MACRM Chapter 14

Zhong Yao: “…….” 

Zhong Yao calmly pulled out his own phone and discreetly opened Baidu.

Fortunately, Actor Zhong’s looks were naturally more than enough to hold up. Even without extra touch-ups, the photo he’d posted could still be called stunning. In fact, precisely because it hadn’t been deliberately polished, it carried an effortless, unadorned charm.

Lin Zhu clutched his phone in regret for a moment, but soon perked up again and happily opened Weibo. He was just about to admire the flood of fans squealing in delight when his phone was suddenly lifted out of his hands, Zhong Yao took it. 

“How do you retouch these? Teach me and I’ll try next time…”

Zhong Yao glanced at the screen. Seeing that Lin Zhu hadn’t yet opened the comment section, he felt reassured. He paused for a second, then followed the on-the-spot tutorial, opening the pink icon[mfn]he’s probably using Meitu app lol[/mfn] for the app, and propped himself on the table next to Lin Zhu.

Lin Zhu blinked, instantly distracted. He pushed his glasses up his nose and leaned in. “First you tap here to load the photo— no, no, no, that one-click beauty filter is terrifying. Don’t touch that. Follow me…”

When the stagehand came to call them in, the dignified Republican-era leading man was still perched on the table with his young agent, murmuring away about why can’t he just Photoshop him straight into a scenic landscape.

“Zhong-laoshi really keeps up with the times, he’s really not out of date.” 

The stagehand laughed, handing over the day’s shooting schedule as they all walked out. “The official account just saw your post, and they’re about to repost it. The rest is all in the production team’s hands now, we’ll definitely promote it well…”

As he spoke, all three of them already reached the set.

The set was nearly ready. Today’s shoot was all scenes with Zhong Yao as the sole lead. The lavish interior glowed with gold and jade. The extras and supporting actors were already in costume, gathered around the assistant director getting instructions.

Wei Geping lounged in a chair, dark circles under both eyes, clearly half-asleep. Seeing the two arrive, he finally perked up and beckoned them over.

“Director Wei.”

Zhong Yao stepped forward, ready to listen to his notes. But Wei Geping just yawned, grabbed a thermos, and took two big gulps of strong tea. “I know your level. This scene is nothing special. Just play it naturally. It’s nothing complicated.”

Even after three years away from the screen, Zhong Yao’s acting skills hadn’t dulled at all. Wei Geping had seen that clearly in last night’s script reading. 

This scene wasn’t difficult either. As long as he grasped the feeling of the scene, there would be no issues on Zhong Yao’s side. Director Wei’s only worry was whether the extras could hold it together well enough to get through a full day’s shoot smoothly.

Wei Geping, still riding the high of his winning streak last night, was uncharacteristically calm and even had the mood to make small talk. “How did you two sleep? Do anything after you get back?”

The director had slept in many places – from tents in secluded mountains, to squeezing in a small earthen kang[mfn]traditional Chinese heated bed. Typically, it is connected to a fireplace-like(?) area where you can burn fuel to warm the bed.[/mfn] in the countryside with several men. He obviously didn’t think two men sharing a room was any big deal. He asked openly as he rubbed his neck.

Lin Zhu snapped ramrod straight, frantically shaking his head.

Zhong Yao thought of last night’s chat, coughed lightly, and shook his head too. “We both just rested. I slept very well.” 

“Surely it wasn’t that my charm had really faded like David had said…”

—But Lin Zhu still wanted to add filters.

And retouched his face. 

And slim his face.

Despite his agent’s solemn assurances that his looks were still top-notch, the Veteran Actor – who only gained preliminary understanding of the photo-editing app – still felt a faint twinge of insecurity.

Zhong Yao slipped out his phone, glanced at a certain well-meaning director’s side account still trying to hawk him some overseas influencer face masks, and calmly dragged it into the block list. He lifted his head again, steady as ever. “And you Director, did you sleep well?”

“Don’t even mention it. After Lin Zhu left, I didn’t win a single hand.”

Wei Geping was completely oblivious to the strange atmosphere between the agent-actor pair. He grumbled good-naturedly, then shifted gears back to work, flipping open a thick stack of printed paper. “Enough chit-chat, come here, let me show you the storyboard…” 

Both of them were seasoned experts, and a few words were all it took to settle the blocking[mfn]aka positioning in the scene, so you can be properly captured by all the cameras[/mfn]. The assistant director briefed the extras, got everyone to their marks. The lighting and camera crew readied themselves, and the signal came back, ready to roll.

Action.

Shanghai during the 1930s was still a land paved in gold and silver.

Zhong Yao was born to act. Tall, composed, carrying himself with an effortless grace; once he stepped into character, he seemed to glow from within.

Bright daylight spilled through carved windows, pooling over glittering chandeliers. The gentleman in a fitted suit mingled among the privileged guests, poised and unflappable. The red wine in his hand reflected a faint, turbulent crimson hue. 

Lin Zhu perched on a small stool at the edge of the set, chin in hand, eyes fixed on him without blinking.

He loved watching Zhong Yao at his dazzling best.

When he’d first seen Zhong Yao’s announcement video about temporarily stepping away at the tail end of a storm of rumors, Lin Zhu had finally realized what he truly wanted. That had been the moment he chose not to keep pursuing acting himself but to switch paths and become an agent instead.

He wanted to be the one standing behind Zhong Yao.

Lin Zhu watched for a while longer, then drew a deep, satisfied breath. When the shooting paused for a break, he got up, ready to head out and pick up some casual wear for Zhong Yao. But his phone buzzed suddenly in his pocket.

It was just a useless Weibo push notification.

He ducked his head to keep out of the camera frame and was about to swipe it away when something made him pause. He tapped into Zhong Yao’s Weibo.

The [No Bridge] production’s official account had already reposted the new photo, and the other leads had shared it too, so the post’s heat had climbed in no time. The comments were as lively as they hadn’t been in ages.

Thinking about Zhong Yao’s reaction earlier, Lin Zhu scrolled down. Sure enough, there they were, those few sharp comments.

[Didn’t you agree to support the younger generation? Why are you so blatantly snatching Zheng Yi’s role? If that’s not being a bully, then what is he?] 

[I never cared much for Zheng Yi before, but now I kinda feel bad for him. Why take his part? Go find your own resources, how hard is that?]

[Zheng Yi is one of the few younger actors who can really act, you know. Meanwhile, a certain someone hasn’t filmed in three years. If it came down to a real test, who says he’d even win?]

……

Lin Zhu held the phone in his hand, his brows lightly furrowed as he slowly scrolled down.

On set, they had just finished a scene. The extras weren’t allowed to leave their marks yet and were resting in place, while the stagehands went around handing out paper cups of water. Zhong Yao exchanged a few quick words with Wei Geping, when he sensed something was off. Instinctively, he turned his head for a look. Chest tightened faintly, he softly excused himself and strode over at once.

Hearing his footsteps, Lin Zhu looked up. The furrow between his brows gently smoothed out.

Zhong Yao led him aside to a quiet corner and gently took the phone from Lin Zhu’s hand. He paused for a moment, then said, “There’s nothing worth reading in these. Let them dance happily for now. I’ll post a clarifying statement myself.”

This role was something Lin Zhu had painstakingly fought for. Zhong Yao had never planned to let people twist the truth so easily. He’d intended to find a spare moment to post a statement anyway, he just hadn’t expected Lin Zhu to see the comments first.

After saying it, Zhong Yao felt his words were too thin to really comfort him. His hand, hanging at his side, lifted a little before settling gently on the young manager’s head, fingers brushing through his hair with a light rub. “Don’t let it get to you.”

His voice dropped to a warm, low murmur, almost exactly the same as it had sounded when they were younger.

Lin Zhu instinctively looked up, slightly dazed. For a second, the vivid memory he’d tucked away for years seemed to overlap with the man standing right in front of him.

Zhong Yao was worried about upsetting him.

No one had ever shielded Zhong Yao. Everything he had, every step forward, he’d carved out alone.

Back when Zhong Yao was at the height of his fame, it was the early days of the traffic economy. He’d seen the power of a water army[mfn]paid online accounts hired to push a certain narrative. High-quality ones will appear as very authentic accounts, while low-quality ones look like bots.[/mfn], seen the frenzy of online mobs, but he had never dealt with today’s highly professional fan-management machine.

He didn’t know these attacks were normally handled by the artist’s management team[mfn]so like, the PR dept + agents, assistants + others if needed[/mfn]. He didn’t know how easy it was to wipe out malicious comments now. So even when he himself was being targeted, he’d gone out of his way to hide it, afraid Lin Zhu would see it and feel upset.

Lin Zhu looked up at him from under his hand. The dimples at the corner of his mouth deepened, but his eyes betrayed him, turning faintly red.

Would it be too forward if he threw himself into Zhong Yao’s arms right now?

“What’s wrong? Don’t be upset. I’ll post the statement right now, explaining everything—”

Zhong Yao’s heart lurched. He reached for the phone again, but Lin Zhu just lifted his hand and rubbed at his eyes. When he looked up, his bright smile returned, and with a light flick of his wrist, a small memory card appeared in his palm.

Zhong Yao blinked in surprise, his gaze dropping to the card.

“Yesterday’s audition was filmed. Zheng Yi would never dare make a fool of himself on purpose. He probably didn’t have the nerve to tell his company what really happened, so they went ahead with the usual water army routine. With a few hired provocateurs fanning the flames, clueless fans go crazy.”

Lin Zhu’s voice was calm and steady as he held up the card for Zhong Yao to see.

“Here’s the complete audition video from yesterday. I asked Director Wei for it just in case. Leave this to me. I know how to handle it. I have my own channels for online influencers, so once this video goes out, flipping the narrative is just a matter of minutes.”

The young agent’s eyes shone with clear conviction. Zhong Yao drew in a quiet breath, then shook his head with a faint, helpless chuckle. “Times really have changed. I’d better catch up quickly. Please teach me more when you can…”

Before he could finish, a warm body suddenly pressed into his arms.

It was a force that felt both hesitant and testing, yet also resolute, almost brave in its certainty.

“Zhong Yao.”

A voice, clear and bright with a touch of youthful breathiness, brushed his ear. Even softened by a slight sniffle, the final note lifted upward, ringing with warmth.

“I can protect you too.”

Zhong Yao’s chest tightened. An old, half-buried memory was on the verge of breaking through the soil. His arm lifted on instinct.

But before he could pull him in, Lin Zhu had already slipped away, quick and deft. He flashed him a bright smile and ran out toward the light.