Since the decision has been made to produce the third season, the company’s focus has shifted entirely toward it.
“There’s still time before the auditions begin, so we’re currently working on designing a new competition format. Not everyone needs to be fully occupied with this yet,” said Shang Xiaomei. “However, once the third season is officially announced, there will be plenty of discussions online, and we need to be prepared for what follows.”
“We don’t even have to wait until the third season—just look at the offline shows now, and you can feel it,” Bei He remarked. “When comedians make a few jokes about the finals, the audience gets incredibly excited, as if they’re here for the drama.”
The show’s finals brought both chaos and buzz, attracting many people who had never watched stand-up comedy before to purchase tickets and step into offline theaters for the first time.
However, compared to longtime fans, these new audience members seemed more interested in behind-the-scenes gossip. They were particularly excited about jokes related to the finals and inside jokes but showed less enthusiasm for regular comedic routines.
Xie Shenci analyzed calmly, “Since there’s no public response online, everyone is coming to the theater trying to get firsthand information.”
At present, apart from the program team’s public apology, the three individuals at the center of the controversy have remained silent. Lu Yi was forced to disable his comments section due to the backlash, while Cheng Junhua and Chu Duxiu have gone completely offline, avoiding social media entirely since the competition ended.
This silence has only fueled the spread of rumors. Some claim that the two finalists have cut ties with Shanle, refusing to participate in any post-show commercial activities.
Chu Duxiu pondered, “Since everyone wants to hear about it, why don’t we dedicate our extra show specifically to this topic?”
Bei He looked puzzled and amused, “What do you mean? A special show about the finals controversy?”
“Exactly. Some audience members want a normal performance, while others are eager for behind-the-scenes stories about the finals. Mixing the content might leave both groups unsatisfied,” Chu Duxiu explained. “Why not separate the shows? That way, everyone gets what they want. Besides, we’re adding extra shows anyway.”
Wenxiao Theater regularly hosts offline performances and has a dedicated audience base. Many of these regulars come purely to enjoy stand-up comedy and have no interest in drama surrounding the show. However, the influx of new audiences focused on the controversy could disrupt their experience. Separating the two types of shows would be a better approach.
Shang Liang raised an eyebrow. “I have a feeling that if we focus on this, tickets will sell out fast.”
Lu Fan replied, “…But it could also stir up more discussions online.”
Just as the storm was beginning to settle, if Shanle decided to address the controversy again, it might trigger another wave of attention.
“Even if we don’t talk about it, others will—and they’ll spread false information,” Chu Duxiu argued. “I believe stand-up comedy is about addressing certain issues openly and using laughter to ease tensions. Once things are out in the open, they lose their power.”
“It’s true,” Shang Xiaomei added with a frown. “Some variety shows are already publicly promoting themselves as having a ‘fair competition format without the need for judge buttons.’ Even if we avoid the topic, others won’t.”
Many shows were now trying to capitalize on the success of “The Stand-Up King,” with new comedy competitions popping up like mushrooms after rain. If Shanle remained passive, they would simply be handing over the market to others.
Xie Shenci gazed intently at Chu Duxiu for a long moment, his eyes flickering with concern. He reminded her, “If we go down this path, you’ll likely have to take the stage yourself. Are you sure about that?”
Everyone knew the topic was trending, but having the victim address it directly seemed unduly harsh.
Stand-up comedy can help dissolve pain—but only if the person involved has truly moved on. Otherwise, it’s just pouring salt on the wound.
Chu Duxiu responded frankly, “Of course. I’m sure.”
Shang Liang praised, “Miss Chu is an outstanding stand-up comedian. Her mental fortitude is naturally exceptional.”
Bei He whispered to Lu Fan, “…Has Mr. Shang been hexed or something?”
Lu Fan replied, “He’s mesmerized by the potential ticket sales revenue.”
In the end, the team settled on the theme for Shanle’s extra offline show: There’s an Inside Joke We’d Like to Share, serving as a public response to the finals controversy. This would also be Chu Duxiu’s first commercial performance since joining the company, making it all the more significant.
Xie Shenci said, “I’ll be traveling on business soon to finalize performances in Yancheng and Nancheng. Shang Liang will be in charge of the company in my absence, and Bei He will oversee the Wenxiao Theater. Once the details are confirmed, a list will be shared in the group chat for everyone to review and discuss.”
“Understood.”
Everyone dispersed to their respective tasks. The comedians split into groups to work on their material, while the management team stayed behind to discuss other matters.
Soon, only Xie Shenci and Shang Liang remained in the meeting room. Even Shang Xiaomei had left early to focus on preparations for the third season.
Xie Shenci stared silently at his computer screen, his eyes fixed on the title of the special show. His fingers tapped lightly on the desk, once, then again. His brow was slightly furrowed, lost in thought, and he remained quiet for a long time.
“What’s on your mind?” Shang Liang, who had been typing, glanced over at the sound. “You’ve been expressionless since earlier.”
Knowing Xie Shenci well, Shang Liang could tell something was off—he’d noticed it even during the meeting.
Xie Shenci replied, “I’m just worried that if we go through with this, it might lead to another round of moral pressure.”
Shang Liang asked, “What do you mean?”
“Responding to the finals controversy, helping revise material, sharing her experience—these are things she’s doing out of goodwill, but they’re not her obligation,” Xie Shenci said, pursing his lips. “I’m afraid that once it’s done, people will take it for granted. They’ll think that because she’s a finalist, she should do these things.”
Chu Duxiu was currently filled with passion and eager to contribute to the stand-up comedy scene. That drive might last a year or two, but if it stretched to five or six years, the prolonged effort could change her perspective.
This wasn’t baseless anxiety—there are precedents for such shifts.
Xie Shenci worried that if she sets expectations too high and is hailed as a leader in the industry, the day she can no longer devote herself entirely or exhaust every effort might invite criticism from some, accusing her of no longer trying hard enough.
Some people have a strange way of thinking: they insist that whoever takes the lead should forever charge ahead.
“It’s like glorifying maternal sacrifice or praising teachers and doctors for devoting themselves entirely. It’s one thing if the person offers willingly, but it’s entirely different when others demand it as an obligation. If that line is blurred, the whole thing loses its meaning,” Xie Shenci remarked calmly.
“Just like when I talked to you about Bei He before—he gave his all in the first season, but he couldn’t maintain that intensity later. You shouldn’t hold that against him. Everyone has their ups and downs. Staying stretched taut all the time—it’s a sure way to break.”
Shang Liang sounded suspicious. “Are you targeting me with this? Giving me a preemptive warning?”
Was he hinting that if the cash cow ever slowed down, he shouldn’t turn on her outright?
Xie Shenci said with a straight face, “I’m rationally discussing employee motivation with you. Simply relying on emotions or dreams to coax people into working isn’t a sustainable strategy for the company’s growth. What we need are tangible incentives.”
In Mr. Meow’s view, it’s perfectly normal not to blame performers like Bei He when they enter a slower phase, while rewarding those like Chu Duxiu who are in their growth period. This kind of balanced incentive system is key to maintaining the company’s stability and harmony.
Shang Liang caught the underlying message and waved a hand impatiently. “I don’t own 51% of the shares—I can’t offer higher pay! If you really want to study employee motivation, why not hand over the CEO position to her? Anyway, it makes no difference to me who I work under!”
“???”
Inside the Shanle office building, Chu Duxiu carried her belongings to an empty workstation. As she set up her laptop, notepad, and pens, a sense of truly stepping into the real world finally washed over her.
Soft sunlight spilled across the desk, illuminating sticky notes listing her upcoming tasks: “theater performance,” “commercial writing,” and others. Each time she completed one, she would check it off with a small tick.
Chu Duxiu pulled out The New Comedy Bible from her backpack and flipped through a few pages. Her eyes accidentally landed on the character “Xie,” and her heart suddenly raced with an inexplicable flutter.
Should she leave this book on her desk? What if someone borrowed it without asking?
After glancing around, she eventually slid open a drawer, tucked the reference book inside, and even guiltily locked it—as if safeguarding a secret she wasn’t quite ready to share.
Just then, a pair of sneakily playful voices sounded from beside her. “Hey there, team leader, hehehe…”
“Leader, leader, what time is it?—It’s ten o’clock~”
Wang Nali and Scallion popped their heads out from either side, humming in a singsong, nursery-rhyme tone. They crouched beside Chu Duxiu’s desk like a couple of sudden molehill pop-ups—no one knew where they’d come from, but they certainly gave her a start.
Chu Duxiu jumped. “Why are you two so sneaky?”
Wang Nali straightened up and leaned casually against the cubicle. “Well, we’ve been here longer than you, so we know our way around already. Let’s grab lunch together in the cafeteria later.”
Chu Duxiu had returned to her university to wrap up some matters and had joined the company a bit later than Wang Nali and Scallion.
Wang Nali had moved to Haicheng first. Scallion was here for an internship—he hadn’t yet finished his postgraduate studies and occasionally returned to campus to handle academic work. However, Tofu had graduated earlier and already found a job in Haicheng. Both of them planned to build their futures here.
Scallion grinned. “Team leader, let’s have a meeting. Guide us in our work a little.”
Chu Duxiu spun a pen in her hand, pretending to put on airs as she teased, “Alright, let’s start by hearing some Haicheng-themed jokes from my star players.”
Scallion clasped his hands playfully. “As you wish.”
Chu Duxiu held a higher position than the other two and was responsible for leading a dedicated writing team, which included both Wang Nali and Scallion.
Considering the close relationship among the three, Bei He and Lu Fan had even suggested splitting them up and assigning them to different teams to avoid any potential awkwardness in Chu Duxiu having to manage her friends.
After all, they were all around the same age. Having Wang Nali and Scallion report to her might lead to some unspoken friction.
However, after private discussions with everyone involved, both Wang Nali and Scallion had chosen to work under Chu Duxiu—and they didn’t seem to hold any reservations. To quote Scallion himself: “We got used to being ‘under her thumb’ at the club, so naturally we’re fine with it in the company too.”
Chu Duxiu also didn’t believe her two friends would take advantage of their familiarity, so she accepted the team arrangement.
The three of them were already familiar with each other’s styles, which cut down on time to get to know each other and made creative collaboration smooth. Reunited as friends, they laughed and joked around while working, yet their material came together quickly—a first draft was ready in no time.
After finishing the commercial scripts, they headed to the cafeteria together for lunch. In the afternoon, they split up to work on their theater performances. There’s an Inside Joke We’d Like to Share was a multi-act commercial show, and all the participating comedians had to prepare for it—so they naturally had to work efficiently.
The performers focused on writing their material, while others planned the theater logistics—everyone was busy to the point of dizziness.
Xie Shenci and Bei He had been absent from the company for quite some time, leaving only Shang Liang to handle the daily grind of miscellaneous tasks.
On the weekend, Chu Duxiu had left her writing materials at Shanle, but now, struck by a burst of inspiration, she urgently needed to refer to her thematic notes. She decided to head out from her apartment and slip back to the office—after all, the distance wasn’t far.
This was the advantage of renting nearby: she could come and go anytime without stress.
The office was mostly empty on weekends—even the cleaning staff was nowhere in sight. Only the security booth had someone on duty.
Beyond the building, insects chirped faintly from the bushes, carrying the gradual onset of early summer. Standing alone in front of the elevator, Chu Duxiu was about to head up to her workstation when she caught a familiar figure in her peripheral vision.
It was Xie Shenci, emerging from around the corner. Dressed in casual clothes and holding car keys, he had clearly just come from the parking lot and was also heading for the elevator.
It had been days since they last met. His hair had grown slightly longer, and when he looked up and saw her, his eyelashes trembled almost imperceptibly—he was clearly surprised. His dark eyes were like ink spreading across rice paper.
Why did it feel like they had planned this? Both coming in to work overtime on a weekend?
The surroundings were quiet, with only the two of them around. Chu Duxiu broke the silence first, “Hello, Mr. Meow?”
This was truly an unprecedented scene. Since Chu Duxiu had joined the company, it had been rare to catch sight of Mr. Xie at the office—rumor had it he had been away on business trips lately.
Surprisingly, however, Xie Shenci didn’t respond verbally. He simply raised his hand in acknowledgment, keeping a distance of about two steps between them.
Chu Duxiu was puzzled by his reaction and didn’t quite understand what he meant.
Was she not supposed to address him casually at the office? Even on weekends, should she maintain formality and call him “Mr. Xie”?
With a soft ding, the elevator chimed, and its metal doors slid open slowly.
Chu Duxiu stepped inside. Seeing him rooted in place, she grew even more puzzled and said directly, “Mr. Xie, aren’t you coming up?”
He didn’t need to avoid her to this extent—skipping sharing an elevator felt almost absurd.
Xie Shenci’s body stiffened. Hesitation flickered across his face at her words, yet he still didn’t step forward. Muffled, he replied, “…I have a cold.”
His voice was thick with congestion, slightly hoarse—losing its usual clarity. It indeed sounded blurred, as if veiled by a layer of fog.
Chu Duxiu was taken aback, then suddenly understood. “Was it from all the business travel?”
Thinking about it carefully, after the finals, Xie Shenci had been flying all over the place. Not only had he gone to Wencheng, but he’d also been shuttling between Haicheng, Yancheng, and Nancheng, with occasional trips to other cities to connect with local comedians and theaters. It was truly an overloaded schedule.
All that hectic running around had finally taken its toll—the frequent-flying cat had fallen ill.
Xie Shenci’s voice was huskier than usual as he replied, “Probably. You go ahead up. I’ll wait for the next one—I don’t want to risk spreading it.”
“It’s fine, go ahead and spread it,” Chu Duxiu said. “I don’t feel like writing anyway. I could use a sick day.”
“?”
Chu Duxiu kept her finger pressed on the door-open button, insisting that Xie Shenci get on the elevator.
It was a company holiday, and no one was using the elevator anyway. Only when the alarm began to sound from the doors staying open too long did Xie Shenci finally give in to her persistence. He stepped in slowly and stood in the corner near the wall, maintaining a cautious distance from her.
Chu Duxiu asked with concern, “Is it a wind-heat cold? Or wind-cold?”
“Not sure,” Xie Shenci replied, covering his mouth with his hand, regretting not wearing a mask. His voice was slightly rough. “But I took medicine yesterday. I should be better soon.”
“What medicine did you take?” she pressed. “The treatments are different for each type.”
He paused briefly, then murmured, “…Just regular cold medicine.”
Seeing how little he seemed to know, Chu Duxiu frowned and said bluntly, “Stick out your tongue.”
“!!?”
Xie Shenci’s eyes went wide. He was utterly stunned by her request, staring at her in a fluster.
Chu Duxiu was taken aback by his intense reaction, not understanding why he looked as if she’d just tried to undress him. His response left her momentarily stunned too, and then she realized how her words must have sounded—odd and inappropriate. A wave of embarrassment washed over her as well.
“No, I meant open your mouth so I can check your tongue coating to identify your symptoms!” she explained, both amused and exasperated. Fighting down the warmth rising to her ears, she patiently demonstrated, “Say ‘ah—’”
Xie Shenci, seeing her play the gentle doctor, turned his head away awkwardly, his gaze flickering uncertainly. He mumbled, “That’s not necessary…”
Having someone inspect his tongue like a child felt like crossing a line – it was too much for his dignity.
At twenty-eight years old, he couldn’t handle this.
Why did he have to run into her at the company, of all places, while he was sick?
“Why are you just like my mom and my sister – either avoiding treatment or not taking it seriously?” Chu Duxiu grew impatient at his lack of cooperation. “You either refuse medicine entirely or take it haphazardly.”
Chu Lan avoided all kinds of medication, relying solely on her physical resilience to power through. Chu Shuangyou was too busy to take medicine – while she had extensive professional knowledge, her practical life skills were somewhat lacking. She’d take whatever she felt like when unwell and occasionally text her sister to ask which medicine from the cabinet she should choose.
The ironic part was that the medicine cabinet had been sent by Chu Duxiu in the first place, yet her sister would let the contents expire without remembering to replace them.
Ding—
The elevator chimed.
“We’re here.”
Seeing his chance, Xie Shenci bolted the moment the doors opened, striding away quickly.
Chu Duxiu immediately gave chase. Finding the office area quiet and deserted, she grew even more bold. Dropping her gentle demeanor, she insisted firmly, “Let me check!”
If Xie Shenci lived alone in Haicheng, far from his family, he’d probably end up just like Chu Shuangyou – casually taking whatever medicine was on hand without a second thought. That could easily worsen his condition, so it was better to check properly.
Xie Shenci, clearly feeling guilty, avoided answering directly and instead darted toward his office, pretending to close the door behind him. Worried about hurting her, he only pushed it lightly shut, but she barged right in, slipping through with a push.
“You’re really breaking in? Are we filming a society news segment now?” Xie Shenci was stunned and emphasized, “This is my office.”
She had once joked about storming in with a sword to seize the company seal and shares, warning him to be careful.
Little did he expect that, wide awake in broad daylight, he’d actually be invaded.
Chu Duxiu nodded shamelessly. “Yeah, but I’m not here for the company today. Now open your mouth and let me see.”
She stepped forward. He retreated, dodging her until she backed him into a corner. Still, he stubbornly refused to open his mouth.
Chu Duxiu laughed and scolded, “Stop acting like a grade-schooler. I’m just checking what’s wrong with you – what are you even hiding from?”
It should have been a quick glance, but he was dragging it out endlessly.
Xie Shenci’s nose was too stuffy to smell anything, but he could sense her faint warmth brushing lightly against him—a stark contrast to the cool wall behind him.
The air conditioning hadn’t been turned on yet, and the early summer heat was beginning to creep in, adding a layer of stifling warmth.
He didn’t dare touch her, nor could he speak too closely, afraid of spreading his cold. He had backed himself into a corner—nowhere left to retreat, the space between them too narrow. Even the restless thrum in his chest couldn’t be hidden anymore, blooming into the hue of spring peach blossoms.
The tips of Xie Shenci’s ears flushed, but he still refused to open his mouth and lose face. He only wanted to put more distance between them, to conceal his unease. He protested quietly, “I am still your superior, you know. You don’t own 51% of the shares yet.”
“So what?” she retorted, her expression growing even colder at his threat. “Mr. Xie, I’m sure you wouldn’t want your subordinate to forcibly pry your jaw open right here in your own office.”
“…”
