Yancheng was a nationally renowned metropolis, especially well-developed in the culture and media industry. Performances large and small were held year-round, not to mention the countless awards ceremonies. Today, there was a small-scale online gala, primarily to present awards to MCN (multi-channel network) organizations, interspersed with performances. The entire event was being livestreamed online.
Outside the theater, the place was already bustling with people. There were even reporters with cameras, gathered together like a buzzing swarm of bees.
Chu Duxiu arrived at the venue on time, a work badge hanging around her neck. As she looked up, she saw Xie Shenci, tall and striking in the crowd. He stood at the main entrance dressed in dark tones, also wearing a work badge. Upon seeing her, he quickly walked over.
Seeing her appear, Xie Shenci said warmly, “I was worried you wouldn’t come.”
“How could I not? I already agreed,” Chu Duxiu replied. “No grand ideals here—I work for the money.”
A few days ago, Chu Duxiu suddenly got a call from Xie Shenci. He asked if she was free that weekend and whether she’d be interested in doing a stand-up comedy set. The originally scheduled performer had something come up last minute, and they hadn’t found a replacement yet. He hoped she could adapt some of the material she used at the bar into an 8–10 minute set. The pay was 500 yuan.
This kind of last-minute arrangement wasn’t unusual in Yancheng’s booming media industry—some variety shows even recruited audience members directly from college campuses. The only difference this time was that the event needed a stand-up comedian.
At first, Chu Duxiu was going to turn it down—but the moment she heard the pay, she agreed without hesitation. After all, being a studio audience member until 2 a.m. only paid 200 yuan. Now she could get 500 yuan for just ten minutes on stage? The hourly rate was unbeatable.
Xie Shenci raised an eyebrow. “Since you’re so motivated by money, why not consider joining the show long-term?”
“Uh…” Chu Duxiu hesitated. “That’s a different matter entirely.”
A short gig and a long-term job were clearly two different things.
Thankfully, he didn’t press the issue and simply said, “Come on, I’ll take you to meet the show’s director.”
Chu Duxiu quickly responded and followed him, backpack slung over her shoulder.
As soon as they stepped inside, the theater lobby was bustling with people—everyone dressed in black and wearing staff badges, all clearly busy with event prep. Xie Shenci was also dressed in black, but for some reason, he still stood out from the crowd. Every step of his long legs carried an effortless presence, and he led Chu Duxiu forward without hesitation.
Chu Duxiu followed closely behind, her short strides working overtime just to keep up. She couldn’t help but think—if only she were 6’2″, it’d be him struggling to catch up with her.
She wanted to call out to him but wasn’t sure what to say. Then she remembered how the bar owner had addressed him and blurted out instinctively, “Boss Xie…”
Hearing this, Xie Shenci paused mid-step and glanced over his shoulder at the slightly out-of-breath Chu Duxiu. As if suddenly realizing something, he dropped back to walk beside her. Slowing his pace to match hers, he asked casually, “What’s up, SpongeBob?”*
“…?”
Chu Duxiu froze for a few seconds, then it clicked—she’d meant to call him “Mr. Xie,” but somehow ended up saying “Boss Xie” instead.
But what really threw her off—why on earth did he respond with a SpongeBob reference without blinking an eye?
It was hard to describe how shaken she felt in that moment.
They had only met once at the bar. After that, they’d exchanged a few polite, professional messages over WeChat—nothing personal, strictly business.
In her mind, someone like Xie Shenci—tall, stoic, and the boss of a company—fit the mold of a TV drama CEO. The type with a cool, expressionless face who probably ran meetings like clockwork, exuded perfectionism, and talked about investment strategies over lunch. The kind who would never mention a cartoon character, lest it tarnish his elite, aloof image.
But here he was—making a SpongeBob joke.
She was genuinely rattled.
Xie Shenci noticed her looking as if something was stuck in her throat and asked, “Why so quiet all of a sudden?”
Maybe the earlier joke had loosened the mood a little, because Chu Duxiu suddenly found herself with more courage. With a slightly awkward expression, she said, “I just didn’t expect you to be like this. You’re… kind of different from what I imagined.”
He looked intrigued. “And how did you imagine me?”
Chu Duxiu gave him a quick side glance, then rattled off at lightning speed.
“Quiet and mysterious, with deep, unreadable eyes. Doesn’t smile—just twitches the corner of his mouth. Wears a string of prayer beads on his wrist, drives a Maybach, has chronic gastritis or maybe claustrophobia, calls his doctor friend late at night, and when he brings someone home to his mansion, the butler says, ‘It’s been a long time since Young Master looked this happy.’”
“???”
Xie Shenci was silent for a few seconds, then couldn’t help but remark, “You’re actually pretty funny. You really are cut out for stand-up.”
That was the second time he’d complimented her—the first was when they met at the bar, and his tone then was just as calm and measured.
“Is that one of your stand-up techniques too?” she asked, curious. “That elite-level kind of humor, where a compliment sounds exactly like an insult?”
“No,” he said, blinking at her. “This time it’s not a compliment. It’s just an insult.”
“…”
But clearly, Xie Shenci wasn’t offended at all. He was far more easygoing than his appearance suggested. When Chu Duxiu first met him, she’d been a little tense, but now she felt much more at ease, gradually letting her true personality show.
Inside the theater, the stage and set had already been assembled. Several LED screens were pieced together as the backdrop, and stage managers occasionally darted through the dim space. The audience seats were still empty—just name tags placed on chairs, and camera positions set up around the venue.
As soon as Chu Duxiu walked in and took in the setup, she immediately noticed how different it felt from the bar. The theater had a much higher ceiling, and without an audience, it felt a bit hollow—lacking the close, charged atmosphere of the bar’s “stand-up frenzy.” There was a clear distance between the stage and the seats, creating a sense of separation.
The show’s director, a young woman, led Chu Duxiu through a quick rehearsal and helped her find her stage mark. In a low voice, she said, “Please stand here during your set.”
Chu Duxiu nodded and followed the instruction.
A few staff members stood at the control booth in the back, coordinating lighting and camera angles, occasionally offering suggestions.
Since the stand-up segment wasn’t a main part of the award show, Chu Duxiu only needed to run through her routine twice before she was free to wait for the event to officially begin.
Off to the side of the stage, Xie Shenci had been quietly watching the rehearsal. As he saw her walking down the steps, he said with mild surprise, “I didn’t expect you to write a whole new set.”
Compared to her bar performances, today’s material was much more polished—richer in content, the transitions between jokes smoother, and even her rehearsal delivery had noticeably improved.
Chu Duxiu gave a helpless smile. “Even if I’m just here to fill a slot, I can’t afford to slack off. Gotta earn that paycheck properly.”
Xie Shenci asked, “Why did you tweak the script during the second run?”
Chu Duxiu touched her face, then admitted, “This place is way bigger than Typoon Transit. It didn’t feel right. No one laughed at the opening—if that happens during the actual show, I’ll be dying up there.”
The theater was much more spacious than the bar, and the distance from the stage to the audience made it harder to generate instant energy. Before coming, she’d watched The Stand-Up King, and the comparison made one thing clear: the success of her open-mic sets at the bar wasn’t just about the quality of her jokes—it was the high-energy atmosphere that carried the crowd.
But in a bigger venue, where she was physically farther from the audience, that kind of emotional contagion didn’t work as well. So she had to adjust her script accordingly.
Xie Shenci asked, testing the waters, “Your first time on stage was at Typoon Transit. So today would be your second?”
“More or less,” Chu Duxiu replied. “If you don’t count the two rehearsal runs just now.”
Xie Shenci fell into thought. He found it hard to believe—but didn’t let it show on his face.
He’d invited her to perform partly as an experiment—to see if there was a difference between her online and offline presence. Some performers thrived in the chaotic energy of open mics, only to fall flat when put in a more structured or broadcasted setting, losing all the command they usually had. But she had already learned to adapt after just one rehearsal.
If she was telling the truth about having no stage experience prior to this, and she could already improve after just two performances—then that was real talent. Not just in delivery, but in instinct. The kind of person who was made for this line of work.
The two of them waited backstage, exchanging the occasional comment. While Chu Duxiu sized up the theater space, Xie Shenci was quietly sizing up her.
He noticed her pacing in place like a restless ant. “Nervous?” he asked.
“Of course,” Chu Duxiu shot him a quick look. “Don’t laugh, but I actually brought booze.”
“What for?”
“I’m afraid the last time I did well was only because I’d had a beer,” she muttered. “Most people bring a backup plan. I brought two bottles.”
Xie Shenci pressed his lips together, trying not to laugh—but couldn’t help smiling.
“What are you laughing at?” she snapped. “You’ve probably been excellent at everything since you were a kid, and everything’s always gone your way. Of course, you wouldn’t understand me.”
Just one glance told Chu Duxiu that Xie Shenci, like Chu Shuangyou, was one of those elite types whose studies and career had always sailed smoothly. People like that never have to worry about their future. They’re the classic “kids everyone compares themselves to”—probably wouldn’t even be nervous ringing the Nasdaq opening bell, let alone a small live-streamed awards show.
She was different. Always on edge, always ready for something to go wrong. Never underestimating her own ability to mess things up.
Xie Shenci said, “No, I do understand.”
“Then have you ever been nervous? Like stage fright?”
He shook his head immediately. “No.”
“…What kind of understanding is that?”
Seeing her give him a hard stare, Xie Shenci hurried to explain, “It’s just that I’m not an actor. I handle operations and production, so I don’t get on stage much. I’m more of a manager.”
Chu Duxiu asked curiously, “Is this event organized by your company?”
“No,” he replied, “but we’ve worked together on commercial shows before. Mr. Nie used to come often. I’m here today partly to help out, and partly because…”
“Recruiting people for the show?” she finished for him. “Very dedicated of you.”
“Half for work, half for interest. I’ve always been a big fan of stand-up comedy,” Xie Shenci said. Noticing her raised eyebrow, he asked, “You look skeptical.”
Chu Duxiu hadn’t expected him to be so perceptive and glanced away sheepishly. “Just a little surprised.”
After all, his appearance didn’t exactly scream “comedian,” and his manner of speaking wasn’t the cheerful, witty type—there was quite a contrast.
Xie Shenci pondered for a moment. “You first got into open mic at Typoon Transit?”
Chu Duxiu nodded.
Xie Shenci said, “The first time I watched stand-up comedy was while studying abroad. There was a Chinese-American comedian named Hong Liwen. It was at a small café, nothing fancy, but the atmosphere was amazing. That’s when I started following open mics.”
“After I returned to China, I kept an eye on it, but very few people were doing it here. Comedy clubs were almost nonexistent. That’s why a few friends and I started Shanle, and through that I gradually got to know Mr. Nie and the others.”
Chu Duxiu listened quietly. She hadn’t expected this backstory—no wonder she hadn’t seen Xie Shenci at the bar before.
“Maybe you think making people laugh is no big deal,” he continued, “but I’ve always believed that being able to use comedy to say what the audience wants to say but never gets to is an unparalleled skill.” His gaze grew distant as he reminisced, “I still remember that afternoon, how it felt to be in a foreign land, and someone expressed it through jokes.”
“To realize there are others who see the world the same way, that I’m not alone—that’s a truly magical experience. It’s not just about hearing jokes and laughing, it’s a genuine connection.”
Xie Shenci’s eyes darkened with sincerity as he said, “That’s why after watching your performance that day, I reached out to you without hesitation. I felt you had something to say, and you could clearly share it with the audience. Stand-up comedy suits you, and you suit stand-up comedy. Don’t waste your sincere talent.”
Meeting his gaze, Chu Duxiu felt a flicker of something stirring inside her. She hadn’t expected him to say so much, or say it like that.
That night’s performance at the bar was like striking a spark in dry hay. She thought it had flickered out in the cold night wind—but she hadn’t realized the ember was hidden in the dark, waiting for a sunny day to ignite into a wildfire in her heart.
Chu Duxiu lowered her eyes and asked, “Then why aren’t you a stand-up comedian yourself?”
Xie Shenci paused for a moment, choosing his words carefully and politely: “To really engage the audience, make them feel connected, and naturally draw them in—that takes some talent. Unfortunately, I…”
Chu Duxiu cut him off bluntly, “I get it. You want to say you’re too handsome and that creates distance, right?”
He was momentarily speechless.
“Why so quiet? Just admit it if that’s what you mean.”
“…”
Sincerity really is a killer move. Faced with her direct questioning, Xie Shenci surprisingly avoided her gaze, at a loss for words.
He usually spoke calmly and confidently, but now a flicker of embarrassment crossed his face. He wanted to deny it but couldn’t lie outright. So he forced himself to keep a composed expression—only his pale ear lobes blushed faintly, like plum blossoms climbing a snow-covered branch.
Chu Duxiu laughed through her annoyance. “So being handsome means no talent? By that logic, if I have sincere talent, do you think that’s polite to say?”
Translator’s Note:
*The joke here is that “谢老板” (Boss Xie) sounds exactly like what SpongeBob calls Mr. Crabbs in Chinese dubbed SpongeBob cartoon, which is “蟹老板” (literally Boss Crab). It’s a phonetic pun based on the identical pronunciation of 谢 (his surname) and 蟹 (“crab”).
