A night of thunder had bent the tree branches. This year’s early autumn wasn’t as stiflingly hot as in past years. Wen Zhixu hadn’t driven at noon, and by now, her points deductions had nearly caught up.
She hadn’t had a single deduction in the year since getting her license, but coming to Chongqing had broken her lifelong record. She didn’t dare drive anymore now.
It had poured that morning, and the pooled water from her umbrella had soaked her jeans while taking a cab. The driver was a skilled chatterbox, keeping the morning from being too dull.
Yet the downpour couldn’t dampen the enthusiasm of certain fans. Crowds were gathered outside the filming site for check-ins and photos.
Wen Zhixu paid in cash upon getting out. She shook the water off her umbrella before stepping from the car door.
Filming started today, right into the storm, but the crew wouldn’t reschedule. The producer and Wang Yun were old classmates on good terms, giving Wang Yun plenty of sway on set.
Wen Zhixu had just crossed the street when a speeding sedan splashed her already wet jeans, making it worse.
By the time she turned, the car was just a fading taillight.
She didn’t like rainy days. With the umbrella hooked on her wrist, she glanced over lightly, not getting mad.
“Teacher Wen?”
Wen Zhixu turned at the voice to see a young woman standing off to the side, her slim suit bearing a work badge. Wen Zhixu gave her a quick once-over but no more.
She smiled politely in response.
The woman chuckled softly, staying to the side without blocking Wen Zhixu’s path.
The young woman nodded and flashed her badge. “Hello, Teacher. I’m An Ran, a reporter with Huaxin Entertainment Network. Mind if I ask you a few quick questions?”
Wen Zhixu glanced at it. She’d trended last night, and today she’d been splashed head to toe in a cab. Any tie-in to yesterday’s news would land her on the hot search again.
“Sorry, I’m not big on on-camera stuff,” Wen Zhixu said.
“No worries. If it’s okay with you, we could do a voice interview.” An Ran kept pace, persistent.
Afraid of offending Wen Zhixu, she kept her body mic off until getting the go-ahead.
Wen Zhixu kept walking. Her black jacket was splattered with sewage now, and reporters swarmed outside the restaurant.
Startup interviews were set for actors today; all the press was there. Bad timing on her part.
Wen Zhixu glanced sideways at An Ran. “I don’t have much time.”
An Ran’s ponytail brushed her suit as she quickened half a step. “Just a few questions—done before you reach the site. We can chat while we walk.”
“Alright then,” Wen Zhixu agreed.
An Ran immediately switched on the mic and started recording on her phone.
Wen Zhixu slowed her steps a touch. It had been ages since her last interview.
With reporters—especially voice ones—answers had to be sharp to thwart any malicious edits.
An Ran clipped the mic to Wen Zhixu’s jacket collar. “We’re rolling.”
Wen Zhixu nodded, stepping around puddles with calm poise.
“Hello, Teacher Wen. This is reporter An Ran. It’s an honor to interview you. We haven’t seen much of you online these past two years. Any plans or directions for new projects during your hiatus?”
Wen Zhixu didn’t look at An Ran. “I’ll be tackling some new genres. It’ll be a bigger departure from my usual style.”
“Got it. Teacher Wen, for the ‘Fog Condensing on the Window’ adaptation, you’ll be supervising. Will you be rewriting the script yourself?”
Wen Zhixu breathed a quiet sigh of relief. No trap laid there.
“The crew has its own scriptwriters,” she replied.
“Tang Qin’s character has a yuri subplot in the book. For an actor in transition, will the role be adjusted due to your relationship?”
Wen Zhixu had known this question was coming.
“When I wrote that yuri line, I weighed whether it’d derail the overall story. That’s why my outline had dual paths for the character—two versions. In the end, I felt the yuri line wasn’t baggage; it actually spotlights the unique affections between girls.” Wen Zhixu elaborated a bit.
Answering without confirming changes was the safest play—it avoided painting herself into a corner.
She’d already said no script changes earlier; this one was too pointed.
An Ran nodded. “Understood. It’s clear you’re very invested in your work, Teacher Wen. Thank you.”
An Ran hit pause and saved the file. The roadside questions stayed work-focused, steering clear of personal life.
Few entertainment reporters showed such restraint. Wen Zhixu had done an early interview with Huaxin and still recalled the outlet by name.
“Teacher Wen, your jacket’s dirty. Reporters everywhere at the door—want to borrow mine to go in?” An Ran stowed the mic.
Getting snapped in filthy clothes could spin into who-knows-what.
Yesterday Tang Qin had dragged her onto the hot search; walking in like this wouldn’t help.
“No need. I can just take it off,” Wen Zhixu declined.
She paused to unbutton it. Beneath was a plain white tee.
Class reunion tonight, and the day wasn’t going smoothly. She planned to head home and change after wrap.
Jacket in hand, Wen Zhixu had a good impression of An Ran. Restraint like that was rare among the press.
Noon brought no sun—just gloomy skies with intermittent drizzle. At the door, Wen Zhixu fielded no questions.
Today’s media was mainly for actor interviews; any on-site responses would hit promo channels as bonuses.
The startup ceremony was indoors at the restaurant. Heavy rain outside, but the auspicious date per the almanac demanded they proceed regardless.
The female lead nailed her first scene. Wen Zhixu eyed the freshly revised script and tweaked a few lines before shooting.
Line changes were routine in crews—some even hit post-production.
She sat on the second floor. A male actor smoked in the corner, grinding his butt into the vermilion railing with a sizzle before flicking it over the edge.
Tang Qin’s assistant approached her cautiously, hunched over, her notebook gone soft in the rain.
“Teacher Wen, Teacher Tang’s script is revised. Take a look?” The assistant’s smile was stiff as she proffered it with both hands.
Wen Zhixu had just taken it when heels clicked on the stairs. Her gaze followed the sound to Tang Qin arriving with the scriptwriter in tow.
Tang Qin sat beside her with a smile. “Teacher Wen, check the script. Anything off, we’ll have it rewritten. Let’s talk it through.”
Wen Zhixu shot her a glance, then thumbed through with her index finger. She had a sense of it already and stayed silent.
Calmly, she pulled out her phone, scrolled up and down, eyed the script again—like cross-checking.
She locked the screen, set the script aside, and said, “I get it—you want the yuri line cut because you’re pivoting your image.”
Wen Zhixu met Tang Qin’s eyes and read the confirmation there. She pressed on. “I checked with Director Wang. Your contract spells out the role, and you signed on knowing the line—after previewing the script, no less. Backing out now? Forget breach of contract. If I say no, then what?”
Before selling the rights, Wen Zhixu had anticipated a crew might ax the line.
Lesser actors might bite, but stars hesitated, and agencies rarely greenlit it.
Tang Qin had investor backing, hence the scriptwriter. Wang Yun’s stance was firm—the revisions Wen Zhixu had seen were tame.
That meant Tang Qin had looped in Wang Yun first, then come to pressure her. Yield, and Wang Yun wouldn’t blink.
“Teacher Wen, don’t burn bridges—or block every path,” Tang Qin said, smile holding. “You write novels; it’s different from TV. Cutting that line elevates the whole theme.”
Wen Zhixu listened patiently. “Cut it, and your opponent scenes shrink. The other actress pairs with you the whole drama; the subplot gets gutted.”
“That’s exactly it,” Tang Qin said outright, unmasked.
Her vibe matched her online persona—no backing down, eyes locked on Wen Zhixu.
No one else caught their exchange. Crews were gossip mills, but nothing leaked out.
Wen Zhixu eyed her dimmed phone screen and lowered her voice. “I disagree. The line stays.”
Last-minute regrets weren’t rare. On her first adaptation gig, the neighboring crew’s female lead two pressured the director to soften a villain arc—feared image hit—ending in a whitewash finale.
They were at a standoff. Tang Qin seemed to be brewing her next line. Wen Zhixu’s unflappable refusal—agreeing to nothing—lit a spark of anger in her.
Wen Zhixu rose, phone in hand. Before Tang Qin could speak: “We can recast.”
No buy-in from her, no changes. With adaptation experience, she knew what bent to market and what broke the story.
Tang Qin’s smile dimmed. After Wen Zhixu left, she took a deep breath to steady herself.
She blew stray hair from her face, leaned back, and said, “Call Lao Yang. I can’t handle this—let him figure it out.”
The assistant looked troubled and said weakly, “Brother Yang said that now that we’re on set, if you want to change the script, you’ll have to figure it out yourself.”
“Isn’t it that he said this crappy news would be useful?!” Tang Qin fumed. “What do we do now!”
Tang Qin hadn’t expected Wen Zhixu to not fear being smeared or refuse to change the script. After she finished filming, she could just step forward and say it was to help Wen Zhixu play this role, even if it affected her own image.
Wen Zhixu was the one getting scolded, and the pressure of public opinion was uncontrollable, but she hadn’t expected Wen Zhixu to not be afraid at all.
The assistant was lost in thought when her phone rang, snapping her out of it. She looked down, swiped open the screen, and her pupils suddenly dilated. She leaned in to show Tang Qin the text message she’d received.
Surveillance footage from that day at the tavern in Beicheng Tianjie! Caption: You have half an hour. Withdraw the hot search.
