The production team, who had been anxiously watching Zhong Yao for several days, gathered at the edge of the set. They stared dumbfounded as Director Jin — who had been gentle and benevolent just a moment ago — froze for three seconds, then suddenly exploded, raising the script and smashing it down on Zhong Yao in a furious storm of blows.
“Is this appropriate?! Is this appropriate?! Is this appropriate?!”
Held back by the producer and production manager and unable to actually hit Zhong Yao, Director Jin trembled with rage. “Guanyin?! I think you need Guanyin to cleanse your brain!”
The production manager arrived just in time and restrained him tightly, growing more displeased the more he listened. “You promised to comfort him, not send him off to become a monk!”
Jin Zhenbo: “……”
Having cared about his reputation his entire life, Jin Zhenbo simply couldn’t bring himself to say out loud what Zhong Yao had been reading. After trembling for a long moment, he roared angrily, “Add more scenes for him! I’ve figured it out, he just has too little to do and too much free time!!”
He crumpled the script into a roll, intending to throw it away but worrying someone might pick it up and cause trouble. Instead, he stuffed it into his pocket and stormed off.
With the director’s orders given, no one dared disobey. They could only select lighter indoor scenes and rearrange Zhong Yao’s filming schedule.
Realizing their good intentions had backfired, the production team felt deeply guilty. Taking advantage of moments when Jin Zhenbo wasn’t looking, they came over one by one to apologize to Zhong Yao.
Still unaware he had apparently developed a “psychological issue,” Zhong Yao was bewildered by the wave of comfort and concern. His thoughts were still stuck on the confiscated materials. Standing up with a smile, he said, “Thank you, everyone. I’m really fine… I’ll go find Director Jin and get my script back.”
Even after being treated like that, he wasn’t angry and still just wanted his script.
The group admired him even more, watching with sympathy as the dedicated award-winning actor hurried off to chase after the director before dispersing.
Zhong Yao caught up with Jin Zhenbo and was rewarded with a sharp glare.
It really wasn’t appropriate to look at unrelated materials on set. That was why Zhong Yao had deliberately hidden them beneath a script to avoid giving anyone an excuse to criticize him.
He genuinely treated those materials as academic study. Assuming Jin Zhenbo was simply angry about him slacking off, he spoke gently, “Director Jin, my materials…”
“You still want to read that?!”
Jin Zhenbo’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong with you? Your agent devotes himself completely to promoting you, works himself to exhaustion making you famous, and you’re here reading that kind of thing! You—”
Zhong Yao fell silent and pressed his temple.
Jin Zhenbo eyed him suspiciously, replayed the details of the two men’s interactions in his mind, and suddenly realized something.
He hesitated. “You two…?”
Zhong Yao relaxed and smiled, admitting calmly, “Yes.”
Lin Zhu didn’t want him to reveal their relationship proactively. But since Jin Zhenbo had already figured it out, it didn’t count as him volunteering the information.
Zhong Yao had been holding it in for days. Finally able to speak, he let out a relieved breath, pulled over a chair, sat down, and poured himself some hot water from a thermos.
Taking a sip, he said, “We’re doing very well. He was in a bad mood recently and got sick. These past few days we’ve both been incredibly busy. Even living in the same room, we barely get to talk. I was thinking of cheering him up…”
Jin Zhenbo: “……”
Too late for regrets now. Jin Zhenbo actually had a good impression of Lin Zhu, so he looked at Zhong Yao with complicated emotions before finally interrupting, seizing a gap in the explanation. “But even so, you couldn’t buy him something nice or fun? You had to pick this?”
People of his artistic generation weren’t particularly intolerant of such matters. Jin Zhenbo himself had directed two arthouse films with same-sex themes, so acceptance wasn’t the issue.
He had no problem with the situation itself. He just found Zhong Yao increasingly irritating. “Is this how you comfort someone? He’s so young, barely 20—”
Zhong Yao corrected him, “He’s 24. He’ll be 25 in a few months.”
Thinking of it made Zhong Yao slightly worried. “At this pace, we’ll finish filming before the New Year, right? I want to take him traveling for his birthday. He’s been holding himself back for years, so it’d be good for him to go out and relax…”
According to Jin Zhenbo’s crew tradition, filming always paused for about a month during the Lunar New Year. Shooting had to wrap by year’s end; otherwise they’d have to resume again in February.
“As long as you two don’t cause more trouble, we’ll finish!”
Jin Zhenbo waved a hand impatiently. “25 is still basically 20! What’s the difference?!”
The nearly 60 years old director viewed people in their twenties as children. He frowned deeply at Zhong Yao. “Someone like you, pushing 40, should restrain yourself even more. You can’t take advantage of someone young and trick or seduce them, understand?”
The newly 30 year old Film Emperor: “……”
Zhong Yao choked on his water and laughed helplessly. “Thank you for directly increasing our age gap to 20 years. I suddenly feel much better.”
Honestly, Zhong Yao felt that being out of touch couldn’t be blamed entirely on himself.
Having already been “corrected” quite a bit by his own agent, Zhong Yao now found Jin Zhenbo rather outdated and patiently explained, “Our relationship developed naturally. We were bound to reach this step sooner or later. His health hasn’t been great lately, and I heard doing this improperly could make people sick, so I wanted to prepare first…”
Jin Zhenbo absolutely did not want to hear this, but he also couldn’t shake a director’s habit of never leaving a story half-heard. Like scrubbing through footage, he numbly endured the entire explanation.
Feeling he had made himself clear enough, Zhong Yao coughed lightly. “So—”
Jin Zhenbo slowly lifted his head, regretting everything and wishing he could dig his brain out.
Zhong Yao quickly admitted fault. “I won’t read it on set anymore. Could you return the materials?”
Jin Zhenbo refused decisively. “No.”
Zhong Yao: “……”
“If I give it back now, what happens when people ask? You show them? Next thing you know, rumors spread that a famous actor studies pornographic manuals on set?”
Having thought it through carefully, Jin Zhenbo glanced at him irritably. “Go back. Tomorrow I’ll have them set up a private lounge for you. Read it there so you don’t corrupt anyone else.”
Zhong Yao hesitated. “Then today—”
“One day won’t kill you! Your manager isn’t going to abandon you just because you skip one day of physical and spiritual communication! If he does, come find me!”
Irritated enough to want to dismantle the entire studio, Jin Zhenbo shoved Zhong Yao toward the door. “Go, go, go—! Say one more word and I’ll schedule you for eight scenes a day so you won’t even see your agent!”
Zhong Yao wisely stopped talking and was driven back to the set.
At the hotel, Lin Zhu rolled over under the blankets and groggily opened his eyes.
Writing stories really was inhuman work.
He had been so busy these past few days that everything blurred together. Sometimes he could sit for an entire day without managing to squeeze out a single word; other times, just as he lay down, a new burst of inspiration would strike, forcing him to climb back up to jot it down, only to find later that it might not even be usable.
After several days of endless deleting and revising, Lin Zhu finally submitted a draft he was relatively satisfied with in the early hours of the morning. Half-asleep, he felt his way back to bed and dove straight into Zhong Yao’s arms, falling fast asleep.
It had been a long time since he’d had a proper night’s rest. This time, Lin Zhu slept for nearly half a day, so it wasn’t surprising that Zhong Yao was already gone when he woke up.
The curtains were tightly drawn. A soft nightlight glowed at the bedside, the heater humming warmly, making it hard to feel anything but lazy comfort.
A thermos filled with milk tea sat by the bed, along with several packs of his favorite crispy noodles and bear-shaped biscuits. Feeling content, Lin Zhu rolled over, opened a scallion-flavored pack of crispy noodles, and ate while sipping milk tea. He grabbed his phone and sent Zhong Yao two messages.
Zhong Yao couldn’t check his phone while filming, so there was no telling when he’d reply. Lin Zhu wasn’t in a hurry. Hugging the thermos, he sat up, checked the time, and started a group voice call in the work chat.
“A voice call, really?” the PR staff sounded regretful. “Video would’ve been better. Lin-laoshi looked so good when he went viral last time.”
Lin Zhu: “……”
Worried, Lin Zhu said, “Although I bear some responsibility for you turning out like this, lately I’ve been seriously tempted to kick you out of the group chat…”
“Alright, alright, don’t worry, we didn’t take screenshots last time. Zhong-laoshi blocked the camera too well.”
The publicity staff, kind enough, suppressed laughter and coughed as they reassured him before giving a routine report, “We’ve submitted all the materials. The Marlensius team responded very enthusiastically and were very satisfied with the documentary edit. They’ve just returned to their home country and are still coordinating further details with us…”
Lin Zhu wasn’t surprised and nodded. “No need to rush. Let’s proceed step by step so no one can pick faults.”
“Understood.”
After such a major incident, the Beijing team had also been briefed. Everyone now wanted nothing more than to throw a sack over Song Tianlang’s head and beat him up, so they all knew exactly who Lin Zhu meant.
“Oh right, we’ve been keeping an eye on their side lately. They still haven’t given up and have been trying to contact the Marlensius team.”
When the conversation turned serious, the PR staff’s tone grew solemn. “After the news about Wu Chen’s arrest came out, Song Tianlang’s side got a bit nervous, but nothing too extreme yet…”
When Wu Chen was arrested, he had already lost all hope and confessed that same day, exposing Song Tianlang’s agent. But the industry had never been clean, and this time higher authorities intended to follow the trail and sweep everything up at once. The police suppressed public announcements and instead applied for cooperative investigation.
If the evidence held, Song Tianlang’s agent would inevitably face prison. To avoid alerting them, none of this information could be leaked ahead of time.
“Normal,” Lin Zhu said, lowering his gaze and taking a sip of milk tea. “If he dared to use Wu Chen for something like that, he wouldn’t have left useful evidence behind. Otherwise he’d be too stupid.”
Just because this handoff had been clean didn’t mean there wasn’t evidence elsewhere. Lin Zhu had more or less guessed how things would end and wasn’t anxious. “We’ve already agreed to assist the investigation. For now, keep things quiet. We’ll settle old and new accounts together.”
Both PR and publicity agreed.
Although the situation was mostly clear and the truth nearly certain, the publicity staff still couldn’t understand. “But, I still don’t get it. Why were they so determined to scheme against Zhong-laoshi? Just because he competed with them for that role?”
They had only learned about everything afterward and were still shaken, unable to imagine how stressful it had been for Lin Zhu at the time.
“If people in this industry compete for roles like this,” the publicity staff said with lingering fear, “everyone might as well quit and go home to stay safe…”
Lin Zhu chuckled lightly. “Not to that extent. I have a rough idea. We’ll discuss it later.”
He knew his own limits and didn’t want Zhong Yao worrying again. He hadn’t revisited the memories of Song Tianlang’s manager these past few days, but he was already fairly certain what had happened.
Competing for a role alone wouldn’t justify such vicious methods.
But if someone saw a person they believed they had already crushed suddenly rise back to fame, the guilty deeds they’d committed before would naturally become more frightening the more they thought about them.
Lin Zhu didn’t intend to dwell on it and changed the subject. “By the way, how’s [No Bridge] doing? Has the recent broadcast been going smoothly? Do they need our help?”
“Very smoothly. The buzz on our side hasn’t died down, and their popularity is feeding off it too. Everyone’s happy.”
The publicity staff perked up. “The White Orchid Awards are coming soon. [No Bridge] received a lot of nominations this time, and we’re following the process closely…”
As Lin Zhu listened, his phone suddenly vibrated twice.
Zhong Yao had finished filming.
The moment he saw Zhong Yao’s message, Lin Zhu’s eyes lit up. He quickly switched screens and replied at once.
They hadn’t been able to spend much time together lately; messaging alone wasn’t enough. Zhong Yao had been isolated in a separate rest area by Jin Zhenbo, which suited him just fine, and he couldn’t resist calling.
Lin Zhu’s heartbeat quickened, a smile tugging uncontrollably at his lips.
If Zhong Yao could call, it meant he wasn’t too busy, and that he was in a good mood.
Knowing Zhong Yao was doing well and being able to talk to him… every good thing seemed to happen at once.
They’d hardly shared a bed lately. Missing him terribly, Lin Zhu instantly forgot the ongoing work report and answered the call.
“Ge! Are you still on set? Should I come find you later? I’ve slept enough, and I feel super energetic now!”
“Don’t. It’s cold outside, and the sky’s still overcast. It’ll probably rain tonight.”
Holding the phone, Zhong Yao’s voice carried a gentle smile. “I only have one scene left. I’ll come back after filming. Your task is to stay in bed and rest properly. I’ll call the assistant to send you some porridge.”
After a full day of filming, his voice was slightly hoarse, making the warmth in it even more obvious.
Lin Zhu’s face warmed under the tenderness flowing through the call. “I’m not tired. Ge, how are you? Should I talk to Director Jin and ask them to slow down the filming…”
Zhong Yao hadn’t told him about the confiscated materials yet. He glanced at the still stormy-looking Jin Zhenbo nearby and coughed lightly. “No need. Director Jin wants to speed things up, and I can handle it. It’s fine.”
He smiled, lowering his voice slightly. “Worried I’ll overwork myself?”
Lin Zhu’s ears turned red. “Mm.”
A little embarrassed, he paused before gathering courage with difficulty. “I also…”
Zhong Yao didn’t hear clearly and moved somewhere quieter. “Also what?”
Lin Zhu rarely said things like this. His whole face burned red, his voice barely more than a breath as he stammered, “I… I miss you too.”
Their schedules didn’t match, and the doctor still insisted his health hadn’t fully recovered. One was stuck on set, unable to leave; the other confined to the hotel, almost like when he’d been in Beijing before.
Feeling thin-skinned, Lin Zhu fell silent after saying that, only quietly admitting after a while, “Last night… I secretly kissed you. It wasn’t enough…”
Normally he’d never say something like that even if his life depended on it. Probably because they’d been apart too much these past few days, even Lin Zhu felt embarrassed hearing himself, nearly wanting to run laps around the hotel to cool off.
Holding the phone, Zhong Yao’s heart melted completely. He almost wanted to escape the production and rush back to the hotel right then.
It’s all Director Jin’s fault. If he’d finished studying that material today, he could’ve given his agent a surprise tonight.
The thought passed quickly. Zhong Yao smiled again. “If you want to come, then come. Wear more clothes.”
The heating on set was adequate and the wind wasn’t strong today. He couldn’t bear leaving Lin Zhu alone at the hotel anyway.
As he spoke, Zhong Yao felt around in his pocket. “I saved two egg-yolk pastries and a piece of lotus cake for you. I was going to bring them back… The next scene is a banquet. I’ll see if I can sneak you a plate of stir-fried bamboo shoots.”
Lin Zhu: “!!”
He sprang off the bed instantly, phone clamped to his ear as he hurriedly got dressed. “Okay okay! Ge, wait for me! I’m getting dressed now!”
They hadn’t had a proper conversation in days. Having finally gotten through his workload, Lin Zhu couldn’t bear to hang up. He switched the phone to speaker, rushing through washing up and dressing while chatting nonstop.
Zhong Yao listened with a smile, occasionally teasing his manager. The exhaustion of the entire day vanished completely.
Director Jin, whose family was far away in Beijing, passed nearby, glanced at Zhong Yao, and hurried away as if thunder were rumbling behind him.
The assistant director, holding a script and repeatedly peeking over, finally approached cautiously under Jin Zhenbo’s urging. “Zhong-laoshi, the next scene is your crying scene. The stand-in can’t replace this one. We need to test camera positions and lighting first…”
Zhong Yao’s smile remained gentle as he waved kindly. “Alright, alright. I’ll cry now.”
Reluctant to end their rare chance to talk, Zhong Yao patiently reminded the person on the phone to wear several layers, saying that Lin Zhu better be wrapped up like a ball, before finally returning to set with the assistant director, thoroughly refreshed.
Lin Zhu, too excited to sit still, tossed aside his phone, bundled himself up neatly, and called his assistant.
The publicity staff continued passionately reporting preparations for award season, completely unaware that Lin Zhu’s profile icon had been greyed out for quite a while. After finally finishing reading the materials and looking up, they realized the channel had been silent for ages.
“Lin-laoshi… where is he?”
The PR staff, already a seasoned professional, had long since started a game to entertain themselves, keyboard clattering nonstop as they replied distractedly:
“No idea. Zhong-laoshi probably finished filming and is hugging and kissing Lin-laoshi again yeah?”
