Xie Shenci watched as she collapsed sideways onto the sofa. Without thinking, he took a few steps forward, propped his elbows on the back of the couch, and stood quietly behind her, leaning down to observe the person pretending to be dead.
Her cheeks were obscured by her long hair and sleeves, and now, lying completely still, she displayed her superb acting skills.
Xie Shenci knew she was fine. The furrow between his brows eased, and his expression softened. His dark eyes glinted as he played along, replying, “Was it the semi-themed competition you attended the other day that left your spirit with a comminuted fracture only now?”
Chu Duxiu buried her face and muttered, “The fracture happened days ago, but it takes time to verify the injury. Can’t just go around scamming people, you know.”
“…” She really was meticulous about her scams.
Xie Shenci asked, “How much do I owe you?”
“How much do you have?”
He warned, “…That sounds like a scam.”
“Times are tough for everyone. I just want to assess your finances first. If you’re broke, I’ll… scam less—” She corrected herself, “—settle for less.”
Xie Shenci shamelessly declared, “I’m broke. Just a startup founder, penniless.”
“Liar. How did you start a company with no money?” Chu Duxiu, like an ostrich peeking its head out, stopped lying face-down and turned over on the sofa, revealing her previously hidden cheeks. “Even startups need funding. You can’t just spout nonsense to cut costs and shirk corporate responsibility.”
“The money came from my family,” Xie Shenci replied, looking down at her with a straight face. “If you want, you can come home with me and have them pay you.”
Chu Xiuxiu: “?”
Was it even appropriate for her to go home with him just to get money?
Xie Shenci stood behind the sofa, leaning against the backrest as he looked down at her. His dark, tousled hair fell forward like the branches of a tall tree, obscuring the sky above. Though he kept a distance from her—even with the soft couch between them—his eyelashes were so distinctly visible that it somehow felt too close.
When Chu Duxiu had been lying facedown, she hadn’t met his gaze, so the effect hadn’t been as obvious. But now, flat on her back on the sofa, seeing him peer down at her like that, she suddenly felt inexplicably self-conscious. The position seemed awkward, almost intimate, and she hurriedly sat up.
“Mr. Xie, you’re a grown man—shouldn’t you be more independent?” she said with earnest gravity. “You should face the storms of the world on your own. Running home to solve every problem isn’t the way.”
Xie Shenci watched as she sat up, his gaze lifting along with her. He nodded slightly and said, “That makes sense, but I really don’t have any money.”
Chu Duxiu thought for a moment. “Alright, I won’t push you too hard. If you can’t pay up, we can settle for something else—you can do something different to make up for it.”
“Like what?”
“Happiness is priceless. Tell me a joke,” she suggested. “You’re the boss of Shanle, after all. You should know a thing or two about comedy.”
Chu Duxiu realized she was being audacious—daring to ask the CEO of Shanle to perform stand-up comedy. Most people put on shows for their bosses, but here she was, demanding a show from her boss.
But interacting with Mr. Xie had always felt effortless for her, and she couldn’t help but push boundaries—much like how she playfully bickered with her mom at home. It wasn’t about picking a fight, just indulging in some harmless, colorful teasing, poking fun just for the thrill of it.
She’d only ever seen Xie Shenci edit scripts before, never actually perform stand-up. Naturally, she was dying of curiosity.
Xie Shenci hesitated. “…I can’t tell jokes.”
“You can edit scripts just fine—how can you not perform?” Chu Duxiu protested indignantly. “Don’t you, as the boss of a comedy company, ever show off your humor to investors?”
“Writing and performing are two different things. I’m not really good at acting,” he replied awkwardly, then added, “Besides, investors hate it when you crack jokes about business.”
Chu Duxiu said, “Just give it a try. Start small—you can even just read the words out loud. Or is ‘SpongeBob’ really your peak performance?”
“…”
Unable to resist her pleading, Xie Shenci—uncharacteristically conflicted—fell into a long silence. Then, his lips parted slightly, as if he were about to begin… but no sound came out. Like a voiceless mermaid.
Chu Duxiu waited with bated breath, watching as he made several attempts—the words clearly on the tip of his tongue, yet stubbornly refusing to come out.
Baffled, she asked, “Mr. Xie, if others have the emperor’s new clothes, do you have the emperor’s new joke?”
Where was the sound?
He had been steeling himself for so long, yet all he did was open his mouth without uttering a word.
Xie Shenci was equally torn. At one point, he even raised a hand to his throat, as if trying to physically force the words out—his whole demeanor painfully stiff.
It was like watching a fierce, battle-hardened black cat, one that never meowed aimlessly and at most would growl low in warning, suddenly being forced to let out a couple of cutesy meows—performing those sickly sweet human-pleasing antics.
They say cats don’t actually meow to communicate with each other—those sounds exist purely to manipulate humans.
After a moment, Xie Shenci gave up. His heart utterly deadened, he said bluntly, “Just name your price.”
Chu Duxiu said, “You just said you were broke.”
“I was broke. But in the few minutes we’ve been talking, I suddenly made some money.” He pulled out his phone expressionlessly. “Let’s keep it simple—no jokes, just compensation. Should I transfer the same amount as your sister did, or account for inflation and add a zero?”
He had decided to buy back his dignity with cold, hard cash.
“Let’s not let money ruin our friendship,” she said with mock solemnity. “Besides, we’re both in stand-up comedy. Jokes are the real hedge against inflation—like gold! Surely you understand that logic.”
“…” Struck speechless, he finally muttered, “Fine. I’ll owe you, then.”
“Just giving up entirely?”
Xie Shenci weakly covered his face, as if trying to escape this forced animal act, and struggled out, “Or I could offer myself as collateral. You can go to the office and have the others tell jokes to redeem me.”
It was clear now—Mr. Xie’s humor existed only on paper. The moment he had to perform off-script, he froze. His icy exterior had trapped him completely.
“Are you sure anyone would actually redeem you?” Chu Duxiu was amused by his helplessness and couldn’t resist adding salt to the wound. “What if Director Shang and Mr. Shang are thrilled and can’t wait to get rid of you? If you end up stuck with me, you’d basically be a toxic asset.”
After all, Director Shang would absolutely do something like that.
Xie Shenci looked up, his gaze drifting, and replied, “That works too.”
“?”
Just as the two were bantering, Shang Liang walked in.
Spotting them from a distance, Shang Liang asked, “How long have you two been waiting?”
Chu Duxiu greeted, “Mr. Shang.”
Hearing her address him, Shang Liang nodded politely in return.
The moment she noticed Shang Liang’s arrival, Chu Duxiu immediately dropped her playful demeanor and regained her poised composure. She dared to joke around with Mr. Xie, but Mr. Shang was a serious and earnest man—it was better to remain courteous and friendly, lest she accidentally come across as rude.
Seeing him approach, Xie Shenci immediately deflected the blame. “Tell a joke.”
Chu Duxiu’s heart skipped a beat, fearing Mr. Shang would press for details and expose her earlier irreverence toward Mr. Xie.
Shang Liang, caught off guard by the demand: “?”
He shot Xie Shenci a sidelong glance and retorted irritably, “Do I look like a joke to you?”
Chu Duxiu: “…”
Well then. It seemed everyone treated Mr. Xie with irreverence—she was practically the polite and friendly one by comparison.
Shang Liang ignored Xie Shenci’s joke and quickly got down to business, confirming with Chu Duxiu, “Bei He is also on set today. Since he has to return to the company the day after tomorrow, we’ve rescheduled his shoot for now. Is that alright with you?”
Normally, Chu Duxiu would have had a solo shoot today and wouldn’t have crossed paths with Bei He in the studio.
“Sure,” Chu Duxiu replied, puzzled. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
For a moment, she didn’t quite grasp the reasoning behind Shang Liang’s question.
“Shooting with two people slows things down a bit. Some actors prefer to keep to themselves, especially if they aren’t familiar with other contestants, and would rather have their own space,” Shang Liang explained. “As long as you don’t mind.”
Chu Duxiu nodded in understanding. She had assumed all contestants were simply assigned schedules in bulk—it hadn’t occurred to her that the production team would actually seek their input. Looking back, she had always stuck close to Wang Nali and the others during previous shoots, moving as part of a group, which was probably why she hadn’t noticed before.
Come to think of it, even during ad shoots, the director would always ask if she was okay with appearing alongside Scallion and Wang Nali. But since the three of them got along so well, they were more than happy to shoot together and never paid much attention to those questions.
Wait—so there were people who wouldn’t be okay with it?
Chu Duxiu stepped out of the hotel and slowly boarded the vehicle, waiting for departure.
Shang Liang and Xie Shenci stood outside the car, briefly discussing work matters before preparing to leave for the studio.
Shang Liang said, “After I finish coordinating things there, I can only stay for a short while. Should I reserve a private dining room for you? Chinese or Western cuisine?”
Shang Liang primarily operated from the company headquarters in the city, handling the bulk of day-to-day affairs, so he couldn’t stay at the studio for long. Xie Shenci and Shang Xiaomei, on the other hand, were stationed at the hotel—closer to the filming set—and regularly oversaw stage adjustments.
Xie Shenci looked surprised. “We’re eating out tonight?”
“Aren’t you supposed to take her out to eat?” Shang Liang glared at him. “Don’t piss me off. Get your act together.”
Xie Shenci was baffled. “?”
Shang Liang hesitated, then said pointedly, “Stop playing dumb. Talk to her about signing—we’re already at the semifinals.”
Shang Liang really didn’t want to relive the awkward moment when Chu Duxiu had overheard his plans that day. There was no way he could discuss it with her face-to-face now—she wasn’t an idiot. The second she’d heard the word “lowball,” she’d definitely have gone on guard.
But with the finals approaching, dragging this out wasn’t doing anyone any favors. They needed to get something concrete down on paper.
If even Xie Shenci couldn’t persuade her, Shang Liang planned to rope in Shang Xiaomei and Lu Fan, asking them to brief Chu Duxiu on Shanle’s situation. At the very least, they could lay the groundwork for collaboration, then refine the details later. They couldn’t just stick with a short-term contract indefinitely.
Xie Shenci fell silent for a few seconds, suspecting Chu Duxiu might not even want to eat out—she’d probably rush back to the hotel to work on her material.
Seeing Shang Liang’s stern expression, though, he didn’t bother explaining further. “…Fine, go ahead and book it.”
Whether they’d actually go was another matter. They’d play it by ear.
On the studio set, Chu Duxiu and Bei He took turns filming—while one was in front of the camera, the other worked on their material. The progress went smoother than Mr. Shang had anticipated, without any major delays.
During downtime, Chu Duxiu curled up in a corner to wait. By chance, her gaze landed on the shooting schedule, where three names stood out: Be He, Cheng Junhua, and herself.
The three had been scheduled across three separate days—Cheng Junhua had filmed yesterday, while she and Bei He were both slotted for today.
Come to think of it, aside from the preliminary round’s shoot, she hadn’t run into Cheng Junhua privately since.
In front of the green screen, Bei He followed the filming routine while effortlessly cracking up the crew, laughter erupting around him every now and then. He had always been a natural at livening up group dynamics—compared to the refined and composed Lu Fan, he was far more lively and unrestrained.
Chu Duxiu watched the scene quietly, pen and paper in hand, occasionally jotting something down.
After a while, the crew needed to reset the scene, giving the two actors a short break. Bei He returned to Chu Duxiu’s side.
He patted the chair beside her, then noticed her staring at him, scribbling in her notebook as if taking notes. With his usual carefree grin, he teased, “Do I look that funny? Why’re you staring at me like I’m material for a bit?”
It was the same playful tone he always used, no different from his usual demeanor.
But for once, Chu Duxiu didn’t play along. Instead, she asked, “Bei He, are you tired?”
Sometimes, she had these odd flashes of empathy—watching Bei He in a group setting felt like looking at a mirror of herself at home.
Bei He froze.
“Yeah,” he admitted.
The next second, Bei He’s smile vanished. He slumped into the chair, shedding his clownish antics, and let out a long, weary sigh as he vented, “Exhausted. I barely slept three hours last night—insomnia. Had to rush here for filming today because I need to head back to the company tomorrow. Still gotta rewrite my finals material. I’m running on fumes. When the hell is this damn competition gonna end?”
Maybe it was their shared experiences, but neither of them forced a joke or played along with the usual banter. For once, they just let the pressure spill out, stealing a rare moment to breathe.
Chu Duxiu asked curiously, “What’s waiting for you back at the company?”
“You think we just compete? The show’s a promotional platform, but outside The Stand-Up King, there’s always more crap to deal with.” Bei He rubbed his temples irritably. “Unsigned talents only worry about the show. Signed ones? We’ve got other shit piling up.”
Bei He, Lu Fan, and the others weren’t just contestants—they held roles at the company too. This wasn’t just a competition.
Chu Duxiu fell quiet, thoughtful.
Bei He caught her gaze and suddenly seemed to remember something. He snapped back to attention, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Wait, you haven’t signed yet, right? Uh, ignore everything I just said—Shanle Culture is an outstanding comedy company. Our work environment is relaxed and fun, and we’d be thrilled to have you join us someday!”
In an instant, he perked back up, flashing a thumbs-up as he launched into an enthusiastic sales pitch. “We’re the most renowned stand-up comedy company in the industry—a true benchmark! Comprehensive and in-depth development, flat organizational structure, a youthful and energetic team vibe, and you can even mooch free meals off the boss sometimes! Truly the ultimate choice for employment and signing!”
“…”
What a textbook corporate flip-flop!
Chu Duxiu listened to his canned spiel, torn between exasperation and amusement. “That’s not what you were saying a second ago!”
