A period of time passed, and the online controversy surrounding Le Yiqiu and Lin Xianing finally died down completely.
Le Yiqiu, who checked the news every day, breathed a sigh of relief. The original hot search had been paid down by Lin Xianing Studio, and though the buzz lingered for a while…
It was more accurate to say that fewer casual onlookers were tuning in, but the heat itself hadn’t faded. Views on topics about the two of them continued to climb steadily.
After nearly a month of this gradual cooling, the daily click-throughs on those topics finally dropped to an acceptable level.
But just as the tree longs for stillness, the wind refuses to relent.
It all shattered on the night of October 15th.
The Human Nature is Evil crew wrapped up their campus shoot and returned once more to the residential building set.
The film was slated for a hundred days of production, and now roughly half that time had elapsed.
Jianglin City’s weather had turned pleasantly cool in the mornings and evenings, a welcome relief for the actors during filming.
Over the past two or three months, Le Yiqiu had been shadowing Zheng Zhi, learning the ropes. She felt that what she lacked now wasn’t theoretical knowledge, but a tangible body of work to her name.
Zheng Zhi agreed. He handed her a small team and tasked her with shooting footage for some supporting roles and extras.
An assistant director had been handling those scenes anyway, but Zheng Zhi decided Le Yiqiu would shoot the same material alongside them. Whichever came out better would make the cut.
Le Yiqiu didn’t hesitate. She grabbed her crew and headed straight to the location.
Her assignment was a monologue for the third female lead—a character with substantial screen time. On an empty stage, the woman would bare her soul, not in repentance, but in raw admission of her sins.
In truth, it was all part of the protagonist’s scheme: live-stream the third lead’s confession to expose her crimes to the world.
The powerless heroine had no authority or influence to punish these evildoers. Her only weapon was the force of public opinion.
If the outrage was strong enough, even the sinners’ privileged family backgrounds wouldn’t save them.
The third lead was evil through and through. Her villainous soliloquy demanded madness, perversion—and chilling calm.
She would speak serenely of her twisted pleasures, heedless of the harm inflicted on others. She knew it was wrong, but what of it? Her enjoyment was justification enough.
It was in the act of evil that she found ecstasy. The third lead was an utter psycho; repentance was for the weak.
Capturing that essence required not just the actor’s skill, but precise camerawork from the director.
Zheng Zhi was already bracing himself: if they botched it, he’d have to step in personally.
As it turned out, Le Yiqiu’s take was unexpectedly brilliant.
Without a second thought, Zheng Zhi greenlit her footage. No nepotism involved—purely on merit.
Under normal circumstances, he might have used it to give his student a leg up. But this film was his shot at redemption. No compromises.
Le Yiqiu herself was stunned that she’d pulled it off. Yet the moment she settled in front of the monitor, with the entire crew hanging on her every command, that old, intoxicating sense of total control flooded back.
She wrapped it in a single day and delivered it to the director the next.
Discovering this talent surprised her—but the delight outweighed it.
Did this mean she could soon helm a project of her own?
She’d thought directing wasn’t her true passion. But behind the lens, excitement surged through her veins.
Maybe she did love being a director after all. She’d rediscovered that thrilling, all-consuming fire.
Zheng Zhi’s approval only fueled it. She was eager to craft something entirely her own.
Sometimes, validation from a fellow professional trumped applause from the masses.
That evening, Le Yiqiu drifted off to sleep in high spirits, conking out by ten o’clock.
Sometime after two in the morning, she jolted awake. Bleary-eyed and disoriented, she fumbled for her phone on instinct.
Squinting at the screen, she tapped open WeChat first.
Crew group: 0 new messages.
Director and lead’s private chat: 1,000+.
What the hell?
Le Yiqiu shook off some fog and scrolled the online chat logs. The gist: she and Lin Xianing were trending again.
The conversation trailed off at: “Teacher Le is in the group too.”
Then came a string of ellipses, dousing the heated debate.
Oh—it wasn’t doused. They’d kicked her out of the chat.
Le Yiqiu: “…”
Did these people not realize that kicking her wouldn’t erase the history she’d already seen?
After the admin booted her, silence reigned for a beat. Then someone piped up hesitantly: “Uh… kicking someone out doesn’t make the chat history disappear, does it?”
More ellipses followed, amplifying the cringe to nuclear levels.
The mortified admin disbanded the group in a rage.
Le Yiqiu didn’t care about the boot. A quick skim of the logs pieced it together.
She pulled up the hot searches. Screenshots of chats between her and Lin Xianing dominated the top spot, exploding everywhere.
Lin XianingAndLeYiqiuSameCrew
LeYiqiuBackdoorsIntoCrew
LeYiqiuFreeloadingShamelessly
She clicked in. The threads brimmed with vitriol aimed at her.
【—Le Yiqiu vanished for five years after Solitary City turned her into a legend. Now she resurfaces—as screenwriter on Zheng Zhi’s crew? And get this: Lin Xianing stars in it. Word was she spent those years scripting at home… zero output. Comeback move? Leeching onto her wife’s project. Please say it’s not just for the romance.
Solitary City sealed her status. No new works? Fine by the average Joe. But her wife? Lin Xianing. Need I spell out what that name carries? To stand beside her, you’d better be a power player or at least a top idol.
Five years off the radar, and she crawls back like this? Sometimes, owning your fade is classy. ‘Talent dried up’? Skip the ‘I was creating quietly’ excuse. Time exposes fakers. Losers stay losers.】
The post never outright called Le Yiqiu a freeloading loser, but every line hammered home that she didn’t deserve Lin Xianing—that she was one.
Anyone could read between those lines. The comments? Pure venom.
Most netizens didn’t care for facts; they ran with rumors. Their bile wasn’t personal—it was just ugly thoughts needing an outlet.
Solitary City was about a female star trapped in a media cage, ultimately slain by public opinion.
What was truth? Did it matter?
Online toxicity had reached toxic heights. Being a public figure was harder than ever.
Back when the internet was tamer—print media, forums at worst—you could escape. Now? One tap, and the storm hit from all sides.
Le Yiqiu stared at the headlines, a sour ache twisting in her chest. She felt utterly innocent—guilty of nothing, yet drowning in malice.
The grief was indescribable, like a swimmer sinking too deep to cry out.
But even as she flailed, a hand reached down.
Lin Xianing—I like her, and that’s enough.
