Zhang Ping was nervous.

Yesterday, a message popped up in a small industry group chat: the Lu Corporation was planning to shoot a film before July. The director hadn’t been decided yet. Interested candidates were to bring their résumés to Mingguang Tower for an interview at 9 a.m.

The group immediately exploded with ridicule.

[Director Li] “A whole movie in a month? Come on. You think anyone’s gonna watch that? You couldn’t pay people to go.”

[Writer Wang] “Classic case of amateurs running the show. No wonder Chinese films are in such a sorry state—decisions made on a whim.”

[Director Shen] “A mass interview? With résumés and self-introductions? Any director with a shred of reputation wouldn’t stoop that low.”

…

The group was full of bold declarations—better to starve standing than kneel for money. Zhang Ping felt deeply ashamed reading it all. If not for his newborn daughter needing formula, he wouldn’t be here either.

He had scrolled through all the chat history, assuming hardly anyone would actually show up. He hadn’t prepared anything—just brought his résumé and came.

But the moment he stepped into Mingguang Tower, he realized how wrong he was. So very wrong.

Wait a minute… wasn’t that Director Li?

He spotted a familiar face. Before he could even process his surprise, he saw Director Shen casually throw an arm over Director Huang’s shoulder as the two of them walked past, laughing and chatting like old friends.

The ones who had bashed the idea most viciously in the group chat were actually the first to arrive. Not only had they brought their résumés, they also came armed with carefully selected scripts from the night before—storylines memorized down to every detail. Honestly, they probably had half the dialogue rehearsed already.

When they saw Zhang Ping, they even greeted him without a flicker of shame: “What a coincidence! You’re here too, Xiao Zhang?”

Zhang Ping: …These industry folks are all so damn two-faced.

He looked down at the thin sheaf of papers in his hand—just a résumé—and swallowed hard. Suddenly, he was nervous. Way more nervous than when the Golden Bear Awards had announced their winners.

Because Lu Corporation’s pay was insanely generous. Even without counting box office cuts, they were offering a base of twenty million!

And more than that—directing Lu Corp’s very first film… the clout that came with it was beyond anything money could buy.

“They’re… here for the interview?”

Cheng Youran had barely finished asking when she felt over twenty intense gazes land directly on her, heating up the air around her. A chill crept up her spine.

“I did tell you yesterday, didn’t I?”

Lu Zixiao raised an eyebrow and walked into the conference room.

As for Cheng Youran—she really didn’t remember at all.

She glanced around at the crowd of directors, all clutching their résumés and looking at her with hopeful eyes. Her mind hadn’t quite caught up with the situation yet—technical terms kept randomly popping into her head.

She’d originally thought she’d be competing against a group of actresses for a role. Who would’ve guessed she’d be picking from a lineup of renowned directors instead?

What had she done to deserve this?

Cheng Youran sighed in amazement and followed Lu Zixiao into the room.

The first to enter was a chubby, bald man. He handed his résumé to Lu Zixiao, cleared his throat, and began his introduction.

“I graduated from the Directing Department of the Central Academy of Drama. Last year, my film Ink was nominated for a Golden Horse Award…”

“Tell us about your vision for this project,” Fang Liuyun said, switching on the recorder and taking notes.

“I want to—”

“Hmm?”

Fang Liuyun looked up at him.

“I want to make a Chinese-style hard sci-fi film,” the bald director said, his voice quickening with nerves. “I have a feeling this could be the groundbreaking work that launches Chinese science fiction. It’s bound to be a box office hit.”

His tone was so overly confident that Cheng Youran suddenly had a bad feeling. “Chinese-style hard sci-fi?” she echoed.

“Yes. The protagonist travels back to ancient times, climbs the tech tree, builds a spaceship, and colonizes the moon… I’ve even got a title: The Ancient Moon Landing Project.”

Cheng Youran: …This isn’t science fiction. This is straight-up fantasy.

“Next—”

Lu Zixiao muttered, his hand pressed to his forehead.

The second one in was Director Li, who always had a serious face. Known for his historical dramas, his pitch was at least more grounded.

“With just a month to shoot,” he said, “a youth film is the most realistic choice—low performance demands, fast turnaround, and it appeals to younger audiences.”

Fang Liuyun gave a small nod of approval.

“I happen to have a script on hand,” Director Li began, introducing the story. “The female lead, a minor, ends up sleeping with the male lead and gets pregnant.”

“Sleeping together?”

Lu Zixiao lifted his gaze and glanced at Director Li.

Director Li’s hand trembled as he quickly shook his head with a serious expression. “I misspoke—the female lead has a dream, and when she wakes up, she finds herself pregnant.”

Lu Zixiao gave a slight nod.

“The female lead is forced to drop out of school and start selling noodles,” Director Li continued. “It’s right around the time of the economic reforms—private businesses are booming. She answers the call of the nation and opens a ramen shop. Soon, both the village chief and party secretary fall for her…”

Cheng Youran: …Does he really understand what a youth film is supposed to be?

…

As time dragged on, only one director remained. Cheng Youran was beginning to doubt whether they’d find anyone remotely reliable. The previous candidates had all been… trying very hard, to say the least.

Maybe it was the pressure of taking on a small-budget film for such a massive paycheck—twenty million yuan didn’t exactly scream indie project, so everyone came in swinging with wild ideas.

One horror director insisted they shoot in an actual haunted house.
A military film director proposed a story where the protagonist travels back in time—with a nuclear bomb—to fight in the war against Japan.

“Director Zhang, you’re up.”

At the cue from the staff member, Zhang Ping took a deep breath, grabbed his résumé, and pushed open the conference room door. He wasn’t expecting much—he hadn’t really prepared this time.

“Please introduce yourself.”

A sharp-featured man sat in the chair, his expression cool and distant. There was a faint trace of fatigue between his brows. As he looked up at Zhang Ping, his gaze carried a natural sense of pressure, enough that Zhang Ping instinctively wanted to lower his eyes.

“My name is Zhang Ping. I graduated from the Beijing Film Academy, Cinematography Department. My first project in the industry was Tibetan Antelope…”

Transitioning from cinematographer to director, Zhang’s debut film being nominated for a Golden Horse Award was a clear sign of talent. But compared to the heavyweights who had come before him, it didn’t count for much.

Even among big-name directors, there was a hierarchy:
Art-house directors had the most “prestige,”
Commercial film directors held the most power,
And the rare few like Meng Lang, who could do both, were in a league of their own.

As for Zhang Ping—directing straight dramas—he fell somewhere awkwardly in between.

“What kind of story do you want to tell?” Fang Liuyun asked.

“A story set in a no man’s land…” Zhang Ping replied.

He happened to have a script about just that—an intense cat-and-mouse game between a lone man and dangerous criminals in a remote, lawless region.

Cheng Youran couldn’t help but stifle a yawn.

“No man’s land, huh?”

Fang Liuyun continued taking notes.

“No—wait, I misspoke,” Zhang Ping said quickly, catching sight of Cheng Youran’s disinterested expression. He immediately changed course. “What I really want to shoot is… a story about an orca finding its way home.”

“An animal conservation film?”

Cheng Youran twirled her pen, already zoning out.

“No, no—actually, I want to explore the emotional dynamics between men and women in modern urban life.”

“Could you be more specific?”

Fang Liuyun was momentarily stunned by the phrasing.

“A tender, heart-wrenching love story,” Zhang Ping clarified.

“Heart-wrenching?”

Cheng Youran raised her voice, clearly surprised. She hadn’t expected Director Zhang to be the sentimental type.

“A love story?”

Lu Zixiao frowned slightly, his voice cold and sharp.

Zhang Ping had never changed directions so quickly in his life. He suddenly remembered the time he confiscated a novel from his older daughter.

“No, I misspoke again,” he said quickly. “I want to adapt a novel. The male lead is a school bully, the female lead is a top student. After they swap bodies… they develop a deep friendship.”

“Friendship?”

Cheng Youran asked cautiously, “The male lead doesn’t end up falling for the second male lead, does he?”

Zhang Ping froze. That had never crossed his mind. He hesitated, then asked carefully, “Would you… prefer if he did? Or didn’t?”

Cheng Youran: …Director, your creative instincts might be a little too flexible.

Fang Liuyun finished jotting down notes, stepped forward, and shook Zhang Ping’s hand. “Thank you for your time, Director Zhang. We’ll email you the results in a few days.”

Zhang Ping left, clearly anxious.

Not that he needed to be.

As Cheng Youran looked over Fang Liuyun’s notes, Zhang Ping’s idea stood out like a breath of fresh air among all the pitches involving nuclear bombs dropped on WWII enemies, time-travel moon landings, and ghost-hunting film shoots.

There really wasn’t any suspense.

“It’s him,”

As expected, Lu Zixiao stood up and announced the decision, casting a faint glance in Cheng Youran’s direction.

Cheng Youran immediately caught on and began clapping enthusiastically. “President Lu, your judgment is unparalleled.”

With only three people left in the conference room, her applause sounded especially loud and clear.

Lu Zixiao raised an eyebrow at her, remembering her bank card was still in his possession. He stretched out his hand toward her. “Come here.”

Still not satisfied?

At his words, Cheng Youran froze. She slowly pushed back her chair and dragged her feet toward him like she was heading to her doom.

She looked up at him, searching his cold, unreadable expression for any clue. Getting nothing, she took a deep breath, shut her eyes tightly, and, in front of Fang Liuyun no less, pinched her nose and called out, “Brother Lu… your wisdom knows no bounds.”

—Absolutely mortifying.

She could feel the heat rising to her cheeks. She didn’t even need a mirror to know her face was bright red—probably the color of a boiled crayfish.

It was the first time Lu Zixiao had seen her like this. He raised an eyebrow and subtly retracted the bank card, deliberately drawing out his words as he feigned confusion. “Say that again? I didn’t quite catch it.”

Cheng Youran: …I really want to punch him. QAQ

Beside them, Fang Liuyun, who had been organizing documents, paused for a moment. Without hesitation, she picked up a thick stack of files and her laptop, then swiftly headed for the door. “President Lu, Madam, I’ll go put these in the car first.”

With a soft click, the door closed, leaving only Cheng Youran and Lu Zixiao in the spacious conference room.

The moment Fang Liuyun left, Cheng Youran’s flustered demeanor vanished. Her face was no longer flushed, and she was breathing steadily again. Honestly, as long as no one else was around, she could even call Lu Zixiao “Daddy” if needed.

“Brother Lu, you’re so wise.”

Lu Zixiao was visibly stunned by her astonishing change in attitude. A hint of bewilderment flashed in his eyes, and for a long moment, he was speechless.

Seeing his silence, she tentatively asked, “If that doesn’t work… how about Uncle Lu?”

“Master Lu?”

Lu Zixiao finally reached his limit. He turned around, bracing both hands against the conference table, effectively trapping Cheng Youran within his arms. Caught off guard, her waist bent backward abruptly, and she nearly fell onto the table.

Before she could, Lu Zixiao’s other hand caught her waist, his palm radiating warmth even through the fabric. The spot he touched tingled involuntarily, sending a shiver through her.

His voice was cold as he spoke. “Cheng Youran, I’m only five years older than you.”

“I’m not your uncle, and I’m definitely not your grandfather.” A vein pulsed at his temple. “We’re the same generation.”

Same generation…

Cheng Youran glanced at Lu Zixiao, carefully choosing her words. “Honestly, a five-year age gap can be pretty significant. I just never mentioned it before because… I didn’t want you to feel old.”

Didn’t want you to feel old…

Feel old…

Old…

The words echoed in Lu Zixiao’s mind like a cursed mantra. He was only thirty-two, and Cheng Youran was already calling him old?

A mix of irritation and an inexplicable hint of grievance spread through his chest. Looking at the serious expression on her face as she spoke, he suddenly had the overwhelming urge to shut her up—by any means necessary.

=^_^=