Before Zhang Shan arrived, a contract drafted by a lawyer was delivered by Zhang Zhihua. It was hard to tell if this was the official start of negotiations or just a warm-up.
“My cousin is coming back soon.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“By Monday at the latest! Just three or four more days!” Zhang Zhihua emphasized.
“Mm.”
Li Xuan had been extremely busy lately. Sheng Min was worried but didn’t dare disturb him, which led to his own insomnia flaring up again. Zhang Zhihua’s loud voice made his headache worse.
“You should just sign it already…” Zhang Zhihua sounded like a debt collector.
Sheng Min had been delaying his contract renewal. Zhang Zhihua only had this one profitable artist left, and the whole company was watching. He had been struggling, facing subtle pressure and outright hostility.
“The contract terms are really good. My cousin has been in a terrible mood because of her husband’s situation. And now, you keep dragging this out—don’t act so high and mighty. You’ve been resting for almost a month already! Did you even read the script I sent?”
“I read it.” Sheng Min stood up to see him out. “Leave the contract here. I have things to do. I won’t keep you any longer.”
Half pushing and half forcing, he got Zhang Zhihua out the door. Even after shutting it, he could still hear muffled complaints from the hallway.
Sheng Min casually picked up the contract, glanced at it, then tossed it aside. A moment later, he picked it up again.
To be fair, the terms were indeed generous—the promised resources, the revenue split—but none of that stopped the wave of exhaustion that hit him when he saw Zhang Shan’s name pop up on his phone screen.
“President Zhang.”
“Did you get the contract?”
“I did.”
“Then take a look. We agreed to discuss your contract after your last project wrapped up. You never brought it up, and I got busy with other things, so I forgot.” Zhang Shan’s voice was as composed as ever, showing no sign of stress over her family matters. “My cousin is useless—he never knows how to say things properly. You’ve worked with him for years; you know that’s just how he is.”
Without a doubt, it must have been Zhang Zhihua saying something behind his back.
Sheng Min replied calmly, “I know.”
“He really doesn’t have an eye for things. Of all the scripts he sent you, not a single one caught your interest? … It’s been over a month now. Aren’t you bored staying at home?” Zhang Shan chuckled twice. “But then again, I’ve never been worried about you. You always find something to do. I heard you’ve been going to the theater a lot lately? I don’t have the leisure for that—it’s been years since I last went… Sounds tempting, though. Any good plays recently? Once I’m back in N City, I might go see one.”
The implication was far too obvious, so clear that there was no need to read between the lines.
“Speaking of which, a few years ago, you mentioned wanting to do theater, right? Back then, your schedule was too packed. Just dabbling in it isn’t out of the question.”
The director team of ‘Not Just the Mountain’ had agreed to keep things confidential, and there had been no further news for days. But there’s no such thing as a completely sealed secret. From the moment he decided to audition, Sheng Min was already aware of this.
Was she probing, or had she actually found something out? Sheng Min couldn’t tell, and he didn’t want to. But he knew he had to say something. “President Zhang, there’s something I want—”
“Xiao Min.” Zhang Shan didn’t give him a chance to finish. “Many things look good on the surface, but that doesn’t mean they truly are. Always wanting more is not a good habit.”
“I might not make it that far,” Sheng Min replied calmly. “But whether or not I take a step forward—I believe that’s my decision to make.”
The other end of the call fell into an abrupt silence for a few seconds. Then Zhang Shan chuckled, as if coaxing a child. “You’re young. The worst thing is to be impulsive—you should work on that. And don’t rush your decisions. Take your time with the contract. No matter what, wait until I’m back so we can talk in person.”
She hung up abruptly, leaving behind nothing but a long tone, like an alarm—or a warning.
Maybe he had been a little impulsive just now. Sheng Min stared at his darkened phone screen. It was probably because Li Xuan hadn’t come home again last night, and his patience was wearing thin.
But what’s said is said. Sheng Min lowered his eyes. There was less than a month left on his contract. He had been stalling on signing for a long time now—that itself was already a statement. Zhang Shan wouldn’t be unaware of it.
There might be trouble ahead. If he stayed optimistic, it was a matter of “crossing the bridge when he got there.” If he didn’t, well—he’d deal with it as it came.
Perhaps spending so much time with Li Xuan had made him crave quick resolutions for everything. Sheng Min let out a small laugh. He had thought it through—Zhang Shan only had one bargaining chip against him: Li Xuan. In the domestic entertainment industry, unless someone was caught kissing or getting into bed, there was no solid proof.
Celebrities worried about exposure because it could impact their fan base. When taking on roles, investors would also consider their sexual orientation as a potential risk factor. But since he had already decided to leave this industry, he wasn’t afraid of having his weaknesses used against him. Compared to his own situation, he was more worried about Li Xuan.
He didn’t know much about Yuan Yi’s current status. Li Xuan never brought it up voluntarily, and whenever he asked, Li Xuan would just brush it off with a joke, dodging the question.
With a sigh, Sheng Min reached for Li Xuan’s peppermint candy and popped one into his mouth. The cool sensation spread through his chest and lungs, helping him refocus. He opened his notes and went over his financial assets again.
Most of the money he had earned over the years had gone into paying off Wang Shuying’s gambling debts, so his savings weren’t as much as he had hoped. But it was enough. He had consulted someone about the cost of developing a game from scratch. Even if terminating his contract caused trouble, he should still have enough to cover it.
After finishing his calculations, he felt a little more at ease. He sent Li Xuan a message asking if he would be home for dinner. The moment he hit send, he regretted it and quickly retracted the message.
Their last conversation was from yesterday—Sheng Min had sent a photo of some fresh flowers. Lately, on the days Li Xuan couldn’t come home, he would have flowers delivered instead. Sheng Min knew it was Li Xuan’s way of offering comfort.
He let out a helpless chuckle, preparing to change the water in the vase. Just as he stood up, his phone rang. He thought it was Li Xuan calling, but when he picked it up, he saw an unfamiliar number. Frowning slightly, he swiped to answer. “Hello, who’s this?”
“Hello, I’m Yin Qianpin.”
……
There weren’t many people at the theater during the day, and parking spaces were plentiful. After parking, Sheng Min didn’t get out right away. Instead, he used the rearview mirror to scan the tree-lined road behind him.
Lately, he had the feeling he was being followed. Every time he went out, there were always a few faintly discernible gazes lingering on him. It wasn’t just his imagination—he was used to being followed and had a keen sense for it. He just wasn’t sure who was following him this time. Was it reporters trying to hit their year-end quotas, or was it someone Zhang Shan had arranged?
He recognized the license plates of the reporters who usually tailed him. They were familiar faces. But today, he hadn’t spotted them. As cars sped past one by one, he still couldn’t pinpoint where those watchful eyes were hiding.
Let them take photos if they want. There’s nothing to hide. Not even Li Xuan.
Sheng Min put on his mask and cap, then gently closed the car door.
Yin Qianpin had a long-term collaboration with the theater. When Sheng Min came for his initial audition, he had learned that the director had rented out the entire tenth floor.
The office was at the very end of the hallway, the door left slightly open. Sheng Min knocked lightly. “Director Yin?”
“Come in.”
The space was quite large, likely two rooms combined. It felt less like an office and more like a private library. The curtains were drawn open, allowing sunlight to stream in, carrying the faint scent of ink and books.
With rows of bookshelves obscuring his view, Sheng Min couldn’t see anyone at first. He followed the voice deeper inside, only to accidentally kick something soft on the floor.
He sucked in a breath and instinctively took a step back. From the middle of a pile of blankets, a hand stretched out. “Hello.”
“You look even better in person than on TV.” Then, a face covered in sleep marks peeked out. Sheng Min immediately recognized him—it was the actor who played Wang Lin. He had been acting in Yin Qianpin’s plays since his debut. Though he had no formal training, his background was a mystery, with some outlandish rumors suggesting that Yin Qianpin had discovered him while scouting in some remote mountain village.
“Deng Jing.”
He wasn’t traditionally handsome—his features were delicate but carried a certain charm. He waved lazily but made no move to get up. Sheng Min had no choice but to crouch slightly and shake his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Just ignore him. Sheng Min, have a seat.”
Yin Qianpin himself was sitting at a desk by the wall, surrounded by a tall stack of books. He glanced at Deng Jing with a look of disdain. “Why are you sleeping here?”
“I’ve been sleeping here for half the night, and you’re only noticing now… Ge, you called me here to revise the script.”
“You only changed two lines.”
“Two lines still take brainpower. You think I want to sleep on the floor?” Deng Jing slowly got up, his bones cracking. “Alright, I won’t bother you anymore. I’m going to get breakfast. You want any?”
Yin Qianpin kept his eyes on the book and didn’t respond.
“Guess not.” Deng Jing clapped his hands cheerfully, then turned to Sheng Min. “What about you? You eating?”
He was acting incredibly familiar for someone Sheng Min had just met, reminding him a little of Yang Xu. After considering it, Sheng Min said, “I’ve already had lunch.”
“You’re funny.” Deng Jing paused, then burst out laughing. He patted Sheng Min on the shoulder, nimbly jumped out from the blanket, and waved. “I’m off.”
“Rehearsal tonight,” Yin Qianpin called out behind him.
“Got it.”
The door opened and closed. Yin Qianpin was still focused on his book, not even glancing up. “Sit wherever you like.”
Sheng Min sat down somewhat awkwardly, but the earlier tension and nervousness had been interrupted by that little exchange.
He waited for a while, but no follow-up came. Yin Qianpin remained engrossed in his book, marking it with a pen, his head bowed so that all Sheng Min could see was the crown of his hair. That blanket left on the floor was really an eyesore, so Sheng Min picked it up, folded it, and set it aside before grabbing a book himself.
As soon as he started reading, he got completely absorbed. He finished a chapter and finally looked up, only to realize that Yin Qianpin had, at some point, put his book down.
Yin Qianpin had risen to fame early. His first self-written, self-directed play won an award while he was still studying at the Drama Academy. In the theater world, he was already considered a veteran, yet he wasn’t even thirty.
Despite his sold-out plays, he kept a low profile. Unlike some directors who loved media attention, he never gave interviews and had even stopped attending award ceremonies in recent years. The most recent photo of him online was from two years ago.
Wearing a baseball cap, with only half his face visible, he looked young and student-like—just as he did now.
“You don’t recognize me?” Sensing Sheng Min’s gaze, Yin Qianpin smiled, his teeth so white they could be in a toothpaste commercial. His first words were completely unexpected: “We’ve met before. Three years ago, I invited you to act in my play. You didn’t come.”
Sheng Min was caught off guard. He wondered if he had misheard, but Yin Qianpin’s expression was serious—definitely not a joke.
Three years ago, he hadn’t even participated in ‘Pick Your Moon’ yet and had no real fame. He thought for a moment. “Was it when I was still in school?”
“You remember?”
“No.”
Yin Qianpin sighed in mild frustration and said, “The outdoor plaza. I used to go there to get inspiration and scout actors. I approached you three times, asking if you wanted to audition. You turned me down every time…”
At that, Sheng Min finally had a vague recollection.
Back when he used to watch his senior classmates rehearse plays, there had been a few times when someone asked if he wanted to join and take on a role. It wasn’t unusual for productions to suddenly need replacements. Usually, a simple “no” was enough, but from the way Yin Qianpin described it… Sheng Min looked at him again—youthful, scholarly, not quite sure. “I remember a senior sister…”
“What kind of eyesight do you have? My hair was just a little longer back then.” Yin Qianpin rubbed his nose.
This was entirely different from the serious audition process Sheng Min had imagined. The unexpectedness of it made him laugh. “Sorry, I really didn’t recognize you at the time.”
Three years ago, Yin Qianpin’s hair wasn’t just “a little longer”—it had reached his shoulders. The lighting in the courtyard at night was dim, and he had spoken in a low voice. No one would have guessed that an already well-known theater director would be scouting actors in such a casual way. It felt more like someone trying to flirt.
“Regret it now?”
“Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. Even if I’d recognized you, I still wouldn’t have said yes back then,” Sheng Min admitted honestly. He wouldn’t say he was completely unshaken or that he didn’t feel a little regretful, but he had no real regrets.
Back then, he had no fame, no confidence, no freedom—just an endless string of obligations. He was stuck playing forgettable roles in third-rate web dramas, following whatever his agency dictated. It wasn’t a missed opportunity; it was never his to begin with.
That response made Yin Qianpin look at him with new interest. “I didn’t know you were an actor back then. I only realized when ‘Pick Your Moon’ aired.”
Sheng Min chuckled, then after a brief pause, said, “But a bit earlier, I did submit my résumé to a theater production. When I was about seventeen…”
“Why could you do it back then?” Yin Qianpin raised an eyebrow.
“My face hadn’t fully matured yet,” Sheng Min said simply. “The company didn’t have many roles for me at the time, so I had a little more freedom.”
Yin Qianpin burst out laughing. “You’re way too honest… Seventeen, huh? Was it ‘Listening to the Pines’? Nice choice. That was my third play… I never saw your résumé. The assistant director probably filtered you out.”
“Mm.”
“That was the right call. That play wouldn’t have suited you. So, I guess we’re even—I rejected you once too.” Yin Qianpin waved a hand dismissively. “So tell me, if you didn’t get in at seventeen, and you couldn’t do it at twenty, what about now?”
“That depends on you, Director Yin.”
“Drop the formalities—just call me by my name.”
Yin Qianpin propped his head on his hand, thinking for a moment. “I’ll be straight with you. Normally, I don’t like working with famous actors. They’re too pretentious—half the time, they look down on theater, and the other half, they want to use it to boost their image. Like acting in one or two plays makes them a serious actor or something… But principles can be flexible. Xiao Xie—my assistant director—she’s a fan of yours. Right, that useless assistant of mine… Among all the actors who want to work with me, plenty are way more famous than you. I just don’t want to cast them. But she’s new this year, hasn’t seen much of the industry.”
He clicked his tongue, exuding a scholar’s arrogance. “She’s been pushing me to consider you for ages. I’ve watched your audition tapes so many times I could recite them. She insists you’re different and that you really care. I figured I’d give you the benefit of the doubt… Honestly, ‘Not Just a Mountain’ does suit you. Your acting meets my standards. Plus, we have some history—I’m a little superstitious about that.”
He paused, then added, “But before anything else, there’s something I need to confirm.”
Yin Qianpin paused subtly, and Sheng Min nodded. “You can speak directly, it doesn’t matter.”
“I know your contract is about to expire. You don’t mind a basic background check, right? If I choose you, who do I sign the contract with?”
“With me.”
“You personally?”
“Yes.” Sheng Min nodded, answering calmly.
Yin Qianpin couldn’t help but look up and meet his gaze. Sheng Min’s clear eyes held no trace of deception.
“Don’t lie to me.”
“This is something that can be easily verified.”
“You’re still very young.”
“That’s why I want to do what I like.” Sheng Min felt both nervous and unusually at peace. “I wanted to before, but I didn’t dare. I hesitated, but a friend encouraged me to give it a try.”
“What do you like?”
“I like acting,” Sheng Min said softly. “I want the people I rehearse with and those who watch my performances to love the play itself, regardless of who I am.”
Yin Qianpin seemed thoughtful. “Then you will lose a lot.”
“I’ve already gained a lot.” Sheng Min smiled gently.
Yin Qianpin propped his chin up, silent, as if assessing the truth of his words. After a long while, he finally spoke again. “This is big news. If I leak it to the tabloids, I could make a fortune. Your company’s stock price would definitely drop…”
He joked but quickly turned serious. “I can’t guarantee I’ll choose you yet. Honestly, I have other options. But I want to give you a chance to continue trying. If I do end up selecting you, including rehearsals and touring, I’ll need at least a full year of your time.”
Sheng Min’s throat tightened. He looked into Yin Qianpin’s bright eyes and was suddenly transported back to when he was five years old. A gentle woman had asked him if he wanted to act.
At the time, he was too young to understand her words. He had caught the rich scent of her perfume but was too afraid to look at her face, instead staring past her shoulder at a cluster of beautiful flowers in bloom.
Later, time and circumstance had changed everything, but at this moment, that fragmented illusion seemed to bloom once again.
Li Xuan was right. Sheng Min smiled—if he wanted something, nothing was impossible.
“Hey.” Yin Qianpin waved a hand in front of his eyes. “So, are we good?”
“Yes.”
Sheng Min nodded.
Yin Qianpin grinned, nodding decisively. He pulled out a set of keys and handed them to him. “You can use the office next door. Rehearsals start tomorrow… If we end up working together and you’re truly committed, maybe we’ll sign a longer contract.”
