Chapter 2

Wen Chaosheng couldn’t fall back asleep. He lay awake in bed until dawn broke.

Only when he heard the sounds of the neighbor next door heading out did he finally get up, take a quick shower, and wash away the heavy fatigue weighing on his body.

By eleven o’clock, Song Ting arrived. He specially took Wen Chaosheng to a local restaurant serving authentic Shanghainese cuisine, making up for the welcome dinner they’d missed the day before.

After lunch, the two drove to the film’s funding company, Script Box Media.

In the brightly decorated lounge, Wen Chaosheng sat silently, cradling a cup of tea in his hands. Steam rose from it, threatening to fog up his glasses.

Truth be told, he felt deeply uncomfortable in social settings like this.

If he could, Wen Chaosheng wished he really were a turtle. When faced with a situation like this, he’d shrink right into his shell, and no one could drag him out.

Szzzt.

The automatic door slid open.

Wen Chaosheng’s heart tightened. Before he could even make out the newcomer’s face, Song Ting was already on his feet, greeting him. “President Fu, hello.”

He leaned in and murmured a reminder, “Xiao Sheng, this is Script Box Films’ executive vice president, Fu Yangguang.”

Wen Chaosheng set down his tea and stood, forcing out a polite greeting. “Hello, President Fu. I’m Wen Chaosheng.”

“Little Director Wen, I’ve heard so much about you.”

Fu Yangguang was nearing fifty, with a prominent beer belly.

He eyed Wen Chaosheng closely, his seemingly jovial gaze laced with scrutiny. “Please, have a seat. Let’s talk.”

Song Ting knew Wen Chaosheng wasn’t good at negotiations, so he took the initiative. “President Fu, the pre-production work for the film Rotten Mud is nearly complete. Now that Director Wen is back, we can start casting.”

He paused, veiling his urgency in politeness. “That said, we’d like to ask when your company’s investment funds will arrive.”

Fu Yangguang took the tea handed to him by his assistant and casually waved away the steam. “No rush. Since Director Wen is here today, there’s something I’d like to discuss with you both.”

Wen Chaosheng lifted his gaze slightly, waiting quietly for Fu Yangguang to continue.

Fu Yangguang smiled and got straight to the point. “Script Box recently signed a batch of new talent. Two of them have great potential and would be perfect for the two male leads in the film. Why not skip the open casting and just go with them?”

Wen Chaosheng stiffened slightly, not quite grasping it. “What?”

The shooting budget for their film had always hovered at the market’s bare minimum.

Wen Chaosheng and Song Ting had footed the bill themselves for pre-production and crew setup. Through Song Ting’s connections, they’d secured funding from Script Box Films. From the start, the terms were clear—

All subsequent distribution and operational rights would go to Script Box. After recouping costs, box office profits would split 30-70 in the investors’ favor, essentially handing over most of the film’s earnings.

In exchange, Wen Chaosheng’s one non-negotiable demand—the most crucial one—was absolute say over casting, script, and shooting.

Now, he’d rushed back to the country, only for the investors to try meddling?

Fu Yangguang sipped his hot tea, looking utterly unperturbed. “No need to let outsiders profit when we can keep it in the family. Instead of an open casting call for those two brother roles, why not assign our own artists? What do you think?”

Wen Chaosheng’s script for Rotten Mud was a suspense thriller centered on two male leads.

The older brother, Yao Yi, and the younger brother, Fang Jing—half-brothers by blood—both had heavy roles in the film.

“…”

Song Ting knew exactly what Fu Yangguang was after the moment he heard it.

Using Wen Chaosheng’s script to boost their own artists? It wasn’t unreasonable for a film company, but the problem was—

They’d laid down strict terms at the outset of their partnership to protect Wen Chaosheng’s directorial authority, even conceding on later profit shares!

Pulling this stunt now, wanting it all both ways, was downright overbearing.

Song Ting hadn’t yet figured out how to diplomatically refuse when he heard Wen Chaosheng speak up firmly beside him. “No.”

Two simple words, resounding with conviction.

The smile on Fu Yangguang’s face faded a touch as he looked at Wen Chaosheng and feigned ignorance. “What was that?”

Wen Chaosheng took a subtle deep breath, his stance unwavering. “The casting for the film’s two male leads will be decided by me alone. Your company has no right to interfere.”

It was his work, his characters—he knew better than anyone what image they required.

Fu Yangguang’s smile vanished completely.

Seeing the mood sour, Song Ting jumped in to smooth things over. “President Fu, Little Director Wen always has his own vision and control over his films. How about this: We proceed with open casting as planned. Your company can submit suitable candidates for auditions, and as for the results…”

Fu Yangguang dropped the pretense, leveraging his position to press. “And if I insist on assigning my recommended artists?”

Wen Chaosheng didn’t budge an inch. “I said no.”

If they dared interfere with casting today, who knew if they’d start rewriting the script tomorrow? Investors like this wouldn’t be allies—they’d be obstacles.

Fu Yangguang hadn’t expected this refined, scholarly-looking Wen Chaosheng to be so stubborn as a mule.

His tone sharpened. “Little Director Wen, don’t say I didn’t warn you. How long has it been since your last film?”

“There are so many hot new directors these days—your past achievements don’t cut it anymore! Do you really think anyone will invest based on your script or name alone?”

“If I pull funding now, you won’t find new backers anytime soon to start shooting!”

Looking like a pretty boy— who did he think he was?

Fu Yangguang glared at Wen Chaosheng, no longer hiding his attitude.

“Just agree to use the leads I recommend, and Script Box’s investment will hit your account immediately. Otherwise, I’ll have to reconsider our partnership.”

By the end, his tone carried a veiled threat.

Song Ting’s brow furrowed. “President Fu, that puts us in a tough spot.”

“President Song, I’m a businessman. I prioritize my own interests—just like you.”

Fu Yangguang pressed on knowingly. “Pre-production sets are mostly built, right? Shooting locations contracted? Crew schedules cleared?”

“If you can’t start filming on time soon, the penalties Little Director Wen and President Song would owe wouldn’t be pocket change.”

Lately, Fu Yangguang had played the accommodating investor, all to corner them at this critical juncture and force more concessions from Wen Chaosheng.

“…”

Silence choked Wen Chaosheng’s breath and throat.

His hands clenched into fists under the table, fingertips digging painfully into his palms.

They’d already sunk their own money into those pre-production sets. Without follow-up funding, they truly would be stuck.

That powerless feeling of being manipulated, led around by the nose—it surged back, making his heart race and his stomach churn. Every refusal stuck in his throat, a suffocating helplessness creeping into his nerves.

“…”

Fu Yangguang knew Wen Chaosheng came from impressive parentage, but for him to seek outside funding meant his family probably didn’t back this film.

“Tell you what, think it over. President Song, have a good talk with Director Wen. Opportunity doesn’t knock twice.”

Confident of victory, he rose smugly. “I have a meeting soon, so I won’t keep you. Hopefully, next time we meet, it’s for our partnership celebration.”

With that, Wen Chaosheng stood as well. “No need.”

Fu Yangguang paused mid-step. “What?”

Song Ting sensed something and instinctively rose, tugging at Wen Chaosheng’s sleeve. “Xiao Sheng.”

Wen Chaosheng fought to steady his breathing, words tumbling out quickly. “President Fu, it’s your company’s funds that have been delayed, showing no real commitment or contractual spirit.”

“If you insist on shoving your ‘promising’ artists into my film, then I’m sorry—”

“We can both cut our losses here. No need for deeper collaboration.”

“…”

Fu Yangguang’s face darkened.

He truly hadn’t anticipated this young, seemingly malleable Wen Chaosheng being such a tough nut to crack!

Having lost face, Fu Yangguang snorted coldly. “Is that so? Think it over carefully, then.”

Script Box had some pull in the investment scene. A quiet word from him, and Wen Chaosheng’s future funding hunts would hit dead ends!

Wen Chaosheng ignored the threat, simply saying “Goodbye” before leaving the lounge first.

…

It wasn’t until they reached the parking lot that Wen Chaosheng’s breathing normalized.

Song Ting caught up. “Xiao Sheng, you okay? Sorry, I didn’t expect Fu Yangguang to demand the moon at a time like this.”

“I’m fine.” Wen Chaosheng shook his head, his lips pale. “I just can’t accept his terms.”

Song Ting nodded. “I know. Don’t worry about it.”

He looked introverted and easygoing on the surface, but when it came to filmmaking, he held firm principles that no one could sway.

Song Ting clapped Wen Chaosheng on the shoulder. “Leave this kind of thing to me. I’ll negotiate with President Fu some more. Worst case, we shop around for other investors.”

“…”

Wen Chaosheng looked at Song Ting, who’d poured so much into the project too, and felt a belated pang of guilt.

Right now, he had no room for stubbornness.

“Brother, I should be the one apologizing. I was too rash.”

After agonizing internal debate, Wen Chaosheng relented. “For the younger brother role in the script—if the investors really have a suitable actor later, I… I can compromise.”

He paused for two seconds. “But the older brother role? No.”

Song Ting caught the implication at once. “You have someone in mind for the older brother? Who?”

“…”

Wen Chaosheng wasn’t good at lying. “Yeah, I… I sent an invite to Xi Zhui’s team.”

What outsiders didn’t know was that the older brother role had been tailor-made for Xi Zhui. Half a month ago, Wen Chaosheng had sent the invitation to his studio.

Unfortunately, the email had sunk without a trace—no reply even now.

Was the studio swamped with emails, too busy to respond one by one? Or had the staff seen it and reported up, only for Xi Zhui to ignore it upon realizing it was his script?

Wen Chaosheng hoped for the former.

Song Ting was surprised. “Xi Zhui? Will he take it?”

Come to think of it, Xi Zhui had starred in Wen Chaosheng’s debut film Contour, which launched his career.

But times had changed. Xi Zhui was now a top Film Emperor reaping fame and fortune, while Rotten Mud’s budget was just four million—and now at risk of losing funding.

Song Ting didn’t know the depth of the personal friendship between Wen Chaosheng and Xi Zhui, so he didn’t press for details.

Wen Chaosheng thought of the invitation email that had gone unanswered, tamping down his expectations. “Let’s wait a little longer. There’s still time.”

“Okay.”

…

Three more days passed.

Fu Yangguang refused to yield, convinced that Wen Chaosheng would eventually cave. The smaller investors who had originally backed Script Box all signaled their withdrawal one after another, clearly following Fu Yangguang’s orders to turn up the pressure.

In the cramped rental apartment, Wen Chaosheng stepped out of the bathroom, his hair still dripping wet.

He hadn’t drawn the curtains, so when he glanced up, his eyes met the massive LED screen on the wall of the building across the street—still dominated by a close-up poster of Xi Zhui.

Wen Chaosheng quietly followed Xi Zhui’s public schedule; the actor was still shooting a film in Guangzhou and hadn’t returned.

—Ding dong!

His computer was still on, and the email client with its special notification suddenly chimed.

Wen Chaosheng’s heart skipped a beat. He didn’t even bother drying his sopping hair.

He hurried over to the computer screen’s cold glow and opened the notification. Sure enough, a reply had arrived from Xi Zhui’s studio.

“…”

Wen Chaosheng’s breath caught as he stared at the fresh email, afraid to click it open. It wasn’t until sweat beaded in his palm around the mouse that he finally summoned the courage, carrying all his long-pent-up anticipation with him.

—Thank you for the film invitation. Mr. Xi has no new projects scheduled in the near future and is not considering collaborations at this time. We appreciate your understanding. Wishing you a pleasant life and success with your movie!

That fragile flicker of hope snuffed out in an instant.

The sole opportunity he’d had since returning home—a chance to connect with Xi Zhui through work—had ended before it even began, right there that very night.

Wen Chaosheng stared at the words of rejection, which weren’t entirely unexpected. His eyelashes fluttered.

Plop.

Something fell.

“…”

Only then did Wen Chaosheng look down belatedly. A water droplet bloomed across the desk’s surface, and in that moment, he couldn’t tell—

Whether it was a bead of water from his hair or a tear of disappointment he’d tried so hard to hold back.

Wen Chaosheng pinched his trembling fingertips. Knowing full well there was no one to see, he still typed out his reply with painstaking care, word by word:

“Thank you for your response. Please pass along my regards: Wishing Mr. Xi smooth sailing in all his future endeavors.”