mijobooks Chapter 80 is so naive!
Chapter 80 is so naive!
The phone is placed face down on the table.
Zhang Linghe sat on a folding chair in the crew's rest area, his back against the wall, his legs stretched out and propped up on the chair opposite him, staring at the fluorescent light on the ceiling for a long time.
The WeChat message was sent last night. The sender claimed to be the marketing director of a certain brand, saying that a friend introduced him and thought he was good at shooting period dramas. He wanted to arrange a meeting to discuss cooperation and even quoted a number at the end, calling it "initial sincerity".
He looked at the number twice.
Quite a lot.
He was nineteen years old, a sophomore at Nanjing Normal University, and came from an ordinary family. It wasn't that he had never seen money before, but this sum of money still stunned him.
He didn't reply to the message.
It wasn't that I didn't know what to say, but something just felt off. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, but in the end, I flipped my phone over and put it face down.
It's hard to pinpoint where that awkward feeling comes from.
It wasn't that he was afraid of violating the contract—he had signed the contract and read the terms, but he hadn't matched the terms with this particular scenario at the time.
What stopped him was something else entirely: the wording of the message was too smooth, every word hitting the mark. It looked like a normal industry invitation, but in a normal invitation, you wouldn't start by reporting numbers.
He went through the logic in his mind, making sure he wasn't overthinking it, and then continued staring blankly at the ceiling.
The sound of the crew's walkie-talkie drifted in from the corridor outside, confirming the afternoon's camera positions. The sound came in and then went out again, and the rest area returned to silence.
Zhang Linghe picked up the script next to him, flipped to the scene to be filmed that afternoon, looked down at the lines, and temporarily put the WeChat matter out of his mind.
He planned to tell Peng Bing the news after he finished work.
...
Xu Wen placed a piece of paper in front of Zeng Hao. It wasn't a screenshot, but a handwritten list with neat handwriting, divided into three columns: artist's name, method of contact, and time of contact.
There were seven people in total.
Yang Shanshan is in the first row, Zhang Linghe is in the third row, and the remaining five belong to three other companies. They are all young artists with filming projects in the near future, and their contracts are all for less than two years.
"Regarding the Ruilan brand," Xu Wen began, "I had someone investigate it. It's been established for eleven months and has raised two rounds of funding. Galaxy Capital holds a 12.7% stake in the Series A investment, but its actual influence is far greater than that. The lead investor is affiliated with Galaxy Capital, and together they control nearly 40% of the company."
Zeng Hao scanned the list from beginning to end.
Seven people from three companies, contacted simultaneously over the past three weeks. This wasn't a matter of casting a wide net and hoping for the best; it was a carefully selected group—young, with projects currently in production, short contract terms, and ample room for negotiation.
This selection logic is something that Ruilan's marketing department could never have come up with; it's a common tactic used by Xinghe Capital.
Using a fledgling domestic skincare brand as a front, and a brand collaboration as a facade, they conceal their intention to infiltrate the market with capital. Even if discovered, it would at most be considered a business dispute between the brand and the celebrity, while Galaxy Capital would remain completely uninvolved.
This approach isn't too badly designed.
"Do the other three companies know about this?"
"I don't know. I got the information from a partner, and no one else knows about it."
"Regarding Chen's business side, does Appendix Two of the broadcast contract for 'Ning An Ru Meng' cover the artist's commercial channels?"
Xu Wen scrolled through his phone: "Yes, there is, but the wording is aimed at the broadcasting platform and doesn't apply to things like artists contacting brands privately."
Zeng Hao folded the list and put it aside.
Zhang Linghe's contract clearly states in Article 7, Section 2 of the Production Period Focus Clause.
During filming, artists are prohibited from accepting any substantive invitations from third parties that could affect the production schedule or damage the company's assets. Even brand business negotiations require company approval.
Zhang Linghe didn't reply to the WeChat message Ruilan sent last night, but the simple "received" message was enough to leave a contact record.
He picked up his phone and sent a message to Zhang Linghe: Are you free after filming today? Come over for a bit.
After Zhang Linghe finished filming his last scene that afternoon, he waited for ten minutes at the entrance of the studio before Xu Wen came over and led him into Zeng Hao's temporary office.
He was still wearing theatrical makeup, with a thin line drawn at the corner of his eye, making him look completely different from his usual clean-cut appearance. Yet, his expression remained immersed in the role, exuding an unyielding calm. After sitting down, he casually moved the teacup on the table to the side, saying nothing and quietly waiting for Zeng Hao to speak.
Zeng Hao pushed Rui Lan's WeChat screenshots in front of him.
Zhang Linghe glanced down at the screen, then looked up and said, "President Zeng, you know."
"Why aren't you replying?"
Zhang Linghe thought for a moment: "Their wording is inappropriate."
"Something's not right."
"They just rattled off numbers right off the bat," he said calmly. "Normally, brand collaborations aren't negotiated like this. It's obvious they're gauging my interest." He paused, then added, "Besides, I don't know that person. They said it was a friend who introduced us, but they didn't say which friend it was."
Zeng Hao pushed another sheet of paper over; it was Ruilan's business registration information, with Xinghe Capital clearly marked.
Zhang Linghe glanced at it for a few seconds, his face remaining completely expressionless, and pushed the paper back: "So it's aimed at the company, not at me."
"But you are the entry point."
Should I reply to that message?
"No need, I'll handle it." Zeng Hao flipped to Article 7, Section 2 of the contract, turned it to face him, and said, "Have you read this section?"
Zhang Linghe glanced down at the screen, then looked up and said, "I did not accept the invitation."
"I know," Zeng Hao said, "I just want you to understand the boundaries, not to hold you accountable."
Zhang Linghe nodded without speaking, his fingers lingering on the edge of the table for a moment before he finally spoke: "When you mentioned the entry point, you meant I wasn't the only one. There are several people on the list."
Zeng Hao glanced at him.
"Seven."
Zhang Linghe mentally reviewed the number, then asked, "Do you know the others?"
"It's being processed."
He responded with a sound of agreement, didn't ask any further questions, got up, pushed the chair back to its original position, stopped at the door, turned back and asked one last question: "Will this kind of thing happen again in the future?"
Zeng Hao flipped the contract back to the cover: "Yes, go ahead and get busy."
Zhang Linghe nodded after listening, then quietly closed the door and left.
Xu Wen waited until he was out of sight, then leaned in, his expression somewhat complicated: "This child asks questions that are more insightful than those of adults."
"Um."
"His question, 'Will there be more in the future?' didn't sound like he was afraid of trouble; it sounded more like he was thinking about how he should learn to deal with this kind of thing in advance."
Zeng Hao didn't reply, but picked up the list of seven people and unfolded it again.
He couldn't control the five artists from the other three companies, but he had to cut off the Ruilan connection; he couldn't just rely on his own two.
He sent a message to Chen Business, attaching Ruilan's business background and contact records, and casually asked: Are there any artists on this contact list among the artists you cooperate with on your platform? You should know the other party's capital background.
Chen replied three minutes later: I'll check where you got this information.
Zeng Hao: Co-partner.
Chen Shangwu: ...Your information network is too dense.
Zeng Hao didn't reply. He put down his phone and picked up another document.
He blocked all six avenues of Xinghe Capital: financing, equity, screenwriting, directing, platform, and artist channels. But each time he blocked them, the other party changed their tactics faster than ever before.
This is not a test by capital at all; it's an attempt to find loopholes in Sunshine Entertainment's contracts and exploit them.
The sixth path used Ruilan as a tool, and now that the tool is useless, the scheming behind it hasn't stopped.
In the studio, when Peng Bing shouted "Cut!" for the last time, Chu Ran was standing at the edge of the set, clutching a thin hairpin in her hand. It was the prop for Xie Yong'er's final scene.
"Okay, that's a wrap!" Peng Bing took off his headphones and leaned back in his chair. "Chu Ran, all your scenes are finished."
Sparse applause rang out in the studio. The production crew and photographers clapped a few times, not loudly, but all of it was genuine.
Chu Ran stood still, clenched the hairpin in her hand, and glanced down at it.
There was no great joy or sorrow, just a quiet ending, like something that had been weighing on the corner of the table for a long time finally being resolved. The tabletop was now empty, and while it wasn't exactly relaxing, it felt exceptionally reassuring.
She handed the hairpin to the prop manager, thanked him, stepped out of the set, and picked up her coat from the chair. Her backpack was lying next to her, zipped up, revealing the cover of her drama psychology lecture notes.
Peng Bing walked over and handed her a bottle of water: "Go back and get a good night's sleep."
"Okay," Chu Ran said, unscrewing the lid and taking a sip. "If you need any additional recordings later, just let me know."
"We'll let you know in advance if we need to work on it, depending on the editing progress." Peng Bing patted her shoulder. "You did a great job."
Chu Ran glanced at him, didn't say thank you, just nodded, and slightly curved her lips. Her features were delicate, carrying the naiveté of a student, yet also the composure of an actor after filming; unassuming, yet exuding a unique and clean aura.
She slung her backpack over her shoulder and walked out of the shed. The moment she pushed open the door, it was already dusk, and the air outside was noticeably cooler than inside. She stood at the door for two seconds, then took out her phone to check the time.
She had just seen the WeChat message Tian Xiwei sent that afternoon.
Tian Xiwei: Is today your last match?
Tian Xiwei: Is filming finished?
Tian Xiwei: Remember to eat after filming, don't forget again.
Chu Ran looked at the message, and the corners of her mouth unconsciously turned up. She replied with two words: "Filming is finished."
Tian Xiwei replied almost instantly: So where are you going now?
Chu Ran: Go back and finish your thesis.
Tian Xiwei: ...The first thing you thought of after you finished filming was your thesis.
Chu Ran: Otherwise, it's just a little bit short.
Tian Xiwei: Shouldn't a normal person celebrate?
Chu Ran: Didn't we already celebrate with hot pot?
Tian Xiwei: That was a celebration of the exam, not the wrap-up of filming.
Chu Ran: It's easier to do it all together.
After a few seconds, Tian Xi sent a speechless emoji and added: Okay, you go write your thesis, I'll treat you to milk tea on Friday.
Chu Ran put her phone back in her pocket and walked towards the parking lot. She casually lifted the strap of her backpack, which was crammed full of textbooks, making her shoulders feel a bit heavy.
The remaining 800 words of the paper, on the connection between emotional memory and performance practice, should be easy to write since I had real feelings about it after filming the movie.
When Sister Liu sent the weekly financial summary, Zeng Hao was compiling the list of seven people and the contact records with Xinghe Capital.
He went through the summary and found that there were no problems with the accounts. The production of "Ning An Ru Meng" was in its final stages, and the expenditures were starting to tighten. If he could hold on for a while longer, the accounts would be much more relaxed once the payment for "Cheng He Ti Tong" arrived.
He put the summary aside and picked up the list again.
Of the seven people, Yang Shanshan and Zhang Linghe are their own artists, and their contracts cover them, so blocking those two avenues is sufficient. He can't control the other five, but if there's overlap with Chen's business dealings, the platform's cooperation agreement might provide some protection.
He went through the logic in his mind and his gaze fell on the fifth name on the list.
This person is not in any contracts he can control, is not an artist under Sunshine Entertainment, is not a partner of iQiyi, and has no connection with Peng Bing or Fang Qing.
He is an independent artist whose management contract expired three months ago. He hasn't signed with a new company yet and is currently in a period of complete free agency.
When Galaxy Capital approached him, they didn't need to go through any contracts; they could just talk directly.
Moreover, Zeng Hao knew this person.
Zeng Hao placed the list on the table, his finger pressing on the name, remaining motionless.
...
The soundproof door to the dubbing studio was tightly closed, leaving only Chen Lei inside.
After finishing his afternoon dubbing job, everyone else left one after another, but he didn't move. He sat in the chair in front of the recording console with a cup of cold tea next to him, and the screen was frozen on a side profile shot of the last scene of "What Kind of Conduct".
The invitation was sent three days ago.
The other party claimed it was a collaboration in the brand's marketing direction, to be conducted through a separate channel, and immediately presented a number in the first message, euphemistically calling it "expressing sincerity."
He scrolled through the chat history, then scrolled back.
It's been three months. I've been a free agent for three whole months.
The contract for "What a Disgrace" was a one-off project, expiring after filming, and there was no long-term commitment involved. He had never signed with an agency, and when he was younger, he didn't think there was anything wrong with it. But sitting here now, he realizes that while the term "free agent" sounds easy, it implies that he has to shoulder all the responsibilities himself.
No one will shield you from trouble, no one will help you review the contract, and no one will tell you whether you can take on this job.
All judgments must be made by oneself.
He wasn't unmoved; that amount was by no means insignificant for an actor without a stable income. But he hesitated to reply, for a different reason than Zhang Linghe—not because he disliked the wording, but because he didn't know the person who sent the message at all. They said it was a friend's introduction, but he racked his brains trying to recall everyone he knew, and not a single one would recommend resources to him in that direction.
He couldn't figure out who this so-called "friend" really was.
The screen remained on the display, lit up.
Chen Lei's profile was sharply defined by the light, and his gaze was tilted to the left of the screen, as if he were staring at something unseen outside.
He took a screenshot and sent it to Zeng Hao, adding only the sentence: "Boss, take a look at this."
After sending the message, I picked up my glass of iced tea, took a sip, and waited for a reply.
When Zeng Hao saw the message, he had just finished flipping through the last page of the seven-person list.
The screenshot sent by Chen Lei was exactly the same as the contact record in Xu Wen's hand, with the sender, time, wording, and even the words "express sincerity" exactly the same.
He replied to Chen Lei: Where are you? I'm coming over.
Chen Lei replied: Dubbing studio, Area B.
The soundproof door to the dubbing studio was pushed open, and Zeng Hao walked in, sat down in a chair next to the recording console, and without beating around the bush, handed over a screenshot of Zhang Ruilan's business registration.
Chen Lei took it and glanced at it. When he saw the list of shareholders, his eyes paused.
Galaxy Capital.
"With a 12.7% stake, we have nearly 40% actual control."
Chen Lei placed the screenshot face down on the table and looked up at Zeng Hao: "So this isn't some kind of brand collaboration."
"Ruilan is just a front," Zeng Hao said bluntly. "They're looking for a way to break through where there are no contracts binding you. You're a free agent now, making you the easiest target."
Chen Lei leaned back, his fingers resting on the armrest of the chair, and remained silent. His expression was calm, clearly indicating that he had been thinking things through carefully before speaking.
"You're looking for me because of 'What Kind of Conduct'?"
"This drama is going to air at the end of the year, and you're the male lead. During the promotional period, which side you align with, what press releases you make, and which platform you coordinate your promotional strategy with are all bargaining chips."
Zeng Hao pushed another piece of paper over, which listed the six lines that Galaxy Capital was laying out around Sunshine Entertainment. "The sixth line is the artist channel, and you're on the list."
Chen Lei looked down and then looked up: "There are seven people in total."
Zeng Hao nodded: "Mm."
"How did you get the other six?"
"If there's a contract, we'll follow the contract; if there's no contract—" Zeng Hao paused, "that's exactly what I'm telling you."
Upon hearing this, Chen Lei's lips twitched slightly, not exactly a smile, but a subtle expression of understanding.
He glanced at the screenshot again, pushed it aside, and instead of asking himself what to do, he changed direction.
"During the promotional period for 'What Kind of Conduct', how do you plan to use me?"
Zeng Hao glanced at him.
"What I mean is," Chen Lei withdrew his hand and sat up straighter, "I have no ties now. Xinghe can find me, and so can others. If you want to close this gap, talking about background won't work. You need to give me a reason to stay with you."
He spoke frankly and directly, without any pretense.
Zeng Hao put away the timeline diagram: "Now that 'What Kind of Conduct' has finished airing, do you have any news about your next project?"
"A period drama," Chen Lei answered crisply. "I want to make a substantial drama, not a superficial idol drama. It has to have real substance."
Have you read the synopsis of "Ning An Ru Meng"?
Chen Lei was taken aback: "The one you're filming right now?"
"Post-production is being rushed, and it's expected to air next year. Director Peng Bing, you know his style."
"Know."
"There's a role in it," Zeng Hao paused, "once the publicity for 'What Kind of Conduct' is settled, come and take a look at the script."
Chen Lei pondered for a few seconds, nodded, and didn't ask who the character was.
He got up, finished his herbal tea, and put the cup on the table.
"Should we just reject Ruilan outright?"
"Don't reply," Zeng Hao said. "Replying will only leave a trace; not replying is the cleanest way."
Chen Lei responded, picked up his coat, walked to the door, paused, and turned back: "How did you know I was on the list?"
"It was leaked by our partner."
Chen Lei glanced at him, didn't ask any more questions, pushed open the soundproof door and walked out.
The noise from the corridor rushed in, only to be completely shut out by the closed door.
Xu Wen waited for Zeng Hao to return outside the office, clutching his phone. His expression clearly showed that he had been holding back his words for a long time and was finally able to speak.
"We've received news from the TV station."
Zeng Hao draped his coat over the back of the chair and sat down: "Speak."
"The scheduling team sent a message saying that a prime time slot has opened up at the end of the year. The original project had a problem, so the slot was temporarily cleared out. They're discussing it internally, and 'What Kind of Conduct' is on the shortlist." Xu Wen handed over his phone. "Look at the original text."
Zeng Hao took it, read it, and handed it back.
It's just a candidate, not finalized, and the internal process isn't finished yet. But being on the shortlist means the platform recognizes the content; it passes that hurdle, and all that's left is to wait.
With its prime-time slot at the end of the year, "What Kind of Conduct" is perfectly suited to the tastes of audiences during this period.
He had been planning this for two years. Choosing Peng Bing, casting Chen Lei, and filming this subject matter—every step was aimed at this goal.
Now that things have progressed to this point, the window of opportunity has opened.
"What materials do you need us to supplement?"
"First, we'll have informal communication, and once it's approved internally, we'll proceed with the formal process so we can prepare the specifications and marketing plan."
"Have Sister Liu update the production specifications, adding the post-production completion status and delivery time. Have Fang Qing create a one-page summary of the marketing plan; can it be ready tonight?"
"I'll go ask."
Xu Wen walked out, then turned back at the door: "If it's successful, is the payment made after the broadcast?"
"Once the broadcast data meets the target, the final payment will be settled according to the contract, as early as the first quarter."
Xu Wen mentally calculated: "So that means early next year?"
"Fastest".
Xu Wen nodded, a slight smile playing on his lips: "Okay, I'll go urge Fang Qing."
After she left, Zeng Hao pushed the documents on the table aside, revealing the expense summary table at the bottom.
The company has 7057 million in its accounts and is still spending money.
Production of "Ning An Ru Meng" is nearing completion, but the marketing budget has not yet been fully approved, and this period is when funds are most tight.
Once the payment for "What Kind of Conduct" arrives, things will be a bit easier on the books.
The target of 1.5 million is not just a slogan; it is a number built up from every expenditure and every decision made regarding the schedule.
He closed the expense summary and put it aside.
...
the other side.
Dilireba folded up her schedule and casually stuffed it into her bag.
The schedule for urban dramas has been postponed, and the release date for "Eternal Love" has been finalized. The schedule for the next three months is set in stone, with no suspense.
She leaned back on the soft sofa, her posture relaxed. Her bright and striking features, now bare-faced, exuded a languid and carefree charm. The curtains weren't fully drawn, and the afternoon sunlight slanted in through the gaps, drawing a narrow band of light across the floor, slowly shifting to the right.
She lowered her eyes, stared at the light and shadow for a moment, her fingertips gently tracing the edge of the script, but her mind was preoccupied with something else.
After leaving Sunshine Entertainment last week, she didn't drive away immediately, but instead sat quietly in her car for a long time.
It wasn't that the contract wasn't agreed upon; all the relevant matters had been finalized that day. It was just that, while sitting there, she couldn't help but ponder Zeng Hao's way of handling things.
He ignored the rumors that were circulating at the height of his popularity and eventually calmed them down on his own, which also brought some attention to "Ning An Ru Meng".
Galaxy Capital made several roundabout attempts to probe, but she only heard scattered fragments of information. Each time she heard a follow-up, it was because the other party had changed their approach and tried again.
He never takes the bait in a game that the other party has laid out for him.
She had been thinking about this matter over and over for several days.
She picked up her pen and gently circled the line. As the pen tip paused on the paper, Zeng Hao's image involuntarily flashed through her mind.
She casually flipped to the next page of the script, and the strip of light through the gap in the curtains shifted a little further, almost touching the corner of the wall.
She didn't get up to draw the curtains, but simply tilted her head slightly to continue reading the script. Her profile was soft and bright in the dim light, exuding a clear and radiant aura that others couldn't imitate.
...
Fang Qing sent the simplified version of the promotional material at 9 p.m., half an hour earlier than Xu Wen urged her to do so.
Zeng Hao read the page, changed two wordings, and sent it back to her so she could save it as this version.
Xu Wen, who was outside receiving the forwarded message, poked his head in and asked, "Finished revising?"
"Okay, send it to the contact person at the TV station."
"Send it now?"
"Now."
Xu Wen agreed and went out, but soon came back in, holding a bag of biscuits. He placed it on the cabinet by the door: "Chu Ran put these here before, saying you'd have something to eat if you were hungry. She texted you today to ask if you'd eaten, and I replied that I had for you."
Zeng Hao didn't even look up: "Mm."
"I replied for you," Xu Wen emphasized, "Just keep it in mind."
"understood."
Xu Wen pushed the cookies into the cupboard, turned around, closed the door, and left.
The office fell silent again, the desk lamp on, illuminating the document-covered surface clearly.
The TV station's response is expected to be by tomorrow morning at the earliest. The internal discussion of the shortlist is still pending, and there is one last step to go.
The window of opportunity is open, but the real door has not yet been opened.
After finishing the last document, Zeng Hao put it aside, reached for the cookies on the cabinet, unwrapped them, and took a bite.
"...The production team's idea is that the song has to be submitted first, and they need to go through an internal review process. Only after that process is completed can they finalize your appearance on the show."
Wu Lianluo's polite voice came through the receiver. Xu Wenzheng quietly walked in with two glasses of water, put the glasses on the corner of the table, and stood quietly to the side without daring to say a word.
"Is the hearing over?" Zeng Hao tapped his fingertips on the table.
"They said it's just a formality, not a veto system. It's just an internal hearing, and if there are any real ideas, they can offer a few suggestions. It's like... giving some reference and advice."
"suggestion."
Zeng Hao repeated the two words slowly, his tone revealing neither joy nor anger.
"Yes, it's a suggestion, not a pressure to change, but we hope the artist can consider it as appropriate."
Zeng Hao pondered these words for two seconds.
In the entertainment industry, the word "advice" is the most slippery excuse. It's written on a contract like a blank sheet of paper, but if a loophole is left, anyone can bring up the fact that they said they would take advice into consideration when there are disputes later, which can be incredibly damaging.
He must have suffered a whole basketful of losses due to these kinds of word games in his past life.
"Have they agreed to a cooperation framework of 1200 million?"
"They agreed, but now they're holding this hearing against us. They say it's industry practice, and every celebrity appearing on a show has to go through this process." Wu Lianluo's tone was a little uncertain. "Do you think... we can accept these conditions?"
"I can take it." Zeng Hao answered readily. "I'll draft the contract. The review process can be included, but the appendix must clearly state: the suggestions are for reference only, the artist has full rights to choose the songs and finalize the draft, and the production team is not allowed to request modifications or song changes based on the review results."
There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone, clearly not expecting him to be so tight-lipped.
"...Will the production team agree to these conditions?"
"They themselves said the hearing was just a formality and there was no mandatory modification. I simply wrote that statement verbatim into the contract. What's wrong with that?"
Wu Lianlu responded, clearly still figuring out the intricacies of the situation: "Then I'll go and communicate with them again."
"Don't ask beforehand. Send them the complete contract and let them read it before giving a reply."
"Okay, I understand."
After hanging up the phone, Xu Wen pushed another glass of water toward Zeng Hao, and after holding back for a long time, he couldn't help but say, "You're not really agreeing to let them go through the procedures, you're just letting them put on a show. They haven't gotten any real power at all."
"Um."
"They're still foolish enough to think they have the power to make recommendations."
"Um."
Looking at his nonchalant demeanor, Xu Wen sighed helplessly, his tone full of amusement and exasperation: "If you deal with people like this, won't those people on the other end be internally injured from holding it in?"
Zeng Hao picked up his water glass, took a sip, and didn't respond to the conversation.
Xu Wen waved his hand dismissively: "Forget it, forget it. Anyway, if I argue with you, you'll always be the one who wins in the end. Why should I bother with that?"
This so-called "internal hearing" practice in the industry is nothing new.
Originally, this process was left over from the headquarters' review of song content. Later, it was gradually adopted by variety show production teams and became a semi-formal procedure.
While they claim to be ensuring broadcast safety, in practice they have an incredibly wide range of flexibility, and the program team's discretion is frighteningly broad.
The standard procedure takes seven to ten working days to produce results. However, the weight of a "suggestion" depends entirely on the contract. If it's not written down, there's no excuse for anything afterward.
Zeng Hao knew perfectly well that sending Xue Zhijian's song would not cause any problems at all; he was already very familiar with the outcome of his past life.
However, the "right to make suggestions" held by the production team is a ticking time bomb. If it is not plugged in advance, and there are any problems with the publicity and distribution schedule later, this power can be used as a bargaining chip at any time.
The solution to plug the hole is simple: nail down every word the production team said in the contract.
If they say it's not mandatory, then let's put it in black and white that it's not mandatory.
Clean and efficient, leaving no room for argument.
"By the way, Yang Shanshan did an interview today." Xu Wen swiped his phone, his tone flat. "The reporter asked her if she had any new work plans for the second half of the year, and she casually said, 'I'm in talks about a new direction.' But our official line has always been that she's focused on her current schedule and hasn't mentioned anything about discussing new projects."
Zeng Hao casually flipped through the documents on the table without even looking up.
"Just letting you know, so you're aware." Xu Wen put his phone back in his pocket, paused, and added, "I've been keeping a close eye on her schedule lately."
"Um."
Xu Wen waited for a long time, and seeing that he had no other instructions, he patted the corner of the table, turned around and left.
Yang Shanshan's radiant beauty is well-known in the industry. Her oval face is framed by a pair of expressive eyes, and her smile reveals shallow dimples. Yet, she possesses an indomitable spirit, and even a casual remark during an interview can reveal hidden thoughts. She is captivating in appearance and even more so ingenious in her mind. However, her little schemes are of no use to Zeng Hao.
...
The milk tea shop near the Shanghai Theatre Academy is in that awkward middle of the day around 3 p.m.
On weekdays, students are either in class or rehearsing, so there are hardly any people in the shop. It's quiet, with only the clear buzzing of the air conditioner unit outside.
Tian Xiwei arrived early and chose a seat by the window. After ordering, she rested her chin on her hand and looked out the window, her fingertips unconsciously tearing at the straw paper. She tore it in half and threw it on the side of the cup holder without even realizing it.
She's been carrying a mountain of worries lately.
As a performing arts student, she will be casting for her drama class next semester. She wants to secure a significant supporting role, not a leading role, but a role with limited screen time that is memorable and challenging to perform.
She privately spoke with her teacher, who only said that she could try in her current state, but relying solely on spiritual energy was not enough; she needed to delve deeper.
She had been pondering these words for days, and the more she thought about them, the more uneasy she felt. It wasn't that she couldn't take it in; she truly did, but she couldn't quite grasp where to apply her wisdom.
Tian Xiwei knew that Chu Ran had finished filming. When she found out, her first reaction wasn't to be happy for her friend, but to be stunned.
She took the entrance exam for the Shanghai Theatre Academy at the same time, but others had already finished filming an entire series and were standing at the entrance of the studio listening to the director call "call it a day." She didn't see that scene with her own eyes, but she could vividly imagine it.
She was genuinely happy for Chu Ran, but a vague, uneasy feeling also welled up inside her, like someone had gently stepped on her tail—subtle yet prickly.
She didn't intend to tell anyone about these little thoughts; there was no need, and it would make her seem petty.
I don't know when the company's "Chasing Jade" will start filming; there's absolutely no news about it right now.
The wind chimes by the door rang once, and Tian Xi looked up slightly.
Chu Ran pushed open the glass door and walked in, carrying her usual backpack. Her jacket zipper was only half-zipped up. Her neat short hair was tucked behind her ears, and her features were clean and delicate, exuding a student-like liveliness while also possessing a maturity honed from acting. She glanced at Tian Xiwei's seat, walked straight over, and sat down opposite her. She placed her backpack on the chair next to her, the zipper open, revealing a corner of her course notes inside.
Chu Ran's beauty is sweet and gentle, without any aggression. Her skin is fair and translucent, her eyes are round and bright, and her gaze is sincere when she speaks. Just sitting there, she is the most eye-catching girl on campus. After filming, she gained an extra layer of storytelling, making her even more captivating.
"Is the thesis finished?" Tian Xiwei asked, getting straight to the point.
"I finished writing it last night. I rushed through the last 800 words in one go, much smoother than I expected." Chu Ran pulled over the menu and glanced at it.
"The fact that you wrote your thesis smoothly means that you really figured something out while filming that movie," Tian Xiwei chimed in.
Chu Ran thought for a moment and nodded: "That's true. There was a section in the literature that I couldn't understand, but when I was filming an emotional scene, I found the feeling, and when I looked back at that passage, it suddenly became clear."
Tian Xiwei rested her chin on her hand and looked her up and down: "Your way of speaking has changed lately."
Chu Ran stared at the menu without looking up: "What's different?"
"I can't quite put my finger on it," Tian Xiwei said bluntly. "Before, when you talked about something, you always liked to lay out a bunch of causes and consequences first, but now you just blurt out the conclusion. I didn't even realize when you changed."
Chu Ran put down the menu, looked up at her, and asked blankly, "Did I?"
"Of course I do." Tian Xiwei said with certainty, "Just now, you said 'Did I?' Two months ago, you would have argued, 'What do you mean? I didn't think so. Which time are you talking about?' But now it's just three words, very straightforward."
Chu Ran paused for a second, then looked down at the menu and said, "That's good, stop talking nonsense."
Tian Xi chuckled softly, tore the remaining straw paper clean, crumpled it into small balls, and tossed them onto the table.
The waiter came over, and Chu Ran ordered a plain milk tea without sugar. Tian Xiwei also paid her bill. After the waiter left, she rested her chin on her hand and, after holding back her feelings for several days, finally blurted out, "When you were filming, did you ever feel like you were lagging far behind everyone else?"
Chu Ran hadn't expected her to ask this, and looked up at her: "What exactly do you mean by 'slow'?"
"It's... that feeling of disparity when you see others have already taken a step forward while you're still stuck in the same place."
Chu Ran didn't rush to offer platitudes or deny her feelings; instead, she simply asked softly, "What's been going on with you lately?"
Tian Xiwei originally wanted to laugh it off, but before she could finish speaking, she inexplicably blurted out the truth: "I was stunned for a long time when I saw the news that you had finished filming."
Chu Ran looked at her quietly without saying a word.
"It's not that I'm not happy for you," Tian Xiwei quickly added, "I'm genuinely happy for you, it's just that I felt a little awkward, just for a moment."
"That's normal."
"normal?"
"Hmm." Chu Ran picked up the straw and inserted it into the cup. "You're feeling uneasy, which means you want to move up, not that you're really incapable."
Tian Xi pursed her lips and looked at her with a smile: "You've really changed. In the past, you would have definitely comforted me by saying, 'It's okay, you're also very outstanding.'"
"What's the point of saying such empty words?" Chu Ran took a sip of milk tea. "You know perfectly well what you want. Saying such things is just a waste of breath."
Tian Xiwei held her cup and remained silent for a moment before slowly speaking: "I want to try out for a role in the drama class next semester. The teacher said I need to delve deeper into the subject matter."
"Then let's get it done."
"How do I apply the needle? I have no idea."
Chu Ran thought about it carefully and gave an idea: "Don't go to Teacher Peng Bing, you're not familiar with him. Go to your own acting teacher and ask him to give you specific guidance. Don't listen to those general 'practice a little more' advice. You need to be specific to a particular scene or a particular acting problem, and then focus on that point and practice it intensively."
After listening to this, Tian Xiwei took a sip of her milk tea, her expression somewhat complicated: "You're giving advice to people more directly than I am now."
"Isn't it good?"
"It's good, but I'm not used to it yet," Tian Xi smiled.
The two remained silent, sitting quietly without any awkwardness. Outside the window, students rode by on bicycles, their bells jingling as they quickly disappeared into the distance.
Tian Xiwei picked up her phone and scrolled through her schedule, casually asking, "Have you made any progress on your next project?"
"No." Chu Ran pulled her backpack strap up a bit. "I'll submit my thesis first and prepare for next semester's exams. The rest is up to the company."
"You don't seem to be in a hurry at all."
"There's no use in rushing," Chu Ran shrugged. "Films that are hastily accepted usually don't turn out well."
Tian Xiwei rested her chin on her hand and stared at her again, this time without saying a word, silently savoring the words in her mind. She wanted to laugh, but a different feeling arose, one that was hard to explain.
Chu Ran's transformation wasn't something she was taught; it was something she truly honed on set and in the drama, something ingrained in her very being.
She lowered her head, poking at the pearls at the bottom of her cup with the straw, not expressing her true feelings, but simply asking, "Are we meeting up again next week? My roommates are thinking of getting together, are you coming?"
"Sure, just send me the time," Chu Ran replied crisply.
...
When Wu Lianluo sent over the draft contract, Xu Wen had already left work, leaving Zeng Hao alone in the office. He opened the document and went through it from beginning to end.
The cooperation framework was flawless. The 1200 million would be settled in two installments, with the first installment arriving after the program was confirmed and the final payment to be settled on the day of the broadcast. The refund terms were also drafted exactly as he requested, with no loopholes in the wording.
Turning to the last page, below Appendix 3, the production team had manually added a line of small print, a size smaller than the main text. This was not part of the standard contract format and was clearly added on the spot.
"If any of the review suggestions involve broadcast regulations, both parties shall resolve the matter amicably through negotiation."
Friendly consultation.
Zeng Hao almost burst out laughing when he saw those four words.
It's even more cunning than the previous right to make suggestions; it's practically opened the floodgates for disputes even wider.
He took a screenshot of this page and sent it to the legal department with only three words: "Look at this line."
The legal department replied almost instantly: I'll draft the coverage clause right away and send it to you tomorrow morning.
Zeng Hao closed the contract documents. The desk lamp was still on, and the corridor outside was quiet and deserted. He picked up his phone and glanced at his schedule for tomorrow.
The post-production editing of "Ning An Ru Meng" reported its progress today. The rough cut of episodes one to ten has been completed. Peng Bing said that the overall direction is fine, and there are only two places where he wants to adjust the pacing. They have arranged to watch the film the day after tomorrow.
Xue Zhijian's contract is almost ready, except for the legal department to fill in that small print.
The TV station's feedback on "What Kind of Conduct" should be available as early as tomorrow morning.
Three lines of investigation were being pursued simultaneously, but none of them were fully implemented.
He turned off his phone and tossed it onto the table.
Before the legal coverage clauses were released, the phrase "friendly negotiation" hung on the contract. The production team probably thought it was their last lifeline.
That's incredibly naive.