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Chapter 15: The Disliked Superstar (2)

In the blink of an eye, there was only a week left until Christmas. That kind of fake, commercialized festivity had started to fill every corner of space. The New Year holiday film season was in full swing, and all the timely, festive movies were getting unprecedented attention.

Without question, “Heartless Thief” crushed its competition at the box office. The investors were raking in profits, making this year-end a perfect wrap-up. But for Shen Si’s agency, even with the title of box office champion, things weren’t as rosy behind the scenes.

Most people worry about making a critically praised film that flops commercially. Shen Si had the exact opposite problem.

He was notorious in the industry for his lack of acting skills. But that face, that unique aura—just standing in front of the camera guaranteed ticket sales. He was a treasure for investors, but a nightmare for directors.

Recently, some mysterious online trolls had launched a wave of fierce attacks on Shen Si’s acting. His fans fired back with full force, and the escalating flame war completely changed the entertainment atmosphere of the year-end season.

Zhou Wen sat at her desk in front of a computer, watching the battle unfold live.

Sunlight filtered through the glass curtain wall, casting light on her tense face. Her posture was perfectly upright, and even though this was her own territory, she didn’t relax a bit. Her every move was precise and poised—ready for battle at any moment.

Shen Si, in stark contrast, lounged lazily on the sofa, mindlessly scrolling through his phone, occasionally casting a distracted glance her way.

When had the woman he once knew so well become so unfamiliar?

This girl from a small town had shed her baby-fat face, revealing sharp cheekbones. That soft, gentle roundness she once had had been worn down over time, leaving a sharpness that made her seem aggressive—requiring a deliberate touch of femininity to counterbalance. Otherwise, even her walk exuded hostility.

Like all women surviving in the entertainment industry, her features had been finely sculpted by Korean doctors. So close to perfect now, her original flaws were almost forgotten. The more refined she became, the less human she seemed.

Shen Si suspected that in a few more years, even if she stood right in front of him, he wouldn’t remember what she used to look like.

“Ah Si, we can’t go on like this anymore.” Zhou Wen’s signature gentle expression had vanished in her frustration. Her lips were pressed tight, with an edge of severity.

“Who pissed you off this time?” Shen Si asked lazily.

“Look at the vile things these people are saying! The trolls are dragging down the entire national IQ!” Zhou Wen jabbed her finger at the screen as if she wanted to crush each troll’s comment with her fingertip.

Shen Si stood, walked behind her, and leaned down to look at the screen.

“Are you an alien? Is that expression a laugh or a cry? Humans don’t make faces like that—go back to the womb and relearn.”

“Too much Botox, huh? Didn’t smile once in the whole movie. Are you sure you weren’t playing a grieving orphan whose whole family died?”

“That face is clearly messed up from being trapped in women’s pants.”

“Confirmed: God used all the IQ materials to mold his face instead.”

…

Shen Si read them aloud one by one, casually, like singing, with a touch of mockery.

“Enough!” Zhou Wen slammed the laptop shut and turned to face him. “How can you not care at all? Reading this stuff feels like being stabbed a dozen times in the chest!”

“I really can’t act…” Shen Si spread his hands. “I mean, the words are harsh, but they’re not wrong. In that movie, I basically had the same expression from beginning to end. Even the director said I just needed to show my left profile to the camera.”

He played a cold-hearted, suave thief in the film—his only job was to look cool. Acting skills weren’t even required. Only the wirework gave him a hard time.

Xiao Gu gave him so many massages she ended up with tendonitis.

“Ah Si—do you understand? We’re walking a tightrope right now. As a singer, you can’t sing anymore. You’re already standing at the edge of a cliff. The higher you stand, the harder you fall. Look at all those washed-up singers—every one of them was once a megastar, but take one or two years off without a hit single and they’re reduced to doing countryside gigs. You’re lucky you’re good-looking, so you can still get acting jobs. But the entertainment industry is full of pretty boys. Even bucktoothed Su could go to Korea and come back looking like fresh meat. Once looks are no longer enough, it all comes down to acting. Getting you to memorize lines is harder than getting you to take bitter medicine. If you can’t make it as an actor, then what? Without singing, you can’t even do countryside gigs. You’ll burn through your savings and be selling your house in two years!”

“Is it my fault the lines are so dumb?” Shen Si turned to look at the smoggy skyline outside the window.

The uneven buildings rose and fell under the dull winter haze—so permanent, they seemed like they’d stand till the end of time.

Unfortunately, celebrities don’t last that long.

Stars rise and fall. After twelve years in the industry, he still looked dazzling on the outside, but the inside was rotten.

He didn’t know how much longer he could hold on in an industry constantly churning out fresh blood. Maybe the next wave would already drown him on the beach.

“We can’t let your acting become an easy target anymore. The boss talked to me yesterday—this year, you have to win Best Actor. Only then will your endorsement deals double next year. And just in time, we got an invitation from an investor—Director Zhou wants you to audition for his new film.”

Zhou Wen laid it out: “Get ready. The day after tomorrow, we’re having coffee with Director Zhou for an early introduction.”

Director Zhou was the king of art-house films, a master at picking scripts and coaching actors. Even bad actors came out looking decent in his films. From leads to side characters, everyone walked away with awards.

“You arrange it,” Shen Si said, flopping back onto the sofa like his bones had been removed.

“Ah Si, please take this seriously.” Zhou Wen stood up in frustration. “There’s no such thing as an eternal superstar. Even if you’re the sun, one day you’ll burn out. How long you stay relevant depends on whether you get this role.”

Shen Si raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.

Still, even though he acted indifferent, the morning of the meeting with Director Zhou, Shen Si woke up early and did two face masks.

He opened the curtains to see the entire Bund shrouded in a white curtain of rain.

Far off, a ship’s horn sounded muffled, as though buried under heavy blankets. He stared blankly at the condensation forming on the windowpane. The misty world outside looked more like a dream.

Lulu scampered over, claws scratching the floor. It sat at his feet, brow furrowed into a deep crease, eyes dark and eager, as if asking what he was upset about—then tilted its head curiously toward the window.

Shen Si patted its big head. He poured himself some water and gave half to Lulu. While Lulu was busy licking, he pulled a sausage from the fridge, broke it in half, and fed it to her.

Watching Lulu happily devour it reminded Shen Si he hadn’t eaten for two meals.

He picked up a pack of bacon, tempted to indulge—but thought of the meeting and reluctantly put it back. Instead, he grabbed a big bag of prewashed lettuce, shredded it haphazardly, boiled four eggs, threw the yolks to Lulu, drizzled some vinegar, mixed it, and forced it down.

That cold salad sat heavy in his stomach—and still hadn’t digested when he met Director Zhou at the café.

Director Zhou was Taiwanese, always wearing similar-looking fedoras, and dressed only in black and white.

Even after sitting down, he held his stern expression—the deep lines on either side of his nose never softened. Shen Si couldn’t help but think: Too bad Xu Zhiyi isn’t in showbiz, or she’d totally get along with this guy.

Director Zhou was always laconic. Only when talking about his new script did his face show a flicker of expression. But Shen Si couldn’t bring himself to fawn over him, so the conversation never really warmed up.

Zhou Wen worked hard to keep things going with her gentle diplomacy—too much flattery might make Shen Si lose face, but too little would seem insincere. She was juggling both ends with great effort.

It wasn’t until even the heavy rain gave up and stopped early that Director Zhou finally softened a bit. But his subtext was clear—the main character this time was a schizophrenic scientist, with a complex personality and difficult lines. It demanded serious acting chops. He was worried Shen Si looked too handsome—audiences would focus on his face and miss the character’s depth. In polite terms, he was saying Shen Si couldn’t act.

At first, Shen Si patiently listened and nodded along. Director Zhou noticed his respectful attitude and eased up slightly.

“We’re tentatively casting Qin Huan as the male lead. He’s already read the script and feels confident. Xiao Wen, you know—Shen Si’s acting doesn’t hold a candle to Qin Huan’s. As the saying goes, every field has its masters. When it comes to music, no one can top Shen Si. So we were hoping he could help with the film score—maybe write a theme song or something. Might even win an award. Let actors act and musicians make music—that’s how it should be. This industry is a mess right now—everyone wants to do everything. Actors want to sing, singers want to act, writers think they can direct… It’s just a waste of resources.”

Director Zhou rambled on in his soft Taiwanese accent.

As the last light of day disappeared, so did Shen Si’s patience.

The candle on the table flickered, casting shifting shadows on his face—hiding his expression.

“Director Zhou, I’ve always thought directors are like chefs. Given first-rate ingredients, even a third-rate chef can cook up a great dish. But using third-rate ingredients to make something amazing—that’s real skill. I’ve always admired your talent. I admit I’m a third-rate actor, and I came hoping for some guidance to improve. But I see you only work with top-tier ingredients. Sorry to waste your time.”

He stood, bowed slightly with a polite smile—so flawless it was like fresh snow, beautiful and cold.

“Wenwen, please accompany Director Zhou for a good meal. Order the most expensive dishes—put it on my card. I’m not feeling well, so I’ll leave first. I hope Director Zhou won’t hold a grudge against a no-talent actor like me!”

He pulled out his chair, gently avoided Zhou Wen’s hand, bowed again, and strode out of the café.

As soon as he stepped outside, the wind pierced straight through him.

His mood hit rock bottom.

Just two years without releasing an album, and now he had to grovel.

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