Chapter 10: “No Animal Performances”

With Bai Jingchuan joining the all-female production team, Jiang Huan’s happiness doubled. However, one of the few moments she felt like quitting was during the company’s dreaded team-building events. The administrative staff, a chaotic mix of Chinese and Western influences, with half their soul in the Qing Dynasty and the other half in modern times, awkwardly pushing pseudo-feminism, made everything suffocating. No matter how great Bai Jingchuan was, he couldn’t stop the admin from organizing activities. As a founding elder of the company, her position was untouchable by even the boss, making her a law unto herself. The Love Continent production team, where women made up 80% of the group, was her favorite target for experimentation.

The moment the admin sent the first “hello” in the new group chat, Jiang Huan’s misandry flared up.

The admin’s events happened every four months—impossible to avoid. Attendance was mandatory; missing it would affect year-end evaluations, shrinking bonuses proportionally. And the admin, at their core, was an introverted man whose activities were always headache-inducing. This time, they organized a联谊 (social mixer) with another company. Ostensibly for networking, it was essentially matchmaking. In the group chat, the admin messaged: “I fought hard to arrange this event. The other side is a top-tier project, and their producer is very well-known in the industry. They weren’t too keen on interacting with our all-female team. Although we now have Teacher Bai, our reputation isn’t stellar either. I hope everyone who signed up will arrive on time and not tarnish the company’s image.”

When the group opened WeChat, the admin had already merged the two teams into a single chat of about a hundred people. Not a single girl from their side spoke. The two admins exchanged pleasantries, enthusiastically posting the planned activity segments: telephone games, balloon passing, musical chairs—all involving physical contact. When it came to dress code, the admin thought they were being trendy: “Cosplay is really popular these days. Why don’t we all cosplay our favorite characters?”

The men started getting excited.

“I think it’s a good idea. Better than regular clothes, which can look tacky with heavy makeup.”

“But it depends on what you cosplay. Don’t go too ugly. Sailor suits and maid outfits are fine.”

“Yeah, stockings would be great.”

“Agreed. Normal is okay, but white thigh-highs get extra points.”

One person even posted a link, only to retract it less than a second later. Jiang Huan’s computer had a message recall prevention feature, so the link remained in her WeChat.

Still, the girls in the group remained silent. The admin sent a notification to everyone, but the silence persisted. Akira posted in their private “Girls Drink Bubble Tea” group: “Did you see what they posted? Wow, selfies, stolen photos, live streams—it’s no different from the Nth Room scandal.”

“I can’t take it anymore. I’m going to make a scene.”

Akira recovered quickly: “This is unacceptable. Even though I have a boyfriend, I’m going this time.”

The mixer took over an afternoon tea shop on a corporate building floor, complete with a small stage, projector screen, and microphone. Lori’s admin wasn’t present, fitting her persona of having to attend tutoring classes with her child on Saturdays. By the time the event began, the room was packed with men dressed in the same gray and black down jackets and puffer coats they wore to work, creating a sea of dark heads in the pink-themed hall. The women sat stiffly in their seats, peeling chocolates and nibbling cookies, chatting or scrolling through their phones. When it was time to start, someone timidly asked, “Where are the girls? Why aren’t they here?”

“Yeah, where are the sailor suits!”

The hall remained quiet. The men began to sense something was off and started looking for their own admin. As the admin tried contacting Lori’s admin on their phone,

the women emerged from backstage in various cosplay outfits: Empress Dowager Cixi, Lu Xun holding a sign that said “I quit,” a lotus-carrying character symbolizing enlightenment, Akira cosplaying as a Gundam, and finally, Jiang Huan in a cockroach costume, complete with brown legs. She hadn’t bothered with makeup, only painting her lips bright red to intentionally look ugly. Behind her, a banner unfurled, reading “No Animal Performances.”

The men were stunned, then burst into laughter, taking a moment to realize they were being directly provoked. On the small tables nearby lay microphones, small white gift boxes, red ropes, deflated balloons, Pocky sticks, and three boxes of pirated murder mystery scripts—old-fashioned and boring game props. No one could figure out what the issue was. They asked the organizer: “How are we supposed to play these games? Didn’t you promise sailor outfits and dancing? What kind of interaction is this!”

“What’s the point of sailor suits? We can wear them, but not for this occasion.”

“Aren’t you cosplaying for us?”

“We cosplay for fun. If we wanted to please you, wouldn’t the characters you’ve created already be enough to cater to male fantasies?”

The men laughed: “True, you’re not that great anyway.”

That comment made the girls unhappy.

“We can play other games. How about we compare who can model faster?”

“Right, let’s draw!” Akira pulled out a pen from her chest pocket, consistent with her usual habit of organization: “Lori’s technical skills aren’t bad.”

“Who’s going to draw here?” Clearly displeased, the men brought the gender divide to the forefront, choosing to fight back. Especially losing to a female-oriented game team—the chosen ones couldn’t lower their noble heads.

“We didn’t come here to show off our JK outfits. Bottom line, why did you post those pictures in the group chat expecting us to mimic them?”

“You’re crazy.” Bringing up yesterday’s chat records, the men’s faces turned red: “It was just a joke. Why are you nitpicking?”

“Apologize.” Jiang Huan pointed at the man: “Don’t make us uncomfortable first, then call us crazy.”

“Overreacting and making trouble.” Several men stood up: “HR told us to come. Why did we end up in such an unlucky situation?”

Jiang Huan stuck out her leg, nearly tripping the man trying to leave: “Why are you putting this ‘unlucky’ label on us? I have plenty of hats to wear. We didn’t want to come today, but after you joked around in the group for so long, we just want an apology. If you’re not satisfied, don’t leave.”

Her cockroach costume was hilarious against the backdrop of pink and purple flowers, creating a striking visual. Some men were angered, attempting to push past, but Akira held them back: “Why won’t you apologize? Will apologizing kill you?”

“What’s your problem? Is this polite behavior?” The man shouted loudly, startling several young women behind him.

“Shout all you want. Go shout at Meitetsu Bonwei’s storefront if you want customers to try things on. Why are you shouting at me? A simple sorry ends this. Why do you have to leave? Who do you think you’re looking down on?”

At this point, the men didn’t step forward but instead mostly picked up their phones to record or verbally smooth things over: “Let’s drop it.” Jiang Huan and Akira didn’t move, standing quietly in a tense standoff. After a few seconds, all the girls from the production team silently formed a wall behind them. These girls, whether introverted or outspoken, were no pushovers. Even Jiang Huan felt a bit nervous—some of them were the type to slam tables when angry.

The man still tried to force his way past Jiang Huan and Akira, but as he brushed past their shoulders, a barely audible “sorry” slipped out. Their shoulders relaxed slightly, and the man left as if he’d successfully broken through, knocking over a vase at the door without bothering to pick it up. The flowers on the wall trembled slightly. Finding the situation uninteresting, the remaining men grabbed their bags and left. The venue manager sighed: “Why go to such lengths? Wouldn’t it have been better to keep things peaceful?”

“It’s all about this principle.” Jiang Huan took off her cockroach costume and shook her head: “We wanted to tell them that an all-female production team isn’t to be messed with.”

News of Jiang Huan’s performance quickly reached the admin’s ears. While picking up her child from school, the admin added Bai Jingchuan to the mixer group chat, emotionally recounting: “My intention was for everyone to make new friends. Always facing virtual characters requires new inspiration, and the team-building events I arrange are meant to prioritize everyone’s happiness. But causing such a scene really affects the company’s image, and the other side was very upset. @Bai Jingchuan, I don’t know what you think, but I find this behavior inappropriate. I hope you’ll resolve this, or it’ll be hard for me to plan future activities.”

The group fell silent. No one bothered to explain, and Bai Jingchuan didn’t respond. The admin assumed Bai Jingchuan would be angry and continued ranting in the chat. Akira messaged Jiang Huan: “Do you think the producer will side with her?”

“The retracted link is still on my computer. If Bai Jingchuan questions us, I’ll send it to him.”

“It’s hard to say. If he’s fundamentally an introverted man, he might side with the men. Do you think Bai Jingchuan clicked on the link himself?”

Thinking back to her previous bullying producer, Jiang Huan furrowed her brows, her expression turning green: “Then let’s all go to hell together.”

Feeling utterly disheartened, Jiang Huan changed into a hoodie and jeans and headed to Renwu Road. Remembering Shandimon’s cough, she even stopped by a pharmacy to buy throat lozenges and a cough spray. Renwu Road connected to Dan School, with a massive skateboarding area and graffiti art wall. Jiang Huan paused to admire it briefly before continuing toward Xiang. Just a few steps later, three men from the afternoon mixer approached her. Jiang Huan pretended to focus on her phone, avoiding conversation. As they passed, she heard one mutter: “Mother cockroach.”

Her blood pressure skyrocketed. The men’s mouths spewed filth: “Her yellow hair fits perfectly with the cockroach costume—I thought she’d actually transformed. I wanted to spray some insecticide…”

Disgusting. Jiang Huan knew arguing with them now would be pointless—a one-on-three confrontation would only make her angrier. Just as she was about to leave, Shandimon, wearing sunglasses, walked over and grabbed one of the men’s wrists in a handshake-like gesture. His tone was polite but carried hostility: “Since I overheard you, I can’t let you leave so easily.”

“Who are you? Oh, the noodle shop owner.”

“If you feel guilty, running into trouble at night is inevitable. Calling my friend a ‘mother cockroach’ makes me very angry. I’d like to hear an apology.”

“She put it on herself, haha.”

“How she dresses is her freedom, but hearing such offensive words directed at her makes me want to demand an apology on her behalf.”

“You people are strange, always obsessing over apologies. It was just a joke.”

Without explaining the full context, Shandimon pressed on relentlessly. The three men found themselves facing an unexpected opponent. Shandimon didn’t loosen his grip, maintaining pressure. With his silver hair and sunglasses, he cracked his neck audibly, clearly not someone to be trifled with.

And so, Jiang Huan heard the most sincere-sounding “Sorry.”

But her mood didn’t improve. The “No Animal Performances” banner unfurled earlier, and the human wall formed by the girls, suddenly felt meaningless. Shandimon asked: “You’re not happy about this?”

“No, you just don’t know what happened earlier.”

“I know nothing. I just overheard that phrase while rushing to catch up with you. It’s not a nice word, and I thought, surely someone must’ve stood up for justice again.”

“It’s not exactly injustice.” Recounting being forced to wear the cockroach suit at a fancy Western restaurant, Jiang Huan felt sorrow well up: “I know deliberately making myself ugly was self-deprecating, but we were angry. Their laughter made us feel they didn’t deserve respect. These men, after working in games for so long, may look decent on the surface, but a few words reveal how rotten they truly are.”

“What if you had refused your admin?”

“We can’t refuse. The boss trusts her completely, saying the company thrives because of her. Thrives, huh? More like burning in deep water and scorching flames.”

“Would you be willing to go on a blind date?”

“Look at our team—does anyone seem willing? Those who could date already have. The rest won’t pick from such a rotten pool. To put it bluntly, we’re beta women—physically unable to accept females, mentally unable to accept males.”

“What about a man you created?”

“That’s only possible in dreams.”

“Dreams aren’t impossible to achieve.”

“You were the one who told me not to believe in them earlier. Shandimon, you’re so contradictory.”

“I’m just consoling you because you seemed so down today.”

The wind rustled the leaves, and with autumn’s arrival, Renwu Road was carpeted with fallen foliage. By day, it was a romantic Japanese-style street; by night, it concealed all manner of secrets, waking up again to its usual tranquility. Jiang Huan missed the late cherry blossoms of Renwu Road. Her stolen memories kept reminding her that Shandimon was far more omniscient than she imagined, as if he held the script of the world in his hands. But despite his apparent omnipotence, there was still an undercurrent of dissatisfaction in her heart—perhaps even the most capable people couldn’t do everything.

Perhaps observing him in such an unusual way for so long had infused her perspective with her own melancholy.

“What are you thinking about?”

“In my early years, I thought you were the epitome of a man stepping out of a manga. With substantial funds to open stores and a charitable spirit, the key was… you seemed desireless, exuding an air of detachment from worldly concerns. Occasionally, I wondered—what kind of divine being are you? Truly like a god.”

“Is this someone stepping out of a manga? Maybe a manga from the underworld.”

“See, you always have to argue. When we first met, you weren’t like this—you had a real youthful vibe back then.”

“What youthful vibe?” Shandimon enjoyed reminiscing.

“White T-shirt, blue shirt, plaid pants, and even a creamy yellow knitted hat—very, very warm. Now you’ve become so much more颓废 (decadent), your hair even turned white. Hey, Boss Shan, what exactly happened to you in those six years to turn your hair completely white?”

“But doesn’t it look good?”

Jiang Huan paused to look: “Not bad. White hair has its own youthful charm—it suits you uniquely.”

She tiptoed and reached out to touch Shandimon’s hair, but he deftly dodged her. Seeing her pause, he bent down and brought his face close to her hand. Both of them burst into laughter. Shandimon took her bag and slung it over his shoulder effortlessly, revealing a rare glimpse of his youthful, boyish side. Earlier, Shandimon had said that even though Renwu Road lacked greenery, whenever Jiang Huan appeared, it felt like cherry blossoms quietly blooming in spring. Jiang Huan didn’t like overly sentimental descriptions, but that night, as cherry blossoms fluttered down, Shandimon’s gaze under the lamplight was sincere, and she believed his words came from the heart. Later, the cherry blossoms of Renwu Road fell overnight and were cut down by the city—pink romance never returned to the street.

That night, when Jiang Huan returned home, she saw Bai Jingchuan’s reply to the admin’s message.

“From today onward, all Love Continent team-building activities will be arranged independently. Without my permission, no team-building activities of any form are allowed for my team members.”

“Teacher Bai, I organize all the company’s events, big and small. If only your team doesn’t participate, it wouldn’t be appropriate.”

“No room for negotiation.” After saying this, Bai Jingchuan directly removed the admin from the Love Continent production group chat. The entire team erupted in messages: “Teacher Bai is amazing!” “This is so satisfying!” Bai Jingchuan didn’t respond to any of it. Akira privately messaged Jiang Huan: “That website—they blew it up.”

“What website?”

“The porn site those men from the other company posted. To be precise, all the videos were deleted, and the live stream sources were banned.”

Holding her phone, Jiang Huan felt something wasn’t right. How could it be such a coincidence?

“Do you know anything else strange?”

“What?”

“A few days ago, Teacher Bai registered for a shooting game with some colleagues. His aim was so precise, never missing a target, that his account got banned for suspected cheating. Haha.”

After a moment of silence, Jiang Huan replied: “He’s really putting on a show.”

[Jiang Huan’s affection towards you: +300.]