[How do I stop my hopelessly whipped teammate?]

Gossip Isle was one of the oldest forums for tracking celebrity gossip. Back in the days when internet forums and message boards reigned supreme, it was said: “North Tieba, South Gossip”—and Gossip Isle stood at the very heart of fan culture.

Even now, celebrities would occasionally sneak onto the site under alt accounts to share their experiences. With its strict moderation and zero-tolerance policy for doxxing or slander, Gossip Isle was considered the last pure land of celebrity gossip.

One day, a thread appeared: the OP was venting about a stubborn teammate. After multiple commenters offered advice, the OP replied:

[“But he’s so handsome!”]

[“He works so hard. Like, obsessively hard.”]

[“I’m telling you, he’s really good-looking.”]

[“Like, really really. I swear I’m not lying.”]

The entire forum: “…”

[“You just want to pamper him, don’t you?”]
[“This is a roast?? With rose-tinted glasses this thick?”]
[“This sounds more like a love letter. Suspiciously affectionate OP.”]

Naturally, people tried to guess who the OP and the teammate were. But with the screen full of “he’s so handsome,” some suspected the guy didn’t even exist.

[“How good-looking could he be? Unless he’s Gu Yi, I don’t buy it.”]

What no one noticed was that the moment the name “Gu Yi” appeared, the very OP who’d been gleefully posting all over the thread… quietly vanished.

—

Gu Yi’s grand plan to title his song Manganese Dioxide was killed in its cradle. Just like when naming their cat Ke Rua: five votes against, one in favour. Every time he used a chemistry-inspired name, inspiration came easily. But when he tried other themes…

He hit a creative block.

Thankfully, he still had time. Only two member-composed tracks would make it onto the new album, and Gu Yi figured his was unlikely to be picked.

Later that day, he played with the cat. Ke Rua let him rub her all over—until she suddenly leapt to the other side of the couch.

When Gu Yi glanced down, he saw Xie Xingjia sneakily feeding her freeze-dried treats. The tiny black kitten had recently become picky with her food. Manager Yuan Cheng had said multiple times: absolutely no snacks.

Xie clearly felt Gu Yi’s stare. He lifted a hand, silently pleading for secrecy.

Gu Yi gave him a thumbs-up.

Satisfied, Xie kept feeding the kitten, eyes half-closed with bliss. Even from across the room, Gu Yi could sense how delighted he was.

“You know what I’ve realized about raising a black cat?” Yang Ting said, in the tone of someone with twenty years of experience. “No shedding! You wear black and it doesn’t show.”

Gu Yi: “Truly groundbreaking research.”

The kitten wasn’t even a month old yet. Talking about shedding already felt… premature.

Then again, human hair loss also begins around thirty.

Like opening a blind box—after thirty, life’s true hardships really begin to show.

…

Before heading off to film A Letter on My Desk, Gu Yi finally managed to finish the first song he’d ever written in his life.

It wasn’t very polished—not the melody, not the lyrics—but when he played it on his guitar, he felt a rush of satisfaction, like completing a complex experiment.

After all, it was his song.

He was a little bitter that he couldn’t use the title Manganese Dioxide. As a compromise, he went with: “Ignition Point.”

His teammates had strongly opposed letting chemistry infiltrate music so easily.

Gu Yi: “It’s a physics term.”
The others: “…We’ll allow it.”

Of the six member-composed tracks, only two would make it onto the album. Once all submissions were in, they sat by the window and voted.

Gu Yi personally favoured Yang Ting and Liu Junyuan’s songs. Their pieces were soft, clean, and refreshing—simple melodies, but full of natural charm.

“I vote for Ignition Point and Paper Boat,” said Xie Xingjia.

Gu Yi snapped his head up. He was about to ask what kind of haze had clouded Xie’s judgment—until Liu Junyuan cast his vote too.

“I think it’s a very pure song.”

Maybe it was because Gu Yi was a beginner—his work lacked technical complexity. The melody was naive, even rough around the edges, but that rawness… felt authentically youthful.

In the end, Yang Ting and Liu Junyuan’s songs received the most votes and were selected for the official album.

The other four, including Gu Yi’s Ignition Point, were uploaded to CROWN’s official blog.

[“Are these songs for the new album?”]
[“Wait—no, they said clearly: these aren’t album tracks… but they were written by CROWN themselves?!”]

The songs weren’t polished or studio-recorded—just simple, self-accompanied videos of each member singing their work.

[“SO good!!”]

[“Ji Chi plays the guitar so well! I love Liu Junyuan and Gu Yi’s harmonies—CROWN is incredible!”]
[“Teacher Gu’s song titles are… extremely on-brand. I’m honestly afraid he’ll write a paper called ‘Misuse of Chemical Reactions in Songwriting’.”]
[“Please don’t joke like that. My school actually subscribes to Chemistry and Life. Do you know what it felt like to see Gu Yi’s name in a peer-reviewed journal?!”]

…

As the weather turned colder, it was time for Gu Yi to officially join the cast of A Letter on My Desk.

He had signed the contract during his Battle of the Stars days. After weeks of pre-production, director Sun Youming finalized the schedule and confirmed the actors’ arrival.

With Gu Yi heading into filming, CROWN’s group activities paused temporarily, and the members began working independently.

Naturally, the media started tallying up CROWN’s commercial achievements since debut. In addition to Summer Bloom’s lucrative success, brand deals and event appearances had brought in impressive revenue.

Every member—not just Gu Yi—had now secured enough endorsement deals to stand on their own.

In the past year, it’s hard to say whether Baiqian Entertainment or Yuanzi Interactive profited most from Battle of the Stars. But the biggest loser? Most observers are pointing at the same company…

As A Letter on My Desk begins filming, Gu Yi is now one of the frontrunners for ‘Best New Actor’ at the upcoming Yunxing Awards…

Even though his face now sat on the front page of Xingyao Entertainment’s website, Gu Yi had become a taboo subject within the company.

With or without the film contract, the Summer Bloom EP alone had outsold every VIC group release combined. If Gu Yi had still been under Xingyao, this year’s financial report would have been stellar.

Now? Xingyao only got a small slice of the profits.

After Gu Yi was reassigned to agent Liu Wei, former manager Shao Jing had tried hard to support Zhu Yu instead. Even when the company pulled resources from Zhu Yu, Shao Jing relied on his years of industry contacts to fight for him.

But one day, Shao Jing overheard Zhu Yu chatting with another manager:

“If I hadn’t been stuck with Shao-ge, I wouldn’t have fallen behind like this.”

Shao Jing had done everything for Zhu Yu—every opportunity, every favour—but now everyone in the company was blaming him for ruining Gu Yi’s career. What they didn’t consider was: Xingyao only had limited resources. If more went to Zhu Yu, less was left for others.

Gu Yi had every right to say that.

But Zhu Yu did not.

After that, Shao Jing didn’t confront him. He simply approached the company and arranged for Zhu Yu to be reassigned.

The new artists under his management weren’t as promising, but Shao Jing still used his connections to get them exposure—county-level festivals, web variety shows, anything they could join, they joined.

He even wrote Gu Yi a long letter apologizing for the past few years.

…

Gu Yi saw the letter.

But he didn’t reply.

Because the person Shao Jing failed wasn’t him—it was the original Gu Yi. And he had no right to forgive on his behalf.

—

A Letter on My Desk would be shot in two locations: one in a northwestern film base, and the other at the overseas university where Shen Yao (his character) studied. The shoot would begin in the northwest.

Gu Yi had already memorized the script cover to cover.

Though it was a well-known IP, it wasn’t an expensive one. According to Sun Youming, filming should take just three to four months.

Gu Yi’s current concern? Acting.

Sun Youming hadn’t assigned him an acting coach, nor would he let Gu Yi hire one. His reasoning:

“Acting classes make people stiff. You lose authenticity. Good acting doesn’t come from lessons—it comes from instinct.”

Gu Yi had looked into it. Apparently, Sun always coached actors directly on set—but the ones he worked with in the past had been naturally gifted.

Was he?

Gu Yi wasn’t so sure.

After a flight and a long train ride, he finally arrived at the film base. The female lead, Qi Miao, arrived the same day. She was around his age, but her resume was packed with film credits.

Gu Yi was just about to go greet the other actors and explore the area when Sun Youming appeared out of nowhere—grabbed his arm—and dragged him away.

“Come check out the lab set for me.”

There went his socializing plans.

Sun explained that for realism, he’d sourced authentic lab equipment and brought in professionals for setup. They’d constructed a full-scale chemistry lab for Gu Yi’s scenes.

The moment Gu Yi walked in, he froze.

“What is it?” Sun asked.

“Where are the lab safety guidelines?”

Sun: “…”

Long story short: Gu Yi found one flaw. Then immediately started rearranging equipment.

The props were old—after all, the story took place decades ago. Sun had originally planned for technical advisors to handle the setup, and if the results weren’t good enough, they’d just shoot in a real lab. All they needed was something that looked accurate.

But Gu Yi… stood silently, brow furrowed, as if puzzling out something deeper.

He started thinking: maybe he could write another article for Chemistry and Life using this setup—if he had time between scenes.

Sun Youming noticed the little smirk on his lips and the faint glint in his eyes—and his heart started racing.

Technically, Sun was the director. On set, his authority was absolute. Even A-listers had to follow his lead.

But after reading Gu Yi’s Chemistry and Life article…

Sun realized:
When it comes to science, you do not challenge the expert.