The filming that night continued until two in the morning. It was her solo scene. The band’s schedule couldn’t be arranged until after mid-June, so before the end of the month, they were only shooting peripheral scenes.

Lao Ping’s team had leaked some information online in advance, so these past few days they frequently encountered media and fans visiting the set. However, during filming breaks, Long Qi would directly return to her van to rest. She didn’t interact much with fans, nor did she socialize much with the crew—most of that was handled by Lao Ping.

Oh, right—during summer vacation, Hao Shuai had become Lao Ping’s intern assistant. He had applied for the position himself. Lao Ping, seeing that he was the president of a fan club branch and also Long Qi’s deskmate—essentially one of their own people, someone they knew fairly well—let him take advantage of the summer break to work here and earn some pocket money.

Apparently, Hao Shuai had also showcased quite a few of his online accounts. The posts from these accounts mostly revolved around Long Qi—some were main accounts, others were alternate accounts. He deeply understood the art of online discourse, seamlessly switching between being a looks-focused fan, a personality fan, a career fan, or even a fake anti-fan. He frequently wielded the impressive skill of reversing public opinion with a single sentence, and was no stranger to writing lengthy, eloquent posts that attracted followers. In terms of being a fan, he was quite talented.

However, he wasn’t truly a devoted fan of Long Qi. He said he simply aspired to become a manager like Lao Ping, and online public opinion was what he found most interesting about the current celebrity manufacturing industry. Therefore, all activities revolving around Long Qi were merely practice for him to familiarize himself with the online environment.

After reading the above, doesn’t Hao Shuai suddenly seem impressive?

No—he still became a refined, quiet boy the moment he saw Long Qi, occasionally revealing hints of his hopeless homebody aura. When Long Qi was idle, she’d tease him a bit; when she was busy, she couldn’t be bothered with him at all—just like at school.

By mid-June, when filming was underway, Fan Mi came to visit the set once.

When she came, she brought along a female artist. This artist was similarly famous in the industry for her beauty—around twenty-eight years old, really well-maintained—but her reputation wasn’t great. She had once been comparable to A-list celebrities, but due to multiple instances of being difficult, verbally abusing reporters, and other professional conduct issues, she had been collectively condemned by the media. Now her situation was awkward. Lao Ping told Long Qi that Fan Mi had written these songs for this female star—the two were close friends—but the company naturally couldn’t use this female star. First, she attracted criticism; second, they felt she was too old for the role. From every angle, it would be detrimental to the album’s promotion. Fan Mi had made a fuss about this for a long time, which was why her earlier nitpicking toward Long Qi had been so openly displayed.

Long Qi didn’t have many scenes that day. After she finished filming, Lao Ping sent her back to the hotel to rest. Later, he brought back news: Fan Mi had come specifically that day to check with the director on filming progress. She had also brought the female artist around the set, familiarizing themselves with most of the crew members. Supposedly, they even planned to treat the crew to a big dinner that evening. Fortunately, Lao Ping was quick—when he discovered the female artist’s car parked in the lot, he beat them to it by inviting the entire crew out first. Fan Mi’s plan fell through.

Although Fan Mi was the lyricist and composer—two-thirds of the album’s songs were her work—she could only provide opinions on the music video’s female lead. The decision-making power ultimately rested with the higher-ups. If she had nominated someone else, there might have been room for consideration, but given the bigger picture, nominating that female artist was absolutely out of the question.

“Which female artist?” Long Qi asked.

She hadn’t had any direct contact with Fan Mi that day.

Lao Ping said, “Jian Yizhen. You’ve definitely seen her movies, but she really has a terrible temper. The past few years, she ruined all her good opportunities herself. Her current situation is no one’s fault but her own—consider it making room for newcomers.”

Long Qi found it rather tragic.

Whether it was Fan Mi or this Jian Yizhen, whose film work she had indeed seen quite a bit of.

But this sympathy didn’t last long before it was completely scattered, because Fan Mi came looking for trouble.

The band’s schedule was arranged to begin filming on the 25th. The peripheral scenes were expected to finish filming on the evening of the 20th (it was a night scene). Logically speaking, Long Qi should have been able to rest for a while. But Fan Mi happened to come watch the final scene on the 20th, and on the spot said she was dissatisfied and suggested the director reshoot.

Technically, she didn’t have that kind of authority, but after all, she had created the songs, and the director had a good relationship with her. So to save face for her, the director actually had someone relay the message to Long Qi.

Long Qi had already removed her makeup and changed clothes. Lao Ping had gone out on business and hadn’t sent a car over in time. Hao Shuai and the female assistant were with her in the dressing room waiting for the car. The two of them chatted about this and that, while Long Qi, wearing headphones, silently scrolled through her phone without participating in their conversation at all.

She was browsing Bai Aiting’s campus account.

Under Hao Shuai’s account.

Since going to England, Bai Aiting’s update frequency had decreased considerably. At first, she would upload a photo every week, but now it had been over a month without any updates. Her last text post was three words.

—You are poison.

Who “you” referred to wasn’t entirely clear, but from these three words, one could sense that Bai Aiting was still deeply mired in the pit that was Jin Yiken. Long Qi stared at her profile for a while, neither commenting nor reposting nor doing anything extra. At that moment, notification alerts from social media kept flashing at the top of the screen—fans had already begun sending birthday wishes. As the time approached closer to midnight, the congratulatory messages came more and more frequently.

Long Qi turned off the message notifications and also logged out of the account.

“What time is it?” she asked, rubbing her forehead.

“Eleven-ten,” Hao Shuai said.

“Where’s the car?”

“Not here yet.”

“Lao Ping?”

“He’s busy, but says he’ll be here soon.”

As Long Qi let out a sigh, someone knocked on the door to relay the director’s message. So she heard it all. Even the female assistant, who had been in the industry for several years, felt this was unreasonable. The female assistant was about to stand up when Long Qi responded calmly through the door: “Ask her what exactly she’s dissatisfied with.”

The crew member outside the door was momentarily speechless.

Probably the first time they’d encountered a newcomer who talked back to a senior. For a moment, they didn’t know whether to respond or not. Fortunately, Hao Shuai sensed something was wrong and immediately rushed to open the door to explain: “Oh, what we mean is, we’d like to understand first what the problem is, to see if we can remedy it some other way. After all, the makeup’s already off and the clothes are changed—reshooting would take too much time.”

Hao Shuai was fighting against reshooting.

The crew member looked somewhat troubled but still went back to ask. Unexpectedly, the second time, it was Fan Mi’s assistant who came. This assistant was quite bold, standing outside the door with a smile that concealed daggers as she dropped this line: “Sweetheart, when the acting isn’t good enough, special effects can’t save it—must reshoot. Thanks for your trouble!”

This time Hao Shuai was stunned and planned to call Lao Ping. Meanwhile, Long Qi was packing up her things. The female assistant asked how she planned to handle this. She picked up her bag, put on her watch, and replied: “Not waiting for Lao Ping anymore. Taking a taxi back.”

“So you’re not filming?”

“Not filming.”

“But what about here should we…”

Before the female assistant could finish, Long Qi had already opened the dressing room door. Fan Mi’s assistant was waiting right there, but Long Qi walked past her as if she didn’t exist, leaving decisively and cleanly.

The other party was also stunned for a moment seeing her in casual clothes.

The female assistant was the first to react and quickly chased after her. However, the one who ended up stopping Long Qi wasn’t her—it was Lao Ping, who had just returned to the dressing room area.

Lao Ping already understood the situation. The two met at a corner. Lao Ping immediately grabbed Long Qi and persuaded her: “Wait, don’t leave yet. Hear me out first.”

Long Qi turned her head away. Lao Ping quickly continued: “The director already talked to me on the phone. He’s just trying to save face for Fan Mi. Let me propose this solution—see if it works for you. When Ban Wei and the others come to film here later, you can come back then to reshoot. Let’s skip tonight—besides, the makeup artist has already left.”

Long Qi didn’t respond but stopped in place and crossed her arms, meaning “fine.” So Lao Ping felt reassured and sent a message to the director.

The director was actually a reasonable person. He knew Fan Mi was nitpicking and knew the makeup artist had rushed off to other commitments after filming ended. Moreover, the solution Lao Ping proposed was workable, so he agreed to it in his message.

Next was the director’s side dealing with Fan Mi, while Lao Ping led Long Qi through the underground parking garage, where the car was parked.

Along the way, Lao Ping talked quite a bit—half the time discussing Fan Mi, the other half devoted to advising Long Qi not to be so “cool” next time.

Long Qi replied expressionlessly: “What did you go do today?”

Her mood had clearly been ruined by the earlier incident. Her whole tone carried some irritation, so Lao Ping shut his mouth and switched to a different smiling expression as he replied: “Someone asked me to bring you a gift.”

“What thing?”

By this time, they had reached the van. Lao Ping didn’t speak but rushed ahead of Long Qi to pull open the car door. Then he was especially sneaky, deliberately blocking her view with his body. Only after he finally moved aside did Long Qi look over impatiently.

At that moment, Jin Yiken was sitting in the spot where she usually sat, legs crossed, eyes closed, resting. Only when he heard the commotion did he turn his head, his narrowed gaze falling on her.

The interior lights were on, illuminating his shoulders and casting the exhaustion of traveling through the night. But when he sat up slightly, this weariness immediately dissipated. Long Qi’s sour expression softened a bit. Without saying a word, he remained seated, and smiled.

Then he extended his index finger toward her and gently beckoned.