Chapter 1: Meichuan Kuzi

“Hey, you there?”

Shi Heng sat on the sofa, staring at the girl in front of the makeup mirror for a good while. His mind lingered on Nong Siqing’s offhand comment earlier about the makeup not quite suiting her. Finally, he couldn’t hold back and spoke up.

With a blush brush gliding across her face, the girl met the eyes of her agent—who had rushed in half an hour ago—through the mirror. She told him her name once more: “Zhong Jia.”

The man nodded indifferently, but her pleasantly melodic voice distracted him for a couple of seconds.

The styling was nearly finished, so Shi Heng simply stood and walked straight over to Zhong Jia’s side to take a closer look.

He was dressed in a neatly pressed suit. It was his first time attending his child’s parent-teacher conference, only to be dragged away midway by a barrage of urgent calls from his boss.

The stylist was an old acquaintance, having worked with plenty of artists under Shi Heng’s management. He lightly shook a bottle of hairspray. Before the hiss sounded, Zhong Jia closed her eyes, still sensing Shi Heng’s inscrutable gaze roaming over her.

“Something wrong?” she asked.

Shi Heng shifted his gaze from Zhong Jia’s delicately smooth face. He crossed his arms and leaned against the table behind him. “You don’t really like the sweet-and-cute style, do you?”

He’d figured out the issue himself. Nong Siqing was a renowned director, after all—sharp-eyed enough to spot the mismatch in styling during their brief chat. Her instincts were spot-on.

The stylist made some final tweaks. Zhong Jia opened her eyes and saw a version of herself utterly unlike her usual style: softly curled black hair cascading over her shoulders, the right side clipped back behind her ear with a pink rose hairpin, and a girlie strap dress in pastel tones.

Her features were vibrant and lively—a classic oval face with a pair of perfectly shaped peach-blossom eyes. She had the look of someone naturally sweet.

But this clearly wasn’t Zhong Jia’s everyday vibe, or else Nong Siqing wouldn’t have looked mildly surprised when she’d entered the makeup room.

Shi Heng grew even more curious. This twenty-year-old girl, without any formal acting training, what was it about her that had caught Nong Siqing’s eye? The director, notoriously picky about her films, had skipped auditions and halted a six-month nationwide open casting call to cast her as the lead.

“You probably don’t wear suits much either, huh?” Zhong Jia wasn’t snapping back; her tone was calm, playfully teasing.

Shi Heng hadn’t expected this side of her. He’d glanced at her profile in the temporary artist team group chat on his way over. Music college student, holed up in an ivory tower—nothing particularly standout, except her specialty: playing the pipa.

He’d pictured a quiet, introverted girl. Turns out he’d only been half right. Her traits matched the surface impression, but that very image was misleadingly stereotypical.

Shi Heng sensed a subtle spark in this young artist he’d just met—not overwhelming, but piercing through her sweet appearance. He could see traces of it in the sharp, heroic glint of her well-defined brow bones.

“Little rascal.” Shi Heng chuckled, glancing down at his own outfit. “Nah, I don’t wear them often. This job doesn’t mean schmoozing clients every day.”

He offered a cigarette to the stylist, whose work was now done. “Did Old Zhao send you?”

The stylist didn’t light up, just took a dry puff and grinned. “Yeah, Brother Zhao sent a photo and told me to go with it.”

He prided himself on his eye for talent, but who’d have thought this artist didn’t suit the sweet-girl route? What a shame for such a face.

“What photo? Let me see.” Shi Heng leaned in.

Up since dawn, Zhong Jia yawned endlessly while fiddling with her phone between the two heads. “A backstage shot from a musical. The club president has bad taste and made me play the princess—total forced cute vibes.”

Her use of “total” drew a stifled laugh from the stylist, who felt the arrow hit his knee. “Shi Heng, she’s got some spice. More fun than that blockhead you managed before.”

Her words were direct, with a soft sting of dry humor—not chatty, but she kept conversations lively. And that pleasant voice was a bonus.

The “blockhead” in question was Shi Heng’s previous artist: a high-ranking debut from a talent show, full of herself but whose career tanked. Overwhelmed by the pressure, she’d quit the industry entirely.

Shi Heng had lucked out with a month-plus break, touring Europe with his wife and daughter. But good fortune never comes alone, nor does bad—vacation cut short, he’d been abruptly assigned as Zhong Jia’s agent.

What a stroke of rotten luck. That was Shi Heng’s first thought. Anyone yanked back to work mid-holiday would be sour.

But on the drive over, he’d reconsidered. Maybe it was that old saying: fortune and misfortune are intertwined.

Nong Siqing’s reputation and credentials were top-tier—even up-and-coming directors like Jiang Wanzhi called her “senior.” Every actor she’d launched via her films had thrived. The sole flop, Qiao Yingqiu, who’d even died in the scandal, was a case of self-sabotage: a double award-winning actress who’d squandered a killer hand. Still, she hadn’t tarnished her mentor’s name.

And the film Zhong Jia was about to star in was a big deal. Nong Siqing had announced it as her final directorial work, so the usually low-key director had even held a press conference.

Shi Heng figured he might finally catch some good luck this time.

“So, what now?” As a Yanjing local, Shi Heng’s Beijing twang was thick. “Try a different look? We got time?”

Today’s turnout was massive—evident from the uncountable flower baskets at the venue entrance. As a movie newbie’s debut, Zhong Jia knew she should aim to dazzle without regrets, but time was insanely tight.

From meeting Nong Siqing and agreeing to star, to the director hooking her up with an agency, signing the contract, and now the press conference—it had all happened in about a week.

The stylist packed up his bottles and jars; he had another gig. But his friendship with Shi Heng put him in a bind.

Zhong Jia spoke up promptly. “No need. This’ll do—it’s fine.”

She flashed a girlish smile at the mirror: bright, lively, and radiant.

Shi Heng’s eyes flickered in surprise. A vague face flashed in his mind, somewhat like Zhong Jia’s, but when he tried to focus, it slipped away.

“Bro, add me on Fight the Landlord?” Zhong Jia waved her phone at the stylist heading for the door.

He laughed and agreed.

Shi Heng: “He’s old enough to be your uncle, and you’re still hitting on him?”

“Then you’re an uncle too—Uncle Shi?” Zhong Jia closed the game and jumped to WeChat, pulling up a four-person group chat called “Make-Do Band.”

Her phone was lagging, the screen cracked like a spiderweb—clearly well-worn.

Shi Heng noted these details, roughly gauging her family probably wasn’t well-off, or maybe she was just frugal.

“Call me whatever—Uncle Shi, Brother Shi, Old Shi. This surname doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.” Since Zhong Jia wasn’t hiding her screen, Shi Heng peeked. “You post-00s can’t chat without abbreviations, huh?”

Zhong Jia kept typing her reply, knowing he meant “Did you see xyn?”

She sent “No,” then said to Shi Heng, “Do all celebrities put anti-peep films on their phones?”

The topic shift caught him off guard; he nodded after a beat. “Best practice these days. Fans’ gear is top-notch. That viral influencer couple got outed ’cause they used each other’s pics as wallpapers.”

“I’m still young. Gotta grind for my career and make bank—I won’t flop over something dumb. Don’t worry.” Zhong Jia switched to shopping, checking out an anti-peep film from her cart.

Shi Heng laughed again. This kid was a riot. No beating around the bush, straight shooter—said what she thought. A touch of punk edge, but mellow, easy to get along with.

“Just one film, and you’re budgeting?” As he spoke, another thing hit him.

Zhong Jia’s team group was a total ragtag setup—everyone probably half-asleep, not even changing their nicknames. He’d only noticed his own after posting “Assistant, chime in”: still the cringe middle-aged “Peaceful and Far-Reaching.”

While changing his nickname and scrolling members, Shi Heng muttered, “Who’s ‘Meichuan Kuzi’?”

Zhong Jia rolled her eyes. Hearing such a fun name called out aloud was peak social cringe. She raised her hand. “Me.”

Shi Heng, old-school at heart, ribbed her. “What kinda trash name is that for a young lady?”

Someone with the “Drink Tea” avatar piped up in the group: Me me me, Brother Shi, I’m the assistant. Sorry, notice was so sudden—I was on a blind date. I’ll be fully on it tomorrow.

Shi Heng’s face darkened; he clearly wasn’t thrilled with this A Cha. Zhong Jia: “What’s up?”

“Nothing major, just hearsay. She wasn’t great with her last artist—got suspended for a bit.” Shi Heng sighed. “I’ll talk to the company, get you a new one.”

Zhong Jia was understanding. “No need. She’ll do for now—jobs are tough to find.”

She smiled. “I’m pretty self-sufficient anyway. Don’t really need babysitting.”

Shi Heng wasn’t convinced. He had relatives her age, boys and girls alike, spoiled rotten by their parents into total dependents who couldn’t even boil water.

But since she insisted, he let it slide.

Soon, a staffer knocked. “Little Zhong, makeup done? Need you over here to run through the flow.”

“Coming right now.” Zhong Jia agreed crisply.

Shi Heng wasn’t comfortable letting her go alone, so he followed along.

The door to the makeup room clicked shut behind them. The corridor bustled with people coming and going. As they passed Nong Siqing’s lounge, the sound of an interview drifted out. The female reporter’s voice stood in sharp contrast to Nong Siqing’s— the difference in their ages was unmistakable.

“Right, who’s the other lead?” It wasn’t that Shi Heng hadn’t done his homework; the film’s secrecy level was just sky-high. He’d asked his boss, but even the boss knew next to nothing beyond calling it a same-sex romance.

The same-sex marriage bill was still under revision, but its passage was likely just a year or two away. Riding the wave of current events, films in that genre had sprung up like mushrooms after a rainstorm. Nine out of every ten projects on the filing list were just like it. Shi Heng found the whole thing even stranger. This wasn’t some political mandate, after all. Nong Siqing had always despised blindly chasing trends like a headless fly. So why had she chosen a subject she’d directed before for this, her farewell project?

Zhong Jia’s bold personality showed in her stride—wide steps at a rapid clip. Shi Heng was struggling to keep pace.

At that moment, her footsteps faltered noticeably. She said, “Xie Yingnian.”

Those three words hit Shi Heng like a thunderbolt, leaving him dazed. His jaw dropped so wide he could have fit an egg in his mouth as he muttered “fuck” under his breath several times.

Unlucky, his ass—this time, he’d hit the jackpot!

***

T/N:

Meichuan Kuzi:

Mei (梅): The character means “plum.” It’s a homophone for Méi (没), which means “not” or “no.”

Chuan (川): The character means “river.” It’s a homophone for Chuān (穿), which means “to wear.”

Kuzi (裤子): The characters, kù (裤) and zi (子), are the literal characters for “pants” or “trousers.”

When put together, the name sounds exactly like the phrase “Not-Wearing-Pants.”