He must be doing this on purpose to mess with her!
What a petty man!
Maybe celebrities were used to this kind of thing, but when Chu Duxiu saw her photo, she felt inexplicably ashamed. For one, the show’s official photo looked silly and stiff, almost like an ID photo. And second, he had handed it over with such seriousness, as though he were actually satisfied with it, which only flustered her even more.
Did he have terrible taste? How could she have signed off on such a silly photo?
Was he trying to get back at her by deliberately choosing an ugly picture?
Chu Duxiu stole a glance at him, her expression weird for a moment, and she muttered vaguely, “Mr. Xie, are you an elementary school student or something?”
That thing happened so long ago. She’d only teased him a little—how could he still hold a grudge?
Clearly, Shanle’s workload wasn’t demanding enough, since it allowed him to remember every trivial little thing.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Chu Duxiu immediately reached out, trying to snatch back the official photo. “I’ll sign it, I’ll sign it as soon as I’m done. Or how about I hold onto it for now and give it back to you later? We shouldn’t keep Director Shang waiting too long…”
Once she got the photo back, she planned to destroy it—no way was she leaving him an autographed picture.
“It’s fine, she can wait.” Xie Shenci said decisively. He pulled out a pen and considerately handed it to her. “Just sign it now. It won’t take a minute.”
“…”
He even brought a pen specifically for signing.
Chu Duxiu shot him a resentful look. “Holding a grudge that much? You came prepared?”
Xie Shenci argued righteously, “At least I signed my surname for you back then. You didn’t even give me your surname.”
Chu Duxiu didn’t want to keep Director Shang waiting too long, so she reluctantly gave in and signed for the obsessive fan who had cornered her backstage (…?).
After signing, she held the photo hesitantly, unsure whether to hand it to Xie Shenci. Staring at the absurd autographed picture, she couldn’t shake the strange feeling in her heart.
Noticing her frozen stance, Xie Shenci simply reached out and took the initiative to pinch the edge of the photo.
His slender fingers rested on the photo, with smooth, clean nails that gleamed with a healthy hue. His hands were so strikingly elegant that her handwriting looked even more unsightly in comparison—almost like something a grade-schooler would scribble.
The sense of awkwardness and peculiarity within her grew even stronger.
Why couldn’t her signature have that kind of sharp, fluid elegance—the kind that looked like iron brushstrokes and silver hooks?
Instead, it was that childish, rounded font, utterly lacking in maturity.
Lost in her daze, Chu Duxiu’s grip loosened, and he swiftly pulled the photo away. Panicked, she exclaimed, “Wait, let me take another look! My signature is so ugly!”
“It’s alright.” Xie Shenci examined it carefully, then lifted his gaze to study her. “The writing reflects the person—it’s quite fitting.”
It looked cute, neat, and clear.
Chu Duxiu said, “…Sometimes, insincere flattery hurts more than the truth.”
She refused to be as childish as her handwriting.
“No, I need to design a proper signature one of these days.” The more Chu Duxiu thought about it, the angrier she became, a mix of shame and indignation rising within her. “This is practically a black mark on my history—it can’t be allowed to spread.”
When she’d signed Wang Nali’s notebook, the feeling hadn’t been so intense. But this time, with him handing her the official photo, she realized just how awful her handwriting was.
“Designing one for future use?” Xie Shenci nodded understandingly. He tucked the signed photo away solemnly. “Alright, then this one is even more worth treasuring. It might very well become a collector’s item.”
“？？？”
He was truly inhuman.
In the editing room, the door was gently knocked and soon answered.
“Come in.”
Chu Duxiu pushed the door open and saw only a number of editors, but not Shang Xiaomei. She had been worried about keeping Director Shang waiting, but now looked puzzled and asked, “Hello, is Director Shang here?”
“Director Shang is in the innermost room.”
Chu Duxiu quickly made her way inside, concerned that Director Shang might think she was too slow. To her surprise, the director was also busy in the room, swiftly operating the mouse, deftly pressing shortcuts, and switching between editing screens.
“Duxiu, you’re here. Have a seat first.” Shang Xiaomei glanced up at her but kept her fingers on the keyboard, apologizing, “Just give me a moment—I’ll finish this up quickly.”
“Sure, no rush.”
Chu Duxiu spotted an empty chair and obediently took a seat, glancing around to take in the details of the room.
This was likely Director Shang’s office. The corner desk was piled high with blue folders, and neatly stacked boxes of coffee sat beside the water dispenser. At the very back was a snow-white whiteboard, covered in a colorful mess of scribbles—all recording timestamps and key moments.
Shang Xiaomei was dressed in athletic wear and, even indoors, wore a baseball cap—probably because she hadn’t washed her hair after pulling an all-nighter.
A moment later, she clicked to save her work with the mouse, then finally turned around. Though she looked somewhat tired, her tone remained warm. “Alright, sorry for the wait. Did Mr. Xie talk to you about the show’s editing?”
Chu Duxiu placed her hands on her knees, sitting primly and properly, and replied, “Yes, he said there shouldn’t be any major issues, but you wanted to talk to me?”
“Right. Your semi-final performance should be able to air. Based on my past experience, even if we’re asked to make adjustments after it goes live, it’ll mostly be about modifying subtitles. The audio can stay as is.” Shang Xiaomei explained, “It’s like this—what you said won’t change, but the subtitles we add might be pared down.”
“Of course, if there are no requests for changes, we won’t adjust anything, and all subtitles will remain as usual. The review standards are always shifting, so I can’t say for sure right now. Are you okay with that?”
Chu Duxiu nodded. “That’s fine.”
Hearing her swift agreement, Shang Xiaomei’s expression grew somewhat complicated. “Alright, that covers the technical side. Now let’s talk about the psychological aspect. This might be your first time on a show like this, so I need to confirm one thing with you—are you sure you want this segment to air in its entirety?”
She explained helplessly, “I probably shouldn’t say too much, but the truth is, there are quite a few performers in our company who didn’t join the competition. After the first season aired, some of the contestants were deeply affected and later refused to go on stage again, sticking only to offline events.”
Chu Duxiu seemed to grasp the implication and asked, “Because of the online comments?”
Shang Xiaomei was taken aback. “You already know about that?”
“Bei He mentioned it to me.”
Bei He had given her a heads-up earlier. Given Chu Duxiu’s talent, it was only a matter of time before she got caught up in controversy. What he hadn’t expected, however, was that she wouldn’t shy away from it—instead, she’d charge headfirst into an even bigger storm.
Shang Xiaomei hesitated, “If you knew, then why…”
She had assumed that Chu Duxiu, being new to this, might not fully grasp the situation and was acting recklessly. But on second thought, when Chu Duxiu had faced off against String Bean during the training camp, her language had been even more direct. This time, she had deliberately avoided words that couldn’t be aired, likely preparing in advance to pass the review.
Chu Duxiu smiled. “I studied journalism—I know exactly how things get written.”
Seeing how relaxed she was, even making a humorous callback, Shang Xiaomei let out a long sigh. She rubbed her head in frustration and muttered, “Ah—did I not make the seriousness of this clear enough? Let me think about how to explain it to you.”
How could Chu Duxiu still be smiling? She looked like such a little fool!
Chu Duxiu now understood Director Shang’s good intentions, but unlike with Mr. Xie, they didn’t share that kind of intuitive. Director Shang probably didn’t grasp why she was doing this.
“Director Shang, I know you’re worried about me getting into trouble and want me to take things easier,” Chu Duxiu said softly. “But sometimes I find it strange—they often say offensive things yet never seem afraid of the consequences. But when we say even a little, we immediately sense danger. Sometimes, before the words even leave our mouths, we swallow them back down.”
“Even I’m like this. In daily life, when interacting with older middle-aged men, I often wish I’d learned boxing or martial arts. Otherwise, I lack the courage to clap back at their remarks. Part of me knows my safety matters most, but another part feels weak and cowardly.”
Shang Xiaomei was taken aback.
Chu Duxiu lowered her gaze. “I majored in journalism in college. My mom thought it was just a passing phase and that I’d lose interest soon, but the truth is, I felt so powerless.”
“My professors said journalism should be scientific and rigorous, balancing rationality and emotion. But when I actually worked in the field, I found it wasn’t anything like what they taught. I studied journalism because I wanted to express myself, but in reality, the space for expression is limited. There are very few practitioners who can navigate it with ease, and I’m certainly not one of those exceptional ones.”
Shang Xiaomei leaned back slowly against her chair and chimed in, “Isn’t that exactly me? I studied directing in college, then joined a TV station after graduation. None of the shows I worked on were ones I actually liked—there was zero creative freedom.”
The sorrow of media students probably lies in this: in school, they’re passionate and ambitious, but once they enter the workforce, it’s all chaos and disillusionment. Anyone with ideals about journalism inevitably gets crushed.
“That’s why being able to express myself through stand-up comedy is truly a blessing—it fulfills my aspirations,” Chu Duxiu said. “My body might be weak, but my spirit can’t afford to be. Otherwise, it would be a complete defeat. If words have power, and they can say things that make people afraid, then I should be able to say those things too.”
“I don’t want to fear the words I speak—I want them to fear my words. There has to be some kind of deterrence for things to change.”
Though the words were simple and straightforward, Shang Xiaomei felt struck by them, as if strong liquor had surged into her bloodstream—her entire body burned, and even her scalp and back tingled with numbness.
She suddenly recalled her conversation with Xie Shenci, where they had discussed whether to adjust the semi-finals. She had worried that Chu Duxiu didn’t understand the potential fallout, but Xie Shenci believed there was no need to fear it.
He had said at the time, “I’ve noticed something interesting—perhaps because of her personality and performance style, people tend to project their own fears onto her. Her sister worries her efforts won’t be rewarded, and you worry she’ll be crushed by outside criticism. Everyone hopes her path will be smooth, free of any setbacks.”
In daily life, Chu Duxiu often concealed her true nature, revealing her other side only on stage. Yet those close to her were often fooled by her everyday demeanor, mistaking it for the entirety of who she was.
Shang Xiaomei replied, “Isn’t that just a normal reaction? Everyone hopes for smooth sailing in everything.”
“You always think she’s fragile, that she doesn’t understand anything, just like how she appears on the surface. But her inner strength is far greater than most. Someone who excels at empathy yet remains joyful has a vast and rich emotional world—they won’t be easily defeated by public opinion.”
That was her comedic gift: resonating with the audience wasn’t hard, but only by dissolving pain could she truly make people laugh.
Xie Shenci continued, “She actively chose all of this. In truth, she isn’t afraid—it’s you who are scared.”
Now, his words had been proven right.
Shang Xiaomei stared intently at Chu Duxiu, lost in thought for a long moment before confessing, “To be honest, I can’t predict the future either. I don’t know what will happen after the episode airs. Given your background in journalism, you should understand—once something is out there, we lose control over it. You might be affected too…”
“In the worst-case scenario—and I mean the most pessimistic, most terrible outcome—you might not be able to appear on shows anymore, or perform stand-up comedy again. Could you accept that?”
Shang Xiaomei was certain the show itself would be fine, but she couldn’t be sure about the court of public opinion.
“If that day really comes, I can accept it. It would be the choice of the times.”
After a few seconds of reflection, Chu Duxiu’s voice brightened again, “But even though I said on stage that I’m pessimistic, deep down I’m still optimistic. I believe nothing will happen to me, and I believe the future will only get better. The times will undoubtedly make better choices.”
Before long, the door to the editing room slowly swung open. Chu Duxiu stepped out and was surprised to see Xie Shenci still waiting in the hallway. “Mr. Xie, you’re still here?”
She had been talking with Shang Xiaomei for quite some time and hadn’t expected him to wait.
Xie Shenci asked, “How did it go?”
“No issues—we’ll go with the performance as it is. I mentioned that if it might affect the show, Director Shang could cut some parts,” Chu Duxiu explained. “But Director Shang said she’s seen it all before and had dealt with even more outrageous content back at the TV station. This is small potatoes in comparison. As long as I’m okay with it airing, she’s fine too.”
Of course, the latter half of their conversation had devolved into griping about media industry executives, swapping horror stories from their school and job-hunting days, and venting about the unfair treatment they’d faced. They didn’t really circle back to discussing the semi-finals.
The two of them left the editing room together. The editors were all busy inside, leaving the hallway nearly empty.
After her conversation with Director Shang, Chu Duxiu glanced at the person beside her and ventured, “Mr. Xie, if I ever get cyberbullied, would you spend money to delete posts and hire lawyers to sue?”
Even though she wasn’t overly concerned herself and wouldn’t actively seek out comments, it was still wise to be prepared.
“Shang Liang would handle those things,” Xie Shenci replied. “He would never let your commercial value take a hit. He’d definitely send out the best legal team.”
“?”
Chu Duxiu was baffled. “Director Shang edits the show, Mr. Shang handles lawsuits—so what do you do?”
She found it bizarre. Director Shang was swamped with work, yet Mr. Xie had been waiting idly by the door. She had no idea what his daily responsibilities even were.
He stated matter-of-factly, “I’m not much use, so I’m just the boss. As long as I don’t cause trouble, it’s fine.”
“???”
Chu Duxiu was both annoyed and amused. “How can that be? If you’re always this casual and undisciplined, how will Shanle grow and thrive? How will we attract investors, secure funding, go public? How will we live up to the expectations of all our employees?”
“Young man, your work ethic is lacking—reflect on yourself!” she admonished with earnest concern. “Look at how hard your colleagues are working. You can’t just drift along aimlessly. You need to deepen your expertise and expand your responsibilities!”
If she was going to rely on Shanle for her social security benefits in the future, she naturally wanted the company to thrive and grow beyond its current scale.
Xie Shenci muttered, “…Are you using our own company to motivate me and push me to grind harder?”
He hadn’t even thought that far ahead, yet she was already envisioning an IPO.
The role reversal in this conversation delighted Chu Duxiu—she was thoroughly enjoying the novelty of lecturing her boss.
She spoke with grave sincerity, “You can’t just wait for work to come to you. You need to take initiative and seek it out. Show a little more foresight and diligence.”
Xie Shenci studied her for a long moment, then raised an eyebrow leisurely. “In that case, I could become your assistant—serve as your chauffeur, personal bodyguard, travel interpreter, and so on. Keep an eye on the company’s cash cow 24/7 to make sure you’re writing material. That would count as generating revenue for Shanle Culture too.”
“…”
He watched as her eyes widened, his expression calm and composed, a faint smile playing at the corners of his eyes. “Taking initiative to find work—keeping an eye on you every single day.”
