Shen Qianzhan felt uncomfortable with so many people standing in her room—when she spoke, it felt like she was delivering her final words.

She simply sent everyone away.

With fewer people in the living room, it looked much more spacious.

She sat on the sofa holding her laptop, repeatedly listening to and watching all the audio and video files that Jiang Mengxin had posted on Weibo several times over.

Qiao Xin said, “Jiang Mengxin didn’t do any malicious editing. We don’t have any loopholes to target.”

“Her clever approach is to avoid the important and dwell on the trivial, only selecting what’s favorable to her. Listen to the interview—she cut off the beginning and end, deleting that last sentence where you questioned her. Sister Zhan, look.” Qiao Xin pointed at the video angle: “This is completely Chen Yan directing and acting by himself. I was guarding against Jiang Mengxin like guarding against a wolf in the reception hall at the time. She never left my sight, so how could she have filmed the on-site video?”

Shen Qianzhan glanced at her and corrected, “She didn’t say she filmed it. You also know her clever approach is to avoid the important and dwell on the trivial, so why are you still subjectively falling into the illusion she deliberately created?”

Compared to Qiao Xin, Shen Qianzhan was much calmer.

The audio didn’t rearrange the speaking order, nor did it maliciously cut up her words. It merely served as corroboration that the “Time” crew indeed had an accidental death of a production assistant.

So even if the crew released the complete audio, it would be useless. With public opinion boiling and completely one-sided, Shen Qianzhan’s questioning would only be misinterpreted as arrogant, domineering, and contemptuous. Even if it awakened a small portion of rational, clear-headed people, it would be to no avail.

The more Qiao Xin thought about it, the angrier she became. Looking at the still-climbing video view count, she complained indignantly, “Now you really can just add pictures to tell a story and it becomes so-called evidence. The key is that so many people believe her. No one goes to verify the actual truth—they believe whatever they’re given, willingly letting themselves be used as weapons.”

“To incite public opinion, a few pictures that can be exploited are enough. Do you still expect those netizens who have no stake in this to go verify? Besides the pictures, there’s also audio and video. With such sufficient evidence, to them, it’s already ironclad proof.” Shen Qianzhan closed her laptop and glanced at Ji Qinghe in the distance, who was on the phone.

After Bu Zhong Sui’s statement came out, his phone hadn’t stopped ringing.

Without listening, Shen Qianzhan knew what those calls were about.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, checked the time, and instructed Qiao Xin to go out first: “At ten o’clock, wake up Qiandeng’s PR department. We’ll continue the meeting.”

Qiao Xin drooped her eyebrows and looked dejected, responding with an “Oh” and leaving dejectedly.

——

Once the room was empty, his voice became much clearer.

Shen Qianzhan didn’t deliberately listen. She went to boil water to heat milk.

Her room was more apartment-style, with an open kitchen. Though small in area, it had everything. Except for the refrigerator occasionally used to keep fruit fresh and chill beverages, all the other kitchen appliances were like decorations, basically treated by Shen Qianzhan as part of the living room.

It was rare for her to turn on the stove and light the fire today, but it was just to heat a carton of chilled milk.

She leaned against the counter, listening to the sound of flames burning on the stove, unable to help letting her thoughts drift.

The water surface gradually began to steam, with bubbles slowly rising from the bottom of the pot to the surface. Gradually, gurgling and bubbling, it began to boil.

She stared at the boiling water surface in a daze, as if completely unaware that the water was already boiling, motionless.

Until a hand reached out from behind her and turned off the fire.

Only then did she come back to her senses and turn to look.

“Are you done with your calls?”

“Heating milk?”

Both spoke at the same time.

Shen Qianzhan was stunned for a moment, tossed the mini package of coffee powder in her hand, and answered first: “I want coffee.”

“I’ll do it.”

Ji Qinghe found heat-resistant gloves from the cabinet and used a ladle to scoop out the scalding milk, making coffee for her.

His fingers were slender, and he did everything methodically, as if completing a work of art, completely out of place in this mini open kitchen.

Shen Qianzhan watched him stir the coffee powder evenly, the milky white milk gradually being dyed coffee brown. Lost in thought, she said, “You should go back.” Bu Zhong Sui was now inexplicably implicated and attacked—headquarters was probably in chaos, with much dissatisfaction directed at him too.

Ji Qinghe’s movements paused, and he looked up at her: “With you here, where would you have me go back to?”

“I’m causing trouble for you and Bu Zhong Sui.” Shen Qianzhan avoided his gaze and took the cup of coffee, continuing to stir: “While I still have the authority, Bu Zhong Sui should terminate the cooperation and withdraw investment immediately to protect itself.”

The coffee cup was somewhat hot, and she couldn’t hold it steady. She set it on the counter and said in a low voice: “What’s happening now is just the beginning. The situation will get worse and worse. From Bu Zhong Sui’s standpoint, cutting losses in time is the best way to handle this.” Shen Qianzhan paused and added: “I’m saying this without any personal emotions. It’s from a producer’s professional ethics, to reduce losses for both sides.”

“There’s no need.” Ji Qinghe frowned almost imperceptibly: “Bu Zhong Sui also has its own assessment mechanisms. Withdrawing investment now would be more loss than gain. If you’re really considering from a producer’s perspective, have you thought about what the crew would face if I really withdrew investment?”

Shen Qianzhan moved her lips but didn’t speak.

She knew.

Once Bu Zhong Sui withdrew investment, the crew would rapidly perish.

With “Time” currently at the center of controversy, no investors would inject capital in the short term. Even if the crew was eventually saved, the delayed time would cause the project to miss the optimal broadcast period.

Film and television projects always carried risks alongside rewards. Once any link went wrong, it would lead to total failure. Everyone involved—whether producers, production companies, investors, or film companies—would face incalculable losses.

Seeing her silence, Ji Qinghe lowered his head to meet her gaze: “The situation isn’t as bad as you think.”

Shen Qianzhan stirred her coffee and said, “That’s because it hasn’t started deteriorating yet.” The other party had planned thoroughly and was skilled at inciting public opinion—they wouldn’t end things so hastily.

She hadn’t forgotten to argue back.

Ji Qinghe smiled silently and lightly flicked her forehead with his finger: “I’m more rational than you. Even if it’s to guarantee your future livelihood, I’ll keep some money for us to enjoy our old age in comfort.”

Shen Qianzhan suddenly felt the gap between herself and Ji Qinghe.

Perhaps this was adult love?

Not blind, occasionally indulgent and immersed, but also maintaining a moment of clarity.

He always maintained an unhurried, unruffled posture, preserving his consistent elegant nobility. Even crossing abysses and passing cliffs, he remained calm and unhurried, not even the hem of his clothes getting wet.

He truly stood atop mountains overlooking the mortal world—both clear-headed and compassionate.

Usually untainted by worldly affairs, his descent seemed only to ferry her across.

It was over.

Today was another day of being conquered by this damned man.

——

Influenced by Ji Qinghe, Shen Qianzhan’s mood began to clear up.

Near ten o’clock, when Shen Qianzhan changed clothes to prepare for the meeting room to continue discussions with the PR department, Qiao Xin came first with an expression of “the apocalypse has arrived,” rubbing her red-rimmed eyes and telling her: “Qiandeng’s PR department has gone completely offline.”

Shen Qianzhan was puzzled.

Qiao Xin was furious, choking up as she spoke: “I just called the PR manager. The other party said it was President Su’s decision—’Time’ should save itself, and they’re powerless to help.”

Shen Qianzhan raised her eyebrows sharply: “Are you sure that’s what they said?”

Too shocked, she even turned back to confirm with Ji Qinghe. It wasn’t until she heard Su Zan’s out-of-control arguing from next door through the poor soundproofing that she finally confirmed this was a new directive issued by President Su, for whom she had once worked tirelessly to expand territory.

She stood there for a moment, then after a long while, laughed self-mockingly.

Somewhat puzzled.

Wasn’t “Time” Qiandeng’s project?

What benefit did Su Lanyi gain from abandoning “Time”? Did she want her to fend for herself? Or was she forcing her to seek help from Ji Qinghe?

Her hands and feet felt somewhat cold.

There was brief helplessness and confusion after being abandoned.

She was accustomed to utilizing Qiandeng’s resources. Withdrawing the PR department now was equivalent to clipping her wings and leaving her to wait for death.

Seeing her silence, Qiao Xin became increasingly panicked and almost shed tears in front of her.

She quickly lowered her head, wiped her eyes, and suggested: “We still have company-managed marketing accounts. I’ll go process the video now and have the marketing accounts release it.”

“There’s also Old Chen’s death certificate—we filed a case. These are all evidence…”

“Wait a moment.” Shen Qianzhan interrupted her. “President Su must have encountered some resistance.”

Old Chen’s matter had been documented by the company, so clarifying it wouldn’t be difficult.

The evidence she had was also archived by Qiandeng’s legal department. Su Lanyi abandoning “Time” at this time—aside from Qiandeng encountering some resistance, there was no other explanation.

It was just that the consecutive blows left Shen Qianzhan truly somewhat weary. Standing in the empty room, she felt like she was in a wilderness with wind leaking from all sides. The wind howled, taking away the warmth from her body bit by bit, leaving her so cold that even her heart couldn’t beat.

After a long while, she said in a low voice: “You should all go out. I want to be alone.”

——

After Shen Qianzhan withdrew from public view, all crew matters, large and small, fell on Su Zan’s shoulders.

He arranged for the crew to return to Beijing as usual. When the large trucks carrying the crew’s props and filming equipment left the parking lot, reporters who had been blocking the area for a long time caught wind and came, blocking the passage completely.

The trucks were stopped, affecting normal traffic. After the hotel’s mediation efforts failed, Su Zan advocated calling the police.

Several other life producers and on-site producers all held different opinions.

Some thought calling the police seemed too aggressive and would be even more unfavorable to the crew. Others thought calling the police could serve as a deterrent and indirectly respond to what had happened to the crew these past few days.

Everyone was fuming with pent-up anger over the online chaos of malicious writing and deliberate misinterpretations. After denouncing Qiandeng’s official inaction, hints began emerging that some blamed Shen Qianzhan’s poor crisis management skills for causing this crew crisis.

Just as everyone was discussing heatedly, a group organized mainly by Old Chen’s family members gathered at the hotel entrance, pulling banners and setting up Old Chen’s portrait along with incense, candles, and paper money, turning the already chaotic scene into a muddy mess.

Now, forget calling the police—the crew was like an isolated island, trapped dead in the hotel.

This episode instantly plunged all crew members who hadn’t taken the matter seriously into a panic-stricken low. The online public outrage seemed more intense than imagined, sweeping over them like a tidal wave.

The next day.

Public opinion fermented again.

Online, besides the video and audio files released the previous day, what was hottest was footage updated by mainstream media of Old Chen’s family members demanding justice outside the hotel and blocking the crew’s trucks.

Netizens who had lost their minds acted as if they were on scene, shouting encouragement and waving flags.

Occasional calm comments like “I feel something’s fishy about this,” “I’m also waiting for a plot twist,” or “Isn’t this behavior illegal?” and “If they really want justice for the family, shouldn’t they be verifying with relevant departments instead of blocking hotel entrances, lighting incense and burning paper money like some performance?” were quickly drowned in the crowd.

That afternoon, Qiandeng received notice that the crew needed to stop all filming work and face investigation.

Su Lanyi, as Qiandeng’s legal representative, was summoned for questioning by relevant departments.

Under pressure.

Qiandeng quickly issued a statement. Unlike the statement previously discussed with Shen Qianzhan, this was entirely the kind of PR piece that current netizens most wanted to see. Besides actively cooperating with investigations, it announced the decision to suspend Shen Qianzhan and several other crew leaders pending investigation.

When Shen Qianzhan received notice of her suspension, she didn’t feel much and wasn’t even surprised.

She glanced at the resignation letter lying in her email drafts, closed her laptop, and went downstairs to find Aunt Chen.

After Chen Yan caused trouble, Aunt Chen was isolated by the crew. Except for regular meal deliveries, no one visited her anymore.

Life producers had conveyed Aunt Chen’s requests for meetings several times, but either Shen Qianzhan was busy, or later, when public opinion fermented and the entire crew was put in a passive position, they could only lie flat and take the mockery.

During this day and night, Shen Qianzhan hadn’t really just locked herself in her room doing nothing.

Su Zan had made a trip to the public security bureau to inquire about progress on Chen Yan’s case determination. The police refused several times, citing ongoing procedures.

Chen Yan’s intentional assault charge was certain. The injury assessment and video files Shen Qianzhan provided could all serve as evidence. According to procedures, the official process indeed required three to five working days—it wasn’t the police deliberately stalling.

Shen Qianzhan spent time researching relevant cases and consulted Bu Zhong Sui’s lawyers about prosecution conditions. With a clearer understanding, she finally relaxed her muscles and went to see Aunt Chen.

Originally, Aunt Chen should have taken Old Chen’s remains home yesterday.

——

Aunt Chen looked much more haggard than when Shen Qianzhan first met her.

Her under-eyes were obviously dark, her gaze hollow, and when looking at Shen Qianzhan, she showed hesitant anxiety and timidity.

Shen Qianzhan pulled up a chair and sat down, casually opening a bottle of mineral water from the table, took a sip, and explained the current situation to Aunt Chen.

After speaking, she changed the subject: “It’s not good for everyone to be trapped like this. I’ll go out to meet with reporters later and explain the situation. Anyway, I’ve been suspended—the next step should be dismissal. By tomorrow at the latest, I should be back in Beijing for investigation. The crew can leave too. As for you, I’ve arranged for Xiao Chen to take you and Old Chen home. The insurance compensation has been approved and will be deposited in your account within five to seven working days. Now, can you tell me what you know?”

Having been cold-shouldered for days, Aunt Chen’s mind had cleared. She didn’t hide anything and told the whole truth: “My mother-in-law said someone came to the house—a former colleague of Old Chen’s. After hearing about Old Chen’s situation, he came to pay respects and told them that in cases like this, both the company and producer bear responsibility and should compensate accordingly.”

“When I heard this, you only mentioned insurance compensation but didn’t mention the company’s part. My mother-in-law said that with Old Chen gone, the family had lost its pillar, and with two young children, the crew might see me as a woman unfamiliar with the area who could be easily bullied, so they deliberately concealed this. I was unsure, and when mother-in-law suggested having uncle come discuss compensation, I thought about it and agreed. I really didn’t know they were coming to cause trouble!”

Shen Qianzhan smiled and said, “I didn’t mention it.”

“You also know Old Chen’s cause of death—the company bears no responsibility. Su Zan and I discussed it that night and decided to apply to the company for a consolation payment on your behalf. After Old Chen’s affairs were settled and your family was completely stable, we’d give it to you in the children’s names.” She didn’t expose Aunt Chen’s greedy rationalization.

Knowing the company bore no compensation responsibility yet agreeing to her mother-in-law’s suggestion to have the family uncle come to the crew demanding compensation—Aunt Chen wasn’t as truly kind and reasonable as Shen Qianzhan had imagined. Whether out of consideration for the children’s future or other reasons, none of this mattered to Shen Qianzhan anymore.

“I’ll be leaving the company, and the crew faces dissolution. I can no longer apply for this consolation payment from the company. If you still want this money, you can discuss it with Su Zan. I’ve already spoken to him—he won’t make things difficult for you, but whether the company is willing to give you more, I don’t know.” Shen Qianzhan’s tone remained calm, speaking throughout as if discussing something unrelated to herself.

“The day Old Chen died, I received a call from my mother saying my father was missing at sea. Whether out of professional responsibility or moral constraint, I chose to stay with the crew.” Her gaze toward Aunt Chen couldn’t hide her disappointment: “I deeply understand what losing family feels like. I’m grateful my father was eventually found. So I empathize with your sorrow over losing Old Chen. I can understand your inability to trust me, but things have reached this point—there’s no use saying more. I’ve arranged everything. Tomorrow I won’t be seeing Old Chen off on his final journey.”

Shen Qianzhan originally thought she was coming to persuade Aunt Chen with the mindset of leaving room for the future, but it wasn’t until she saw tears welling in Aunt Chen’s eyes as if regretting her actions that she realized she was just looking for a reason to confide, to have one more person witness the grievances and dissatisfaction buried deep in her heart.

The truth wasn’t what you all saw, but the injustice was buried underground with no one wanting to dig deeper to understand. It would gradually become obsolete, aging with the years, becoming insignificant.

No one would remember this matter they had once vigorously denounced, except those deeply hurt by it.

——

After returning, Shen Qianzhan sent her resignation letter from her email to Su Lanyi.

Subsequently, she logged into her Weibo account—verified as “Qiandeng Pictures Producer”—which she only operated during promotional periods when the mood struck, and posted a Weibo:

Due to disagreement with company philosophy, have resigned from Qiandeng.

Instantly, countless comments flooded in—

“Why not respond to the production assistant’s accidental death, the crew’s malicious concealment and attempt to settle the matter quietly?”

“Why evade responding? Is it because you have a guilty conscience?”

“What kind of murderous crew is this? Simply unheard of, unseen.”

“Boycotting all TV dramas you’ve produced. I now feel disgusted that I once watched dramas you produced.”

“A producer like you, driven by profit and without bottom lines, is truly the shame of the production industry.”

“You’re carrying a life on your back—can you still sleep at night?”

“No one cares whether you resign or not. We want the truth.”

Shen Qianzhan didn’t read the comments further. She closed the webpage and logged out of Weibo.

She didn’t care if anyone understood—this was her farewell.

To Qiandeng, to Su Lanyi, and to her former self.