Chapter 5

“You’re not wrong. My yearly income from stand-up barely counts as a thirteenth-month salary.”

So what kind of person was he, to be completely unshaken by imminent danger at close range? An action star? A martial arts coach? A serial killer?

Gu Yi sat on her bed, staring ahead at her wardrobe. Seven handles on the cabinet doors hung clothes that would never dry properly. Why am I thinking about others? I should think about why I can’t afford a room with a balcony and proper sunlight.

Her male roommate was on the phone next door. “Mom, did the royal jelly I sent you arrive? Remember, you have to go to the delivery station yourself—it’s too far for home delivery in our neighborhood. Everything’s fine here. Don’t worry about me. My girlfriend’s fine too. We’ll talk about marriage later. I’ve got to go.”

Gu Yi sat by the bed, searching her male roommate’s name. Despite living together, she only remembered his screen name. They interacted little, and he always dressed plainly. There was no sign of a girlfriend (after all, he was the kind of guy who slept on a mattress on the floor to save rent).

Following clues from Weibo, she found two accounts. He was a typical Hupu keyboard warrior, calling actresses like Cecilia Cheung and Joey Wong goddesses, bashing young idols and internet celebrities, and even getting called out by fan clubs. A few days later, he issued an apology.

The most amusing thing was his agreement with a post on Hupu that read: “There’s no need to chase women. Just kiss and sleep with them. If she submits, she’s yours. Isn’t that how it works in dramas? None of them refuse after being forcefully kissed; it’s straight to bed.”

Gu Yi found her roommate somewhat pitiful. He wasn’t truly lustful or dangerous—more like he believed he was “chasing” her. He thought suppressing and coaxing her would eventually lead to success, as though it were a surefire formula for making her his girlfriend.

Such people were hard to reason with. They wouldn’t be scared off but would instead seek advice from others, only to be encouraged to continue harassing. Liang Daiwen’s words came to mind: “The ones who laugh aren’t necessarily genuinely happy.”

Stupid and bad people need education, but they’re not unforgivable.

Gu Yi had a habit of cutting away unbearable ugliness and absurdity, trying to face others with a smile whenever possible.

Offense—put it in the jokes.

Sitting in her office, mulling over Jacqueline’s relentless pitch ideas, Gu Yi kept thinking of Liang Daiwen. He seemed different from other men, with unique traits completely lacking the urgency to “get on the right track” that most men had.

She could even recall the scent of the air during their encounter by the soccer field—damp, grassy, and mingled with the bright white light of the stadium.

That night, she didn’t get a chance to perform at the open mic, relegated to the audience instead. She had plans to meet with Yu Dule, her insider connection who often had paid stand-up gigs. She needed to earn money to afford a better place to live.

Afternoon tea was her stolen moment of laziness. Shrinking into her workstation, she finished reading Liang Daiwen’s interview.

The interview with a smart home designer described Devin as someone who gave cold responses but warm insights. The writer concluded that Devin might be a contradictory person whose personality was faithfully captured in their unedited answers.

Q: “How did you, as a designer, come to explore the topic of virtual spaces?”

Devin: “Because you wanted to interview me and insisted I needed something novel.”

Q: “Do you think online and offline spaces are opposites?”

Devin: “Of course. They correspond directly to physical living spaces. Urban life is being squeezed, so people turn to the internet. I don’t think the phenomenon of universal internet usage is solely because of advanced technology.”

Q: “Can you elaborate?”

Devin: “Games are pacifiers for the poor. Phones are cradles for urbanites. Mental spaces and living spaces are shrinking to coffin sizes, so people grow increasingly irritable online.”

Q: “That analogy sounds harsh.”

Devin: “A city at night is a cemetery lit by neon lights. People exist more online than in real life. The poor’s time is compressed into rigid frameworks—phone screens, cubicles, partitioned rental apartments. In these, there’s neither nature nor real life.

“Slightly better-off people might play basketball, dine out, or watch movies. When they seek greater spiritual fulfillment, they might turn to literature, theater, or nature—but actual enjoyment is minimal. Young people in partitioned rooms or basements no longer turn to nature or life for entertainment but to their phones.

“It’s not hard to see our dependence on phones—watching shows, binging dramas, or reading novels on the subway. Without a phone, even idling feels awkward. That’s why concepts like shared charging stations are so popular. In the end, the only real demand is for power banks.

“Technology expands the dimensions of the internet, creating more ways to entertain, but rising rents and housing costs compress the physical spaces for young people. It forces their attention entirely online. Urban parks are mostly for families, elderly people, and children.

“So where are single young people? On cramped beds, watching their phones, or sitting at narrow desks on computers, gaming or acting as keyboard warriors. Our generation seems to have diverse aesthetics but is, in reality, being squeezed.”

Q: So, you think the internet isn’t friendly?

D: Not necessarily. A large part of my work involves serving people with disabilities, and modern interactions have indeed brought them convenience. They were among the first to be driven back home by society. For example, blind individuals can learn to use voice commands, allowing them to hail a cab or operate a dryer at home. I’m just observing these phenomena.

Q: Would you advocate for people to use their phones as little as possible?

D: No. Most people need some way to relieve themselves emotionally. I have no right to interfere in others’ lives, and I’m not perfect myself. The prevalence of smartphones has also provided many people with functional tools like rulers, magnifying glasses, and scales. However, those without phones are also being excluded.

These were perspectives Gu Yi had never heard before. Liang Daiwen was exceptionally rational, devoid of much emotional bias, leaning more toward philosophical reasoning. Yet, he didn’t seem entirely devoid of humanity. Despite his blunt words, he wasn’t incapable of appreciating others.

Q: Are there any designers you particularly admire? 

D: Li Ai. A designer who often appeared in AD Architectural Digest, extremely talented. It’s a pity—after a car accident, they were unable to recover. I wonder when I’ll get to see their work again.

Raising her head, Gu Yi noticed the photo pinned to her corkboard, one she had cut out long ago when she first encountered stand-up comedy in a magazine. It depicted a study with a high stool, a water glass, and a beam of light. It was yellowed now, alongside her collection of postcards, neatly arranged next to her computer every time she moved desks. She stared at the corkboard in a daze, imagining Liang Daiwen as part of the picture—a tiny figure half the length of her finger, striding into the scene in leather shoes, sitting on the stool, and engaging in an interview under the light. He didn’t look particularly friendly, which probably explained his lack of friends. If he ever did stand-up comedy, it would likely be very odd: no emotional appeal, just sharp-tongued and deadpan. Maybe that contrast would be charming. 

Let’s put it this way—if he liked me, that would show good taste.

And yet, this urban oddball who said he wanted to make friends hadn’t even exchanged contact information. Gu Yi pedaled her bike too slowly to reach Ounce in time, wanting to ask him to save her a seat but to no avail. She had barely parked her bike outside when she spotted Liang Daiwen in line. Sure enough, he wasn’t just attending her set. She called out, “Liang Daiwen!” He turned his head, and for a moment, Gu Yi was reminded of the lonely, mask-wearing No-Face from Spirited Away, who seemed deeply hurt by the world and desperate for connection.

At the bar counter nearby, Uncle Lu was chatting animatedly with someone. Gu Yi rushed over to greet him, and Uncle Lu chuckled, ruffling her hair. “Uncle Lu,” whose real name was Lu Ming, got his nickname from high school-aged fans, but he was only 33. He usually worked as a supporting actor in dramas, with brief appearances in primetime and hit shows. When not filming, he spent his time teaching skiing and diving, and he rented a house on Wuyuan Road to run a small theater. His material was far removed from the typical nine-to-five work life of office workers, instead taking inspiration from snowy mountains, deep seas, or film sets. People often joked that running into Uncle Lu at Ounce was a perk in itself—after all, a ruggedly handsome man with broad shoulders and long legs was a feast for the eyes in a setting like this.

Gu Yi: “Uncle Lu, long time no see! What’s your set about today?”

Uncle Lu: “A story about the king of the seas. I was teaching someone to dive recently and got tangled in a fisherman’s net. I thought I’d talk about that.”

Gu Yi: “Really?”

Uncle Lu: “Of course. How’ve you been? I heard from Yu Dule that you’ve started dating recently.”

Gu Yi: “He’s making stuff up.” Gu Yi glanced over and sure enough, Liang Daiwen had taken all this in.

While waiting backstage, Gu Yi slipped into the dimly lit seating area and sat next to Liang Daiwen, intent on observing whether he laughed during other people’s sets. The opener was Yu Dule, who unsurprisingly brought up his recurring bit about wanting to be a “kept man.”

Yu Dule: “People might think I look decent enough to get by on my looks, but I refuse. I rely on my skills. Since my first internship at 18 in Shanghai, everything’s been smooth sailing. That’s right—being a ‘kept man’ is great.”

Gu Yi didn’t laugh; she’d heard it too many times. Still, the atmosphere of a live audience was contagious, making it hard not to smile or get caught in the rhythm of laughter. Liang Daiwen, however, leaned forward slightly, listening intently but remaining completely unreactive. The only movement came from his breathing. Yu Dule sniffed dramatically, continuing:

Yu Dule: “This is just a bit, but somehow everyone thinks it’s real. Every time I check tickets, people can’t remember my name and say, ‘Oh, the kept guy!’ Someone even DMed me asking if being a kept man was enjoyable. I didn’t reply but later posted a picture from a dentist’s visit. That person replied, ‘Hahaha, it’s obvious you’ve been eating too much soft food.’ I was so confused—if I were a kept man, wouldn’t I switch industries? Still, I need to separate the joke from reality. If I could live off my looks, I wouldn’t even need to talk; I’d just act.” He then subtly thrust his hips.

The audience roared with laughter. Yu Dule occasionally included risqué humor in his late-night sets. Liang Daiwen, however, remained unmoved. Gu Yi wondered if the suggestiveness made him uncomfortable. Could he be an undercover critic for another comedy or storytelling organization? Leaning closer, she caught a whiff of his cologne. This man wasn’t just good-looking; he had a certain flair—reserved and stoic, which made him even more appealing.

Liang Daiwen: “You’re sitting too close.”

Gu Yi: “Oh, sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Your cologne smells nice.”

Liang Daiwen: “Thank you.”

Gu Yi: “Want a drink? I heard you took me home last time, so I owe you one.”

Liang Daiwen: “No need. Last time, from here to your place and back, it was pointless. So, there’s no need to thank me.”

Gu Yi: “Huh?” Realizing it was a double entendre, Gu Yi laughed. “So, you can be funny. You’re not secretly here to steal material, are you?”

Liang Daiwen: “Even if I can memorize things, I don’t lack money. At 350 yuan per ticket, it’s too cheap.”

At a loss for words, Gu Yi was caught off guard when he asked, “Was that comment offensive? I apologize.”

Gu Yi: “Oh, no. You’re not wrong, though. A year’s worth of stand-up gigs barely counts as a 13th paycheck.” She tried to play along with the joke.

Coming up next was Uncle Lu. Gu Yi was somewhat looking forward to seeing if Liang Daiwen would be amused. It felt as if she were a clerk showing off products to customers, eager to sell the joke and get someone’s approval. Uncle Lu started strong:

“Lately, I’ve been a ‘king of the sea,’ teaching people how to dive. Getting a diving license does take some time. Some people end up buying a house on an island just to study. If they really can’t learn, they stay on the island and turn into bed-and-breakfast owners, refusing to leave until they make back the money they spent on lessons. One day, I was teaching some students when we suddenly got caught in a fishing net. It was really dangerous. When we surfaced, we found that a local fisherman had accidentally hauled us up along with all kinds of sea creatures—octopuses, shellfish, bikinis, and even a massive tuna. The scene was wild. Everything else pulled ashore had value and could be served at a table. Meanwhile, all we got was a scolding. It felt like such a failure—our skills weren’t even good enough to avoid getting fished up!”

Gu Yi was laughing uncontrollably, clutching her stomach as she sneaked a glance at Liang Daiwen. Still, there was no reaction. She nudged his arm. “Not into this type either?”

“What, is he really popular?”

“Anyone with eyes can see he’s handsome.”

“Oh. Being handsome isn’t a reason to score points.”

“But he’s not just any handsome guy. He used to be a businessman with a happy family. Then he got scammed. His wife left with the kids. Now he goes around making money and is still paying off his debts. Open mic is just a way for him to cope—he smiles easily, but you wouldn’t know how tough it is because he doesn’t talk about it. Like you said before, not everyone has to laugh, but finding joy in hardship is necessary.” She suddenly paused and added, “Oh, keep this a secret, okay? I only told you because you seem trustworthy.”

The “Faceless Man” made a zipping motion at his lips. During the break, Gu Yi couldn’t help herself. “You know, those little gestures and walking me home are actually pretty thoughtful—completely different from your expressionless state.”

“Learned it from K-dramas.”

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong?”

“You had to learn that? Are you really a cold-blooded animal? Honestly, all I know about you is from my imagination. Don’t you realize people who don’t smile have zero information value?”

Liang Daiwen turned to stare at her for a long moment, leaving her stunned. The stage lights illuminated half of his face—half as if it had soaked in the beauty of the world, and the other half shrouded in darkness like a painting dulled by night. His eyes were utterly empty—most people’s gaze carried emotions, judgments, or assumptions, leaving impurities in their eyes. But her reflection in his eyes felt like a face cast into a dark lake, suddenly fragile and sensitive because of his gaze.

She had never felt this way before. It was unlike anything with anyone else. The surrounding environment and laughter became surreal background noise. It was as if she had been drawn into his story entirely.

And that story might be a dark one.