion would hinge entirely on crowd appeal.
Other contestants buzzed with critiques:
“That last segment of hers wasn’t necessary. Didn’t hit as hard as the earlier parts.”
“Scallion’s closing was explosive. Hers peaked earlier—hard to call.”
Cheng Junhua cut in abruptly, “I’d argue her finale was her best—it widened the gap between them. Without it, both acts are just comedy fluff. But with it? Her theme, structure, and message clicked into place. That’s where the real skill difference lies.”
“Scallion’s set loses coherence if you remove the Chu Duxiu bits. But trim her references to him? Her routine stands strong.”
“Who was it that said my compliments sting? At least I said Scallion was ‘Yancheng’s top rookie—before Chu Duxiu came along’!” Bei He exclaimed in mock outrage. “This critique from the master here cuts way deeper than mine ever could!”
Lu Fan shot him a sidelong glance, couldn’t be bothered to engage.
“Though this is just my personal take,” Cheng Junhua added with a modest smile, rubbing his nose. “Whether the audience sees it the same way—that’s never a guarantee.”
This remains the eternal riddle for stand-up comedians: audiences’ vastly different life experiences and tastes make it impossible to uniformly define what’s “good” or “bad.” What exactly is humor? It’s the question every performer spends their lifetime chasing.
After a short while, the entire group’s performances for When Love Takes Over Your Brain concluded, and the laughter representatives announced the vote counts for all five contestants.
Chu Duxiu and Scallion, no longer tense, casually chatted away, their pre-show rivalry completely gone. Though they were in direct competition, they both knew it was all in good fun—hardly something worth fighting over.
Suddenly, sound effects blared as the screens on both sides flashed the final rankings: Chu Duxiu in first place, Scallion in second.
The audience erupted in cheers and murmurs.
Scallion clapped good-naturedly and joked, “Well played. Can’t argue with that. Guess I’ll have to send her your WeChat after all.”
Chu Duxiu smirked. “This isn’t a victory for stand-up comedy—it’s a victory for AI Single Dogs. Looks like most of the audience is single too.” She raised a fist in mock defiance. “We’ve put up with you love-struck people long enough!”
