CW: child abuse (unethical underage labor).
Going to Zhong Yao’s place!
Lin Zhu, the little “bamboo shoot,” ripened on the spot. His heart thumped wildly against his chest. The tension he’d suppressed under work mode returned in full force, sweeping through his body as he tugged the blanket up to his nose, shaking his head frantically like a rattling drum.
Zhong Yao waited a moment, but when he didn’t get a verbal answer, he glanced up at the rearview mirror, slightly turning to the side with a hint of amusement in his eyes. “So… you don’t mind?”
Lin Zhu nodded, nodded, and nodded some more.
Zhong Yao gave a small nod too. The car started smoothly, pulling away from Canxing’s headquarters and merging onto the main road.
Lin Zhu leaned back in the seat, barely holding back the impulse to jump out and run a few laps around the car to calm down. He quickly curled his lips up in a grin, grabbed his phone, and sent Lin Song a string of even bigger red envelopes.
In the president’s office—
Don’t call me Sun, call me Zhu-zi[mfn]Zhu-zi = 竹子. Literally speaking, it means Bamboo Child. But the suffix -zi is used for endearment a lot (not necessarily translated? If you get my gist.[/mfn]: [Gege, gege, gege!! You really are my real brother!]
Don’t call me Sun, call me Zhu-zi: [Money Transfer]
Don’t call me Sun, call me Zhu-zi: [Money Transfer]
Don’t call me Sun, call me Zhu-zi: [Money Transfer]
Don’t call me Sun, call me Zhu-zi: (～o￣ ￣)～oo～(＿△＿o～)
Lin Song: ……
Lin Song pulled out a few files that required an out-of-town trip, laid them on his desk, and fell into deep thought.
Oblivious to his older brother’s silent torment, Lin Zhu happily clutched his phone, mind racing with delighted thoughts, tapping away to send even more messages.
Halfway through typing another line, a black car suddenly swerved into their lane, cutting them off. The abrupt move triggered a chain of harsh brakes and a blaring chorus of horns that instantly erupted through the traffic.
Zhong Yao slowed down in time and steered smoothly around the mess, but a sharp wave of dizziness still surged through Lin Zhu’s head right on cue.
He barely swallowed down a muffled groan, closed his eyes for a moment, then put down his phone and did his best to relax his mind and body, quietly tugging the blanket higher around him.
His mind reading ability was not without side effects.
No matter the person, if they were to gain some special ability, they naturally would try to strengthen it — except Lin Zhu was the opposite.
This was an ability he couldn’t shut off by choice.
As long as he saw people’s eyes, information poured in. Even if there was something blocking them — like glasses — it didn’t matter. When there were only a few people, he could handle it. But in crowds, it was like being trapped inside a blaring TV turned up to max volume: an explosion of information all at once. It left him with splitting headaches and intense vertigo.
After plenty of trial and error, Lin Zhu had managed to tone down the side effects enough to bear it. But every time he did a large-scale “read,” he still needed a buffer period to let the dizziness pass.
He’d thought he was hiding it pretty well by now.
The blanket was warm and cozy around him. Lin Zhu quietly cracked his eyes open, wanting to peek at Zhong Yao, but the dizziness rose again like a tide.
Lin Zhu sighed silently, gave up, closed his eyes properly, and tried to carve out a calm patch of blue sky and white clouds and green grass in his mind, then obediently drifted off.
Drowsy and lightheaded, he seemed to slip into a dream.
Thanks to his mind-reading’s side effects, his dreams were usually strange and surreal — bits of other people’s subconscious, accidentally absorbed during the day, often turned into bizarre, dramatic scenes at night, letting him vicariously live countless different lives.
But this dream was his own.
It must’ve been over ten years ago by now.
When he was five, the Lin family’s youngest was lost by accident. He bounced from human traffickers to orphanages more than once. The last orphanage took him in was located near a film studio. Because he was especially good-looking, the orphanage director there sometimes sent him out as a child extra to make money.
If he was going to be an extra, he couldn’t be too skinny or weak. So his meals were a bit better, just enough to round out his little cheeks with a trace of healthy softness.
At twelve, he looked only a bit over ten. He was thin and frail but too clear-eyed and pretty for a random background kid, so he often got cast in small, specific child roles.
Special extras were a step up from the nameless background crowd. At that time, ordinary extras only made 35 yuan a day. Special extras could make 60.
Over time, he worked for 53 days in total across various sets.
That number was burned into Lin Zhu’s memory – because he was a petty little thing back then. When his parents finally found him, sobbing as they clutched him tight and promised to take him home, he even pulled out a tattered notebook full of tally marks and demanded the orphanage director pay him back.
A total of 3180 yuan.
He generously rounded it down, only asking for 3000, before clutching his Wahaha drink, straw poking out, strutting like a tiny rooster as his parents led him home.
Lin Zhu didn’t actually hate that memory.
But from his parents’ and brother’s eyes, he’d seen how badly they wished he’d never have to think about it again — so he didn’t bring them up.
He hadn’t had that twelve-year-old dream in a long time.
He’d been shooting a period drama back then. His body was weak and he had to roll around in cold mud for the scene. He ended up sick on set but still forced himself up for makeup and filming.
One day, feverish and dizzy, he tripped and fell face-first into the muddy ground.
He was supposed to play a corpse in the last scene. Everyone thought he was just deeply in character. The production assistants and scene managers bustled around, too busy arranging the next shot to notice. He lay there, ears filled with a blurred, echoing hum.
And then, he was picked up by someone’s arms.
He was lifted up.
He was lifted up!
The little sleepy bamboo shoot snapped his eyes open.
He didn’t even know when the car had stopped. Zhong Yao was leaning half into the back seat, holding his shoulder to wake him. Startled by Lin Zhu’s sudden reaction, Zhong Yao lifted his head too quickly and thunk — banged it right on the roof.
Lin Zhu, now fully awake and not dizzy at all, shot up wanting to rub his head for him, only to be pressed right back down by Zhong Yao’s arm: “Be careful—”
Lin Zhu’s forehead bumped against Zhong Yao’s palm, Zhong Yao’s arm blocked Lin Zhu’s shoulder.
The situation was a bit of a mess: the roomy back seat now felt absurdly cramped with two grown men tangled up in a half-hug, half-scuffle.
Lin Zhu: ……
Zhong Yao: ……
Zhong Yao said evenly, “I’ll move first. Then you move.”
Lin Zhu had just woken up, his head still fuzzy. His eyes were round and watery with guilt.
Zhong Yao couldn’t hold back a soft laugh. He flicked Lin Zhu’s forehead, carefully wriggled himself free, then the “unsealed” Lin Zhu scrambled after him, hopping out of the car right behind him.
Outside, the sky was still bright, but the harsh midday sun had long since softened.
Lin Zhu stood in the breeze, slowly clearing his head—then gasped in dismay, “Zhong-laoshi, your house—”
“Not that far. The traffic was awful.”
Zhong Yao was calm as ever, locking the car. “Did you sleep well?”
He wasn’t familiar with local traffic, so he’d accidentally turned onto the worst possible jam, where he got stuck for three and a half hours straight.
But seeing Lin Zhu sleep so soundly in the back, he’d decided not to disturb him, just crawled along with the cars until they finally made it here right before dinner.
“Very well!”
Lin Zhu hadn’t let himself dream about the past in ages. He woke up feeling fresh and clear-headed, practically wagging his tail as he trailed behind Zhong Yao, all ready to go home with him.
“There’s a restaurant just over there. The food is fantastic. I’m a regular, they can give us a private room.”
It was right around dinner time and neither of them had eaten all day. Zhong Yao flipped through his phone while explaining, “What do you feel like eating? I’ll call ahead—”
His words stopped mid-sentence as he caught sight of Lin Zhu’s sudden look of disappointment. One eyebrow lifted slightly: “What’s wrong?”
Lin Zhu’s face flushed red, too embarrassed to say it outright, he tugged at the hem of his suit jacket, lips pursed like an abandoned puppy.
Wasn’t he supposed to go home…?
The little bandit who’d been so fierce at Canxing’s gate now just wanted to be scooped up and taken home, and he didn’t want any fancy restaurant.
Zhong Yao studied him for a moment, reading enough to guess what was going on. He let out a soft, helpless laugh. “My place is just upstairs, if we don’t eat something first though…”
He switched tone: “Shrimp fish cake, mushroom chicken stew, pickled cabbage, braised beef, tomato brisket—”
Zhong Yao: “Which flavor of instant noodles do you want? Pick one.”
Lin Zhu’s eyes widened in shock, Zhong Yao only shrugged.
He’d only been back in the country for a few days. His apartment had just been organized and he hadn’t had time to stock it with groceries. This high-end residential complex didn’t allow outside deliveries either.
He’d originally planned to bring Lin Zhu over for a proper meal, then let him get a good nap, only now the nap had already happened in the car. The first order of business had shifted.
Lin Zhu: ……
Lin Zhu decided: restaurant it is.
Zhong Yao’s place really was close to the restaurant. Ten minutes later, they were being led past the front desk into a quiet private dining room.
Lin Zhu slumped dramatically over the table, squeezing the menu in mock revenge: “Mushroom chicken stew, braised beef, tomato brisket, sweet pork…”
Zhong Yao stifled a laugh and gently corrected, “Sweet and sour pork.”
The server glanced between them and scribbled down the order.
Lin Zhu wanted to protest but Zhong Yao had already handed the menu back. “What else do you like? The squirrel fish here is good, so is the potherb mustard bass soup… how about pine nuts corn? If we don’t finish, we’ll pack it up for a late snack.”
Instantly distracted by the delicious dish names, Lin Zhu abandoned all thoughts of revenge and buried himself in the menu for real.
They settled on three dishes between the two of them, and Zhong Yao added a cold bamboo shoot salad on top. Lin Zhu’s eyes went wide, but before he could say a word, Zhong Yao handed the menu to the server. When they were alone again and the room was quiet, Zhong Yao finally sat up a bit straighter, eyes falling on Lin Zhu.
Lin Zhu froze up, hands neatly flat on the table, posture instantly stiff and proper.
“No need to be so tense. We’ll be working together for at least three months.”
Zhong Yao gave a small smile, nudged his teacup by the handle, paused for a heartbeat, then asked gently, “Can I ask… why did you choose me?”
He’d looked into Lin Zhu’s track record while they were stuck in traffic.
Lin Zhu was an outstanding agent.
Barely a year in the industry and already showing remarkable talent. Any artist he managed rose fast and steady. Zhong Yao could already predict that once Qi Zhi jumped ship to that “seasoned” agent, with no tailored resources or development plan, he’d slowly fade and lose relevance.
Lin Zhu could make anyone a success.
Zhong Yao had been in this industry for twelve years, he had a keen eye for this matter. After three years of silence, he probably wasn’t the best fit for the current market anymore.
So he really did want to know the reason.
Lin Zhu’s heart thumped faster under that steady, quiet gaze. He curled his fists a little tighter on the table.
—Those hands had lifted him up once. Warm, clean palms brushing away mud from his face, checking his fevered forehead.
Zhong Yao watched him calmly, a quiet warmth in his eyes, patiently waiting.
—He had opened his eyes back then, looking up at a pair of pitch-black eyes. In those eyes, he saw his own muddy, bedraggled self.
Zhong Yao clearly didn’t remember him.
Back then, Zhong Yao had just been scouted. It was his first ever screen role, the second male lead in that drama. He’d stubbornly paused filming to carry feverish little Lin Zhu to the crew staff, even paid for a doctor and medicine.
He’d even kept him at his side for a day, gave him a single line, five seconds of solo screen time.
Because of those five seconds, Lin Zhu’s parents finally found him in the sea of faces, and brought him home.
“Because—”
Lin Zhu broke into a wide grin, suddenly pulled out his little notebook, and slid it over along with a pen. His eyes were clear, his smile dazzling.
“I’m your fan. I’ve liked you for twelve years.”
Thank you for these chapters!! They’re so cute~