Chapter 62: Subtle Shifts

“But she’s clearly lying!”

The moment the call connected, Yin Mengxi couldn’t hold back. All the careful restraint and deference she had maintained throughout the day erupted into a torrent of委屈 (grievance) and anger. Her sole listener was him, on the other side of the ocean.

“Collective results are collective, but shouldn’t the source of the idea at least be acknowledged? Isn’t she blatantly taking credit for herself in front of the producer?”

“And that intern I’m working with—he’s been slacking off this whole time, and I’ve taken on so much extra work for him. But what does he do? He steals my idea, passes it off as his own to the higher-ups, just to curry favor without lifting a finger!”

“My mentor even told me to learn from him…”

“What am I supposed to learn from him? How to be shameless and take advantage of others?”

This is a stage everyone must go through.

Stepping out of school with an innocent student’s heart, only to receive a harsh slap from reality. At some point, you suddenly realize the idealistic lessons taught in classrooms don’t hold up. The real world is indifferent—it hits you and then tells you it’s a lesson, expecting you to swallow the bitterness willingly.

Who could stand up for her?

No one. She had to deal with it all on her own. If she cried or complained, the so-called “seniors” in the workplace would sneer—”What’s the big deal?” “Why are kids these days so fragile?” “We went through the same thing back in our day.” “Young people need to learn how to take losses.” And so on.

Disagree? Too bad.

If she didn’t like it, she could leave. There were plenty of others eager for her position—fresh韭菜 (leeks) ready to be harvested endlessly. If she didn’t want to be bullied, she had to grow stronger. A little rabbit couldn’t stay a rabbit forever. If she truly wanted what she desired, she had to grow fangs, fight for her place, and stop grazing grass—start eating meat.

…But this process was painful and ugly.

Elegance belonged only to those born with resources. For someone with nothing, moving forward meant crawling and stumbling. A rabbit growing fangs wouldn’t look pretty. Right now, she was just raging helplessly. In time, as she clawed her way through, she’d become unrecognizable, far from the sweet, quiet girl she once was.

Perhaps by then, he’d already feel a bit estranged from her.

“Xiao Xi,” his voice hesitated slightly, “…take a break.”

“Don’t push yourself so hard. Don’t rush.”

“You’re still young. Go back to school for now.”

“Or maybe switch jobs? If you need it, I can recommend something. My family has connections in the cultural industry…”

—How could she accept that?

She couldn’t rely on him. What would her efforts mean then? She had to find a good job on her own, carve out a place in the industry, and earn enough money so she wouldn’t feel afraid or inferior anymore. Then she could confidently meet his parents and calmly discuss marriage with him.

She didn’t notice the hesitation in his tone, still immersed in her anger and frustration. Muttering, she said, “No.”

“I have to see this project through.”

“It doesn’t make sense for the thief to gloat while the victim runs away with their tail between their legs.”

“I will succeed.”

She repeated it over and over, unsure whether she truly believed it or was just trying to convince herself.

“…I will definitely succeed.”

And so she returned to work, head down.

Chen Chen and Jin Yu both had thick skin and acted completely normal at work. Jin Yu even greeted her with a brazen smile when he saw her. When she responded coldly, he didn’t care, quickly ingratiating himself with the other teachers in the office. By the time Yin Mengxi noticed, he had already befriended everyone. Chen Chen, pleased with how this intern had flattered her, favored him even more.

…It was infuriating.

Being marginalized felt like water slowly heating up. At first, the discomfort wasn’t obvious, but gradually, it simmered and rose. Later, when her idea passed the meeting and the entire team celebrated, she alone felt even more aggrieved. These emotions accumulated until early August, when filming officially began.

Interns always got stuck with the most troublesome and tedious tasks.

She had to coordinate with countless audition participants, add them individually to group chats, repeatedly remind them of various details, and create schedules based on each person’s preferred recording dates. Physical labor like setting up venues and escorting guests naturally fell to interns too. After morning meetings, Yin Mengxi often worked nonstop all day. Even after dragging herself back to the dorm exhausted, messages bombarded her constantly—some contestants were unreachable, a standby room screen was broken, a guest’s schedule changed and needed adjustments… Endless unexpected issues.

She was exhausted—far more than during school plays or the Challenge Cup project. Physical fatigue was only part of it; emotional suppression weighed heavier. And he wasn’t there—the one source of comfort was gone. She felt herself being drained, waking up every morning to a numb pain.

That day was worse. She was on her period, her stomach cramping painfully, and she had to go on an errand to pick up several musician teachers at the airport. Their flight was delayed, so she waited in the terminal for over two hours. After picking them up, she rushed them to the hotel. By the time she stepped outside, it was noon, and the summer heat in City A was sweltering—easily over 35°C. She suffered heatstroke, her abdominal cramps worsening, leaving her dizzy and nearly fainting.

Too weak to squeeze onto the subway, she reluctantly paid for a taxi back to the station, wiping out her day’s internship wage and losing an additional ten yuan. Pale-faced, she reported to her mentor, Chen Chen, who seemed oblivious to her discomfort and assigned her to backstage to mic the rehearsal contestants.

She went, reluctantly entering a semi-enclosed space near the backstage entrance where spare audio equipment was stacked. Pulling out her phone, she considered calling Xiao Zhi. She just wanted to hear his voice—not to say anything else, not needing him to console or encourage her. After all, she knew he didn’t support her doing this internship.

Just… wanting to confirm he was still there.

She dialed up to the second-to-last digit before remembering it was 2 or 3 a.m. on his side of the world. That’s how distant they were—not only unable to give her a hug but even unable to let her hear his voice.

…Forget it.

Call tonight.

Just hold on a little longer…

Her self-consoling words sounded fine, but tears had already slipped out without her noticing. Clutching her stomach, she slowly sank to the floor, leaning against the large speaker. The dizziness and nausea from heatstroke hadn’t fully subsided. Perhaps this was her breaking point—her reserve of strength depleted, unable to face others after retreating into this dark corner.

…I miss you so much.

I just want to see you.

Even for a minute, half a minute, twenty seconds—I wouldn’t mind.

Just… want to see you.

She cried bitterly but dared not make a sound. Being heard would make her seem娇气 (delicate) and麻烦 (troublesome)—worse if Chen Chen or Jin Yu found out. They’d feel triumphant, and she’d feel even more useless.

So she cried silently, hysterically releasing everything in solitude. No one knew someone here was on the verge of collapse. Her desperate desire for success had backed her into a corner, magnifying every external unpleasantness into tenfold malice. She wanted to escape but couldn’t.

Zzzt—zzzt—

The walkie-talkie clipped to her waist crackled. It was Chen Chen asking if she was in position. Wiping her tears, she replied in a normal voice, “Almost,” while shakily pulling herself up using the large speaker behind her. Dizzy, she nearly collapsed on the spot. Closing her eyes for a moment, she shook her head to regain focus and stepped out of the small corner. Just as she took a step, she saw a group walking out from backstage. Leading them was Deputy Director He Yarong, deep in conversation with their producer.

She stepped aside, letting the leaders pass, but as they brushed past, the other woman suddenly stopped. Startled, Yin Mengxi looked up, locking eyes with Deputy Director He.

“Isn’t this one of your group’s girls?” she asked Producer Yuan Rui beside her. “Is she sick? She looks pale.”

The producer confirmed she was from their team, briefly introducing her. When “University A” was mentioned, Director He raised an eyebrow, seemingly intrigued. She gave Yin Mengxi a quick once-over and said, “Go rest for a while. Don’t let the kid ruin her health.”

Overwhelmed by the unexpected kindness, Yin Mengxi still shook her head, explaining there was work waiting backstage. Director He smiled—a striking, confident smile—and led her toward the exit of the studio, saying as they walked, “Your body is the foundation of your work. Without health, how can you talk about work? You kids can’t recklessly burn yourselves out just because you’re young.”

Outside the studio was a coffee shop on the second-floor corridor. Director He gestured for her to sit and relax while she seemed about to return to her office upstairs. Not knowing where she found the courage—perhaps sensing this was an incredibly precious opportunity—Yin Mengxi, usually shy and reserved, boldly asked the director if she could treat her to a cup of coffee.

Several people were around, including their producer signaling her not to overstep. But Director He appeared quite approachable, glancing at her watch and saying, “I don’t drink coffee, but if you have something to say, I can spare a few minutes.”

Ah.

Yin Mengxi’s eyes lit up, nodding repeatedly and thanking the director. Director He waved off the other staff, instructing them to attend to their tasks, and stood by the studio door, waiting for her to speak.

But she suddenly froze, like a newly rich pauper unsure how to spend a sudden windfall. Flustered, she struggled to think of an opening line. Just as she was about to speak, Director He raised her hand, cutting her off.

“If you’re here to complain, save it,” her gaze sharp and calm, piercing straight through her. “There are many staff members at the station, and everyone faces grievances at work. I don’t have time to listen to each one, nor am I obligated to sort out right from wrong for you.”

Ah.

Like this…

Her heart sank, her face flushing even redder, overwhelmed by embarrassment or shame, unsure where to put her hands. Director He glanced at her again, her gaze brushing over her sweat-drenched forehead and red, swollen eyes. Softening slightly, she said, “But I can offer you some advice—or share some of my experiences.”

“In the workplace, no one truly cares about others’ feelings. Conflicts among subordinates are trivial in the eyes of superiors. Leaders only care about results; the process never matters.”

“There’s only one way to make yourself comfortable: quietly do your best work.”

“Be indispensable. Be so good that without you, the machine stops running, the leader feels uncomfortable, the work can’t get done.”

“If you find yourself surrounded by bad people and bad things happening, it only means you haven’t made yourself important enough.”

“When you become important enough, everything else will fall into place.”