MACRM Chapter 11

When Lin Song received the call from his younger brother saying he wouldn’t be coming home, he was still diligently working overtime in his office.

“At the film crew… staying with them tonight…”

Lin Zhu didn’t say exactly which remote crew he went along with. The signal was awful, and Lin Zhu’s voice was patchy at best. But he still sounded energetic as ever. “Don’t worry, Da-ge! You take care of yourself too, eat well, rest well!”

President Lin was anything but reassured. He paced the office, back and forth. “What film crew? Still Director Wei’s? Are they still shooting on location? Are you eating well? Sleeping okay? Busy? Do I need to invest more? How much money can I add for you to get a tent for yours—” 

“No, no need, we already moved to indoor sets. Director Wei got more money than he knows what to do with.”

Lin Zhu was pressed right behind Wei Geping, helping him keep track of the mahjong tiles in play, his shoulder wedged under his phone while he hugged a giant bag of chips, munching between words. “I haven’t started working yet. We’re just talking about contracts tonight. I’m working with Uncle Wei here…”

Wei Geping burst into hearty laughter at the table. “Self-draw, jackpot! Hu![mfn]Idk about mahjong, so I’ll be translating the lingo very literally.[/mfn]”

Lin Zhu: “…”

Lin Song: “…”

Lin Song. “Xiao Zhu, send me your location and Da-ge will come to get you right now. Stay where you are, don’t talk to strangers—”

“No need, no need, don’t worry Da-ge, I’m fine. I’m not lost, very much not lost. I’m holding my phone and calling you. No one’s kidnapped me, I promise I’ll be in bed before midnight.”

Lin Zhu rattled off his reassurances in one breath, just in time to hang up before his brother could mobilize half the city to track him down. He exhaled long and slow.

His phone buzzed. Lin Song had switched to WeChat, bombarding him with an entire screenful of safety tips for traveling away from home.

Lin Zhu played along. He read every line carefully, replying with a 300 word reflection while the tiles were reshuffled for the next hand.

The bright overhead light was suddenly blocked by someone’s shadow.

Lin Zhu turned sideways, chasing the light to peek out past the sofa, but something felt off. He dropped his phone and shot his head up.

A hand settled gently on his shoulder. Zhong Yao sat down beside him, placing a warm cup of milk in his hand. Together, they watched Wei Geping rummage through the tiles like a hungry wolf. He commented, “Your brother really cares about you.”

Zhong Yao had just taken a quick shower. His whole demeanor seemed softened by the lingering warmth of the steam.

His neat short hair was still faintly damp, a towel draped carelessly around his neck. The sharp, distant air of an elite he carried during the day now felt diffused, as if someone had put a soft-focus filter over three years of cold distance.

Lin Zhu blinked, staring for half a second before he smiled. “I got lost when I was a kid. My brother’s been scared of that happening again ever since. He’s convinced that the second I’m out of sight, I’ll get abducted by aliens.”

“Got lost?”

Zhong Yao stilled, about to ask more, but Lin Zhu had already launched himself over to Wei Geping’s side. He moved quick as lightning, slapping the director’s hand away just before he threw out the wrong tile:

“Uncle Wei, play the three-dots. No, no, let me draw it for you! You just sit here, don’t move!”

The lively, bright-eyed boy squeezed into the group, bustling about like a sparkler in the dark, his every move seemed to glow.

Zhong Yao slowly let himself relax, sinking back into the leather sofa that was rumored to have a massage function.

In that earlier scene, the real reason Zheng Yi had been so easily thrown off by Lin Zhu wasn’t just a difference in skill or raw talent.

That whole scene had been about the glittering glamour of Shanghai’s foreign concessions — children born into gold and jewels, wrapped in silk and privilege. The tiniest details made all the difference, and Zheng Yi’s acting looked fine in isolation, but put next to someone who really had grown up treasured and spoiled, the gap was impossible to ignore.

Zheng Yi’s emotional intelligence might be limited, but his professionalism was solid enough — once he realized this, his confidence had naturally crumbled.

Zhong Yao’s thoughts drifted to Lin Zhu’s hands.

What kind of life did someone have to live to leave those faint scars on hands like that? And what did that have to do with the offhand “got lost” Lin Zhu had just tossed out so lightly?

“Four-bamboo! Good, next play the white-dragon — okay, okay, draw this one!”

Lin Zhu orchestrated the game like a miniature general, eyes sweeping the table before he bounced to his feet, full of confidence. “Alright, Uncle Wei, play however you like from here. If you lose, I’ll run ten laps around the studio!”

He’d spent nearly a month on this crew. His sharp instincts were sharper than some old-timers on set, nimble, smart, endlessly considerate, and good-natured. No one on the team didn’t like him.

As soon as he made his bet, the whole room buzzed with laughter—people cracked jokes and slapped the table, Wei Geping’s booming laugh the loudest of them all.

Mahjong was meant for relaxing, after all. This crew had endured two brutal months of outdoor shoots under the blazing sun. Now that they’d moved mostly indoors, they could finally catch a breath. Everyone just wanted a bit of fun and excitement.

Apart from the ambitious Director Wei, nobody actually cares about winning or losing.

Too bad the director’s mahjong skills were terrible.

His eye for detail was vicious, though. He could spot in a heartbeat whether people were playing seriously or going easy on him.

The entire production team had been tormented by this for weeks. Finally, they’d gotten their lucky charm back to help him win. From the assistant director to the stagehands, they all let out a collective sigh of relief.

The room was lively and bustling, and Zhong Yao watched it all quietly for a while, the warmth in his eyes gradually deepening. When his victorious little agent bounced back over, he met him with a gentle smile.

Zhong Yao looked especially gentle like this. Lin Zhu put aside his nervousness, sitting beside him, eyes bright. “Aren’t you bored?”

“No. Actually, I quite like being in the middle of the fun.”

Zhong Yao chuckled, willingly following Lin Zhu’s lead to steer away from the earlier topic. “I’m not good at playing myself, but it’s nice to watch.”

He wasn’t good at taking part in this sort of rowdy atmosphere, but he’d always been instinctively drawn to it.

Vivid details are hidden in every corner of life. If one knew how to notice and absorb them, they became the richest source material for acting. It’s also one of the best ways for an actor to grow.

The warmth of everyday life was always interesting. And somehow, with Lin Zhu in it, it all felt even more interesting.

Lin Zhu blinked, lying sideways across the armrest to peer up at him.

Sensing that his agent was studying him instead of watching the game, Zhong Yao raised his brows slightly, just about to meet his gaze. Then, Lin Zhu dodged at lightning speed and, out of nowhere, produced a thick stack of contracts that he dropped squarely onto his lap.

Zhong Yao looked genuinely surprised, glancing at the heated mahjong table behind them. “Do you really want to discuss the contracts?” 

“The discussion is done. The crew has no objections on everything we proposed back then. They even arranged a set visit and press interview. Should be the day after tomorrow or the day after that. They’ll announce the casting for Zhan Yuan right then and there.”

Lin Zhu’s eyes curved into a bright smile as he flipped through the papers, picking out the important ones for him to look over. “The styling will be finalized tomorrow. We’ll post something on Weibo to match the crew’s announcement. Once they share it, it’s official.”

The contract had been finalized while Zhong Yao was in the shower for ten minutes. Everyone on the main team had been so desperate to get back to mahjong they’d become unbelievably agreeable. Zhong Yao didn’t care much about the pay anymore. What he needed was exposure and publicity, and this [No Bridge] drama filled that gap perfectly.

Costume fitting and makeup styling tomorrow, press visit the day after. The production had already been running for two months. The rest of the promotional plan was fully set up. He didn’t need to worry about a thing — just show up, follow the schedule, and he’d have more than enough coverage.

The pay they offered him was even at the “special guest star” level.

Zhong Yao flipped through the generous contract and suddenly felt like he was exploiting his agent. 

Meanwhile, the agent who’d kept him with nothing but mahjong skills sat there, blissfully unaware, proudly flipping through the pages as he talked him through the next few days.

“The next week will be pretty packed with shoots. Once the filming starts tomorrow, I’ll run around the city and pick up a few sets of everyday clothes for you.”

Lin Zhu rattled on while sneaking sips of warm milk, scribbling fiercely in his notebook. “You’ve just come back, so you can’t wear anything too old-fashioned. Sure, the Italian haute couture looks nice, but if you wear that in an interview, I’m afraid the media will write about you as ‘The People’s Veteran Artist’.”

Zhong Yao, The People’s Veteran Artist: “…” 

The downside of debuting so young is that he’d been famous for so long that just about everyone slightly younger than him could say “I grew up watching your shows.”

He usually didn’t care, but for some reason, tonight he suddenly wanted to stress that he wasn’t that old yet. He cleared his throat, about to argue, but Lin Zhu beat him to it, flashing that row of neat white teeth. “I’m not lying to you. Especially for someone like me, who grew up watching your shows—” 

Zhong Yao: “…”

Zhong Yao: “Okay, let’s change my day-to-day style tomorrow.” 

Lin Zhu beamed with satisfaction, crunching on chips and sipping on his milk. “I studied styling and makeup myself. We don’t need any extra stylists for you. The crew will probably assign two assistants for basic stuff. For the next stretch of indoor filming, there’s no need to drive to the set…”

Republic-era dramas demanded a lot from their sets. Zhan Yuan’s character, who spends money like water, charming everyone in the city, was one of the show’s biggest highlights, and had to be backed with real cash and real sets.

Wei Geping was never satisfied with the scenery, no matter how the art team dressed it. Fortunately, a certain investor named Lin[mfn]Lin = 林. Hm, I wonder who could that be?[/mfn] – who wished to remain anonymous – had generously sponsored a month’s worth of luxury hotel use. So the crew simply converted the Huarui Hotel’s grand lobby into an indoor soundstage.

Huarui Hotel was the city’s most upscale resort hotel, situated far from the city center, down a quiet main road lined with perfect scenery. The whole production team and key staff were living in the guest rooms upstairs. One elevator ride down, they were on set; and outdoor shots were just a short drive away. Incredibly convenient.

Lin Zhu never touched the family business. He gleefully marveled at not having to get up at dawn to commute for once. He turned his detailed timetable toward Zhong Yao, reading him through tomorrow’s plans.

Minute by minute, the clock ticked past midnight.

The hotel’s soundproofing was excellent. No matter how lively they got, no one had to worry about disturbing the neighbors.

The main team were all used to late nights, so no one felt sleepy yet. Immersed in the thrill of his (illusional) winning streak, Wei Geping suddenly remembered Lin Zhu’s promise on the phone about going to bed by midnight. He kept his eyes on the table while waving them off “Oh, it’s this late already? Go to bed quickly – and you too, Zhong Yao! Our first scene is tomorrow, so we can’t be in bad shape.” 

Zhong Yao raised an eyebrow but didn’t move immediately.

Wei Geping waved him off without looking up. “Why are you still here? You don’t even play mahjong. Take your little agent and go to sleep. You finished the contract, didn’t you?”

Zhong Yao sighed softly. “Director Wei, I thought my shower would remind you. I sleep in this room.”

Wei Geping: “…”

This hotel’s whole gimmick was that each room had its own unique theme. This one happened to be the only mahjong room. The crew had gotten so used to crowding in here that they’d totally forgotten there was now a guest living in it.

Every room was already taken and there were only those two room keys left.

Having made such a mess in this room, it’s obviously impossible to be used just as is. Yet they couldn’t exactly make an actor who’d just joined the production stay up half the night cleaning.

Wei Geping pondered for a long moment, then slapped the table decisively. “Isn’t the solution easy? You two share a room for tonight. We’ll clear out the mahjong table tomorrow.” 

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T/L: Everybody say “Thank you Director Wei” for getting our two leads into sharing a room as early as Chapter 11!