MACRM Chapter 8

Zhong Yao slowly let go of the teacup in his hand.

He’d been in the industry long enough and has heard this kind of thing far too many times. He was so used to it that whenever someone said this to him now, it hardly surprised him at all.

Excited, fervent, flattering, polite… “like” was a word that came too easily in this circle. Easy enough to get that people stopped thinking it meant much. Easy enough to lose that many stopped believing in it at all.

Zhong Yao met Lin Zhu’s gaze.

The young agent’s face still carried the softness of youth, his eyes clear and warm, showing that unique stubborn earnestness that only someone young could muster.

Just like when he’d first told him “he still needs an agent.”

He really couldn’t just treat Lin Zhu like any other fan.

Zhong Yao drew in a quiet breath, sat up a bit straighter, and said solemnly, “It’s an honor, I—”

“So you have to sign at least twelve autographs for me!”

Before he could finish being moved, Lin Zhu’s little fox ears perked right up. He quickly flipped the notebook around, shoved the marker into Zhong Yao’s hand, all sly and bright.

Zhong Yao: ……

“Ten.”

Lin Zhu hesitated, haggled back, spreading both hands with ten fingers up. Then glanced at Zhong Yao, bending two back down. “Eight—”

“I’ll sign you a hundred.”

Zhong Yao let out a soft, helpless laugh, twirled the marker between his fingers, and tapped the end of it on Lin Zhu’s forehead. Resigned, he lowered his head to start writing for this clingy little fan. “You want this many, who’s going to buy them? Maybe we should see if we can make money off these…”

Lin Zhu propped his chin up on the table, eyes sparkling as he watched. “I’m keeping them all for myself. No one else gets any.”

Zhong Yao’s pen paused just a second. He lifted his head to look at the genuinely delighted young man in front of him, then laughed quietly to himself and let his brushstroke shift imperceptibly from flowing cursive to crisp regular script.

The “Yao[mfn]Zhong Yao = 钟杳[/mfn]” character was written with sharp, precise, manner. Every stroke was strong as an iron hook, with eight distinct brush tips

He signed slowly, stroke by stroke, onto the little notepad Lin Zhu always carried with him. By the time the dishes started arriving, he’d only gotten to the fifth signature.

“I’ll owe you the rest, repay you bit by bit.”

Zhong Yao could feel the hunger creeping in now. Seeing Lin Zhu just sitting there, not touching his chopsticks, only sniffing the aroma and swallowing his saliva, he clicked the pen closed, pushed the notebook back to him, and placed a piece of sweet and sour pork into his bowl.

The chef here was from Huaiyang and settled here more than ten years ago. His skills were exquisite. Zhong Yao wasn’t one for sweet flavors, but he did appreciate the dishes here for their freshness and delicate finish.

After drifting overseas for three years, tasting this familiar hometown flavor made his once-restless heart finally feel settled again.

Lin Zhu had burned through so much energy today that once he saw Zhong Yao pick up his chopsticks, he dove right in too. He hugged the plate of sweet and sour pork and pine nut corn like a dragon guarding its treasure, cheeks puffed out, chewing so fast they practically blurred.

Zhong Yao slowly picked up a few strips of bamboo shoot salad, savoring them bit by bit, his eyes resting on Lin Zhu, gradually softening into a faint, warm smile.

---

In the north, night fell early. Just after 6 PM, dusk swept down like a curtain call.

They ate for almost an hour. Plates empty, bowls clean. There wasn’t even enough left for the midnight snack they’d planned to take home.

Zhong Yao paid the bill and ordered an extra bowl of hawthorn honey soup to help digestion. He handed Lin Zhu a spoon while flipping through the digital script of [No Bridge] on his phone. “The role is great, with lots of potential to characterize him. Has shooting already started?”

“Started about a month and a half ago. It should wrap in three months.”

The hawthorn paste was bright and glossy, drizzled with fragrant linden honey. It was served in a delicate white porcelain bowl, sweet and tart, refreshing to the palate.

Lin Zhu ate it happily. Without even turning his notes, he spoke fluently, like he’d memorized it long ago, “Your character, Zhan Yuan, appears in midsummer, dies in late autumn. Director Wei said he must shoot that scene in true midsummer, so they’ve been filming other parts first. This bit has been delayed…” 

The title [No Bridge] took its name from Yan Zhenqing’s epitaph: “A gate blocked by flowing water, ten years with no bridge[mfn]门隔流水，十年无桥[/mfn].” The drama’s male lead, named Wu Qiao[mfn]The protagonist is Wú Qiáo (吴桥). “No Bridge” is also Wú Qiáo (无桥).[/mfn], was a classic hero who anchored the entire show from start to finish. But Zhan Yuan’s entrance and exit were both swift — a brilliant flash that stole every eye, gone within ten episodes in an explosion that shields the protagonist. 

Lin Zhu had camped at the production crew for nearly two weeks to wrestle that role from Director Wei Geping. They’d agreed that if Zhong Yao didn’t come back in time or if anything unexpected happened, the role would go to someone else.

Zhong Yao skimmed the script quickly as he already had a good sense of it. He lifted his head just about to speak when Lin Zhu’s phone, left on the table, suddenly vibrated.

Lin Zhu paused with a spoonful of hawthorn halfway to his mouth, checked the message, and his easy expression turned sharp in an instant.

Zhong Yao leaned in. “What is it?”

“They’ve already agreed with Zheng Yi that after the crew of [No Bridge] finishes filming tonight, Zheng Yi will audition for Zhan Yuan’s role.”

Lin Zhu’s eyes sparked like tiny flames. He neatly packed up his things, grabbed Zhong Yao’s arm, and dragged him to the door. “They’re rushing it on purpose, no doubt about it.”

There were no secrets inside an agency. Plenty of people knew Lin Zhu had landed this role. Back then he’d had no other artists, so they’d all assumed he was holding onto it, waiting for the best deal.

This role was too good, and the timing was perfect too. Anyone with half a brain could guess Zhong Yao would pick it as his comeback piece.

And now, at this critical moment, they were sending Zheng Yi to snatch it? It was basically a public confrontation.

In another week, Zhan Yuan’s scenes had to start filming. They’d already pushed the timeline to the limit waiting for Zhong Yao. Lin Zhu had secured it through his own connections. If the company higher-ups stepped in now to muddy the waters, it wouldn’t be hard for them to spin things and hand the role to Zheng Yi instead.

“We’ll steal it back!”

Lin Zhu’s fighting spirit was blazing. He’d forgotten all about being shy around Zhong Yao. He grabbed his hand, fierce and brimming with righteous fury, and dragged him out of the restaurant. “You’ve studied the script all night already!”

Zhong Yao opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but was half-dragged away instead, eyes falling on the tips of Lin Zhu’s ears, flushed pink with frustration.

This wasn’t exactly rare in the industry.

“You steal my resources, I hijack your spotlight”, the invisible tug-of-war never stops. He still remembered the first time someone snatched away a role he’d prepared half a year for. His agent had just waved it off, saying, “It’s no big deal.”

So having someone who’d flare up on his behalf, drag him out the door ready to fight to win it back together…

This feeling was so much better than he’d ever expected.

Zhong Yao looked at him, quickened his pace to catch up, and placed his free hand lightly on the young agent’s head. “Don’t worry.”

Still, Lin Zhu was anxious. He rose on tiptoes to look at him.

Zhong Yao couldn’t help but laugh. He pressed his hand a little harder, ruffling Lin Zhu’s hair again. “Don’t you still want people to call you Lin-ge?”

Lin Zhu froze for a second, then snapped back to his senses, his eyes instantly sparkling with bright little stars. “Of course I do!”

His excitement only lasted a heartbeat before he was quickly overwhelmed by a helpless embarrassment — because Zhong Yao’s left wrist was still firmly held in his grip. And if Zhong Yao wanted to pat his head, he had to turn fully to face him, blocking him in close.

So now the two of them were standing face to face. Zhong Yao’s cool scent lingered right at the tip of his nose. Whether it was the hand he wouldn’t let go of, or the fact that if he tilted his head even slightly, he’d bump right into Zhong Yao’s chin. It was almost enough to make him self-combust on the spot.

Zhong Yao lifted his other hand, stopping Lin Zhu from burning himself red. He pressed the car key, and the headlights blinked to life.

“Let’s go.”

Zhong Yao opened the driver’s side door for him, waited for him to hop in and sit properly, then walked around and got in on the other side. “We’ll go take it back.”

---

After ten minutes of Lin Zhu’s driving, Zhong Yao raised his hand to grab the overhead handle.

He started seriously reconsidering whether, if he’d let Lin Zhu drive during the day, they wouldn’t have spent three and a half hours stuck in traffic. Maybe Lin Zhu would’ve been home by now, sleeping soundly. Maybe he’d have bought groceries, cooked dinner for the two of them, eaten together at a real table, then lounged on the couch chatting a bit before heading out.

Lin Zhu drove fast, but he had a good temper, too. He never ran a red light, never cut someone off. He just pushed the speed limit right up to where the law allowed, which rocketed them smoothly all the way to the [No Bridge] set.

They got out and flashed their passes. Someone led them to a dedicated waiting area. By then, the sky outside had gone completely dark.

There wasn’t any night shoot tonight — rare for this production — so they’d arranged the audition for tonight instead.

Lin Zhu found someone and asked around. He quickly learned the crew had notified Zhong Yi’s company directly. Somewhere inside Canxing, something had gone sideways. No one had leaked a word to him, and they’d secretly slipped Zheng Yi in instead.

If it weren’t for a colleague tipping him off behind the scenes, they’d probably still be completely in the dark.

He’d clearly read the exec’s mind at lunch, and back then, the guy hadn’t even had this plan yet. And Zheng Yi had known nothing, either.

It must’ve been cooked up when the two met later in the afternoon.

Lin Zhu made a mental note: from now on, he was going to stroll through the office more often, look every single exec straight in the eye.

He told Zhong Yao everything, then spread out the script the crew handed over for them to study together. He’d barely warmed the seat when rushed footsteps sounded outside the door.

The curtain lifted, and Zheng Yi stepped in. The moment he saw who was sitting there, his face darkened instantly.

“Your sources really are something, huh?”

Not daring to provoke Zhong Yao, Zheng Yi turned all his sarcasm on Lin Zhu, voice sharp and dripping.

“I heard you begged for this role, poured tea and fetched water and kissed ass until they gave it to you… Turns out that’s what you’re good for, huh? Really dedicated. Wonder if the crew will even buy it—”

Zhong Yao’s expression cooled. He straightened, just about to speak but the curtain lifted again. Director Wei Geping strode in with the main creative team, fresh off the set, bringing the whole swirl of backstage energy in with him.

Zheng Yi, to his credit, still knew when to rein it in. He snapped his scowl away, hurriedly stepped aside, and tried to greet them. But Wei Geping headed straight for Lin Zhu. He had the script rolled up like a baton, and he didn’t hesitate to smack Lin Zhu’s head with it.

“You stinky brat! Where the hell have you been these past few days? You snagged the role and vanished, leaving me hanging here. I’ve lost three days straight at mahjong because of you!”