The manager had chased for three whole days, trying every possible means but still failed to glimpse the contents of the letter.
“There’s half a month left. All departments, keep up the pace,” said Song Qi as he listed a few names. Then, his gaze returned to Liang Xiao.
Liang Xiao discreetly added another layer of password protection to the hidden folder on his phone to guard it from his manager, stashed the device securely, and looked up.
Song Qi flipped through the script. “You’ll stay a few more days. We’re adding another scene.”
Director Song had a habit of holding crew meetings every Friday. Everyone who could attend would, so they could coordinate and finalize production schedules.
The indoor shoots for the production had half a month left before moving on to grand-scale war scenes. Before relocating, all interior scenes had to be wrapped up.
Liang Xiao, who didn’t have any outdoor scenes, had originally been scheduled to wrap up shooting the following week. Upon hearing this, he nodded. “Got it.”
Song Qi glanced at him and seemed slightly more pleased.
“The D-unit director took the team to shoot group war scenes,” Su Man, seated beside Liang Xiao, said casually while flipping through her script for appearances, whispering privately to him. “They’ve shot seven or eight takes, and not a single one passed.”
As a result, Director Song had been in a less-than-pleasant mood for days.
Assistant directors were on edge, fearing they’d be reassigned to direct group war scenes. Every day on set, the atmosphere was one of early-rising diligence and professional devotion.
Unfamiliar with TV production processes, Liang Xiao asked curiously, “Not up to standard?”
“They lacked a desolate and tragic atmosphere,” Su Man explained. “Not bleak enough to convey a nation in ruins.”
This led to Director Song insisting on scouting locations from their current position all the way west to Xinjiang, determined to find scenery that embodied desolation and devastation.
Liang Xiao paused, then cautiously confirmed, “Aren’t we in Jiangnan?”
Su Man smirked. “Last time, Director Song wanted to scout locations westward until we reached the Mississippi River.”
“…”
Liang Xiao felt that, at the time, Director Song might have been filming The Adventures of Young Robinson Crusoe.
The crew meeting was intended to streamline scheduling and foster a sense of participation among departments and actors. While they talked, the producer had taken over the microphone to outline plans for the official announcements.
The last promotional short film had already entered the publicity pipeline, but the screenwriter, in pursuit of perfection, insisted on adding a few more scenes, delaying it by another week.
The additional scenes included Jiang Pingchao’s tear successfully leaping from his left eye onto his right index finger, as well as a few more transitional shots of Yun Lian.
When Liang Xiao was called out by name, he opened his notebook and jotted down a few notes.
In truth, things weren’t initially so complex.
The assistant director responsible for his scenes had followed the process from the beginning and swore that his character had originally been a simple con artist who disguised himself as a wealthy young master to infiltrate high society through sheer acting skills.
But ever since Liang Xiao finished the scene where he played a returning overseas student, Director Song and the screenwriter had been struck with inspiration, continuously layering new complexities onto the character.
According to the original plan, Liang Xiao was supposed to wrap up filming tomorrow, but it had already been delayed by a week.
Now, there were a few more days added.
Each time he appeared on screen, his outfit and demeanor had to be changed to match the character— a gentle young master, a naive student, a kind-hearted teacher, and a compassionate doctor.
The script supervisor, responsible for recording the filming process, ran around the set and specifically held up a storyboard to ask Liang Xiao, “Please describe your character in one sentence…”
Liang Xiao sighed, “A fan-shaped pie chart.”
…
“Truly outstanding.”
Su Man, who had worked with him on set, could understand the feeling. Now, watching the edited sample, she almost couldn’t make sense of it. “Has Longtao Entertainment been infiltrated by spies?”
The final footage was here, and from appearance to acting, Liang Xiao had no reason to be hidden away.
Even at Xingguan, with these qualities, he’d be in the top ranks. Longtao, on the other hand, was on the decline and would never have a talent pool so large that someone with these conditions couldn’t make a name for themselves.
Liang Xiao smiled, “Just bad luck.”
“Maybe you should change companies.” Su Man, seeing that he was unwilling to elaborate, didn’t press him further. “Take a step back and the world is your oyster.”
Liang Xiao had considered it, but the contract was long, and the penalty for breaking it was high. He couldn’t afford to buy out the contract just yet.
Luckily, the restrictions weren’t too tight.
Although there were no resources, it didn’t stop him from working independently outside the company, and life was still manageable.
Over the years, he’d been busy making money but could never save it. He managed to set aside some for his manager’s activity budget, but the bulk of it went towards the never-ending supply of suppressants.
Su Man was offering good advice, and Liang Xiao appreciated it. “Thank you, Sister Man.”
“You’re welcome.”
Su Man waved it off. “If you want to focus on popularity, several new companies are good. But if you want to stick to acting, consider Xingguan.”
Liang Xiao hadn’t saved enough money to buy out his contract and hadn’t thought too deeply about these things. Hearing her suggestion, he paused for a moment.
The crew meeting was mostly done. Song Qi only had a few matters to attend to and didn’t take up much of their time, ending it quickly with a wave to dismiss everyone.
Su Man stopped talking after her point, gathered her script, and got up.
Liang Xiao held his phone, pushing off his knee to stand, smiling. “Alright.”
“Longtao is very secretive… they’ve been hiding things well.”
The butler, standing by the desk, carefully relayed the information to Ho Lan, recalling the report from the resource integration department. “They signed a confidentiality agreement.”
Ever since the president was forced to deal with the pheromone issue and personally visited the set, all departments at Xingguan had been compelled to develop new directions for their work.
After the Artist Maintenance Department took charge of managing the reputation of artists from other companies, it was finally time for the Resource Integration Department to start consolidating resources from other companies.
The head of the Resource Department, having wasted forty years, had never engaged in such espionage. When he received the report, he looked desolate and sighed, “All is fate; nothing is in our control…”
The butler promised to offer incense for him and tentatively spoke: “President Huo?”
Huo Lan took the report and closed the promotional sample that had just been submitted by the crew.
Taking advantage of the moment, the butler slipped a sleeping pill into his coffee, stealthily took a stack of non-urgent documents, organized the desk, and adjusted the desk lamp to an appropriate brightness.
Unlike what most people speculated, although Huo Lan’s pheromones had been inexplicably active for half a month, his susceptible period actually began to show signs in the waiting room and only officially started after he disembarked from the plane.
The butler didn’t have a complete understanding of President Huo’s specific manifestations during his susceptible period; he only knew that Huo Lan was particularly focused on work during this time, without distractions. If left unattended, he would work tirelessly until the susceptible period ended.
As for the subtle differences in personality, they were no longer important compared to this emotionless work machine state.
The butler feared he would exhaust himself and wanted to divert his attention with any matters unrelated to work.
“If you’re worried about Mr. Liang…”
The butler flipped through the crew schedule with a magnifying glass: “In a few days, the crew will be out for publicity, and some people will return to participate in programs…”
Before the official release, maintaining momentum was essential; if there were gaps in scheduling, crew members and leads would appear on suitable variety shows for promotion.
Although Liang Xiao wasn’t a lead actor, he was still a key character.
The butler had great confidence in President Huo.
Although he didn’t understand why Huo Lan suddenly wanted someone to investigate Liang Xiao’s years at Longtao, tracing back through cause and effect might just be President Huo’s way of compensating for misunderstanding Mr. Liang.
Huo Lan was reading that report and didn’t speak.
The butler thought that perhaps President Huo hadn’t heard him, but it could also be interpreted as tacit approval. Gathering his resolve, he pressed on.
Huo Lan put down the report and looked at the tablet computer handed over by the butler, his brow furrowing: “What is this?”
“This is—this is a play Mr. Liang acted in before,” the butler explained. “…This is all we found.”
When searching for Liang Xiao’s past film works from the production department, the butler almost had a headache from frustration.
After all, it had been a long time since they had encountered an actor so obscure at Xingguan.
A small part of the department had worked tirelessly for three days, scouring major video sites. In the end, they only found a few scattered videos that were either poorly made or had terrible resolution.
Longtao Entertainment was clearly Liang Xiao’s own company. They had sent people with resources to request Mr. Liang’s sample videos but came up empty-handed.
The butler, left with no other choice, took matters into his own hands. He spent an entire night learning video editing, piecing together scattered clips. Not only did he add background music, but he also painstakingly applied filters to the footage.
As a result, he was determined to have Ho Lan watch the masterpiece, even at the cost of his dignity.
Ho Lan stared at the video compilation of
Liang Xiao with its “sunset glow” aesthetic. “…”
He massaged his temples. “You’ve worked hard.”
The butler was overwhelmed by the rare compliment.
Ho Lan took the tablet and closed the video.
“…”
The butler, still basking in his success, started, “Mr. Huo—”
“Call Mr. Liang,” Ho Lan instructed.
The butler was stunned. “Right now?”
“Right now.”
Closing the report, Ho Lan spoke calmly, “There are a few things I need clarified with him.”
—
Liang Xiao turned over on the bed, his eyes open.
Daytime thoughts often led to nighttime dreams.
He regretted chatting with Su Man earlier today. It had stirred up restless dreams all night—first the strong, pungent scent of pheromones, then fragmented flashes of light, followed by a scene of himself kneeling in a locked room, convulsing as his body curled tightly, his forehead pressed against the cold tiles.
He fished out his phone, opened a random mobile game, and promptly threw a match. The game’s child protection mode cheerfully booted him out of the lobby.
Liang Xiao sighed dramatically, lamenting his ill fate, and dismissed the message on the screen urging, “Play responsibly and grow healthily.”
Almost five years had passed. If Su Man hadn’t brought it up, he would’ve thought he’d forgotten most of what happened back then.
Yet here it was, disrupting his dreams for no reason.
Might as well read President Huo’s apology letter again.
It had been years since he’d encountered such a stiff, meticulous, and emotionally earnest 5,000-word masterpiece. Feeling sentimental, Liang Xiao opened the file and read a few lines before his phone suddenly vibrated.
Startled, he answered, “Butler Huo?”
The butler, guilty of disturbing someone’s rest late at night, cautiously spoke. “…Mr. Liang.”
Liang Xiao chuckled. “What can I do for you?”
Lacking sleep, his tone was tinged with the stillness of the night, soft and soothing without effort.
The butler exhaled in relief. “Mr. Huo asked me to call you to confirm a few things.”
Curious, Liang Xiao asked, “What things?”
The butler hesitated. “Have you been unhappy at Longtao Entertainment?”
Liang Xiao paused for a moment, speechless.
He hadn’t gone out of his way to downplay his abilities on set. Given his financial ties to Ho Lan, it was only natural for Xingguan to take note, especially with such close proximity.
When Su Man had casually asked about his current company, he had already suspected something was brewing.
But he certainly hadn’t anticipated this particular question.
“Mr. Huo said,” the butler, not entirely sure of the thought process behind Ho Lan’s susceptible period, braced himself and conveyed the message verbatim, “Regardless of the past…”
The butler continued, “Xingguan will always leave a way out for you.”
Liang Xiao lay on the bed, holding his phone up as he gazed absentmindedly at a single star outside the window.
“…Mr. Liang?” the butler ventured tentatively.
Liang Xiao pinched the bridge of his nose, cleared his throat, and chuckled lightly. “Got it.”
“I understand,” Liang Xiao replied. “Anything else?”
“Yes.” The butler, tasked with confirming two things so far, now moved on to the third, though he felt entirely uncertain about it. “Mr. Liang… may I ask you something first?”
“What is it?”
The butler hesitated. “Did you happen to receive anything from Mr. Huo?”
Not only had Liang Xiao received it, but he had also been thoroughly entertained by Mr. Huo’s ability to make anything—even a burlap sack—sound rigid, solemn, and unflinchingly serious in writing.
He coughed lightly, suppressing a laugh. “I did.”
The butler had a sinking feeling. “What was it?”
“That’s confidential.”
Having been unexpectedly moved by Mr. Huo’s actions during his susceptible period, Liang Xiao decided to do him a favor and keep the matter under wraps. “Why, is there a problem?”
“…There is.”
The butler closed his eyes in despair. “Mr. Huo would like to know… if you’ve finished writing your reflections on it yet.”
LOL