Chapter 2: A Newcomer

Except for Li Tingzhou, everyone else unanimously approved his proposal to fill the lead singer position.

Mao Maoyu’s delight was written all over his face. “Then let’s start rehearsals tomorrow!” He looked full of drive, but after a few seconds of excitement, he abruptly reined it in. He was probably thinking of the still-hospitalized Jiang Hu and felt he couldn’t appear so eager for the new lead singer. So he forced himself to suppress his excitement, resulting in a contorted and odd expression.

Dai Jier also secretly breathed a sigh of relief. Feigning calm, he said, “We’ll make it. There’s still plenty of time.”

Previously, when Jiang Hu was lead singer, he was also the guitarist. But his guitar parts were mostly rhythmic riffs, focusing his main energy on singing. He wasn’t like the first-generation guitarist, who made the solo segment a mandatory showcase of skill; the hotter the atmosphere, the more he’d get into it, ensuring the fans who’d traveled so far went home fully satisfied…

If Li Tingzhou stepped up, the content they could present would only be more, not less. Among Heartbreak’s new songs from the past two years, some tracks where Jiang Hu couldn’t conveniently split his focus to play guitar, but which fans especially loved and specifically requested live versions—Li Tingzhou would typically go on stage wearing a hat and mask to accompany him. After all, he’d written the songs and personally did the arrangements; no one knew them better than he did.

Therefore, in Dai Jier’s view, the point of this internal vote lay in the form itself. Just going through the motions. The sick Jiang Hu needed to stop all work and focus on treatment, but the rest still had to earn a living. The entire band’s operations couldn’t grind to a halt because of one person.

Fortunately, Li Tingzhou truly was someone who could bear the burden. After everyone voiced their opinions, they visibly relaxed quite a bit, especially Mao Maoyu, who practically had “how could our band possibly be doomed!” written all over his face. Only Li Tingzhou, who had abstained, remained silent.

The hair at the back of his head was slightly mussed from rubbing against the sofa. The ceiling lights in the small meeting room poured down, the light falling on him appearing especially soft, illuminating half his face. The line from his nose tip, to his lip peak, to his chin formed a single, connected line, easily outlining a handsome profile.

“Mengmeng, since everyone supports you unanimously, let’s just go with this, okay?”

“Only if you hold firm will we have confidence.”

As the woman with more delicate perception, and the only woman on the scene who could influence the band’s decisions, Liu Lusi knew now was the time to soften her approach, to stop applying pressure, and instead offer continuous encouragement. After all, mature as he was, Li Tingzhou was still just a 25-year-old. He’d agreed to fill in, promised to quickly coordinate with the others and not mess up the upcoming performances. Considering Jiang Hu’s long recovery period ahead, he’d even proposed two plans for selecting a new lead singer, to be gradually implemented once the situation stabilized…

Everything was orderly, seemingly heading in a good direction.

But if Li Tingzhou had no outlet for his pressure, that would be the real trouble! So Liu Lusi guessed: It wouldn’t be long before this guy inevitably started a new relationship.

In the past, she would never have actively interfered one bit. The studio could all see it: Li Tingzhou was someone very good at hiding his emotions. Whether hot in love or breaking up, you couldn’t glean much from his demeanor alone. Plus, he almost never brought personal feelings to work. Unless specifically asked, it was usually only when the lyricist started dissecting the lyrics word by word, asking for revision input, or when they were huddled in the recording studio tracking a new song, that the others would suddenly realize: Oh, so Mengmeng is in love / has broken up again!

Now the situation was different. Liu Lusi was both eager to make some moves, stir up some buzz to stimulate the outside world, and feed a wave of attention back to Heartbreak before summer arrived, yet also afraid of losing control and dragging things down with a marketing misstep. Ultimately, she needed to have a clear idea of what was going on…

J City in April was still a long way from summer. The evening wind was chilly.

Past 10 p.m., Li Tingzhou and Dai Jier were still in the basement discussing the accompaniment changes. Mao Maoyu went out to toss the trash and, on the way, saw off the perpetually busy Ms. Lusi.

Using this chance to be alone, Liu Lusi decided to probe a little first. “Has Mengmeng been getting close to anyone lately?”

No one else could answer this question. Except Mao Maoyu. In everyone’s eyes, the bond of being fellow disciples gave Li Tingzhou and him an extra level of trust others didn’t have.

Mao Maoyu had just turned 27 in February. Logically, he should be a well-rounded adult by now. But Mao Maoyu’s life had been simply too smooth. A happy and fulfilling nuclear family gave him boundless confidence. Even during his unfamiliar time studying abroad, he was lucky enough to run into a fellow countryman, his senior fellow apprentice, and didn’t suffer for more than a couple of days. When Li Tingzhou graduated and returned home, Mao Maoyu couldn’t wait to follow and join Heartbreak.

As the ivory tower extended into the workplace, Mao Maoyu’s guard remained hopelessly undeveloped. When Liu Lusi casually inquired, he assumed Sister Lusi was gossiping with him and instantly spilled whatever he could!

“There might be one,” Mao Maoyu said, thinking back. “End of last month, Mengmeng went out alone to watch a Kunqu Opera performance. The night he came back, he even brought Jier and me some cultural-creative pastries.”

Though it was highly likely just an afterthought, he did bring them.

“I see.” Liu Lusi had a bit better idea now.

Unlike Mao Maoyu’s utterly porous defenses, Li Tingzhou rarely revealed private matters. In his first two or three months after joining Heartbreak, everyone else’s understanding of him was still limited to his resume and portfolio. While taking in the new producer’s mysterious nature, they unconsciously reinforced some genius stereotypes: Went abroad alone to study at 14; returned with his degree at 23. With top-tier credentials and talent, plus a striking appearance and presence, yet in the end, he chose a middling, uncertain place like Heartbreak.

Until the day Li Tingzhou called everyone for their first meeting.

Back then, due to the industry environment, Heartbreak lacked copyright awareness. Every day, they’d happily create, run performances nationwide, never thought about going independent, money was tight, living day by day carefree. After Li Tingzhou audited everything, he was utterly shocked: Is this right? Even setting aside Heartbreak’s own songs, they still had one or two widely known collaborative tracks.

Then he checked the electronic contracts: the copyrights for the collaborative songs that should have made big money were held hostage by the other party due to loophole-ridden contract terms. A lawsuit they thought had room for negotiation was lost before it even began: as soon as the consultation email was sent, they were informed the same day that the buyout fees had already been paid long ago, and the recipient was the parent company above Heartbreak. Most ironically, that contract was meticulously comprehensive, flawless. It was hard to imagine how long this state of being exploited had lasted. Others in showbiz were making massive profits, changing cars every year, buying houses every two, only Heartbreak was miserably working for passion. No wonder the band founder had zero sentiment for this circle—when a suitable replacement lead singer came along, he quit without hesitation.

From that day on, the others stopped gossiping about Li Tingzhou’s silence. Instead, they gradually yielded to that peculiar aura of calm. The young producer was attempting to rally everyone to change the status quo, break free from the existing blood-sucking company, and establish an independent label. The confidence was the tip of the iceberg of his music catalog that they could all see.

And Li Tingzhou’s path could only be described as plain and simple: First, earn enough for the band’s “redemption money” and set it aside. Meanwhile, be very careful with copyrights; more aliases meant more paths. Do things quietly, keep plans close to the chest. If asked about contract renewal, just say “considering it.” Use the contract period as the limit to develop boldly and discreetly. It seemed to lack any technique, but the results were real. If nothing else, at least in the past two years, they’d all earned quite a bit.

Even now, recalling the night Heartbreak’s awareness of independence awakened and their fate began to reverse, Liu Lusi still found it unbelievable! She’d known each of these tasks would be difficult. If any link in the chain went wrong, it might drain the band’s vitality or spark incomprehension and resistance from fans. Thank goodness they’d pulled through. Cutting away the rotten flesh, Heartbreak was already on the path to rebirth…

Mao Maoyu walked Liu Lusi to the garage, but didn’t rush off.

“Sis, don’t scold Mengmeng because of his dating.”

Liu Lusi found it a bit funny. “Why would I scold him?”

It wasn’t like Li Tingzhou hadn’t dated before. Whether together or broken up, it never affected his work. The quality of his output was only high, never low. Besides, she wasn’t some agent with a pathological need for control.

“Oh. Well, since he’s going to be in the spotlight now, more and more people will see him. If there’s some scandal later… would you care more about what fans say, or lean toward Mengmeng’s own opinions?”

Hearing this, Liu Lusi stopped walking and gave Mao Maoyu a serious look. Who exactly said he was stupid? When it came to Li Tingzhou, his mind was pretty sharp, wasn’t it?

And Mao Maoyu still wore his simple and honest expression, waiting for Liu Lusi’s reply.

“In the studio, I’d dare veto anyone’s opinion with one vote, except Mengmeng.” She glanced down at her phone to check the chauffeur’s location, then promised Mao Maoyu solemnly, “Don’t worry. No matter when, I’m willing to trust his decisions.”

Li Tingzhou and Dai Jier worked through the night, temporarily finalizing the adaptations for two songs. At this pace, they could not only complete all the adaptations for the performance setlist but also reserve ample rehearsal time. Additionally, Liu Lusi wanted to set aside a single day specifically for Li Tingzhou’s image makeover.

“Mengmeng has a whole wall of hats. Changing things would be a waste.”

Liu Lusi insisted the expense was necessary. “I know Mengmeng is good-looking, but an amazing debut is never an accident.”

Before Heartbreak, she’d managed a moderately popular singer. That artist had received plenty of legitimate good resources early on. Liu Lusi knew well: every hot search marketing piece the public sees about faces and outfits is never accidental. When a star makes a public appearance, there’s no such thing as an unintentional highlight. It’s just a pile of clever details among the outfit and styling options—occasionally, something strikes the netizens’ aesthetic sense, creating a stunning effect.

Men differ from women; being too deliberate just looks greasy. Therefore, the only requirement Liu Lusi gave the styling team was naturalness. Only by maintaining maximum naturalness could they effortlessly accommodate the streak of defiance in Li Tingzhou. This was both his standout trait and his defining characteristic—something Liu Lusi was determined to preserve no matter what.

That evening, a “completely refreshed” Li Tingzhou returned for everyone’s appraisal.

Dai Jier hesitated, wanting to speak. “His hair seems a bit shorter. Is there anything else?”

Mao Maoyu tried hard to find differences, but after spending every day together, it was really hard to catch subtle changes. He sensed a transformation in Li Tingzhou but couldn’t articulate anything specific. After holding back for a while, all he managed was: “He’s more directly handsome now.”

“Thanks, both of you.”

After going through most of the day’s prep, Li Tingzhou had a more concrete sense of what stepping onto the front stage meant. Unlike the others, who were both anxious and excited—worried fans might reject the new lead singer, yet looking forward to everyone’s reaction to the “newcomer”—he felt more of a “since I’m here anyway” calm.

After several days of solid rehearsal, the anxiety within Heartbreak diminished significantly. But a new problem immediately arose—

After Jiang Hu transferred to B City, Liu Lusi quickly got updates on his treatment plan from him. While regretful, she provided the support and assistance the studio intended, as per the others’ wishes, flew to B City, and signed the withdrawal agreement with him. The T City Music Festival was imminent; the related announcement couldn’t be delayed any longer. One generation replaced the old with the new. But this “newcomer” wasn’t truly new at all. Would the fans accept it?