Author: 颜凉雨 / Yan Liang Yu

Translator: Kinky || https://kinkytranslations.com/

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Chapter 65

Gu Jie carefully read the full text of the Weibo post.

Although from start to finish it only discussed the possibility of Zhang Beichen playing the leading role in <Mint Green>, the implication throughout was that Zhang Beichen was the most suitable choice. It even juxtaposed a few actors who evidently didn’t fit the “Li Yi” character, clearly to make Zhang Beichen’s claim seem more deserved.

Gu Jie suspected that these so-called “competitors” were probably just pulled in for comparison to attract attention, as he couldn’t imagine any producer or director would consider such a wide range of actors for the same role. Apart from Zhang Beichen, who had a youthful and sunny disposition, the rest mentioned in the post, ranging from tough guys to bearded artistic men, seemed off for the “quiet and perplexed” role, being more fit for a rebel than the <Mint Green> character.

Checking the comments below the Weibo post, as expected, it was full of mockery.

Not that Zhang Beichen was unsuitable, but the other listed potential actors were being ridiculed for being far-fetched, like they were from different worlds.

The post was either a marketing ploy for attention or perhaps instigated by Zhang Beichen’s management team to set the trend, but either way, Gu Jie wasn’t concerned, as such tactics are all too common in the entertainment industry. Just as he was about to move on from this post to look at others, a particular comment caught his eye—

[Considering the hot comment with over two thousand likes was deleted, I’ll have to post it again. This is a Weibo post Ran Lin made two days ago, now deleted. I’m not taking sides, just a screenshot mover. 🤷 [see image]]

What drew his attention to this comment was the mention of another buddy’s name. Gu Jie scanned it and froze.

The screenshot was of a Weibo post Ran Lin made the day before, accompanied by a photo of Ran Lin sitting in a simple armchair, reading a book, with the sunlight from a floor-to-ceiling window casting beautiful light and shadow contours on him, serene and scholarly.

The text of the Weibo post was—[Those years we once disregarded and squandered, when looked back upon, are as beautiful as the stars.]

Posting a few photos with deep, artistic, or motivational texts is a daily routine for many celebrities, and often these posts aren’t even made by the stars themselves but by their teams who prepare the images and copy before posting. So, Gu Jie couldn’t see what was unusual about this post or why Ran Lin deleted it?

Perhaps, as the comment suggested, the originally trending comment had been deleted. When Gu Jie saw this comment, it was just one of many, barely noticeable, only perhaps more recent, which was why he spotted it. At that moment, the comment had only four likes and no replies or discussions beneath it.

It reminded Gu Jie of middle school language classes, where the teacher always picked out a sentence from the text for everyone to interpret.

Who knows what those authors were thinking!

Finding no more useful information in the comments, Gu Jie scrolled through a few more hot Weibo posts with numerous reposts and comments, mostly discussing Zhang Beichen and <Mint Green>, some following the trend while others showed clear signs of orchestrated promotion. All were posted today, with the earliest one he found being at 7:02 AM.

Whether <Mint Green> had finalized Zhang Beichen or not was uncertain to Gu Jie, but it was clear that Zhang Beichen’s team was working to create a buzz for “Zhang Beichen as Li Yi”.

Gu Jie himself didn’t favor such speculative promotion tactics. He preferred straightforwardness; if something’s confirmed, it’s confirmed; if not, then it’s not. He disliked guessing games and expected his team to avoid making fans and the public speculate unnecessarily.

But Zhang Beichen’s team’s approach, while not commendable, was a well-established strategy in the entertainment industry. Without further leads, Gu Jie decided to check Ran Lin’s Weibo and, as expected, couldn’t find the post mentioned in the screenshot.

Settling down for a rare moment of contemplation, Gu Jie considered that the marketing post never mentioned Ran Lin, focusing instead on Zhang Beichen, Li Yi, and <Mint Green>. Then there was the comment about the deleted and re-posted screenshot, which was a seemingly ordinary Weibo post by Ran Lin, now removed.

Linking these points together…

Without further hesitation, Gu Jie typed “Ran Lin + Mint Green” into the search bar. The top result from the keywords was also a marketing Weibo post—[<Mint Green> deal falls through. Ran Lin angrily deletes post! …[Read the full text]]

At first glance, Gu Jie frowned instinctively.

Such sensational headlines that could easily invite negative attention to an artist were definitely just clickbait tactics by marketing accounts, as any producer or bystander would diminish their perception of the artist upon seeing such headlines. Producers might think the artist is immature, and bystanders might perceive the artist as sore losers without grace. No professional PR team would issue such a narrative.

Upon reading the full text, it was all pure gossip, even slightly mocking Ran Lin. However, the deleted post in question was mentioned here—the text accompanying the post wasn’t crafted by Ran Lin’s team but excerpted from <Mint Green>.

Although subtle, such indicative posts at least show that, at the time, Ran Lin or his team had hopes for <Mint Green>, perhaps even confidence. Otherwise, no one would set such an easily disprovable flag.

What the entertainment industry dreads most in friendships is the “fight over resources”. Even the best of friends can become wary of each other after competing for a role, and some might even break ties. Although Gu Jie always felt there was no need for such fragility, as the resources are limited and it’s inevitable to cross paths in the same circle, the rapid sequence of events—Ran Lin deleting his post and the widespread trend-setting for Zhang Beichen—all seemed quite intriguing.

Gu Jie’s mood sank. He hoped it wasn’t as he suspected; otherwise, the friendship might really be beyond salvage…

“Gu Ge,” The assistant hesitated to disturb his boss deep in thought, but they had arrived. “We’re home.”

Gu Jie looked up, and indeed, they were already in his apartment’s underground parking lot. He had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t even noticed entering.

“You don’t need to come up with me. Go home and rest.” Gu Jie declined the assistant’s offer to accompany him upstairs and took the elevator home alone.

Gu Jie’s apartment was spacious, with four bedrooms and two living areas. He had converted one room into a gym, where he usually did thirty push-ups as the first order of business upon returning home. But today, he skipped his routine and went straight to the dining table, poured a glass of water, drank it in one go, then sat down, staring at the empty glass as he called his agent.

“What’s up? Why are you calling me so late?” His agent, Geng Yiqiang, answered with a robust voice.

Geng Yiqiang, Gu Jie’s agent, was a 43-year-old ex-military officer who later ventured into business and then, somehow, entered the entertainment industry. With a flexible mind and a generous nature, he had built up considerable connections and established his own management company. Although small, the company had several well-managed artists under its banner. Gu Jie had been referred to him upon entering the industry and had just renewed their contract earlier this year after six years of increasingly smooth collaboration. Both having similar temperaments—they would occasionally spar together, making them not only partners but also good friends.

“It’s nothing urgent. Just wanted to inquire about something.” Gu Jie realized the inappropriateness of the late hour and added, “You haven’t gone to bed, have you, Qiang Ge?”

“No, go ahead.” Geng Yiqiang knew Gu Jie well enough to know he wouldn’t call late without reason.

“Do you know about the movie remake of <Mint Green>?” Gu Jie tested the waters, unsure of his agent’s knowledge level.

Geng Yiqiang was straightforward. “I know, but it’s not a good fit for you. It’s not a juvenile delinquent school film, and it conflicts with your schedule. You’d have to juggle roles.”

“…….”

Gu Jie chuckled internally at the “juvenile delinquent school film” description. It was a bit too on-the-nose.

“I’m not looking to act in it. Just wondering if the male lead is settled and who it ended up being.” Gu Jie explained, “Two of my friends seem to be vying for the role.”

“Zhang Beichen and Ran Lin?” Geng Yiqiang guessed swiftly.

Gu Jie was impressed. “Qiang Ge, you’re spot on.”

“It’s just that your circle of friends is quite obvious.” Geng Yiqiang laughed, then searched his mind. “I heard it was going to be Ran Lin a while back, but I haven’t paid much attention recently. Not sure if it’s confirmed.”

Gu Jie frowned and asked directly, “Qiang Ge, you have a wide network. Can you help me find out who it ended up being? And how was it decided—whether it was through auditions or some other situation?”

Gu Jie was a man who seldom asked others for help. In his years in the entertainment industry, he’d been low-key and hardworking, never complaining or causing trouble. His direct and straightforward nature meant that Geng Yiqiang sometimes felt his talents were underutilized.

Now, with Gu Jie asking a favor, even if it was just to gather some gossip, Geng Yiqiang would go all out… unless it was for the youthful role like in <Mint Green>, he mused, that just wouldn’t suit.

“I’ll give you a call within half an hour,” Geng Yiqiang promised and ended the call.

Gu Jie appreciated his agent’s efficiency and knew that if he said half an hour, it would usually take only twenty minutes. Feeling a bit hungry, he glanced at the clock. It was already 11:40 p.m.; eating now was… perfectly timed.

Geng Yiqiang was even quicker than Gu Jie anticipated, calling back in fifteen minutes. Gu Jie was mid-bite into a whole wheat sandwich when the phone rang.

“It’s Zhang Beichen. If nothing unexpected happens, it’ll be announced in a couple of days.” Geng Yiqiang got straight to the point.

Gu Jie, with the sandwich half in his mouth, knitted his brows in thought, accidentally dropping the sandwich onto his lap in his distraction.

Picking up the sandwich, grateful for not adding peanut butter due to the late hour, he asked what he had been meaning to. “What about Ran Lin?”

“He seems to have been outmaneuvered.” Geng Yiqiang was about to elaborate. Being outmaneuvered meant that the role was almost secured and then snatched away at the last moment, a totally different impact from losing a competition outright.

“So it was initially Ran Lin?”

“Right, both he and Zhang Beichen auditioned, and it was finally decided on him. They were even supposed to sign the contract today, but the financier canceled at the last minute.”

“They were about to sign the contract?” Gu Jie asked for clarification.

“Yes. Not sure what Zhang Beichen’s team did, but at the last minute, they snatched the role.”

“Ran Lin must be frustrated.” Gu Jie could almost picture the disappointment of having the deal slip through one’s fingers.

“Competition is like that. Nothing’s final until it’s in ink,” Geng Yiqiang remarked. “Like in soccer, you can’t say you’ve won until the final whistle blows.”

“That’s true.” Gu Jie sighed. “But as a friend, it’s an underhanded move.”

“It is,” Geng Yiqiang agreed, the voice of both an agent and a man of principle. “But then again, maybe they’re not friends anymore.”

Gu Jie was puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Last year, when Ran Lin was filming <Sword of Fallen Flowers>, there were rumors he and Lu Yiyao were in a scandal.” Geng Yiqiang recalled the old news. “Back then, there were rumors it was Zhang Beichen’s team behind it, especially since Zhang Beichen had just been exposed in a same-sex photo scandal the day before. As soon as the rumors about Ran Lin and Lu Yiyao came out, his issue was overshadowed.”

The news was overwhelming, and Gu Jie wondered if he had been living under a rock.

“Last year?”

“Yes, when you were filming in Dalian.”

“……”

“You’re better off focusing on your own path. The industry is full of drama, rarely anything substantial. Don’t worry about it too much.”

Gu Jie’s voice lowered, seriously asking again, “Can we be sure it was Zhang Beichen behind this?”

“The timing is too coincidental, the orchestration too apparent, and that Wu Xuefeng… Tsk.” Geng Yiqiang’s disdain nearly sprayed through the phone. “Anyway, I think it’s very likely.”

Gu Jie fell silent, not saying another word. If snatching a role could still be chalked up to fierce competition and showing one’s mettle, then slinging mud was crossing the line. And both times, it was Ran Lin… At least switch up the target a bit.

“I won’t comment on Zhang Beichen, but I suggest you might want to reach out to Ran Lin if you really consider him a friend.” Geng Yiqiang spoke like a brother to Gu Jie. “<Sword of Fallen Flowers> has finished airing, and his popularity will only decline from here. Opportunities like <Mint Green> are hard to come by again. This must have hit him hard.”

Gu Jie felt complex emotions swirling within him. He realized he was indeed not suited for gossip, especially when it involved friends. Every time he tried to delve into it, it just left a sour taste. The last time two of his friends fell out, he tried to inquire about the situation from others, only to uncover a mess, with both friends expecting him and others to take sides.

In the end, he sided with neither, resulting in a cooling of friendships on both sides. Remembering it brought a sense of melancholy, feeling like he was the biggest victim in that situation.

While Geng Yiqiang could help Gu Jie gather information, he couldn’t sort out his circle of friends. Ultimately, how and with whom Gu Jie chose to associate was his own decision. As long as it wasn’t too outrageous and remained within normal bounds, Geng Yiqiang had no right to interfere. So, after concluding the business talk and sensing Gu Jie’s disinterest in further conversation, he briefly concluded the night talk.

Gu Jie, after hanging up, ran on the treadmill in his gym for an hour without thinking about anything until he was utterly exhausted. Then, he took a shower, went to bed, and fell into a dreamless sleep almost immediately.

A week later, the official Weibo of <Mint Green> announced that Zhang Beichen would be playing Li Yi, along with confirming the female lead, second male lead, and other important roles. There was no movement from Ran Lin’s side, and since his team had always been relatively low-key, aside from some of his fans, no one else paid attention to whether he had lost the role. The majority of the discussions were focused on fan wars between book fans and actor fans.

Over the past few days, Gu Jie indeed turned into a bit of a phone addict, constantly checking for updates until today, when the final outcome was posted.

After a recent rain, the weather was damp and muggy. Gu Jie sat motionless on the sofa, reading a script, sweating profusely. After a shower, closing the windows, and turning on the air conditioning, he finally felt comfortable. Then, casually scrolling through Weibo, he came across the announcement.

Geng Yiqiang had said that until the final moment, anything could change, and that’s what Gu Jie had been waiting for—the final whistle. Now that it had sounded, he messaged Xia Xinran—[What’s up?]

Xia Xinran didn’t reply immediately, and Gu Jie wasn’t in a hurry, continuing with his script. Two hours later, in the midst of an emotionally intense scene, his phone vibrated.

Xia Xinran—[Just got to the airport. Didn’t hear it in the car.]

Gu Jie—[About to board?]

Xia Xinran—[I can still talk to you for forty minutes.]

Gu Jie:—[That’s enough.]

Xia Xinran—[Took you a week to realize?]

Gu Jie—[Zhang Beichen snatched <Mint Green>.]

Xia Xinran—[🌹]

Gu Jie—[How did he snatch it?]

Xia Xinran—[Keep realizing.]

Gu Jie—[… I can’t realize that!]

Xia Xinran—[It doesn’t matter now. Anyway, he snatched it. I support Ran Lin. But it’s none of your business. You don’t need to take sides. Just don’t mindlessly invite us to hang out together in the future. You can be sworn brothers with whoever you want separately.]

Gu Jie—[……]

Gu Jie—[How’s Ran Lin?]

Xia Xinran stopped typing and sent a voice message instead.

“He says he’s fine, but how could he be? Obviously, he’s down. And who knows if it’s bad luck or something else? <Sword of Fallen Flowers> was a hit, but all the scripts coming his way are period dramas, either martial arts imitating <Sword of Fallen Flowers> or fantasy period dramas with cringy titles. It couldn’t be more tragic.”

Gu Jie—[Have you been in touch with Zhang Beichen?]

There was a pause on the other end before typing resumed—[No need.]

Gu Jie—[He didn’t message you or Ran Lin after the group disbanded?]

Xia Xinran—[No.]

Xia Xinran—[Alright, your brain isn’t meant for analyzing these things. Focus on preparing for your new movie.]

Gu Jie:—[……]

Xia Xinran—[Director He only makes realistic films aimed at awards. I’m envious! When do you start filming?]

Gu Jie—[Not sure yet.]

Xia Xinran—[Ah?]

Gu Jie—[Waiting for a cue. The script needs more changes.]

Xia Xinran—[Typical of a famous director 😰]

Gu Jie—[But it’s worth the wait. Just wish me an extraordinary performance and the Best Actor award 😀]

Xia Xinran—[👋]

……

Wang Xi had a hectic week trying to connect with every possible contact to find resources for Ran Lin, to no avail. The scripts that came to him were of low quality, and she even began considering letting Ran Lin take on a similar martial arts drama just to maintain his popularity.

Today, finally finding time to visit the set of <Chronicles of Winter>, which had just started filming a couple of days ago, she wanted to ensure everything was going smoothly for Han Ze. However, when discussing the week’s hardships on the way back to the hotel, Han Ze’s first words were:

“He’s not meant for stardom. You’re wasting your efforts. Even picking up <Sword of Fallen Flowers> was bullshit dumb luck.”

Wang Xi had heard many harsh words elsewhere, but none struck as hard as Han Ze’s. The blow wasn’t just to her but to the “Han Ze” she had always held in her heart.

That Han Ze was usually cheerful, loving, gentle, and handsome, presented himself as a sunny youth in public, and would suddenly become especially childish around her.

But now, the Han Ze speaking these harsh words, had a cold smile and a look of schadenfreude in his eyes. His face was still handsome, but suddenly, Wang Xi felt he was a stranger.

She realized she had idealistically frozen Han Ze in time as the boy he was when he first entered the industry, but in reality, he was no longer the boy who would blush in front of the camera. The change had already occurred, but she had pretended not to see it until now, at her most tired, vulnerable, and needing comfort when even a simple “it’s okay” would suffice. He had coldly shattered the last false image she held dear in her heart.

Moreover, his indifferent attitude made Wang Xi feel foolishly sentimental, almost to the point of wanting to hit a wall.

A week earlier, the boss had talked to them, directly asking about their relationship. Before she could speak, Han Ze asserted that they had no relationship beyond that of an agent and artist. The boss had said, “Even if it’s true, it doesn’t matter, but it must not affect your work,” implying that she shouldn’t favor Han Ze with resources and should manage Ran Lin well. She knew then that the boss had figured out her relationship with Han Ze, and the talk was a reminder, not a confirmation.

Fortunately, Han Ze had insisted they were just agent and artist, even with the boss’s explicit words. Wang Xi wasn’t sure whether to call him heartless or foolish.

“Why aren’t you speaking?” Han Ze, not the dullest, sensed something off in Wang Xi’s mood and quickly asked.

Wang Xi came back to her senses, shook her head, and simply said, “I’m a bit tired.”

Han Ze sighed ostentatiously. “If you only managed me, you wouldn’t be so tired. I’m so much less trouble.”

Wang Xi, tired of hearing this, closed her eyes and disengaged from the conversation.

The car continued to the hotel arranged for the actors by the production team. Wang Xi followed Han Ze back to his room. They had an unspoken understanding, so as soon as they entered, Han Ze went to shower.

Wang Xi sat on the chair, deep in thought. After a few minutes, her gaze inadvertently fell on Han Ze’s phone lying on the bed. The sound of water echoed from the bathroom.

Wang Xi pursed her lips, hesitated for a moment, then stood up and picked up the phone, lighting up the screen and entering a four-digit password. The password was incorrect.

Wang Xi narrowed her eyes, her heart slowly settling back down. When Han Ze changed passwords, it usually meant he was involved with another female artist.

Every time it was the same, even the tactics didn’t change, and Wang Xi felt robbed of even the chance for a battle of wits.

She put down the phone, walked to the window, and called Han Ze’s assistant. This assistant was hired a year ago after Han Ze complained about the previous one. Wang Xi had personally interviewed and hired this one. The new assistant was smart and clearly understood who to prioritize.

“Xi Jie,” the assistant, whose room was just one floor below, knew Wang Xi was visiting today, so he had returned to the hotel independently after the day’s wrap.

“What’s the situation with Han Ze and Cui Yanyan?” Wang Xi asked bluntly.

The assistant understood immediately and reported, “Their relationship on set is quite good, nothing inappropriate, but Han Ge doesn’t let me follow them off set, so I can’t be sure.”

“Got it,” Wang Xi nodded. “What’s the phone password?”

Assistant: “7481.”

Wang Xi: “Okay, you rest.”

After hanging up, the sound of water still filled the bathroom. Wang Xi felt a bit like she was bullying Han Ze; with her experience, she could easily make him look foolish, but she hadn’t made a move, and he had already started playing his own games.

Entering the password, the phone easily accessed the home screen. Wang Xi tapped into WeChat, greeted by a new message—[When is that old hag leaving? 😠😠😠]

The slight sting in her heart was brief, as the harsh reality was indeed true, and she found it amusing more than painful.

Knowing she was there and still sending such messages, this girl must either be truly in love with Han Ze or intentionally setting him up. If the former, she was even more foolish than Han Ze; if the latter, then she was much craftier and more malicious.

But it didn’t matter to her anymore. Wang Xi didn’t go into the chat; she had seen the message from the chat list, so the red notification still hung on the WeChat icon, untouched.

Wang Xi turned off the phone, put it back in place, then turned on the TV and sat far away to watch the evening news.

When Han Ze emerged from the shower in a robe, he casually walked to the bed, drying his hair while picking up his phone, appearing as natural as possible.

Wang Xi was sure he must have remembered the phone while showering but dared not ask her to bring it in, as that would be too revealing.

“Something urgent came up at the company,” Wang Xi suddenly said, feigning regret. “I have to go back right away.”

Han Ze looked up in surprise, a fleeting glimmer of relief quickly replaced by reluctance. “Do you really have to go back…”

Unfortunately for him, Wang Xi had seen through too many people. Han Ze still had a lot to learn.

“Yeah, can’t help it,” she said, standing up, seemingly reluctant to leave.

Han Ze sighed softly, his eyes filled with longing. “When will you come visit the set again?”

Wang Xi was pleased. At least her artist was a good actor. “We’ll see. You know how it is with Ran Lin recently…”

“Just send him back to that Kang guy,” Han Ze interrupted with a frown.

Wang Xi laughed, not sure how to feel. Perhaps she had indulged Han Ze too much, leading him to believe he could freely express his opinions and she would always accept them. Before, she just felt troubled and down by Han Ze’s requests; now, stepping back, it seemed almost naïvely adorable.

“Rest well,” Wang Xi said indifferently, picking up her bag and leaving.

After Wang Xi left, Han Ze pondered for a moment, not sensing anything amiss. He turned back to WeChat and breathed a sigh of relief, grateful for having set it to silent and that Wang Xi had been far away watching TV, or else he’d have to come up with more lies to cover up.

Shaking his head, Han Ze started replying to messages, his mood lifting—[I told you not to message me. Can’t you behave? But anyway, the old hag is gone 😃.]

……

Not until the taxi was on the airport expressway did Wang Xi’s heart finally calm down. There were no sudden bursts of laughter or heart-wrenching cries—just a sense of emptiness, yet peaceful.

She had known from the beginning that there would be no future with Han Ze, but sometimes, when you’re alone for too long, you yearn for companionship, even if it’s doomed.

Fortunately, after all the twists and turns, she came out unscathed. In fact, as an “old hag”, she felt she had even gotten the better end of the deal. So she had no intention of taking revenge against Han Ze, lacking both the impulse and the justification.

Work is always more reliable than men. This was what the twenty-year-old Wang Xi had always believed. Now at her current age, she thought her younger self was indeed wise.

Saying she had to return to Beijing wasn’t exactly lying to Han Ze, as she had indeed just received a message. It was the only news that had made her happy recently.

The driver stopped the car in front of the terminal. Wang Xi paid, got out, and pulled her suitcase inside. The airport at 8:30 p.m. was still bustling. Wang Xi, wearing a sleeveless T-shirt that showed her toned arms and slim-fitting cropped pants that highlighted her slender legs, clicked along in her high heels.

Except for the fine lines around her eyes, visible up close, nothing else betrayed her age.

After purchasing the last flight back to Beijing, Wang Xi entered the VIP lounge with her luggage. Finding a quiet corner, she finally sat down to call Ran Lin.

The phone rang three times before he picked up. “Xi Jie?”

The background noise made Wang Xi frown. “Are you outside?”

Ran Lin: “Yeah, I’m playing with the hoverboard.”

Wang Xi was surprised. “But <Mint Green> has already…”

Ran Lin interrupted nonchalantly, “Announced the lead actor. I saw the Weibo post.”

Wang Xi couldn’t detect anything but calm in his voice and asked with a hint of confusion, “So you’re playing with the hoverboard because…”

Ran Lin laughed. “Exercising. I paid two thousand yuan for it; I have to make the most of it and recoup my losses.”

Wang Xi chuckled. “Is this your way of subtly telling me you’re broke?”

Ran Lin: “Will crying broke change the contract’s commission?”

Wang Xi firmly. “No.”

Ran Lin seemed amused, though Wang Xi couldn’t quite tell. The voice over the phone soon turned serious. “Xi Jie, weren’t you supposed to visit the set today?”

Wang Xi’s smile faded, and she said softly, “I did. Now I’m at the airport, about to head back.”

Ran Lin was surprised. “That’s so sudden. You must be exhausted.”

It was a rather ordinary comment, perhaps just politeness from Ran Lin, but Wang Xi felt a comforting warmth. It was the most pleasant thing she had heard all night.

“I have to rush,” Wang Xi said, her voice unintentionally cheerful. “What if it gets snatched away again?”

Ran Lin: “…”

Bang!

A loud noise from the other end startled Wang Xi. “What happened?”

Ran Lin’s voice, taking a sharp intake of breath, sounded like he was wincing in pain. “Hit a trash can.”

Wang Xi didn’t know whether to be angry or amused. “Aren’t you the ‘Chaoyang District’s King of Hoverboards’?”

Ran Lin sheepishly replied, “Even kings have fender benders.”

Wang Xi: “Did you hurt yourself?”

Ran Lin: “Don’t worry. I’m wearing protective gear. I value my life.”

Wang Xi couldn’t help but chuckle, feeling the negativity of the entire night dissipate, like encountering a small sun.

“Xi Jie.” Ran Lin’s voice carried a tentative hope. “When you said about someone snatching it away… does that mean there’s a new opportunity?”

Ran Lin knew Wang Xi had been desperately looking for his next opportunity since the <Mint Green> debacle. As the heat from the TV series dwindled, her stress was even greater than his. Even though she tried to hide it, the anxiety was palpable in her words. At the start of the call, Ran Lin had detected a subtle change in Wang Xi’s demeanor: anxiety replaced by composure, and then her hint, leading him to suspect good news.

But recently, Ran Lin had had too many false hopes.

“The script will be given in three days; audition in half a month.” Wang Xi knew he could guess it was an opportunity, but not which one. “The film version of <Chronicles of Winter>.”

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