“I haven’t heard anything about another company signing Little Zhi. Does that mean she’s left the entertainment industry for good?”
“Morningstar, you bastards!”
“Zhu Jianmin’s the one who deserves the blame!”
“Maybe this is a good thing for Little Zhi. She can get away from this mess.”
“True. It’s been three years. Little Zhi’s probably happily going to college by now. I heard she got into a top university. No idea what she’s studying, but it doesn’t seem to be acting. Maybe she’s given up on the entertainment industry.”
“Anyway, I hope Little Zhi has a bright future.”
At the height of her fame, Su Zhi had attracted plenty of false admirers. Only after the sun began to set could she tell who her true supporters were.
After dinner, she saw some discussion of her official split from Morningstar in her old Weibo fan community.
The news had appeared in a small entertainment section. Some paparazzo had apparently gotten hold of the scoop.
Three years ago, the story would have shot straight to the top of the trending list.
Now, she could find only a handful of comments in her own fan community. Her name was nowhere on the trending list.
Su Zhi calmly checked her account. Her verification still hadn’t come through. Then she picked up the script.
News that she’d joined Loophole would be announced in a week, at the start of next month. You Xin would handle the arrangements. Su Zhi’s job was to learn the script.
You Xin had spent more than four years writing Loophole. The script was polished enough that they could start filming as soon as the cast was in place.
Still, over dinner, he’d told her that she could bring her own interpretation to Chunmeng’s scenes if she had ideas of her own.
At least he has a little conscience. Not much, but a little.
Su Zhi took a bite of the little cake she’d brought home from the restaurant and grumbled to herself.
You Xin had given her plenty of freedom with the script. When it came to her pay, though, he’d told the woman investing 100 million yuan, “Five thousand a day. Take it or leave it.”
She’d only managed to get that much by arguing her case. If she hadn’t been smart enough to discuss her fee with You Xin in advance, she might have ended up with another deal like “unlimited milk tea, no pay.”
That was the general opinion of everyone in the film industry who’d worked with You Xin.
He had a little conscience. Not much, but a little.
Su Zhi didn’t dwell on it. She focused on Loophole’s script instead.
The System could help with funding, but that was all. If Su Zhi wanted to reclaim her former glory, she had to do two things: get back in front of the camera, and prove her worth.
Aside from her former company, no one knew what she was capable of now. She had to show them her value, draw every entertainment company in the country to her like bees to honey, and make them offer her a contract. Whether she accepted or not, her former company would think twice before messing with her again.
To do that, she had to give a great performance in Loophole—better than anything she’d done before.
“Chunmeng. A genius whose childhood trauma sent her spiraling out of control. She uses the law to commit crimes. Difficult to define, but undeniably a threat to the social order.”
Su Zhi reread the description of her character and murmured to herself.
Before her first role, the only training she’d received was in dance, not acting. She hadn’t even been meant to debut as an actress. The company had originally planned to put her in a girl group. Because of her height, they’d wanted her as a backup dancer—a cute mascot who didn’t even need to sing, there to make the others look good.
That was why she’d only been offered a five-year contract. The company had never expected her to become a star. They’d wanted to use her looks from fifteen to twenty, when she was at her most beautiful, to bring in a few more fans for the group. Once she lost her looks, they could throw her away.
Su Zhi didn’t think she was worse than anyone else, but she couldn’t change what other people thought of her. If she couldn’t force them to change their minds, she could at least do the best she could—and prove them wrong.
Her background meant she wouldn’t get many chances to change her life. So she had to seize every one she got.
After memorizing the entire script, Su Zhi let her mind go blank.
She began to forget the script she’d just read. She began to forget who she was.
To be honest, Su Zhi didn’t think she knew how to act. So how had she managed to play every role so perfectly?
It was simple. She became the character.
“The highest form of acting isn’t acting well. It’s not acting at all.”
That was what a veteran actor had told her the first time she’d stepped on a set. It was the only piece of advice she’d ever received that helped her, a complete outsider, find her way into acting.
Su Zhi lay on her bed and slowly closed her eyes.
She emptied her mind, let go of all the random thoughts crowding her head, and stopped thinking about the endless nonsense of the entertainment industry. She even began to forget who she was.
Like someone falling into an abyss, she felt helpless and hopeless. In the endless dark, she forgot everything about herself.
Then Su Zhi opened her eyes.
A touch of madness had entered her clear, dark gaze. Her young face had taken on an air of innocence.
A moment ago, she had been Su Zhi, twenty years old. An outsider in this world. An orphan with no one to rely on. An actress who had angered her superiors, been blacklisted for three years, and forgotten by the entertainment industry.
Now she was Chunmeng, twenty-four years old, with doctorates in law, mathematics, sociology, and finance.
A true genius. A woman whose terrible childhood had left her with a severe antisocial personality disorder. A genius who used her intellect to disrupt society, yet could not be judged by the law.
“No. There’s something wrong with this character.”
The change lasted less than two seconds. The madness in Su Zhi’s eyes and the innocence on her face vanished, and all the worries of her life flooded back into her mind.
At first, Chunmeng’s character had seemed complete and believable. Her background made sense, and she fit everything Loophole needed. She seemed like the perfect final boss.
But once Su Zhi stepped into Chunmeng’s shoes, she felt a powerful sense of dissonance.
She couldn’t immediately put her finger on why, but a genius with an antisocial personality who’d lost control shouldn’t be like Chunmeng.
You Xin’s version of Chunmeng was full of unsettling clichés and contradictions. The cameras hadn’t even started rolling, and Su Zhi could already say for certain: the character was doomed to fail!
