Ji Ran received the message just after finishing a variety stage show. Sitting in the dressing room, his makeup freshly removed, his face was an unreadable mask. His two teammates sat together a short distance away, their subtle actions carrying a faint sense of exclusion, as if an invisible line had been drawn.

Opening his phone, Ji Ran noticed a new WeChat message. It was from a small fan he’d added a few days ago. The username, “Little Sugar Bean,” caught his attention. Ji Ran hesitated for a moment. As a general rule, celebrities weren’t supposed to accept gifts from fans—whether it was expensive items, which might appear as soliciting, or food, for fear of tampering or more sinister motives. “Better safe than sorry” was an industry mantra, and Ji Ran’s agency had a strict policy: apart from plush toys or minor trinkets, all food gifts were strictly off-limits.

However, the memory of the girl, whose eyes bore a resemblance to his, gave him pause. After some thought, he sent over his assistant’s address.

[Ji Ran: “Send it to this address. I’ll give it a try.”]

After the message was sent, there was no immediate reply—probably because it was already past 1 a.m. Most people, especially young girls, should be asleep by now.

Ji Ran stared at his phone for a moment longer before glancing at his teammates. Outside, fans were busy promoting their so-called “team unity” online. But how many people could imagine the truth behind their group? A trio, yet internally shattered into fragments.

His mood sank further as he recalled Sister Wang’s words from earlier. Frustrated, Ji Ran pushed himself up and left the dressing room, stepping into the cooler night air outside.

When Sister Wang returned after speaking with the director, she found only An Mingquan and Cheng Muyang sitting in the dressing room. Her brows immediately furrowed.

“Where’s Ji Ran?”

An Mingquan replied in a tone that fans would probably describe as having the charm of a “soft puppy.”

“No idea. Looks like he went out.”

Cheng Muyang sat silently, not showing the slightest interest in Ji Ran’s whereabouts.

Sister Wang sighed inwardly before turning to search for him. Sure enough, she found Ji Ran in a corner of the venue. He was wearing a black cap, bundled up tightly, and leaning against the wall, smoking a cigarette.

Fortunately, the crew had already clocked out, and the set was a closed environment. Even if someone saw Ji Ran smoking, there wouldn’t be any hidden cameras. Otherwise, his cigarette might have made headlines by morning.

Ji Ran was dressed in a black T-shirt and matching pants, his figure blending into the dim corner. Head slightly lowered, surrounded by the swirling haze of smoke, his mood was clearly not in a good place.

In the entertainment industry, stress weighed heavily on idols. Smoking and drinking were practically part of their daily routine. The reality was that fans loved only the idealized versions of these stars—the personas they projected, not the people they truly were.

“That’s enough, put it out. You still have to sing with that voice,” Sister Wang said, striding over and snatching the cigarette from Ji Ran’s hand. She was one of the few people bold enough to pull such a stunt without hesitation. If anyone else had tried, Ji Ran’s infamous temper would have erupted long before now.

Having his cigarette taken away, Ji Ran’s deep blue eyes fell coldly on Sister Wang’s face, laced with a hint of mockery.

“Sing? Hasn’t the company already lined me up for acting gigs? At this rate, I’m not even sure if I’ll get to release one album a year.”

The company was in the middle of pushing Scorching Sun into a new phase of their careers. After all, the life cycle of singing and dancing idols was notoriously short. No matter how popular they were, it was all just fleeting traffic. Aging idols struggled to keep fans, and the emergence of fresh faces—an endless stream of “pretty boys”—was enough to render older stars obsolete.

Back in the day, Ji Ran had almost single-handedly carried Scorching Sun to stardom. He worked tirelessly, propping up the other two members until the group finally stabilized. Their commercial and individual value had risen steadily over time, but the company’s greed knew no bounds. Instead of consolidating the group’s success, management had grown ambitious, scheming to break them apart. By promoting each member individually, they aimed to squeeze the maximum commercial and personal value out of them. Compared to Cheng Muyang, whose father was the company’s big boss, or An Mingquan, who came from a prestigious academic family, Ji Ran was an orphan with nothing. His twenty-year contract bound him completely to the company’s whims. If he wanted out, he’d have to pay a steep price—50 million yuan in termination fees.

After working for the company for six years as one of the hottest superstars of his generation, you’d think Ji Ran could afford the 50 million yuan termination fee. However, the contract he signed back then had been extremely harsh. The group’s earnings were first divided by the company, with the remaining split among the three members. On top of that, they had to cover training fees and other deductions. As a result, Ji Ran didn’t have much money left. The house he bought two years ago was still on a mortgage, and there was no way he could come up with 50 million.

“Ji Ran, I know you don’t agree with the company’s arrangements,” Sister Wang said, her tone laced with both frustration and understanding. “As Scorching Sun’s manager, you think this is what I want? Do you think I don’t want to see you all standing on a world stage? But reality won’t allow it. The entertainment industry in this country is notoriously unfriendly to male idol groups. And right now, the music market barely makes any money—most companies are lucky if they don’t lose anything. The company has invested in you, poured resources into you, and ultimately, they want to see returns. And don’t you want to earn money? This drama they’re pushing you to take—do you know the salary? The production team is offering 80 million yuan. That’s far more than you’d ever make performing on stage. Doesn’t that speak for itself?”

“Ji Ran, out of everyone in the group, you’re the one I have the highest hopes for but you’re also the one I worry about the most. Have you seen your recent trending news? Someone exposed the fact that you’re an orphan. Do you think it was the paparazzi who leaked it? Why hasn’t the company done anything about it? It’s because you refused to take on that big IP drama. The director specifically approached the company because of your fame, and you rejected it outright. The company leaked your background to remind you—your fate is in their hands. If you want to survive in this industry long-term, you have to listen and cooperate. Do you understand?”

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