Chapter 53: Simultaneous Live Streams

“I Can Do Anything” was being recorded methodically while post-production ramped up at full speed, hitting the originally scheduled summer slot. It blanketed the vast landscapes of the capital, Shanghai, and Shenzhen with promotions on a grand scale, living up to Qinggua Video’s reputation for throwing money around like it was going out of style.

The exclusive drama didn’t hold back either, plastering ads everywhere. During pauses, highlights from the first episode popped up front and center on screens: Zhong Jia and Shi Cainran flanking Xie Yingnian in the middle. Anyone unfamiliar might mistake it for a full-blown love triangle between the three.

Music variety shows popped up every year, most of them reheated leftovers from second or third seasons. Once you got the hang of the format, they lost that fresh spark.

This one had started as an A-list show before climbing to S-tier. The sponsors’ lineup featured mentors and guests who outshone the contestants—big names all around. It made sense, though. These days, music talents were harvested like leeks, crop after crop, but the market was only so big. It was hard to recreate the glory days of the early 2000s, when hit after hit became instant classics.

The top short-video platform sponsored the show, so live-stream promo was inevitable.

On Saturday evening, Zhong Jia fired up a live stream from her rented apartment. Her executive director had no big demands, just grinned and said, “Watch along with the audience, chat about whatever. But we’ll be comparing all the contestants’ data—it ties into song picks for the next round.”

Zhong Jia: “Got it.”

She agreed readily, though she wasn’t entirely confident.

Live streams were old hat for her. Back in her band days, she’d often goofed off on camera with her bandmates—casual stuff, small crowds. Chen Kuang could carry a whole show solo with her stand-up routine. Zhong Jia only stepped up as captain when needed, but she was the quiet type at heart, stringing things together with her singing and instrumentals. She was miles better than those two senior girls hawking their couple vibes and fan service.

What was she supposed to chat about?

Shi Heng was driving the young artist to the hospital for an ear checkup. The cochlear implant surgery was tentatively set for after the music show. On the way back, he said offhandedly, “Just ramble. Being pretty is your superpower. How many of those fans drooling over you are actually decent folks?”

“…Bro, could you show a little ambition?” Her Weibo DMs had been at 99+ for ages. Zhong Jia used to browse her inbox, replying on whims. Now? No time, and no way to keep up.

She’d occasionally dip into the comments, a sea of thirsty posts. Some usernames popped up in fan letters or airport flower cards. Faces blurred together for her—she had a touch of prosopagnosia with strangers. A Cha piped up beside her: “Tiantian, you’re really popular with big sisters.”

“Bigger than me?”

“Yeah, one PhD student last time said it was her first time stanning someone younger.”

It wasn’t all about looks, though.

Beauty came in all flavors. Zhong Jia saw herself as a bit understated. Compared to Xie Yingnian or Shi Cainran, she lacked that explosive visual punch. Tastes were personal, anyway—even top-tier faces caught flak. Hers played fine in real life, but onstage? The appeal multiplied exponentially.

The cool detachment in her vibe sharpened under the spotlights, her pale skin giving her an icy edge that belied her age. That fearless stage presence bordered on arrogance, but woven into her songs, it became a signature trait.

When it wrapped, the lights blazed on amid thunderous applause. From somewhere in the crowd came a piercing “Hubby!” Zhong Jia froze for a few seconds, shyly covering her face. Remembering the cameras, she dropped her hand in a hurry, but her feet had turned pigeon-toed. The onstage-offstage contrast? Pure shipper fuel.

“I can afford to slack off. You can’t,” Shi Heng said. “The whole family’s counting on you to put food on the table.”

As a Yanjing local, his use of the formal “you” needed savoring—hard to tell if he was just joking or throwing shade.

Zhong Jia: “I’ll work hard, okay? Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean to hide it from you.”

“We broke up quick after starting, right on wrap day. Ex-girlfriend stuff like that? No need to spill, right? That’s how I saw it.” She sat in the car, sipping bitter, astringent herbal medicine that smelled awful and tasted worse.

A Cha watched her with the worried gaze of a nagging mom, baffled. This cold had hit hard enough, but ten days in and it wouldn’t quit—like it was putting down roots in Zhong Jia.

Didn’t college have those sunny runs? Zhong Jia squeezed in fitness during breaks. Or was it the recent downtime tanking her immunity?

Her voice was a little hoarse. Shi Heng rolled his eyes at the car roof, thinking there was no justice. Handing out rice bowls wasn’t supposed to sound this good even when raspy.

“I’m not against you dating. You’re in your early twenties—go for it if it feels right. But at least pick someone worth it?” The first episode taping—more precisely, since Zhong Jia got back from Jincheng—Shi Heng had sensed something off. His instincts were sharp on this front, probably from all the scandals his artists had tanked into, turning into yearly headlines and giving him PTSD.

Zhong Jia: “Xie Yingnian.”

Shi Heng: “She dated your mom too.”

It sounded an awful lot like an insult…

A Cha caught the whiff of gunpowder and shrank into the corner, holding her breath.

“Pretty taboo,” Zhong Jia said with a smile. Shi Heng shot her an irritated glance. It was hard to stay mad at that face—he was just putting on a show, trying to make this inexperienced kid think twice.

Xie Yingnian’s rep in the industry was mixed. The good: she was down-to-earth. Despite her status, no superiority complex, and her work ethic was legendary.

The bad: her love life. Tabloid tales of chaotic hookups with anyone and everyone were exaggerated for clicks. Shi Heng knew the insiders—deep down, it was bias against women who flitted in and out of relationships without settling down.

“If she were a guy, you’d call it charmingly roguish,” Zhong Jia said insightfully.

Shi Heng choked, then muttered, “You lesbians all have issues…”

He trailed off halfway, realizing it hit too close. Ever since having a daughter with his wife, he’d prided himself on respecting women—yet factory-default societal wiring still pegged him as a relic.

Zhong Jia had no interest in arguing. She poured her intensity into music half the time, Xie Yingnian the other half. Otherwise, she let things slide—verbal sparring least of all.

“Bro, relax. I won’t end up like my mom.”

Qiao Yingqiu’s downfall had been brutal. Zhong Jia had watched videos of her mom at her peak, collecting awards: radiant in a red gown, diamond-studded heels, stunning beyond words. Nothing like the moody parent fretting over gigs in her memories.

Qian Peiqing had filled her in: Qiao Yingqiu got played by Zhong Kefei. The guy had some buzz in art salons—handsome, rural roots, not great with words. He Family heiress toyed with him plenty.

They’d been secretly together forever. Zhong Kefei leveraged connections for a cushy entertainment company gig—vice president in name only. He had Qiao Yingqiu head over heels, dreaming of his riches and stability. She quit her career cold turkey to play devoted wife and mom, like so many women viewing marriage as safe harbor.

But the waves capsized the ship. A bizarre whirlpool swallowed her sanity, turning her into a shell—unable to care for elders or kids. The rest of her life was a war against time, desperate to rewind, eyes wide open till the end.

Zhong Jia had been fiercely independent since she could think. Qian Peiqing had spoiled her own daughter rotten, then lost her—so she swung the opposite extreme with her pitiful granddaughter.

No less doting, just hammering home Qiao Yingqiu as cautionary tale: Don’t count on men—they die early anyway. Reliable? Please.

If it was a woman, Zhong Jia pondered seriously, her hopes for Xie Yingnian felt more like filling that childhood void—a deep attachment.

Nearly a decade apart, sure, but she wasn’t looking to be kept. She could earn her own keep.

Zhong Jia’s ambition wasn’t lip service. Young as she was, she gave off security in key ways. Her manager said just chat idly, but she jotted inspirations into her notes app, sorting her thoughts. Shi Heng finally asked if she wanted to go public.

“Let it happen naturally. Announcing it ourselves feels like demanding a title from her.”

Who went public right after reconciling? It’d look too eager.

The rental was near the Third Ring. Xie Yingnian parked in the communal lot, cracked her window, and spotted Zhong Jia’s lit second-floor window amid the glowing buildings.

She was about to get out when her phone dinged—a Weibo push. Two in a row, seconds apart.

One: Trending topic, #ShiCainranLive.

The other: Special follow, @ZhongJia: Waiting for you in my stream [heart]

Flying guests only did one or two eps. Xie Yingnian hadn’t locked in finals with the director—her call hinged on how far Zhong Jia advanced.

She’d heard about the format. Stepping out, face ID lit her screen. She swiped down the console mid-stride, hopped on Weibo, and joined Zhong Jia’s stream as a viewer.

As for the other—Shi Cainran’s trend was probably bought. Jiang Nai spared no expense on his artists. After losing round one, round two’s song pick was make-or-break.

She punched in the code, unlocked the door, and settled on the first-floor living room sofa without heading upstairs.

Zhong Jia’s situation was crystal clear. She could intervene in the competition and propel her little girlfriend to an easy lead, but once the label of opportunism stuck, it would be nearly impossible to shake off.

Her recent performances had even left Zhou Chun stunned. Were you really going to abandon your ungrateful little sister?

The manager, who had worked with her for years, was completely baffled and couldn’t understand Xie Yingnian’s dramatic change.

Meanwhile, Jiang Nai held Shi Cainran’s psychological evaluation report. He had booked the appointment with the doctor long ago, at Sang Zhi’s suggestion. His assistant had kept urging him, “Jiang-ge, just take her to get checked out. What if there really is something wrong?”

All the indicators were perfectly normal. Jiang Nai looked at the artist, still sulking over her loss to Zhong Jia, and hesitated to speak.

Shi Cainran sat sideways in her chair as sunlight streamed in, the blinds slicing her face into patches of light and shadow. She picked idly at her nails. “You’re wondering why I used to live in a mental hospital, right?”

In the business of managing artists, everyone had their network of contacts, and handling talent was a skill in itself. Jiang Nai knew a little about Shi Cainran’s past.

He didn’t feel embarrassed at all. “I’m curious,” he replied.

“I wasn’t sick.” Shi Cainran gave a cool, detached smile that sent goosebumps prickling up the back of Jiang Nai’s neck. Then he heard her say, “Someone just wanted to lock me away in there.”