“Put some ice on it.” Chu Duxiu examined him and noticed a patch of skin that was slightly warm, probably where the object had struck. She pressed a cold water bottle against his arm. “It’s not visible now, but by tomorrow it’ll bruise.”
The chill of the bottle touched his skin. Xie Shenci’s expression shifted slightly, but he didn’t pull away. He obediently accepted the cold compress.
Chu Duxiu asked, “Cold?”
Xie Shenci replied, “Not cold.”
“If it’s not cold, then it’s useless.”
“…Cold.”
Chu Duxiu couldn’t help but find his expression funny – it was like stuffing a feral tomcat into a frilly pink dress and forcing it to accept being called cute. Even the way he replied sounded odd, laced with resignation.
A moment later, she removed the cold water bottle and asked, “Really don’t need to get it checked? How do you feel?”
“No need.” Xie Shenci rotated his arm. “It might bruise a little, but it’s nothing serious.”
“Good thing you don’t have to do any heavy labor.”
“Mm. After all, I make a living off my face.”
“…”
Chu Duxiu froze, staring at him in surprise.
Xie Shenci asked with mock seriousness, “If I’d been hit in the face, would you still be worried about me?”
Their eyes locked, wide staring at narrow.
After a few seconds’ thought, Chu Duxiu replied, “No.”
Xie Shenci fixed his gaze on her: “?”
She said coolly, “So be careful, and don’t let yourself get hit again.”
“…”
The two of them left Jinze Apartments and returned to the entrance of Shanle Culture, where they met up with the rest of the company staff.
Before long, Bei He and Lu Fan showed up, and the program crew’s vehicle also arrived. The group loaded their belongings, then boarded one after another, waiting to set off.
Bei He caught sight of Chu Duxiu’s cloth bag and blinked in surprise. “You went back just to bring that? I thought you’d have a lot more.”
Chu Duxiu hugged the bag tighter, a little guilty, and hurried to explain, “I already brought most of it before. This is just the rest.”
The vehicle started up, and everyone was able to rest during the journey. By the time they arrived at the hotel entrance, it was just past midnight.
Bei He and Lu Fan got off the bus with their luggage. Chu Duxiu followed close behind, only to come face-to-face with Xie Shenci in the front row. He waited until she stepped down before rising to follow her out of the vehicle.
The moon hung bright, the stars sparse. The hotel was in the suburbs, and the surrounding area had long since gone quiet. Once the bus doors shut and drove away, the group exchanged a few words of farewell and wearily returned to their rooms. Before long, the entrance was deserted.
Noticing Chu Duxiu lingering, Xie Shenci asked curiously, “What’s wrong? Not heading in to rest?”
She wandered outside in circles, not seeming to know what she wanted to do.
After dawdling for quite a while, she glanced down at the time, confirmed it was past midnight, and suddenly reached out. “Here. For you.”
Back at the apartment, Xie Shenci had wanted to help her carry her things, but she had refused.
Now, as he accepted the canvas bag, he finally saw the cartoon printed on it: a black cat raising its paw, looking stern yet somehow adorable. The bag wasn’t heavy, though it seemed to hold several items inside.
“Happy birthday.”
Seeing his look of confusion, Chu Duxiu smiled. “I’m the first one to give you a present.”
Her tone carried a hint of pride.
In the warm light, her clear eyes reflected his figure, bright as starlight.
No wonder she hadn’t wanted to give it to him earlier.
Xie Shenci’s heart jolted, leaving him momentarily speechless.
“Even if you don’t like it, you’re not allowed to tell me.” Chu Duxiu covered her ears and pretended she was about to run away, muttering, “I asked you in advance, and you didn’t give me a proper answer.”
The corners of Xie Shenci’s lips curved. “I like it. I like everything.”
“…Oh.”
Her ears grew warm. She felt there was a hidden meaning in his words and didn’t know how to respond, so she simply repeated, “Happy birthday.”
“Mm.”
“Happy birthday.”
“Mm.”
Each time she said it, he answered, his replies brief but his smile steadily spreading. At first it was just a restrained curve of his lips, but soon he couldn’t hold it back, the arc lifting higher and higher.
In the boundless darkness of night, his repeated responses scattered the loneliness again and again.
Watching him, Chu Duxiu mumbled under her breath, “At this rate, I should just give you a nickname – ‘Happy Birthday.’”
This strange little back-and-forth was almost no different from people calling out “Kitty, kitty” to a cat.
A smile lingered in the corner of his eyes. “Mm.”
“…”
Chu Duxiu waved her hand. “I’m going back to rest. Good night.”
“Good night.”
Xie Shenci watched her hurry off, only when her figure disappeared at the end of the hall did he slowly take out the contents of the canvas bag. The largest item was a thin vinyl record – from one of his favorite bands. He had no idea where she had managed to find it.
Few people knew his tastes, and this wasn’t some newly released album, but a classic vinyl pressing.
Xie Shenci thought for a long while before finally piecing it together. It must have been that day she moved the stuffed rabbit – she had been sitting in his car and heard the music playing. She must have secretly used her phone to identify the song, and from there guessed his preferences.
The rest of the items were more scattered, yet neatly arranged together: tea leaves, sesame candy, red dates, and other small snacks. Most curious of all was a jar of dried fish.
Finding it rather novel, Xie Shenci looked over everything. He couldn’t tell if she liked eating these herself, and the tea leaves mixed in seemed out of place. In the end, he pulled out his phone to clear up the mystery.
Moments later, the search bar showed: “What does it mean if someone I like gives me dried fish?” and “What does it mean if a girl I like gives me fish?”
The page loaded, full of replies from netizens:
[For the rest of my life, it’s you.][1]
[‘Fish, I desire’—a play on words meaning: you are the one I yearn for.] [2]
After reading the results, Xie Shenci arched his brows slightly. Remembering the tea leaves and sesame candy, he felt his search hadn’t been thorough enough.
Just then, the black cat printed on the canvas bag caught his eye, bold and attention-grabbing, sparking a sudden thought.
He typed something new into the search bar, which led him to another page, displaying a piece of trivia:
[In the Song dynasty, buying a cat was called “proposing a cat.” One had to present a betrothal gift and a formal letter of proposal. Depending on local customs, the betrothal offerings included sugar, tea leaves, sesame, dates, dried fish, and other items.]
Xie Shenci: “…”
Late at night.
Inside the hotel room, Xie Shenci and Shang Liang finished discussing work, dividing up their respective tasks, and were both getting ready to rest.
“Alright, that’s it for now. I’ll head back.” Shang Liang picked up his laptop, then suddenly glanced at the date in the lower right corner of the screen. “Wait – today’s your birthday?”
Xie Shenci had always been someone who disliked revealing personal details. Back when he studied abroad, he would attend friends’ birthday celebrations but rarely mentioned his own, leaving others no chance to return the favor.
“Mm.”
“Happy birthday. Another year older.” Shang Liang grinned. “Don’t tell me the only people who celebrated for you were from the company’s admin department?”
For Xie Shenci’s birthday last year, he had been away on a business trip, not in Haicheng. In the end, it was the administrative staff who sent greetings in the group chat, and they only made up for it with a belated celebration after he returned.
Shang Liang suspected he had no friends to celebrate with, relying entirely on his colleagues to keep up appearances.
“How could that be?” Xie Shenci lifted his eyes lazily. “I’ve already received my gifts. You’re the one who’s late.”
Shang Liang froze. “It’s two in the morning right now. Where would gifts come from? Did someone give them to you in advance?”
Xie Shenci tipped his chin slightly, answering unhurriedly, “Of course I got them on the day itself. Otherwise, where’s the sincerity?”
Shang Liang couldn’t shake the feeling he was being messed with.
Xie Shenci said, “By the way, there’s something I want to ask you.”
“What is it?”
“If a girl rarely treats you as a guy she’s interested in, but instead keeps casting you in the role of a cat or a dog – what does that usually mean?” He added, “Of course, she likes those animals.”
Shang Liang shot back, “So not as someone she likes, but as a cat she likes?”
“Right.”
“Then it just means she has someone else she actually likes.” Shang Liang gloated, deliberately stirring the pot. “She’s turned you down gently. You’re a good guy – no, wait… you’re a good cat.”
“?”
Xie Shenci was unimpressed. He immediately lowered his head and began typing on WeChat. “As I thought, you’ve got no experience either.”
“…Sorry, I really don’t have any experience in cross-species romance.”
In her room, after washing up, Chu Duxiu slipped under the covers. Just before falling asleep, she received a WeChat message from Xie Shenci.
Mr. Xie 10.9: [Do you want to listen to this vinyl?]
[How would we listen?]
Chu Duxiu had originally meant the vinyl record as a collectible, never expecting it could actually be played. The idea struck her as rather novel.
Mr. Xie 10.9: [Come over to my place another day. I’ve got a turntable at home.]
“…”
Holding her phone, Chu Duxiu’s hand shook so hard she nearly dropped it on herself. She immediately fired off a string of shocked replies:
[?]
[??]
[???]
Perhaps realizing something sounded off, Xie Shenci quickly followed up, correcting himself:
[Or I can bring the turntable to your place. After all, you’ve already given me a betrothal gift.]
How did he find out?!
He even discovered something this subtle?
Chu Duxiu’s face burned as she shrank deeper into the covers, fighting the urge to roll around on the bed. She hadn’t expected her sly little scheme to be seen through so easily.
Scallion had suggested giving “title” as a gift, and though she had considered it, that really felt too strange. So instead, she chose to send a betrothal-for-a-cat gift, sneakily taking advantage of him in disguise.
A cat betrothal earns a nickname; when it comes time, the golden-eyed one will be asked.
She never imagined he would notice.
Mr. Xie 10.9: [Where’s my betrothal letter? When are you coming to take me away?]
Chu Duxiu, too embarrassed to reply, sent him a “good night” sticker instead. Then she wrapped herself tightly in the quilt, burying her head to suppress her racing heartbeat.
With the premiere battle underway, The Stand-Up King and The Greatest Funmaker entered into a long tug-of-war, confronting each other episode after episode. Although the former had higher-quality content, the latter’s aggressive promotion couldn’t be ignored, with its numbers inflated by heavy marketing.
In terms of clicks, The Stand-Up King held a slight lead, only a little higher than The Greatest Funmaker.
But in terms of reputation, the difference was clear – especially as the competition went on, the gap only grew wider.
The clash between the two shows drew in many viewers and sparked lively discussions online.
[Chengjing’s data is so obviously pumped, their click count floods like an army of ghosts marching by. But if you look only at buzz, Lingguo is way ahead.]
[The writing team just isn’t up to par. The first two episodes of The Greatest were funny, but it tanked after that – the content and perspective dropped off a cliff.]
[Stand-Up King has a much wider range of material, and the performers come from all walks of life. Plus, the head writer is skilled and doesn’t hog credit. With Greatest, several writers actually came out blasting the performers – saying they’re useless, that they rewrite other people’s jokes, and that all they know how to do is cling to the producer.]
[…Seriously, “A Pit of Shame” lives up to its name. Not only are they fighting outsiders, they’re tearing each other apart internally too.]
[But honestly, the writers aren’t wrong. Those few actors who are being force-fed hype? They couldn’t make it on their own before. Just because the stand-up scene is small doesn’t mean people have bad memories.]
[True. Back then, String Bean wasn’t half as good as Scallion. Now he’s buttering up Lu Yi and deliberately picking fights with Chu Duxiu – kind of shameless clout-chasing, if you ask me.]
[Just look at their commercial bookings. None of the Greatest cast can land outside gigs on their own. Their level is way too low.]
The opening defeat of The Greatest Funmaker left Lu Yi furious, and he began putting heavy pressure on the team.
For the hired writing crew, trying to outdo the seasoned The Stand-Up King was no easy task. At best, they could just about maintain quality so as not to be completely overshadowed. On top of that, since the best material came from the writers while the spotlight on stage went to performers like String Bean, resentment inevitably grew, leading to complaints.
String Bean and the others weren’t celebrities to begin with, lacking both star power and looks. Now that they weren’t even writing their own sets – and often tampered with the writers’ content – it was only natural that conflicts broke out behind the scenes.
With so many people splitting the spoils unevenly, arguments flared up constantly. Recordings even leaked, and rumors spread that some writers had stormed off in anger, quitting the team midway, which only fueled more public speculation.
Amid these undercurrents, an even greater wave struck the program from outside, sending shockwaves through the show. With overwhelming force, it tore through The Greatest Funmaker’s defenses.
In the hotel conference room, Chu Duxiu and the others were preparing for the finals when sudden news of their rival reached them.
Bei He was typing on his laptop when a notification popped up in the corner of the screen. He clicked it casually, then froze. “Someone in the group chat says The Greatest Funmaker is suspended this week?”
“Hm? Why?” Shang Xiaomei looked up. “Didn’t they already announce the guest lineup? I thought they were gearing up for a final showdown with us.”
Trying to stage a comeback, The Greatest Funmaker had been busy inviting big-name celebrities, hoping to use them to boost the show’s popularity. The finals were crucial for both sides, each preparing to play their trump card.
Just then, Shang Liang’s phone screen lit up. He always kept it on silent during meetings, but this time he paused. “Sorry, I need to take this – Mr. Xie says it’s urgent.”
A moment later, Shang Liang returned from his phone call outside, his brows furrowed as he reported the latest news: “Word is, Lu Yi’s company has blown up – several projects are under full investigation. Someone at Chengjing was involved in profit transfers with him, and the executives connected are now being questioned.”
“Lingguo headquarters just called Mr. Xie over. Looks like we’ll have to run a self-audit too.”
Lu Fan asked doubtfully, “A self-audit?”
Shang Xiaomei said, “What’s there to check with our budget? From the start, we’ve met the platform’s standards. We don’t have a cent more than allowed.”
“Either way, the process has to be done,” Shang Liang replied. “After all, we’ve been competing alongside them for so long.”
Bei He asked, “So it’s The Greatest Funmaker that blew up?”
Shang Liang shook his head. “Not just that. I hear it started with Lu Yi’s other projects, and only later did it extend to the show.”
Chu Duxiu exclaimed, “No wonder they burned so much money on publicity! I kept saying – there’s no way they could make that money back!”
She had always wondered where Lu Yi’s confidence came from – how could a comedy show be a gold mine? She hadn’t expected that he never planned on making profits at all; it was nothing more than a money-grabbing gimmick.
In recent years, Lu Yi had not only reinvented himself as a director, but also founded several companies, spreading into film, theater, variety shows, livestreaming, and more. His reach stretched wide, and his network of connections was extensive.
Yet beneath the grand façade were already wormholes eating away; behind the glittering surface, the structure was hollow and tottering, little more than an empty shell.
If not for the rivalry between The Stand-Up King and The Greatest Funmaker, perhaps ordinary people wouldn’t have noticed so soon. But since the two shows were close in quality while their investment costs were worlds apart, suspicion was only natural.
First, the writing team began leaking insider details, claiming that their pay was nowhere near the sky-high figures advertised, that they were treated as cheap labor, and that their fees were long overdue. Soon after, insiders from Lu Yi’s earlier projects also spoke out, saying that they had been owed final payments since two years ago. Back then, they hadn’t pressed him, trusting in his ability and reputation, but with his recent decline in public standing, they finally dared to speak.
For a while, netizens grew increasingly suspicious. People had always wondered why Lu Yi’s backing seemed so strong – how he could hold prime resources even while being cursed across the internet. Now, the more they dug, the more irregularities appeared. Following the trail, they uncovered several shell companies and eventually traced it all the way up to senior management at Chengjing Video.
Lu Yi and those executives weren’t just partners on The Greatest Funmaker; they had extensive dealings in film and television too, with money flowing between multiple companies. Clearly, it wasn’t a simple client-vendor relationship. Using offshore companies to evade domestic regulation, they moved vast sums around – evidence of which was now being unearthed by determined investigators.
After the scandal broke, Chengjing Video realized the severity and urgently suspended all projects tied to Lu Yi, opening internal investigations into the implicated executives. As a result, The Greatest Funmaker was taken off the air.
The show, once known for its relentless self-promotion, went completely silent after issuing its suspension notice – stirring even more online debate.
Lu Yi’s scandal continued to ferment on trending searches, and the conversation spread far beyond stand-up comedy, dragging in his entire career in the entertainment industry.
[Lu Yi worked with Chengjing on tons of projects – this time they’re bound to bleed money.]
[Chengjing, I misjudged you! Turns out you’re the sucker who got your money stolen!]
[Not just that – he’s known that exec for years. Word is, before that exec even joined Chengjing, he pulled the same stunt at his previous company, which has now also announced an investigation.]
[I’ve got to say it: the folks next door called it! Black Light Lu is the one really playing games with investors’ money!]
[Why didn’t anyone expose him before??]
[When the tree falls, the monkeys scatter; when the wall collapses, everyone pushes. Didn’t those insiders already say? If it weren’t for the show blowing up, they still wouldn’t dare expose him.]
[Some people did report him before, but it got buried. This time the scandal’s too big -no way to cover it up anymore…]
[He skimmed so much and still didn’t pay the workers their final wages!?]
[That’s why it’s called greed.]
Lu Yi’s scandal snowballed, quickly expanding beyond internal issues at platforms like Chengjing. Before long, accusations surfaced that he had also been using offshore companies to dodge taxes, which only worsened the crisis.
Forces from all sides launched a thorough investigation into Lu Yi and his company. Artists who had once been on good terms with him, upon catching wind of the scandal, all fell silent, unwilling to be associated with him at such a time. The celebrities who had appeared on The Greatest Funmaker earlier now avoided posting even a single Weibo update, let alone attending public events.
At Shanle Culture, everyone watched the chaos from the sidelines, sighing with mixed feelings.
Lu Yi had once relied on outside forces to crush the second season of their show. Now, he had set himself ablaze, consumed by his own greed.
Bei He sighed. “We watched him build his grand tower, watched him feast with his guests, and now we watch the tower collapse.”
Lu Fan said, “They didn’t even bother recording a finale – just cut it off clean, like slicing through tangled mess with a sharp blade.”
Chu Duxiu murmured, “…Never thought that once the tide receded, no one would be able to get back up.”
Thus The Greatest Funmaker came to an abrupt and anticlimactic end. The team was dissolved out of nowhere, without even a perfunctory wrap-up.
Chengjing Video had no interest in continuing a money-losing venture. The show’s sponsorships had been weak from the start, and after the Lu Yi scandal hit, the platform simply pulled the plug.
“No returns in sight, so of course it wasn’t worth keeping,” Shang Liang said. “Without Lu Yi, without the celebrity guests, there was no chance the finals could turn a profit.”
Xie Shenci said, “No matter what happens to the other shows, we have to make sure our own finals are done right.”
Shang Xiaomei added, “Exactly – and now there are even more eyes on us.”
The Greatest Funmaker was finished, but The Stand-Up King was entering its critical stage, aiming for a new peak.
As the finals drew closer, everyone grew busier.
The studio was a hubbub of voices, and the corridors bustled with staff hurrying back and forth.
In one corner, Chu Duxiu stood in front of a vending machine screen, trying to scan the code, but it wouldn’t work. Maybe the signal was poor in that spot. She only wanted to buy a bottle of water, yet she couldn’t get the payment app to open.
The endlessly spinning loading icon on the screen completely exhausted her patience. She glanced around, intending to ask a colleague if they had any cash, when she happened to spot a familiar face.
Xie Shenci was just turning the corner at the end of the hall, looking as if he was headed toward the studio.
“Mr. Xie, do you have any change?” Chu Duxiu stopped him and pointed at the vending machine, explaining, “It won’t connect to the internet.”
Xie Shenci paused. To her surprise, he actually carried a wallet. He pulled it from his pocket and casually handed it to her.
Chu Duxiu took out a bill, then returned the wallet – with its IDs tucked inside. “Thanks. I’ll transfer the money back to you later.”
But Xie Shenci didn’t take it. “No need. You keep it.”
Chu Duxiu blinked. “Keep it?”
If she wasn’t mistaken just now, the wallet held his ID card and bank cards – more than enough for someone to pull off a fraudulent charge.
“That’s right. After all, I already signed a contract selling myself off – I’ve lost my cat… my human rights and freedom.” Dropping his gaze to the wallet in her hand, Xie Shenci added with mock seriousness, “As for shares and assets, you’ll need to trade me an official betrothal letter for those.”
“…”
Translator’s Notes:
[1] The Chinese text here is [往后余生都是你], 鱼 (fish) and 余 (rest, remainder) are homophones in Mandarin. So “送鱼” (giving fish) can imply “给你余生” (giving you my whole future, the rest of my life).
[2] The Chinese text here is [鱼我所欲也，你是我钟意的人]，which riffs on a famous line from the philosopher Mencius: “鱼，我所欲也；熊掌，亦我所欲也。”
(“Fish, I desire; bear’s paw, also I desire.” — meaning one must sometimes choose between two good things, with virtue ranked higher than life.). Here it’s twisted into a love confession: “Fish, I desire” becomes a pun where 鱼 (fish) is used as a stand-in for you (the person I like). So it comes out as: “Fish, I desire — and you are the one I desire.”
